Munich

5

The Legats lived in a small rented terraced house in North Street, Westminster, that had been found for them by Legat’s then-superior in the Foreign Office Central Department, Ralph Wigram, who lived with his wife and son at the top of the same road. Its advantage was its proximity to the office: Wigram expected his juniors to work hard and Legat could be at his desk within ten minutes of leaving his front door. Its disadvantages were almost too numerous to list and stemmed chiefly from the fact that it was more than two hundred years old. Apart from the installation of electricity little seemed to have been done to it in all that time. The Thames was barely a hundred yards away; the water table was high. Dampness rose from the ground to meet the rain that trickled from the roof. Furniture had to be artfully arranged to hide the patches of blackish-green mould. The kitchen was pre-war. And yet Pamela loved it. Lady Colefax lived in the same street and in the summer held candlelit dinner parties on the pavement to which the Legats were invited. It was absurd: he only earned £300 a year. Although they had been obliged to sublet the basement to help pay the rent, they still maintained a precarious access to the tiny garden by means of a rickety set of steps from the drawing-room window; Legat had improvised a makeshift lift using a rope and laundry basket to lower the children to play.

It was to this once-romantic but now essentially impracticable domestic arrangement – symbolic, Legat had come to think, of the general state of his marriage – that he found himself hurrying less than an hour after the Prime Minister had finished his broadcast, in order to pack an overnight bag.

His path took him, as it always did, past the Wigrams’ house at the top of the street. Most of the flat-fronted houses were blackened by soot, their facades brightened by the occasional window box full of geraniums. Number 4, however, looked blind and abandoned. Behind the small Georgian windowpanes, the white-panelled shutters had been closed for months. He wished suddenly, with a longing that was almost palpable, that Wigram might still be inside. For it was Wigram, more than anyone, who had predicted this crisis – obsessively predicted it, if the truth were told, so that even Legat, who had loved him, had thought him half-mad on the subject of Hitler. He could call him to mind in an instant – the urgent blue eyes, the fair moustache, the thin taut mouth. But even more than the visual memory, he could hear him, limping along the corridor towards the Third Secretaries’ room – first one heavy footstep and then the sound of his left leg being dragged along behind it, his stick tapping out a warning of his approach – and always the same subject on his lips: Hitler, Hitler, Hitler. When the Germans had reoccupied the Rhineland in 1936, Wigram had asked to see the Prime Minister, Stanley Baldwin, and had warned him that in his opinion this was the Allies’ last chance to stop the Nazis. The PM had replied that if there was only one chance in a hundred that an ultimatum might lead to war, he could not risk it: the country would not stand for another conflict so soon after the last one. Wigram had come home to North Street in despair and had broken down in front of his wife: ‘Wait now for bombs on this little house.’ Nine months later, he had been found dead in his bathroom aged forty-six – whether by his own hand or by some complication of the polio that had crippled him for the past decade, nobody seemed to know.

Oh, Ralph, thought Legat, poor dear cracked Ralph, you saw it all.

He let himself into his house and turned on the light. Out of habit he called a greeting and waited for a reply. But he could see that they had all gone, and in a hurry by the look of it. The silk jacket Pamela had worn at lunch was draped over the finial at the foot of the banisters. John’s tricycle lay on its side and blocked the passageway. He righted it. The stairs cracked and creaked beneath his feet. The wood was rotting. The neighbours complained about the moisture coming through the party wall. And yet Pamela somehow had contrived to make the place chic – a profusion of Persian rugs and crimson damask curtains, peacock and ostrich feathers, beads and antique lace. She had an eye, no doubt about it: Lady Colefax herself had said so. One night she had filled the house with scented candles and made it into a fairyland. But the next morning the smell of damp was back.

He went into their bedroom. Even though the lamp was broken, there was just sufficient light from the landing for him to see what he was doing. Her discarded clothes were heaped up on the bed and strewn across the floor. He had to step over her underwear to reach the bathroom. He packed his razor, shaving brush, soap, toothbrush and tooth powder into his sponge bag and returned to the bedroom in search of a shirt. A car was driving slowly down North Street. He could tell by the whine of its engine that it was in a low gear. The glow of its headlights lit up the ceiling, projecting an outline of the window frame across the opposite wall; the dark lines swung like the shadow on a sundial. Legat paused with his shirt in his hand and listened. The car seemed to have stopped outside with its engine running. He moved over to the window.

It was a small car – two doors, the passenger’s open. He heard a clatter downstairs. A moment later a figure in a hat and a dark coat moved smartly away from the house, folded itself back into the car and pulled the door shut.

Legat was across the bedroom in two strides. He took the stairs three or four at a time, collided with the tricycle and almost fell full-length. By the time he opened the front door, the car was just rounding the corner into Great Peter Street. For a second or two he gazed after it, recovering his breath, then stooped to retrieve the envelope from the doormat. The stationery was heavy, official-looking: legal perhaps? His name was misspelt: Leggatt. He carried it into the sitting room and sat down on the sofa. He worked his finger under the flap and carefully tore it open. He didn’t pull the document out immediately. Instead he parted the envelope with two fingers and peered inside. It was his way of preparing himself for bad financial news. He could just make out the typed heading:

Berlin Mai. 30. 1938

OKW No. 42/38. g. Kdos. Chefsache (Streng geheim, Militär) L I

Within ten minutes he was on his way back to the office. Everywhere he looked he detected signs of anxiety – a ruby necklace of tail lights stretching all the way down Marsham Street to the petrol station where motorists were queuing for fuel; a hymn being sung in the open air within the cobbled precincts of Westminster Abbey as part of a candlelit vigil for peace; the silver flare of the newsreel cameras on the blackened walls of Downing Street silhouetting the dark silent mass of the crowd.

He was late. He had to squeeze his way through to get to Number 10, his overnight bag lifted high above his head. ‘Excuse me … excuse me …’ But the moment he was inside he saw that his effort had been wasted. The ground floor was deserted. The Ministers had already gone through for the 9.30 p.m. meeting of the Cabinet.

Cleverly was not in his office. Legat stood for a moment in the corridor and wondered what he should do. He found Syers seated at his desk, smoking a cigarette and staring out of the window. Syers glanced at his reflection in the glass.

‘Hullo, Hugh.’

‘Where’s Cleverly?’

‘In the Cabinet Room, standing by in case they decide to send Horace’s telegram to the Czechs.’

‘Is Cadogan in with them?’

‘I haven’t seen him.’ Syers turned round. ‘You sound a bit overwrought. Are you all right?’

‘Perfectly.’ Legat hoisted his bag to show him. ‘Just slipped back home to get some things.’

He left before Syers could ask him anything else. In his office he opened his bag and took out the envelope. It seemed treasonous simply to have brought it into the building, dangerous to be caught in possession of it. He ought to pass it up the chain of command, get it out of his hands as soon as possible.

By a quarter to ten he was crossing Downing Street, pushing his way more urgently now past the throngs of spectators. He went through the big iron gate on the opposite side of the road and into the vast quadrangle of ministerial buildings. In each the lights were burning: the Colonial Office in the bottom left-hand corner, the Home Office in the top left, the Indian Office top right, and immediately next to him, up a flight of steps, the Foreign Office. The night porter gave him a nod.

The corridor was grand and lofty in the Victorian imperial style, its extravagance calculated to awe those visitors whose misfortune it was not to be born British. The Permanent Under-Secretary’s room was on the ground-floor corner, overlooking Downing Street on one side and Horse Guards Road on the other. (Proximity being the index of power, it was a matter of pride to the Foreign Office that their PUS could be sitting opposite the Prime Minister in the Cabinet Room within ninety seconds of being summoned.)

Miss Marchant, the senior secretary on duty, was alone in the outer office. She normally worked upstairs for Cadogan’s short-sighted deputy, Orme Sargent, universally known as ‘Moley’.

Legat was slightly out of breath. ‘I need to see Sir Alexander. It’s very urgent.’

‘I’m afraid he’s too busy to see anyone.’

‘Please tell him it is a matter of the gravest national importance.’

The cliché, like the watch chain and the old-fashioned dark suit, seemed to come naturally to him. He planted his feet apart. Breathless and junior though he was, he would not be shifted. Miss Marchant blinked at him in surprise, hesitated, then rose and tapped softly on the PUS’s door. She put her head into the distant room. He could only just hear her: ‘Mr Legat is asking to see you.’ A pause. ‘He says it’s extremely important.’ Another pause. ‘Yes, I think you should.’ From the interior came a distinct growl.

She stood aside to let him through. As he passed he gave her a look of such gratitude she blushed.

The hugeness of the room – the ceiling must have been twenty feet high at least – emphasised the smallness of Sir Alexander. He was seated not at his desk but at the conference table. The surface was almost entirely covered by paper in various colours – white for minutes and telegrams, pale blue for drafts, mauve for dispatches, aquamarine for Cabinet papers, interspersed occasionally by brown foolscap files tied with pink ribbon. The Permanent Under-Secretary wore a pair of round-lensed tortoiseshell glasses, over the top of which he peered at Legat with an expression of some irritation. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Sir Alexander, but I thought you ought to see this at once.’

‘Oh, God, now what?’ Cadogan reached out, took the five typewritten pages, glanced at the first line –

Auf Anordnung des Obersten Befehlshabers der Wehrmacht.

– frowned, then flicked through to the last –

gez. ADOLF HITLER

Für die Richtigkeit der Abschrift:

ZEITZLER, Oberstleutnant des Generalstabs

– and Legat had the satisfaction of seeing him sit bolt upright in his chair.

The document was a directive from Hitler: War on Two Fronts with Main Effort in the South-east, Strategic Concentration ‘Green’.

‘Where on earth did you get this?’

‘It was put through my letterbox at home about thirty minutes ago.’

‘By whom?’

‘I didn’t see them. A man in a car. Two men, actually.’

‘And there was no message?’

‘None.’

Cadogan cleared a space on the table, laid the document in front of him and bent his disproportionately large head over it. He read with intense concentration, his fists pressed to his temples. His German was good: he had been in charge of the embassy in Vienna in the summer of 1914 when Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated.

It is essential to create a situation within the first two or three days which demonstrates to enemy states which wish to intervene the hopelessness of the Czech military position …

The army formations capable of rapid employment must force the frontier fortifications with speed and energy, and must break very boldly into Czechoslovakia in the certainty that the bulk of the mobile army will be brought up with all possible speed …

The main strength of the Luftwaffe is to be employed for a surprise attack against Czechoslovakia. The frontier is to be crossed by aircraft at the same time as it is crossed by the first units of the Army …

As he finished each page, Cadogan turned it over and placed it neatly to his right. When he reached the end of the document, he squared the pages. ‘Extraordinary,’ he murmured. ‘I suppose the first question we have to ask ourselves is whether it’s genuine.’

‘It certainly seems it to me.’

‘I agree.’ The Permanent Under-Secretary inspected the top page again. ‘So this was drawn up on the thirtieth of May.’ He ran his finger under the German, translating: ‘“It is my unalterable decision to smash Czechoslovakia by military action in the near future …”’ That certainly sounds like Hitler. In fact, it’s almost word for word what he said to Horace Wilson this morning.’ He sat back. ‘So if we work on the assumption it’s genuine, which I think we may, the next questions that arise are essentially threefold: who gave it to us, why did they give it to us, and more particularly – why did they give it to you?’

Once again, Legat experienced a peculiar sensation of guilt, as if, merely by possessing the document, his loyalty had been compromised. He preferred not to think where it might have come from. ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer any of those.’

‘As far as the matter of who gave it to us is concerned, we know there certainly is some sort of opposition to Hitler. Several opponents of the regime have been in contact with us over the summer, claiming they would be willing to overthrow the Nazis if we were to guarantee to stand firm over Czechoslovakia. I can’t say they’re a very coherent group – a few disaffected diplomats and some aristocrats who want to restore the monarchy. This is the first time we’ve actually received anything specific from them – not that it tells us much that we don’t already know. Hitler wants to destroy Czechoslovakia, and he wants to do it quickly – hardly news.’ He took off his spectacles and sucked on the stem. He studied Legat with detachment. ‘When were you last in Germany?’

‘Six years ago.’

‘Have you kept in touch with anyone over there?’

‘No.’ It at least had the merit of being true.

‘You were in Vienna, as I recall, after your first attachment to the Central Department – is that right?’

‘Yes, sir, from thirty-five to thirty-seven.’

‘Friends there?’

‘Not especially. We had a small child and my wife was pregnant with our second. We tended to keep to ourselves.’

‘What about the German Embassy in London – do you know any of the staff here?’

‘No, not really.’

‘Then I don’t understand. How would the Germans even be aware that you work in Number Ten?’

Legat shrugged. ‘My wife, perhaps? She’s in the gossip columns occasionally. Sometimes my name’s dragged in.’ Only the other week, the Daily Express – he blushed with shame at the memory – had run an item about one of Lady Colefax’s parties, describing him as ‘among the Foreign Office’s brightest young stars, now assisting the PM’.

‘The “gossip columns”?’ The Permanent Under-Secretary repeated the term with distaste, as if it were something unspeakable that needed to be handled with a pair of tongs. ‘What on earth might they be?’ Legat couldn’t tell whether or not he was joking. But before he attempted to answer, there was a knock at the door. ‘Come!’

Miss Marchant was carrying a folder. ‘A telegram from Berlin has just come in.’

‘About time!’ Cadogan practically snatched it from her hand. ‘I’ve been waiting for this all evening.’ Once again he laid the document on the table and lowered his large head over it, reading so intently he seemed almost to fall into the page. He muttered under his breath. ‘Bugger … bugger … bugger!’ Since the crisis started he had never left the office before midnight. Legat wondered how he stood the strain. After a while he looked up. ‘This is the latest from Hitler. The PM needs to see it straight away. Are you going back to Number Ten?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Cadogan replaced the telegram in the folder and gave it to him. ‘As far as the other business is concerned, I’ll put it into the system, see what our people make of it. I’m sure they’ll want to talk to you tomorrow. Give the matter some thought. Try to work out who’s behind it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Cadogan reached for another file.

According to the Cabinet minutes, telegram 545 from Berlin (Letter from the Reichschancellor to the Prime Minister) was handed to Chamberlain a little after 10 p.m. The Cabinet table was full: twenty ministers in all, not counting Horace Wilson – who was attending in his capacity as Special Adviser to report on his meeting with Hitler – and the Cabinet Secretary, Edward Bridges, a bespectacled donnish figure whose father had been Poet Laureate. Most were smoking. One of the big sash windows overlooking the garden had been opened in an attempt to disperse the fug of cigars and pipes and cigarettes. A warm night breeze occasionally fluttered the papers that were spread around the table and strewn across the carpet.

Lord Halifax was speaking when Legat entered. He moved discreetly to the Prime Minister’s side and laid the telegram in front of him. Chamberlain, who was listening to the Foreign Secretary, glanced at it, nodded in acknowledgement, and gestured with a slight inclination of his head that Legat should go and sit with the other officials in the row of chairs that lined the wall at the far end of the room. Two were occupied by note-takers from the Cabinet Office, both scribbling away, the third by Cleverly. His chin was on his chest, his arms and legs crossed, his right foot twitching slightly. He looked around gloomily as Legat slipped into the seat next to him, leaned sideways and whispered, ‘What was that?’

‘The reply from Hitler.’

‘What does it say?’

‘I’m afraid I didn’t look.’

‘That was remiss of you. Let’s hope it’s good news. I’m afraid the poor PM’s having rather a sticky time of it.’

Legat had a clear sideways view of Chamberlain. He had put on his spectacles and was reading Hitler’s letter. He couldn’t see the Foreign Secretary, who was sitting opposite the PM, but his voice was unmistakable, with its rolling ‘r’s’ and its tone of confident moral authority, as if he were speaking from some invisible pulpit.

‘… and therefore with considerable regret I fear I cannot, in good conscience, support the Prime Minister on this particular matter. I would feel great difficulty in sending the telegram as drafted by Sir Horace. To tell the Czechs to hand over their territory at once, under the threat of force, would amount in my opinion to complete capitulation.’

He paused to take a sip of water. There was a perceptible tightening in the atmosphere around the table. The Holy Fox had broken cover! A couple of Ministers actually leaned in to make sure they were hearing correctly.

‘I quite understand,’ Halifax went on, ‘that if we don’t send Sir Horace’s telegram, the consequences may be grievous for many millions of people, including our own. It may make war certain. But we simply cannot urge the Czechs to do what we believe to be wrong. Nor do I think the House of Commons will accept it. Finally – and this to me is the crux of the matter – we cannot offer the Czechs any firm guarantee that the German Army will content themselves with stopping at the borders of the Sudetenland and will not go on to occupy the entire country.’

All eyes turned to Chamberlain. In profile, the bushy grey eyebrows and moustache seemed to bristle; the hawk’s-beak nose tilted up in defiance. He did not like to be contradicted. Legat wondered if he might lose his temper. It was not something he had witnessed. On the rare occasions it did occur, it was said to be spectacular. Instead the Prime Minister said coldly, ‘The Foreign Secretary has just given us powerful and perhaps even convincing arguments against my proposal, although it does seem to me to be the last real chance we have.’ He looked around at the faces of his ministers. ‘But if that is the general view of colleagues …’ He left an expectant pause, like an auctioneer hoping for a final bid. Nobody spoke. ‘If that is the general view,’ he repeated, and now his voice was harsh in defeat, ‘I am prepared to leave it at that.’ He looked at Horace Wilson. ‘The telegram will not be sent.’

A collective shifting in seats and adjustment of papers ensued – the sound of peaceable men girding themselves reluctantly for war. The Prime Minister’s voice cut through the murmur. He was not done yet.

‘Before we proceed further, I should inform the Cabinet that I have just received a reply from Herr Hitler. I believe it might be useful if I were to read it to you now.’

Several of his more sycophantic ministers – Maugham, the Lord Chancellor; ‘Shakes’ Morrison of Agriculture – said, ‘Yes,’ and, ‘Absolutely.’

The Prime Minister picked up the telegram. ‘“Dear Mr Chamberlain, I have in the course of conversations once more informed Sir Horace Wilson, who brought me your letter of the twenty-sixth of September, of my final attitude …”’

It was disconcerting to hear Hitler’s demands coming out of Chamberlain’s mouth. It made them sound quite reasonable. After all, why should the Czech Government object to the immediate occupation of territory which they had already conceded in principle should be transferred to Germany? ‘“This represents no more than a security measure which is intended to guarantee a quick and smooth achievement of the final settlement.”’ When they complained about the loss of their border fortifications, surely the world could see they were only stalling for time? ‘“If one were to wait for the entry into force of the final settlement in which Czechoslovakia had completed new fortifications in the territory that remained to her, it would doubtless take months and years.”’ And so it went on. It was almost as if Hitler had been given a seat at the Cabinet table to make his case. At the end, the Prime Minister took off his spectacles. ‘Well, that is obviously very carefully drafted and will require more time to analyse, but it doesn’t leave me entirely without hope.’

Duff Cooper, the First Lord of the Admiralty, piped up at once. ‘On the contrary, Prime Minister, he hasn’t conceded a single point!’ He was a raffish figure who always exuded, even in mid-morning, a vague late-night whiff of whisky and cigars and the perfume of other men’s wives. His face was flushed. Legat couldn’t tell whether it was anger or if he had been drinking.

‘That may be true,’ said Halifax, ‘but it’s noticeable he hasn’t entirely slammed the door, either. He does conclude by inviting the Prime Minister to continue his efforts for peace.’

‘Yes, but only in the most lukewarm manner: “I leave it to you to decide if it’s worth carrying on.” He obviously doesn’t mean it for a moment. He’s just trying to shift the blame for his aggression on to the Czechs.’

‘Well, that is not without significance in itself. It suggests that even Hitler feels he can’t entirely ignore world opinion. It may give you something to work on, Prime Minister.’

Now see how the Holy Fox doubles his tracks, thought Legat – one minute for war and the next for peace …

Chamberlain said, ‘Thank you, Foreign Secretary.’ His tone was chilly; clearly he had not forgiven him. ‘You all know my convictions. I intend to go on working for peace until the last possible moment.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the clock. ‘Time is drawing on. I need to prepare my statement to Parliament tomorrow. Obviously I shall have to go further than I did in my broadcast this evening. The House will need to be informed of our warning to Hitler this morning. I suggest we agree collectively on the form of words I should use.’ He caught Legat’s eye and beckoned him over. In a quiet voice he said, ‘Would you be so good as to find me a copy of Hitler’s speech from last night? Bring it to me after Cabinet.’

The only version of Hitler’s speech that Legat could lay his hands on was the one published in that morning’s Times. He sat at his desk with his own copy and smoothed the pages flat with his palms. Already it seemed an age since he was sitting reading it in the Ritz, waiting for Pamela to arrive. He suddenly remembered he had promised to call her in the country. He eyed the telephone. It was probably too late now. The children would both be in bed, and doubtless Pamela would have drunk one cocktail too many and had a row with her parents. The awfulness of the day overwhelmed him: the abandoned lunch, the workmen in Green Park, the barrage balloons rising over the Thames, the gas masks for his children, the car pulling away from the kerb in North Street … And tomorrow would be worse. Tomorrow the Germans would mobilise and he would be questioned by the Secret Intelligence Service. He would not be able to deflect them as easily as he had Cadogan. They would have his file.

He heard voices. It sounded as though the Cabinet meeting was over. He stood and crossed to the door. The Ministers were emerging into the corridor. Normally after Cabinet there was some laughter, a little back-slapping, even an occasional argument. There was none of that tonight. Apart from a couple of hushed conversations, most of the politicians put their heads down and hurried out of Number 10 alone. He watched the tall solitary figure of Halifax put on his bowler hat and collect his umbrella from the stand. Through the open door came the now-familiar cold white flickering and shouted questions.

Legat waited until he judged the Prime Minister must be alone, then entered the Cabinet Room. It was deserted. The litter and the overwhelming smell of stale tobacco smoke reminded him of a railway station waiting room. To his right, the door to Cleverly’s office was half-open. He could hear the Secretary to the Cabinet and the Principal Private Secretary conferring. To his left, the door to Horace Wilson’s room was closed. He knocked and heard Wilson call out for him to come in.

Wilson was at a side table, squirting soda from a siphon into two tumblers of what looked like brandy. The Prime Minister was sprawled back in an armchair, legs outstretched, arms dangling over the sides. His eyes were closed. He opened them as Legat approached.

‘I’m afraid I could only find the speech in The Times, Prime Minister.’

‘That’s all right. That’s where I read it. God!’

With a groan of exhaustion, he hauled himself from the depths of the armchair. His legs moved stiffly. He took the newspaper, placed it open at the speech on Wilson’s desk, extracted his spectacles from his breast pocket and began looking up and down the columns of newsprint. His mouth hung open slightly. Wilson came over from the side table and politely showed Legat the tumbler. Legat shook his head. ‘No, thank you, Sir Horace.’ Wilson placed it next to the Prime Minister. He looked at Legat and raised his eyebrows slightly. There was something almost shocking in the complicity of it – the suggestion that they were both having to humour the old man.

The Prime Minister said, ‘This is it: “We have never found a single Great Power in Europe with a man at its head who has as much understanding for the distress of our people as my great friend Benito Mussolini. We shall never forget what he has done in this time, or the attitude of the Italian people. If similar distress should ever befall Italy, I shall go to the German people and ask them to do for the Italians what the Italians have done for us.”’ He pushed the paper across the desk for Wilson to look at. He picked up the tumbler and took a sip. ‘Do you see what I mean?’

‘I do.’

‘Hitler plainly isn’t going to listen to me, but he might well listen to Musso.’ He sat at the desk, took a sheet of Number 10 notepaper and dipped a pen in the inkwell. He paused to take another drink, gazed ahead in thought, then started to write. After a while, he said to Legat, without looking up, ‘I want you to take this to the Foreign Office cipher room right away and have them telegraph it immediately to Lord Perth at the embassy in Rome.’

‘Yes, Prime Minister.’

Wilson said, ‘If you’re writing to the Ambassador, don’t you think you ought to tell the Foreign Office?’

‘Damn the Foreign Office.’ The Prime Minister blotted the wet ink. He turned and smiled up at Legat. ‘Please forget you heard that last remark.’ He held out the letter. ‘And when you’ve done that we’ll get to work on my speech to Parliament.’

A minute later, Legat was hurrying back across Downing Street towards the Foreign Office. The road was clear. The crowds had gone. Thick cloud over London obscured the stars and moon. An hour remained until midnight.