Munich

4

On the principle that the best hiding place is in plain sight, the core group of conspirators met at five o’clock that afternoon in Kordt’s office in the Prussian State building: Gisevius and von Schulenburg from the Interior Ministry, Dohnányi from Justice, Colonel Oster of the Abwehr, and Kordt and Hartmann from the Foreign Service.

Six men! Hartmann found it hard to restrain his contempt. Six men to bring down a dictatorship that controlled every aspect of life and society in a country that had swollen to eighty million? He felt naive and humiliated. The whole thing was a joke.

Kordt said, ‘I propose that if anyone asks us about this meeting, we should tell them it was purely informal, to discuss creating an inter-departmental planning group for the newly liberated Sudeten territories.’

Dohnányi nodded. ‘That has a certain horrible bureaucratic plausibility.’

‘Naturally, Beck cannot be seen anywhere near us. Nor can Heinz, for that matter.’

‘“The newly liberated Sudeten territories”,’ repeated Gisevius. ‘Listen to how that sounds. My God, he’s going to be more popular than ever.’

Schulenburg said, ‘And why not? First Austria, now the Sudetenland. The Führer has added ten million ethnic Germans to the Reich in less than seven months without needing to fire a shot. Goebbels will say he is our greatest statesman since Bismarck, and perhaps he is.’ He looked around the room. ‘Have you considered that, gentlemen? That we may be wrong?’

Nobody responded. Kordt was seated behind his desk. Oster was leaning against it. Gisevius, Schulenburg and Dohnányi occupied the three armchairs. Hartmann was sprawled full length on his back on the sofa, hands folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling. His large feet dangled over the armrest. Eventually he said quietly, ‘So what happened to the Army, Colonel Oster?’

Oster shifted his backside slightly against the desk. ‘In the end, everything depended on Brauchitsch. Unfortunately, he was still making up his mind what to do when the Führer issued the order to postpone mobilisation for twenty-four hours.’

‘And if mobilisation hadn’t been postponed – would he have acted then?’

‘Beck says that Halder told him he was definitely sympathetic—’

Hartmann interrupted him. ‘“Beck says … Halder told him … sympathetic …!”’ He swung his legs to the floor and sat up straight. ‘Forgive me, gentlemen, but if you ask me, this is just castles in the air. If Brauchitsch had been serious about getting rid of Hitler, he would have gone ahead and done it.’

‘That’s too simplistic. It was always understood that the only circumstances in which the Army would take action would be if they were convinced there was going to be a war against France and Britain.’

‘Because they thought that Germany would lose?’

‘Exactly.’

‘So let us be clear about the logic of the Army’s position. They have no moral objection to Hitler’s regime; their opposition is entirely conditional on the country’s military prospects?’

‘Yes, of course. Is that so shocking? They are soldiers, not clergymen.’

‘Well, that is very nice for them, I’m sure! No need for conscience there! But you see what it means for the rest of us?’ He looked at each of the others in turn. ‘As far as the Army is concerned, as long as Hitler is winning, he is safe. Only when he starts to lose will they turn against him – by which time it will be too late.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ warned Kordt. ‘Hess’s office is just along the corridor.’

Oster was visibly controlling his temper. ‘I am as disappointed as you are, Hartmann. More so, I would imagine. Please don’t forget it has taken me months to get the Army even this far. All summer I’ve been sending messages to London, telling them that if only they would stand firm they could leave the rest to us. Unfortunately, I hadn’t reckoned on the cowardice of the British and the French.’

Kordt said, ‘They will pay a terrible price for it in the long run. And so will we.’

There was a silence. It still seemed unbelievable to Hartmann that Hitler had swerved away from war at the last minute. He had watched it happen: history made at a distance of five metres. The red-faced, trembling Attolico had stammered out his message loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear, as if he were a herald in a play: ‘The Duce informs you that whatever you decide, Führer, Fascist Italy stands behind you. But the Duce is of the opinion that it would be wise to accept the British proposal, and begs you to refrain from mobilisation.’ As Schmidt translated the Italian into German, Hitler’s face had betrayed neither anger nor relief, his features as immobile as a bronze bust. ‘Tell the Duce that I accept his proposal.’ And with that he had returned to his office.

From the corridor came a burst of raucous laughter. The Party officials were celebrating. Hartmann had narrowly managed to avoid their embraces on the way in. One had a bottle of Schnapps he was passing round.

‘So what are we to do now?’ asked Gisevius. ‘If we can’t make a move without the Army, and if Hartmann’s analysis of their attitude is correct, then we are nothing but a group of powerless civilians, doomed to wait and watch until our country is destroyed.’

‘It seems to me there’s only one chance left to us,’ said Hartmann. ‘We need to try to prevent an agreement being signed tomorrow at Munich.’

‘That’s highly unlikely,’ said Kordt. ‘It’s as good as signed already. Hitler is going to accept what the British and the French have already offered him, which is basically what he asked for in the first place. Therefore, the conference is a ritual. Chamberlain and Daladier will fly in and stand in front of the cameras and say, “Here you are, dear Führer,” and then they’ll fly home again.’

‘It doesn’t have to be like that. Hitler has postponed mobilisation; he hasn’t cancelled it.’

‘Nevertheless, I can assure you that is how it will be.’

Hartmann said quietly, ‘I need to meet with Chamberlain.’

‘Ha!’ Kordt threw up his hands. ‘Naturally!’

‘I am serious.’

‘Your seriousness is not the issue. In any case, we’re past that stage. My brother sat in Halifax’s office in the Foreign Office just three weeks ago and warned him explicitly what was coming. It still did no good.’

Hartmann said, ‘Halifax isn’t Chamberlain.’

Dohnányi said, ‘But my dear Hartmann, what could you possibly say to him that would make the slightest difference?’

‘I’d show him proof.’

‘Proof of what?’

‘Proof that Hitler is bent on a war of conquest, and that this may be the last chance to stop him.’

Dohnányi appealed to the others. ‘This is simply foolish! As if Chamberlain would take any notice of a low-level young person such as Hartmann!’

Hartmann shrugged. He took no offence. ‘Nevertheless, it’s worth a try. Does anyone have an alternative idea?’

Schulenburg said, ‘Might we also be allowed to see this “proof”?’

‘I would prefer not.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I promised the person who gave it to me I would only show it to the British.’

There was some muttering – of protest, scepticism, irritation.

‘I must say I find it highly offensive that you won’t trust us.’

‘Do you really, Schulenburg? Well, I’m afraid that can’t be helped.’

Oster said, ‘And how do you propose to arrange your own private meeting with the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom?’

‘Obviously, as a first step, I would need to be accredited to the conference, as part of the German delegation.’

Kordt said, ‘How is that to happen? And even if you were let in, there’s simply no possibility you could get access to Chamberlain alone.’

‘I believe it could be done.’

‘Quite impossible! How?’

‘I know one of his Private Secretaries.’

The revelation took them by surprise. After a pause, Oster said, ‘Well, that is something, I suppose, although I am not sure how it helps us.’

‘It means I must stand a chance of getting through to Chamberlain, or at least of getting my information into his hands.’ He leaned forward, imploring. ‘Nothing may come of it, I accept. I understand your scepticism. But surely it is worth one last try? Colonel Oster, you have contacts in Whitehall?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is there time to get a message to them, to ask if this man could fly to Munich as part of Chamberlain’s entourage?’

‘Possibly. What’s his name?’

Hartmann hesitated. Now it came to it, he found it oddly difficult to say it out loud. ‘Hugh Legat.’

Oster produced a small notebook from his breast pocket and wrote it down. ‘And he works in Downing Street, you say? Will he be expecting to hear from you?’

‘Possibly. I’ve already sent him something anonymously, and I’m fairly sure he will guess it’s from me. He knows I’m in the Foreign Ministry.’

‘How did you get it to him?’

Hartmann turned to Kordt. ‘Your brother delivered it.’

Kordt’s mouth flapped open in surprise. ‘You used Theo behind my back?’

‘I wanted to open my own channel of communication – to show him something, to establish I was serious.’

‘And what was this earlier “something”? Or is that also secret?’

Hartmann was silent.

Schulenburg said bitterly, ‘No wonder the English don’t take us seriously. We must appear to them to be complete amateurs – each man speaking for himself, no central co-ordination, no plan for a Germany without Hitler. I’ve had enough of this, gentlemen.’

He pushed himself out of his armchair.

Kordt followed suit. He held out his hands in appeal. ‘Schulenburg, please – sit down! We’ve suffered a reverse – we’re disappointed – but let’s not bicker among ourselves.’

Schulenburg grabbed his hat. He pointed it at Hartmann. ‘You, with your stupid schemes, will get us all hanged!’

He slammed the door behind him.

As the reverberations died away, Dohnányi said, ‘He’s quite right.’

‘I agree,’ said Gisevius.

Oster said, ‘So do I. But we are at an impasse, and on balance I am inclined to support Hartmann’s plan – not that I think it will work, but because we have no viable alternative. What do you say, Erich?’

Kordt had lowered himself back into his chair. He looked more like a man in his fifties than his mid-thirties. He took off his spectacles, closed his eyes and massaged his eyelids with his thumb and forefinger. ‘The Munich conference,’ he muttered, ‘is a locomotive that cannot be stopped. In my opinion, it’s useless even to try.’ He put his glasses back on and stared at Hartmann. His eyes were pink with exhaustion. ‘On the other hand, even if we can’t derail it, it would obviously be valuable to our cause to open communication with someone who sees Chamberlain every day. Because of one thing we may be sure: today isn’t the end of this process. Given what we know of Hitler, the Sudetenland is only the start. There will be other crises, perhaps fresh opportunities. So let us see what you can do, Paul. But I think at the very least you should tell us what it is you plan to give to the British. You owe us that.’

‘No. I’m sorry. Perhaps when I return – if I can get agreement from my source – I’ll show you then. But for now, for your own sakes as well as theirs, it’s probably better if you don’t know.’

Another silence ensued. Finally, Oster said, ‘If we are to try to make this happen, we have no more time to lose. I’ll go back to Tirpitzufer and try to make contact with the British. Erich, is it possible for you to get Hartmann into the conference?’

‘I’m not sure. I can try.’

‘Couldn’t you speak to Ribbentrop?’

‘God, no! He’s the last man I’d approach. He would be suspicious at once. Our best hope is probably Weizsäcker. He likes to play both ends. I’ll go and talk to him.’ He turned to Hartmann. ‘You’d better come too.’

Oster said, ‘We should probably leave separately.’

‘No,’ said Kordt. ‘Remember, we’ve merely held an informal inter-departmental meeting. It will look more natural if we all go out together.’

At the door, Oster drew Hartmann to one side. He said in a low voice, so that the others couldn’t hear, ‘You have a weapon, I believe? I should return it to the Abwehr armoury.’

Hartmann held his gaze. ‘I think I would prefer to keep it, if you don’t mind.’

Hartmann and Kordt left the building together and walked in silence across Wilhelmstrasse towards the Foreign Ministry. The sun was shining; a definite lightness was in the air. One could see it on the faces of the government workers pouring out of the ministries to go home at the end of the day. People were even laughing. It was the first time Hartmann had seen such normality in the streets since the Czech crisis blew up more than two weeks ago.

In the State Secretary’s outer office, all three typists, including Frau Winter, were bent over their machines. Kordt had to raise his voice to be heard above the racket. ‘We need to see Baron von Weizsäcker.’

Frau Winter looked up. ‘He’s with the British and French Ambassadors.’

Kordt said, ‘Even so, Frau Winter, it’s an urgent matter.’

She glanced at Hartmann. Her expression was one of complete indifference. He admired her coolness. He had a sudden vision of her naked on the bed waiting for him – her long white limbs, her heavy breasts, her nipples hard –

‘Very well.’

She tapped lightly on the door to the inner office and went inside. Hartmann heard a clink of glasses, voices and laughter. Less than a minute later Sir Nevile Henderson emerged, a scarlet carnation fresh in his lapel, followed by François-Poncet. The French Ambassador had a small black moustache, waxed upwards at the tips. He looked rakish, amused, like an actor from the Comédie-Française. He was said to be the only member of the diplomatic corps whom Hitler actually liked. The Ambassadors nodded amiably at Hartmann, then shook hands with Kordt.

François-Poncet said, ‘This is a relief, Kordt.’ He continued to pump Kordt’s hand. ‘A great relief! I was with the Führer moments before he spoke to Attolico. When he returned to the room his exact words to me were, “Tell your government I have postponed mobilisation for twenty-four hours to meet the wishes of my great Italian ally.” Imagine if the communists had cut the telephone lines from Rome to Berlin that morning – we would all be at war! Instead of which –’ he flourished his hand at the room – ‘we still have a chance.’

Kordt bowed slightly. ‘Your Excellency, it is a great deliverance.’

Frau Winter appeared at the door. ‘The State Secretary is waiting for you.’

Hartmann caught her scent as he passed her.

Henderson called after them, ‘We shall see you in Munich. We haven’t finished this thing yet.’

Von Weizsäcker had a bottle of Sekt open on his desk. He did not bother with the Hitler salute. ‘Gentlemen, let us empty the bottle.’ He poured out three glasses expertly, so that not a drop was lost, and handed one each to Kordt and Hartmann. He raised his glass. ‘As I said to the Ambassadors, I won’t propose a toast: I don’t want to tempt fate. Let us simply enjoy the moment.’

Hartmann sipped politely. The sparkling wine was too sweet and fizzy for his taste, like a child’s drink.

‘Sit, please.’ Weizsäcker gestured to a sofa and two armchairs. His dark blue pinstriped suit was beautifully cut. The swastika lapel pin glinted in the late-afternoon sunlight slanting through the high window. He had only joined the Party that year. Now he had an honorary rank in the SS and was Germany’s senior diplomat. If he had sold his soul, he had at least got a good price. ‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’

Kordt said, ‘I would like to propose that Hartmann here is accredited to our delegation at the conference tomorrow.’

‘Why are you asking me? Ask the Minister – you’re a member of his office.’

‘With the greatest respect to the Minister, his automatic response to any suggestion is generally to say “No” until he can be won round, and in this instance there is no time for the usual process of persuasion.’

‘And why is it so important that Hartmann goes to Munich?’

‘Apart from the fact that his English is impeccable, which will be useful in itself, we believe there is an opportunity for him to cultivate a potentially important contact on Chamberlain’s staff.’

‘Really?’ Weizsäcker studied Hartmann with interest. ‘Who is this person?’

Hartmann said, ‘He is a diplomat, presently working as one of Chamberlain’s Private Secretaries.’

‘How do you know him?’

‘I was at Oxford with him.’

‘Is he sympathetic to the new Germany?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Hostile, then?’

‘I should imagine he shares the general attitude of Englishmen of his type.’

‘That could mean anything.’ Weizsäcker turned back to Kordt. ‘How do you know he will even be in Munich?’

‘We don’t. Colonel Oster of the Abwehr is trying to arrange it.’

‘Ah. Colonel Oster.’ Weizsäcker nodded slowly. ‘Now I understand. That sort of contact.’ He poured himself the last of the Sekt and drank it slowly. Hartmann contemplated his bobbing Adam’s apple, the smooth pink cheeks, the fine silver hair that matched his brand-new Party badge. He felt the contempt rise in his throat like gorge. He would take an old Brownshirt with a broken nose any day over this hypocrite. The State Secretary replaced his empty glass on the table. ‘You want to be careful of Colonel Oster. You might even warn him from me: his activities have not gone entirely unnoticed. Up to now there has been a certain toleration of dissent, so long as it doesn’t go too far, but I sense things are starting to change. National Socialism is moving into a new and more vigorous phase.’

He went over to his desk, felt around under it and pressed a button. The door opened.

‘Frau Winter, would you add Herr von Hartmann’s name to the list of those accredited to the conference tomorrow? Put him down as a translator, to assist Dr Schmidt.’

‘Yes, sir.’

She withdrew. Kordt caught Hartmann’s eye and nodded. Both men stood. ‘Thank you, State Secretary.’

‘Yes,’ said Hartmann. ‘Thank you.’ He hesitated. ‘May I ask a question, Herr Baron?’

‘What is it?’

‘I was wondering what caused the Führer to change his mind. Did he really intend to invade, do you think, or was he bluffing all along?’

‘Oh, he wanted to invade, no question of it.’

‘So why did he call it off?’

‘Who can say? No one really knows what’s in his mind. I suspect in the end he realised Chamberlain had removed his casus belli: Mussolini’s intervention was decisive in that regard. Goebbels put it rather well over lunch, even though he personally favoured invasion: “One can’t wage a world war over points of detail.” The Führer’s error was to list specific demands. Once they had mostly been met, he was stranded. I suspect he won’t make the same mistake next time.’

He shook their hands and closed the door. The remark echoed in Hartmann’s mind. ‘He won’t make the same mistake next time.’

Frau Winter said, ‘Your name will be on the list at the Anhalter Bahnhof, Herr Hartmann. It will be enough if you show your identification at the gate. The special train is scheduled to leave at eight-fifty tonight.’

‘The train?’

‘Yes, the Führer’s train.’

He was conscious of Kordt waiting for him, of the two other women typing.

Kordt touched his arm. ‘We’d better hurry. You need to pack.’

They went out into the corridor. Hartmann glanced back over his shoulder but she was already seated at her desk, typing. Something about her complete indifference disturbed him. As they walked, he said, ‘That was easier than I’d expected.’

‘Yes, our new State Secretary is so delightfully ambiguous, isn’t he? He manages to be both a pillar of the regime and to indicate his sympathy for the opposition at the same time. Are you going straight to your apartment?’

‘Not immediately. I need to pick up something from my office first.’

‘Of course.’ Kordt shook his hand. ‘I’ll leave you then. Good luck.’

Hartmann’s office was deserted. No doubt von Nostitz and von Rantzau were out celebrating somewhere. He sat at his desk and unlocked the drawer. The envelope was where he had left it. He slipped it into his briefcase.

Hartmann’s apartment was at the western end of Pariser Strasse, in the fashionable shopping district close to St Ludwig’s church. Before the war, when his grandfather the old Ambassador had still been alive, the family had owned the whole building. But they had been obliged to split it up and sell it piece by piece to repay the mortgage on the estate near Rostock. Now there was only the second floor left.

He stood at the window with a tumbler of whisky, smoking a cigarette, and watched the last traces of the sun disappear behind the trees of Ludwigkirchplatz. The sky glowed red. The trees looked like the shadows of primitive dancers cavorting around a fire. On the radio, the opening of Beethoven’s Coriolan Overture signalled the start of a special news bulletin. The announcer sounded half-crazed with excitement.

‘Prompted by the desire to make a last effort to bring about the peaceful cession of the Sudeten German territory to the Reich, the Führer has invited Benito Mussolini, the head of the Italian Government; Neville Chamberlain, the Prime Minister of Great Britain; and Edouard Daladier, the French Prime Minister, to a conference. The statesmen have accepted the invitation. The discussion will take place in Munich tomorrow morning, September 29th …’

The communiqué made it seem as if the whole thing had been Hitler’s idea. And people would believe it, thought Hartmann, because people believed what they wanted to believe – that was Goebbels’s great insight. They no longer had any need to bother themselves with inconvenient truths. He had given them an excuse not to think.

He drank more whisky.

He was still troubled by his encounter in von Weizsäcker’s office. The whole thing had been too easy. There had also been something odd about her absolutely determined refusal to meet his eye. He replayed the scene over and over.

Perhaps she had not stolen the documents from von Weizsäcker’s safe after all. Perhaps she had merely been given them to pass on to him.

The moment he thought of it, he knew it must be true.

He stubbed out his cigarette and went into the bedroom. On top of the wardrobe was a small suitcase embossed with his initials which he had been given when he was first sent away to school. He flicked open the catches.

Inside were letters, mostly – from his parents and his brothers and sisters, from friends and girlfriends. The Oxford letters were tied together and still in their envelopes: he had liked the English stamps, and to see his name and address written in Hugh’s small neat hand. At one period he had written to him once or twice a week. There were photographs, too, including the last photograph of them together, taken in Munich, the date written on the back: 2 July 1932. They were in walking gear – boots, sports jackets, open-necked white shirts – a glimpse of a courtyard in the background. Leyna stood between them, her hands gripping their upper arms. She was so much shorter than he was; it was comical. All three smiling. He remembered she had asked the owner of the inn to take it before they set out for the day. Clipped to it was the cutting from the Daily Express he had come across in the summer: Among the Foreign Office’s brightest young stars, now assisting the PM … Judging by the photograph he had hardly changed. But the fashionable woman beside him – his wife, this ‘Pamela’ – she was not at all the sort of girl he had imagined that Hugh would end up with. It occurred to him that if something went wrong and his apartment was searched by the Gestapo, these souvenirs would be incriminating.

He took the Oxford letters over to the fireplace and burned them, one by one, setting fire to the bottom right-hand corner of each with his lighter and dropping it into the grate. He burned the newspaper cutting. He hesitated over the photograph but finally he burned that too, watching it scorch and curl until it was indistinguishable from the other ashes.

It was dark by the time Hartmann arrived at the Anhalter Bahnhof. Outside the pillared entrance to the main concourse police were patrolling with dogs. In his suitcase he had the envelope, in his inside pocket the Walther. He felt his legs begin to weaken.

He braced his shoulders and passed through the grand doors into the smoke and gloom of the glass-roofed station, as high as a Gothic cathedral. Swastika banners, three or four storeys high, descended over every platform. The annunciator board displayed the evening’s departures: Leipzig, Frankfurt-am-Main, Dresden, Vienna … It was 8.37 p.m. There was no mention of Munich, or a special train. An official of the Reichsbahn, in dark blue uniform and peaked cap, his toothbrush moustache doubtless grown in homage to the Führer, noticed his uncertainty. When Hartmann explained his mission he insisted on escorting him personally: ‘It will be my honour.’

Hartmann spotted the gate before they reached it. Somehow people must have guessed that the Führer would be passing through and a small, respectful crowd of about a hundred had gathered, women mostly. The SS were keeping them at a distance. At the gate itself, two more police dog-handlers and SS guards with machine guns were checking passengers. A man who was queuing to board was being ordered to open his suitcase and Hartmann thought, if they frisk me, I’m finished. He thought of turning back and dumping the gun in the toilets. But the Reichsbahn official was ushering him forward and a moment later he found himself face to face with one of the sentries.

‘Heil Hitler!’

‘Heil Hitler.’

‘Name?’

‘Hartmann.’

The sentry ran his finger down the list of names, flipped one page, then another.

‘There’s no Hartmann here.’

‘There.’ Hartmann pointed to the last page. Unlike the others, which were typed, his name had been added in ink. It looked suspicious.

‘Papers?’

He handed over his identity card.

The other sentry said, ‘Open your suitcase, please.’

He balanced it on his knee. His hands were shaking; he was sure his guilt must be obvious. He fumbled with the catches, lifted the lid. The sentry shouldered his machine gun and rummaged through the contents – two shirts, underwear, shaving kit in a leather case. He picked up the envelope, shook it and put it back. He nodded. With his gun barrel he gestured towards the train.

The first sentry returned his ID. ‘You are in the rear carriage, Herr von Hartmann.’

They started to check the man behind. Hartmann walked through on to the platform.

The train was drawn up about twenty metres along the track, on the right-hand side. It was long: he counted seven carriages, all a gleaming, spotless dark green as if freshly painted for the occasion, with a Nazi eagle, wings spread wide, picked out on the bodywork in gold. Every door was guarded by an SS sentry. At the front, a black locomotive gently vented steam; it too was guarded. Hartmann walked slowly towards the rear carriage, took a last look up at the floodlit spars of the roof, the fluttering pigeons, the black sky beyond, then clambered aboard.

It was a sleeper car, the compartments on the left. An SS adjutant, a clipboard in one hand, marched along the corridor, halted and thrust out his arm in the Hitler salute. Hartmann recognised him as the same white-jacketed flunky he had threatened that morning at the Chancellery. He returned the salute with what he hoped was a convincing snap of fanaticism.

‘Good evening, Herr von Hartmann. Follow me, please.’

They walked to the end of the carriage. The adjutant checked his clipboard and slid open the door of the final compartment. ‘This is your berth. Refreshments will be served in the dining car once we have left Berlin. You will then be informed of the operations of the Führer-train.’ He saluted again.

Hartmann stepped into the compartment and closed the door behind him. It was done out in the art deco style favoured by the Führer. Two bunks, upper and lower. Dim yellowish lighting. A smell of wood polish, dusty upholstery, stale air. He threw his suitcase on to the bottom mattress and sat down next to it. The compartment was claustrophobic, like a cell. He wondered whether Oster had managed to make contact with the British. If not, he would have to devise some fall-back plan but his nerves were too on edge to think of one at the moment.

Presently he heard shouting in the distance and some cheering. Through the window he saw a man trotting backwards very quickly, holding a camera. A few seconds later a flash lit up the platform and the Führer’s party came into view, marching quickly. At the centre was Hitler, wearing a belted brown overcoat, flanked and followed by men in SS black. He passed within three metres of Hartmann, staring straight ahead, his expression one of intense irritation, and disappeared out of sight. His entourage trailed after him – dozens of them, or so it seemed, and then Hartmann heard the compartment door opening. He swung round and there was Sturmbannführer Sauer on the threshold with the SS adjutant. For an instant he thought they had come to arrest him but then Sauer said in a baffled voice, ‘Hartmann? What are you doing here?’

He stood. ‘I have been assigned to help Dr Schmidt with translation.’

‘Translation will only be required in Munich.’ Sauer turned to the adjutant. ‘It’s not necessary for this man to be on the Führer’s train. Who authorised it?’

The adjutant looked helplessly at his clipboard. ‘His name was added to the list—’

Suddenly the train lurched forwards and stopped abruptly. All three had to grab on to something to maintain their balance. Then very slowly the platform began to slide past the window – empty luggage trolleys, a sign reading Berlin-Anhalter.Bhf, the line of saluting officials – a procession of images that gradually increased in velocity until the train emerged from the shadows of the station into the wide expanse of the marshalling yard, as vast as a steel prairie in the moonless September night.