Munich

1

The Führer’s special train was unusually heavy, entirely made of welded steel. It steamed steadily southwards through the night at an average speed of 55 kilometres per hour. It did not stop. It did not even slow down. It passed through big cities, such as Leipzig, and smaller country towns and villages, and between them it traversed great stretches of nothingness broken only by the occasional light of an isolated farmhouse.

Sleepless, Hartmann lay in his underclothes on the top bunk, his fingers parting the blind so that he could stare into the darkness. He had the sensation of voyaging in a liner across an ocean of unmeasurable extent. This immensity was what he had never been able to convey to his Oxford friends, whose concept of their own nationality was so nicely bounded by a coast – this hard wide vast landscape, fertile in its genius, limitless in its possibilities, which demanded a constant effort of will and imagination to order into a modern state. It was hard to talk about such feelings without sounding mystical. Even Hugh had not understood. To the English ear one invariably came across as a German nationalist – although what was wrong with that? The corruption of honest patriotism was one of the many things for which Hartmann would never forgive the Austrian corporal.

The sound of Sauer’s rhythmic heavy breathing rose through the thin mattress. Before they had even left Berlin’s city limits, the Sturmbannführer had pulled rank to insist on having the bottom bunk. Not that Hartmann had objected. It meant he was able to put his belongings into the luggage rack immediately above his head. The wide string mesh bulged under the weight of his suitcase. He had not let it out of his sight.

Soon after 5 a.m. he noticed the sky at its edges beginning to turn an oyster grey. Gradually the dark crests of the wooded pine hills emerged, serrated like saw’s teeth against the spreading light, while in the valleys the white mist seemed as solid as a glacier. For the next half-hour he watched as the countryside took on colour – green and yellow meadows, red-roofed villages, white-painted wooden church spires, a turreted castle with blue shutters beside a wide slow river he assumed must be the Danube. When he was sure that sunrise could only be a few minutes away he sat up and cautiously took down his suitcase.

He muffled the noise of the catches one at a time with his hand and opened the lid. He extracted the document and stuffed it under his vest, then he put on a clean white shirt and buttoned it. He took the gun from his jacket and folded his trousers around it. Holding that in one hand, and with his shaving kit tucked under the other arm, he carefully descended the ladder. As Hartmann’s bare feet touched the floor of the compartment, Sauer muttered and turned over. His uniform was on a hanger at the end of his bed; he had spent a long time before he went to sleep brushing it and straightening the creases. His boots were perfectly aligned beneath it. Hartmann waited until his breathing had resumed its regular pattern, then slowly lifted the catch and slid open the door.

The corridor was empty. He swayed along it towards the toilet at the back of the carriage. Once inside, he drew the bolt and turned on the light. Like the sleeper compartment it was lined in polished light-coloured wood with modernist fittings made of stainless steel; there were tiny swastikas on the taps. (There was no escaping the Führer’s aesthetic, thought Hartmann, not even when one took a shit.) He inspected his face in the mirror above the tiny washbasin. Disgusting. He removed his shirt and lathered his chin. He had to shave with his feet braced wide apart to steady himself against the movement of the train. When he had finished he dried his face, then crouched on his haunches and inspected the wooden panel beneath the sink. He ran his fingers around the back until he found a gap. He pulled and it came away easily, exposing the plumbing. He unwrapped the gun from his trousers, wedged it behind the waste pipe and pushed the panel back into place. Five minutes later he was making his way along the corridor. Beyond the windows an empty autobahn ran beside the railway track, gleaming in the early-morning sunshine.

He slid open the door of his compartment to discover Sauer in his underwear bent over the lower bunk. He had tipped out Hartmann’s suitcase and was rummaging through the contents. Hartmann’s jacket lay next to it: it looked as though he had checked through that already. He didn’t even bother to turn round.

‘I’m sorry, Hartmann. It’s nothing personal. I’m sure you’re a decent fellow. But when a man is this close to the Führer I’m not prepared to take any chances.’ He stood and gestured to the mess on the mattress. ‘There you are. You can put it all back now.’

‘Don’t you want to give me a full body search while you’re at it?’ Hartmann raised his hands.

‘That won’t be necessary.’ He clapped Hartmann on the shoulder. ‘Come on, man – don’t look so offended! I’ve apologised. You know as well as I do the Foreign Ministry is rotten with reaction. What is it that Göring says about you diplomats? That you sharpen your pencils all morning and take tea all afternoon?’

Hartmann pretended to be offended, then nodded curtly. ‘You’re right. I admire your vigilance.’

‘Excellent. Wait for me while I shave and then we’ll go for breakfast.’

He picked up his uniform and boots and went out into the corridor.

After he had gone, Hartmann tugged the document out from under his vest. His hands were shaking. He placed it in the suitcase. Surely Sauer wouldn’t search it again? Or perhaps he would? He imagined him at that very moment on his knees inspecting behind the washbasin. Hartmann folded his clothes back into the case, closed the catches and heaved it up into the luggage rack. By the time he had finished dressing and had regained his composure there was a clump of boots in the corridor. The door opened and Sauer was back, once more clad in his SS uniform, looking as if he had just stepped off the parade ground. He threw his sponge bag on to his bed. ‘Let’s go.’

They had to pass through another sleeper carriage to reach the dining car. The train was all awake by now. Men half-dressed or still in underpants were squeezing past one another in the narrow corridor and queuing outside the toilets. There was a smell of sweat and cigarettes, a changing-room atmosphere, laughter as the train jolted and they were thrown together. Sauer exchanged ‘Heil’s with a couple of SS comrades. He opened the connecting door and Hartmann followed, stepping over the metal platform that made a junction into the restaurant car. Here it was all much quieter: white linen tablecloths, the smell of coffee, the chink of cutlery on china, a waiter wheeling a trolley laden with food. At the far end of the carriage, an army general in a field-grey uniform with red collar tabs was talking to a trio of officers. Sauer noticed Hartmann staring at him. ‘That’s General Keitel,’ he said. ‘Chief of the Wehrmacht Supreme Command. He’s breakfasting with the Führer’s military adjutants.’

‘What’s a general doing at a peace conference?’

‘Perhaps it may not turn out to be a peace conference.’ Sauer winked.

They took a nearby table for two. Hartmann sat with his back to the engine. The carriage darkened as they passed beneath a station canopy. On the platform a line of waiting passengers waved. He guessed an announcement must have been made over the loudspeaker that the through train was Hitler’s. Enthusiastic faces whirled past the window in a mist of steam.

‘If nothing else,’ continued Sauer, unfolding his napkin, ‘the presence of General Keitel will remind those elderly gentlemen from London and Paris that a single word from the Führer is all it will require for the Army to cross the Czech frontier.’

‘I thought Mussolini had put a stop to mobilisation?’

‘The Duce will be joining the train for the final part of the journey to Munich. Who knows what will happen when the leaders of fascism confer? Perhaps the Führer will persuade him to change his mind.’ He beckoned to the waiter to bring them coffee. When he turned back to the table his eyes were shining. ‘Admit it, Hartmann, whatever happens – isn’t there something intensely satisfying, after all those years of national humiliation, in finally making the British and the French dance to our tune?’

‘It is certainly an amazing achievement.’ The man was intoxicated, thought Hartmann: drunk on a little man’s dreams of revenge. The waiter arrived with a tray of food and they both filled their plates. He took a bread roll and broke it in half. He found he had no appetite, even though he couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten. ‘May I ask, Sauer, what you did before you joined the Foreign Minister’s staff?’ He didn’t really care; he was just making conversation.

‘I worked in the office of the Reichsführer-SS.’

‘And before that?’

‘Before the Party came to power, you mean? I sold automobiles in Essen.’ He was eating a hard-boiled egg. A piece of yolk was stuck to his chin. Suddenly his face twisted into a sneer. ‘Oh, I can see what you’re thinking, Hartmann. “What a vulgar fellow! A car salesman! And now he fancies himself as a second Bismarck!” But we have done something your kind never managed. We have made Germany great again.’

‘Actually,’ said Hartmann mildly, ‘I was thinking you have egg on your chin.’

Sauer put down his knife and fork and wiped his mouth with his napkin. His face had turned red. It was a mistake to have teased him, thought Hartmann. Sauer would never forgive him. And at some point in the future – maybe later that day, or next month, or next year – revenge would be exacted.

The meal resumed in silence.

‘Herr von Hartmann?’

Hartmann looked round. A large man, portly in a double-breasted suit, was looming over him. His domed head was bald, his thin dark hair combed back and plastered into place behind his ears with oil. He was sweating.

‘Dr Schmidt.’ Hartmann put down his napkin and stood.

‘Forgive me for disturbing your meal. Sturmbannführer.’ The Foreign Ministry’s chief interpreter bowed towards Sauer. ‘We have received the overnight English-language press summary and I wondered if I could trouble you, Hartmann?’

‘Of course. Excuse me, Sauer.’

Hartmann followed Schmidt the length of the dining car, past General Keitel’s table and into the next carriage. Along the left-hand side were desks, typewriters, filing cabinets. On the right, the windows were blacked out; Wehrmacht signals officers wearing headphones faced one another across tables stacked with short-wave radio equipment. It wasn’t so much a train as a mobile command post. It struck Hartmann that the original plan must have been for Hitler to travel in it to the Czech frontier.

Schmidt said, ‘The Führer expects to see a press summary as soon as he gets up. Two pages will be sufficient. Concentrate on the headlines and the editorial view. Get one of the men to type it for you.’

He deposited a sheaf of handwritten English transcripts on a desk and hurried away. Hartmann sat. It was a relief to have something to do. He shuffled through the dozens of quotations, pulling out the most interesting, sorting them according to the influence of the publication. He found a pencil and began to write.

The London Times – praises Chamberlain for his ‘indomitable resolution’.

The New York Times – ‘the sense of relief felt around the world’.

The Manchester Guardian – ‘For the first time in weeks we seem to turn towards the light.’

The tone was the same regardless of the political line of the paper. All described the dramatic scene in the House of Commons as Chamberlain read out the Führer’s message. (Within minutes and even seconds the message of hope was being hailed by millions whose lives a moment before seemed to hang upon the pull of a trigger.) The British Prime Minister was the hero of the world.

When he had finished his translations he was directed by the unit commander to an army corporal. Hartmann lit a cigarette, stood behind the corporal’s shoulder and dictated. The machine was a special typewriter reserved for documents that went direct to the Führer, its typeface almost a centimetre high. His digest came out at exactly two pages.

As the corporal wound it out of the typewriter an SS adjutant appeared at the far end of the carriage. He looked harassed. ‘Where is the foreign press summary?’

Hartmann waved the pages. ‘I have it here.’

‘Thank God! Follow me.’ As the adjutant opened the door he pointed to Hartmann’s cigarette. ‘No smoking beyond this point.’

They entered a vestibule. An SS sentry saluted. The adjutant opened the door on to a panelled conference room with a long polished table and seats for twenty. He indicated that Hartmann should go ahead of him. ‘Is this your first time?’

‘Yes.’

‘Salute. Look him in the eye. Don’t speak unless he speaks to you.’ They had reached the end of the carriage and passed through into the vestibule of the next. Another sentry. The adjutant patted Hartmann on the back. ‘You will be fine.’

He knocked lightly on the door and opened it. ‘The foreign press summary, my Führer.’

Hartmann walked into the room and raised his arm. ‘Heil Hitler.’

He was leaning over a table, his hands bunched into fists, looking down at a set of technical drawings. He turned to glance at Hartmann. He was wearing a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles. He took them off and looked past Hartmann to the adjutant. ‘Tell Keitel to set up the maps in here.’ The familiar metallic voice. It was strange to hear it at a conversational level and not ranting over a loudspeaker.

‘Yes, my Führer.’

He held out his hand for the press summary. ‘And you are?’

‘Hartmann, my Führer.’

He took the two sheets and started reading, rocking gently up and down on the balls of his feet. Hartmann had an impression of great energy barely suppressed. After a while he said, contemptuously, ‘Chamberlain this, Chamberlain that. Chamberlain, Chamberlain …’ When he reached the bottom of the first page he stopped and flexed his head as if he had a crick in his neck, then read aloud in a tone of intense sarcasm: ‘“Mr Chamberlain’s description of his last meeting with Herr Hitler is agreeable proof that his strong candour was rewarded with liking and respect.”’ He turned the page back and forth. ‘Who wrote this shit?’

‘That is an editorial in The Times of London, my Führer.’

He raised his eyebrows as if he expected nothing else and flicked over to the second page. Hartmann looked briefly around the carriage: a saloon car – armchairs, a sofa, watercolours of pastoral scenes hanging on the light-coloured wood-panelled walls. It occurred to him that the two of them had now been entirely alone for more than a minute. He inspected the fragile head – bent oblivious, reading. If he had known, he would have brought his gun. He imagined feeling for it in his inside pocket, quickly withdrawing it, pointing the barrel, a moment of eye contact perhaps before he squeezed the trigger, a final look and then the explosion of blood and tissue. He would have been reviled until the end of time, and he realised he could never have done it. The insight into his own weakness appalled him.

‘So you speak English?’ He was still reading.

‘Yes, my Führer.’

‘You have spent time in England?’

‘I was at Oxford for two years.’

He looked up, stared out of the window. His expression became dreamy. ‘Oxford is the second-oldest university in Europe, founded in the twelfth century. I have often wondered what it would be like to see it. Heidelberg was founded a century later. Of course, Bologna is the oldest of them all.’

The door opened and the adjutant appeared. ‘General Keitel, my Führer.’

Keitel marched in and saluted. Behind him an army officer carried rolled-up charts. ‘You wished to have the maps in here, my Führer?’

‘Yes, Keitel. Good morning. Set them up on the table. I want to show them to the Duce.’

He threw the press summary on to the desk and watched as the maps were unrolled. One was of Czechoslovakia, the other of Germany. On both, the positions of military units were drawn in red. He folded his arms and stared down at them. ‘Forty divisions to destroy the Czechs – we would have done it in a week. Ten divisions to hold the conquered territory, the remaining thirty transferred to the west to hold the frontier.’ He rocked up and down again on the balls of his feet. ‘It would have worked. It could still work. “Liking and respect”! That old arsehole! This train is heading in the wrong direction, Keitel!’

‘Yes, my Führer.’

The adjutant touched Hartmann on the arm and gestured to the door.

As he left the compartment he looked back for a moment. But all attention was now focused on the maps and he saw that his existence had already been forgotten.