Munich

3

The Führer’s train was slowing. After more than twelve hours of relentless forward motion Hartmann could detect a slight but definite swaying back and forth as the driver gently applied the brakes.

They were in the hilly country an hour south of Munich, not far from where he had gone walking with Hugh and Leyna in the summer of ’32. Beyond the windows the woodland had begun to thin, a river glinted silver through the trees, and then an ancient town curved into view on the opposite bank. Gaily painted houses – pale blue, lime green, canary yellow – fronted on to the water. Behind them, a grey stone medieval castle sprawled across a wooded hill. In the distance rose the Alps. Framed by the window, it looked exactly like the Reichsbahn poster for a Tyrolean holiday that had lured them south six years before. Even the half-timbered station they were pulling into was picturesque. The train slowed to walking pace and then, with a slight jolt and a squeak of metal, stopped. It let out an exhausted exhalation of steam.

A sign beside the waiting room announced Kufstein.

Austria, then, thought Hartmann – or rather, what had once been Austria until the Führer got to work on the map.

The platform was deserted. He checked his watch. It was a good watch, a Rolex, given to him by his mother on his twenty-first birthday. With beautiful efficiency they had arrived at 9.30 a.m. precisely. He wondered if the British delegation had taken off yet.

He rose from his table in the communications wagon, walked to the door and lowered the window.

All along the length of the train men were disembarking to stretch their legs. The station itself appeared ghostly in its emptiness. Hartmann guessed it must have been sealed off by the security services. But then something caught his eye: a man’s white face staring through a grimy window. He was wearing a Reichsbahn cap. When he realised he had been spotted, he ducked out of sight.

Hartmann jumped down on to the platform and headed straight towards him. He pushed open the door and entered what looked to be the stationmaster’s office, stuffy with the burned-out reek of coal and cigarettes. The official was at his desk – lank-haired, forties, pretending to read some papers. As Hartmann approached he scrambled to his feet.

Hartmann said, ‘Heil Hitler.’

The man saluted. ‘Heil Hitler!’

‘I’m travelling with the Führer. I need to use your telephone.’

‘Of course, sir. An honour.’ He pushed it towards Hartmann, who waved his hand imperiously.

‘Get me an operator.’

‘Yes, sir.’

When the man gave him the phone, Hartmann said to the operator, ‘I need to place a call to Berlin. I am with the Führer. It is a matter of the utmost urgency.’

‘What number in Berlin, sir?’

He gave her Kordt’s direct line. She repeated it back to him. ‘Shall I call you when I have a connection?’

‘As soon as possible.’

He hung up and lit a cigarette. Through the window he could see activity further up the platform. The locomotive was being uncoupled and was getting up steam again. A group of SS men had gathered around the door of one of the carriages, facing away from the train with their machine guns clasped across their chests. An adjutant opened the door and Hitler appeared. The railway official standing beside Hartmann gasped. The Führer stepped down on to the platform. He was wearing his peaked cap, his belted brown uniform, highly polished jackboots. Behind him was the Reichsführer-SS, Heinrich Himmler. He stood for a moment flexing his shoulders, staring at the Kufstein castle, then set off down the platform in Hartmann’s direction, accompanied by Himmler and his SS bodyguard. As he walked he swung his arms back and forth in unison, presumably to stimulate his circulation. There was something about the motion that was disturbing, simian.

The telephone rang. Hartmann picked it up.

‘I have your connection, sir.’

He heard the number ringing. A woman answered: ‘Kordt’s office.’

He turned away from the window. The line was poor. It was hard to hear. He had to put a finger in one ear and shout over the noise of the locomotive. ‘It’s Hartmann. Is Dr Kordt there?’

‘No, Herr Hartmann. Can I help you?’

‘Possibly. Do you know if we’ve received notification from London of who will be in Prime Minister Chamberlain’s delegation?’

‘Wait, please. I’ll check.’

The Führer had turned around and was strolling back in the direction he had come. He was talking to Himmler. In the distance Hartmann could hear the whistle of another train approaching from the south.

‘Herr Hartmann, I have the list from London.’

‘Wait.’ Hartmann clicked his fingers impatiently at the railway official and mimed writing. The man tore his gaze from the window, took a stubby pencil from behind his ear and handed it over. Hartmann sat at the desk and found a scrap of paper. As he wrote each name he recited it back to her to be sure he had heard correctly. ‘Wilson … Strang … Malkin … Ashton-Gwatkin … Dunglass … Legat.’ Legat. He grinned. ‘Excellent. Thank you. Goodbye.’ He hung up and cheerfully threw the pencil back at the railwayman who fumbled and just managed to catch it. ‘The office of the Führer thanks you for your help.’

He slipped the list of names into his pocket and went outside into the fresh mountain air. A second train was crawling into the station. A large welcoming party had gathered, with Hitler at its centre. The cab of the oncoming locomotive was decorated with the green, white and red tricolour of Italy. It came to a halt just short of the Führer’s train. An SS guard stepped forwards smartly and opened a door.

Half a minute later, in a pale grey uniform and peaked cap, Mussolini appeared on the top step. His arm shot out in salute. Hitler’s did the same. The Duce descended to the platform. The dictators shook hands – not at all the usual diplomatic formality but a warm and mutual double-clasp. They might almost have been two old lovers, thought Hartmann, the way they were grinning and gazing into one another’s eyes. The flashes of the photographers lit up the reunion and suddenly everyone was beaming: Hitler, Mussolini, Himmler, Keitel, and Ciano – the Italian Foreign Minister and Mussolini’s son-in-law – who had also emerged from the train with the rest of the delegation, all in uniform. Hitler gestured for the Italians to accompany him. Hartmann realised he had better get out of the way.

He half-turned, just in time to see Sturmbannführer Sauer disappear into the railwayman’s office.

Immediately, he swivelled back to his original position, and stood frozen, unsure of what to do. It could hardly be a coincidence, which meant that Sauer must have been watching him all along. Now presumably he was going to question the railway official. Hartmann tried to remember if he had said anything incriminating. Thank God Kordt hadn’t been in his office, otherwise he might have been indiscreet.

Barely thirty metres away, Hitler was insisting that Mussolini board the train ahead of him. Mussolini made a remark but Hartmann was too far away to hear it. There was laughter. The Italian swung his muscular body up into the doorway. Hartmann saw Schmidt, the interpreter, watching from the fringes of the group: Mussolini fancied he spoke German well enough not to need the services of a translator and for once Schmidt, normally at the centre of every meeting, looked slightly lost. Hartmann walked towards him. In a quiet voice he said, ‘Dr Schmidt?’

Schmidt swung round to see who it was. ‘Yes, Herr Hartmann?’

‘I thought you might like to know I’ve managed to get hold of the list of Englishmen accompanying Chamberlain.’ He offered him the scrap of paper with its pencilled scrawl. ‘I thought you might find it useful.’

Schmidt seemed surprised. For a moment Hartmann thought he might demand to know why on earth he should be interested in such a thing. But then he accepted it and scanned it with increasing interest. ‘Ah, yes. Wilson I know, of course. And Strang and Malkin were both at Godesberg – neither speaks German. The other names are not familiar to me.’

He glanced over Hartmann’s shoulder. Hartmann turned as well. Sauer was bearing down on them. He wore a look of triumph. He called out even before he reached them, ‘Dr Schmidt, excuse me. Did you authorise Herr Hartmann to call Berlin?’

‘No.’ Schmidt looked at Hartmann. ‘What is this?’

Hartmann said, ‘I’m sorry, Sauer, I wasn’t aware I needed authorisation to make a simple telephone call to the Foreign Ministry.’

‘Of course you need authorisation! All outside communications from the Führer’s train must be cleared in advance!’ He said to Schmidt, ‘May I see that paper?’ He took it and ran his finger down the names. He frowned and turned it over. Finally, he returned it. ‘Again and again I find Herr Hartmann’s behaviour suspicious.’

Schmidt said mildly, ‘I really don’t think there’s much cause for suspicion here, Sturmbannführer Sauer. Surely it’s useful to know who’s coming from London? The fewer of these British officials who speak German, the more translation will be required.’

Sauer muttered, ‘Even so, it’s a breach of security.’

From the far end of the platform came the noise of metal clashing against metal. The locomotive that had hauled them from Berlin had been turned around in the marshalling yard and had been backed up to be reconnected to the opposite end of the train.

Hartmann said, ‘We ought to board or we’ll be left behind.’

Schmidt patted Sauer’s arm. ‘Well, let us say that I authorise Herr Hartmann’s action retrospectively – is that good enough?’

Sauer looked at Hartmann. He nodded curtly. ‘It will have to be.’ He turned on his heel and strode away.

Schmidt said, ‘What a touchy fellow. I take it he’s not a friend of yours?’

‘Oh, he’s not so bad.’

They walked towards the train.

Sauer is a terrier, thought Hartmann, and I am his rat. The SS man would never give up. On three occasions he had nearly caught him – in Wilhelmstrasse, on the train, and now here. He would not get away with it a fourth time.

The order of the train was now reversed. The Führer’s saloon car was at the rear; the sleeper carriages for his entourage at the front. In the centre were the communications wagon and the dining compartment, which was where Hartmann sat with Schmidt as they rolled north towards Munich. The Berliner had produced a large pipe and made a great business out of keeping it going – tamping down the tobacco with his box of matches, sucking at it, lighting it again, producing alarming spouts of flame. He was clearly nervous. Every time one of the Führer’s adjutants passed through he looked up expectantly to see if he was needed. But Hitler and Mussolini appeared to be making themselves understood without him. He seemed put out. ‘The Duce’s German is good, although not as good as he thinks it is. Let’s hope they don’t start a war by accident!’ He thought this was such a good joke he whispered some variation of it whenever an adjutant left the dining car. ‘No war yet, eh, Hartmann?’

In the middle of the carriage was a table of SS officers at which Himmler was holding court. Sauer was among them. They were drinking mineral water. From his position Hartmann could see only the back of the Reichsführer’s shaven neck and his protuberant, rather delicate small pink ears. Plainly he was in excellent spirits. Eruptions of laughter punctuated his monologue. Sauer smiled mechanically with the others but always his gaze reverted to Hartmann.

Schmidt puffed on his pipe. ‘Mussolini, I must say, is very easy to translate – nothing abstract about him: a down-to-earth practical politician. The same is true of Chamberlain.’

‘The Führer I would imagine is somewhat different.’

Schmidt hesitated, then leaned across the table. ‘A monologue of twenty minutes is not uncommon. Sometimes even an hour. And then I have to read it all back in another language. If he’s in that mood in Munich, we’ll be there for days.’

‘Perhaps the others won’t put up with it.’

‘Chamberlain certainly gets impatient. He’s the only man I ever saw interrupt the Führer. This was at their first meeting, at Berchtesgaden. He said, “If you are so determined to proceed against Czechoslovakia, why did you let me come to Germany in the first place?” Imagine that! The Führer was speechless. There’s no love lost there, I tell you.’

Behind him the SS men roared with laughter. Schmidt winced, glanced over his shoulder and settled back in his seat. In a louder voice he said, ‘It’s such a relief to have you with me, Hartmann. Obviously, I’ll translate for the Führer and the other leaders, but if you can be on hand to help deal with the rest, that will ease my burden greatly. What languages do you have, apart from English?’

‘French. Italian. Some Russian.’

‘Russian! You won’t be requiring that!’

‘Nor Czech.’

Schmidt raised his eyebrows. ‘Quite.’

The adjutant re-entered the carriage and this time he stopped at their table. ‘Dr Schmidt, General Keitel is about to make some technical explanations to the Duce, and the Führer wants you to be present.’

‘Of course.’ Schmidt quickly knocked the contents of his pipe into the ashtray. In his anxiety he spilled ash across the table. ‘Sorry, Hartmann.’ He stood and buttoned his double-breasted jacket and tugged it down over his broad stomach. He jammed the pipe into his pocket. ‘Do I smell of smoke?’ he asked the adjutant. To Hartmann he said, ‘If he smells smoke, he’ll send you out of the room.’ He pulled out a tin of peppermints and popped a couple into his mouth. ‘I’ll see you later.’

After he had gone, Hartmann felt suddenly vulnerable, like a boy who had escaped being bullied only because he had stayed close to his teacher. He rose and made his way towards the front of the carriage. As he passed the SS table, Sauer called out, ‘Hartmann! Aren’t you going to salute the Reichsführer?’

Hartmann was aware of a sudden silence. He stopped, turned, clicked his heels and raised his arm. ‘Heil Hitler!’

Himmler’s watery eyes peered up at him from behind his rimless spectacles. The top half of his face was very smooth and pale, but around his lips and his weak chin there was already a five-o’clock shadow. He raised his arm slowly. He smiled. ‘Don’t worry about it, my dear fellow.’ He flicked his fingers dismissively and lowered his arm.

As Hartmann reached the end of the dining car he heard another outbreak of laughter behind him. He guessed he must be the object of some joke. He felt his face begin to burn with shame. How much he loathed them! He pulled the door open violently and strode through the sleeper carriage. When he reached the front coach he tried the handle of the toilet door. Locked. He put his ear to it and listened but he could hear nothing. He lowered the nearby window and leaned out to get some air. The landscape was flat and monotonous, the fields brown and bare after the harvest. He turned his head into the onrushing air. The cold wind steadied his nerve. In the distance he could see factory chimneys. He guessed they must be nearing Munich.

The toilet door opened. One of the Wehrmacht signals officers emerged. They exchanged nods. Hartmann went inside and drew the bolt. The cubicle stank of human waste. Sodden yellow-stained paper was strewn across the floor. The smell seemed to catch in the back of his throat. He bent over the toilet bowl and retched. His face in the mirror when he stared into it was cadaverous, hollow-eyed. He splashed himself with water, then lowered himself on to his haunches and pulled away the panelling beneath the basin. His fingers felt around the pipework, the wall, the underside of the sink. Someone tried the toilet door. He couldn’t find the gun. He panicked. He reached in further, touched it and pulled it out. Now the door handle was being rattled vigorously.

‘All right,’ he called, ‘I’m finished.’

He slipped the Walther into his inside pocket. To cover the sound he made pushing the panel back into position he flushed the toilet again.

He half-expected to find Sauer in the corridor waiting to arrest him. Instead it was one of the Italian delegation in a pale grey fascist uniform. Hartmann returned his salute and lurched off down the passage. Inside his compartment he slid the door shut and hauled down his suitcase. He sat on the edge of the bottom bunk, rested it on his knees and opened it. The document was still inside. He hung his head in relief. He felt his body sway sideways. There was a scrape of metal, a slight shuddering beneath his feet. He looked up. Sunshine was glinting on the backs of houses and apartment buildings. Swastikas hung from some of the windows.

They were coming into Munich.

It was the time of the Oktoberfest, the annual funfair and folk festival, celebrated in these days of national unity under the official slogan Proud City, Cheerful Country. And now – behold! – there was another reason to be joyful. With only a few hours’ notice, the Party was calling on everyone to welcome the Führer and his distinguished foreign guests.

Citizens of Munich – Get out on to the streets! Starting 10.30 a.m.!

Schools had been closed and workers had been given time off. In the station, posters announced the various hotels where the delegations would be staying and the routes along which the leaders would travel: Bahnhof – Bayerstrasse – Karlsplatz – (Lenbachplatz – Hotel Regina, Hotel Continental) – Neuhauser Strasse – Kaufingerstrasse – Marienplatz – Dienerstrasse …

The moment he stepped off the train Hartmann could hear the crowd outside the station and the sound of a band playing. Göring was waiting on the platform wearing some elaborate black uniform, presumably of his own design, with broad white piping on the trouser legs and diamond-shaped lapels. Hartmann inwardly cringed at the vulgarity. He waited until the dictators and their entourages had descended from the train and passed him – Mussolini’s broad face lit up by a smile, like a child’s drawing of a sun – then he followed them across the station concourse.

When they emerged into the cobbled square of Bahnhof Platz the ovation was deafening. It was a hot day, sticky with humidity. People were lining the pavements and cramming the windows of the neighbouring post office building. Hundreds of young children were waving swastika flags. An SS honour guard in white gloves and black coal-scuttle helmets shouldered their rifles. A military band struck up the Italian national anthem. And yet what riveted Hartmann’s attention most was the grimness of Hitler’s expression. He stood through the anthems and inspected the troops as if this flummery was the very last thing he wanted. Only when two little girls in white dresses were allowed to pass through the line of police and present him and the Duce with flowers did he manage a smile. But as soon as he had given his bouquet to an aide and climbed into his open-topped Mercedes his expression darkened. Mussolini, still grinning, settled down beside him while Göring, Himmler, Keitel, Ciano and the other bigwigs piled into the cars behind. The convoy pulled away into Bayerstrasse. From the street came the sound of more cheering.

The crowd began to disperse. Hartmann looked around.

Beneath the colonnades of the station, a harassed official of the Foreign Ministry was explaining the day’s protocol to those who had been left behind. The Führer and the Duce, he announced, reading from a sheet of paper, were presently on their way to the Prinz-Carl-Palais, where the Italians would be staying. The British and the French would be landing in less than an hour: the British would be put up at the Regina Palast Hotel, the French at the Vier Jahreszeiten. While the Duce refreshed himself, the Führer would return by motorcade to the Führerbau to prepare for the conference. The rest of the German delegation should make their way there immediately. For those who desired transport, cars were waiting; otherwise, it was only a short walk. Someone asked where they would be spending the night. The official looked up from his paper and shrugged: he did not know as yet. Perhaps the Bayerischer Hof. Hotel rooms were hard to come by during the Oktoberfest. The whole thing seemed slightly chaotic.

Hartmann chose to walk.

He had always been careful over the past few years to avoid this part of Munich. It was only a ten-minute stroll from the station, along a pleasant tree-lined street – past the Old Botanical Gardens, a girls’ school, some academic buildings – to the huge open space of Königsplatz. In his mind he had preferred to preserve it as he remembered it from that summer: a red-and-grey checked blanket spread beneath the trees, Leyna in a white dress with brown bare ankles, a picnic, Hugh reading, the scent of fresh-cut grass drying in the sun …

All gone!

The immensity of the vista stopped him in his tracks. He set down his suitcase in shock. It was worse than he had anticipated, worse even than in the newsreels. The park had been eradicated to provide a vast parade ground to stage the spectacles of the Third Reich. In place of the grass were tens of thousands of granite slabs. The trees had become metal flagpoles; from two hung swastikas more than 40 metres high. On either side of him was a Temple of Honour, supported by pillars of yellow limestone, each containing eight bronze sarcophagi where the martyrs of the Beer Hall Putsch were now interred. Eternal flames flickered in the hot sunshine, guarded by a pair of SS men standing inhumanly still, their faces sheened with sweat. Beyond the temple to his left was the hideous brutalist facade of the Nazi Party administration building, beyond the temple to his right its near-identical twin, the Führerbau. All was functional white and grey and black, straight lines and sharp edges; even the neoclassical columns of the temples were square.

Outside the Führerbau he could see activity: cars drawing up, guards, flashbulbs, milling crowds. Hartmann saluted the martyred dead as one was obliged by law to do – it was dangerous to disobey: one never knew who might be watching – picked up his suitcase and walked towards the conference.