Munich

6

The Regina Palast was an immense, monumental grey stone cube of a hotel, built in 1908, with Versailles-style reception rooms, a Turkish bath in the basement and three hundred bedrooms arranged over seven floors, of which the British delegation had been allotted twenty. These ran along the front of the hotel on the third floor with views across the trees of Maximiliansplatz to the distant twin Gothic spires of the Frauenkirche.

After the Prime Minister and his team had left for the start of the conference, Legat spent the next ten minutes walking up and down the dimly lit carpeted corridor in the company of the hotel’s assistant manager. He found it hard to hide his frustration. I might as well have been a bloody hotelier, he thought. His first task, given to him by Horace Wilson, was to allocate a room to each member of the British party and then to make sure the porters delivered the correct luggage to the right room.

‘I’m sorry to be a bore,’ Wilson had said, ‘but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to stay in the hotel for the duration of the conference.’

‘The entire duration?’

‘Yes. It seems they’re giving us a corridor of rooms to use as our headquarters. Someone needs to get an office set up and running, establish an open line to London, make sure it’s permanently manned. You’re the obvious choice.’ The dismay must have shown in Legat’s face because he went on smoothly: ‘I understand it’s a disappointment for you not to be at the main show – just as it must have been for poor old Syers to be left behind in London, after his name was in the papers as one of the Prime Minister’s party – but it simply can’t be helped. So sorry.’

For a moment Legat had considered confiding in him why he was in Munich in the first place. But instinct warned him it might only make Wilson even more determined to keep him away from the German delegation. Indeed, there was something about Wilson’s manner – a vague hard shape lurking beneath the oily surface – which suggested to him that the Prime Minister’s Chief Adviser already had a shrewd idea of what he had come to do.

So all he said was, ‘Of course, sir. I’ll make a start right away.’

The suite designated for the Prime Minister included a bedroom with a four-poster bed and a Louis XVI drawing room with gilt chairs and French windows that opened on to a balcony. ‘It is the finest room in the hotel,’ the under-manager assured him. The next-best rooms Legat awarded to Wilson, Strang, Malkin, Ashton-Gwatkin and the two diplomats from the Berlin embassy, Henderson and Kirkpatrick. In a spirit of self-sacrifice, his own room and Dunglass’s were the smaller ones, on the opposite side of the corridor, and had views of the interior courtyard, as did those of the two detectives, the PM’s doctor, Sir Joseph Horner – who had gone immediately to the bar – and the two Garden Room secretaries, Miss Anderson and Miss Sackville. (So that was her name, he thought: Joan Sackville.)

The large double-aspect room in the south-east corner had been set aside as the delegation’s office. A tray of open sandwiches and some bottles of mineral water had been provided for lunch. It was here that the two women set up their typewriters – two Imperials and a Remington portable – and unpacked their stationery. Legat put the PM’s red boxes on the desk. An old-fashioned telephone was the only means of communication. He asked the hotel operator to book an international call to the switchboard of Number 10, then hung up and paced around the room. After a while, Joan suggested he ought to sit down.

‘Sorry. I’m a bit on edge.’ He sat and poured himself a glass of mineral water. It was warm and tasted vaguely of sulphur. Almost immediately the phone rang. He jumped up to answer it: ‘Yes?’ Over the voice of the hotel operator informing him that he was connected to London he could just make out the exasperated tone of the telephonist in Downing Street repeatedly asking what extension he required. He had to shout to make himself heard. It was another minute before the Principal Private Secretary came on the line.

‘Cleverly.’

‘Sir, it’s Legat. We’re in Munich.’

‘Yes, I know. It’s running on the news wires.’ His voice was very faint and hollow. There was a series of faint clicks on the line. That would be the Germans listening, thought Legat. Cleverly said, ‘It sounds as though you—’ The robot-voice was lost in a crackle of static.

‘I’m sorry, sir. Could you repeat that?’

‘I said, it sounds as though you had quite a reception!’

‘We certainly did, sir.’

‘Where’s the PM?’

‘He’s just left for the conference. I’m at the hotel.’

‘Good. I want you to stay there and make sure this line stays open.’

‘With respect, sir, I think I would be more useful if I was actually in the same building as the PM.’

‘No, absolutely not. Do you hear me? I want—’

Another burst of static, like gunfire. The line went dead. ‘Hello? Hello?’ Legat pressed the lever on the cradle with his finger half a dozen times. ‘Hello? Damn!’ He hung up and regarded the apparatus with hatred.

For the next two hours Legat made repeated attempts to establish a line to London. It proved impossible. Even the number he had been given for the Führerbau was constantly engaged. He started to suspect the Germans were deliberately isolating them – either that, or the regime was not as efficient as it liked to pretend. Throughout all this, in the garden opposite the hotel, the crowd kept growing. There was a holiday atmosphere, the men in leather shorts, the women in floral dresses. Much beer was being drunk. An oom-pah band arrived and began to play the current English hit.

‘Any time you’re Lambeth way,

Any evening, any day,

You’ll find us all doin’ the Lambeth walk.’

At the end of each chorus, the crowd chanted in a Bavarian accent a ragged and slightly inebriated ‘Oy!’

After a while, Legat covered his ears. ‘This is surreal.’

Joan said, ‘Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s rather sweet of them to try to make us feel at home.’

He found a tourist guide to the city in the desk drawer. The hotel appeared to be only about half a mile from the Führerbau – left along Max-Joseph-Strasse and up to Karolinenplatz, over the roundabout … Assuming he could find Paul quickly enough, he could be there and back in half an hour.

‘Are you married, Mr Legat?’

‘I am.’

‘Any children?’

‘Two. What about you?’

She lit a cigarette and regarded him through the smoke with an expression of amusement. ‘No. No one will have me.’

‘I find that hard to believe.’

‘No one will have me whom I want to be had by, if you know what I mean.’ She started to sing along with the band:

‘Everything’s free and easy,

Do as you darn well pleasey,

Why don’t you make your way there,

Go there, stay there …’

Miss Anderson joined in. They had good voices. Legat knew they would think him a stuffed shirt for not taking part – that was what Pamela always called him. But it ran counter to his nature at the best of times to sing, or to dance for that matter, and he hardly thought this was an occasion for levity.

From outside, clearly audible even through the closed windows, came a resounding Germanic ‘Oy!’

At the Führerbau, they waited.

Each delegation had been allotted its own area. The Germans and the Italians shared the long open gallery that was next to the Führer’s study; the British and the French occupied the two reception rooms at the far end of the corridor that faced it. Hartmann positioned himself in an armchair in the gallery that afforded him a clear view between the pillars across the wide open space to where the allied officials sat in silence, reading and smoking. Both had left their doors wide open in case they were needed. He could see them occasionally moving around, casting hopeful, anxious glances towards the big corner study where the Führer’s door remained firmly shut.

Still Legat did not come.

One hour passed, and then another. From time to time, a Nazi chieftain – Göring, Himmler, Hess – wandered by with his attendants, occasionally stopping to exchange a few words with the Germans. The boots of the SS adjutants rang on the marble floor. Messages were whispered. The atmosphere was that of a big hushed institution – a museum perhaps, a library. Everyone watched everyone else.

From time to time, Hartmann reached inside his jacket and touched the metal of the gun, warmed by the heat of his body, then slid his hand down the side of his shirt and felt the outline of the envelope. Somehow he would have to get it into the hands of the British delegation, and sooner rather than later – there was no point in leaving it until a deal was agreed. Legat it seemed was out of the picture: why, he did not know. But if not Legat, who? The only Englishman to whom he had spoken was Strang. He had seemed decent enough, albeit as stiff as an old Latin schoolmaster. How was he to make contact with Strang without being seen by Sauer? Every time he looked around, it seemed the SS man was watching him. He suspected he had also alerted some of his comrades.

It would take him less than half a minute to saunter over to the British delegation’s room. Unfortunately, he could only do so in full view of the entire assembly. What possible excuse could he contrive? His mind, tired from two nights of little sleep, circled endlessly around the problem without finding a solution. Nevertheless, he decided he would have to try.

At three o’clock he stood to stretch his legs. He walked around the corner, past the Führer’s office to the balustrade nearest the British delegation’s room. He rested his hands on the cold marble, leaned casually against it and looked down into the lobby. A group of men was standing together at the foot of the second staircase, talking quietly. He guessed they were the drivers. He risked a surreptitious glance at the British.

Suddenly there was a noise behind him. The door to Hitler’s study opened and Chamberlain appeared. He looked much grimmer than he had a couple of hours earlier. After him came Wilson, then Daladier and Léger. Daladier, patting his pockets, pulled out a cigarette case. At once, the British and French delegations streamed out from their respective rooms to meet them. As they hurried past him, Hartmann heard Chamberlain call out, ‘Come on, gentlemen, we’re leaving,’ and the two groups walked along the gallery to the far staircase and began to descend. A minute later, Hitler and Mussolini emerged and stalked off in the same direction, with Ciano trailing behind. Hitler’s expression was still one of irritation. He was gesticulating at the Duce, muttering to him angrily, his right hand making sweeping gestures as if he wished to consign the entire business to oblivion. The glorious possibility occurred to Hartmann that perhaps the whole thing had collapsed.

Legat was at the desk in the Regina Palast office, sorting through the contents of the red boxes and putting aside the documents annotated by the Prime Minister requiring urgent action, when he heard the crowd begin to cheer again. He got to his feet and looked down into Maximiliansplatz. An open Mercedes had drawn up outside the hotel. Chamberlain was climbing out, accompanied by Wilson. Other cars were arriving behind it. The British delegation appeared on the pavement.

Joan joined him at the window. ‘Were you expecting them back this early?’

‘No. There was nothing scheduled.’

He locked the boxes and went out into the corridor. At the far end the lift-bell rang softly. The doors opened and the Prime Minister emerged with Wilson and one of his Scotland Yard detectives.

‘Good afternoon, Prime Minister.’

‘Hello, Hugh.’ His voice was tired. In the weak electric light, he looked almost spectral. ‘Where are we based?’

‘Your suite is here, sir.’

As soon as he crossed the threshold the Prime Minister disappeared into the bathroom. Wilson went over to the window and looked down at the crowd. He, too, seemed exhausted.

‘How did it go, sir?’

‘It was pretty bloody. Will you tell the others to come in here? Everyone needs to be briefed.’

Legat stationed himself in the corridor and diverted the arriving delegates into the room. Within two minutes it was full: Strang, Malkin, Ashton-Gwatkin and Dunglass, together with Henderson and Kirkpatrick from Berlin. Legat went in last. He closed the door behind him, just as the Prime Minister came out of his bedroom. He had changed his collar and washed his face. The hair behind his ears was still damp. He looked altogether brighter. ‘Gentlemen, please sit down.’ He took the large armchair facing the room and waited while they all found a seat. ‘Horace, why don’t you put everyone in the picture?’

‘Thank you, Prime Minister. Well, the whole thing was somewhat of a Mad Hatter’s tea party, as you’ve probably gathered.’ He pulled a small notebook from his inside pocket and flattened it out on his knee. ‘We started with a speech from Hitler, the gist of which was (a) that Czechoslovakia is now a threat to peace in Europe, (b) that a quarter of a million refugees have fled the Sudetenland into Germany in the past few days, and (c) that the whole situation is critical and must be settled by Saturday – either Britain and France and Italy will have to guarantee that the Czechs will start evacuating the disputed territory on that day, or he’ll march in and take it. He kept looking at his watch as if he was checking when the twenty-four-hour pause on mobilisation would expire. Overall, I must say my impression is that he’s not bluffing and we either sort this thing out today or it’s war.’

He turned a page.

‘Then Mussolini produced a draft agreement in Italian which the Germans have since had translated.’ He fished around in his other inside pocket and pulled out a few typewritten pages. ‘Translated into German, that is. As far as we can gather, it’s more or less what was proposed before.’ He threw it on to the coffee table.

Strang said, ‘Will Hitler accept an international commission to determine which areas are to become German?’

‘No, he says there’s no time for that – there should be a plebiscite and each district can decide according to a simple majority.’

‘And what happens to the minority?’

‘They will have to evacuate by October the tenth. He also wants us to guarantee that the Czechs won’t destroy any of their installations before they leave.’

The Prime Minister said, ‘It’s the word “guarantee” I don’t like. How on earth can we guarantee anything unless we know the Czechs will agree?’

‘Then surely they need to be at the conference?’

‘Exactly the point I made. Unfortunately, this led to the usual vulgar tirade against the Czechs. There was a lot of this –’ The Prime Minister smacked his fist into his open palm repeatedly.

Wilson consulted his notes. ‘To be exact, he said that he had agreed to postpone military action – “but if those who had urged him to do so were not prepared to take responsibility for Czechoslovakia’s compliance, he would have to reconsider”.’

‘Good God!’

Chamberlain said, ‘Nevertheless, I stood my ground. It’s inconceivable that we should guarantee Czech compliance unless the Czechs themselves agree.’

Henderson said, ‘What was the French position on bringing the Czechs into the talks?’

‘To begin with Daladier backed me up, but then after about half an hour he changed his tune. What exactly was it he said, Horace?’

Wilson read from his notebook. ‘“If the inclusion of a Prague representative would cause difficulties he was ready to forgo this, as it was important that the question should be settled speedily.”’

‘To which I countered that I wasn’t insisting that the Czechs should actually take part in the discussions, but at the very least they should be in the next room, so that they could give us the necessary assurances.’

Wilson said, ‘You were very firm, Prime Minister.’

‘Well, yes, I was. I had to be! Daladier is utterly useless. He gives the impression he’s loathing every minute of being here and just wants to sign an agreement and get home to Paris as quickly as possible. Once it became clear we weren’t going to get anywhere – in fact, that there was a risk the whole thing might break up in acrimony – I proposed we adjourn for an hour so that we could consult with our respective delegations about Mussolini’s draft.’

‘And the Czechs?’

‘Let’s wait and see. By the end Hitler had a face like thunder. He’s taken Mussolini and Himmler back to his apartment for lunch – I can’t say I envy Musso that particular social engagement!’ He broke off. He screwed up his face in disgust. ‘What on earth is that?’

Through the closed windows came the thump of the band outside the hotel.

Legat said, ‘It’s “The Lambeth Walk”, Prime Minister.’

In the Führerbau, the German and Italian officials had drifted back towards the room where the buffet lunch had been laid out. The two groups didn’t mingle. The Germans felt themselves superior to the Italians. The Italians thought the Germans vulgar. Over by the window, a circle formed around Weizsäcker and Schmidt. Hartmann collected a plate of food and joined them. Weizsäcker was showing round a document, typed in German. He seemed very pleased with himself. It took a moment for Hartmann to grasp that this was some kind of draft agreement, produced at the leaders’ meeting by Mussolini. So the talks hadn’t broken down after all. He felt his earlier good spirits evaporate. His dismay must have shown on his face, because Sauer said, ‘There’s no need to look quite so miserable about it, Hartmann! At least we have the basis of an agreement.’

‘I’m not miserable, Herr Sturmbannführer, merely amazed that Dr Schmidt should have managed to translate it so quickly.’

Schmidt laughed and rolled his eyes at his naivety. ‘My dear Hartmann, I didn’t have to translate a thing! That draft was written last night in Berlin. Mussolini pretended it was his own work.’

Weizsäcker said, ‘Do you honestly think we would have left something so important to the Italians?’

The others joined in the laughter. Across the room, a couple of the Italians turned to look at them. Weizsäcker became serious. He put his finger to his lips. ‘I think we should keep our voices down.’

Legat spent the next hour in the office, translating the text of the Italians’ draft agreement from German into English. It wasn’t very long – less than a thousand words. As he finished each page he gave it to Joan to type. At various points, the members of the British delegation trooped into the office to read over his shoulder.

The evacuation will begin on October 1st.

The United Kingdom, France and Italy guarantee that the evacuation of the territory shall be completed by October 10th …

And so it went on, eight paragraphs in all.

It was Malkin, the Foreign Office lawyer, sitting in an armchair in the corner, reading through the pages and puffing on his pipe, who suggested that ‘guarantee’ should be replaced with ‘agree’ – a clever stroke, seemingly trivial, that completely altered the tenor of the draft. Wilson took it along the corridor to show to the Prime Minister, who was resting in his room. The word came back that Chamberlain agreed. It was Malkin also who pointed out that the whole thrust of the document implied that three powers – Britain, France and Italy – were making concessions to a fourth, Germany: a thrust which gave what he called ‘an unfortunate impression’. He therefore wrote out a preamble to the agreement in his Chancery Lane copperplate:

Germany, the United Kingdom, France and Italy, taking into consideration the agreement, which has been already reached in principle for the cession to Germany of the Sudeten German territory, have agreed on the following terms and conditions governing the said cession and the measures consequent thereon, and by this agreement they each hold themselves responsible for the steps necessary to secure its fulfilment.

The Prime Minister signalled his agreement to that as well. He also asked for the folder containing the 1930 Czech census results that was in his red box. Joan retyped the document from the beginning. Just after 4 p.m. it was finished and the delegation began moving downstairs to their cars. Chamberlain came out from his bedroom into the drawing room, looking tense, nervously smoothing his moustache with his thumb and forefinger. Legat handed him the folder. Wilson muttered, ‘Perhaps a better quotation from Shakespeare to have used at Heston might have been, “Once more unto the breach, dear friends.”’ The corners of the Prime Minister’s mouth turned down slightly.

His detective said, ‘Are you ready to go, sir?’

Chamberlain nodded and walked out of the room. As Wilson turned to follow him, Legat decided to make one last appeal. ‘I really think I would be more useful at the actual conference, sir, rather than hanging around here. There’s bound to be further translating to be done.’

‘Oh, no no – the Ambassador and Kirkpatrick can handle that. You man the fort here. Really, you’re doing a splendid job.’ He patted Legat’s arm. ‘You need to get on to Number Ten straight away and read them the text of our revised draft. Ask them to make sure it’s circulated to the Foreign Office. Well – here goes.’

He hurried after the Prime Minister. Legat returned to the office, picked up the telephone, and once again booked a call to London. This time, to his surprise, it went through.

For Hartmann, the existence of a draft agreement changed everything. Clever minds would now bend themselves to smoothing over points of difference. Iron principles would shimmer and then magically vanish. The most contentious issues of all, on which no accord was possible, would simply be ignored entirely and left to subcommittees to deal with at a later date. He knew how these things worked.

He edged away from the luncheon party, replaced his plate on the buffet table and slipped out of the room. He reckoned he might only have an hour or two at best. He needed to find some secluded space. To his left were a couple of closed doors and beyond them a gap in the wall. He walked towards it: the landing of a service staircase. He looked over his shoulder. No one seemed to have noticed his departure. He side-stepped quickly and began to descend. He passed a chef in kitchen whites climbing the stairs carrying a tray of covered dishes. The man ignored him. He continued on down, past the ground floor, all the way to the basement.

The passage was wide, the walls whitewashed, the floor smooth flagstones, like the cellar of a castle. It appeared to run the entire length of the building. He could smell food cooking nearby, could hear the metallic crashes of a kitchen. He walked on firmly, in the manner of a man who had every right to be wherever he wished. There was a loud murmur of conversation ahead, a clattering of plates and cutlery. He came out into a large cafeteria where several dozen SS guards were having lunch. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of coffee and beer. A few faces turned to look at him. He nodded. Beyond the cafeteria the passage resumed. He passed a staircase, a guardroom, opened a large metal door and stepped into the heat of the afternoon.

It was the car park at the back of the building. A dozen black Mercedes were drawn up in a line. A couple of the drivers were smoking. Faintly in the distance he heard cheers and shouts of ‘Sieg Heil!’

He turned around quickly and went back inside. An SS man appeared from the guardroom. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Hurry up, man! Can’t you hear the Führer is returning?’

He pushed past him and started climbing the staircase. He trotted up the steps quickly. His heart felt too full for his chest. He was sweating. He passed the ground floor and ascended the next two flights and emerged more or less exactly where he had been standing when the first session of the conference broke up. There was a flurry of activity. Aides were moving hastily into position, straightening their jackets, smoothing down their hair, looking along the corridor. Hitler and Mussolini came into view, walking side by side. Behind them came Himmler and Ciano. It was clear that the luncheon interval had done nothing to improve Hitler’s mood. Mussolini stopped to talk to Attolico but Hitler stamped on regardless, followed by the German delegation.

At the entrance to his study he halted and turned to look down the length of the building. Hartmann, no more than ten paces away, saw the irritation in his face. He began to rock up and down on the balls of his feet – that same strange unconscious mannerism Hartmann had witnessed on the train. From outside came a burst of even louder applause, and shortly afterwards Chamberlain appeared at the top of the far staircase, followed by Daladier. They, too, began to confer, standing together beside a pillar. Hitler watched the two democratic leaders for perhaps a minute. Suddenly he wheeled round, located Ribbentrop, and gestured angrily at him to go and fetch them. He disappeared into his study and Hartmann felt a rush of renewed optimism. The professional diplomats might imagine the deal was already done, but nothing could be settled until Hitler willed it, and he still looked as if he would like nothing more than to send them all packing.