Munich

8

Legat sat motionless, watching the moths dancing around the garden lights. The smell of lavender was strong in the warm night air. After a while, cautiously, with the tip of his thumb and forefinger, he opened the newspaper. Inside, next to a story about Aryan maidens being raped by Jews, lay a plain manila envelope. Judging by its weight it contained perhaps two dozen sheets of paper. He refolded Der Stürmer, waited another five minutes, then rose to his feet.

He wove between the tables of beer-drinkers, through the smoky bar, out of the door on its opposite side and into the street. In the big office blocks of the Deputy Führer and the Four-Year Plan the windows gleamed. He had an impression of activity, of urgent purposeful preparation. He pressed on towards Königsplatz. As he approached the building that housed the administration of the Nazi Party, a group of uniformed officials came out on to the pavement. After he had skirted them he heard one say, ‘Das kann nur ein Engländer sein!’ ‘That can only be an Englishman!’ There was laughter. On the granite parade ground, a pair of swastika banners, six storeys high, was lit by spotlights. He could see the Führerbau directly ahead. He wondered if he should return to the conference. Given what he was carrying it was surely too risky. He turned right between the Temples of Honour. A few minutes later he was pushing through the revolving door into the Regina Palast. In the lobby a string quartet played Tales from the Vienna Woods.

On the first-floor corridor he ran into Ashton-Gwatkin. He stopped beneath one of the dim candelabra. ‘Hello, Hugh. What have you been up to?’

‘Just running errands.’

‘I know! Isn’t it awful? Nothing works. The phones are hopeless.’ The Walrus’s heavy features were more than usually lugubrious. ‘I’ve just been in with the Czechos.’

‘How are they taking it?’

‘As one would expect. They think the whole business stinks. I’m sure we would too, in their place. But what can one do? The situation isn’t improved by the fact that the Germans still won’t let them leave their room.’

‘Are you heading back to the conference?’

‘Apparently I’m wanted. I have a car downstairs.’ He moved on, stopped, turned. ‘Incidentally, that fellow Hartmann we met earlier – wasn’t he a Rhodes scholar? At our college?’

Legat saw no point in denying it. ‘That’s right, yes.’

‘I thought the name was familiar. What year did they start it up again after the war? Twenty-eight?’

‘Twenty-nine.’

‘So he must have been there in your day. Surely you knew him?’

‘I did.’

‘But you pretended not to?’

‘Obviously he doesn’t want to shout about it, so I thought it wiser not to let on.’

The Walrus nodded. ‘Quite right. This whole place is absolutely crawling with Gestapo.’

He continued onwards in his stately fashion. Legat went into the corner office. Joan and Miss Anderson were sitting at the table, playing cards. He said, ‘Have London been on?’

Joan played a card. ‘Quite often, actually.’

‘What did you tell them?’

‘That you were away from the office having to deal with the Czechs.’

‘You’re an angel.’

‘I know. What on earth are you reading?’

‘Sorry.’ He transferred the newspaper to his other hand. ‘It’s some ghastly anti-Jew rag. I’m looking for a place to chuck it.’

‘Give it to me. I’ll get rid of it for you.’

‘It’s all right, thanks.’

‘Don’t be silly. Let me take it.’ She held out her hand.

‘Actually, I wouldn’t want you to see it.’

He could feel himself turning red. What a hopeless spy he was! She was looking at him as if he was very odd.

He went back out into the corridor. At the far end of the passage the two Gestapo men had found a pair of chairs and were sitting outside the Czech delegation’s room. He turned left, searched his pockets for his key and opened the door to his own room. It was in darkness. Through the large window he could see lights in the rooms on the opposite side of the courtyard. Inside, several people were moving around, preparing to go out for dinner; in one a man seemed to be staring directly at him. He drew the curtains and turned on the bedside lamp. His suitcase had been brought up by a porter and placed on the small table. He threw the newspaper on to the bed, went into the bathroom, ran the cold tap and splashed his face. He felt shaky. He couldn’t get the image of Hartmann out of his mind, especially his expression at the end. His eyes had seemed to stare out at him from across some vast gulf that had widened the longer they talked. He dried himself and returned to the bedroom. He locked the door. He took off his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair, picked up the newspaper, sat at the desk and turned on the green-shaded reading lamp. Finally, he opened the envelope and pulled out the pages.

The document was typed in the same large letters as the one he had received in London. The German was a hybrid of the Hitlerian and the bureaucratic, not easy to translate at first, but after a while he started to get the hang of it.

TOP SECRET

Memorandum

Berlin, 10 November 1937

Minutes of a Conference in the Reich Chancellery, Berlin, 5 November 1937 from 4.15 to 8.30 p.m.

Present:

The Führer and Chancellor

Field Marshal von Blomberg, War Minister

Colonel General Baron von Fritsch, Commander-in-Chief, Army

Admiral Dr H. C. Raeder, Commander-in-Chief, Navy

Colonel General Göring, Commander-in-Chief, Luftwaffe

Baron von Neurath, Foreign Minister

Colonel Hossbach, military adjutant to the Führer

The Führer began by stating that the subject of the present conference was of such importance that its discussion would, in other countries, certainly be a matter for a full Cabinet meeting, but he – the Führer – had rejected the idea of making it a subject of discussion before the wider circle of the Reich Cabinet precisely because of the importance of the matter. His exposition to follow was the fruit of thorough deliberation and the experiences of his four and a half years of power. He wished to explain to the gentlemen present his basic ideas concerning the opportunities for the development of our position in the field of foreign affairs and its requirements, and he asked, in the interests of a long-term German policy, that his exposition be regarded, in the event of his death, as his last will and testament.

The Führer then continued:

The aim of German policy was to make secure and to preserve the racial community and to enlarge it. It was therefore a question of space. The German racial community comprised over 85 million people and, because of their number and the narrow limits of habitable space in Europe, constituted a tightly packed racial core such as was not to be met in any other country and such as implied the right to a greater living space than in the case of other peoples –

Legat stopped reading and looked round. Behind him on the bedside table the telephone was ringing.

At the Führerbau things were finally beginning to happen. The door to Hitler’s study was now permanently open. Hartmann watched Ashton-Gwatkin come out, followed by Malkin. François-Poncet and Attolico went in to replace them. In the gallery, around the low tables, in the pools of light from the standard lamps, armchairs had been pulled together; officials were bent over papers. He saw Erich Kordt in the centre of one group: he must have travelled down from Berlin during the afternoon. The exception to all this activity was Daladier. He seemed to have withdrawn from proceedings entirely and was sitting alone in a corner, smoking a cigarette; on the table in front of him was a bottle of beer and a glass. The only person Hartmann couldn’t see was Sauer. Where was he? He found his absence ominous.

He circled the first floor, trying to spot him. In the large room next to the French delegation’s quarters, the armchairs and sofas had been pushed against the walls and a makeshift office had been set up, with typewriters and extra telephones. Next to that was the banqueting hall. Through the open door he saw a long, white-clothed table with places laid for sixty. Waiters hurried in and out carrying plates and bottles; a florist was arranging an elaborate centrepiece. Clearly a feast was in the offing. A celebration presumably, which meant they must be close to an agreement and he was nearly out of time. All his hopes now rested on Legat. But what realistic hope was there? None, he thought bitterly.

As he completed his circuit and returned to the gallery, Kordt called out to him. ‘Hartmann, good evening!’ He rose. He was holding a sheaf of papers. ‘I have need of your skills. Would you mind?’ He gestured with his head to a quiet corner where there was an empty table. As they sat, he said in a low voice, ‘Well, what happened? Did you make contact with your friend?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘He has promised to speak to Chamberlain.’

‘Well, he had better be quick about it. We are almost there.’

Hartmann was appalled. ‘How can that be? I thought the conference was scheduled to last at least another day.’

‘It was. But I would say that in the person of the Right Honourable Neville Chamberlain, the Führer has finally met a negotiator even more obdurate than himself. The old gentleman has lured him into a morass of detail and he simply can’t stand it any longer. All unresolved issues are therefore to be settled after the conference by an international commission of the four powers. In this way, each side can claim victory.’

Hartmann swore and bowed his head. Kordt patted his knee. ‘Cheer up, my dear fellow. I feel as sick about it as you do. But we will regroup and one day we will try again. In the meantime, I advise you to look a little less funereal. The Führer’s genius is about to bring three million of our fellow countrymen into the Reich without the firing of a shot. Your long face is inappropriate, and will not go unnoticed.

‘Now,’ he said, raising his voice and becoming businesslike, ‘I have documents that need to be translated from English into German.’ He searched through his bundle of documents and pulled out several pages. In a sarcastic tone he read out the heading. ‘“Annexes and supplementary declarations relating to minorities and the composition of the international commission.” It seems our British friends are the only nation keener on paperwork than our own.’

Legat picked up the telephone cautiously. ‘Hello?’

‘Hugh?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Alec Dunglass.’

‘Alec!’ Legat was relieved. ‘What’s going on?’

‘It rather looks as though we have a deal.’

‘Good Lord. That was quick.’

‘Hitler’s invited us all to some ghastly Teutonic banquet while the documents are prepared for signature but the PM thinks it will convey the wrong impression. Could you organise dinner for us at the hotel? We should be away from here by nine.’

‘Of course.’

‘Thanks so much.’

Dunglass hung up.

A deal? Legat had thought the talks would grind on into the weekend. He took out his watch. It was just after 8.20. He went back to the desk, propped his head between his hands and resumed reading, but much more quickly now, turning each page as soon as he had the gist of it. The Führer’s case was densely argued. It began with his analysis of Germany’s increasing need for food, acknowledged the unsustainability of its economy at the present pace of rearmament, and warned of the Third Reich’s vulnerability to international trade sanctions and disruption of supply.

The only remedy, and one which might appear to us as visionary, lay in the acquisition of greater living space …

The space necessary to ensure it can only be sought in Europe …

It is not a matter of acquiring population but of gaining space for agricultural use …

Germany’s problem could only be solved by means of force …

If the Führer was still living, it was his unalterable resolve to solve Germany’s problem of space at the latest by 1943–45 …

Legat flicked back to the first page. 5 November 1937. Less than eleven months ago.

The incorporation of Austria and Czechoslovakia within Germany would provide, from the politico-military point of view, a substantial advantage, because it would mean shorter and better frontiers, the freeing of forces for other purposes, and the possibility of creating new units up to a level of about twelve divisions, that is, one new division per million inhabitants.

The second part of the memorandum recorded the ensuing discussion. It was clear, reading between the lines, that the two senior military commanders, Blomberg and Fritsch, and the Foreign Minister, Neurath, had all expressed alarm about the practicability of Hitler’s strategy: the French Army was too strong, the Czech border defences were too formidable, Germany’s motorised divisions were too weak …

All three, Legat realised, had since been removed from their positions and had been replaced by Keitel, Brauchitsch and Ribbentrop.

He pushed back his chair. Hartmann was right. The Prime Minister absolutely ought to be aware of this before he signed any agreement.

He stuffed the memorandum back into its envelope.

In the corner office, he said to Joan, ‘Would you do me a favour? The PM and the others will be on their way back in about half an hour. Could you see if the hotel could rustle up some supper for everyone?’

‘All right, I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?’

‘Yes, could you get a message to Sir Alexander Cadogan at the Foreign Office? Just tell him I have it.’

‘You have what?’

‘No need to say any more. He’ll understand.’

‘Where are you off to now?’

Legat was unlocking one of the red dispatch boxes. ‘I’m going to head back to the conference for a minute. There’s a document I think the PM ought to see.’

He half-walked, half-ran along the corridor. He didn’t wait for the lift but instead trotted down the stairs, marched across the lobby and plunged into the Munich evening.

Hartmann was translating the ‘Supplementary Declaration’ from English into German – all questions which may arise out of the transfer of the territory shall be considered as coming within the terms of reference of the international commission – when he glanced up and saw Legat striding purposefully towards the room where the British delegation was based. He was carrying a small red case.

The room was empty apart from Dunglass. He stared at Legat in surprise. ‘I thought I told you we were coming back to the hotel?’

‘Something’s come up. I need to have a quick word with the PM.’

‘Well, you can try, but he’s still in with the other leaders.’

‘Where is he?’

Dunglass raised his eyebrows slightly – the closest he came to expressing strong emotion – and pointed to the door at the end of the corridor. It looked like the entrance to a hive – men hovering around it, going in and coming out.

‘Thanks.’

Legat set off. No one tried to stop him.

The four Heads of Government here present agree that the international commission provided for in the agreement signed by them today shall consist of the Secretary of State in the German Foreign Office, the British, French and Italian Ambassadors accredited to Berlin, and a representative to be nominated by the Government of Czechoslovakia.

Even while his pen moved across the paper, Hartmann’s eyes were following Legat as he entered Hitler’s study.

The room was large – perhaps fifty feet long – crowded, stuffy. The tall windows were all closed. There was a faint sour odour of male sweat. The Prime Minister was on the sofa in front of the fireplace, talking to Mussolini. Legat could see Wilson in the corner by the window with Sir Nevile Henderson. And at the far end, beside a giant globe, with his arms folded, leaning against the edge of a desk, listening to Ribbentrop and wearing an expression of utter boredom, he could see Hitler. After their first meeting Chamberlain had described him to the Cabinet as ‘the commonest little dog you ever saw’. The Cabinet Secretary had cleaned this up in the minutes to read ‘there was nothing out of the common about his features’. Legat had thought it snobbish at the time but now he could see what the Prime Minister had meant. It was almost compelling how nondescript he was – more so even than when he had glimpsed him in the street six years earlier. He looked like a lodger who always kept himself to himself, or a nightwatchman who disappeared in the morning as soon as the day shift arrived. He found it hard to drag his gaze away and, when he did, he realised that the gathering was breaking up. People were moving towards the door. Chamberlain was already on his feet.

He made haste to intercept him. ‘Excuse me, Prime Minister.’

‘Yes?’ The Prime Minister turned round.

‘I wondered if I could trouble you for a moment?’

Chamberlain glanced at him and then at the red box. ‘No,’ he said irritably. ‘Not now.’

He walked out of the room. Almost at once Legat felt someone come up behind him and grip his elbow. Wilson’s voice was a warm breath in his ear.

‘Hugh? What on earth are you doing here?’

The other delegates continued to leave, stepping around them to get to the door.

‘I’m sorry, sir. Lord Dunglass told me there was an agreement so I came to see if I could be of any assistance.’ He lifted the red box. ‘Carrying papers back to the hotel and so forth.’

‘Is that so?’ Wilson looked sceptical. ‘Well, you could have saved yourself the journey. The deed is done.’

Hartmann watched them emerge from the study – Chamberlain first, with Henderson, and then the French diplomats: Rochat, Clapier, François-Poncet … Léger peeled away from the others and went over to fetch Daladier, still sitting in the corner with his beer. The French Prime Minister slowly got to his feet. Then Legat came out with Wilson, who was holding his elbow like a plainclothes detective who had made an arrest. They passed within a few paces of him. Legat glanced briefly in Hartmann’s direction but did not acknowledge him. After a few minutes Hitler appeared with Mussolini, followed by Ciano and Ribbentrop. They walked off in the direction of the big dining room.

Hartmann tried to interpret the meaning of the little pantomime he had just witnessed: Legat presumably had read the memorandum, had brought it to the Führerbau and had tried to speak to Chamberlain about it but had arrived too late. That seemed the most logical explanation.

An adjutant came over and collected his translations. Then suddenly Kordt was bearing down upon him, waving him urgently to his feet. ‘Hartmann, come with us. Hurry up and straighten your tie. We’ve been asked to join the Führer for dinner.’

‘Really, Kordt? How appalling. I never dine with people I hardly know.’

‘It isn’t optional. These are Weizsäcker’s orders: the British and the French won’t eat with the Führer and so it is necessary for us to make up the numbers. Come.’ He held out his hand.

Reluctantly Hartmann rose and together they walked around the first floor towards the other side of the building. He said, ‘Are the British and the French coming back tonight?’

‘Yes, after dinner, to sign the agreement.’

So it was not entirely done yet, thought Hartmann, although the chances of disruption were so tiny he rather despised himself for even considering them. Nevertheless, he managed to force a more neutral expression on to his face as he entered the room.

Hitler was seated in the centre of the immense table with his back to the windows. Mussolini and Ciano were on either side, Weizsäcker and Ribbentrop directly across from him. His guests were being served wine; he had a bottle of mineral water. As Hartmann crossed the long, panelled salon he noted those he recognised – Göring, Himmler, Hess, Keitel, Attolico – perhaps sixteen men in all. No sign of Sauer.

It was far too small a group for such a big space; the atmosphere was awkward. Waiters were clearing away the settings from either end of the table. Hartmann took a chair on the opposite side to Hitler, as far away from him as he could get, next to the Italian, Anfuso, who was head of the Foreign Ministry in Rome. Even so, he was close enough to the Führer to be able to observe him quite plainly – moodily picking at a roll and making little attempt at conversation. He looked as if he was brooding on this snub from the British and the French. The silence seemed to infect those around him. Even Göring was muted. Only when bread soup was served did the Führer appear to brighten somewhat. He sipped at it and then dabbed his moustache with his napkin.

‘Duce,’ he began, ‘do you not agree that one may observe the decay of a race in the faces of its leaders?’ The remark was ostensibly a question, and in theory directed at Mussolini, but posed in a voice sufficiently loud to carry across the table, and in a tone that implied no answer was required. Other conversations fell silent. He sipped a little more soup. ‘Daladier to some extent I exempt from this rule. The French are undoubtedly decadent – Léger is from Martinique and plainly has Negroid ancestry – but Daladier’s appearance possesses character. He was an old soldier, just like you and I, Duce. Daladier – yes, one can get on with him well enough. He sees things as they are and draws the proper conclusions.’

Mussolini said, ‘He just wanted to drink his beer and let his advisers get on with it.’

Hitler seemed not to have heard him. ‘But Chamberlain!’ He pronounced the name with sarcastic distaste, extending the vowels so that it sounded like an obscenity. ‘This “Chamberlain” haggles over every village and petty interest like a market stall-keeper! Do you know, gentlemen, he wanted assurances that the Czech farmers expelled from the Sudetenland would be permitted to take their pigs and cows with them? Can you imagine the bourgeois triviality of a mind that can be bothered with such details? He demanded indemnities for every public building!’

Mussolini cut in, ‘I enjoyed François-Poncet’s remark: “What? Even the public lavatories?”’

There was laughter around the table.

Hitler was not to be deflected: ‘Chamberlain! He was even worse than the Czechs would have been! What has he got to lose in Bohemia? What’s it to do with him? He asked me if I liked to fish at weekends. I never have weekends – and I hate fishing!’

More laughter. Ciano said, ‘Do you know what they call him in Paris? “J’aime Berlin!”’

Hitler scowled at him. He was clearly annoyed at these interruptions. Mussolini gave his son-in-law a reproving look. The smile shrank on Ciano’s full lips. The Führer resumed. ‘It’s time Britain learned she has no right to play governess to Europe. If she can’t stop interfering, then in the long run war cannot be avoided. And I’ll fight that war as long as you and I are still young, Duce, because this war will be a gigantic test of strength for our two countries, and it will call for men in the prime of life at the head of their respective governments – not these decadent pin-headed old women and Negroes!’

There was much applause and banging of the table. Hartmann glanced across at Kordt but he was examining his soup plate. Suddenly he could take it no longer. As the waiters surrounded the table to clear away the first course he laid down his napkin and pushed back his chair. He had hoped he might be able to sidle away unnoticed but just as he was rising to his feet Hitler glanced along the table and noticed him. A puzzled look crossed his face. How dare someone leave when he was speaking?

Hartmann paused in mid-crouch. ‘My Führer, excuse me. I am needed to help with the translation of the agreement.’

A finger was raised. ‘One moment.’ Hitler leaned back in his seat and summoned a white-jacketed SS adjutant who stepped smartly to his side. Hartmann slowly straightened. He was aware of all eyes on him. Mussolini, Göring, Himmler – all seemed faintly amused by his predicament. Only Kordt looked rigid with horror. The adjutant began moving around the table towards him. After what seemed to him a long time but in reality must have been only a matter of seconds the adjutant reached Hartmann and presented him with his watch. As Hartmann left the room he heard the familiar voice rasping behind him. ‘I never forget a personal obligation. For Germany I am prepared to be dishonest a thousand times; for myself – never.’