Munich

3

Prinzregentenplatz had scarcely changed in the six years since Hartmann had last seen it. As they came up the hill and rounded the bend his eyes went immediately to the spot in the north-east corner where he had stood with Hugh and Leyna – on the pavement beneath a large white-stone apartment building with a high red-slate roof. A similar-sized crowd had gathered in the same place today, hoping for a glimpse of the Leader.

The Mercedes drew up outside number 16. A pair of SS sentries guarded the entrance. Seeing them, Hartmann realised he was still carrying his gun. He had grown so used to its snug weight, he kept forgetting he even had it. He ought to have dumped it during the night. If they had picked up Frau Winter he must surely be next. He wondered where they had arrested her – at the office, or in her apartment – and how they were treating her. As he climbed out of the car after Schmidt he could feel the sweat trickling beneath his shirt. The guards recognised Schmidt and waved him through and Hartmann slipped in after him. He was not even asked his name.

They passed another pair of SS men in the concierge’s office and climbed the communal staircase – stone at first, that became polished wood. The walls were tiled an institutional grey and green, as in a metro system. There were dim electric lamps but the light came mostly from the landing windows that looked out on to a small rear garden of fir and silver birch trees. They clumped up noisily, past apartments on the ground and first floors. It was said by the Propaganda Ministry that the Führer still had the same neighbours as he did before he became Chancellor: proof that at heart he remained a simple member of the Volk. Perhaps it was true, thought Hartmann, in which case what strange goings-on these people must have seen over the past few years, from the death of Hitler’s niece in 1931 to yesterday’s lunchtime visit by Mussolini. They continued to climb. He felt trapped, as if he were being drawn relentlessly by some dark magnetic force. He slowed his pace.

‘Come on,’ said Schmidt. ‘Keep up!’

On the second floor, nothing distinguished the apartment’s solid double door from the others. Schmidt knocked and they were admitted by an SS adjutant into a long, narrow vestibule. It stretched away on either side, parquet-floored, with rugs, paintings, sculptures. The atmosphere was silent, unhomely, unlived-in. The adjutant invited them to sit. ‘The Führer is not yet ready.’ He moved away.

Schmidt whispered confidingly, ‘He keeps late hours. Often he doesn’t emerge from his bedroom until noon.’

‘You mean we may have to sit here for another hour?’

‘Not today. Chamberlain is due at eleven.’

Hartmann gave him a look of surprise. It was the first he knew that Hitler was meeting the British Prime Minister.

It took Chamberlain’s car several minutes to break free from the clutching hands of the crowd around the front of the hotel. The Prime Minister rode in the back with Dunglass, Legat sat up front next to the driver. Behind them was a second Mercedes carrying the Prime Minister’s two bodyguards. They made a partial circuit of the square and then sped off across Odeonsplatz into a district of elaborate royal palaces and grand public buildings that Legat vaguely remembered from 1932. He studied Chamberlain in the wing mirror, gazing rigidly ahead. People were shouting his name, waving at him. He sped on, oblivious. No longer the dry-as-dust administrator of popular legend, he had become a seer – a Messiah of Peace, robed in the drab costume of an elderly accountant.

They drove on to a bridge with a stone balustrade. The river was wide and green, the strip of trees along the embankment an advancing line of fire: red, gold, orange. The sun lit the gilded figure of the Angel of Peace leaning forwards on top of her high stone column. Beyond the monument the road looped through a park. Emerging, they began to climb the slope of Prinzregentenstrasse. Legat had always pictured it as steep, in the way that one misremembers scenes from childhood, but now in a powerful car it seemed no more than a gentle incline. They passed a theatre on the right and suddenly they were in the space in front of Hitler’s apartment, and this at least was exactly as he had carried it in his mind, right down to the crowd on the pavement who recognised Chamberlain and started to cheer. Again, the Prime Minister, in his mystic state, didn’t even glance across at them. The guards saluted and an adjutant stepped forward to open the car door.

Legat let himself out and followed Chamberlain and Dunglass through the entrance and up the steps into the gloomy interior.

The adjutant ushered the Prime Minister into a small caged elevator and pressed the button, but it failed to move. He tried for another half-minute, his handsome young face turning blotchy with embarrassment. Finally, he had to pull open the gate and indicate they should proceed on foot. Legat fell in beside Dunglass as they climbed the stairs behind Chamberlain. Dunglass whispered, ‘No ink last night, hardly any telephones that work. I don’t think these chaps are quite as efficient as they like to make out.’

Legat was praying that Hartmann would be there. He was not sure what he could offer God in return, but it would be something, he promised Him – a different life, a fresh start, a gesture equal to the age. They arrived at the second floor. The adjutant opened the door to the apartment, and there – mirabile dictu – was Hartmann, sitting with his long legs stretched out. Beside him Legat recognised Hitler’s translator. They both stood when they saw Chamberlain. Hartmann stared at Legat but there was no opportunity for anything more than a glance to pass between them: the adjutant was insisting Legat follow Chamberlain and Dunglass across the hall and into the room opposite. He told Schmidt to come, too. Hartmann made a move to accompany them but the adjutant shook his head. ‘Not you. Wait here.’

For a few seconds Hartmann stood alone in the empty lobby. Legat’s brief glance had been full of warning. Something else must have happened. He wondered if he should slip away while he still had the chance. Then he heard a door open to his right and he turned to see Hitler emerging from a room at the far end of the corridor. He was smoothing his hair and straightening his brown Party jacket, checking his armband – fussy, last-minute adjustments, like an actor preparing to go on stage. Hartmann jumped to his feet and saluted. ‘Heil Hitler!’

Hitler looked at him and raised his hand in absent-minded acknowledgement but gave no sign of recognition. He stepped into the room in which the others were waiting and the door was closed behind him.

Afterwards, Legat would be able to claim – not boast: that was never his style – that he had been in the same room as Hitler on three separate occasions, twice at the Führerbau and once in his apartment. But, like most of the British eyewitnesses at Munich, he was never able to provide anything more than the most commonplace description – Hitler looked as he looked in the photographs and the newsreels, except in colour, and the main shock of the encounter lay simply in finding oneself in proximity to a world-famous phenomenon, like seeing the Empire State Building or Red Square for the first time. One detail stuck in his mind, though. Hitler smelled strongly of sweat – he had detected it in his study and caught a whiff of it now as he passed. He had the body odour of a frontline soldier or a workman who had not bathed or changed his shirt for a week. He was yet again in a dour mood and made no attempt to hide it. He stalked in, greeted Chamberlain, ignored everyone else, then went and sat in the furthest corner of the room and waited for his visitor to join him.

The Prime Minister took the armchair to his right. Schmidt sat on his left. The adjutant stationed himself by the door. It was a big room, running almost the entire length of the apartment, looking out on to the street, and furnished in modern style, like a salon aboard a luxury liner. There was a library alcove at the far end, crammed with books, where Hitler and Chamberlain were sitting; an area of sofas and chairs in the middle, where Legat and Dunglass had perched themselves; and a dining table at the opposite end. Legat was close enough to hear what was said but far enough distant not to impinge on the conversation. However, because Hitler was in the corner, it was impossible for him to obey the Prime Minister’s instruction and entirely escape the dictator’s eye line, and from time to time he noticed those strangely opaque blue eyes flicker in his direction, as if he was trying to work out why these two strangers were present in his flat. There was no offer of refreshment.

Chamberlain cleared his throat. ‘First of all, I would like to thank you, Chancellor, for inviting me to your home and for agreeing to hold one final conversation before I return to London.’

Schmidt translated faithfully. Hitler was sitting slightly propped forward by a cushion. He listened, nodded politely. ‘Ja.’

‘I thought we might briefly discuss some areas of mutual interest between our two countries on which we might be able to co-operate in the future.’

More nodding. ‘Ja.’

The Prime Minister reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small notepad. From his inside pocket he produced his fountain pen. Hitler watched him warily. Chamberlain opened the first page. ‘Perhaps we might begin with this terrible civil war in Spain …’

Almost all the talking was done by Chamberlain: Spain, Eastern Europe, trade, disarmament – he ticked off the list of topics he wished to raise and to each Hitler responded briefly, without being drawn into detail. ‘That is a matter of vital interest to Germany,’ was the most he would say. Or, ‘Our experts have made a study of the subject.’ He fidgeted in his chair, folded and refolded his arms, looked over at his adjutant. Legat thought he was like a householder who had agreed in a moment of weakness to let a salesman or a religious proselytiser over the threshold, bitterly regretted it, and was looking for an opportunity to get rid of him. Legat himself kept glancing at the door, trying to calculate how he might be able to escape long enough to whisper a warning to Hartmann.

Even Chamberlain seemed to detect that his audience was becoming distracted. He said, ‘I realise how busy you are. I mustn’t detain you further. What I wish to say in conclusion is this. As I left London yesterday morning, women and children and even babies were being fitted with masks to protect them against the horrors of poison gas. I hope, Herr Chancellor, that you and I can agree that modern warfare, the brunt of which will be directed as never before against ordinary civilians, is abhorrent to all civilised nations.’

‘Ja, ja.’

‘I believe it would be a pity if my visit passed off with nothing more than the settlement of the Czech question. In that spirit, I have drafted a short statement putting on record our mutual desire to establish a new era in Anglo–German relations that may bring stability to the whole of Europe. I would like us both to sign it.’

Schmidt translated. When he came to the word ‘statement’ Legat saw Hitler dart a look of suspicion at Chamberlain. The Prime Minister drew the two copies from his inside pocket. He handed one to Schmidt. ‘Perhaps you would be kind enough to translate this for the Chancellor.’

Schmidt glanced at it, and then began to read it out in German, carefully emphasising every word.

‘“We, the German Führer and Chancellor and the British Prime Minister, have had a further meeting today and are agreed in recognising that the question of Anglo–German relations is of the first importance for the two countries and for Europe.”’

Hitler nodded slowly. ‘Ja.’

‘“We regard the agreement signed last night and the Anglo–German Naval Agreement as symbolic of the desire of our two peoples never to go to war with one another again.”’

At that, Hitler cocked his head slightly to one side. Clearly, he had recognised his own words. A slight frown appeared. Schmidt waited to be told to go on but Hitler said nothing. In the end, the translator continued of his own accord.

‘“We are resolved that the method of consultation shall be the method adopted to deal with any other questions that may concern our two countries, and we are determined to continue our efforts to remove possible sources of difference and thus to contribute to assure the peace of Europe.”’

For several seconds after Schmidt had finished, Hitler didn’t move. Legat could see his gaze travelling round the room. A process of calculation was evidently under way. Presumably, it was hard for him to refuse to sign sentiments which he had himself expressed in public. Yet it was also obvious that he resented it – resented this fussy old English gentleman tricking his way into his home and presenting him with this démarche. He suspected a trap. The English were cunning, after all. On the other hand, if he signed it, at least the meeting would be over and Chamberlain would clear out. And in the end it was only a scrap of paper, the expression of a pious hope, without any legal consequence. What did it matter?

This – or at any rate something like it – was what Legat afterwards surmised must have gone through the dictator’s mind.

‘Ja, ich werde es unterschreiben.’

‘The Führer says yes, he will sign it.’

Chamberlain smiled with relief. Hitler clicked his fingers at the adjutant, who hastened towards him, pulling out a pen. Dunglass stood to get a clearer view. Legat saw his chance and walked over to the door.

Hartmann had sat for ten minutes in the deserted vestibule. The press summary lay on the chair beside him. To his left he could hear the faint sounds of plates clattering, a woman’s voice, a door opening and closing. That, he guessed, must be the service area – the kitchen, cloakroom, servants’ quarters. The Führer’s bedroom must therefore be to the right – the place he had emerged from. The door to the room where Chamberlain and Hitler were meeting was closed; he could hear nothing through the thick wood. Hanging next to it was a watercolour of the Vienna State Opera House – technically proficient, but stilted and soulless. He suspected it must be Hitler’s own work. He rose and crossed the parquet floor to examine it. Yes, there were his initials in the bottom right-hand corner. Pretending to study the picture more closely, he glanced towards the Führer’s bedroom in the shadows at the end of the passage. There was a room adjoining it, only four or five paces away. Curiosity overcame him. He looked towards the kitchen to check he was unobserved, then casually crossed to it and opened the door.

It was a small bedroom looking out on to the trees in the back garden. The Venetian blind was half-down. There was a strong sickly-sweet scent of both dried and fresh flowers and of dark cinnamon-like perfumes that had dehydrated in their bottles. On the dressing table were a vase of withered roses and a bowl of yellow and purple freesias. Draped across the bed was a simple white cotton nightdress like the one Leyna had been wearing. He walked to the end of the bed and opened the door to a bathroom. He could see, through the open door opposite to Hitler’s bedroom, a jacket hanging on the back of a chair. As he retreated he took a closer look at the dressing table. A framed black-and-white photograph of a dog. A pile of notepaper with Angela Raubal in the top-left corner. A copy of the fashion magazine, Die Dame. He checked the date: September 1931.

Leyna had been right. Once one saw it, one could not doubt it. The proximity of the room to Hitler’s, the unnatural stifling closeness, the shared bathroom, the way it had been left as a shrine, like an Egyptian burial chamber –

Behind him he heard a noise. He stepped back quickly and closed the door. Legat was emerging from the drawing room. After glancing over his shoulder he said in a quick, quiet voice, ‘I’m afraid I have bad news – the Gestapo have the document.’

It took Hartmann a moment to adjust his mind. He looked past Legat to the open doorway but couldn’t see anyone. He whispered, ‘When?’

‘Less than an hour ago. They searched my room while I was showering.’

‘You’re sure it’s definitely gone?’

‘No question of it. Paul, I’m so very sorry—’

Hartmann held up his hand to silence him. He needed to think. ‘If it’s less than an hour, they must be looking for me. I—’

He stopped himself. The adjutant had appeared behind Legat. He emerged from the drawing room, followed by Chamberlain and Hitler. After them came Schmidt and Dunglass. The Prime Minister was holding two small pieces of paper. He gave one to Hitler. ‘This is for you, Herr Chancellor.’

Hitler handed it immediately to the adjutant. Now that his visitors were leaving he seemed more relaxed. ‘Doktor Schmidt begleitet Sie zu Ihrem Hotel. Ich wünsche Ihnen einen angenehmen Flug.’

Schmidt said, ‘I will escort you back to your hotel, Prime Minister. The Führer wishes you a pleasant flight.’

‘Thank you.’ Chamberlain shook hands with Hitler. He looked as if he would like to make a further short speech but decided against it. The adjutant opened the front door and the Prime Minister went out on to the landing with Schmidt. Dunglass said, with an edge of sarcasm, ‘Coming, Hugh?’

Legat knew he would never see Hartmann again. But there was nothing he could say. He nodded to him and went out after the others.

Once the door had closed, Hitler stood staring at it for several seconds. He was rubbing the palm of his right hand with his left thumb – an unconscious action: round and round, as if he had sprained it. Finally, he noticed the press summary lying on the chair. He turned to Hartmann. ‘Is that what the foreign press are saying?’

Hartmann said, ‘Yes, my Führer.’

‘Bring it in here.’

Hartmann had been hoping to slip away. Instead he found himself following Hitler into the drawing room. The adjutant was straightening the furniture, smoothing the cushions. Hartmann handed over the press summary. Hitler fished in his breast pocket for his spectacles. From the street below came the sound of cheering. Glasses in one hand, he glanced at the window, then went over to it. He pulled back the edge of the net curtain and stared down at the crowd. He shook his head. ‘How can one make war with such a people?’ Hartmann crossed to a different window. The crowd had grown much larger in the last half-hour, once word had got out that Chamberlain was in the building. Several hundred people were lining the opposite pavement. The men were waving their hats, the women stretching out their arms. The angle made it impossible to see the Prime Minister’s car but one could tell its progress by the way people’s heads turned to follow it as he drove away.

Hitler dropped the curtain. ‘The German population has allowed itself to be duped – and by Chamberlain of all people!’ He shook out his spectacles and put them on one-handed. He began scanning the press summary.

Hartmann was about to move away from the window when his eye was caught by fresh activity in the street. A big Mercedes limousine roared into view and pulled up sharply opposite. Hartmann could make out Ribbentrop, and beside him Sauer. Plainly in a hurry, they jumped out and began crossing the road, looking right and left, even before their escort – a second Mercedes, carrying a quartet of SS men – had come to a stop. As Sauer waited for a truck to pass, he stared up at the apartment. Instinctively Hartmann drew back to avoid being seen.

Hitler was flicking through the summary. In a mocking voice he read out the headline in the New York Times – Chamberlain hero of Munich crowds! – and then another sentence: The cheers for Hitler were mechanical and polite. But for Chamberlain they were ecstatic.

In the vestibule, the entry bell rang. The adjutant left the room. Hitler threw the document on to the sofa and went over to his desk. For a second time Hartmann was left alone with him. He heard voices in the lobby. He slipped his hand inside his jacket. His fingertips touched metal. But then immediately he withdrew it. It was absurd. He was about to be arrested. Yet still he could not act. And if he couldn’t do it, who would? In that moment, in a flash of clarity, he saw that nobody – not him, not the Army, not a lone assassin – that no German would disrupt their common destiny until it was fulfilled.

The door opened and Ribbentrop came in. Sauer was behind him. They stopped and saluted. Sauer gave Hartmann a look of violent hatred. Hartmann felt a roaring in his ears. He readied himself. Ribbentrop, however, seemed the more nervous. ‘My Führer, I am told you have just seen Chamberlain.’

‘He asked for a private meeting last night. I couldn’t see the harm in it.’

‘May I ask what he wanted?’

‘For me to sign a piece of paper.’ Hitler picked it up from the desk and gave it to the Foreign Minister. ‘He seemed such a harmless old gentleman. I thought it would be rude to refuse.’

Ribbentrop’s face appeared to tauten as he read it. Of course, the Führer could not have made an error. It would be unthinkable even to suggest it. But Hartmann could sense a change of atmosphere in the room. Eventually, Hitler said irritably, ‘Oh, don’t take it all so seriously! That piece of paper is of no further significance whatsoever. The problem is here – with the German people.’

He turned his back on them and bent to examine the papers on his desk.

Hartmann saw his chance. With a slight bow first to the Foreign Minister and then to Sauer he withdrew towards the door. Neither attempted to stop him. A minute later he was out on the street.