“My dear Otto,” Kahlenberge continued, rocking to and fro precariously, but with evident pleasure, on the hind legs of his chair, “you’re a clown, and as such indispensable to me for purposes of light entertainment. If I can ever do you a favour you only have to ask me. Why not, after all? War gives us a chance to play God. All right, let’s play.”
“The question of justice comes into it too, sir.”
Kahlenberge burst into another peal of laughter. It was a mirthless sound like the distant croaking of a vulture.
“The concept of justice varies according to who defines it, Otto. Besides, Hartmann must either be a blithering idiot or an idealistic dreamer—which usually comes to much the same thing. If he had an ounce of common sense he wouldn’t be where he is today. The only thing he can be, as long as he’s here with us, is what he’s already listed as in official records: dead. A dead man doesn’t get into trouble and doesn’t make any for other people. All the same, it’s quite a challenge, raising someone from the tomb.”
Sensing that his request was as good as granted, Otto allowed his spherical features to radiate gratitude. He gazed up at the General Staff maps on the wall with the expression of a true believer glimpsing heaven, Hartmann’s fate was really a matter of indifference to him, but he liked to maintain a pleasant working atmosphere and thought it advisable to give the General a chance to demonstrate his generosity from time to time. General Kahlenberge found it enjoyable.
“Very good, sir,” said the fat corporal, “I’ll classify the Hartmann case as top priority.”
“Do that thing, Otto,” Kahlenberge replied tersely, slapping his riding-boot with the flat of a ruler. “I always welcome it when my men try to serve the cause of justice, so-called. Humanitarianism gives one an appetite for work. Besides, a senior officer likes to feel that he’s surrounded by willing numbskulls.”
Otto received the last observation with the composure of a man for whom such pronouncements were a daily occurrence —which they were, at least in General Kahlenberge’s entourage. Kahlenberge uttered aloud, and with relish, things which others hardly dared to think, and Otto provided him with a loyal audience.
“I can hear the Almighty coming,” said Kahlenberge.
“Half an hour earlier than usual, sir.”
“I might have guessed it. He develops a tremendous capacity for work whenever his wife honours him with her presence.”
At that point von Seydlitz-Gabler entered the room and conversation ceased. Otto froze to attention like a bowl of jelly that has suddenly and miraculously set. Even Kahlenberge interrupted his perilous balancing-act and stood up, doing his best to assume an expression of alert deference.
The G.O.C. raised one hand in greeting. It was a friendly gesture which included the corporal clerk as well as the Chief of Staff, but it also served as a signal to Otto to make himself scarce. The first and most important conversation of the day was always conducted in private.
“I devoted last night to a thorough study of the suggestions contained in the Supreme Commander’s directive.”
General von Seydlitz-Gabler enunciated these words in an almost oracular tone. With his slightly rotund frame encased in an excellently tailored uniform, he now resembled a photograph in one of the more flashy illustrated magazines—the sort normally adorned with a caption reading: “One of our military chiefs.”
“My intensive study of the directive has convinced me that we are being given a special opportunity, Kahlenberge, an opportunity whose successful exploitation almost certainly depends upon the skill and effectiveness with which we put General Tanz’s division to work.”
Kahlenberge’s greenish eyes glowed briefly. “Tanz’s division,” he said, selecting his words with some care, “has apparently been very successful—in its own way—at carrying out assignments of the utmost difficulty. One word of command from you and Tanz will raze Warsaw to the ground. But what would be the point? An unbroken sea of rubble is a pretty enervating sight and dead men don’t offer any resistance—they just stink, as any fool knows. A corpse can’t shoot back but it can’t be useful to you either. In my submission, sir, the most radical solution isn’t necessarily the best one.”
The G.O.C. nodded sagely. Whatever he did, as long as he was in full regalia, looked impressive. There was something grandiose and heroic about his gaze, something prophetic, too. The only question was, what did the future hold in store? Kahlenberge was prepared to venture a guess.
“Given half a chance,” he went on, “Warsaw could become a living hell. There may well be a Jewish uprising in the ghetto and the Resistance movement will certainly make its presence increasingly felt elsewhere in the city. If so, we shall be partly to blame for tolerating the filthy slaughterhouse tactics that are being employed in this country. If we don’t do something soon we shall go down in history as collaborators in mass-murder.”
“I didn’t hear that last remark,” said the G.O.C. with dignity. “My dear Kahlenberge, you’re continually letting yourself be drawn into making bold and, if I may say so, dangerous assertions. You can’t say I haven’t warned you.”
“All right, sir, as far as Warsaw’s concerned we’ve been more leisurely—so far, anyway. But we’re not going to be allowed to sit around in Warsaw for ever. That’s why I recommend playing a waiting game. Sending in Tanz’s division prematurely would be the worst thing possible. It would be tantamount to the radical solution I mentioned. Tanz has almost certainly been granted special powers by Supreme Headquarters. His favourite hobby is arson, and the one thing we can’t afford to do is give him a chance to indulge in it.”
General von Seydlitz-Gabler’s jaw muscles tightened. “As you may be aware, Kahlenberge, I was reared on the classics, but as a student and admirer of ancient Greece I know that one cannot escape the responsibilities thrust on one by Providence. They may be an immense burden, but one has no right to evade them.”
“But what if history takes even half a step in the direction of normality, as it occasionally has done in the past? Do you want to be branded as the man responsible for the destruction of Warsaw?”
Von Seydlitz-Gabler glanced at the staff map of Warsaw lying on Kahlenberge’s desk. Thick red arrows transfixed the stubby, narrow shape of the ghetto and those quarters of the city which had recently given trouble.
“Have you been working on something, Kahlenberge?” asked the G.O.C. hopefully.
“These are General Tanz’s plans, sir. They were submitted to us for scrutiny. As you can see, the General wastes no time in getting down to business.”
“Not bad,” said von Seydlitz-Gabler admiringly. It was the experienced professional speaking. Nothing could cloud his evident pleasure in matters of pure strategy. “General Tanz is undoubtedly a man of action. I’m sure it will pay to establish friendly relations with him—in the most tactful way, of course. What would you think of inviting him to lunch?”
“A lunch party for General Tanz,” mused Kahlenberge. “What about including some ladies?”
The G.O.C. agreed with alacrity. “Not at all a bad idea, Kahlenberge. I know my wife would be happy to attend, and my daughter too, no doubt.”
“To put a little more life into the party we could also invite Major Grau of Abwehr,” Kahlenberge suggested casually. “Grau’s an adept at entertaining the fair sex. He’s always got a fund of interesting little anecdotes. At the moment he has a murder story on his books—one which promises to have sensational repercussions. He mentioned it to me on the ‘phone a few minutes ago.”
“He’s welcome to come as far as I’m concerned,” said von Seydlitz-Gabler with a characteristic air of noblesse oblige.
“I’ll lay it on, sir,” Kahlenberge said crisply. His eyes narrowed to slits. “People like Major Grau can be extraordinarily amusing—as long as they don’t amuse themselves at your expense. It’s hard to tell sometimes.”
Lieutenant-General Wilhelm Tanz, commander of the Nibelungen Division, stood erect in his open Mercedes st
aff car. His left hand rested on the windscreen frame. In his right, with elegant nonchalance, he held a sub-machine-gun. He surveyed the stretch of road ahead with eyes as clear as a mountain stream, and when he spoke it was with sovereign calm.
“Well set up the first road-block here.”
Tanz looked like a painting by someone who had tried to capture the essence of heroism. With his lithe athletic figure, slender boyish hips, gladiatorial width of shoulder and finely chiselled features, he gave the impression of being a successful cross between a mountaineer and a seaman. He towered above everyone around him.
The General’s driver, Stoss by name and—for the moment at least—sergeant by rank, stared rigidly ahead. It was his duty to watch the road even when the staff car was stationary. His gloved hands rested on the steering-wheel—another of Tanz’s whims. As the General’s personal driver, Stoss had to be ready to drive off at a moment’s notice.
Major Sandauer, the Divisional G.S.O.1, considered it superfluous to ask any questions and silently pencilled in the General’s road-block on his map. He looked colourless and schoolmasterish, rather like Himmler only more intelligent. His eyes had a penetrating quality.
“We’ll take a leaf out of the fisherman’s book,” Tanz continued. “First we’ll mark out a wide perimeter and then we’ll start combing the outlying streets. That should set the fish in motion. Naturally, they’ll try to make off in the opposite direction, but we’ll have road-blocks there to cut them off. By the time we’ve closed the net we’ll have the rebels exactly where we want them—with their backs to the ghetto wall.”
“What about the civilian population, sir?” asked Major Sandauer.
“One can hardly talk of a normal civilian population in this place.” General Tanz described a chopping movement with the hand that held the sub-machine-gun. “We’ll put them through the sieve. Anyone who looks in the least bit suspicious will be held for questioning.”
Major Sandauer noted down three points for discussion with Corps: means of transport, additional support and the maintenance of security. The last item covered temporary prison camps and ancillary arrangements such as latrines, a hospital, food distribution and interrogation facilities.
“At a conservative estimate,” said Major Sandauer, “the sections of the city which we propose to search contain eighty thousand inhabitants.”
“Take the necessary steps,” replied the Divisional Commander.
Leaving the G.S.O.1 to his paper work, General Tanz thoughtfully scanned the street up which he intended to launch his first drive. It was lined with grimy old three- and four-storeyed houses with massive windows and doors, most of which had hardwood frames—probably Polish oak from the forests round Cracow and Lublin. They were like little fortresses but they wouldn’t present any great problem if they were overrun quickly enough.
“Drive on,” said the General.
The G.S.O.1 hastily scrambled back into the staff car. He always sat behind and on the right when accompanying his General. The seat beside him was occupied by the Divisional Commander’s current “No. 2 orderly”—commonly known as his combat orderly, to distinguish him from the No. 1 orderly or batman who ministered to his needs in quarters. The combat orderly’s job was to produce, at a moment’s notice, anything the General might require while conducting an engagement, to whit: one Thermos flask of coffee; one packet of salami sandwiches; one flask of high-proof liquor reserved for special emergencies, so it was said, because the General never drank in action; three packets of iron rations; a hard pillow and a supply of pistol and sub-machine-gun ammunition. The combat orderly’s name was unimportant. He seldom lasted in the job more than a week.
“Hold it at thirty,” said the General.
A hum emanated from the Mercedes’ bonnet, but Sergeant Stoss carefully avoided gunning the engine. With clockwork regularity, the wheels began to turn.
Lieutenant-General Wilhelm Tanz, commander of the élite Nibelungen (Special Operations) Division, drove at a measured pace down Potocki Avenue. Once the go-ahead was given, he reflected, this was where he would instal his first road-block. Sergeant Stoss stared dourly ahead, the current combat orderly fingered his various items of equipment nervously and Major Sandauer busied himself with his notes, but the General seemed intent on impressing the surroundings on his mind. Whatever he saw became transformed in his mind’s eye into a map.
“Flame-throwers,” he remarked as the houses glided by. “Make sure our requirements are fully met, Sandauer.”
“To be on the safe side, sir, I’ll indent for three times as much as we need,” replied the G.S.O.1, and made notes accordingly.
Tanz nodded. Being an expert staff officer, Sandauer relieved him of all the time-wasting donkey work. Tanz knew that he could rely on him, realizing that the Tanzes of this world could fight on regardless as long as there was a Sandauer to take care of logistics.
General Tanz registered every detail of what he saw, house by house and door by door. Though the buildings were large, their entrances were narrow and comparatively few and far between. Three or four men per house would do to begin with. First seal off, then search—that would be the procedure, with machine-gun sections covering the street, tanks blocking the main thoroughfares and all available scout cars maintaining an uninterrupted patrol of the intervening spaces. Then there were the flame-throwers… Once the ground floors were cleared the survivors would crowd upstairs like rats into a trap and could be mopped up at leisure. The roofs, however, presented a special problem.
“We ought to have a few helicopters,” the General told his G.S.O.1. “Low-flying fighter support too, if possible. We must seal them off above and below simultaneously. Any man who slips through the net during this type of operation represents a potential danger later on.”
“I’ll indent for everything possible,” Sandauer replied mechanically. His schoolmaster’s face wore the anxious look of a man about to undergo a rigorous examination. He could indulge in such facial contortions because the General never looked at him closely, being far too preoccupied with himself and the enemy of the moment.
“Stop!”
Stoss braked judiciously and the Mercedes rolled to a halt as gently as if it had been driven into a snow-drift. A group of children who had been playing in the gutter froze into immobility and stared at the General wide-eyed.
The Divisional Commander raised his hand, then leapt lithely from the car like a victorious tennis-player vaulting the net. He strode over to the children and looked down at the hungry eyes and prematurely old, fearful faces.
“What are you scared of, youngsters?”
Major Sandauer translated the question into Polish, but the children did not venture to move.
“I think they’re hungry,” said Major Sandauer after a brief inspection.
Tanz turned to his combat orderly. “What have we got in the way of food?”
“Only two sandwiches, sir—Hungarian salami, meant for the General’s lunch.”
“The General,” put in Sandauer, “is invited to lunch with the G.O.C. today.”
“Even if I weren’t,” declared Tanz, “nothing would prevent me from foregoing my normal ration if circumstances rendered it necessary. Show me the sandwiches.”
The combat orderly opened a brief-case with tremulous fingers and brought out a packet wrapped in a paper napkin. Inside were the prescribed two sandwiches. He held them out for Tanz’s inspection.
Tanz’s eyes wandered to the orderly’s hands. As they did so, they took on the glint of freshly fallen snow in arctic regions. The hands holding the sandwiches were rough, chapped, uncared-for and dirty into the bargain.
“Filthy pig,” said the General.
With one abrupt and powerful sweep of his left hand he sent the packet of sandwiches flying. They disintegrated into their various components and fell to the cobbles, salami, butter and bread standing out vividly against the dusty surface—russet red, creamy yellow and fluffy white bordered with pale brown.
The children gazed at them with eyes in which greed and fear struggled for pride of place.
“Filthy pig,” repeated the General. “Even Polish children don’t deserve to be offered muck like that.”
Major Sandauer nodded to the ragged onlookers, who promptly fell to their knees and scrabbled for what lay on the ground, tugging at it like birds with a worm. Having crammed the bread and sausage into their mouths, they sucked the butter off the cobbles, ignored by the members of General Tanz’s entourage.
“Make a note: bread,” the General told Sandauer. “Bread and other foodstuffs as well—sweets too, if available. These children appear to be hungry. Even starvation can prove a welcome ally in time of need.”
“Duly noted, sir.”
“As for this specimen,” General Tanz continued, curtly indicating his current No. 2 orderly, “return him to general duties at once. I don’t wish to see his grubby face again. Last week he had the effrontery to hand me an unwashed glass. He scratched my belt and tried to grease the inside of my gas-mask. He persistently swaps my sheets round so that the foot end turns up at the head and vice versa—and now, to cap it all, he dares to enter my sight looking as though he’d just exhumed his grandmother with his bare hands.”
“Returned to unit, sir,” Sandauer said hastily.
“Absolute cleanliness,” pursued the Divisional Commander, “that’s what I demand from the people round me. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir!” Tanz’s erstwhile combat orderly looked almost relieved, possibly at having forfeited the dubious privilege of serving in the General’s immediate vicinity.
“Drive on,” said the Divisional Commander briskly. “I propose to inspect another four streets this morning and we must be finished by lunchtime. Sandauer, transmit the following message to the G.O.C.: operational plans under way, arriving G.H.Q. at appointed time. Has anyone else got any food? Throw it to the children. It can’t do any harm to gain their confidence.”
The Night of the Generals Page 3
