The Night of the Generals

by Hans Hellmut Kirst

  “Does the General drink?”

  Hartmann’s face clearly showed that he entertained the strongest doubts about the sergeant’s statement. Kopatzki seemed to deplore this.

  “Drink? He soaks it up—not that you’d notice. He can put away buckets of the stuff without tripping over his words. Holds himself like a ramrod, too. I reckon he swallows a couple of iron bars every morning before breakfast. He smokes like a chimney as well—when no one’s looking.”

  “So he suffers from nerves too,” Hartmann mused, searching for an explanation. “You’ve got to remember he’s been through a lot.”

  “So have we, but no one spares a thought for the likes of us.”

  “I’m sure his bark’s worse than his bite.”

  Kopatzki snorted contemptuously at Hartmann’s comfortable generalization. “I guarantee you’ll change your tune before you’ve been with him two minutes,” he prophesied. “Here’s one piece of advice, anyway: polish everything polish-able or he’ll have your guts for garters.”

  Remembering Lieutenant-Colonel Sandauer’s orders, Kopatzki proceeded to enlarge on this theme. There were a number of commandments, among them: Don’t speak unless requested to do so. Carry out all orders without a word, even when they seem pointless or asinine.

  Take advantage of every halt—whether the General is inspecting something, eating or relieving himself—to clear up any mess that has accumulated in the interval.

  Always deal with the ash-trays first, then the floor and finally the seats.

  If without gloves, always use a duster when touching polished surfaces and objects. Paper will do in an emergency.

  Answer the General’s questions loud and clear, even if he puts them quietly, as he normally does. He never asks twice.

  Watch the colour of his notebooks.

  “For heaven’s sake!” exclaimed Hartmann, dumbfounded. “You must be joking. What do you mean—watch the colour of his notebooks?”

  “He’s got two,” Kopatzki informed him patiently. “You needn’t worry about the black one. He just jots down his ideas in it. But watch out for the red one! He uses it for recording all the omissions, mistakes, oversights, slips and misdemeanours of his personal staff. One entry means fatigues, two entries mean jankers, and so on down to special duties and transfer for disciplinary reasons—and that’s as good as an indirect death sentence.”

  “You’re pulling my leg.”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “But this is ridiculous.” Hartmann’s voice rang with a self-confidence he didn’t entirely feel. “You can’t scare me. I spent a week with General Schörner in Russia. That was something, I can tell you. He’s the biggest fire-eater I’m ever likely to come across.”

  “Schörner a fire-eater?” scoffed Sergeant Kopatzki. “He’s a dear old lady compared with Tanz.”

  “But Tanz is only human. The fact that we’re standing around gabbing proves it. I was ordered to be here at eight o’clock on the dot and it’s gone half past already. It’s a human failing, being late like this.”

  Kopatzki sadly shook his jowly, doggy head. “You poor fool! Sandauer ordered you to be here by eight, but only to give us a chance to put you straight on a couple of things. The General won’t be here till nine—and he’ll be here on the dot, you take it from me. He’s having breakfast now.”

  Hartmann took a step back as though in self-defence. As he did so his sweaty palm touched one of the wings, leaving a damp mark. Almost automatically he pulled out his handkerchief and started to polish the paintwork. Kopatzki grinned sympathetically.

  At that moment Lieutenant-Colonel Sandauer appeared. Like Kopatzki he was grey with fatigue, but his eyes looked alert and observant behind their thick lenses.

  “Haven’t you got any gloves?” he asked.

  “No, sir, I didn’t realize that…”

  “Kopatzki, dig up some gloves. Better try the hall porter. He’ll help you out.”

  While Kopatzki trotted off into the foyer, Sandauer began to circle Hartmann and the Bentley on a tour of inspection. Minutes passed. The already hat sun shone brightly down on this unusual military spectacle in the heart of Paris, but the few passers-by seemed to avert their gaze. What was happening belonged to a world which had nothing to do with them.

  “Not bad, Hartmann,” Sandauer said finally. “You seem to be the adaptable sort. Have you got everything buttoned up? The General will expect you to submit some concrete suggestions. He’ll only visit the most important places, but he’ll insist on doing them thoroughly.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And as I said—no tombs or similar items of interest. We see enough graves as it is. That rules out the Invalides and the Arc de Triomphe and the Panthéon. Grandeur and beauty are what the General needs for relaxation, understand?”

  Hartmann absorbed sundry further instructions from Sandauer and then donned the pair of gloves which Kopatzki had managed to extract from the hotel porter. Shortly afterwards a clock began to chime the hour.

  “Nine o’clock,” said Sandauer. “Here’s the General.”

  As he spoke the General appeared, clad in a pale grey suit which he wore as though it, too, was a uniform. He glanced briefly up at the sun, then down at Hartmann, his eyes focusing on him with a fighter pilot’s knack of instant orientation. Finally, he advanced on the Bentley with measured tread.

  Hartmann opened the rear door. The General paused for some seconds, scrutinizing the cleanliness of the car’s interior. His three satellites—Sandauer, Kopatzki and Hartmann—watched him with bated breath.

  All was well. General Tanz climbed in without a word and settled himself in his seat, though his ramrod back scarcely seemed to touch the cushions. He gazed straight ahead through the windscreen at the massive triumphal column in the Place Vendôme. Perhaps its dark metallic sheen appealed to him.

  “First a tour of the city,” said the General in a quiet, not dissatisfied voice.

  However, before Hartmann had even started the engine he spoke again, this time to Sandauer but without turning his head. “Sergeant Kopatzki is relieved of his duties. He has smeared shoe-cream all over my laces. Fourteen days’ cookhouse fatigues.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Lieutenant-Colonel Sandauer with palpable indifference.

  “Drive on,” said the General.

  General Kahlenberge was prepared to make any sacrifice provided it gave him a chance to work on his commanding officer systematically. He even accepted an invitation to lunch from Frau Wilhelmine. His overriding aim at the present time was to strengthen the conspiratorial network and ultimately to make contact with one of the main groups.

  Although the crucial moment seemed to be approaching with lightning speed, von Seydlitz-Gabler had still not shown his colours. Not that von Seydlitz-Gabler was particularly important in himself. His name coupled with his rank and position were useful assets, but everything else would be handled—as usual—by able and efficient members of the General Staff. However, the G.O.C. was as slippery as an eel.

  “There have been a series of discussions,” Kahlenberge reported. “Various plans have been worked out in the fullest detail.”

  “Excellent. Just what one would expect from staff officers.” General von Seydlitz-Gabler tacked elegantly like a yacht beating into the wind. He did not question the nature of the discussions nor express any wish to be acquainted with the plans. He seemed to tolerate the situation, if not actively approve of it, but he avoided committing himself.

  “I’m told that Field-Marshal Rommel has finally joined us.”

  “A first-rate soldier,” declared von Seydlitz-Gabler, “though his generalship is open to criticism. Nevertheless, I must admit that some of his operations in Africa showed a certain finesse.”

  It was becoming increasingly difficult, even for the Chief of Staff, to speak to the G.O.C. in private. Either Melanie Neumaier was present or Sergeant Lehmann was skulking around in the background, and on the trip to the Hotel Excelsior th
e driver sat in front like a steel-helmeted listening post.

  Once they reached the hotel itself, Wilhelmine never let her husband out of her sight, even though she appeared to listen to what Kahlenberge was saying. Kahlenberge took care not to mention anything that might have the slightest bearing on the conspiracy in her presence. She was a woman and, as such, a security risk.

  Then came one of the rare opportunities to speak, and Kahlenberge seized it with both hands. Between dessert, which had been served in the hotel dining-room, and coffee, which was to be taken in her ladyship’s suite, the two generals found themselves alone in the corridor for a few minutes.

  While they were strolling up and down in post-prandial harmony, Kahlenberge said, with sudden and deliberate defiance in his tone: “We’ll probably have to get rid of him, you know.”

  Von Seydlitz-Gabler betrayed no emotion whatsoever. Although he must have known that “him” referred to Hitler, he controlled himself admirably. “Let’s go and have some coffee,” he suggested. “It will do us good.”

  >Ulrike had been invited to coffee, though not to the meal that preceded it. Frau Wilhelmine had thought it better to spend the meal concentrating on the two generals and their official business. She took an interest in everything that went on in the Corps, but for the lighter conversation that was to follow she had selected a very special subject–General Tanz.

  “Is he being properly looked after?” she wanted to know.

  This question, like all important questions, was directly addressed to Kahlenberge.

  “Everything has been laid on with the utmost care,” he assured her. “We’ve detailed a reliable man to look after him. General Tanz will be adequately occupied, and that’s the main thing.”

  Frau Wilhelmine gently corrected him. “Surely the main thing is that General Tanz should have a few pleasant and relaxing days. No one deserves them more than he.”

  “And no one needs them more,” Kahlenberge agreed.

  “They say he’s a secret boozer,” said Ulrike.

  “Who told you that?” asked Frau Wilhelmine sharply.

  “Someone told me.”

  “Who is ‘someone’?”

  “Just someone.”

  “What ‘someone’ says, Ulrike, is not worth listening to.” Frau Wilhelmine regarded her challengingly. “A person of character abhors malicious gossip.” Her gorgon gaze transferred itself to Kahlenberge. “Isn’t that so?”

  Kahlenberge hastily assented, adding some comments of his own, e.g.: No general ever boozes—the most he does is drink—everyone has a drink now and then—an inevitable symptom of war—abnormal strain, exertion, fatigue, hardship, etc., etc.

  “And why shouldn’t one, now and then?” demanded Frau Wilhelmine. “Always providing one has a strong head, which you haven’t, Herbert, unfortunately. How do you fare in that respect, General Kahlenberge?”

  Conversation proceeded along these lines for a while, with Frau Wilhelmine in full command of the situation and exploiting every opportunity to wind yet another laurel wreath about General Tanz’s noble brow. Her reasons were obvious.

  “I propose to invite General Tanz to dinner tonight. How does that appeal to you, Ulrike?”

  “It doesn’t,” said her manifestly ill-bred daughter.

  Fortunately, Frau Wilhelmine chose to disregard her reaction, and von Seydlitz-Gabler contented himself with a few remarks on the inevitability of social obligations. Kahlenberge, however, scented a special reason underlying Ulrike’s pig-headed refusal to co-operate and wondered if it could be turned to account.

  “May I ask what you have against General Tanz?” he inquired politely.

  “His men are a lot of coarse, impudent louts. I find it rather indicative, don’t you?”

  Kahlenberge decided to explore the matter further. “Are you speaking in general terms, Fräulein, or do you have a special case in mind?”

  “Do you know a sergeant called Stoss?”

  “What is all this?” asked Frau Wilhelmine, determined to nip this line of conversation in the bud. “General Kahlenberge has better things to do than worry about sergeants.”

  “Unless I’m mistaken,” said Kahlenberge, “General Tanz’s favourite driver is a Sergeant Stoss.”

  “They make a nice pair,” snapped Ulrike.

  There were sound reasons for her belligerent contribution to this coffee-time conversation. She was desperately trying to get herself excluded from the threatened dinner party so that she would be able to make the Mocambo Bar in time to see Hartmann.

  However, Ulrike was up against a shrewd opponent. When Frau Wilhelmine saw smoke she also wanted to see the fire that caused it.

  “Ulrike,” she said severely, “how do you come to be acquainted with such people? How, where and when could you have met them? I insist on an answer to my question.”

  Frau Wilhelmine met with a point-blank refusal. Von Seydlitz-Gabler appealed to the mutual trust which should exist between a daughter and her parents. Meanwhile, Kahlenberge sipped his coffee with enjoyment, eyeing Ulrike over the rim of his cup.

  Ulrike persisted in her refusal because she had no choice. To give anything more away might provoke unpleasant repercussions. If her mother found out that she had been spending time with other ranks in disreputable dives her days in Paris would be numbered. One false move and she would pine away the rest of the war in some god-forsaken spot in East Prussia or Pomerania or Saxony. She regretted having opened her mouth in the first place.

  “Anyway, at least we’ve got a name to go on,” said Frau Wilhelmine. “I wonder if I might ask you to make some inquiries, General Kahlenberge.”

  “Always at your service,” Kahlenberge assured her without a moment’s hesitation. “Even when the General and I are confronted by grave decisions we can always find time to carry out your wishes. You can rely on me implicitly.”

  Lance-Corporal Hartmann was chauffeuring Tanz round Paris. Object of the exercise: a general sightseeing tour. Maximum speed: thirty miles an hour or twenty miles an hour when passing buildings, monuments and places of interest, on which a brief commentary was required.

  Hartmann’s hands, swathed in the white gloves belonging to the porter of the Excelsior, instinctively grasped the Bentley’s wheel at ten-to-two. His head was tilted backwards slightly so as to catch any orders the General might issue.

  For a full hour the General remained silent. Although Hartmann dared not glance round, he could make out a few stray sounds above the opulent whisper of the Bentley’s engine.

  The noises made by the General were as follows: the muffled plop of a bottle being uncorked, the clink of glass against glass, the gurgle of liquid and the sharp hiss of matches being struck. There were no accompanying sounds. The General appeared to remain immobile throughout these operations.

  Having chosen the Ile de la Cité as his jumping-off point, Hartmann began to describe ever-increasing circles round it, taking in the best-known sights in central Paris en route. He named them and gave a brief description of each, totally unaware of whether or not his passenger was listening.

  Rounding a corner, Hartmann stole a glance in the driving mirror. Tanz had not budged since he got in, but his right hand held a cigarette and his left a tumbler brimming with brownish liquid, evidently cognac. Hartmann was half appalled, half fascinated to see his wood-carving of a face twitch several times in succession as though convulsed by a violent electric shock. Deep, sharply defined creases appeared between his ear and the corner of his mouth, but only the left side of his face was affected. His forehead remained smooth and glossy as the brow of a Greek god.

  “Stop,” said the General.

  Hartmann cautiously applied the brakes, pulled the Bentley over to the kerb and eased it to a halt. He waited. They were almost exactly in the middle of the Pont Alexandre, and the silver-grey ribbon of the Seine flowed sluggishly beneath them.

  “Now a more detailed inspection of the main places of interest,” said General Tanz. “Your
suggestions, Hartmann.”

  Hartmann was ready for this moment. He recited his schedule without pausing for thought.

  “This morning, Notre Dame. Then lunch at the Quasimodo. After lunch, the paintings in the Louvre.”

  “No old daubs, Hartmann.”

  “After lunch, the Impressionist paintings in the Jeu de Paume,” Hartmann amended. “Then a trip to Versailles to see the Château, steps and gardens.”

  “Agreed,” said the General.

  They continued across the Pont Alexandre, turned right along the Seine, drove past the Tuileries and the Louvre, crossed the Ile de la Cité again and finally pulled up in the square outside Notre Dame. Hartmann jumped out, ran round the car and jerked open the near-side rear door. Tanz got out.

  “The main dates.” he said.

  Hartmann reeled off what he knew about Notre Dame. Built between 1163 and 1330—designed by a brilliant but unknown architect—ground area 60,000 square feet—interior length 425 feet—in front of a pillar in the transept a fourteenth century Madonna known as Notre-Dame de Paris—in the cathedral sacristy relics including wood from the Cross and part of the Crown of Thorns.

  “Good,” said the General. “Wait here.”

  Tanz strode off into the cathedral, his pale grey suit as immaculate as if it had just come off the hanger. There was something statuesque about the unbending rigidity of his body.

  Hartmann leant against the Bentley, sweating slightly. Tanz had scarcely indulged in a single remark or gesture which might indicate how he was faring. He was as unapproachable as ever.

  On examining the back of the car, Hartmann saw that the .place where Tanz had been sitting was marked by a litter of cigarette butts and ash. Remembering Sergeant Kopatzki’s injunctions on the subject of cleanliness, he searched the boot for a small dust-pan and brush—rather like the implements his mother used for sweeping up cake-crumbs at home—and systematically began to clean the back of the car. Then he polished the tumbler which had held cognac with one of a large set of linen cloths. Finally, he took a duster and polished the seat, grab-handles and side windows.