“May I take another look at your list? Ah, yes, Frau Wilhelmine von Seydlitz-Gabler… Do I remember her? As if I could forget her! An extremely civil lady, but her wishes were law. She liked things to be just so, though her taste in food and wine wasn’t entirely above reproach.
“Fräulein Ulrike von Seydlitz-Gabler… She was the lady’s daughter, wasn’t she? Let me think… Ah, yes, that’s right. Didn’t take after her mother, as far as I remember. A charming young lady, though she didn’t look too happy. There were some unpleasantnesses. The police made inquiries about her, I recall. I never knew any details.
“Lance-Corporal Hartmann? No, I don’t remember the name. General Tanz’s orderly, you say? It’s quite possible, but I don’t think he could have been with us for more than a night or so. I’ve no idea when he arrived or left or what became of him.
“General Tanz? I’ll never forget him. Every inch a general even in civilian clothes. I imagine he was spending his leave at the hotel. We had to charge him for several broken glasses and a mirror—they said he’d had an accident. Still, he carried himself like royalty.”
From an interview with a former member of the S.D. in Paris, now a textile salesman in Frankfurt-am-Main. He was visited in the hope that he could fill in some background details:
“You’re welcome to give my name and full address if you want: Horst Torgauer, Frankfurt-am-Main, Zeil 17. Why should I object? I’ve got nothing to hide. Sure, I served with the S.D. in Paris, but in a subordinate position. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in that, is there?
“Things are growing clearer these days, now that all these books of memoirs are putting the facts into their proper perspective. An oath’s an oath, after all—not that it stops one being humane. I helped a lot of Jews in my time. Would you like details? I had some copies run off. Always treated our Resistance prisoners well, too. But then I’ve always been soft-hearted. A dyed-in-the-wool democrat, that’s me.
“Lieutenant-Colonel Grau of the Abwehr? Yes, well… you just can’t work with some people, can you? Once in a while he used to ask us for something, but whenever we wanted anything from him he made a hell of a fuss. A difficult man altogether, Grau. Pity we didn’t get on. Of course, I never knew exactly what they had on him, but I remember Dr. Knochen—that was our boss—saying, the first time he met him: That man won’t last long.’ “
Unedited shorthand notes of a procedure which might loosely be termed instruction or training. They were made by a Lance-corporal who was selected, with several other O.R.S, for training as potential successors to General Tanz’s two permanent orderlies. He later held the post for three weeks. Originally delivered by a Lieutenant Klaus-Dieter Zirsch, A.D.C. to General Tanz in spring 1944, these remarks were read aloud in 1961 to a circle of cronies known as “The Friends of Conviviality” who gather every Monday evening in a public house on the outskirts of Cologne. According to a statement made by ex-Sergeant Otto, to whom we owe our access to this document, the reading was a great success and was greeted with roars of laughter.
Lieutenant Zirsch, spring 1944:
“. . . stop gawping at me like a row of cabbages and keep a tight arsehole or your brains’ll drop out you’ve all got pencils and paper so keep your mouths shut and your ears open the first thing you’ve got to remember is that you’re poor little sods without minds of your own imbeciles are getting rarer thanks to euthanasia so watch it if you want to stay alive the main thing is keep your fingers glued to your trouser seams and say yes sir the General’s keen on hygiene so don’t forget to shit shave shoe-shine and shampoo and woe betide the filthy bugger who wipes his arse with his fingers when you finish a tin of polish replace it immediately the motto is full tins and hearts that beat for Greater Germany but don’t forget that as far as you’re concerned the General is Greater Germany have you got that down you idle shower the floor must be clean enough to eat off lick it clean if necessary there may be a shortage of mops and pails but you’ve always got tongues which brings me to the joys of civilization the General’s very particular about his handkerchiefs he’s the only one who’s allowed to blow his nose on them the rest of you snotty-nosed bastards can use your bare hands for all I care but woe betide anyone who wipes his paws on his trousers or on the car which reminds me the car’s got to shine like a whore’s eyes on payday even if it’s raining or snowing or the sky falls in or you shit your pants and I wouldn’t put it past some of you but woe betide anyone who pongs sweat may be the result of honest toil but you’re not required to prove it underclothes and hands must be clean at all times also teeth anyone with dirt under his nails can kiss his sweetheart good-bye now remember not a word about sickness or death the General doesn’t like it the main thing is to obey orders and keep your leather polished watch the rims of cups and glasses also don’t forget to clean his nail-files with a brush after use and as I said before keep a tight arsehole have you got that written down you idle bunch of nignogs…”
6
That evening, the evening of 19th July 1944, General Tanz dined at Versailles. Having partaken of a sole washed down with white wine and a spring chicken washed down with red wine, a whole bottle of each, he felt inclined to complete the meal with a large brandy.
He stared through the restaurant window at the Château, which stood outlined against the rich blue of the night sky like a mighty treasure-chest brimming with history. His mind dwelt pleasurably on the unique and massive grandeur of the great steps. It had been an unadulterated delight to cross their broad expanse, even for the third and fourth time.
Tanz ordered a large brandy. The waiter served him with the deferential respect which his capacity for and single-minded devotion to food and drink merited. Tanz raised his glass, sniffed it and set it down again. Then he beckoned to Hartmann, who was standing in the doorway of the restaurant.
“Would you care to drink a cognac with me, Hartmann?”
There was only one correct reply to this, and Hartmann made it without a moment’s hesitation, satisfied that he had already adapted himself to Tanz’s devious ways.
“I’m on duty, sir.”
The General nodded without any noticeable sign of approval. It was a mechanical movement reminiscent of a shop-window dummy. “Sit down all the same.”
Ordering his guide and chauffeur a bottle of Vichy water, Tanz put his hand in his breast pocket and drew out the bundle of postcards which he had acquired the day before. He spread them carefully on the table before him and produced a propelling-pencil.
“I’m extremely pleased with you, Hartmann. I was particularly interested in the pictures. Since you obviously know something about painting, define the term Impressionism.”
While Hartmann strove to comply, Tanz jotted down notes on the backs of the postcards in front of him. The observant waiter appeared and discreetly pushed the candlestick closer. Hartmann discoursed at length above the distant clatter of crockery from the kitchen.
“Now try to give me some positive differences between Manet and Monet,” the General demanded. “A layman might find them easy to confuse, mightn’t he?”
Hartmann felt he was seeing a new and entirely unexpected side of General Tanz. The man seemed to absorb unfamiliar facts like a sponge. Tanz was capable of anything, Hartmann told himself. He wondered uneasily whether there was some ulterior motive underlying this sudden interest in things aesthetic, but Tanz left him no time to dwell on the thought.
“Have you spoken to Colonel Sandauer about me on the telephone?” he asked suddenly.
“No, sir.”
“Why not, Hartmann? Didn’t you have orders to give him a running report on our activities?”
“No, sir—no direct orders.” Hartmann omitted to say that he had tried to reach Sandauer several times but failed to get through. Perhaps Sandauer hadn’t wished to hear from him at all. It was as though he and Tanz were alone in a little world of their own.
“Are you worried about me, Hartmann?” Tanz asked almost gently. “Don’t be. Any
conclusions you may have drawn from my behaviour are false—and dangerous. Or is there anything you’d like explained?”
Hartmann preserved a bewildered silence, paralysed by the General’s glassy, snakelike stare. His face betrayed utter helplessness.
“I have a question for you,” said Tanz, examining a postcard reproduction of Gauguin’s The Gold of their Bodies. “Who, in your opinion, is more important—you or I?”
Hartmann had no difficulty in answering. His verdict— that a general is infinitely more important than a lance-corporal—carried conviction.
“Good,” said the General with a thin smile. “I shall remember your answer. I may even remind you of it some time.”
The corners of his mouth twitched in a grimace that might have been interpreted as a mocking smile. Picking up his brandy glass in both hands, he conveyed it to his lips and drank thirstily, closing his eyes as he did so. It was some moments before he spoke again.
“I presume that you checked the car and its equipment while I was eating, also that you found time to eat something yourself. You can relax for the next half hour. Drink your Vichy water in peace and smoke a cigarette. I’m going for a short stroll to settle my dinner. All clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
General Tanz glanced at his watch. “It is now seven minutes past nine. Do you agree? Good. At nine forty-five you will be waiting outside the entrance of this restaurant with the car. Any questions?”
“No, sir.”
Tanz rose to his feet, straight and slender as a willow wand. Two bottles of wine and a large cognac had produced no visible effect on his athletic frame, which wavered not a fraction of a millimetre. He handed Hartmann a wallet stuffed with bank-notes.
“Settle the bill and leave an adequate tip. Then take care of my wallet for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Just as Tanz was leaving he turned back. “I may feel like studying a few more details of Parisian night-life later on, so you’d better be prepared. Think up something special—something different. The place you recommended last night was more like a temperance hotel. Know what I mean?”
Hartmann thought he did. He watched the General’s erect figure disappear through the door, then ordered himself a large cognac and a hip-flask of Calvados, putting them on the bill. Tipping the waiter liberally, he tucked Tanz’s wallet into his pocket and strolled outside.
The vast, empty gardens of the Château lay before him, at once monotonous and sublime, their magnificent wrought-iron railings silhouetted elaborately against the night sky. It was a study in soft shades of dusky blue and luminous, almost tangible black.
The outline of the main gate was broken by an attenuated, misshapen-looking shadow. A man was standing there, a man who could only be Tanz. He was urinating copiously into the perfection of the summer night.
General von Seydlitz-Gabler drove through the darkened streets of Paris. He had successfully survived a diner à deux with his wife, submitting to her barrage of reproaches and exhortations with his usual exemplary self-control. Now he was returning to headquarters.
His driver, whose name he didn’t know, chauffeured him across the almost empty Place de la Concorde. Of the few vehicles still about at this hour nearly all belonged to the German authorities. Some were on patrol duty, others were transporting dead and wounded, and still others were carrying personnel to places of work or entertainment.
The narrow fingers of light which escaped from the grilles masking the headlamps swept across tarmac and cobbles, fitfully illuminating the house fronts. They looked bare and jagged in the deepening gloom of incipient night, like rock formations seen by starlight.
The war was getting depressingly close. Even though it was still raging more than a hundred kilometres away in Normandy, where it was hoped to stem the tide of invasion, the city seemed to sense impending disaster. There was unease in the air.
Von Seydlitz-Gabler was far from overjoyed at the prospect of crawling into his camp-bed. He was equally unattracted by the thought of Melanie Neumaier’s avid attentions. Besides, Kahlenberge was bound to look in on him. He shook his head ruefully. One thing was certain: whatever the reason, he found it impossible to sleep these days.
“Actually, I had no wish to go on leave at all,” Tanz told Hartmann, who sat in front of him at the wheel of the Bentley. His voice sounded almost affable.
Hartmann preserved an attentive silence.
“I had more important things to do. However, I was told that I deserved a rest—that I needed one. They were worried about me. What do you say to that, Hartmann?”
“I can understand it, sir.”
“That they were worried about me?”
“That they thought you deserved some leave, sir.”
Tanz sniffed audibly and relapsed into silence. The Bentley’s engine purred gently. A soft clink of glass indicated that the General was pouring himself a cognac.
Hartmann was pained by the repetitious sound and forced himself to ignore it. He stared ahead at the dark, almost deserted street as it swam into view in the dim light of the masked headlamps. As the Bentley turned into the Boulevard Montmartre the General began to speak again.
Tanz evidently had his communicative moments, few and far between though they might be. He even leant forward a little as he spoke, wafting a reek of spirits over Hartmann’s shoulder.
“This is my first leave for years, Hartmann. I was ordered to take it—ordered! What do you think of that?”
“A very agreeable order, sir.”
“Not altogether, Hartmann, but an order, and orders have to be obeyed. That goes for generals as well as lance-corporals. Can you understand that?”
“Yes, sir.”
There were few people about, even though midnight was still an hour away. Paris seemed to be a deserted city.
“When a man’s on leave,” Hartmann heard Tanz saying, “he must make the most of it. No half measures. Either you do a thing properly or not at all. That’s why entertainment is just as much a part of leave as cultural education. I only hope you’ve found somewhere really lively for me tonight.”
Hartmann had done his best. His choice had fallen on a newly opened boîte in a cellar in the Rue Drouot. It bore the promising name of L’Ecurie de Madeleine. Although he didn’t know the “stable” from personal experience, he had heard unanimous reports that Madeleine’s fillies were in a class by themselves and equal to the most exacting demands.
“Stop a hundred yards from the place,” Tanz ordered. “Park where you can keep an eye on the entrance.”
Hartmann parked the Bentley accordingly and raced round to open the door. Tanz got out, glancing keenly about him like a hound taking scent. Then he said: “Give me a few of the large notes from my wallet.”
Hartmann opened the wallet and extended it to him. Tanz pulled out several notes at random—five or six thousand francs in all—and marched off down the street at parade-ground pace. Just before reaching the door of the establishment he ducked as though preparing to inspect a fox-hole. Then he disappeared from view.
Resigning himself to a long night’s wait, Hartmann climbed back into the Bentley and switched on the dashboard light. He got out a packet of cigarettes and the hip-flask of Calvados and removed a copy of Père Goriot from the glove compartment.
Hartmann smoked, drank and began to read. When he looked at his watch a short while later it was still three-quarters of an hour before midnight.
Hartmann was jolted out of his Balzac by a screech of brakes as a jeep-style Mercedes 220 ground to a halt beside the Bentley. A portly figure tumbled out and bounced over to him like a rubber ball.
“So you’re still alive, old cock!” roared Otto with boisterous delight.
Hartmann proffered the packet of cigarettes and the still half-full flask of Calvados. The fat sergeant helped himself without hesitation.
“What are you doing here?”
“Just touring the area,” Otto replied casually, putting the flask to hi
s lips like a trumpeter. He seemed to enjoy the tune. “Things couldn’t be better. All the generals are away for the night so I’m making the most of it.”
“Don’t let me keep you,” Hartmann said ungraciously.
Otto grinned. “You look as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, don’t you, laddie, but you’re not above shitting on your own doorstep. I’m talking about Mam’selle Ulrike—if you’ll pardon the comparison. You’ve really gone and done it there, you know.”
“Give me the bottle back,” said Hartmann. “You’ve obviously had more than you can take.”
“The drunker I get,” Otto announced loudly to the darkened street, “the sharper I get. When I’m really pissed I’m as sharp as a razor. You’re either a cool customer or you’re dead stupid—one of the two. Don’t you realize what you’re in for? People don’t just lay generals’ daughters and get away with it. Why in God’s name did you let them cotton on?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t?” Otto shook with laughter. “You’re about the only one who doesn’t. Her mother knows and her father knows, and since her father’s General von Seydlitz-Gabler his C.O.S. knows—i.e., Kahlenberge—and so I know. And if I know it might just as well be posted up on Part One Orders.”
Hartmann went cold as he began to visualize the implications of this. Absently, he relinquished the bottle again. The surrounding gloom seemed to take on a sinister aspect and the moon disappeared behind a cloud, turning it into a sheet of frosted glass and blurring the outlines of the neighbouring houses. Only the dim blue lamp above the entrance of L’Ecurie de Madeleine seemed to glow brighter than before.
The Night of the Generals Page 19
