The Night of the Generals

by Hans Hellmut Kirst

  “Certainly,” said von Seydlitz-Gabler after a moment’s hesitation.

  “May I count on your full support if the point is raised?”

  “That goes without saying, my dear chap. You can count on me in every respect. Haven’t the last few hours proved that? Well, then, what about a modest victory celebration? I’m sure the ladies will be delighted to join us.”

  11.50 p.m.

  Three men made their way southwards in the direction of Marseilles: Inspector Prévert, General Kahlenberge and Lance-Corporal Hartmann.

  “Well,” Kahlenberge said grimly, “the war’s as good as over for us. The night of the long knives is here again—or should I say the night of the generals? We’ll have to become civilians if we want to survive. We’ve no option.”

  “The war will never be over for me,” said Hartmann. “I’ll never be able to forget what’s happened.”

  Inspector Prévert’s harsh absinthe-coated voice broke in. “We must accept war for what it is—murder, pure and simple. Anyone who’s gutless or indifferent enough not to make a stand against it is abetting murder. He’s just an accomplice. Is that what you want to be, Hartmann?”

  There was no reply

  INTERIM REPORT

  EXTRACTS FROM THREE ARTICLES DEALING WITH THE PROBLEMS RAISED BY 20TH JULY 1944

  The following articles were written and published one month, ten years and sixteen years after the event respectively. Their most noteworthy feature is that all three were written by the same man, the self-styled historian Karl Kahlert, formerly a captain on von Seydlitz-Gabler’s staff.

  From the periodical “Officer and Reich,” August 1944, an article entitled “The Mark of Shame” and signed K.K.:

  “. . . it fills us front-line soldiers with profound indignation to see defensive victories which have been won with the blood of our comrades placed in jeopardy. An ambitious and unprincipled clique of un-German, treacherous and reactionary elements…”

  From the periodical “Officer and People,” August 1954, an article entitled “The Hour of Trial” and signed K.:

  “… deserves our deepest respect. It was an act which enabled us to raise the flag of honour once more. We stand, profoundly moved, before the great dead of that day, men answerable only to conscience and the dictates of the heart…”

  From the periodical “Officer and State,” August 1961, an article entitled “A Day of Conspiracy” and signed Kahlert:

  “. . . there are moments in history whose distinguishing feature is their very uniqueness. They are, by definition, unrepeatable…

  “Even though their ranks included some whose motives were, to say the least, not entirely unequivocal…

  “… forced to conclude that while the men of 20th July merit respect, they should not be heedlessly, and thus irresponsibly, held up as an example. The young officer of today should be deeply conscious of this. All that need concern him is what we in this country have always felt to be the essence of military tradition and the inviolable duty of the soldier: unquestioning obedience…”

  PART THREE

  Epilogue

  Party for the Dead

  BERLIN, 1956

  1

  Herr Kahlenberge’s ‘plane was nearing Berlin. Not a cloud obscured his view of the city, and general visibility was good. As the Air France machine came in to land the sun shone forth in all its glory as though the heavens had decided to put on a show of welcome.

  Kahlenberge hugged his soft leather briefcase almost tenderly. It contained the draft of a lecture which he was to give before what would undoubtedly be a select and well-informed audience drawn from Berlin’s upper crust.

  The ponderous machine lumbered across Templehof aerodrome and rolled gently to a halt. The passengers extricated themselves from their seats and streamed up the aisle to the exit. As he passed the smiling air hostesses, Kahlenberge smiled back and bade them good-bye in impeccable French. His knowledge of languages had improved considerably in the past few years. The air hostesses were patently charmed, and Kahlenberge was not too old to feel gratified.

  Cheerfully, he walked across the tarmac to the main building. He was fond of Berlin and its inhabitants. To him, the city was the only vantage-point from which Europe could be viewed as a whole, and he was flattered by the thought of being asked to lecture there. He had prepared his address with due attention to detail. It was entitled “The Conquest of the Past”—a conquest which Kahlenberge felt that he himself had successfully achieved.

  BRIEF NOTE: Kahlenberge in the intervening years

  At the end of July 1944, escapes to Southern France with Inspector Prévert and Lance-Corporal Hartmann. Resident in Marseilles until 1945. Thanks to some wire-pulling by Prévert, employed in an administrative capacity by the French Army of Occupation in Koblenz between 1945 and 1947. From 1948 until 1952, senior executive in a commercial vehicle and agricultural machinery firm based in Essen. Since 1953, director in charge of planned production in the same firm. Contributor to newspapers and periodicals. Occasional lectures. Author of memoranda commissioned by the ministry responsible for industrial planning.

  “Thank you, Herr Generaldirektor,” said the man at the barrier, handing back Kahlenberge’s passport.

  Kahlenberge smiled indulgently. In his firm he had been known as “General” long before he officially earned his civilian appellation. He had recently forbidden his staff to use the new title, but since they seemed to enjoy doing so he had resigned himself to it.

  Kahlenberge scanned the arrival hall. He owed his invitation to Professor Kahlert, once a captain on his staff and now a historian of some repute. It seemed improbable that the usually punctilious Kahlert had forgotten to send at least a couple of his minions along to meet him, but Kahlenberge could see nothing that even faintly resembled a welcoming committee. He was a little disappointed until it struck him that this would give him a chance to look round his beloved Berlin at leisure.

  Kahlenberge was about to lift his suitcase off the baggage counter when a pudgy hand closed over his and a husky voice said quietly: “May I help you?”

  There was no mistaking the voice. With a start of surprise, Kahlenberge spun round to face the little man who was standing beside him.

  “Prévert, my old friend, what a coincidence.”

  Prévert grasped Kahlenberge’s outstretched hand and shook it warmly. They smiled at each other like men who have just received an unexpected present.

  The Frenchman seemed to have grown even shorter. His flat, round, inexpressive face was covered with a network of fine wrinkles, but his eyes sparkled with the crystalline brilliance of emeralds. Looking into them, Kahlenberge felt almost dazzled. With a touch of misgiving, he asked; “It was a coincidence, I suppose?”

  “Don’t bank on it!” Prévert told him drily.

  BRIEF NOTE: Prévert in the intervening years

  Late July 1944, decamps from Paris accompanied by Kahlenberge and Hartmann. Finds lodgings for Kahlenberge in Marseilles and Hartmann in Antibes. 1944-45, works with the Maquis. 1945, returns to Paris. 1945-49, heads the Crimes of Violence Department at the Sûreté. 1950-51, helps to reorganize-the national police services. 1954 onwards, co-ordinating director of the French police departments associated with the International Police Organization—Interpol.

  “I wouldn’t put anything past you,” said Kahlenberge.

  “Very wise of you!” Prévert replied, motioning him to follow.

  A man in a smart grey suit silently took charge of Kahlenberge’s luggage and led the way through the swing doors. They emerged on to the pavement, where a large dark saloon stood waiting by the kerb—a Renault with a Berlin number-plate.

  They got in. Prévert raised his hand and the car drove off towards the centre of the city.

  “Don’t worry,” Prévert remarked. “You won’t miss your lecture. Have you got it taped yet?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Never mind,” Prévert said equably. “I may spare you enough
time to correct a point here and there.”

  “So it wasn’t a coincidence,” Kahlenberge did his best to look amused. “You obviously suffer from the same old vice-moving people around like pawns on a board.”

  “Just take a look at this city,” said Prévert. “Don’t you feel it bubbling away just beneath the surface? Berlin always reminds me of a gigantic barrel full of fermenting wine—if you’ll pardon the analogy. I’m still fond of my drink.”

  They drew up outside the Dollhagen, the celebrated delicatessen shop in the Kurfürstendamm. The driver opened the door, still without a word, and Prévert and Kahlenberge got out. People streamed by without giving them a second look. Kahlenberge revelled in the sense of anonymity. He enjoyed being just another face in the Berlin crowd because it made him feel he belonged.

  “Let’s fortify ourselves a little first,” Prévert suggested. “I’m sure you could do with a bite and it won’t do me any harm either.”

  They climbed the stairs to the first-floor restaurant, where a table had been reserved for them beside a window in the far corner. The head waiter bowed and smiled. All Prévert had to do was to raise his hand like a president unleashing the waters of a dam, and two plates of baked oysters appeared, bedded in red cabbage and accompanied by a bottle of Chablis ‘53.

  “Almost like being in France,” said Kahlenberge.

  Prévert nodded. While they ate he expatiated smilingly on an acquaintanceship with culinary refinements. If ever a nation took it into its head to make war on France for that reason—but only for that reason—he, Prévert, might be able to sympathize with its motives.

  “Well, I feel twice the man,” Kahlenberge sighed, when nothing remained but a litter of shells and two squeezed lemons. “You can come to the point now.”

  “With pleasure,” said Prévert, dividing the rest of the Chablis equally between their two glasses. “What I have to tell you can be summed up in a few words. We haven’t seen each other too often in recent years, as you know, but we’ve been admirable correspondents. You know that last letter of yours—the one I got a few days ago? There was one sentence in it which made me sit up.”

  “There wasn’t anything special about it, as far as I can remember.”

  “The sentence I’m referring to,” said Prévert, “ran something like this: ‘Even General Tanz seems to recognize the signs of the times. They say he’d like nothing better than to make contact with the West.’ “

  Kahlenberge wagged his hairless, glistening head, which looked more like a billiard ball than ever. “I don’t see anything unusual in the fact that one man has lost his taste for life in East Germany. Millions share his opinion. Nothing could be more natural.”

  “On the contrary,” said Prévert firmly. “I can’t imagine anything more unnatural—in Tanz’s case.”

  BRIEF NOTE: Tanz in the intervening years

  Promoted to Corps Commander at the end of July 1944, after the successful quelling of the revolt in the Paris area. Transferred to the Eastern Front in this capacity and fights first in Silesia, then in Brandenburg. Taken prisoner by the Red Army. 1945-49, prominent inmate of a camp for generals near Moscow. 1949-51, confidential adviser to the Russian Army of Occupation in the Saxony-Thuringia area. From 1952 onwards involved in the creation of the so-called National People’s Army of the so-called German Democratic Republic. Since 1955, frequently tipped as a potential Deputy Minister of Defence in the same political set-up.

  “What’s so worrying about it?” asked Kahlenberge, smiling at Prévert with a hint of curiosity. “What do you deduce from it?”

  “Certain things,” Prévert said. “I’ve got my fair share of imagination, you know. It can be awkward sometimes, for other people as well as myself.”

  They emptied their glasses, ordered another bottle and waited in silence until the wine waiter had finished serving them. While he did so they stared out at the Kurfürstendamm with apparent interest, each man covertly eyeing the other’s reflection in the polished glass of the window. They smiled as their eyes met.

  “If I understand you correctly,” said Kahlenberge, leaning forward, “I owe my invitation to Berlin to you.”

  “Shall we say—I arranged it.”

  “May I ask what your motives were?”

  “I had several, mon cher. In the first place, it seemed a good opportunity to see you again after all this time, and, in the second place, I felt I might be able to offer you an entertaining experience. In fact, I may be able to lay on a performance which you would not have missed for worlds. But that’s not all. I may well need your assistance.”

  Kahlenberge smiled wryly as the last words sank in. “I expected something of the sort,” he commented. “You plan to use me as a sort of bait—for Tanz, of all people. I suppose I oughtn’t to be surprised.”

  “The idea annoys you?”

  “Put your cards on the table, Prévert. What do you want with Tanz?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  “I imagine you want to win him over. For some reason, you want to lure the revered General Tanz into the Western camp—with my help. On the other hand, you may be doing a little wild-game hunting and you need me to help beat the covers.”

  “You could be right.”

  “I’m shocked at you,” said Kahlenberge, “shocked at what you’ve turned into. You treat yesterday’s enemies like old friends. Next, you’ll be telling me there were no Nazis, only Germans. Go ahead, then—scrub out three wars and call history a whore. Let’s all indulge in an orgy of spurious bonhomie.”

  “I could argue that it’s the trend of the times.”

  “And I could tell you to take your trend of the times and go to the devil!”

  “Thank you for those few kind words,” said Prévert with unabashed amusement.

  He raised his glass to Kahlenberge, small eyes sparkling like greenish water lit by a ray of sunshine. Then he put his glass down and rubbed his hands together as though he had concluded a particularly advantageous business deal.

  “Do you remember the strange yarn Hartmann told us on the way south from Paris?”

  “Morbid nonsense!” declared Kahlenberge. “The product of an over-heated imagination. You thought so, too, didn’t you?”

  “What he told us certainly sounded morbid, but I’m beginning to wonder if it was such nonsense.”

  “Really, Prévert! You were sceptical enough about his story yourself—to put it mildly.”

  “Yes, I was,” Prévert conceded, “then.”

  “But not now?” Kahlenberge shook his head wonderingly. “My dear chap, it’s absurd—absolutely crazy!”

  “A lot of things are absurd and crazy, war most of all. The more I think about it, the more convinced I become of one thing: there’s nothing a human being isn’t capable of, especially when war has destroyed all his inhibitions. The question of rank doesn’t enter into it.”

  “It’s all very well theorizing, but don’t forget that the boy was in a state of nerves at the time. He was at the end of his tether.”

  “But he wasn’t a murderer, I’m absolutely positive of it. Hartmann wasn’t a sex maniac.”

  “I didn’t say that, Prévert. Don’t misunderstand me—I’ve no doubt he’d been through a lot of things which would have unbalanced stronger personalities than his. Think what he must have gone through in Russia, for instance. But all that blood-curdling poppycock about Tanz… Just the product of an over-heated imagination, I tell you.”

  “I thought so too, at the time,” admitted Prévert. “That’s why I dropped the case like a hot potato. Besides, I had more important things to do. There was a war to be won, if you remember, and after that we had our hands full paying for the privilege of having won it.”

  “Have you heard anything of Hartmann since?”

  “I’ve been hoarding him like buried treasure,” Prévert said. “However, it wasn’t until yesterday that I knew with any certainty what a treasure I was hoarding.”

  BRIEF NOTE:
>
  Hartmann in the intervening years

  End of July 1944, escapes to the South of France. Goes to ground first in Marseilles and later in Antibes, where he lodges with a fisherman from August 1944 onwards and works on boats and nets. From March 1945 onwards, employed by a master mason who specializes in the rebuilding of harbour installations. From summer 1947 onwards, works as a casual labourer, mending roads, building walls, repairing fences and erecting houses at Antibes and Cap d’Antibes. Now living there in a room near the Castell, quietly tolerated and protected by former members of the Resistance, once all-powerful but still influential. Passes for a Frenchman locally.

  “It’s characteristic of the man,” said Kahlenberge. “He’s buried himself—cut himself off from the world. Obviously, he prefers to live like a hermit. But that often happens when someone finds life more than he can cope with. I’m not surprised by his reaction in the least.”

  “People like Hartmann are commoner than you think, mon vieux. It’s just that they don’t all behave as logically. He refuses to compromise and insists on living as he thinks he was destined to live. But it’s precisely because Hartmann is what he is, and nothing else, that he’s given me so much food for thought. I’ve asked myself again and again if he mightn’t have been telling the truth—and, if so, what to do about it.”

  Kahlenberge drained his glass. The wine was dry, fruity and full-bodied, but he got no pleasure from it. His head had grown suddenly heavy.

  “How much do you really know, Prévert?”

  “Tanz wrote to von Seydlitz-Gabler, hinting that he wouldn’t be averse to changing sides. Von Seydlitz-Gabler informed you and you wrote to me. My first reaction was: why?”

  “Why? You know what I think of Tanz, but in this case his motives may be entirely above reproach.”