“I work for the Sûreté,” said Prévert, “in Paris.”
“My knowledge of Paris is limited to the war. I was there in nineteen forty-four.”
“In those days,” said Prévert, “my task was to provide a link between the French and German authorities—eliminate friction between them, and so on.”
“An interesting job, I’m sure,” Tanz said, polite as ever.
Feeling instinctively that this line of conversation might be less innocuous than it seemed on the surface, von Seydlitz-Gabler made an attempt to cut it short. He was skilfully distracted by Kahlenberge, who started talking about a foreword for something he was writing and his need to find someone with sufficient reputation and expert knowledge to supply it—for a suitable fee, of course. He had immediately thought of von Seydlitz-Gabler, and would appreciate his comments on the subject. Flattered by this display of confidence, von Seydlitz-Gabler allowed himself to be drawn into a corner.
Meanwhile, Prévert and Tanz eyed each other steadily, each man attempting to smile but neither succeeding to any marked degree. Tanz saw two frog-like eyes and a fish-like mouth set in a wrinkled expanse of flesh. Prévert saw an ideal model for a sculptor who wanted to portray the essence of unflinching, adamantine heroism. Everything about Tanz seemed big, impressive and imbued with classical beauty, though his face bore a few deep lines which looked as if they had been carved into it with a razor-edged knife.
“In those days,” Prévert said cautiously, “I worked with a certain Lieutenant-Colonel Grau. Perhaps the name rings a bell?”
“It does,” said Tanz. He stepped back slighly, as though to get a better view of Prévert.
“A remarkable man, Grau.” Prévert leant forward as though anxious not to increase the distance between himself and Tanz. “He was obsessed with a strange craving for absolute justice. His arguments and methods were quite out of the ordinary.”
“I’m unable to share your enthusiasm,” said Tanz. His eyes glinted frostily like slivers of ice. He raised his right hand, only to let it fall again in an attempt to disguise the fact that it was trembling violently. “And now—if you’ll excuse me.”
“One moment, please!” Prévert moved fractionally so that his corpulent body blocked Tanz’s route of escape. “Perhaps you’ll find our little chat considerably more interesting when I tell you that in July nineteen forty-four I was responsible for investigating a murder in the Rue de Londres.”
Tanz froze. His eyes had gone as blank as the windows of a deserted house.
“I’m not interested,” he said eventually.
“Even if I can prove that the crime in the Rue de Londres exists in triplicate?”
“You’re insane.”
“I might reciprocate that,” said Prévert.
“What do you want?” asked Tanz with scarcely suppressed fury. “You’re becoming a nuisance. I won’t tolerate it.”
“Warsaw nineteen forty-two, Paris nineteen forty-four, Dresden nineteen fifty-six. Need I say more?”
Tanz looked as though he were on the point of collapse. His body lost its unwavering poise. He tottered backwards into the wall behind him and leant against it, a ruined marble column.
Even then, his square Jaw jutted pugnaciously and his parted lips seemed to suck energy from the surrounding air. When he spoke again, his voice had regained its crystalline clarity.
“Kindly spare me your theories. You can’t prove anything. It’s all guesswork.”
Prévert glanced across at Ulrike and raised his hand. This was the signal for Hartmann’s appearance. Ulrike nodded and disappeared.
“You’ve spent the past twelve years in the East,” he said, turning back to Tanz, “and now you want to change sides. A lot of people look on this as a triumph of conscience—an action worthy of respect. They’re even ready to fête you for it.”
‘“And you dislike this?”
“I dislike it very much indeed, Herr Tanz. You see, I can’t regard it as mere coincidence that the murder committed in Dresden the other day was an exact replica of the murders in Paris and Warsaw.”
“Pure speculation!” Tanz exploded.
“I don’t agree with you.” Prévert’s manner was irritatingly serene. “There are a number of facts which add up to something more than coincidence. For example, two detectives from the Eastern Zone tried to get into conversation with your orderly this afternoon. They were arrested by the West Berlin police, who are now taking an interest in you. You won’t be particularly impressed by all this, but perhaps it may interest you to know that this afternoon a conference took place between Detective-Inspector Liesowski of Warsaw, Detective-Inspector Liebig of Dresden and myself. We reached a unanimous decision.”
“Suppositions aren’t evidence.” Tanz’s voice sounded muffled, as though he were speaking through a piece of baize.
“I agree with you there,” said Prévert imperturbably. “Nothing I’ve said so far is capable of proof. The Warsaw case is still open, the Dresden case is unsolved, and in the Paris case the vital witness doesn’t appear to be forthcoming.”
“Precisely!” said Tanz.
“That’s where you’re wrong, General. As you well know, we’re speaking of someone called Hartmann—the only surviving witness of one of your crimes.”
“Who is Hartmann?” asked Tanz. Pin-points of cold fire danced in his eyes. “Or, rather, where is Hartmann?”
“Over there,” replied Prévert, pointing to the figure in the doorway.
Slowly, Tanz propelled himself forward. His limbs functioned stiffly and mechanically like those of a marionette operated by a novice. His body seemed to be hinged at the joints.
Prévert followed at his heels. The General moved with great deliberation, still determined to give an impression of dignified composure. This enabled Prévert to overhaul him without undue effort and made it look as though he were clearing a path for him. As he went, Prévert issued brief instructions:
“Hartmann, look after Ulrike.”
“Frau von Seydlitz-Gabler, your husband will be in urgent need of your support.”
“Kahlenberge, come with me.”
Prévert opened the door leading to the ante-room and Tanz passed through, followed by Kahlenberge. Wyzolla jumped up from his chair and snapped to attention. For several seconds Tanz stood motionless as a mountain pine, seemingly unshakable despite the axe-strokes thudding against its base. Then he appeared to sway, but it was an illusion: he merely inclined his body a few millimetres towards Wyzolla.
“Give me your pistol,” he said.
Wyzolla obeyed the order exactly as he would have done if Tanz had asked him to produce a handkerchief. He reached into his trousers pocket and brought out an 8 mm. automatic.
“Loaded, sir. Safety-catch on.”
“Thank you,” said Tanz, taking it.
Wyzolla stepped back smartly. Where his General was, there was his parade-ground. Kahlenberge stared fascinatedly at the weapon in Tanz’s hand, then tore his eyes away and glanced at Prévert. Prévert shook his head very slightly.
Tanz lowered the pistol until it nestled in his hand with its muzzle pointing at the floor. Once more, he began to move. Wyzolla automatically started to follow, but Prévert said: “Wait here!” The words sounded like an order, and since they were uttered in the General’s presence they carried almost as much force as if the General had uttered them himself. Obediently, Wyzolla stayed where he was.
Tanz walked on down the corridor to the door of his room, where he halted. From behind, Prévert and Kahlenberge could see him brace his shoulders and raise his head, slowly, as though jacking it up. Then he turned to face them. In a choked voice, he said:
“I have no explanation to offer.”
“Why should you have?” Prévert replied in an icy tone his friends would not have recognized. “There’s nothing to explain—Tanz!”
Tanz winced as though he had been stuck with a needle. The contempt with which his name had been uttered—just his
name, no rank, not even the rudiments of civility, plain “Tanz” and nothing else—seemed to hurt him more than anything anyone had dared to do to him so far. His right eyelid twitched violently. He spun on his heel, flung open the door of his room and, stumbling inside, slammed it shut behind him.
“That’s it, I think,” Prévert remarked flatly. “Have you got a cigarette for me, Kahlenberge?”
Kahlenberge’s hand was unsteady as he proffered the packet. Prévert helped himself and struck a match. They both lit up, audibly exhaling the first gulp of smoke, their eyes fixed on the door which now hid Tanz from view.
They waited, each aware that further conversation was superfluous. Both men were breathing fast but neither was conscious of the fact. They smoked their cigarettes down to the butt and ground them out on the imitation Persian carpet, then lit fresh ones immediately.
Kahlenberge could hardly control his restlessness. “You’re really counting on him to behave like an officer and a gentleman?” he asked in an undertone.
“If you like to call it that—though officers and gentlemen aren’t the only people who know how to do the right thing.”
“Sometimes I wonder what category I belong to myself.”
“I’ll tell you what you are—an incurable idealist, though you probably wouldn’t admit it.”
They went on waiting, studying their feet and the carpet beneath, tracing its pattern until their gaze returned to Tanz’s door. Even when they turned and looked out of the corridor window their eyes met the reflection of the door, clearly mirrored in the glass.
At last the brooding silence was broken by a muffled report like the bursting of an out-size toy balloon. It was the sound they had been expecting for almost half an hour.
Kahlenberge started forward, but Prévert held him back. “Don’t rush it,” he said.
Prévert’s lips moved almost imperceptibly. He might have been praying, but it was more likely that he was counting. Being a practical man, he was giving Tanz time to fire again in case the first shot had proved ineffective. After about sixty seconds, he said: “Now!”
They threw open the door leading into Tanz’s suite. On the table was a tumbler and an empty vodka bottle, which had fallen over. Sticky wet traces of half-digested food, evidently the result of vomiting, led from the table to the carpet.
Tanz lay there in a puddle of blood with his skull gaping.
“C’est ça,” Prévert said tersely.
A SPEECH WHICH HAS BEEN OFTEN PONDERED BUT NEVER DELIVERED
From a soldier to his general:
“A general commands thousands of men, thousands of whom he may never have seen, exchanged a word with, or learnt the names of.
“To generals, most of these thousands are no more than components of a battalion or brigade, faceless creatures who go to make up daily strength reports, items to be disposed of by a word, a signature or a command. One word from a general and thousands of soldiers stand to, move off, attack, withdraw, or march to their deaths.
“There is no other form of absolute power so great and all-embracing as that wielded by generals at a time when martial law and a state of emergency prevails. But, for the soldier, even the intervening periods are dominated by the figure of his general, regardless of whether he knows who his general is, where he comes from, where he is going, whether he is an unemotional pedant or a genial father-figure, a strict martinet or an equable personality, a daredevil or a temporizer.
“Generals are like shadows from which no soldier can escape. They define the boundaries within which their subordinates can operate. They also specify the objectives to be attained by divisions, corps and armies composed of finite numbers of men, finite numbers of weapons and finite quantities of ammunition—columns of figures headed simply “credit” and “debit,” the deductions being accounted for by dead, wounded, missing, sick, postings and transfers—only numbers, never names.
“This is so, was so and will always be so. It may be deplorable, but it is unavoidable. Wherever human beings conglomerate they lose their face, name and individual existence, whether in factory bays, football stadiums or barracks, the waiting-rooms of war.
“Generals, on the other hand, do have a name. Soldiers learn it by heart as soon as they come under a particular general’s command. They meet it again and again on written orders or when decorations and promotion are being conferred. It appears in military dispatches, is mentioned in newspaper articles or on the radio, and occasionally finds its way into books and, thus, into history.
“Generals also have a face. It occasionally glides past soldiers bound for the front or returning from it. It turns to look, for a fraction of a second, at rows of motionless figures standing to attention. It stares from publications or is captured in photographs destined to adorn the walls of billets or canteens.
“Generals also have an individual existence. They stand apart from the surrounding masses much as the manager of a factory or the star coach of a famous football team does. Like them, generals have power, influence and importance. Like them, they have to shoulder responsibility. But it is responsibility of a very special kind, and it is that alone which makes their position so incompatibly different.
“A general’s responsibility is immeasurably greater than, say, that of a factory manager, who is only worried about production and turn-over, nor can it be equated with that of the manager or trainer of a football team. It does not consist merely in knowing how to deploy troops skilfully or employ them methodically. Intelligent planning, the art of strategy and an outstanding capacity for coherent thought all pale into insignificance beside a fact which is inseparable from victory or defeat: generals operate with human lives.
“Generals’ decisions, therefore, are life-or-death decisions. They do not affect the odd individual alone, as in the case of judges and doctors, but thousands of human beings simultaneously. Indeed, the total losses incurred in wars conducted by generals can run into millions.
“Teachers can either spoil their pupils or show them the true nature of beauty, dignity and worth; politicians can either stupefy nations and pander to their basest instincts or rouse them to a genuine sense of freedom and justice; but generals make decisions which directly affect human lives, and continue to do so, again and again, for as long as they remain generals.
“A general knows that in war-time he must be prepared to take this hardest of all decisions unflinchingly. That being so, he has no choice but to approach his task with profound humility. He must be fully aware of his special relationship to the highest price a human being can pay—unless, of course, he is inspired by a ruthless quest for power, fatal stupidity or a penchant, conscious or unconscious, for bloodshed, all of which lead, in the last analysis, to murder.
“It is a cheap excuse, nothing more, to mouth platitudes like “sacrifices are inevitable” or “the innocent always suffer with the guilty” or “human beings are the manure of history because their death prepares the ground for national greatness.” In the view of certain historians, the road that leads to a better world has always been paved with corpses— not that they themselves are, or would wish to be, among those corpses.
“Yet how can anyone who remembers his mother, who has known and loved a fellow-being, who knows what children are, even look on human life as a form of war material to be employed with mechanical indifference?
“Such generals do exist, but there are other kinds.
“Some generals are ‘soldier’s generals’ who do their best to live like the humblest private soldier under their command. They try to think like him and they often die like him. General Modersohn (principal character in the novel Officer Factory, by the same author) was one such, and he is far from unique.
“There are other generals who not only serve their country selflessly and responsibly but whose thoughts range far beyond their immediate horizon, who ponder on the meaning of life, the merits of their nation and their personal responsibility not only toward the individual but toward h
istory as a whole. The men of July 20th, junior officers as well as generals, belonged to this category, as does General Kahlenberge. Many of them proved their worth during their country’s lowest ebb and darkest hour.
“Still other generals do no more than act as willing lackeys of the strong-man of the moment. But what may have been understandable in Kaiser Wilhelm’s day becomes unscrupulous, if not criminally irresponsible, under a man like Hitler. Utterly foolish as it may seem to us today, some generals genuinely believed in Hitler, not that this was necessarily a mark of dishonour. Others, again, half-believed in him but maintained certain reservations, while still others inured themselves to the idea that it was their patriotic duty to believe in him. General von Seydlitz-Gabler may be classified as one of the latter.
“There were, however, a considerable number who were well aware that Hitler and his clique constituted a danger. In private, they called their Supreme Commander “the sewer-rat” or simply “that swine.” They reviled him, abused him or poked fun at him, probably with justification in each case. Yet it is an undeniable and incomprehensible fact that the same generals did not hesitate to send thousands upon thousands of poor, brave, unwitting soldiers to their deaths for the sake of the man they called a sewer-rat and a swine.
“Still other generals were, and are, merely artisans of war —regimental sergeant-majors on a grand scale. They drill their men for a hero’s death in the simple belief that they are doing the right thing and are immune to criticism. They have equally simple explanations for their activity and presumably cherish an implicit faith in them. They enjoy talking about love of country, defence of home and hearth, preservation of freedom, call of duty. They spoke of Hitler and Germany in the same breath, never faltered, never erred, and far-sightedly defended the West against Communism. Men like these fight and die, armed with water-tight explanations for doing both.
“It is frightening that men of this type should become generals. In almost every other sphere of life, people are prepared to take such individuals for granted. We are familiar, for instance, with business men who will gladly ruin their competitors for the sake of profit, with industrial tycoons and financiers who try to squeeze out rival concerns with every means at their command and even enlist government support in their endeavours, with public idols who turn out to be monumental fools or ravening sexual hyenas, with corrupt and power-hungry politicians who finally lose their ability to exploit the benign gullibility of the masses.
The Night of the Generals Page 32
