The Song Before It Is Sung

by Justin Cartwright

  Von Gottberg feels an overwhelming desire to tell the English the true story, that Germany is chaotic and that there is another Germany, which needs encouragement to forsake Hitler. Claus von Stauffenberg, who at the beginning came back from France exalted by military success, has returned from the East with 10 Panzer Division saying that the time has come for the secret Germany to assert itself. The generals have failed the people: the colonels must act. According to von Stauffenberg, the secret Germany is a nobler place with its roots deep in the past, deep in the forests. Its prophet is the poet Stefan George; von Stauffenberg and his brothers see themselves even now as carrying on George's task. He recites George's poem, 'The Antichrist', to von Gottberg in a flat liturgical way, the way the Master ordained:

  You will hang out your tongues, but the trough will be drained

  You will stampede like cattle whose barn is on fire

  And dreadful will be the blast of the last trumpet.

  The last trumpet had sounded at Stalingrad. Our armies, he said, were like a puff of wind on the steppes.

  To his sister Adelheid, von Gottberg describes von Stauffenberg as a classical hero. He tells her that von Stauffenberg had once thought that, after winning the Russian campaign, the Army would be able to turn its attention to the SS. For the German nobility, Himmler is in many ways worse than Hitler. It is Himmler's Einsatzgruppen that have turned the people of Eastern Europe, potential allies in the war with Russia, against Germany.

  As the war progressed von Gottberg travelled to Switzerland and to Sweden four or five times. But nobody listened. The Allies had already decided that anything less than unconditional surrender could not be contemplated. And, anyway, after his visit to Washington and his meeting with Hamburger, he was not taken seriously. Mendel had destroyed his credibility.

  Mendel may occasionally have heard of von Gottberg's doomed efforts, or read his messages sent via the World Council of Churches and Swedish clerics and American journalists. Von Gottberg had a meeting with Allen Dulles in Berne, and a meeting with a British agent in Stockholm who advised him that the British Government would take the resistance more seriously if it produced results. Although von Gottberg wrote from Geneva and Stockholm to Elizabeth Partridge, there are no letters to Mendel.

  By the end of 1943 von Gottberg has a son and a daughter and his wife is pregnant again, but he is unable to spend much time at Pleskow where his wife and children are kept company by his sister Adelheid and his mother. The effects of war have finally reached Pleskow, where the estate is neglected and the medieval reverie is over.

  The conspirators are a loose band, diplomats, army officers, religious leaders. They meet and they drink and they argue, but their plans come to nothing, until, with the arrival of von Stauffenberg, there is a new determination. Von Stauffenberg is fearless and utterly convinced. Unlike the generals, he has no qualms about repudiating his oath to the Führer. In his mind, the Führer is the Antichrist. He is tireless in recruiting, and he relies heavily on von Gottberg and others for advice about how to order the new Germany that is to follow the removal of Hitler. By the beginning of 1944, soon after von Stauffenberg is appointed to the General Staff, a plan is drawn up to use the Reserve Army's emergency plan, Valkyrie, designed to mobilise Berlin in the event of an insurrection, as the starting point of a putsch.

  In April 1944, Elizabeth receives a letter from von Gottberg, suggesting a meeting in Stockholm. Her husband has been killed in a plane crash in West Africa, but it is not certain if von Gottberg knows this; he makes no mention of it. The letter is postmarked Geneva:

  Elizabeth darling Please let us meet. I will be in Sweden for a few days in May.

  Can you find a way of meeting me there? Leave a message addressed to the concierge of the Grand Hotel. Ask him to hold it for Mr Axel arriving May 4th. Our love will survive. But I fear unless you can come to Stockholm, we won't meet in this world.

  A

  Elizabeth has written No! on the letter and underlined it. As he waits for Fritsch and fills in his chart Conrad sees where this life is leading: to the gallows. Meanwhile Mendel is having a fine time - often in Washington, close to the seat of power, his reports read by Churchill, his advice valued and sought. He has even met the woman he is to marry some years later.

  Conrad and Francine go to the cinema together as they used to, to see a French film. It is not a good choice under the circumstances, the enigmatic story of a woman in her thirties who has an affair with a total stranger; they never exchange their names and meet once a month in one of those small French hotels that appear to have been made entirely of gloomy lacquered wood with darkly atmospheric corridors on time switches. Once they make love at excruciating length, for a film, in one of the corridors when the lights go out. He glances at Francine to see if she is suffering any painful recall, but her face is set, resigned, although in the gloom it is hard to tell exactly what her expression indicates. Eventually the lover fails to turn up for a rendezvous and the woman wanders around Paris, chic even in her despondency. At the end of the film the woman is seen eating lunch on the He de Re with her husband and two silent children. Seafood, in abundance. Nothing is resolved.

  'Bit of a downer,' he says over dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant.

  'Yes, not a good choice. Sorry.'

  'No personal resonances, I hope?'

  'Don't go there. You know I feel utterly ashamed and foolish.'

  'Will you move back in?'

  'I want to, but I don't think it's right or fair. Although I am longing to put everything back. It's not fair on you. We must be sure.'

  'How long have we got?'

  'Oh, some weeks.'

  Conrad hears the sound of a clock ticking loudly. It's the West-clox in his grandmother's kitchen, on the window ledge beneath the flypaper. His grandmother looked after him and his sister when his mother died and his father was so busy with the newspaper. Often in that house the sound of the clock ticking and the flies battering themselves futilely on the windowpanes or struggling in the flypaper was amplified unbearably by the heavy afternoon stillness. The clock is now ticking for his — or John's - child. The ticking is entering the silences he and Francine cannot fill.

  She won't come back to the flat. She takes a bus and he sets off walking to Camden. He wonders if they can be truly reconciled with this business of the child hanging over them. If they have the child, will he look out for physical resemblances or demand a test? It's easy for him to be magnanimous now, because he has found himself on the high ground. She is waiting for him to make some decisive movement, but it is not clear to him what more he can do than to ask her to come back without conditions. She is the one who needs to convince herself, but characteristically she is transferring her doubts to him. He walks past King's Cross where there is always a thin stream of human activity of the marginal variety; here it is possible for illegal immigrants to pick up fares in their clapped-out cars, for touts from cheap hotels to look for custom, for prostitutes, whose shoes and clothes and hair reek of despair, to linger. In dog kennels selling fried chicken and cut-price burgers, pimps and drug dealers gather. In all cities railway stations have an allure for the desperate: with their massive anonymity and twenty-four-hour life they are power-stations providing the wattage these people need to survive.

  It takes him twenty minutes to walk home. When he gets there he sees a brown Manila envelope propped up against his door. He opens it cautiously, to find some printed papers with a note from a friend, Karin. He has forgotten that he asked her to do a translation for him from German.

  Dearest Conrad, I am so sorry this has taken me so long. I have been travelling. Hope it's not too late. You owe me one - well, dinner, anyway. Love Karin.

  He takes the manuscript up to the flat and places it on the bed. Then he showers in the unpredictable shower, which stands in the corner of the bathroom, a cheap little construction they had planned to get rid of. The doors of the shower don't close properly - they are of Perspex - and the
water is barely warm. When he comes out of the shower he looks at himself closely in the mirror. Since Emily - crazed, sexy, Emily - told him he was good-looking, he has taken to inspecting himself. What he sees is that his hair is no longer vibrant. In fact it looks like von Gottberg's at his trial, resigned. As to whether he is good-looking, he reserves judgement. He imagines a stranger looking at him and Francine silently eating sizzling prawns and trying to decide who they are or what they stand for or what they do, he with his thinning hair and she with her Lenten haircut. What would the verdict be? Two people who have taken a few knocks, certainly, but beyond that probably nothing remarkable: he sees that they have joined the mass of Londoners, who have had the edges knocked off them and have adapted to the anonymity that the city prefers; it's a wary city, not cynical, but without expectations.

  He starts to read. Karin, it is soon clear, has taken the job seriously.

  17

  FOR MY CHILDREN AND THEIR CHILDREN,

  A MEMOIR. LISELOTTE, GRÄFIN VON

  GOTTBERG, JUNE, 1982

  I MAY BE imagining it, but the sun was always shining that last spring and summer. In my memory every day was beautiful. Sunlight fell silver on the lake soon after dawn and before you woke I would stand by the window in the music room - the best view - looking across the water. The light reminded me of my parents' summer house on the island of Poel, a Baltic light, still misty and indistinct in the early hours. It's the light of northern Europe, magical and mysterious. I always loved this view of the lake, looking over the boat-house, the bathing hut and the tea-house, across to the village, the church and the windmill.

  Your father was so busy that last year, those last terrible months. One day in May he telephoned to say that he had a few days' leave and that an important visitor would be staying for the night. It was your second birthday, Angela, which he had promised he would not miss. Knowing that he would enjoy driving in the dark-green shooting brake, I asked Wicht - do you remember him? - to take it to the station. He harnessed the black and grey horses, Donner and Blitz, and put on his best cap, the one he kept especially for your father and your grandfather before him. He raised his whip in salute to me and to your Aunt Adi and trotted off towards the station. I wanted to go with them but we were preparing a welcome for your father as well as his important guest. Also I knew that he would enjoy the ride back from the station and a chat with Wicht, the chance to breathe in his beloved landscape, and revel in the sense of arriving back home [Karin has put a note here: She uses the word Heimat, which is of course for more evocative than 'home'], catching sight of the house just before the road dips and you are lost in the trees for the final run to the park gates. There are certain places and certain sights in a life that raise one's spirits. For forty years I have thought about this place every day. And I know that never a day went by without your father dreaming about the lake and the house and the woods. He once said that as soon as he entered the avenue of oaks, planted by your great-grandfather, he felt true peace. In fact I think he felt that peace as soon as he plunged into the lake, which was the first thing he usually did, preferably naked.

  It was nearly eleven when we heard the sound of the brake outside. Robert was in his sailor suit from Wertheim's and Angela, you were in your best frock. Puppi, you were still in Grandma's christening robe, I'm afraid. Aunt Adi was holding you. When they took the Jewish children away from the orphanage I burned the sailor suit. It was unbearable.

  Suddenly there he was, so tall, so elegant in his grey suit, his hat pulled down and a brown travelling cape loosely over his shoulders, looking every inch [Zoll für Zoll — not an exact translation, K] the diplomat. He jumped from the brake and ran towards us. Robert began to cry: it was all too much for him. Dear Robert. Papi gathered us all in his arms.

  'Swim, swim, let's swim,' he shouted. 'Wicht, bring the presents to the tea-room. Is tea laid?'

  'Of course,' said Adi.

  Your father and I pulled on our bathing suits. Babette held on to Robert and Angela, and your father carried Puppi into the water. How he loved you children. The air was soon ringing with laughter. We played hide and seek, with me carrying you, Puppi, and Robert and Angela stumbling around and trying to hide behind trees.

  The tea was ready on the balcony in front of the tea-house. Although we had very little help now and supplies were short, we had made a special effort. Wrapped in a towel, his body white as a sheet, his face tired, so tired, still your father sang and told jokes and kissed you children. He was as gay and natural as ever, full of life and fun. I think it is true that this was the quality he possessed above all else that nobody could resist: the life-force ran so strongly in him. He shouted, 'What do we need for a harvest?' and you called out, Rye, barley, wheat and oats, rye, barley and oats, and then you sang one of your favourites, I went through a grass green wood! He had brought small gifts for all of us from Wertheim's and Israel's, beautifully wrapped as only they could in those days. Our friend, Wilfred Israel, had left the country before it was too late.

  In the afternoon we had a small party for you, Angela, which you slept through. When you were all in bed your father said to me, 'Our guest tonight is Claus Schenk von Stauffenberg.' I had met Stauffenberg the year before in Berlin where he was regarded as a hero. At the time I thought he was a little naive and vain in the old style, with his Iron Cross First Class and his cavalry uniform, but there was no denying his wonderful good looks.

  'Don't be startled, he has lost an eye and a hand with Rommel in Tunisia since you last saw him. After we have given him something to eat, he and I must talk.'

  And I knew then that it couldn't be long now.

  When von Stauffenberg arrived at about ten, driven by his chauffeur (who had once been a professional magician), he came forward to greet me with so much charm and warmth that I was immediately won over. He had a black patch over his left eye, which increased his already considerable presence. We ate together and he talked of Shakespeare and Stefan George and Holderlin. He seemed not to have a care on his mind. He had such enormous charm, such confidence that I really believed the great work could not fail. Your father and he had become very close friends. The right arm of his jacket was pinned to the pocket. The maids competed to cut up his food for him. In the kitchen the chauffeur was baffling Cook with card tricks. Von Stauffenberg called him in for our benefit. We, too, were baffled.

  After dinner, although I longed to be alone with him, your father kissed me goodnight and said they would be talking very late. In fact they talked all night. They were planning the composition of the new government that was to take over when Hitler was killed, although I only discovered this much later. In the morning they swam and continued to talk in the tea-house and it was here that Werner H, the forester, who was later executed by the Allies, spied on them and reported to the Gauleiter in Schwerin. Werner's father and his father before him had worked on the estate, but loyalty counted for nothing in the madness of that time.

  Von Stauffenberg did not come back into the house, but I saw him in the early dawn walking off to his car with your father round the side of the stables past the estate manager's house. This house was unoccupied then because so many of our people both from the estate and the village were at the front. I kept you children in the house until your father came in. We all had breakfast together and then, just before he set off again for the station, your father said something that put a chill on my heart: 'Whatever happens, you must always remember that you and the children have produced the greatest happiness I could imagine or hope for. What we are doing, we are doing for our beloved country and for them. You must never forget that. Particularly explain to Robert when he is able to understand. The time is coming.'

  He looked so tired, so thin, that I wanted to beg him to stay and rest. He seemed too frail to be taking on the Third Reich. Part of me still believed that Hitler was invincible. It was only later that I fully understood that after Stalingrad all was delusion. And now the Allies were advancing across
France.

  I wanted to ask your father why he, especially, the father of three young children, had to do it, but I could not. Men, we all understood, had to do their duty, and women were not supposed to question them, quaint though that sounds to you now.

  We spent the next few weeks keeping ourselves busy. Your Aunt Adi was so wonderful. She had a new plan for every day, from making toy theatres, collecting cornflowers to tie into circlets for your heads, or playing songs on her guitar to sing by the lake. Often we took one of the carts for picnics by the small secret lake in a remote part of the forest, and sometimes we would go over to our cousins at Schwerin and sail in their boats or take the ferry. And of course we swam. The water was, in my memory, always wonderfully warm. And somehow Cook always managed to find enough flour and butter to make a Baumkuchen.

  On the 18th of July the stationmaster rang at about nine o'clock at night and he said that the Count had arrived on the Berlin train. He had set out on foot. The stationmaster said that your father had asked that the children be woken up as he could only stay until the early morning. I set off by car, while Babette got you out of bed. It was not completely dark, a warm, northern evening. About two kilometres from the station I found him, Axel, your beloved father, striding down the road in his suit without a tie. We embraced and he took the wheel. 'It's going to happen now,' he said. I knew what he meant, of course, but none of the details in case the plan failed. He had left Berlin to see us, although he was needed day and night. 'But I had to see you, just in case.' And what he meant was just in case the plan failed. There would be no mercy.