The Kaiser's Last Kiss

by Alan Judd

  ‘Is it not splendid?’ the Kaiser asked, with a wave of his right hand, in which he once again held his cigar. ‘There is nothing like it, anywhere. So many regiments, so many no longer in existence, of course. But if Herr Hitler runs short of uniforms for his soldiers I, the Kaiser, could help him. I could furnish a regiment from here.’ He laughed, stroking the epaulettes that adorned a colonel of Tsarist cavalry. He walked slowly between the aisles, touching the uniforms and commenting on them as if everyone shared his passion. He was careful to keep his cigar ash away. The girl followed with the medal on its purple cushion. Krebbs caught her eye once more, again without obvious response, while the Kaiser enumerated the vanished Austro-Hungarian regiments of which he had been honorary colonel.

  ‘They were the best at uniforms, Franz-Joseph and his people. They would be still, there would still be an Austrian Empire if only they had taken my advice.’ He stopped, so that they all stood close together. He exhaled smoke in the girl’s face while addressing Krebbs. ‘Well, at first it was the old man’s – Bismarck’s – advice. “Run your empire from Hungary,” he told them. “Get into the middle of it. Vienna is too small, too remote.” I told them so myself, many times. I told Archduke Ferdinand before he was murdered. That was the incident which started the last war, you see, before we expected it. We were dragged into it by Austrian incompetence. If the Archduke had heeded me he would not have been killed.’ He laughed and puffed again on his cigar. There were tears of mirth in his eyes. ‘You know, Ferdinand, he was so fat, they had to sew him into his uniform. This is why, when he was shot, they could not unbutton him. It was his own fault. I always said to him, I said, “You should be grateful you are not English. They would call you Fatty Ferdie there.” He did not like that. Every time I said it, no matter how often, he did not like it.’ He laughed again and walked on.

  Krebbs waved the smoke from the girl’s face with an exaggerated sweep of his arm and a mock bow. This time she smiled.

  ‘And here,’ continued the Kaiser, stopping at the top of the next row and tapping another uniform shoulder, ‘is my colonelcy of the Imperial Russian Guard, awarded me by the hand of my cousin, the Tsar himself. God rest his soul. What happened to him and his family was terrible, you know. Terrible.’ His face was earnest now, almost urgent. ‘They butchered them, those Bolsheviks butchered them, the children too, every last one. These are the people who are now your Herr Hitler’s closest allies. Out of spite, they did it. Malice. Spite.’ He clenched his fist, flattening his cigar between his fingers. ‘That is why England must be destroyed. A word from England at that time would have been enough to prevent it. Only amid the ruins of London will I forgive my cousin Georgie, their king. He is the dog who did not bark, when he alone could have. I could do nothing. I had to flee in case my own family suffered the same at the hands of the German Bolsheviks.’

  He stared at Krebbs, eyes bulging and the veins in his neck standing out, as if he held Krebbs responsible. The ugly crooked scar on his right cheek looked almost as if it might split. That scar had surprised Krebbs when he was introduced to the Kaiser; it did not appear in any of the pictures. ‘Fortunately, Herr Hitler and the Party have solved the problem of German communists now, your Highness,’ he said.

  The Kaiser considered his cigar for a moment, then dropped it on the polished floor and ground it beneath his boot. ‘Yes, that is something.’ He carried on down the row.

  The girl looked down at the cigar as if considering how, while holding the cushion, she might pick it up. Krebbs swiftly bent and picked it up by its dry end. He raised his eyebrows and stood back for her to proceed. She lowered her head, smiling again, and followed the Kaiser.

  He had stopped to hold out the gold-braided sleeve of a dark blue uniform, apparently unaware that they were not yet with him. ‘Here, you see, I was also an admiral of the English navy. Not only that, it was I who taught them to salute. When I used to go with my grandmama Queen Victoria and the family to Cowes I noticed their saluting was not only very sloppy but very – very individual, to put it kindly. All sorts of people saluted in so many different ways that you did not know whether they were saluting or waving or had something wrong with them. So I complained. They said it was like that in Nelson’s time and they never liked to change anything that was Nelson’s. Well, they are eating the fruits of that attitude still, from what I hear. Our submarines will surely bring them to their knees, as we almost did last time.’ He laughed again. ‘But they gave me a nice desk with Nelson’s last signal emblazoned on it. And they standardised their naval saluting. So I won.’

  ‘Your Highness has been a great help to the English,’ the girl said quietly.

  She spoke as if she were part of the conversation. Her confidence surprised Krebbs. What could she know about the Kaiser and the English, apart from what she had just heard? But the Kaiser reacted as if it were normal for servants to volunteer their opinions. Perhaps he had not noticed which of them spoke.

  ‘Help to the English? Help? I who had to remind them what they were, or should be?’ His face was suffused with indignation. ‘I who put their Queen into her coffin which I had to have made, I who had to re-harness the horses when they refused to move the bier, I who was in charge at Osborne and got everything moving after she died – the only time, let me tell you, that a German sovereign has ruled over any part of England – I who was cheered through the streets by the English, before they came to hate me? I was their personification, only they did not know it, they have so inadequate a concept of themselves.’ He stared in indignant appeal, then resumed more calmly. ‘Mind you, the German people is little better. I was what they should be – could have been – only they did not know me. All this was before you were born, of course, either of you.’ His mouth worked for a few moments, with no words. ‘My God, but it is true they didn’t even have a coffin for her. Everyone knew she was dying but their wonderful officials, who are paid to think of these things, hadn’t thought of it. I myself went to a ship-builder in Cowes and got him to do it. Think of that. The English can’t even bury their sovereigns without Wilhelm. And now look at how they have repaid me.’

  Almost shouting, he smote himself on the chest with his clenched fist, staring as if they had affronted him. ‘Thanks to the English, I am stuck here having to be nice to this bunch of shirted gangsters who will ruin my country.’ He turned to Krebbs. ‘Not you. I don’t mean you. It is not your fault. But your shirts, your gangsters.’ He clasped his weak hand in his good and walked stiffly, but with surprising speed, from the room.

  They listened as his footsteps faded in the outer room. Krebbs turned to her. ‘Congratulations, Akki, you have provoked a reaction.’

  ‘His Highness is an emotional man.’

  ‘A man of contradictions.’

  ‘Of many sides.’

  ‘Who exactly does he mean by “shirted gangsters”, do you think?’

  ‘I think you must know that, Herr Offizier.’

  ‘My name is Martin. I told you that.’

  She inclined her head and turned for the door, still carrying the cushion and medal before her. Krebbs followed. He wanted to keep her talking. At the door of the Kaiser’s study he stopped. He felt awkward about following her in, though the house was silent and they were surely the only people still up. When she came out she closed the door carefully and made for the stairs. By no sign or gesture did she encourage his attendance, but she did nothing positively to discourage it.

  He felt suddenly angry. ‘He is a ridiculous old man,’ he said, as they went down the stairs. ‘Vain and boastful. Who does he think he is? What does he think he is? Does he really believe we are gangsters? He said good things about us at dinner. Stupid.’

  She pursed her lips and held up her finger. ‘I think he means what he says when he says it,’ she said, in a low voice.

  ‘But he says such different things, contradictory things.’

  ‘He means them when he says them, like a child.’

  They we
re almost whispering now. ‘So Major van Houten told me, or something like it. He called it “inner youth”, this childishness. And that Iron Cross you have just put away. His possession of it and his pride in it are an insult to the men who have earned it. He did nothing to earn any of his medals, apart from being a royal parasite. Germany is better off without such people. I don’t know why we should bother to guard him.’

  ‘Yes, why do you guard him?’

  ‘In case the Dutch people turn against him. It would be bad if the Third Reich could not protect the head of the Second.’

  ‘Why should we Dutch turn against him now? He has been here over twenty years.’

  ‘Well – because of this occupation, perhaps. Because we are here. They – you – some of your people, disaffected elements, might resent us.’

  Her expression gave nothing away. ‘Is that the only reason?’

  ‘So far as I know, yes. It is enough, I think. Well, perhaps also to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.’

  ‘What kind of thing?’

  He hesitated. Again, he was saying more than he should but being with her made him want to confide. ‘Well, I don’t know. To make sure he stays here where it is safe, I suppose.’

  They had reached the vestibule, which now functioned as a household chapel and was furnished with a lectern and chairs. She switched off the chandelier behind the high, glass-panelled front door. ‘What must you do now?’ he asked.

  ‘I have to go down to the kitchen and then back upstairs to bed, turning off all the lights and checking the doors as I go.’

  ‘May I see the kitchen?’

  ‘Are you also a food inspector, Untersturmführer?’ Her correct use of his SS rank sounded playful. She pronounced it familiarly.

  ‘I have to inspect my soldiers’ food, so it is useful to make comparisons.’

  He followed her down the narrow stairs that led to the kitchen and domestic offices in the basement. The kitchen was warm, the utensils and copper pots gleamed, the great shallow sinks were scrubbed white. She took off her apron and hung it behind the door. For a moment it looked as if she were going to let down her hair, but she was merely touching it back into place. He did not want to stare too obviously at her, so paced about as if inspecting. His leather-soled, hob-nailed boots sounded gratifyingly authoritative on the stone-flagged floor. ‘Are you making some coffee?’

  She looked at him with her arms still raised as she touched her hair. ‘Is that a request, Herr Untersturmführer?’

  ‘If you please. I also request that you call me Martin when we are alone. I have already mentioned this.’

  For the first time she smiled openly. ‘Untersturmführer suits you so well. It must be your uniform.’

  ‘Shall I take it off?’ She busied herself with the coffee things. He felt he had made a mistake. ‘Unfortunately, I do not have my black SS dress uniform to put on in its place.’

  Over coffee, sitting at the deal table, she asked him about his family. He then asked about hers, discovering that she was an only child, that her father, a farmer, was dead and that her widowed mother had married a ne’er-do-well and was last heard of in Portugal. She did not even have a current address. They had got on badly since her father died.

  ‘How did you come here?’ he asked.

  ‘I heard there were more jobs and better pay in the south of Holland so I took a train to Utrecht and stayed with a girlfriend who was there then and she had heard they were looking for suitable staff to live in here at Doorn. They have been good employers to me, here. We have very nice rooms upstairs and a bathroom, much better rooms than servants usually have.’

  He grinned. ‘I should like to inspect your room.’

  ‘The Princess is very strict.’

  She seemed content to sit and talk, her elbows on the table, her sleeves pushed up to expose her slim forearms, her cup held before her. Her hands were delicate, not housemaid’s hands, he thought. He took one in his own.

  ‘You will spoil your hands if you do too much housework, too much scrubbing. Have you done much housework before? It does not look like it.’

  She removed her hand, put down her cup and held up both hands before her, turning them slowly back and forth. ‘The secret with hands, as with so many things, is to be careful.’ She went to the sink with the cups and saucers.

  As he watched her washing up it occurred to him that he could help by drying. It was not a manly thing to do but it might elicit gratitude and make her think he was considerate. On the other hand, she might not respect him for it and, anyway, it was inappropriate for a German officer to do such a thing, especially in uniform. In fact, even to be seen in the kitchen with a serving-girl was to risk ridicule, although he could justify it by the need to get information about the household. But there was also no need to rush the cultivation of this beautiful girl who would surely, one day, give herself to him. She was not going anywhere soon; neither was he, and it was good not to be seen to be too keen.

  He was thinking this as she stood drying her hands. He was still thinking it when he pulled her to him and kissed her on the lips. It was abruptly and clumsily done, with her hands and the tea-towel crushed against his chest so that she could not have embraced him even had she wanted.

  She remained passive in his arms, neither responding nor turning her head away. Her lips were soft and slack. He let go. She turned and folded the tea-towel over the rail on the front of the oven, her back to him now. It was presumably what she had been about to do when he grabbed her. He wanted to kiss her neck. ‘You must go and I must lock the Kaiser’s door behind you,’ she said.

  He felt foolish. ‘May I see you again?’

  ‘Of course you will see me again.’

  ‘I mean, like this.’ He felt he was abasing himself, but didn’t care.

  She looked at him solemnly. Then, with the ghost of a smile that never seemed quite to appear, only to disappear, turned towards the stairs. ‘It is possible, Untersturmführer, that we might resume our conversation.’

  FOUR

  Conversation did not resume during the next few days. Krebbs glimpsed her several times in the grounds of the house, carrying bread for the Kaiser, upright and mechanical in his blue serge suit no matter how warm the day, to feed to the ducks; or taking orders from the Princess in the rose garden; or helping set out tables and chairs on the terrace. Once, when Krebbs was returning through the beeches from his early evening run, he saw her walking alone through the arched gatehouse towards the village. He waited vainly for her to return, talking to the guard, needlessly re-inspecting his men’s quarters, complaining about the exterior paint-work. When she had not returned by dusk he concluded she must have come back on the footpath that led from the village church, which had its own entrance to the park. He forbore interrogating the sentry there but, the longer he went without another encounter with her, the more determined he became to contrive one.

  One morning there were four maids seeing to tables and chairs in the orangery. Their aprons were startlingly white as they moved in and out of the sun and shade, their voices carrying indistinctly through the trees and across the park. He was too far away to tell whether she was one of them, but thought she was. They were laughing about something. So, he thought, occupation is not so terrible after all.

  For a week there was no army post, which was bad for the men. Letters from home were important for morale and without them there was a distinct lowering. It was exasperating; they were not in action or in some remote theatre of war but were for the time being a static unit not many kilometres from the German border, almost a home garrison. The driver of the ration lorry said that the post had been delivered to HQ but some idiot in HQ company had sent it all out to the distant rifle companies without sorting it first, so it would probably travel round the whole battalion before getting back to HQ company, then there would be a further delay before it reached Doorn. No one knew where it was now.

  That, and the removal of one sick man with suspecte
d appendicitis, was almost the only contact they had with HQ. Krebbs had used the now-working gatehouse telephone to summon transport for the sick man, and even then was made to feel that Doorn was the last place on anyone’s mind. HQ never rang them, which in some ways was good, but for an officer who had seen recent action, was keen to see more and had already been commended for his determination and coolness under fire, it was hard not to feel neglected. ‘Just keep your head down and enjoy comfort while you’ve got it,’ the adjutant had said again on the phone, though in a more friendly manner this time. ‘There’s a lot more war to come. You won’t miss it, don’t worry.’

  He also had to keep the men occupied. Once they had thoroughly cleaned their accommodation, repainting some of it with green paint they had found, those not actually on guard could not be permitted to fester on their bunks, playing cards. Unoccupied soldiers get rusty quickly, his father had told him when he got his commission. An officer should see to it that they were always busy with tasks, otherwise there was trouble. There was no firing range – he had not been impressed by the battalion’s marksmanship when he was first posted to it, though it had improved during their few weeks of training before the invasion of Holland – and they couldn’t spend all their time rehearsing their already well-rehearsed weapons training. Nor could they play football or go for runs in boots and battle order all day. He rearranged the guard and patrolling rosters, then set his soldiers to clean paths throughout the park, sweeping them clear of leaves, cutting the border grass and repairing fencing. Soon, those parts of the park that the German Army maintained were gratifyingly tidier than the rest, which was looked after by the Kaiser’s local Dutch gardeners. If they stayed here long enough, Krebbs thought, they could take over the running of the entire estate, improving it and saving the old man some money, too. Not that he needed more.

  Krebbs had not spoken to the Kaiser since the dinner. The old man pottered about in the garden or among his ducks, usually in the mornings. He also made his regular stately progress from the house, across the lawns, through the rough grass and then through the oaks and beeches to his woodshed where his slow chopping or sawing could be heard for an hour or so. Sometimes there were estate workers stacking and preparing logs for him, sometimes only his dachshunds accompanied him.