The Kaiser's Last Kiss

by Alan Judd

  The light came from her bedside lamp which stood, as before, on the kitchen chair. The red alarm clock was there, too, but not the Dutch novel. The mirror and washbasin were still propped up on the chest of drawers, her spare clothes hung on the door hook, the eaves cupboard door had come open again and showed the brown suitcase. But there was no Akki.

  The bed was undisturbed and cold to the touch. The stout black shoes that had been on top of the suitcase were gone and her lighter shoes were by the door. There was no coat on the door hook. He had been prepared for resistance, acquiescence, angry emotion or sleep, but not for absence. Perhaps she had a boyfriend in the village after all, though his guards had orders to report anyone trying to leave the grounds. He resented her for not being there, as though she had broken a promise. He assured himself he had an official reason for seeing her: his duty to report what the Kaiser had been saying to her about the war. That made absence all the more reprehensible. He sat on the bed, acknowledging, while refusing to contemplate, the possibility that she might be out all night, without permission. Doing what, and with whom, was something he did not want to think about. The only sound was the metallic ticking of her red clock.

  It was perhaps that that prevented him hearing her approach. Quite suddenly she stood in her stockinged feet in the doorway, dripping wet in her long dark coat and felt hat. In one hand she held the smaller brown suitcase, in the other her shoes.

  They stared at each other without speaking, then she stepped in and quietly closed the door. She put her case down carefully, and hung her hat and coat on the hook. Her movements were slow, as if in the extremity of weariness, or as if each required careful thought. She still wore her long black maid’s dress, the hem of which was wet. Water dripped from her coat to the floor. She stepped across to the chest of drawers and started doing something with her hair in the mirror, as if she were trying to pretend he was not there. When he looked at her reflection, however, she gave a small smile.

  ‘Is it not polite to stand when a lady comes into the room, Untersturmführer, especially her own room? Or do you not consider me a lady?’

  He glanced at the clock, grinning despite himself. Her playfulness was an inexpressible relief, like a reconciliation. ‘Ladies should not be out after midnight. What were you doing?’

  ‘Hiding in the woods and signalling to the enemy.’

  Strand after strand of hair dropped upon her shoulders as she removed hair-pins and put them on the chest of drawers. When they were all out she shook her hair, held it in a pony’s tail and brushed it vigorously. He went to her, took the brush from her hand, put it on the chest of drawers and embraced and kissed her. After a moment’s resistance, during which she tried to say something, she responded. This time, he felt, there would be no holding back.

  But she soon broke off, pushing her head into his chest, then standing back and shaking it. ‘No, Martin, I cannot, with you in this uniform.’

  ‘I’ll take it off.’

  He started to unbuckle his belt but she gripped his wrist, staring at its motto. ‘My Honour is my Loyalty,’ she read aloud. Holding his wrists and still shaking her head, she rocked herself backwards and forwards against him. ‘I like you in it, it is you, Martin, and I hate it, that’s the trouble. You understand, don’t you? After what your Reichsführer was saying about the best ways of killing Jewish children? That is what he stands for and what his uniform stands for. His uniform is your uniform. It is what you stand for, too.’

  ‘I don’t, I don’t think it’s right to kill children. The Reichsführer is wrong.’ He heard himself as if from outside himself, as once when he had been hot and cold with influenza and his own voice had sounded disembodied. ‘I do not agree with it. I would not do such things.’

  ‘But you are part of it.’

  ‘I am not, really, Akki. Yes, I am part of SS but as a soldier of SS, Waffen SS, fighting other soldiers. What happens in the camps, in security, in all these other parts is nothing to do with us. We are for proper warfare, army against army. We have nothing to do with other business. What we do is honourable.’

  ‘Like Paradis?’

  So she too knew about it. Did the whole world know? Could she have heard it from the Kaiser, or he from her? They obviously talked to each other with unusual intimacy. ‘Paradis was wrong, too,’ he said.

  She let go of his wrists. ‘How can you be an SS officer and a Jew-lover? What would your soldiers say to that, or your colleagues, or your Reichsführer?’

  ‘I don’t care if you are a thousand times a Jew, Akki. I don’t care what the Reichsführer thinks. For me it doesn’t matter any more. Until now, I never knew any Jews, apart from one boy at school but that was different. Now you have opened my eyes. I see differently now. It doesn’t matter for me, really.’ He had never spoken like this, especially not to a girl, nor even had such thoughts before he spoke them. It was speaking that brought them into being. Everything was coming together, or coming apart. Condemning the Reichsführer was an apostasy that felt like liberation. His own words made his skin tingle. His throat tightened on them as he finished. He took hold of her shoulders.

  She fingered the sleeves of his uniform. ‘And think what it is for me, a Jewess whose country you have invaded, to be the lover of the brutal occupier. You cannot say these things don’t matter. Even if they did not to us, they would to everyone who knows us.’

  His eyes rested on the small suitcase she had left by the door. ‘What were you talking about with the Kaiser this evening and what were you really doing outside?’

  ‘I told you.’ She whispered the words in his ear, her arms around his neck as she pulled him to her.

  Afterwards, although he tried often, he could not recall the night in detail. They slept little, if at all, and talked much, or so it seemed. Their talk was as passionate as their physical engagement, and as hard to recall precisely. But there were a few exchanges that stood out from the night with hard, isolated clarity, their contexts vague, or lost. One, he remembered, was about the Kaiser. It was still dark, with not enough light to show the window.

  ‘Were you sitting with the Kaiser when I came in?’ he asked.

  ‘He invited me to sit.’

  ‘He is very informal with you. He must like you.’

  ‘He likes my hands.’

  He took one and kissed it. ‘Would he like to do this?’

  ‘He would if I let him.’

  ‘Has he tried?’

  ‘You’re not jealous of the Kaiser, are you?’

  ‘I am jealous of everything you touch. Other people, your own clothes, dinner plates, your hairbrush, door-knobs, everything. But what was he talking about? I heard him talking.’

  ‘He was considering what to do.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Germany and England.’

  He recalled no more of that. There was another exchange, when the pre-dawn pallor had lightened the edges of the window behind the shutters.

  ‘Some things are indivisible,’ he remembered her saying, with slow distinction. ‘You must not think me an exception. I am not, I am one of them. Nor can you think that the SS is good except for its treatment of Jews. That is the mouthful of seawater that gives you the taste of the ocean. It encapsulates all that the SS and the Nazi Party stand for. That is why you cannot be truly good, and a true Nazi. And why you cannot be the Martin I could like and Untersturmführer Krebbs, SS. You have to be one or the other.’

  ‘Is this what you were saying to the Kaiser?’

  ‘He knows it.’

  ‘He does not like Jews. He blames them for everything.’

  ‘He understands indivisibility. That is why he is troubled.’

  Later, or possibly soon after, he felt, or dreamt he felt, that he was trussed and bound in strong silk. He didn’t mind – it was quite pleasant – but he was being used for something, and wanted to know for what. He asked, or dreamt he asked, ‘What are you really doing here?’

  ‘I am here to discover what
the Kaiser wants.’

  He had a vague memory of himself saying, ‘That’s all right, then,’ or something like it. Then it was morning, with sparrows squabbling on the window-ledge. He carefully extricated himself from the narrow bed and hurried into his uniform, keen to get downstairs and shave before anyone saw him. She awoke only when, dressed, he knelt by the bed.

  She put her arms around his neck. ‘This cannot be, Martin, for either of us.’

  ‘But I can come again tonight?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The kitchen staff were already about but he reached his room without being seen. He was late for his morning inspection and shaved hastily, cutting himself because he hadn’t bothered to tighten the blade in its holder. One corner neatly parted the skin in two parallel lines and it took an unconscionable time to staunch the dribbles of blood. There was then no time to get coffee from the kitchen, still less breakfast. When he made his inspection he could see that the corporal of the guard had to make an effort not to remark on the two thin slashes. At least his uniform collar would hide any bite-marks on his neck.

  Krebbs had finished his inspection and the house-party was still at breakfast when a despatch rider arrived with an urgent signal for the Reichsführer. Krebbs knocked and took it in, saluting and then handing the sealed envelope to Sturmbannführer Macher.

  ‘Good morning, Untersturmführer. A matter of honour, I trust, involving a lady, eh? Not like my own, I confess.’ The Kaiser laughed, gesturing with his fork at Krebbs’s scars, his mouth full of toast and specks of jam in his beard. ‘Duels for honour are very well but those for the honour of women are better still. I trust you were protecting the lady? A gentleman should always be on that side.’

  The others smiled. The Reichsführer opened the envelope, read the signal quickly and handed it back, still open, to Macher. ‘Thank you, no reply,’ he said pleasantly.

  Krebbs saluted again and left. Later, while he was confirming transport arrangements for the party’s departure, he was summoned to the Reichsführer’s room. Himmler sat at the small desk, as before, while Fräulein Potthast packed. He held the signal in one hand and smiled at Krebbs, but did not invite him to sit.

  ‘I wish to thank you, Untersturmführer, for helping to make our stay so happy and useful. Your briefing on our host’s attitudes and predispositions was particularly helpful. You will recall the security matter I discussed with you yesterday?’ He held up the signal. ‘Here is further evidence of clandestine enemy activity in this area. There was another transmission last night, almost certainly a field cipher transmitter of a sort issued to certain kinds of British agent. We know them well; we have captured examples. The cipher used remains unreadable, so far, and the operator was disciplined enough to keep his transmission time within the limits the enemy recommends. Fortunately, however, the enemy underestimates our direction-finders who were able to locate the transmission site to within a half-kilometre square with Huis Doorn at its centre. It is possible that the site was actually within this house, or within its grounds.’ He handed the signal to Krebbs. ‘You may keep it, in a secure place, of course. There may be others before you capture this agent or traitor. He must be caught, and quickly. If you can help it would be a considerable feather in your cap, doubtless leading to promotion.’

  Krebbs took the signal. ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘Where is the house of von Islemann?’ the Reichsführer asked, with no change of tone.

  ‘In the village, sir, just outside the grounds.’

  ‘Within half a kilometre?’

  ‘As the crow flies, sir, yes.’

  ‘I should like a full report on von Islemann, his background, duties, personal characteristics, political sympathies, family connections, friends, travels abroad, religious beliefs and financial dealings.’

  Krebbs listened with a growing emptiness in his stomach that had nothing to do with hunger. The signal in his hand gave the transmission times as while he was waiting for Akki the night before. She had been out, in the woods, in the rain. Signalling to the enemy, she had told him, smiling.

  ‘And I should be grateful for your own impressions of him,’ the Reichsführer continued. ‘Anything, no matter how trivial. Put them in a separate paragraph and let me have the complete report within two days.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘If you can make a significant contribution to this case, Untersturmführer, your career in our security branch – should you wish – would be off to a very good start.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  The Reichsführer stood and put on his cap, the size and breadth of which again emphasised his receding chin and disappointing lower face. He continued smiling. ‘And now I must consider what would be an appropriate birthday present for the Italian ambassador. Heil Hitler!’

  ‘Heil Hitler!’ Krebbs saluted, clicked heels and left the room.

  SEVEN

  Krebbs stood next to von Islemann as the Reichsführer’s green BMW and its escort accelerated down the drive towards the gatehouse. The household had come to the foot of the steps to see him off and the Princess waved until both cars were out of sight, though the Kaiser turned away and began mounting the steps as soon as the doors had closed. Von Islemann remained, his hands behind his back, gazing after them.

  He turned to Krebbs. ‘How did you find your Reichsführer? Was he anything like you expected?’

  ‘He was friendlier than I had expected, less formal.’

  ‘It is true he smiles a lot. But is that enough, do you think?’

  ‘It has helped him to become popular in higher circles.’

  ‘Perhaps it has. But I believe other qualities are also necessary in those exalted regions.’

  Krebbs said nothing. Von Islemann still lingered, looking after the now-vanished car. ‘Did the Reichsführer form a good opinion of His Highness, do you think?’

  ‘So far as I could tell, he enjoyed his stay. His thoughts are not easy to read.’

  ‘You saw more of him than I. Is it your impression that he had no immediate plans to do anything about His Highness’s situation here, either way?’ The question was asked casually, as if it were an afterthought.

  Krebbs hesitated. ‘It was my impression that in most situations the Reichsführer would prefer not to do anything provided things are working smoothly and comfortably for him and provided he sees no threat.’

  Von Islemann turned again to Krebbs. ‘That is fortunate. His Highness is anyway determined to die here at Doorn, whatever invitations he has. Or from whomsoever.’ He looked deliberately at Krebbs as he spoke the last few words. ‘It is important that people understand that.’

  Von Islemann went on leave later that day. Krebbs had known nothing of it in advance but it made his task easier, in that he could question servants and other staff about him by pretending it was part of a routine form-filling exercise that von Islemann himself would have completed were it not for the interruption of the Reichsführer’s visit and, now, his absence. He decided he would not question the Kaiser or the Princess for fear of drawing attention to what he was doing.

  He did not, in fact, want to write the report at all, though it was a useful distraction. Increasing familiarity had not bred in him any particular liking for the aloof, efficient private secretary who, with his quiet manner and aristocratic background, seemed by his very unassertiveness to assert an unspoken superiority. That the Kaiser trusted him completely was obvious from the way he spoke to him without addressing him, as though he were a familiar piece of furniture, always there. Krebbs had assumed that von Islemann had no particular liking for himself, as the working-class product of the new socialism, thrust upon the household in a position of some power. Hitherto they had been correct with each other rather than friendly, and during the hurried arrangements for the Reichsführer’s visit they had co-operated efficiently but without warmth or humour. During their encounter in the park the previous night, however, and again during their exchange that morning, von Islem
ann’s manner had been more friendly, more confiding, as if he and Krebbs shared a secret, or at least certain assumptions. It discomforted Krebbs but he could not resist responding, and at the same time it flattered him.

  Similarly, von Islemann’s quiet, unafraid questioning of Himmler about the arrangements for Jewish children had both increased Krebbs’s respect for him and made him uneasy. His unease was not only that the questions might have provoked a scene or argument – might even have been construed a breach of manners – but they had made him feel that he personally had something to be guilty about. There was nothing he should feel guilty about, he told himself, he had nothing to do with that side of things; it was nothing to do what he did, no matter what Akki said. But still he felt it, and it made him the more uneasy that von Islemann appeared to be taking to him.

  It also made it hard to say anything definite about the man’s political attitudes, without resorting to surmise. For the first time since joining the SS he had been given a task that made him uncomfortable. In abstract, reporting on a man’s political attitudes was a perfectly reasonable thing to do, particularly during a struggle for national survival when loyalty was essential. In practice, though, when you worked daily alongside a living being, manifold, elusive, with so much unknown, it seemed dishonest to pronounce with certainty upon anything. His discomfort was sharpened by the reactions of others. When he asked the cook how long von Islemann had worked for the Kaiser, her dignified response to the effect that such questions were best answered by His Majesty, who knew best what was proper to ask and answer, caused a spasm of shame which he masked beneath a veneer of bureaucratic indifference.

  And all the time he was sure the exercise was unnecessary. It was not von Islemann that they – or he – needed to worry about.

  Nevertheless, he had to write the report and there was little time to do it. Eventually he asked the Princess, explaining that it was just a question of keeping his records up to date. She was in the rose garden, a basket on her arm, secateurs in hand and a gardener in attendance. ‘For ever,’ she answered indifferently. ‘He was with Willie when I first came. You will have to ask Willie.’