The Kaiser's Last Kiss

by Alan Judd

  ‘He likes to chop wood. He often does it. You know that.’

  ‘Not in the rain, he hates rain. He must be ill or unhappy.’

  ‘He can’t be ill if he’s chopping wood.’

  She climbed over him and went to the window where she stood listening, her back to him. The rain greeted her with another fusillade. He began to want her again. She turned. ‘We must go and see if he’s all right.’

  ‘What? Why?’ He laughed. She looked ridiculously concerned.

  ‘I’m sure he isn’t well. I’ll go.’ She began picking up her clothes.

  ‘You like the old man, don’t you? You have a soft spot for him.’

  ‘He has a soul.’

  Krebbs sprang out of bed. ‘You can’t go out in this. It will look suspicious to the guards. Everyone will ask questions. I’ll go.’

  Luckily, he met no one on the stairs and a call to the gatehouse confirmed that the monitoring team had not arrived. He was late for his own inspection but told them there would be none that evening. Downstairs he met two of the staff who explained with worried haste and wringing hands that the Kaiser was out chopping wood in the rainstorm, when it was almost time for his dinner. He was a man of such regular routine where meals were concerned that everyone was perplexed. No one had been out to see him, however; without von Islemann or the Princess, they weren’t sure what to do. Krebbs said he would go and fetch him in.

  He took his torch from his kitbag, put on his cape and pulled his cap firmly on before opening the front door and filling the hall and stairs with a great wet gust. He made a cursory inspection of his dripping sentries first, confirming that they had not seen the Kaiser return, then headed across the sodden lawns towards the woodshed in the trees. It was lighter out than it had appeared from within and he did not yet need the torch. The wind tossed the tree-tops, flattened the longer grass in capricious waves, sent the bottom of his cape flapping against his legs one moment and tugging away the next. It was worse than the night before. In the pauses between gusts he listened vainly for the fall of the axe until, as he was entering the trees, he heard it once, sharply and distinctly. For a moment he wondered whether it was really the Kaiser after all, or whether there might have been some fantastic happening and he would find an enraged Dutchman chopping the Kaiser. He checked his pistol in its holster.

  The woodshed was screened by trees and faced away from the house, so he had to walk round it to see anything. He trod softly, though even in the lulls there was enough noise from the wind and dripping branches to mask his footsteps. The Kaiser was outside the shed, his axe on the chopping block propping him up as he leant on it, breathing heavily and irregularly, occasionally gasping. He was hatless and in his field grey uniform, his tunic unbuttoned, showing his braces and crumpled, soaking shirt. The wind played with his grey hair, unheeded. Even in the gloom, his face looked unusually pale. The dog, Wei-wei, sheltered beneath the woodshed roof and for once did not yelp at Krebbs, gazing with morose indifference. Arno was nowhere to be seen. The Kaiser, too, watched Krebbs approach, his gaze glacial and strange.

  ‘You,’ he said, between laboured breaths. ‘I thought the other, the girl, might come. Hermine is in Berlin.’

  Krebbs had to stand close to be heard. ‘Are you well, your Highness? Your face is pale. It is late to be out.’

  ‘I am better than you will ever be, Untersturmführer, if you stay in. Better get out while you can.’ He stooped and, with his withered left arm, nudged the split log on the block so that it was broadside on to him. Then he heaved the axe back with his right arm and, with a twist of his entire upper body, grunted and swung it down. It was a perfect cut, the two quarters toppling off the block to join the spreading pile beneath. He leant again upon his axe and turned to Krebbs. ‘Bismarck could not have done that if he had lived to be a hundred and eighty.’

  ‘This rain is bad for you, your Highness, and it is past suppertime.’

  ‘I am past my own time, young man. I have seen enough. I have pains in my chest, in my legs and under my arms.’ He paused, breathing heavily, then seemed to gather energy and spoke loudly and rapidly. ‘My joints are out of time, the times are out of joint as your Shakespeare – her Shakespeare, his, Churchill’s Shakespeare – would have said. Did say. Those words will do, they will serve. You know Shakespeare?’

  ‘I know of him.’

  ‘Wodehouse knows him. So does the boy Churchill. You will hear a lot from him before this war is over. It’s all he knows. Help me, would you.’

  He spoke the last words calmly as his axe fell to the ground, his head drooped and he began to subside on to the chopping block. Krebbs’s arms were slightly constricted by his cape but he stepped forward and grabbed the old man, trying to ease him into a sitting position on the block. The weight was unwieldy, causing him to slip and stumble among the wet logs, forcing him to his knees. He was not trained to deal with heart attacks, if that was what was happening; there were no elderly men in the Waffen SS. He said what he thought afterwards were stupid, unnecessary, superfluous things – where did it hurt, could he breathe, not to worry because he would telephone for a doctor and there was the hospital the Kaiser himself had had built in the next village, could he sit upright while Krebbs ran for help, was he warm enough, did he want Krebbs’s cape, wouldn’t he prefer to lie down. His cap came off in the struggle, the rain beat hard on his bare head, running down his neck inside his collar and up his sleeves as he tried to keep the Kaiser from toppling on to the logs surrounding the block. He slithered and scrambled as they cut into his knees and soaked his trousers. For periods the Kaiser appeared not to be breathing at all, then would fetch one long, shuddering breath, guttural and animal. The rain made a continuous, drenching noise through the trees, drowning out everything else.

  ‘Better you lie down!’ Krebbs shouted in his ear. ‘I’ll kick away some logs and make a space.’

  He tried but they were too many and too slippery for him to get any purchase while he fought to support the old man, whose heavy upper body threatened constantly to fall in any direction. Once, after a long time without a breath, the Kaiser’s wet head lolled against Krebbs’s face, resting heavily against his cheek, and Krebbs wondered if he were already dead. But then there was another great juddering breath and he spoke again.

  ‘Tell the Princess.’

  ‘Yes, I will, don’t worry, it’s all right, I will.’ He was breathless himself now and sweating inside his uniform. He did not notice Akki until the Kaiser himself raised his right arm at her hooded figure. She had her coat over her head, holding it together across her throat.

  Rain dripped from the Kaiser’s uplifted nose and chin, coursing down his cheeks. ‘Mama,’ he said. ‘Such hands.’ He struggled to raise his right arm, his good arm. ‘Yours like hers.’ She came closer, stumbling on the logs, and took his hand in her own. ‘Hands,’ he whispered again, then suddenly, in his normal voice and with theatrical gallantry, he said, ‘Dürfte ich ihre Hand küssen?’ She nodded and knelt by him. His head bent over her hand and he pressed it to his lips. He clung to it as his body again began tilting away from Krebbs, who scrambled and slipped to hold him.

  ‘Lay him down, he needs space to lie but I can’t move the logs without letting go,’ panted Krebbs.

  The Kaiser shuddered and lifted his head. Akki’s hand was still in his, forcing her to let go of her coat and practically sprawl across the logs. His flesh darkened and his eyes were strangely flat. ‘Thank Churchill,’ he said. ‘Tell him I stay. I run no more. Look to yourselves.’

  Krebbs’s face and the Kaiser’s were almost touching. ‘Don’t try to speak, don’t worry,’ he said. ‘We’ll lie you down, we’ll clear a space.’

  Akki freed herself and began clearing the split logs. As she made room Krebbs allowed the Kaiser to tip the way his heavy body wanted to go, easing him down carefully. They laid him on his side, his head resting on his right arm. Krebbs looked at her. Her hair had come loose and was plastered against her face.
She was panting. ‘Run back to the sentries by the house,’ he said. ‘Get them to telephone the gatehouse from the phone outside my room and send four men up with one of the folding camp beds. Tell the gatehouse to telephone for a doctor. We’ll carry him into the house.’

  She was looking down at the Kaiser’s head, which had slipped off his arm and was resting on the earth, as if he were kissing it. Krebbs lifted it with both hands while she pushed the arm back under. It was a dead weight. She stroked the Kaiser’s hair back. ‘I don’t think we need hurry.’

  For a while it seemed that the world was the rain, spattering on the logs around them and sounding in the leaves above like static on direction-finding radios, only less harsh. It fell like pellets on the back of his head where his hair was short.

  ‘You must go. Now,’ he said eventually. ‘They – Himmler’s people – suspect something. They are surrounding the park. If you don’t go now you will be arrested and I will not be able to help you.’

  ‘And shot. I know.’ She spoke quietly, her face still lowered so that rain dripped from her on to the Kaiser’s matted grey hair.

  ‘Shot if you’re lucky.’

  ‘I was fond of him. Weren’t you?’ Her wet face turned to his.

  Krebbs stood. Were you as fond of me? he almost asked. And send no signals, he almost added, but conscience stopped him. There was no need to let the enemy know everything about the monitoring. ‘Just go.’

  She stood. ‘Goodbye, Martin.’

  He mumbled something but wasn’t himself sure what. It was lost, anyway, in his hurried, fumbling grabbing and kissing her. He pulled her to him so hard that her teeth knocked against his, trapping his lip. He tasted blood in his mouth. Somewhere in the park a lorry revved its engine several times. He pushed her away. ‘Go.’

  Krebbs went to Huis Doorn to break the news, instructing that von Islemann be contacted and ordered back from leave. He would know how to contact the Princess. Then he went to the gatehouse himself. The monitoring team, he had been warned, had arrived. As he approached he made out the tall figure of Colonel Kaltzbrunner who stood, legs apart, arms behind his back, before a couple of lorries. Another lorry, the familiar Wehrmacht ration lorry, was just pulling in behind them. The colonel returned Krebbs’s ‘Heil Hitler!’ salute with aggressive precision but no hint of recognition, though they had met several times.

  ‘I have to report the death of the Kaiser, sir. He has just died.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Of natural causes. Probably his heart.’

  ‘One less burden on the state. It need not affect our work here. Come inside.’

  The gatehouse was busy, with both Wehrmacht and SS staff personnel. Krebbs’s soldiers went about their duties with serious expressions. Equipment had already been unloaded from the two lorries and installed in one of the upper rooms. The atmosphere was tense.

  ‘If he so much as squeaks at any time from now on, we shall have him,’ said Kaltzbrunner, grinning as they went upstairs. ‘We are listening already.’

  The room was blacked out and the lighting subdued. Uniformed operators wearing headphones sat at two bulky receivers with large dials and fine tuning needles, which the operators revolved continuously by turning fat knobs. Whooshes and squeaks came through the ether, each abruptly cut off as the needle moved on.

  ‘Yes,’ said Kaltzbrunner, nodding, ‘if he speaks again tonight we shall silence him for good. Now, Krebbs, you have arranged accommodation and dinner for me in the house? I am looking forward to seeing this house, especially now that I do not have to make polite conversation with its owner.’ He laughed.

  Krebbs knew there would be something ready because the cook had already prepared the Kaiser’s. ‘I think we may be eating his dinner, sir.’

  ‘And toasting our success with his wine, I hope.’

  The rain had lessened now and they walked together up the drive in the dark, precisely in step. Kaltzbrunner was in good humour. ‘I have read your reports and of course I was briefed on the Reichsführer’s visit. It is tempting to arrest the suspect von Islemann immediately but if, as is possible, he is also responsible for these transmissions, then it is better to leave him and catch him in the act. Where is he at this moment?’

  ‘He was at his house in the village. He has been informed of the Kaiser’s death and will come up to the house to begin arrangements. He should be here soon.’ Krebbs paused. ‘But I don’t think he can be guilty of anything, sir. I don’t think he is sending these signals.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I was with him during the times given for one of the transmissions.’ It was worse than a lie; it was spontaneous, with no prepared back-up. He owed no loyalty to von Islemann beyond the simple statement of his opinion, surely; but he didn’t regret it. He felt decisive and confident, as if something problematic had at last been resolved.

  ‘He may have an accomplice. I went through the list of staff you sent. All have been here a long time except one of the maids. The transmissions began only after her arrival. We should have her in for investigation, too.’

  Their boots crunched in perfect co-ordination on the gravel. It was a comforting sound.

  ‘I have looked into von Islemann’s background,’ continued Kaltzbrunner. ‘He is typical of the old military class that seeks to frustrate everything the Führer is trying to do for Germany and for Aryan peoples everywhere. At the very least we must satisfy ourselves that his attitudes have been reformed and are correct. Your report was unclear on that aspect. We must find out. What is your opinion?’

  ‘So far as I could tell, sir, he is patriotic and does nothing to oppose the new Reich.’

  ‘But he does not love us.’

  The house was in a state of quiet confusion. Everyone felt the need to be present but no one knew what to do. They talked about what had happened and sought comfort in repeating themselves. Everything was waiting for von Islemann; he would know how to contact the Princess, would make decisions about the body, would know how to proceed.

  Krebbs had no difficulty getting dinner served in the small dining-room after he had shown Kaltzbrunner to the rooms occupied by the Reichsführer. The staff were relieved to have that to do, and were gratified that the fish prepared for the Kaiser was not to be wasted.

  They were eating when von Islemann arrived. Hearing him in the hall, Krebbs went through and drew him aside from the others. ‘Colonel Kaltzbrunner is here looking for spies. He wishes to meet you.’

  Von Islemann raised his fine eyebrows. ‘Does he imagine I can help him?’

  ‘They are suspicious of your attitude because of the questions you asked the Reichsführer. They are also looking for more serious things and are ready to arrest anyone. They are certain there is a spy here.’

  ‘Hence the new arrivals at the gatehouse with their special aerials?’

  ‘No one is supposed to know that.’

  ‘Then they should tell them not to call out instructions to each other.’

  Krebbs was impatient; they had only a few seconds. ‘You don’t understand. It is dangerous here now for everyone. If they do not catch a real spy they will be determined to find a substitute. You would do very nicely for them. Be careful.’

  ‘But there never was a real spy, was there? No one was actually spying on anyone. And now, with His Highness dead, everything will change, no more questions, no answers needed, certain people will move on. I hope you will permit that, though it may be sad for you.’

  He continued before Krebbs could react. ‘Now you must introduce me. I shall be brief. And in case there is not another chance, Martin, I should like to say how pleased I am that you have become, after all, more one of us than one of them. Good luck in your war.’

  He turned and opened the door to the dining-room, advancing confidently upon Kaltzbrunner and taking his hand before he was fully out of his seat. ‘A sad occasion for your first visit to Huis Doorn, Herr Colonel, and particularly sad for you not to have met His late Majesty in perso
n.’

  Kaltzbrunner grinned, showing some potato in his mouth. ‘So be it. We have little time for history now that we are busy making it and anyway we are benefiting, as you see, from Prince Wilhelm’s loss of appetite.’

  ‘Indeed, a sensible precaution against hungry times ahead. His Majesty would doubtless have approved. And now, if you will forgive me, Herr Colonel, I must make arrangements for the body.’

  ‘Heil Hitler!’ Kaltzbrunner saluted challengingly as von Islemann turned away. Krebbs automatically followed suit.

  Von Islemann merely nodded his acknowledgement, then turned to Krebbs. ‘Herr Untersturmführer, may I request the use of your ration lorry which I noticed at the gatehouse to take the remains to the morgue?’

  ‘Ask the duty corporal outside to ring the gatehouse and tell them to send it up,’ said Krebbs.

  ‘There, you see,’ said Kaltzbrunner as they sat again after the door had closed. ‘People give themselves away in such matters. Is he Jewish? He looks as if he could be.’

  ‘I don’t believe so, sir.’

  ‘You never know, it is not always easy to tell. Have you checked whether any of the staff are Jewish?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And are they?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  They took their coffees upstairs afterwards because Kaltzbrunner wanted to see the Kaiser’s study. While they were there the gatehouse rang for him on Krebbs’s phone. Krebbs handed him the receiver and watched his face stiffen. He gave orders for the house to be surrounded and for an NCO and snatch squad to meet him at the front door immediately. His expression, when he put down the phone, was one of triumphant resolve. ‘We have him,’ he whispered. ‘He is on air now, from this very house. We shall secure it and search it from top to bottom. First, where is von Islemann?’

  ‘We left him downstairs, sir.’

  Kaltzbrunner ran down without waiting for Krebbs who, as soon as his colonel was out of sight, ran up the stairs. Surely she had gone. She must have. He paused at the bottom of the servants’ stairs, then went quietly. Her door was shut. At first there was resistance, as if someone were pushing against him, but when he shoved hard it yielded, sliding her big suitcase along the floor. The other was on the bed, open. She was kneeling before it, still in her wet clothes, and wearing headphones, her finger on the Morse key, her novel and a ruler beside