The Kaiser's Last Kiss

by Alan Judd

  He felt like shouting, but spoke calmly. ‘They’re coming. They’re monitoring your transmission. They know you’re here. Stop it now.’ He took his pistol from his holster and cocked it.

  She took off her headphones and stood. For the first time since he had known her she looked frightened. ‘I had to, I had to signal to initiate my exfiltration. If I can get to the coast –’ She spoke stiffly, then stopped, looking from his pistol to his face.

  He eased the safety catch off with a discreet click. If he were to do it, it should be now. There would never be another chance. He could say she had attacked him, tried to jump out of the window, anything. She was looking into his eyes, her lips parted, her own eyes unusually wide. She had re-tied her wet hair since the woods but a strand had come loose. He pointed the pistol just below her left breast. It wouldn’t stay still.

  ‘Are you going to?’ she asked. Her voice faltered, almost to a whisper. ‘Martin, are you really going to do it?’

  Carefully, watching the rise and fall of her breast, he took up the first trigger pressure. A fraction more, the slightest contraction of his forefinger, would do it. Her perfect eyebrows, her still wet cheeks, her clear grey eyes had never seemed more alive to him. He made himself imagine them contorted with screaming pain, a quivering animal. It was the only way. They would shoot or hang her at the end of it, anyway. Better she died now, in an instant too brief for her even to know it, with no suffering. Also, under torture, she would tell them he had known, and done nothing. Then it would be him, and then, perhaps, his mother and sister. ‘You did it just to make sure I didn’t give you away,’ he wanted to say to her, ‘isn’t that true?’ She would admit it, then he would shoot her. Yet he could still taste her, the scent of her skin was still on him.

  He lowered the pistol through her belly, her crutch and her thighs. ‘Go down the back stairs to my room.’ He was surprised by the ordinariness of his voice and the ease with which, despite the trembling in his hand, he re-holstered the pistol. ‘Stay there till I come. Go now.’

  She bowed her head and walked past him. He went to her transmitter, tucked the headphones back in, closed the lid, took it to the window and heaved it out. He waited to hear it fall, but heard only the wind and rain. He closed the window and looked once more round the room before leaving. He felt utterly calm.

  Downstairs the hall was filling with soldiers. A few confused and fearful staff looked on and Kaltzbrunner stood by the open front door shouting orders to someone outside. Von Islemann was by him, pale with anger.

  Kaltzbrunner turned to von Islemann. ‘I don’t care what you say, it is a military lorry under military command. I am ordering it to move this instant.’

  Von Islemann spoke with contemptuous deliberation. ‘It will move within minutes when the driver returns. He is helping with the body. We have no coffin, as I told you, Herr Colonel, so it has to be wrapped and restrained to prevent it rolling about on the floor of the lorry. If we wait for the undertakers with a coffin it would take longer and word would get out and disaffected elements might abuse it in some way. You worry about disaffected elements, I believe. It is better we take it ourselves to the mortician for preparation, then back here to lie in state. The lorry is not preventing you from searching the house and will very soon be gone. It would have gone already if you had let me out to resume my supervision of arrangements.’

  Kaltzbrunner’s reply was forestalled by an NCO, to whom he turned for a murmured, urgent conversation. He appeared to forget about von Islemann and, spotting Krebbs, beckoned him urgently. ‘Where the hell have you been? Never mind now. He’s gone off air but they’re almost sure he is somewhere on the top floor, probably in the attic. We’re going up now. You know the way. Lead on.’

  He drew and cocked his pistol. Krebbs drew his and, watched by the cowed staff, led Kaltzbrunner up the stairs three at a time. They were followed by the NCO and half a dozen soldiers with carbines. This time Krebbs did not pause at the foot of the servants’ staircase but crashed up it making plenty of noise. ‘The rooms first!’ he shouted to Kaltzbrunner. ‘The loft entrance is farther along and no one can get out without passing us.’

  He barged into the nearest room, which was not hers. The two soldiers with him, without waiting for orders, upturned the bed, yanked the chest of drawers away from the wall, tipping and breaking the vase of flowers on top of it, and crawled into the eaves cupboard. Krebbs could hear the same sort of robust search going on in Akki’s room. In each room it was the same. He led the way into the attic, which was huge, dark and dusty, littered with old trunks and lumber. He tried to behave as if he genuinely hoped to find something.

  While they were there Kaltzbrunner was summoned from below. Krebbs followed him back down the attic steps. On the landing at the top of the stairs were two of his own sentries, wet and breathless. One held Akki’s small brown case, dirty, dented and burst open, the lid hanging now by a single hinge. One of the guards had heard a crash at the back of the house not long ago and had gone to investigate.

  Kaltzbrunner took the set, his expression intense, the muscles of his jaw clenched. ‘English,’ he said to Krebbs. ‘We captured an identical one outside Utrecht, with its operator. We’ll have this one, too, if he’s still in the house. Go downstairs and put all civilians under guard in the hall, including von Islemann. Do a roll-call and see if anyone’s missing. Make sure the cordon round the house is tight. No one but military personnel allowed through. We’ll search the rest of the loft and then every room downwards, in case he’s hiding. Wait for me in the hall.’

  Krebbs clattered downstairs but avoided the hall and ran straight down to the kitchen. The cook and two other women who were there talking fell silent and stared. He could tell from the alarm on their faces that his expression was convincing. ‘Upstairs! In the hall. Now!’ he shouted. For a moment more they stared, open-mouthed. He was still holding his pistol. ‘Move!’ he shouted. The way they almost fell over each other to get up the stairs would, he thought, have been comical in any other situation. In fact, it was comical if you viewed it in isolation, separating it from everything else. As soon as they were gone he slipped into his own room.

  She was sitting on his camp-bed, in her coat. When she stood she left a damp patch on the bed. ‘They’ve found your wireless,’ he said. ‘No one’s allowed out and the house is surrounded. Go up the basement stairs outside this door that leads on to the terrace. At the foot of the house steps is the headquarters ration lorry which is taking the body to the morgue. Walk straight up to it and get into the cab next to the driver. Tell him he’s to leave now and that you’ve been told to accompany the body to the morgue and are to stay there with it. Then he can go back to HQ, which he’ll want to do anyway. We don’t want him back here talking to anyone. Got that?’ She stared. ‘D’you understand?’

  She nodded, but still said nothing. Krebbs wanted to hit her, shake her and take her at the same time. Even in her fear she was so contained, so unreachable. He wanted to break through to her in some violent, dramatic way, to make her gasp. Instead, he merely spoke. ‘You are a bad spy.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You realise what I’m doing for you, don’t you? You do appreciate it?’

  ‘Yes, Martin, I do.’

  ‘Untersturmführer from now on.’ He opened the door and stepped over to her. She stood as if expecting him to embrace her but he put his pistol flat against her back and pushed her roughly through the door. She went up the stone stairs without a backward glance. He waited until her footsteps had faded, then ran up into the hall. The staff were huddled in silent little groups, though there were fewer soldiers than before. Von Islemann stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring at one of the paintings as if on a leisurely visit to an art gallery. No one was speaking. At the sound of the lorry graunching into first gear and pulling slowly away von Islemann looked round, questioningly.

  ‘Right, pay attention!’ Krebbs shouted at the soldiers. ‘All staff lined up agai
nst that wall and searched.’ He gestured at von Islemann with his pistol. ‘Including him.’

  When the staff were lined up he ordered them all to turn out their pockets, while his soldiers moved along the line body-searching each. Their possessions – handkerchiefs, loose change, pencils, purses, the odd crumpled letter or list – made pathetic little heaps on the floor before them.

  Kaltzbrunner reappeared while the search was in progress. ‘No one up there. Have you checked the basement?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Nothing found.’

  ‘Anyone missing?’

  They were standing near von Islemann, who was at the end of the line. ‘One of the maids, the new one.’

  ‘The one I mentioned? The one whose arrival coincided with –?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Kaltzbrunner nodded slowly, staring at von Islemann. ‘She’ll be your spy, then. Question is, was she alone?’

  Krebbs was aware of von Islemann staring at him, his eyes filled with accusation, his face livid with contempt. It was impossible to explain. He continued to address Kaltzbrunner. ‘She was seen around not long ago, sir, and the cordon’s in place, so she won’t get far.’

  ‘Let’s hope not, Untersturmführer, for your sake.’

  ‘Herr Colonel,’ said von Islemann quietly, ‘may I be permitted a word on the Untersturmführer’s behalf? He is behaving in exemplary fashion, proving beyond my imaginings his loyalty to Shutzstaffel and how good a Nazi he is, after all. I had thought otherwise of him but I see now how foolish I was. I am sure you will both be delighted by the arrest you are about to make. My congratulations to the gallant Untersturmführer.’

  Kaltzbrunner’s features hardened. He turned to Krebbs. ‘I think we’ll have him in, don’t you? See how he talks then.’

  Krebbs did not hesitate. ‘If you’ll permit me, sir, there’s a shorter way with scum like this.’ He moved as he spoke, stepping up to von Islemann and murmuring directly at him, ‘I got her out. I am doing this for you.’ Then, with a wave of his arm like an exaggerated farewell, he swung his pistol against von Islemann’s face. It made a heavy, meaty slap and at the same time a curiously muted, hollow sound. Von Islemann made a sound between a gasp and a moan. His legs gave way and he crumpled against the wall, slipping down it to end doubled up on the floor, clutching his face, blood oozing between his slender fingers. No one else moved.

  Krebbs holstered his pistol, stepped back and addressed the rest of the staff. ‘It was once a serious offence to insult the Kaiser. You all knew that. Now it is the same with all German officers. This is a lesson everyone must learn.’ He turned to Kaltzbrunner. ‘If you agree, sir, I suggest we leave him to his own lesson, as an example to these others. He’s too stupid and too snobbish to have been in league with the culprit. He never spoke to servants. If we concentrate on catching her quickly we’ll soon discover if she had help.’

  Kaltzbrunner gazed at von Islemann without expression, then looked up. ‘You’re right. Concentrate all forces on the search. Let this pansy go home and bleed on his own carpet.’

  It was the early hours before the search of the house and park was called off and the staff allowed to leave the hall and go to bed. Von Islemann was helped away. The search would be resumed with first light. Kaltzbrunner ordered coffee from the exhausted and thoroughly frightened cook. He and Krebbs stood in the kitchen, drinking. ‘It’s hard to see how she could have got away,’ Kaltzbrunner said. ‘Unless she had help locally. We’ll catch her if she hasn’t. You can depend on me to do that. In the morning I want you to question all the staff again and put down everything that is known about her, especially details of any friends or acquaintances.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘If you can discover anything that leads to her capture, it may still be possible for you to have a career in security, Krebbs. Otherwise, since an enemy agent has operated under your very nose throughout the time the Reichsführer was here, when he might easily have been assassinated, and then has been allowed to escape, someone has to take responsibility. It can only be you. You will return to other duties, to our new war, in the east, to our imminent Russian front. But maybe you would prefer that, eh?’

  Untersturmführer Krebbs put down his coffee. ‘Thank you, sir. I would prefer that. I wish to get back to real soldiering.’

  Kaltzbrunner’s grin was comradely. ‘Good man. You will find honourable work in Russia, plenty of it. Heil Hitler!’

  Untersturmführer Krebbs clicked his heels and saluted.

  POSTSCRIPT

  This is a fiction, not history or biography. It plays fast and loose with history, not least in its conflation of the years 1940, when the Germans invaded Holland, and 1941, when the Kaiser died and the Germans launched their invasion of Russia. However, some of what is portrayed happened.

  Huis Doorn, in which the Kaiser spent most of his exile, survived two invading armies more or less intact; it has in it many of the Kaiser’s possessions, including his ‘saddle’ seat, and is open to the public. He really did fell and plant trees, cultivate his roses, feed his ducks and study archaeology. Some of the more singular remarks he makes in the novel he actually said or wrote. Queen Victoria really did die in his arm.

  Churchill offered the Kaiser asylum in Britain (on his – Churchill’s – first day in office), though the invitation was not conveyed in the manner shown here. Himmler never visited Huis Doorn, though Goering did (he also accepted money from Princess Hermine). After the German invasion, the Kaiser did indeed have a Wehrmacht guard commanded by an SS officer, although Martin Krebbs is an entirely imagined character. So, too, is Akki. Von Islemann was the name of the Kaiser’s real private secretary, who later published a detailed account of the Kaiser’s years at Doorn, but the character as portrayed here is, again, entirely imagined. The massacre at Le Paradis, the reprisals following the shooting of SS Gruppenführer Rauter and Himmler’s admiration for the most efficient method of murdering Jewish children were all historical.

  P.S. Ideas, Interviews & Features …

  About the Author

  Portrait of Alan Judd by Josh Lacey

  Snapshot

  Top Ten Favourite Books

  About the Book

  A Critical Eye

  The Kaiser and P.G. Wodehouse

  Read on

  Have You Read?

  If You Loved This, You’ll Like…

  Find Out More

  About the Author

  Born in 1946, Alan Judd trained as a teacher but became a soldier and diplomat. He is the author of several novels drawing on his military and diplomatic experience, the first of which, A Breed of Heroes, won the Royal Society of Literature’s Winifred Holtby award and was later filmed by the BBC. The Devil’s Own Work won the Guardian Fiction Prize. His most recent work of fiction, Legacy, a Cold War spy novel, the first of an intended trilogy, was published in 2001. He is also the author of two accomplished biographies: Ford Madox Ford, which won the Heinemann Award, and The Quest for C, the authorized biography of Mansfield Cumming, founder of the Secret Intelligence Service (MI6). He contributes current affairs articles to various newspapers, as well as writing book reviews and acting as the Spectator’s motoring correspondent.

  Portrait of Alan Judd

  Josh Lacey

  WRITERS FACE A choice. Should they lock themselves in their study, hidden away from the world, and delve into the depths of their imaginations? Or should they go out into the world, seek experience, then write about what they have seen? Like most writers, Alan Judd has done a bit of both. He has led an active and interesting life as a soldier, diplomat and civil servant. He has also spent many thousands of hours locked in a room, staring at a sheet of blank paper, disgorging what he finds in his imagination. This interplay between fact and fiction, reality and dream, experience and imagination, provides the tension at the heart of his books.

  Although he has written novels which might be classified in particular genres – from literary ghost story to a spy thriller
– he never plans the genre or style of his books before he starts writing. ‘I’ve written the books I’ve wanted to write,’ he says. For his first novel he drew directly on his own experiences as a soldier in Northern Ireland. His fictionalization was so successful that, on the basis of that one book, he won the RSL award and featured on the 1983 Granta list of Best Young Writers Under 40, alongside Martin Amis, Ian McEwan, Salman Rushdie and William Boyd.

  Advised by Kingsley Amis to stick in his full-time job rather than trying to scrape a living as a writer, Judd compromised and took unpaid leave for a couple of years to write his biography of Ford Madox Ford. Research for that book led directly to his next novel. On the train home from a meeting with Graham Greene, whom he had interviewed for the biography, Judd suddenly saw the plot and characters for The Devil’s Own Work. That flash of inspiration, and the speed with which he wrote the book, are eerily similar to the themes of the novel itself – as is the fact that Greene died on exactly the same day that the book was printed.

  The Kaiser’s Last Kiss obviously has no such basis in autobiography. Judd was born five years after the events described, and visited Huis Doorn only after he had decided to write the book. However, he does discern certain links between his own experiences and his characters. ‘I might not have written it if I had not been in the army myself,’ says Judd, pointing to the strong influence that his military background had on the way he chose to tell the story. Other writers might have described the same events through the eyes of a different character – the Kaiser, perhaps, or Akki, or von Ilsemann – but Judd decided to focus his attention on Martin Krebbs, a young SS officer who initially seems to be a profoundly unsympathetic character.