Lunch with Mussolini

by Derek Hansen

  ‘That depends upon which side has fuel.’

  Friedrich knew he’d gone too far, but the General’s iron gaze had unnerved him. He began to prepare himself mentally for the consequences. He met Rommel’s gaze and held it.

  ‘Very well put.’ Rommel turned away and a slow smile lit his face. ‘Perhaps if I’d spoken to you before I spoke to the Führer we’d now have our reinforcements. Yes, very well put. It takes a brave man to speak out these days, Major, and you didn’t disappoint me. A drink?’

  ‘General.’

  ‘Excellent. It is not good for Generals to be seen drinking alone. People may get the wrong idea.’ He flipped the top off a leather-bound silver flask and poured whisky into two tumblers. ‘The spoils of war. We captured a good deal more than tanks in the British retreat. What is it they say? Cheers? Yes, cheers!’

  ‘Cheers, Herr General.’

  ‘Now, Major, what do you suggest we do? If that idiot Mussolini hadn’t got us involved in Yugoslavia we’d have our reinforcements. Perhaps now that we are finished there, we might get them. What do you suggest?’

  ‘My proposal no longer seems worthy. Unlike you, I do not speak with the Führer. I was hoping for permission to write to Generalleutnant Gottfried Schiller in Berlin. He has influence disproportionate to his rank. He is a good soldier and a good friend and …’

  ‘And you are married to his niece. It’s in your file. No, Major, you do not have permission to write to him.’ Rommel paused and looked steadily at the young officer. ‘Instead you will come with me on my plane this afternoon and send him a wireless message from Benghazi. At this stage I am prepared to use every avenue open to me. It is time to find out just how disproportionate the Generalleutnant’s influence is. I for one do not wish to end up on the side of the pessimists. Report back at sixteen hundred hours.’

  ‘General!’ Friedrich snapped to his feet and saluted.

  ‘Oh, and Major, I understand you have a good voice. Perhaps we will go some place tonight where you may have the opportunity to use it.’

  ‘General.’ Friedrich marched out of Rommel’s tent, his head spinning. No wonder the General was so highly thought of. The man was daunting. But if he couldn’t get the necessary undertaking from Hitler, what chance did Gottfried have?

  ‘The Hotel Cyrenaica was once the only reasonable hotel in Benghazi. Lately they haven’t been able to attract tourists so the management offered us their establishment as a club for senior officers. Very generous of them, Friedrich, don’t you think?’

  ‘Is this the same hotel that a few months ago was the British officers’ club?’

  Rommel snorted in the darkness alongside him. ‘I can see why you get along so well with Generalleutnant Schiller. Have you always been such a cynic?’

  ‘Generalleutnant Schiller chose me because I was the only junior officer he could find who was prepared not only to be his driver, but drive his blasted tourer through a German winter with the hood down.’

  Again Rommel laughed. ‘Cynicism and irreverence … so refreshing. I should warn you, however, there may be some SS officers present who will fail to appreciate your humour. Tell me, are you pleased with your transfer to the Panzers?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be? It is so much more pleasant travelling in the back of a tourer with my commander than in the driving seat with the frost and snow for companions. In fact, it is even more pleasant commanding a Panzer against those damned Matildas.’

  In fact, this was less than the truth. Even though the British had been routed, the Matildas had been upgunned and had left their mark. Friedrich had witnessed several hits. He didn’t mind it so much when the crews were killed instantly or if the tank was just disabled and the crew could escape. But the sight of tank crews desperately trying to claw their way out from a fiery coffin, their clothes ablaze, chilled him to the bone. His fear of being burned to death grew and his nightmares gained in intensity. As much as Friedrich had come to like his commander, he could hardly share these fears with him.

  He’d overcome his initial discomfort with General Rommel, and succumbed to his charm. He found himself slipping into the old ways that had characterised his relationship with Gottfried. Rommel had helped him draft his message and questioned him on Gottfried’s contacts. It was then that Rommel had told him of Admiral Raeder’s and the Naval War Staff’s commitment to an all-out offensive in North Africa. Perhaps the extra weight that Gottfried could muster might sway the balance their way. He began to relax for the first time in months, convinced that reinforcements would now be forthcoming.

  ‘Ahh … here we are. Friedrich, you will be by far the most junior officer, but there is no need for you to jump to your feet all the time and salute. Once the introductions are over, you may relax. All the same, a wise man would keep a close watch on his tongue. We don’t want any question marks over your political reliability.’

  The driver held open the door and Friedrich followed Rommel into the foyer. The guards snapped to attention and saluted but Rommel ignored them. Friedrich took his cue from him and did likewise. He followed the General into the lounge room. He hadn’t seen so many high-ranking officers since he was stationed in Berlin. Some looked at him curiously, but mostly they ignored him. He waited until Rommel sat down then sat opposite him. Immediately a waiter appeared with a glass of Scotch whisky.

  ‘The same for the Major?’ He looked up questioningly. Friedrich nodded. ‘Ah, Friedrich, soon the vultures will swoop for the latest gossip on the progress of the war, but they will do us the courtesy of waiting until we finish our first drink.’

  ‘Then let us hope the first drink is a large one.’

  ‘Indeed. Now tell me, as a result of this afternoon, are you a pessimist or an optimist?’

  ‘Definitely an optimist.’

  ‘Good. I on the other hand am undecided.’

  The smile on Friedrich’s face froze.

  ‘Why was it necessary to crush Yugoslavia so quickly? And Greece? Why are we so short of fuel and equipment when we know there is plenty available in the Fatherland? Why do they not send it to us? What do you think the Führer is planning? Why is he ignoring us?’ Rommel was interrupted by the arrival of Friedrich’s drink. ‘It is not just me asking these questions. Everyone in this room wants to know the same thing. They won’t ask me outright, but that is what they want to know. What do you think I should tell them?’

  The implications had caused Friedrich’s mouth to dry up. Of course, he’d done his own share of speculation, but to hear the same questions framed by his commander was another. The conclusion was unavoidable and it sickened him.

  ‘I would suggest there is every reason to feel optimistic. We have powerful friends working on our behalf. The Führer has proved himself a brilliant tactician first in Poland, then France, and now the Balkans. We have every cause to believe that reason will prevail.’

  ‘Except you don’t believe a word of that.’ Rommel laughed grimly. ‘Nevertheless I will take your advice. Then, perhaps, we will seek a diversion. Soldiers must take their comforts when they can.’

  Friedrich looked around the room and for the first time noticed that there were women present. Where had they come from? Why hadn’t he noticed them before? He turned to inform Rommel of their presence and found the General watching him with obvious amusement.

  ‘Perhaps you’d care to invite a couple of those young ladies over while I exchange words with my fellow officers. Our first drink is finished. The next must be earned. Then we can enjoy the evening. Off you go. I’ll be interested to see how seductive your charm can be.’

  ‘General.’ Friedrich no longer had the slightest doubt who the women were or what their purpose was. His feelings were ambivalent, to say the least. While he would undoubtedly enjoy some female company for a change, he wasn’t at all keen on spending the night in bed with a stranger. He wrote regularly to Christiane and, though his letters had never embraced the lurid, detailed passion of the letters he’d written for others in ho
spital, they had become more passionate. He hadn’t been home for more than eighteen months and he carried each day’s absence like millstones on his heart. He yearned to see Christiane again, to hold her, to whisper his love in her ear, and to pick up and cuddle the young son he’d never seen. Left to himself, he’d give these ladies a wide berth. He’d be happy just to watch them and let them remind him—however sadly and painfully—of the life awaiting him back in Germany. But orders were orders, however casually given. The General wanted him to return with two women so he would. And they would be the pick of the room.

  Friedrich watched them as he sipped his whisky. Some were as young as eighteen, others in their early thirties, perhaps more. He would pick two attractive women, that went without saying. But he didn’t want any gigglers or scatterbrains. If they were to spend the evening together—and he hoped that was all it would be—then he wanted women who were intelligent, who had a sense of humour, and who could hold up their end of a conversation. He watched their mannerisms and gestures and was dismayed to find they were all too quick to smile. Why wouldn’t they be? It was their stock in trade. The women were professional but even so he was surprised by the uniformity of their conduct. It was almost as if they had been drilled as thoroughly as the common foot-soldier, differing only in their skills. He looked for evidence of higher breeding. He dismissed those who smoked, using long cigarette holders and posturing as they smoked, as if they were in cabaret or the movies. He dismissed those who draped themselves over chairs or leaned against walls. He looked for women with good posture who had some pride in their bearing. This narrowed the field considerably. He watched the remainder as they disqualified themselves by laughing too loudly or insincerely, or by holding their wine glasses as if scared someone would snatch them away. He settled on two women, each in a different group. Now the question was how to approach them. He chose the older.

  ‘Excuse me, Fräulein, your glass is almost empty. May I order you another?’

  The woman looked at him, not at all impressed by his junior rank nor the prospect of another drink.

  ‘The wine they give us is diluted and barely fit to drink. No, I do not think I would like another just yet.’

  ‘Perhaps if I ordered two glasses of wine. One for me and one for you. Then we can swap. They’re hardly going to dilute my wine.’

  The woman smiled. Now that he was close to her she looked younger than he’d thought. She couldn’t be much older than twenty-five or six.

  ‘Then you will have to drink my wine.’

  ‘Not at all, there is a plant behind you with the thirst of a camel. Besides, I am drinking whisky.’

  ‘All right, Herr Major, order your two glasses of wine. My name is Grete.’

  Friedrich did as he was bid. ‘Now, there is something I would like you to do for me. Do you see that young woman over there in the pink dress with the pearls. I wonder if you could be so kind as to ask her to join us.’

  The woman hesitated. But she was there to serve so serve she would, even the wishes of a junior officer. Friedrich watched Grete cross the room. She didn’t slouch decadently or have an exaggerated roll of her hips. In fact, she glided as elegantly as any woman he’d ever seen. He watched the conversation take place, saw the woman in pink cast a quick glance in his direction, then take her leave from her companions. They returned together, unhurried.

  ‘Herr Major, may I present Ilsa.’

  For the first time since he’d arrived at the hotel, Friedrich snapped to attention. His heels clicked together and he bowed formally.

  ‘Major Friedrich Eigenwill.’ He shook Ilsa’s hand not considering for a second that he hadn’t extended the same courtesy to Grete. He had no idea why he’d behaved so formally other than that he’d been taken by surprise. Ilsa was extraordinarily beautiful. Once again his observations had been off the mark. Clearly he’d been deceived by the trappings of their trade. Perhaps the younger women tried to look older and the older women younger. It was a strange world he’d entered. Ilsa could not have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three. And there was an aura about her, a suggestion of hidden depths.

  Friedrich looked across to his commander who was trying to disengage himself from the last of his inquisitors. ‘Come,’ he said with a smile, ‘it is time to rescue my friend the General.’

  The two women exchanged looks of surprise. The young officer was with General Rommel? Any reluctance they may have felt about accompanying Friedrich vanished. The General was a legend and, it was rumoured, not just on the battlefield.

  ‘Friedrich! Welcome back. With such delightful company too. Sit down, sit down.’

  Friedrich relaxed as Rommel took over. The man had immense charm and didn’t spare any. He questioned the two women on their places of birth, their home towns and finally on their opinions as to the progress of the war. The General was clearly taking his time in making his selection. Of the two women, Grete was the more outgoing, the more attentive and slowly Rommel’s preference drifted her way. Once Friedrich was certain, he began a conversation with Ilsa.

  To his surprise he found himself talking about Christiane and the son he hadn’t seen. He told her how he’d begun to court her alongside the trout stream at Little Pillnitz, surrounded by jonquils and tiny, shy crocuses. Ilsa seemed to hang on every word and he could barely restrain himself from revealing every single detail of his life. Possibly he would have, if his commander had not interrupted.

  ‘I have arranged for us to stay here tonight. Your young lady will show you to your room. Why don’t you both run along now?’

  ‘Herr General. I am a married man. In view of my relationship with the Generalleutnant I hardly think this is appropriate behaviour for—’

  ‘Friedrich, Generalleutnant Schiller is a soldier. He understands perfectly. A soldier must take his comforts when he can. And Friedrich, that is an order.’

  Friedrich snapped to attention and Rommel burst out laughing. He turned to Ilsa and took her hand.

  ‘Take him away, for God’s sake, and look after him.’

  Ilsa led Friedrich up the stairs to a small room at the rear of the hotel. At his rank, he hardly deserved better. Still, the room had a bathroom of its own with a toilet, and the bed, though intended for one person, was certainly large enough for two. Still Friedrich contemplated the option of sleeping together but not having sex. He would explain his reasons to her and she would understand. After all, he’d told her all about Christiane and she could not doubt that he loved his wife deeply.

  But Ilsa was no beginner. From the start she’d understood exactly the kind of man Friedrich was. And she understood his loneliness and his needs. Part of the service she gave was to encourage men like him to open up and talk about their loved ones so they no longer felt so lonely. She gave them the companionship that only women can give, the gentleness and understanding. She attended to the mind and then she attended to the body. Friedrich was as vulnerable as a rabbit in a snare. He hadn’t managed to utter a word before she’d begun to undress.

  She let her dress fall from her shoulders into a heap on the floor and stepped casually out of it. Her eyes never left his. She sat back on the edge of her bed and undid her suspenders. She rolled her stockings off one by one, slowly, languidly. Friedrich could not drag his eyes away. She removed her suspender belt and undid her bra. Her movements were practised and fluid, and more sensuous than anything Friedrich had ever seen. His eyes moved to her breasts, noting their roundness and the youthful tilt of her nipples. Then she stood before him, naked, holding his hands. Any last remaining vestige of good intentions vanished. His penis pushed painfully against the cloth of his trousers, demanding release, demanding freedom. He surrendered utterly and completely, and let her remove his uniform piece by piece, teasingly, until his body ached with desire and he could no longer hold back.

  At first he wasn’t gentle with her as he was with Christiane. He made love desperately, with an urgency born of loneliness, separation and a soldier’s fears
. He heard himself sobbing but didn’t care. He’d found his comfort. Oh yes, he’d found his comfort.

  He was awoken at six and told to dress immediately. The General was leaving. He washed and threw his uniform on. He hesitated at the door. This was no way to leave Ilsa, no way to leave any woman who had been so kind and understanding. There had been times during the night when he’d genuinely believed he loved her—not in the way he loved Christiane—but love nonetheless. He turned back towards her but she gently rebuffed him.

  ‘Go now. Go back to your General. Go back to your war.’

  ‘Perhaps …’

  ‘No. Just go.’

  The longer he looked at her the more he became aware of his naïveté. She’d done her job and that was that. He turned and raced downstairs to find Rommel pacing furiously back and forth across the foyer. Other officers stood nearby, waiting for transport, their faces drawn.

  ‘Come!’

  Friedrich didn’t need to be told twice. He followed his commander out to the car. The driver saluted as they climbed aboard but Rommel ignored him. Friedrich waited until the car was well under way before he asked the question burning on his lips.

  ‘Do we have a problem, Herr General?’

  ‘Yes, we have a problem.’

  ‘Have the British broken through to Tobruk?’

  ‘No. We have a much bigger problem.’

  ‘May I ask?’

  ‘The Führer has just invaded Russia. God help us all!’

  Friedrich left Rommel at a staff meeting in Benghazi, and flew back to the front alone on a Junkers crammed with supplies.

  Though he sat at the rear of the cockpit, the crew could see that he was preoccupied and left him alone. Friedrich was devastated. All hope for a quick end to the war had vanished along with any possibility of a German victory. The Führer had brought Britain to her knees and failed to push home the advantage. He’d held North Africa in the palm of his hand and let it slip through his fingers. How could they possibly conquer a land as vast as Russia? How could they protect their supply lines? The Australians holed up in Tobruk had already shown how difficult that could be and not even Rommel had been able to shift them. How on earth would they now cope with a front line that stretched from the Mediterranean to the Baltic Sea?