She seemed to have become his wife in name only, leaving him with a marriage that lacked any meaning or emotion. It was hardly a new state of affairs, but as he sat in a remote inn in Saxony eating yet more venison stew and drinking deeply of the local red wine, the bleak state of his marriage assumed the proportions of a breakdown.
His wife was leading a secret life. She was having an affair. Almost certainly her lover was Koenig. No wonder he had been so difficult to get hold of recently. Macrae gloomily concluded that he had lost both his wife and his main contact in the army.
Then there was Sara in the Salon. The memory of that strange night in the Tiergarten had not receded. A carousel of images went round in his mind: the way she had placed the cigarette in his mouth, the two glowing fireflies in the dark as they smoked, the soft touch of her lips, the sight of her naked, the rounded breasts, the curve and cleft of her buttocks, the flat stomach falling to the dark triangle …
“More wine, sir?”
Macrae looked up. A young waitress was standing beside him holding a carafe of wine. His driver had long gone to bed, as had most of the drinkers and diners. There was the usual blowsy barmaid and a few old men muttering into their beer and blowing smoke at the ceiling. His wineglass was empty.
“Why not?” he said.
He raised the glass, drank and considered the questions that came at him every night demanding answers: had Halliday found any information about her brother? What would she do if he had died in the camp? The boy would be young and fit, but those were the ones the guards were ordered to break. They beat them mercilessly. She would try to escape if she found he had died. They would catch her and kill her. That was as certain as an invasion of the damned Sudetenland. Hitler was going to take it and then move on to the whole Czech nation. That was blindingly obvious to everyone except the ambassador and the mandarins in London.
What was it that some Frenchman had said in the eighteenth century after visiting Berlin? “Prussia is not a country with an army, it is an army with a country.”
And Prussia, the heart and soul of the German state, had captured Berlin. Bismarck, that towering military genius and empire-builder of the last century, had been replaced by a corporal with a silly moustache. But both were driven by a psychological urge to wage war. Bismarck had done so repeatedly. Hitler would surely do the same. Macrae would go back to Berlin first thing in the morning.
9
Miss Daisy Wellesley was the scion of a famous British family that had used its influence to secure her a senior secretarial post in the Foreign Office after an unfortunate affair with a married Member of Parliament. The resulting abortion had been bungled and she had spent several days close to death in a London hospital. Her survival had given her good reason to rejoice in whatever life provided, and at the age of forty-six she was, if not the youngest, certainly the most cheerful of the ambassador’s staff.
Her formal position placed her above that of the secretarial assistant to the three defence attachés in the Berlin embassy, but she looked after them all the same, just as she did the ambassador.
Miss Wellesley, who could trace her ancestry to the great Duke of Wellington, felt it only fitting that she had become a social aide to Sir Nevile, attending the various lunches, dinners and cocktail parties he hosted. The organisation of such events was time-consuming and required a delicacy of touch that only a member of a good British family could provide.
Daisy seemed to know exactly where to seat people at lunch or dinner and flitted around cocktail parties making sure that the right people were introduced to each other. It was further remarked that despite the obvious favouritism bestowed on Daisy by the ambassador, she remained popular with other members of staff. Above all, Daisy wore her grand lineage lightly. She was not, in the words of one of the three cipher clerks, at all “stuck up”. She joined them for beer in a local inn after work on Fridays almost every week, providing the ambassador had no social duties that night.
When Macrae returned to the office, Daisy greeted him with a smile, hung up his coat and put the coffee percolator on a small gas ring. He looked tired and worried, she thought. If she had a favourite among the staff, it would be the figure that now sat wearily at his desk, running a hand through his greasy locks. He had not had a bath for days, she thought. He needed to look after himself, or rather his wife did.
“I have two messages for you,” she said. “And an anonymous note came in yesterday. Which do you want first?”
“The note, please.”
“Shall I read it?”
“Please do.”
“‘A pair of rare Siberian tigers have arrived at the Berlin zoo – a male and female.’ That’s all. Does that make any sense?”
“Was there a date or time in the message?”
“No, but I have checked and they are going to present the beasts at a private viewing tomorrow at noon. There will be a light buffet afterwards.”
“And you’ve got me an invitation?”
She smiled and nodded. That was Daisy. Bloody efficient, thought Macrae.
She gave him his coffee and waited while he tasted it.
“Very good,” he said.
“Sir …?” she said hesitatingly.
Macrae had given up trying to get her to call him Noel.
“Yes, Daisy?”
She sat down in front of his desk and leant forward.
“I do not wish to be disloyal or break confidences,” she said, “but, having thought carefully, I think you should know this.”
She told him that it was gossip among the cipher clerks that the ambassador had twice asked for Macrae’s recall from Berlin in telegrams to the Foreign Office. On both occasions, the reply had been couched in classic Civil Service jargon to the effect that his request had been noted and the matter would be considered by the appropriate authorities at the appropriate time.
“I thought it best that you knew,” she said again.
“Thank you, Daisy. You said there were two messages.”
“Oh yes, I forgot, sorry. Mr Halliday will be away for a few days. He said to tell you ‘He’s dead.’ Said you would know what he meant.”
She watched him sit back in his chair and take a deep breath.
“Someone you knew, sir?”
“No, no, not at all. Thank you, Daisy.”
The lions and tigers at the zoo were housed in a covered enclosure that allowed the animals to move from internal cages, where they slept and were fed, into large open-air cages, where they were viewed by an admiring public. About two hundred people had gathered under a large awning opposite one of the outdoor cages to observe the new arrivals. White sheeting had been draped over the cage, to shield the occupants from view. A microphone had been set up on a dais for speeches. Macrae noted an unusually heavy police presence at the entrance to the zoo and around the carnivore enclosure.
Judging by the number of armbands and bemedalled uniforms, there were several senior Nazis present. Macrae scanned the crowd, looking for Koenig. With his height he would have stood out, but there was no sign of him. He thought of Sara and how he was going to break the news of the death of her brother. He would wait until Halliday returned and ask for details, not that such information would help the girl. Her brother would have met a miserable end, tortured, beaten and starved to death.
Around Macrae, well-dressed ladies with fashionable hats and their husbands in smart suits or uniforms talked and gossiped carelessly, arranging dinner that night or a visit to the opera later in the week. And in camps such as Buchenwald men like Joseph Sternschein were choking on their own blood in the last minutes of their young lives. Macrae suddenly wished he had brought his hip flask with him. Or a grenade. A decent Mills bomb would wipe out a good half of those present. Then they could lie screaming in agony on the ground, blood seeping into their smart clothes, life ebbing away. Macrae rebuked himself. It was too easy to let emotion master the mind. It was too easy to feel pity and sheer rage. That was the trouble with Be
rlin in 1938. It was hard not to succumb to such emotions.
The crowd fell silent and parted to allow the official guests to take their seats behind the dais. To Macrae’s surprise, the bulky figure of Field Marshal Hermann Göring strode through the crowd and onto the dais. He wore a peaked cap and a cream suit, from which hung a veritable constellation of medals. It was a standing joke in Berlin that if there was a power cut the city would be illuminated by the sparkle from Göring’s many decorations. The man looked like a music hall comedian from the 1920s. He had acquired almost as many titles and responsibilities as the ribbons and medals that crowded his chest.
He was commander-in-chief of the Luftwaffe, prime minister of the state of Prussia, chairman of the State Opera House and every important museum in the country. As supreme head of the Ministry of Economy, he had appointed himself commissioner for the four-year plan designed to make Germany economically independent of other countries. He owed his indisputable but unofficial position as second in command to Hitler not only to his unswerving loyalty but also to his talents as an administrator.
Beyond that, there was one outstanding feature about the clownish figure that now stood on the dais. As Macrae had recorded in his reports to the War Office in London, Göring was the only senior figure in the Nazi hierarchy who was personally popular with the public. Hitler was regarded with awe and fear, Himmler and Goebbels were hated, but somehow Göring, with his childish vanity and love of display, struck a chord with the German people.
The field marshal pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket and talked for ten minutes about the need for animal conservation and the importance of giving endangered species such as the Siberian tiger a safe environment in which to breed. Shortly, he said, they would be privileged to see the latest arrivals, a magnificent pair of tigers that he had personally arranged to be imported from a zoo in Vladivostok.
There was a gasp as the crowd registered surprise. Russia was the declared enemy of the Third Reich. A state of cold war existed between the two countries. Why had Joseph Stalin gifted two tigers to Adolf Hitler? It was a surreal moment in a city where every day life moved closer to the grotesque. Macrae had often thought that of the many writers he admired, only Edgar Allan Poe could do justice to the Gothic absurdity of Berlin in 1938. It was as if someone had taken the mythical land of the vampires and placed it in the heart of Europe.
Göring finished his speech and pulled a cord with a flourish. There was a sigh of admiration from the crowd as the sheeting dropped, revealing the tigers. The female lounged languidly on a platform at the back of the cage while the male paced restlessly along the bars, the black-striped rusty red coat rippling with menace, the tail swishing back and forth. There was an outbreak of applause as the crowd moved closer to the cage. Göring was talking again to those around him, pointing to the animals.
Macrae suddenly realised where Koenig would be. In the darkness of the reptile house, it was difficult to see at first, but then Macrae spotted him peering into the window of the python cage. He stood beside him for a moment while the tall, stooped figure inspected two pythons, rare species imported, a notice said, from the Amazon region of Brazil. Macrae wondered whether Göring’s interest in conservation extended to snakes. Since they hardly moved and rendered themselves almost invisible, thanks to their ability to camouflage themselves, he thought not.
Without looking round, Koenig said, “They can take a crocodile, you know.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Macrae.
“It’s been seen. The struggle goes on for several hours and eventually the python squeezes the life out of the croc – even a big one.”
“I didn’t know you were interested in snakes.”
Koenig straightened up and laughed. “How did you like the tigers?” he said.
“Splendid animals. I’m amazed Göring finds the time.”
“He’s a busy man.”
He was in full colonel’s uniform, which surprised Macrae, until he realised that there were so many senior Wehrmacht officers in the zoo that day that uniform was his camouflage. Koenig began walking slowly, peering into the glass windows as if inspecting the reptiles within. He talked in a low and urgent tone.
“It’s Beck. Chief of the General Staff. He will lead. Halder, a very high-ranking general, is with us. There is significant support from within the High Command of the army. The air force and navy are not involved; they don’t matter because they don’t have guns and boots on the ground.”
“When?”
“That depends on you British and the French. If you confront Hitler over Czechoslovakia, we will move.”
“Meaning?”
“Hitler will be arrested along with the top five: Göring, Himmler, Goebbels, Hess and Heydrich. A provisional government will be formed, headed by a civilian; elections will be announced.”
There was a clatter of feet and a babble of conversation from the entrance. Macrae saw that some guests from the tiger event had come to look at the reptiles. There were several officers with their wives and officials from the zoo moving down the row of reptile cages. Macrae turned to warn Koenig, but the colonel had gone.
Walking back to the embassy through the Tiergarten, Macrae considered the extraordinary information he had been given. Senior generals in the Wehrmacht were prepared to arrest their own leader, the chancellor of the Third German Reich, an emperor in all but name, and install a civilian government. He took a seat on a bench and asked himself questions that had to find answers if he was to pass on the information with any hope of being believed.
First, was Colonel Koenig telling the truth, or was this a provocation designed to entrap and expel an unpopular military attaché? The answer had to be yes to the first question and no to the second. Koenig was a Prussian officer with a long family history of military service. He had every reason to betray a Nazi regime that threatened the very future of the army he served.
Secondly, was there a good reason why the army should take such high-risk action? Again the answer was yes. Macrae had ample evidence that the generals feared a two-front war against east and west. And, of course, those Prussians loathed the little upstart from Austria.
Thirdly, was Hitler seriously planning such campaigns, taking on Russia on one front and Britain and France on the other? He must know of the army’s misgivings. Why would he gamble on such a risky strategy? This was a more difficult question. Macrae felt the answer to be credible, but he knew it would never stand up to cross-examination by Sir Nevile Henderson.
Hitler had become supremely confident after five years in power, during which he had acquired the aura and trappings of divinity in the eyes of most Germans. The Führer’s self-belief was such that in recent speeches he had talked not just of the expulsion of Jews from Germany but the racial cleansing of the inferior Slav peoples of the east. And by east, Hitler meant every nation that lay between Berlin and the Ural mountains, including Russia. In short, the man had become a megalomaniac bent on the domination of an entire continent.
And now to the question to which every diplomat, every service attaché, every intelligence officer and most intelligent Berliners wanted to know the answer. Who would come out on top in the struggle between the Nazi Party and the army?
Hitler and members of his immediate senior circle, Himmler and Goebbels especially, had never trusted the army. After the enforced retirement of Blomberg and Fritsch, their distrust deepened. Hitler was now commander-in-chief, but he was aware that the hard core of the High Command of the Wehrmacht, the old Prussian elite, resented what they regarded as a political coup.
He knew they would never truly accept a one-time corporal, and what is more an Austrian, in the most senior position of power. In their eyes, Hitler lacked class, character and pedigree. Where had he come from? A hick town in Austria. As for his service in the Great War, he had been a mere messenger boy running errands in communication trenches.
Macrae looked at a group of sparrows on the path before him, che
eky little birds that he had seen everywhere he went in the world. Somehow, those tiny bodies had crossed oceans and deserts to colonise cities from Cape Town to Delhi, from London to Singapore. No other small bird was such an opportunistic adventurer.
For all the snobbery that coloured their view of the chancellor, the officers were all too aware of the raw power that Hitler had gathered into his hands. The Nazi leadership ruled through the efficiency of a brutally effective secret police, backed by an extensive and well-armed paramilitary network.
The military were also aware that the major industrialists were doing very nicely under the Nazi regime. Krupp, I. G. Farben and the others were not complaining. As the malcontents in the messes would also admit, the rearmament programme had given all three services, but most notably the army and air force, vast quantities of new equipment, especially tanks and field guns, but also right down to modern radio sets and medical kits. These supplies were flowing into the quartermasters’ stores all over Germany.
If Colonel Florian Koenig was correct, Beck and all those other generals knew what the supplies were for. They knew the Austrian Anschluss was the beginning and not the end. And at that moment in the early summer of 1938, they were apparently planning to do something about it.
The sun rolled behind a cloud. It was chilly and Macrae rose from the bench to continue his walk. The sparrows scattered, wheeling behind him to perch on the bench and inspect the seat for crumbs that might have dropped from a sandwich.
If all this was true, what was Hitler doing about it? The Gestapo must surely have warned him that elements of the senior command might turn to conspiracy as his plans for war became clearer. Hitler would not ignore such warnings. He had survived a number of assassination attempts through extraordinary good luck. He had Fate on his side and the remarkable figure of a man he trusted to root out all traitors, Reinhard Heydrich. Hitler called him “the man with the iron heart”, and Heydrich had once boasted at a Nazi gala that “a man’s mark of success is to have made powerful enemies”.
Midnight in Berlin Page 15
