Midnight in Berlin

by James MacManus

  England lay asleep like an old hunting dog by the fire, dreaming of past triumphs and occasionally twitching as it remembered the excitement of a famous chase and a fallen prey.

  He was Scottish, but the Scots were just as much prisoners of their romantic past as the English, in fact more so. The Celtic delight in myth, magic and illusion cast an even greater spell over Caledonia than its martial history did over England. But what did it matter whether English, Irish, Scottish or Welsh, rich man, poor man, beggar man or thief? Where was the will to throw down the gauntlet to a regime of unimaginable evil? Who down there, in Shakespeare’s sceptred isle, was going to fight Hitler?

  He replayed that morning’s conversation. It was very easy to dismiss the planned coup as mere rumours – how could plans for such treachery be proved to the satisfaction of a British cabinet? It was easy to understand the fear that gripped the government and its people, fear that another war would bring devastating civilian casualties as bombers flattened major cities, fear that a terrified population, traumatised by air raids, would force their political leaders to surrender and accept ignominious defeat. Those were real fears, fears that had been allowed to loom so large that they now conditioned every act of British foreign policy.

  On the other hand, what if Chamberlain were right? Were Koenig and Colonel Schiller indulging in dangerous fantasies when they talked that night in the hunting lodge? Was Koenig dreaming when he said that Halder and his armoured divisions were ready to move? If that were the case, why had the Gestapo not got wind of such dangerous disaffection? Above all, Macrae forced himself to consider the fear he had buried away at the back of his mind, the suspicion that he was being set up in a counterfeit coup designed to expose him as a diplomat bent on subversion and thus to be expelled in disgrace. Was that possible?

  He closed his eyes and thought again of Florian Koenig, handsome, charming, intelligent, a man educated in the wider world. He would surely never fall for the Nazi mystique, the fake glamour of those torchlight parades, with their swastika banners, polished jackboots, arms raised in salutes, and on a distant floodlit platform, the small figure with his Iron Cross 2nd Class pinned to his uniform, bellowing the web of lies that had ensnared an entire people.

  There was something in this demonic man that tapped deep roots within the German psyche, stirring an atavistic urge to relive the savagery of those days when the German tribes rose against Rome to murder and plunder their way into the heart of a stricken empire.

  Koenig couldn’t have been seduced by this potent brew of twisted psychology and crude racial patriotism, could he? He was surely not the man to fall for the Nazi fantasy of creating an Aryan super-race to rule Europe – and one day the world. Because that was what Hitler was selling, what the German people were buying and what the British government was choosing to ignore. No, that was not Koenig. In any case, if he were playing a double game as an agent of the Gestapo, he would hardly be having an affair with Primrose. The thought consoled him and made him smile. It was strange indeed that he should find reassurance in his wife’s infidelity.

  The stewardess came round with last drinks as the plane began the descent to Tempelhof airport. Macrae accepted another large gin.

  He was going to make a plan. He would arrange to see Koenig as soon as possible. He would ignore the affair and persuade him to provide more information. He would ask Halliday to chase the travel documents for Sara. He doubted Hore-Belisha would do anything. He would take Shirer to lunch and probe the American response to the threat of war in Europe. Roosevelt was deeply engaged in the New Deal and was said to have little regard for Chamberlain. But then the US president was said to dislike Churchill equally.

  The plane bumped down hard at Tempelhof airport and then flung itself back into the air before putting both wheels firmly on the ground and rolling to a stop in front of the terminal.

  The afterglow of the gin had lifted his spirits and created a euphoric sense of confidence: an adulterous wife, a deceitful ambassador, pusillanimous politicians – they would all bend to his will, accept the path ahead that he would lay out. He was sure of that because, as he walked across the baking tarmac of the airport, he knew he possessed what they did not, the absolute certainty of what had to be done.

  He was glad to be back in Berlin.

  The newspapers at the airport kiosks all carried similar headlines. The Führer was to make a major speech to delegates at a party rally in Nuremberg, where he would announce the fate of Czechoslovakia. The rally had been the talk of Berlin’s diplomatic circles for weeks, but now a date had been set, 12 September. The editorial comment in the Nazi-controlled press was unanimous. Hitler would use the Nuremberg rally to announce his terms. Either the Czechoslovakian government in Prague would agree to the return of millions of ethnic Germans in Sudetenland to the Fatherland and thus cede the territory to Germany – or there would be war. Macrae had a large black coffee while waiting for his car and driver. It was Friday, 31 August. He had two weeks.

  Primrose opened the door and gave him a brief hug. She was wearing a new dark blue dress with a single rope of pearls. Dressed for an evening out, thought Macrae wearily.

  “Hallo, darling,” she said. “Have you had a wonderful time? You lucky old thing, being in London. Everyone here has been talking about nothing but bloody Czechoslovakia.” She looked at him. “You’re looking tired, dear, would you like a bath before supper?”

  He had only been away for a day and a night and yet he felt like an explorer who had spent several years in a remote part of the world. She ran a bath and handed him a gin and tonic as he lay soaking in the steamy warmth.

  They had a light supper that she said she had cooked specially, turbot with a creamy lemon sauce, accompanied by a very good wine.

  “We’re not going out tonight, are we?” he asked.

  “Of course not. I just wanted to look nice for you. And you’re going straight to bed after supper. You need a good night’s sleep.”

  Later she climbed into the bed beside him as he dozed off and said, “Oh, I forgot: good news. I have tickets to the opera, La bohème. It’s a gala performance by that new American company.”

  Macrae stirred. “When?”

  “Tomorrow night. Would you like to come?”

  “You know I hate opera.”

  She leant over and pushed him gently back against the pillow and kissed his forehead.

  “I know. You put your feet up for a change. I’ll take one of the girls from the embassy.”

  12

  When Macrae got to his desk at the embassy the next morning he was told Sir Nevile Henderson was out of town. Halliday supplied this information with a cup of coffee. He had knocked on the door, walked into Macrae’s office without waiting for an answer and sat down in a chair. The laces of his shoes were undone as usual, Macrae noticed, and he had slipped his feet half out of them. It eased the gout, he had once explained.

  “Where’s he gone?” asked Macrae.

  “Went to London this morning. RAF plane.”

  “Strange. I’ve just got back.”

  “I know. How was it?”

  Macrae jerked his head to where the ambassador’s office lay down the corridor. “He ambushed me. Now he’s probably gone over to make doubly sure they don’t believe a word I said.”

  “And did they?”

  “What?”

  “Believe a word you said?”

  “No. The PM doesn’t think there is any chance that the army will move against their anointed leader, however much they may distrust him. Germans are not like us, he said; they’re disciplined and loyal to their commanders. And he kept saying where’s the evidence, where’s the proof? And do you know something? If I had presented him with sworn statements signed in Prussian blood as evidence, he still wouldn’t have believed it. They just don’t want to know.”

  “There are some very senior people – my people – who believe that what you have heard is true. Number 10 has been made aware of their views.�
��

  “And?”

  Halliday shook his head and poured some more coffee.

  “Chamberlain is not going to do anything about it. All he’ll do is put pressure on the Czechs to accept Hitler’s terms, and of course the moment they say yes to one demand, there’ll be another on the table. And all we do is tell the Czechs to carry on saying yes until they are left without a country … How was the minister, by the way?”

  “Which one?”

  “Hore-Belisha.”

  “Fine in private, but in cabinet he just rolls over with the rest. I tell you, I wasted my time there.”

  “Not entirely,” said Halliday, drawing something from an attaché case. “We received the cabled authority for these and I had them printed up for you.”

  Macrae opened the packet. It was a two-page authorisation to enter the UK, carrying the seal of the Foreign Office and signed and stamped by numerous functionaries in London – in the name of Sara Sternschein.

  “God, that was quick. I only saw him yesterday,” said Macrae.

  “Maybe he doesn’t roll over quite as much as you think. But note the date. That pass is only good for two weeks.” Halliday smiled and went to the door. “Let me know if you see your chum in the army, will you?”

  “Which chum would that be?”

  “Just let me know. And you might ask him about Nuremberg.”

  “I have not had enough coffee to deal with riddles.”

  “You know all about Nuremberg, don’t you?”

  “What I read in the papers.”

  “That’s the Rubicon. Hitler will use his speech to bind the military to his war strategy. He will commit the army, and very few officers will challenge him after that. They wouldn’t dare defy their overall commanding officer.”

  “Sure of that?” said Macrae.

  “They’re Prussian, aren’t they? But maybe your chum and his friends have other ideas.”

  Halliday leant forward, close enough for Macrae to smell the toothpaste on his breath, a minty scent that did not quite cover up last night’s stale whisky.

  “You’ve just been to London, haven’t you? And you’ve had a tête-à-tête with the prime minister. That will be in the British papers this morning. What did he tell you in confidence, that wily old bird Chamberlain? That they are going to bring the fleet down from its base in Scotland the week before Nuremberg – right?”

  “Wrong.”

  “So who’s to know? Let us suppose that certain elements of the High Command in Berlin believe that the Royal Navy will bring forward its autumn manoeuvres in the North Sea. They would know that the sight of those big battleships close to the German coast would make the ground shake here in Berlin.”

  “And if that doesn’t happen, which it won’t?”

  “Get a grip, Macrae. You’re missing the point. If the army think those manoeuvres will take place, if they think the British finally mean business, they will strike the day after Nuremberg.”

  Halliday left, leaving the door open. Macrae could hear him shuffling down the corridor, his unlaced shoes flapping on the carpet. We’re talking to the same people, he thought. He wondered if Koenig was a recipient of the sizeable sums that Halliday was alleged to have at his disposal.

  He looked back at the documents and smoothed the papers on his desk. Halliday had been right: it expired on 22 September. It was now the 8th. She would be gone in two weeks. Sara Sternschein would soon be in England, a homeless immigrant – but far from the Salon, far from the Gestapo, and safe.

  Macrae was embarrassed to find that even though he tried to shield his face beneath his hat, the woman at the entrance of the Salon still recognised him and gave him a friendly “Guten Abend” as she pressed the bell. Inside, a young woman dressed in the usual grey dress took his coat and hat.

  “Sind sie allein?” she asked.

  He nodded and she gestured towards a table for two at the back. It was nine o’clock and the club was half full of dark suits worn with tasteless, garish ties. The smoky haze was thicker than usual and, for the first time, Macrae saw swastika armbands worn by two stout middle-aged men at the same table. They were laughing over glasses of beer, an unusual sight at the Salon, which preferred to serve its guests wine or spirits.

  He threaded his way to the back, noticing that the guests rarely acknowledged each other with even a glance. It was as if the diners wished to neither see nor be seen. The exception tonight was the two beer-drinkers, who looked at him curiously. They were party members, he guessed, and had probably been directed to the Salon as a reward for a favour given or dangerous task undertaken.

  He sat down and ordered a whisky sour from the same woman who had taken his coat. She lingered at the table, suggesting a special dish on the menu and asking if he was comfortable. For the first time, he looked at her properly: young, early twenties perhaps, and flaxen hair with hazel eyes. She was beautiful, with clear skin the colour of apple blossom drawn tightly over high cheekbones. Black eyebrows arched over those light brown eyes. She smiled and bent low as she laid the knives and forks. He caught the familiar scent of lavender, which reminded him immediately of a long-ago aunt.

  The old lady had lived just outside the city of Perth, in what she called the Kingdom of Fife. Macrae had been sent to stay with her every summer as a young boy. His parents never explained why he had to waste part of his long holidays in this fashion, merely telling him that at mealtimes he should eat what was put in front of him and never ask for what was not on the table. She was an old lady, Aunt Maeve, and he remembered the lavender smell on the cushions in her sitting room and on his pillows at night. When she died, she left a small amount of money to the local golf club and not, as his mother and father had evidently hoped, to her young nephew.

  There was no sign of Sara. He looked at his watch. It was still early. He picked up the menu and glanced over the long list of steaks, chops, venison, calves’ liver, bratwurst and the token appearance of a salmon fillet.

  The waitress placed his drink in front of him and made a fuss of wiping the table. He asked her name. Erika, she said, from Mannheim. Her English was heavily accented but understandable. Had he changed his mind and decided to have something eat, she asked. He looked at those hazel eyes and apple-blossom cheeks. He shook his head. She suddenly sat down beside him, something he had not seen a waitress do before.

  “Can I get you a drink?” he asked.

  She smiled. “Not here, but next door, yes, I would like one very much.”

  She looked at the fanlight door and then back at Macrae, still smiling. She placed a hand on his arm and leant into him, the lavender smell stronger than ever. Aunt Maeve never married but was rumoured to have had a succession of lovers throughout her life, and indeed deep into old age. He had once heard his mother describe her as “godless”, and no doubt his parents, as members of the Wee Free Presbyterian Church, would have had little to do with her but for the prospect of an inheritance.

  There was still no sign of Sara. Perhaps she was behind the fanlight door that night. Perhaps he would meet her there if he allowed the hazel-eyed Erika to take him through to the Pink Room. He was about to ask about Sara, but stopped.

  “No, thank you,” he said. “I must go.”

  He paid and left, seeing Erika frown with disappointment.

  He walked fast through the Tiergarten, swinging his arms to get the blood moving.

  The bar at the Adlon almost felt like home by now. He seated himself on the leather stool by the spray of flowers with the familiarity of a regular drinker taking a favoured chair by the fire in an English country pub. The barman raised a bottle of Johnnie Walker enquiringly and Macrae nodded, lit a cigarette and looked around. Shirer and the American correspondents were at their usual table.

  He tried to catch the American’s eye, but the journalists were deep in conversation. The other tables were full, mostly with well-dressed foreigners and their wives or mistresses. It was always easy to tell Berliners at the Adlon. The Nazis wo
re their uniforms and regalia on the rare occasions they came to the hotel, in order to remind everyone who was in charge. German civil servants and businessmen wore almost identical pinstriped suits, with heavily padded shoulders and turn-ups.

  “How was London town – still ringing them bells?”

  Shirer had eased onto the stool beside him. Macrae was pleased. He wanted to talk to Shirer; in fact he wanted to talk to anyone. He felt the sudden need to get drunk and talk about anything – the latest Garbo film, the love life of his lavender Aunt Maeve, how to make a good whisky sour, why the Germans so rarely ate fish. He wanted to know why an American ballet company was holding a gala performance of La bohème in Hitler’s Berlin and what his wife was doing there with her lover. She had known he wouldn’t want to go.

  He looked at his watch. It would be the interval soon and later, after the final curtain, there would be a gala dinner. They would discreetly leave and make their way to a little restaurant down by the river and there dine by candlelight, drinking white wine from Alsace. Where would he take her on a summer’s night – into the Tiergarten? There in the dark, would she kneel and unbutton him just as she had done in the Surrey garden those long years ago? No, Koenig was too smart for that. He would have an apartment somewhere, borrowed from a friend, and there she would undress slowly, twirling around while he lay back on the bed smoking a cigar, watching her, and …

  “Are you all right?” said Shirer.

  “Sorry. What were you saying?”

  “London, how was it?”

  “What bells?” Macrae said, remembering Shirer’s opening remark.