by Jon Cleary
“Has he said so?”
“No-o.”
Romy gazed at the young girl. She had no daughter, but two sons, both of them Nazi faithfuls like their father. They had been called up into service and were both already on the Eastern Front, one in the Luftwaffe and the other in the Wehrmacht. She wondered what sort of daughter she might have had, but knew she would not have been like this passive, resigned-to-suffering young English girl.
She called for the bill, paid for it and led the way out into the crowd strolling along the pathways between the cages and enclosures. They were a striking pair in their beauty and strangers would have been forgiven for taking them for mother and daughter: the mother, even young men would have admitted, was more striking-looking than the daughter. Melissa had worn her best summer dress, a soft pink linen cut in the simplest line, but alongside Romy’s pale beige silk suit she felt as if she were wearing clogs and a shawl. She did herself an injustice: she looked better than all the other young girls they passed: she just did not yet have Romy’s sense of style. It is a shock to a young girl, especially a pregnant one, to discover that a woman in the menopause, whatever that might be, can make men pause and turn their heads.
“I love your suit.”
“It’s a Chanel. I go to Paris for all my wardrobe. Paris is just that much closer to Stuttgart than Berlin is. But if war comes . . . If Helmut does marry you, what will you do?”
“Stay here, of course. I shouldn’t want to be separated from him.”
“What if he is called up into the army? You would be safer in England.”
“Probably.” But Bradford had always been safe: safe, stolid and dull. That was why she had run away from it. “I’d still rather be here. At least I should see him when he came home on leave.”
They walked past the bird sanctuary. Flamingos moved like slow pink music above soft echoes of themselves in a pond; herons stood still, pale ghosts in the sunlight. In the huge aviaries parrots shrieked like children; from a high perch an eagle looked down with a baleful eye. Melissa looked twice at it, half-expecting to see it sitting on a swastika, as she had seen it so often in posters. Romy glanced at it, looking for the second head it should have, the eagle of the Hohenzollerns, in whom she still believed.
Farther away, Helmut and his father were passing the yards where the zoo’s nine elephants were stabled. The huge pachyderms stood close together in a line, a grey mud wall, their wrinkled skin looking as if the mud was beginning to flake in the heat. One of them raised its trunk and let out a trumpeted scream; to Helmut it sounded an oddly thin blast coming from such huge lungs. His father, the soldier, stopped to look at the big beasts.
“To think that armies once used them . . . Perhaps we’ve come too far. We’ve made killing the enemy so much easier.”
“Not always, not all the enemy. Only the soldiers, never their leaders. Generals died on the battlefield in the old days.”
The General stiffened; but he had never denied the truth. “It’s the nature of war as it is nowadays. Armies are too big now for a commander to lead them into battle.”
“So he leads from the rear . . . I’m sorry, Father. I don’t mean to insult you. As you say, that’s the nature of war these days.”
They passed the cage where Pongo, the insultingly-named gorilla, stared at the crowd with his gangster’s eye. “We have decided to kill him,” said the General.
“Who?” said Helmut, looking at the gorilla.
“Him.” The General walked on and Helmut, who had paused for a moment, had to quicken his pace to catch up with him. “The other plan failed. It would have been better if we had been able to carry it out—everything was worked out—” He felt bitter that the army command, the system he had believed in all his life, should have unwittingly betrayed his plan to save it from destruction.
“Father, you can’t!” Their voices were low; neither of them looked passionate about what they were saying. They were just two very tall men, father and son, discussing the effect of the new rationing on the family housekeeping. “To have taken him into custody, that was one thing—you might have got away with it. But to murder him! . . . He’s a hero to millions.”
“You think so? Do you think all these people—” The General took in the crowd around them with his eyes . . .
. . . Two couples passed them, elderly and reckless with the opinions of the elderly: “It’s criminal! Who cares about the Danzigers? Would they come and fight for us Berliners?”
. . . “Do you think they want to fight for his mad ambitions?”
Helmut saw a vacant bench under a tree, sat down on it, suddenly weary of fighting his father’s attempt at suicide. His father dusted the seat with a silk handkerchief, sat down beside him. Their bodies hid the sign: Juden Verboten; they had sat down without noticing it. It was a direction not meant for them. Helmut, who had had Jewish friends, had consciously but shamefully turned a blind eye to it over the years: there was nothing one could do about it. His father, who had had no Jewish friends, saw it as nothing more than a sign like Herren or Damen. Kurt von Albern was not anti-Semitic: he just did not think about the Jews.
“Father, Berlin is not Germany. How many times have you told me that yourself? Berliners don’t fall over themselves to Heil Hitler! What about the rest of the country? And Austria? He’s a god to the young. If you assassinated him, the SS would go berserk. Himmler would take over and he’d be far worse.”
“If necessary, he will be killed, too.” The General had his own blind eye: he would start a war to stop a war.
“How do you plan to kill him? Him, I mean.”
“On Wednesday he is to drive up the Unter den Linden, through the Brandenburg Gate and on up to the Victory Column. It is to be a symbolic gesture, saluting the victory before the war has even begun.”
“He hasn’t appeared so publicly in weeks—”
“We understand that is why he is doing it. Evidently there has been criticism that he has been isolating himself down in the Obersalzberg. Goering has persuaded him to show himself. The opportunity for us could not be better—”
“Father, you’re—” He was about to say insane, but was saved from such an insult by the arrival of a young couple who wanted to share the bench. The girl was shy, a pretty mouse; the young man was an SS corporal clad in ill-fitting arrogance. The two civilians stood up, towering over him.
“You may have the seat, corporal,” said General von Albern. “Do they teach you to salute in the Schutzstaffel?”
“Why should I salute a civilian?”
“I am General Kurt von Albern, that’s why.”
The young man hesitated, then clicked his heels together and raised his arm. “Heil Hitler!”
Passers-by turned their heads; two or three stopped, distracted from the animals’ antics by this human ritual dance. The General flushed, nodded, spun on his heel and walked away. Helmut hurried after him.
“You asked for that, Father. Trying to start an argument with a corporal—”
“Scum! That uniform!”
They walked in silence towards the aquarium, went in out of the bright hot sunlight to the cool dimness where the fish swam like creatures in a dream through illuminated water. Romy and Melissa were waiting for them by a large tank where tropical fish floated amongst coral, their brilliant colours a sweet pain against the eyes.
“What’s the matter?” Even in the gloom Romy felt the General’s anger. “Have you two been quarrelling?”
“No,” snapped the General; then relented. “I’m sorry, my dear. Helmut was right about a small matter—I let my feelings run away with me.”
Romy looked at Helmut for explanation, but he just shook his head. She said, “Well, sometimes that is not a bad thing. Melissa and I have been talking about feelings. About love, to be precise.”
“Women do talk about such things,” said the General, trying to be diplomatic and failing.
“Of course we do. We should teach men to do the same thing.”
>
Helmut looked at Melissa, who appeared to be much more at ease now than when he had left her half an hour ago. “I hope you feel better for your talk.”
“Oh yes, much better.” A Moorish Idol floated past the back of her head, remained poised for a moment like an exotic comb in her hair. Was it his imagination or had she grown older in half an hour, become much more confident? Could Romy have had so much influence on her in such a short time?
“Fish are so calming,” said the General, taking Romy’s hand; what he meant was that she had that effect on him. “Perhaps we should buy a tankful for the Fuehrer. What is that fish?”
“A Butterfly fish,” said Romy.
“Must be a female,” said the General, trying for a joke, and the others all laughed, not wanting to spoil his effort to regain his good humour.
They went out into the zoo gardens again, moved towards the exit. Helmut held Melissa’s hand as they walked behind his father and Romy. “What have you decided after your talk?”
“I’m going to have a baby, Helmut.” Melissa felt as if she were two persons: one the composed girl giving a blunt but soft-voiced ultimatum, the other marvelling at the composure of this new Melissa Hayes. It was as if she were acting a part, though she knew that was not the case. “No abortion or anything like that. I’ll marry you if you ask me, but I’m not going to hold a gun at your head.”
“Hold a gun at my head?” Did lovers assassinate each other? “Where did you get that expression?”
“I don’t know—it just slipped out. From some film, I suppose. But you know what I mean. If you marry me, I’ll stay here in Germany. If not, I’ll go home to England and you won’t ever hear from me again.”
“You can’t stay here! We’ll be married—” Out of the corner of his eye he saw a monkey hurl itself off a ring; he caught his breath, waiting for it to crash to its doom; it caught another ring and sailed on across the cage. “But you’ll have to go back to England.”
“No.” She shook her head determinedly but without fuss. She wanted to tell him how she could not bear to be parted from him, but she was learning restraint. Let him make all the concessions, Romy had advised.
He took a deep breath, swung off another ring, just like the monkey: “Well be married, then. You can go and live with my father outside Hamburg. It will be safe there.” He could only hope that his father, too, would be safe after Wednesday. Perhaps the assassin, whoever he was, would be shot dead before he could be tortured to name the others in the plot. “War is going to be declared—”
“How can you be so sure?” For a moment she lost her composure.
But he had no answer: the feeling in one’s bones is no evidence. They came out into the street. Romy had not brought her Horch; she and the General had come by taxi. Helmut offered to drive them back to their hotel, said he would go and bring the Opel back from where he had parked it.
“I’ll come with you,” said his father and the two of them walked off.
“What did he say?” said Romy.
“He will marry me.”
“You don’t look ecstatic.”
“I’m still not sure if he loves me. But I’ll take the chance. He wants me to go and stay with his father outside Hamburg. Would that be wise?”
“Why not? It’s a beautiful estate. If war comes, I’ll be there, too. I shall leave my husband—”
“Aren’t you afraid of the scandal?” She had come to realize that Romy and the General had positions that she could never hold in German society. Not even if she became Helmut’s wife.
“If war comes there will be too much else to talk about.”
Three hundred yards away, in a side street, Helmut and his father got into the Opel. It was warm in the car and Helmut wound down the windows, sat for a moment waiting for the hot air to escape. He looked at his father who, despite his stiff collar and dark jacket, looked as cool as he always did.
“Tell me, Father—how are you going to kill Hitler? With a bomb or with a bullet?”
“With a bullet. A high-velocity rifle with a telescopic sight.”
“Who’s the marksman?”
“I am,” said Kurt von Albern.
III
Extracts from the diaries of Dr. Paul Joseph Goebbels:
28 August 1939:
Yesterday (Sunday) the Fuehrer called a secret meeting of the Reichstag in the Chancellery. Secret up to a point, that is; everyone in Berlin must have known about it within half an hour of its finishing. All the Reichstag hacks were there; how galling it is that they are necessary. The so-called democracies are failing because governments have to go through the motions of paying heed to dunderheads; we must not allow it to happen to the Fatherland.
They appeared as much impressed by their surroundings as by the Fuehrer’s message to them. The Chancellery was designed by Speer, on the Fuehrer’s orders, to show off the grandeur and power of the Reich. It was meant to impress visiting heads of state (Mussolini has nothing to equal it) and diplomats, but nothing is ever lost by impressing one’s own underlings.
. . . I must confess I do not like the approach to the reception hall, through that seemingly interminable gallery. One hundred and fifty metres long! Speer should be designing autobahn tunnels.
The Fuehrer’s message was an uplifting one that spurred the Reichstag to the task that lies ahead. But he looked grey and tired; he carries such a tremendous burden for us all. He has been bitterly disappointed by the cowardly reluctance of Il Duce to back Germany when we go to war; the Italian leader (leader?) says that only in the case of Poland starting hostilities will he bring Italy into war. He has sent the Fuehrer a shopping list that makes us wonder why we ever considered him a partner. Seven million tons of petroleum, six million tons of coal, two million tons of steel, one million tons of timber—the list goes on and on. He must believe in the fable of loaves and fishes . . .
Unless there is a last-minute change of mind by the Poles, war is set to begin at dawn on Friday, 1 September. The Fuehrer, however, did not include this information in his speech. The messenger boys do not have to know the content of the message.
. . . Before going to the meeting Magda and I had lunch at the Klatt villa. I should not have gone, except that Heidi Klatt told us that Cathleen O’Dea had been invited. Against my better judgement, I went; I could not resist the temptation to see her again. Why does she attract me so? Is it because she teases me so?
I had to endure watching a tennis match between two oafs, Nicky Klatt and the Australian journalist Carmody. The Australian allowed Klatt to win and did it with more subtlety than one expected from such a nation of clodhoppers. If it comes to war with England, will the Australians, foolishly believing in the ties of Empire, join up? The Kaiser once had territorial aims in the Pacific, but would we need to bother now?
Watching the tennis match, my foot ached again, as it always does when I have to witness any physical sport. Is it any wonder that I am interested only in intellectual sports? Did Byron and Talleyrand, with their crippled feet, feel as I do?
. . . A busy day today (Monday). I have to get Germany into the right frame of mind for what lies ahead. There has been grumbling at the introduction of rationing; this subversion, even if innocently meant, must be stopped. One wonders why the grumblers did not plan ahead and put stocks away while they were available. One can be sure that the Jews who are still here have done so . . .
Which brings me to this late note, written after I had closed the diary for the night. I took it out of my desk again to enter this item: The missing American woman, Mady Hoolahan, has been traced. She is in Ravensbrueck, a proper place for her. She is a Jew . . .
Has the O’Dea woman been trying to make a fool of me? . . .
IV
Extracts from the memoirs of General Kurt von Albern:
. . . Had the meeting been under different circumstances I may have had a different reaction to Helmut’s predicament with Miss Hayes. As it was, her being pregnant and his seeming concern
at my feelings towards the situation hardly mattered against the other, more important problems filling my every thought. Domestic matters assume their proper proportion when weighed against the crises of one’s country.
Miss Hayes was a pleasant young thing, one I doubt I should have noticed in the ordinary course of events; though Romy told me the girl had more strength and courage than was apparent on the surface. Perhaps she was intimidated by me; as I have grown older I have tended to be less attentive to women. Except, of course, to Romy . . . I suppose there had always been in the back of my mind the thought that Helmut would some day bring home a girl like Miss Hayes; an actress. I, and his mother, had naturally hoped he would marry into his own class; perhaps I was living in the past, though, with Romy, I had fallen in love with a woman from my own class. Helmut, however, had chosen Miss Hayes; or she had chosen him; or perhaps Fate, or whatever it is that makes women fall pregnant, had chosen them both. I doubted that they were made for each other, but disparate elements occasionally produce an amalgam that is effective. One sees it in the army . . .
Miss Hayes had one thing in her favour; she was English. I had, and still have, an affinity for the English, despite all their faults and prejudices. We fought a bitter war against them only a generation ago, yet we are linked in strange ways, as if history were having a joke at our mutual expense. The patron saint of Germany, St. Boniface, was an Englishman; the present royal family of England came from German stock. A throne for a throne, though religion and royalty nowadays are not, as the financiers say, blue chip stocks . . . Helmut might have chosen an Italian or a French girl to have an affair with; then the situation would have been intolerable. As it was, I think now that my behaviour was intolerable. I gave no thought or help to Helmut and his young lady. I should have been, at least, more sympathetic to both of them. Instead, I left that to Romy . . .
. . . I had prepared myself mentally for the assassination of Hitler. Young assassins, generally, are fanatics; no mental preparation is necessary, just an emotional one. I have always tried to control my emotions; an emotional soldier is a walking wounded before any shot is fired. The assassination plan was a military one and I approached it with that frame of mind. Casualties (or rather, a casualty) were allowed for; but if Hitler’s death meant my death, then it would have been worth the victory. There is more than one battlefield on which one can die for one’s country . . .
