Irish Linen

by Andrew M. Greeley

  “You are a man of astonishing grace.”

  I knew what was coming. I would be embarrassed. I must, as the Galway woman said, accept praise modestly, but without denial.

  “All right, but he was a nice man and I thought it was the thing to do. I figured he’d tell Annalise and she’d tell you and I’d be able to pray for him every night when I say the Rosary. It was the Catholic thing to do.”

  “She wept for joy.”

  “He knows I was a rival?”

  “Such a thought would never occur to Paul von Richthofen.”

  “Your good friend Admiral Canaris says he will be in jeopardy in the air battles over Britain.”

  “Goering would be mad to send the Stukas against the RAF. However, Goering is mad. Even if they demolish the RAF, von Rundstedt would not want to invade. He fears the casualties would be heavy. If the RAF survives, and as you know Canaris says it will, Gerd will resign rather than risk a blood bath of the finest troops in the Wehrmacht, including my division. In the OKW only the Führer’s toadies like Jodl and Keitel want the invasion. The Fairer nonetheless hesitates. He knows he will need the men and the planes for his Russian adventure.”

  “And that would create the catastrophe which would make it possible for the Secret Germany to rise.”

  “A bloody defeat in England would too. Russia, however, is certain defeat. Our fighting men are better than the Russians, but there are so many more of them. They are like the previous Asiatic hordes. They will keep coming, no matter how many of them we kill.”

  “The General Staff would resist such an invasion?”

  “It would not be successful in that. The Secret Germany would win more allies. But the Führer has always been determined to drive to the Pacific, outdo both Napoleon and Alexander the Great.”

  I raised the platter to seek more sausages.

  “You like our sausages, Timmy?”

  “I think I might get tired of them after a few years, but they are better than the ones we have in Ireland … What will happen to Annalise if her husband dies next month?”

  “She will grieve deeply. She will believe that men who love her are doomed to die. It will not be good. Even if he survives England, I fear he will die. He is not flying a Fokker like his cousin.”

  “So the ideal time for the Secret Germany will be when Hitler suffers a terrible defeat in Russia?” I said as I finished my stein of beer.

  Knowing that I would sleep all afternoon, I signaled for another.

  “The invasion will occur next spring, 1941. They will stop us short of total victory. The war will drag on. In the winter of 1942 we will suffer a great defeat. In 1943 the Russians will begin to move against us and it will be clear that they are winning the war. Then it will be our hour.”

  “You will have enough force to win?”

  “We will have to eliminate the Führer. Then we will have a good chance of winning. No one can predict anything more than that.”

  That was, I thought, a fairly grim assessment. Not only would von Richthofen be dead, but so would Claus and Canaris and lots of other good people, perhaps millions of them.

  “You are continuing to build your network, Claus? Is that not dangerous?”

  “I’m careful about those to whom I speak. One has no choice but to take chances. Incidentally, you can trust Canaris as long as he is in power over there at Abwehr. Your dispatches will be destroyed. If the situation changes there, either he or I will let you know”

  “Have there been any previous attempts to kill Hitler?”

  “Seven! Some of them involving field marshals or colonel generals and approved by chiefs of staff. None of them have been successful. The Antichrist has powers of his own.”

  “Which you can overcome?”

  “I must try, Timmy.” He flashed his most disarming smile. “I have no choice.”

  It would be four years before the final desperate attempt.

  I listened to different accounts of the Battle of Britain on both German radio and the BBC and learned the truth during my chess matches with Admiral Canaris out in Gruenwald. On Eagle Day, postponed to August 15 because of the weather, German radio claimed that the Glorious Luftwaffe, under the direction of the heroic Reichsmarschal, had virtually destroyed the Royal Air Force, caught on the ground at its sector stations. In a few more days England would lose its last air protection. The BBC reported that enemy attacks had been repulsed with scores of German planes shot down. Conflicting reports continued for the next week. The BBC observed that the Germans had already claimed to have destroyed more planes than the RAF possessed. Clearly, Goering had not delivered on his promise of a four-day Battle of Britain.

  “The English are giving us a bloody nose,” Canaris told me with unconcealed satisfaction. “They are knocking down Stukas like ducks on a hunt. The junior commanders say that they cannot afford the losses of pilots or planes. The English may be an inferior people but they are also surprisingly tough.”

  “I should believe the BBC?”

  “Both sides exaggerate, but the truth is that for every one of their planes we shoot down, they shoot down two of ours and their aircraft production is now twice ours. This is no way to win a war.”

  “Operation Sea Lion?”

  “It will continue as a plan perhaps till October, then we begin to prepare for Russia … Check, Herr Ambassador.”

  “And the Stukas?”

  “Your friend von Richthofen was at the Air Ministry today. They discussed pulling them out of combat. He was overruled by Goering himself. However, another week of such losses and his request will be granted. They have already lost a third of their planes.”

  “You’re in check now, Herr Admiral.”

  “Ja, ja, you tricky little Irishman.”

  The radio reports continued the same for several more nights. The RAF was still getting its Spitfires and Hurricanes into the air.

  Then one night a mournful announcer on German radio reported the glorious death of a great Luftwaffe hero. General Colonel Paul von Richthofen had been killed in action while obliterating the English airfield at Biggin Hill. Realizing that his Stuka was going to crash, he piloted it into the fuel reservoir which exploded and destroyed the entire station and two squadrons of English fighters. The Fuhrer himself personally promoted Baron von Richthofen to the rank of Field Marshal General and awarded him the posthumous award of Knights Cross of the Iron Cross with Swords Diamonds and Oak Leaves. “The whole of the Reich expresses its sympathy to Baroness von Richthofen and his family. England will pay for this tragic loss in blood of RAF pilots. We will have vengeance.”

  I turned off the radio, lifted the shade in my tiny bedroom and stared out at the darkened sky. I reached for my Rosary and prayed for all who would die in this war and all who they would leave behind.

  Eventually I dosed the shade and returned to my office. I turned on the light and sent off a coded minute to Dublin in which I reported that rumors around Berlin indicated that many suspected the Luftwaffe was having a difficult time with the RAF and that the posthumous promotion of the commander of the Stuka wing to Field Marshal General was a sign that the morale of the German people was being prepared for another glorious defeat against great odds.

  I hoped that my minute would be on Winston’s desk the next morning.

  Claus called me the following morning. Rarely did I speak to him directly on the phone.

  “You heard last night?”

  “I did.”

  “There will be a memorial Mass at the Catholic Cathedral tomorrow morning. The Reichsmarschal will be there, but not the Fuhrer. Nina and I will walk down the aisle with her.”

  “Would it be appropriate for me to attend?”

  “Definitely.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  I called the Foreign Office and talked to Ribbentrop’s secretary.

  “Would I need a ticket for the funeral tomorrow of Field Marshal Gen
eral Paul von Richthofen?”

  “One moment, Herr Ambassador.”

  She returned quickly.

  “The Herr Reichsminister is grateful for your respect for our glorious hero. You will receive a document before noon.”

  I thanked her.

  The Catholic Cathedral is a strange, distracting pseudobaroque monstrosity with a large dome, a poor secondplace finisher compared to the nearby Protestant Cathedral. It was unspeakably hot and stuffy that dreadful August morning. The church was filled with people, Nazi officials in their black SS uniforms in the first rows, then high officers of the Luftwaffe, then the diplomatic corps, then ordinary Luftwaffe officers, then the ordinary people of Berlin come to honour a hero.

  On the catafalque, draped in black rested both the baton of a Field Marshal and an Iron Cross decorated with the doodads and a Swastika.

  I felt clammy and then sick to my stomach as I waited. What the hell was I doing in this city during a war?

  Then Annalise walked down the aisle, her face covered by a thick black veil with erect head and a firm step, the fat Reichsmarschal festooned with jewelry in front of her and Claus and Nina on either side. She did not lean on either of them.

  The Mass went on forever, accompanied by dour Bach music, heavy incense, and the bowing and scraping of the clergy in attendance around the Clement August Cardinal von Galen, Prince Bishop of Berlin, a tall striking man who was known to have no sympathy for the Nazis.

  His sermon was, as I might have expected, long and difficult to hear. It seemed to be a plea for peace so that other brave men would not have to die. Clearly the words of a man who didn’t give a damn about the Nazis.

  At Communion only the widow and her cousin and cousin’s husband went up to the altar rail. Thus the Reichsmarschal was not embarrassed.

  At 12:45 we escaped from the Cathedral, walking down the aisle after the Reichsmarschal, swinging his baton like a clown at a circus, the widow and her attendants and the Luftwaffe dignitaries. Annalise walked with the same firm dignity that she had displayed at the beginning of Mass. The veil hid any possible tears on her face, but her shoulders did not shake with sobs.

  What else did I expect from my Gothic princess?

  My morning suit was soaked. We’d have to get it cleaned immediately.

  Several days later I met with Claus in the café on the Den Linden.

  He still seemed depressed.

  “It was gracious of you to attend the Mass, Tim. Frau von, pardon me, Annalise asked me to express her gratitude to you.”

  I nodded.

  “She grieves more deeply than I would have expected. Apparently he had visited her only a few days before his death and she found herself loving him.”

  I nodded again.

  “She now is the widow of a fallen hero. That will require her to grieve for a year or perhaps longer. She has no taste for romance in any case. She believes that men she loves are cursed. I am reluctant to say these things to you, Timmy. I know that you still love her and I suspect that she loves you. I am merely saying …”

  “I understand, Claus.”

  “Time changes people, and may change them again.”

  “I understand that too.”

  “Thank you for being so sympathetic …”

  “Indeed, I do still love her. I probably always will,” I said, words rushing out of my mouth ahead of my thoughts. “I can wait.”

  Once more his devastating grin.

  “I’m sure you will. It is all in God’s hands.”

  We heard the drone of planes high in the air.

  Claus looked up.

  “Twenty of them,” he said. “Looks like Dorniers.”

  I studied them.

  “More like Blenheims to me, Claus. It looks like there is an air raid on Berlin.”

  “No air raid siren!”

  “The RAF is sending a message about its destruction.”

  Small specks like tiny insects detached themselves from the silver planes in the sky and tumbled lazily towards the earth. They grew larger and darker and more ominous as they fell, then they disappeared behind the trees of the Tiergarten. Then a line of black clouds surged over the trees and became large plumes on the horizon. A rumble of thunder raced across the park and hit us like a quick slap in the face. The teacups on our table rattled.

  “They’re bombing the government buildings,” Claus said in wonderment. “Very accurate. Maybe they will save us the effort.”

  “The sound of the antiaircraft fire is important,” I said.

  “There wasn’t any antiaircraft fire, Tim!”

  “That’s why it is important. The raid is a complete surprise and it hit the right targets.”

  “The Fuhrer will be furious. Tomorrow we will bomb London. Then it will start. City after city will be destroyed. Unrestricted bombing of civilians. More horror!”

  “Terror bombing,” I said.

  “It is the theory of strategic air attacks, they developed during the war in Spain, Tim. One destroys the morale of the civilian population and the war effort fails. Total war.”

  Claus stared at the sky, his face drawn, his eyes sad.

  “The Antichrist grows stronger.”

  As we listened to the sound of the fire engines and of the belated wail of the air raid sirens we realized for the first time that if the bombardiers on the Blenheims had been a little less accurate the bombs would have fallen on us.

  I shivered.

  “They might have hit us,” I murmured.

  “In France I would have taken cover,” Claus replied calmly. “In Berlin I did not expect danger. We must drink a little beer to calm our bodies.”

  He laughed at his own shivering.

  “We were talking about Annalise,” I said.

  “She needs time, Timmy. I cannot tell you how much time.”

  “I’m not so insensitive as to push.”

  “That is wise.”

  Perhaps not, I thought to myself. Perhaps I am a coward.

  “She knows I’m here, Claus. She will have to send a sign she wants to see me again.”

  He nodded solemnly. I knew he would pass the information on to her. Maybe we would meet by chance. Maybe I’d never see her again. Maybe either or both of us would be killed in an air raid.

  Many times during the subsequent raids I would stand near the Tiergarten and listen to the bombs and the antiaircraft guns and watch the flames, still idiotically confident that I would not be hit. I was a neutral, was I not?

  The next day the Luftwaffe flew up the River Thames in a much bigger raid on London. They inflicted heavy damage in the East End docks. Hitler had his revenge. The day after that, the English were ready with large wings of Spitfires—seventy in each wing. The Luftwaffe formations broke open and ran.

  As Canaris told me later, that was the final mistake the Germans made in the Battle of Britain. The two days of respite at the fighter stations gave fighter command the needed respite to recover from the attacks against them and to rise to the sky to meet the Luftwaffe when it renewed the attack on the fighter stations. Again the German losses were heavy. The Germans turned to night raids on London, the “blitz” those who lived through would never forget. Then the raids tapered off as the Germans withdrew their planes to preserve them for the attack on Russia. Except for an occasional attack, London was safe for the time being.

  However, the RAF accepted the theory of strategic bombing and prepared to respond in kind. As the war went on, their “Lancaster” bombers, big black, freight car planes, wiped out one German city after another with fire bomb raids that eventually killed six hundred thousand civilians, many of them in firestorms. Claus’s prediction had been correct—more horror than we could have imagined that day on the Den Linden.

  It was only that night as I listened to the ranting on German radio that I realized that the Air Ministry building had been heavily damaged. Either the English bombardiers were very lucky or very good. I wondered if Annalise had returned to work.
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br />   Nineteen forty became 1941. The OKW, however reluctantly, began the planning for Operation Barbarossa. Everyone seemed to know about the plan, even the day of the attack, May 22, even the Pope. Hitler was so confident of success that he didn’t worry about security.

  I found out that the Pope knew in March when the Ministry suggested that I go to Rome to pay my respects to the Pope. Pius XII had been Nuncio to Germany and wanted my opinion of the situation. I was happy to escape from the gloom of winter and war in Berlin. I wrote long letters to the Old Fella and the Galway woman, which I would mail at the Vatican Post Office, where they would not be censored.

  Italy had entered the war against France when it was almost over, a “stab in the back,” Roosevelt had called it. Small English contingents began to clean up the Italian empire. They encountered little resistance and captured thousands of prisoners. The second Roman empire faded away. Italians wisely were not ready to die for Mussolini. In North Africa, the Brits also chased the Italians out of Libya. Then Hitler sent two Panzer divisions, the famous Afrika Korps, commanded by Erwin Rommel, the “Desert Fox,” which chased the English back to the outskirts of Cairo. The English counterattacked and armies swayed back and forth across the desert and piled up once again at the gates of Cairo. After the invasion of Russia, Hitler spoke to the General Staff of pushing through the Caucasus and a rendezvous with Rommel in Mesopotamia. India, he was convinced, would rise to welcome him, just like Austria had.

  “He sees himself as emperor of all Europe and Asia.” Claus laughed.

  When I arrived in Rome, however, I encountered no grief about the loss of their empire. “Let the Germans fight in Africa.” And no worry about the Italian prisoners in North America. “They will eat well and grow fat,” a Roman matron bragged to me.

  Despite my large tricolour button, they thought I was an American.

  The Roman women were as lovely as legend had it. Alas for me, I was in love with a grieving Gothic princess.

  I managed to be in the Piazza Venezia when II Duce gave one of his performances. A lot of folks were shouting “Duce! Duce!” but a lot of others were laughing. Did it always end in bad comedy?