Midnight in Berlin (33 page)

The news that a senior delegation of senior French ministers was arriving in London on Sunday to discuss joint guarantees to Czechoslovakia in the event of a German attack did not change this view. The French could wait until Monday as well.

The mood of the twenty ministers at Number 10 on a hot September Saturday was not improved when the prime minister launched into a long description of his wearying journey to meet Hitler in his mountain retreat. The flight had been an enjoyable experience, he said, the reception in Munich a deliberate snub, the following train journey uncomfortable and the final dash up the mountainside in a Mercedes frankly unnerving.

After Chamberlain's account of his talks with a man he described as “the commonest little dog you ever saw”, it was Lord Halifax who summed up the British diplomatic position with a clarity that allowed everyone to break for lunch.

“Since one power dominates Europe and that power is Germany, we have no alternative but to surrender the Sudetenland region to the Nazis and submit to humiliation,” he said.

This was not a view shared in the British embassy in Berlin, at least not by Sir Nevile Henderson, who had been present, although outside the room, at the first round of talks with Hitler. The ambassador had concluded that peace was not just a possibility but the likely outcome of the diplomatic initiative that he was masterminding with his friend and ally
Lord Halifax in London. The French had frankly given up. The American interest seemed to be to persuade European nations to raise their immigration quota for Jews from Germany without increasing their very own tight limit, and Russia was busy, as usual, purging its armed forces of the officer class.

This left the way clear to persuade President Beneš of Czechoslovakia to cede a large portion of his territory to Germany. It would not be easy, Henderson realised, but it could be done. He would be the man to make the president understand that without such a sacrifice they would all be consumed in the fires of another world war.

Henderson made a note of the phrase. It was not the cool language normally used by a senior diplomat, but that was exactly why it might make those hot-tempered Czechs realise that neither Britain nor France was going to bail them out.

It was exactly a week after Hitler's speech at Nuremberg. Sir Nevile walked the corridor from his private residence to his office, where his secretary briefed him on his diary for the week ahead and he was dismayed to learn that Colonel Macrae had managed to insert a meeting just before the main morning session with all senior staff.

He considered cancelling but rejected the idea. Macrae was a problem, but he had been effectively dealt with by the prime minister and would be transferred when the crisis was over.

The two men exchanged minimal greetings and did not shake hands. Macrae sat on a chair in front the ambassador's desk.

“Am I right in assuming that this conversation is of such a confidential nature that it cannot be raised in the staff meeting?” said Sir Nevile.

“I wish to apprise you of the balance of forces between Czechoslovakia and Germany and the likely outcome of any conflict between them. If you think that is a fit subject for the general staff meeting, I will of course raise the matter then.”

“Is this new information?”

“It is up-to-date information of which, I believe, His Majesty's Government is not fully aware.”

“You'd better go on then, but briefly, please.”

“The Czech army has thirty-eight combat-ready divisions, of which fourteen are armoured and equipped with tanks of variable quality. The old T-21 is no match for what the Germans can put in the field, but the LT-35 light tank is a first-class weapon, especially in the hill country along the German border.”

Macrae paused. The ambassador had placed the palms of his hands together as if in prayer and was gazing at the wall behind him.

“The Skoda armaments factory in Sudetenland is the largest in the world and it is turning out high-standard military hardware, from mortars to machine guns and heavy artillery. The Czechs have slipped a little in developing their air force but have numbers of the B-534s, which are the best fighter biplanes in any air force. Morale in all services is high.”

“I appreciate the information, but what is your point?” The ambassador had placed his hands palm down on the desk, as if preparing to rise and leave.

“If I may finish, Ambassador. The fortifications along the border with Germany have been well designed in depth and consist of three lines of fixed emplacements and minefields capable of withstanding prolonged artillery barrage.”

“Forgive me if I repeat myself, but what is your point, Colonel?”

“My point is that the German High Command knows all this. They will not, indeed dare not, attack Czechoslovakia while Prague controls the Sudetenland. It is crucial to the defence of the whole country, and the generals have already told Hitler they would not be able to penetrate it.”

“Well, that is very interesting.” Sir Nevile looked at his watch. “We have a meeting in a few minutes.”

“A final point, Ambassador. If it is British diplomacy to strip Czechoslovakia of the Sudetenland, we will effectively deny them the ability to resist German invasion. If, however, we stand with the government in Prague, we will engineer a confrontation between Hitler and his army. His generals will never agree to a frontal attack against those defences.”

“Ah yes, that is one of your favourite theories, this fantasy of a coup. Product of an overactive imagination, if I may say so.”

“It is a fact, not a fantasy. Before I was allowed to address the full cabinet on the subject, I understand you cabled the prime minister saying that senior military sources had denied any disaffection within the High Command. Is that correct?”

“That is correct.”

“May I ask who those sources were – between us, of course?”

“My sources remain confidential.”

“May I suggest that those sources belong in the very realms of fantasy that you have just mentioned.”

“Are you accusing me of lying to the British cabinet?”

“Not at all. I am merely suggesting that certain people might view the information in your cable to the PM as the product of an overactive imagination, that's all.”

The ambassador and his attaché stared at one another in an unblinking gaze that to an onlooker might have revealed animosity provoked by a professional disagreement. Both men knew it went much further. They hated each other.

Summer refused to give way to autumn in Germany that September. In balmy weather, crowds thronged the pavement cafés in Berlin during the week and streamed out to the lakes around the city at the weekends. Brewers and ice-cream manufacturers reported record sales. Leni Riefenstahl's film
Olympia,
glorifying the 1936 Olympics in Berlin, had been released earlier in the year to critical acclaim and was still playing to packed cinemas across the country. The state-controlled press exulted in reports that the film had been admired in most Western countries for its technical and creative virtuosity.

To Macrae and most of the foreign diplomatic corps, it seemed that the German people would reach for any distraction to deafen themselves to talk of war. In the second week of the month, a hurricane had devastated the east coast of the United States, especially Long Island and southern New England, causing the deaths of six hundred people, many of whom were swept into the sea as huge waves pounded the shorelines.

The disaster eclipsed all other news in the German press and became a talking point for days. Goebbels flew film
crews to America to report on the devastation and made sure the disaster was the lead item in cinema newsreels. It was whispered in the corridors of his ministry that he took pleasure in reminding the most powerful nation on earth that it was not immune from the heavy hand of Providence.

In France, Britain and America, public opinion had decided that despite the barrage of threats from Berlin, despite the fact that Czechoslovakia had ordered a partial mobilisation, despite the fact that Poland and Hungary were moving forces to the Czech frontier, anxious for territorial gains if the Germans should attack, there would be no war. It was as if the people of those countries had decided that collective willpower could dictate the course of history. It was a time of illusion, when the truth became whatever anyone chose to believe.

For Gruppenführer Bonner and his Gestapo colleagues in Prinz-Albrechtstrasse, the surrender to illusion became apparent when a major military parade through Berlin was met by sullen crowds who openly turned their backs on the sight of troops, tanks and towed artillery.

Hitler himself witnessed this rare public protest from his reviewing stand on Charlottenburger Chaussee. Crowds that had been bussed in to line the route melted into the trees and slipped away rather than greet the troops with the usual triumphant raised-arm salutes and cries of
“Sieg Heil!”

To the Gestapo, this was disturbing evidence that the Führer had lost his popular appeal and, worse still, had aroused active hostility among his own supporters. Even the ever loyal Reinhard Heydrich was worried. He ordered teams of agents to sift through photographs and film of the crowds, trying to identify known subversives. There were none to be found, which was hardly a surprise, as Bonner pointed out, because all such troublemakers had long ago been locked up or liquidated.

“Are you telling me this was a spontaneous demonstration by ordinary people against war and against the Führer?” Heydrich demanded. He had called a meeting of his senior staff to review the apparent show of disloyalty.

“Those are your words, not mine,” said Bonner, allowing himself a smile.

Heads nodded in agreement around the table. It was not often Heydrich was wrong-footed in this way.

The next day, radio and press coverage reported huge crowds in Berlin applauding the troops and a beaming Hitler was pictured on the front pages returning their salutes with his own.

Macrae had actually watched the parade and seen Hitler frowning as the crowds refused to show any enthusiasm for the military and their hardware. Hitler had turned halfway through the march-past and begun a long, whispered conversation with Goebbels and Göring.

Macrae had observed the three men through field glasses from his balcony. As usual, Goebbels was doing the talking. Hitler, head bent, was listening and Göring impatiently looking around, waiting to give his own views. Macrae had put the field glasses down and tried to measure the distance. About five hundred and fifty yards, he estimated. He had killed men at greater range in the trenches.

He had picked up the glasses again and focused on the trees beyond the broad avenue. There in the darkness she had met him as arranged, punctual to the minute. He had given her the extension to her travel permit. It was valid until the week before Christmas. They had embraced without a word and held each other, listening to the murmur of the night wind in the old elm trees. They had made love with a passion he had never known before, he with his hand clamped
over her mouth to stifle her cries, and she arching her back against the hard earth, thrusting upwards as if she wanted to lift herself from the ground and fly away. It was warm and it hadn't rained for weeks. Afterwards, they had lain on a dry bedding of fallen leaves, their heads resting on their bundled clothes, and let their cigarettes glow briefly in the dark.

There would have been others in the park that night, couples seeking precious moments alone and, most dangerous of all, men committing the crime of loving their own sex, risking death in a fast fumbled grapple beneath the bushes. There would also have been listeners moving through the trees, waiting to switch on bright torches and snarl commands at their victims.

They had never discussed the risks, although they were far greater for her than for him. They had talked in whispered murmurs about the extension to her travel pass, about where they might meet when the autumn rains came. Then they had kissed for a long time, their sweat-cooled bodies clamped tightly together, before dressing and parting.

The humiliation of the British prime minister and his government unfolded throughout the month like a macramé paper cut-out that had been tightly folded and then released. For the rapidly diminishing number of those who felt that America might at last turn outwards from the policies of the New Deal and issue a stern warning to the Nazi regime, Franklin Roosevelt had a swift reply.

The American president was already planning a campaign for an unprecedented third term the following year. At a press conference, he stated that it was one hundred per cent certain that the US would not get involved in any hostilities in Europe. When questioned further, he would not even
express a view on the behaviour of the Third Reich towards its citizens and neighbours.

In France, Édouard Daladier had repeatedly confided to anyone who would listen that France would not go to war for Czechoslovakia or for any other east European country Germany chose to annex. Goebbels's obedient newspapers and his string of radio stations hailed these announcement as the voices of peace and waited for Britain to fall into line. Neville Chamberlain did so with an alacrity that astonished even Hitler and his confidants.

On 22 September, Chamberlain returned for a second meeting with Hitler, this time at Bad Godesberg on the Rhine. Once again, the Führer positioned himself at the top of steps at the front of the hotel, so that he could be photographed looking down on his visitor as they shook hands.

The British party also found that they had been given rooms on the opposite bank of the Rhine, far from the splendid hotel occupied by the Führer and his officials across the river. This meant they had to be ferried back and forth to meetings. The crude symbolism of these arrangements was hardly necessary. The whole world could see that the elderly Englishman with his wing collar, his watch chain and his waistcoat was about to be given a brutal lesson in power politics.