The Night of the Generals (18 page)

"I'm told that Field-Marshal Rommel has finally joined us."

"A first-rate soldier," declared von Seydlitz-Gabler, "though his generalship is open to criticism. Nevertheless, I must admit that some of his operations in Africa showed a certain finesse."

It was becoming increasingly difficult, even for the Chief of Staff, to speak to the G.O.C. in private. Either Melanie Neumaier was present or Sergeant Lehmann was skulking around in the background, and on the trip to the Hotel Excelsior the driver sat in front like a steel-helmeted listening post.

Once they reached the hotel itself, Wilhelmine never let her husband out of her sight, even though she appeared to listen to what Kahlenberge was saying. Kahlenberge took care not to mention anything that might have the slightest bearing on the conspiracy in her presence. She was a woman and, as such, a security risk.

Then came one of the rare opportunities to speak, and Kahlenberge seized it with both hands. Between dessert, which had been served in the hotel dining-room, and coffee, which was to be taken in her ladyship's suite, the two generals found themselves alone in the corridor for a few minutes.

While they were strolling up and down in post-prandial harmony, Kahlenberge said, with sudden and deliberate defiance in his tone: "We'll probably have to get rid of him, you know."

Von Seydlitz-Gabler betrayed no emotion whatsoever. Although he must have known that "him" referred to Hitler, he controlled himself admirably. "Let's go and have some coffee," he suggested. "It will do us good."

>Ulrike had been invited to coffee, though not to the meal that preceded it. Frau Wilhelmine had thought it better to spend the meal concentrating on the two generals and their official business. She took an interest in everything that went on in the Corps, but for the lighter conversation that was to follow she had selected a very special subject–General Tanz.

"Is he being properly looked after?" she wanted to know.

This question, like all important questions, was directly addressed to Kahlenberge.

"Everything has been laid on with the utmost care," he assured her. "We've detailed a reliable man to look after him. General Tanz will be adequately occupied, and that's the main thing."

Frau Wilhelmine gently corrected him. "Surely the main thing is that General Tanz should have a few pleasant and relaxing days. No one deserves them more than he."

"And no one needs them more," Kahlenberge agreed.

"They say he's a secret boozer," said Ulrike.

"Who told you that?" asked Frau Wilhelmine sharply.

"Someone told me."

"Who is 'someone'?"

"Just someone."

"What 'someone' says, Ulrike, is not worth listening to." Frau Wilhelmine regarded her challengingly. "A person of character abhors malicious gossip." Her gorgon gaze transferred itself to Kahlenberge. "Isn't that so?"

Kahlenberge hastily assented, adding some comments of his own, e. g.: No general ever boozes--the most he does is drink--everyone has a drink now and then--an inevitable symptom of war--abnormal strain, exertion, fatigue, hardship, etc., etc.

"And why shouldn't one, now and then?" demanded Frau Wilhelmine. "Always providing one has a strong head, which you haven't, Herbert, unfortunately. How do you fare in that respect, General Kahlenberge?"

Conversation proceeded along these lines for a while, with Frau Wilhelmine in full command of the situation and exploiting every opportunity to wind yet another laurel wreath about General Tanz's noble brow. Her reasons were obvious.

"I propose to invite General Tanz to dinner tonight. How does that appeal to you, Ulrike?"

"It doesn't," said her manifestly ill-bred daughter.

Fortunately, Frau Wilhelmine chose to disregard her reaction, and von Seydlitz-Gabler contented himself with a few remarks on the inevitability of social obligations. Kahlenberge, however, scented a special reason underlying Ulrike's pig-headed refusal to co-operate and wondered if it could be turned to account.

"May I ask what you have against General Tanz?" he inquired politely.

"His men are a lot of coarse, impudent louts. I find it rather indicative, don't you?"

Kahlenberge decided to explore the matter further. "Are you speaking in general terms, Fräulein, or do you have a special case in mind?"

"Do you know a sergeant called Stoss?"

"What is all this?" asked Frau Wilhelmine, determined to nip this line of conversation in the bud. "General Kahlenberge has better things to do than worry about sergeants."

"Unless I'm mistaken," said Kahlenberge, "General Tanz's favourite driver is a Sergeant Stoss."

"They make a nice pair," snapped Ulrike.

There were sound reasons for her belligerent contribution to this coffee-time conversation. She was desperately trying to get herself excluded from the threatened dinner party so that she would be able to make the Mocambo Bar in time to see Hartmann.

However, Ulrike was up against a shrewd opponent. When Frau Wilhelmine saw smoke she also wanted to see the fire that caused it.

"Ulrike," she said severely, "how do you come to be acquainted with such people? How, where and when could you have met them? I insist on an answer to my question."

Frau Wilhelmine met with a point-blank refusal. Von Seydlitz-Gabler appealed to the mutual trust which should exist between a daughter and her parents. Meanwhile, Kahlenberge sipped his coffee with enjoyment, eyeing Ulrike over the rim of his cup.

Ulrike persisted in her refusal because she had no choice. To give anything more away might provoke unpleasant repercussions. If her mother found out that she had been spending time with other ranks in disreputable dives her days in Paris would be numbered. One false move and she would pine away the rest of the war in some god-forsaken spot in East Prussia or Pomerania or Saxony. She regretted having opened her mouth in the first place.

"Anyway, at least we've got a name to go on," said Frau Wilhelmine. "I wonder if I might ask you to make some inquiries, General Kahlenberge."

"Always at your service," Kahlenberge assured her without a moment's hesitation. "Even when the General and I are confronted by grave decisions we can always find time to carry out your wishes. You can rely on me implicitly."

Lance-Corporal Hartmann was chauffeuring Tanz round Paris. Object of the exercise: a general sightseeing tour. Maximum speed: thirty miles an hour or twenty miles an hour when passing buildings, monuments and places of interest, on which a brief commentary was required.

Hartmann's hands, swathed in the white gloves belonging to the porter of the Excelsior, instinctively grasped the Bentley's wheel at ten-to-two. His head was tilted backwards slightly so as to catch any orders the General might issue.

For a full hour the General remained silent. Although Hartmann dared not glance round, he could make out a few stray sounds above the opulent whisper of the Bentley's engine.

The noises made by the General were as follows: the muffled plop of a bottle being uncorked, the clink of glass against glass, the gurgle of liquid and the sharp hiss of matches being struck. There were no accompanying sounds. The General appeared to remain immobile throughout these operations.

Having chosen the Ile de la Cité as his jumping-off point, Hartmann began to describe ever-increasing circles round it, taking in the best-known sights in central Parisen route. He named them and gave a brief description of each, totally unaware of whether or not his passenger was listening.

Rounding a corner, Hartmann stole a glance in the driving mirror. Tanz had not budged since he got in, but his right hand held a cigarette and his left a tumbler brimming with brownish liquid, evidently cognac. Hartmann was half appalled, half fascinated to see his wood-carving of a face twitch several times in succession as though convulsed by a violent electric shock. Deep, sharply defined creases appeared between his ear and the corner of his mouth, but only the left side of his face was affected. His forehead remained smooth and glossy as the brow of a Greek god.

"Stop," said the General.

Hartmann cautiously applied the brakes, pulled the Bentley over to the kerb and eased it to a halt. He waited. They were almost exactly in the middle of the Pont Alexandre, and the silver-grey ribbon of the Seine flowed sluggishly beneath them.

"Now a more detailed inspection of the main places of interest," said General Tanz. "Your suggestions, Hartmann."

Hartmann was ready for this moment. He recited his schedule without pausing for thought.

"This morning, Notre Dame. Then lunch at the Quasimodo. After lunch, the paintings in the Louvre."

"No old daubs, Hartmann."

"After lunch, the Impressionist paintings in the Jeu de Paume," Hartmann amended. "Then a trip to Versailles to see the Château, steps and gardens."

"Agreed," said the General.

They continued across the Pont Alexandre, turned right along the Seine, drove past the Tuileries and the Louvre, crossed the Ile de la Cité again and finally pulled up in the square outside Notre Dame. Hartmann jumped out, ran round the car and jerked open the near-side rear door. Tanz got out.

"The main dates." he said.

Hartmann reeled off what he knew about Notre Dame. Built between 1163 and 1330--designed by a brilliant but unknown architect--ground area 60,000 square feet--interior length 425 feet--in front of a pillar in the transept a fourteenth century Madonna known as Notre-Dame de Paris--in the cathedral sacristy relics including wood from the Cross and part of the Crown of Thorns.

"Good," said the General. "Wait here."

Tanz strode off into the cathedral, his pale grey suit as immaculate as if it had just come off the hanger. There was something statuesque about the unbending rigidity of his body.

Hartmann leant against the Bentley, sweating slightly. Tanz had scarcely indulged in a single remark or gesture which might indicate how he was faring. He was as unapproachable as ever.

On examining the back of the car, Hartmann saw that the. place where Tanz had been sitting was marked by a litter of cigarette butts and ash. Remembering Sergeant Kopatzki's injunctions on the subject of cleanliness, he searched the boot for a small dust-pan and brush--rather like the implements his mother used for sweeping up cake-crumbs at home--and systematically began to clean the back of the car. Then he polished the tumbler which had held cognac with one of a large set of linen cloths. Finally, he took a duster and polished the seat, grab-handles and side windows.

Having completed his chores, Hartmann stepped inside the cathedral. He soon caught sight of Tanz standing in front of theTravaux des Mois, scenes from daily life in the thirteenth century. He was evidently examining them with care, but whether or not with interest it was impossible to tell.

Hartmann found it moving to see a twentieth-century warrior standing entranced before an immortal work of art, trying to forget the horrors that dominated his own daily life. He felt a thrill of elation at the thought that he was privileged to be the man's guide, but his elation vanished when it suddenly occurred to him that he had forgotten to clean the ash-tray in the back of the car, and he hurried off to remedy his oversight.

An hour and twenty minutes later General Tanz emerged. He strode up to Hartmann and the Bentley as though he were seeing both for the first time, then halted. After a pause of five seconds he began to circle the car. He made only one tour, but his eyes missed nothing. "The ash-tray," he said.

Hartmann unclipped it and displayed its gleaming interior. General Tanz nodded. Then he spurned up a corner of the floor-mat with his toe, exposing the carpet beneath. It, too, was clean.

"Your hands," said Tanz.

Hartmann peeled off the porter's gloves and held his hands out. They passed muster.

"Break for lunch," said Tanz, adding: "I may inspect the engine afterwards."

Hartmann drove the bare two hundred yards to the Restaurant Quasimodo, whose speciality wascanard à l'orange served with champagne. While Tanz was lunching there, Hartmann polished the engine block and consumed a cold chicken sandwich washed down with mineral water. He used up two rags and a wad of cotton waste during his lunch break.

Shortly after two o'clock Tanz reappeared. He seemed to have dined well and wined still better. There was even a suspicion of a smile hovering about his lips.

"'Open the bonnet," he said.

Hartmann did so. The General bent forward slightly, withdrew a snowy white handkerchief from the left-hand breast pocket of his pearl-grey suit and rubbed it against a section of casing in the region of the distributor head. It failed to retain its dazzling whiteness.

"I dislike soiling my handkerchiefs with filth which any subordinates have failed to remove," stated General Tanz. "This is your first warning. I advise you not to merit a second. What is next on our programme?"

"The Impressionists, General."

"Right." Tanz ensconced himself in the back of the Bentley with manifest satisfaction. "Kindly note the following: I do not wish to be addressed as 'General' in the presence of a third party during our excursion. While it lasts we are off duty. Remember that at all times."

Hartmann drove to the Place de la Concorde and drew up immediately outside the strangely named pavilion, separated from the Louvre proper by the Jardin des Tuileries, which is the home of the Impressionists. The Jeu de Paume, Hartmann announced with barely disguised enthusiasm, housed nearly all the major contributions made by France to the world of painting during the past hundred years, including works by Monet, Manet and >Cézanne, van Gogh, Renoir and Gauguin, Degas, Toulouse-Lautrec and Rousseau.

Tanz stood before each painting in turn and called upon Hartmann to interpret it. Hartmann did his best to comply, carefully moderating his genuine enthusiasm for the subject. He spoke in subdued tones of van Gogh's explosive strength, Renoir's luminous colours, Cézanne's ability to capture natural forces on canvas. Tanz listened attentively. He even repeated one or two pieces of information in an undertone, presumably because he felt them to be important, e.g. "Degas, Edgar,Woman combing her Hair, pastel, 80 x 57 cm., circa 1880-5, signed."