by Ben Pastor
“Colonel von Stauffenberg,” he began, “I would not take you away from your duties if I didn’t deem it indispensable. To put it bluntly, during my presence in Berlin of no more than four days, I have heard – from completely separate sources – insistent, alarming rumours concerning the mood within the Reserve Army.” The pallor and vexation that came upon Stauffenberg’s face was another detail Bora had to ignore. “After eight years in Admiral Canaris’s service, sir, be assured that I do not speak lightly, nor offhand.”
The silence between them lasted seconds. Whatever was in Stauffenberg’s mind, he guarded it well.
“Did Oster send you?” he asked in a controlled undertone. “Because if Oster sent you …”
“He did not.”
“Do you come from Goerdeler, or Gisevius?”
Bora did not know who Gisevius might be, and refrained from enquiring. “Not at all. I’m in town for a completely different reason.”
Calling a spade a spade was risky. Somehow, dropping names without details afforded the two of them only a minimum of latitude.
“Then it was Salomon who sought you out.” Stauffenberg spoke through gritted teeth. “A colleague told me that the fool walked in while something was being discussed in confidence.”
The haughty comment came well short of denying the possibility of a plot. Bora’s practice in confronting fear nearly failed him. What took its place was an acute pain at the base of his neck, hot and chilling at the same time. He stepped aside, where the glare of the sun gave way to partial shade.
“I doubt Colonel von Salomon would have ‘sought me out’ – and found me, by sheer coincidence – unless he’d heard my name from Fritz-Dietlof von der Schulenburg at the Bendlerblock.”
It was as close as he came to suggesting that it’d actually been Stauffenberg, according to Salomon, who first brought him up.
“This would not present a problem,” he elaborated, “if Colonel von Salomon were not in a state of extreme nervous tension, so much so that he jumped to the conclusion that I was aware of what is apparently being planned.”
Stauffenberg rallied instantly, as a champion equestrian reins in the horse at the right moment and sidesteps the unmanageable hurdle. Standing squarely in the cruel afternoon sunlight (the window overlooked the canal and the Elizabeth hospital beyond it), he said, “An interesting allegation of imprudence, given the way that you have reportedly compromised yourself through the years.”
The rebuff left Bora remarkably indifferent. However, the margin within which he could manoeuvre grew so narrow that he had to leap and clear the obstacle. “Through the years, I acted as I did because it had to be done.”
“Or so you judged. Didn’t it occur to you that your exposing yourself in that way might appear intentional, to avoid being enlisted when the time came?”
“I didn’t care to wait until someone enlisted me.”
“Oh, a worker bee and a wasp in one.” Stauffenberg had taken exception to his words. In the small study, his head nearly touched the prisms hanging from the lamp. So similar to Bora in size and bearing as to provide him with a reflected image of his anxiety, he seemed pained and provoked at the same time, under pressure to the point of physical suffering. “It won’t save you, you know.”
“I do not expect to be saved.”
A stormy pause told them that they were pointlessly embittering each other. But, as happens when two equally skilled sportsmen have gone too far to concede the race, Stauffenberg chose to drive the spurs in.
“You are played out, Bora. We have no use for you.”
Bora hated himself for blinking. In the dreadful days after surgery, a flicker of the lids had been his way of confronting agony under medication – the response would not be lost on the ailing Stauffenberg.
“The fact remains, Colonel, that Salomon’s self-control is close to nil.”
Stauffenberg paced up and down, now blocking the sun, now letting the shafts of light flood the room. With a tightly folded handkerchief, he dabbed his empty eye socket under the leather patch; the three fingers he had left on his hand moved quickly, like a spider inside a glove. “Where is he now?”
“I wouldn’t know. He left the Adlon Wednesday morning.”
“You must track him down.”
“Must I, Colonel von Stauffenberg? I’m assigned to another task in Berlin. And as you say, it is best if Salomon is not seen in public with an officer as politically compromised as I am.”
“It’s not what I meant, colleague.”
There was no more hiding behind innuendos and half-spoken words. A growing sense of impatience made them sweat in their handsome uniforms; nevertheless, Bora paused before answering.
“I hear you. But I have no intention of doing away with my former commander.”
“You would, if you knew the stakes, and cared about what we plan to achieve afterwards.” So it was true. Salomon’s gibberish at the table, whispered just before Bora forcibly led him to the men’s toilets to recover; before then, his colleague Uckermann’s oblique hints in Italy, Bruno’s warnings … and Niemeyer’s undelivered message to his lawyer, aimed at destroying them all. Something told Bora not to show Stauffenberg the letter, to make no mention of it. The pain at the root of his neck for a moment nailed him to the sport. He held his breath until the sting passed. Salomon had rambled on about the plotters as determined men standing before the abyss, or something to that effect. Show-jumping practice, however, teaches you to discover who will clear the last hurdle and who will not, even among champions. Since Stalingrad, Bora had in that regard made himself unreadable by others; he’d given himself up for dead, and – depending on his mood at a given moment – now either appreciated or simply tolerated each new day as a useful one in the pursuit of duty, whatever its end might be.
With a sinking heart, he realized that the proud officer before him, ready though he may be to take the risk, wasn’t planning (or didn’t have permission to plan) to die in the act. Stauffenberg’s belief that salvation lay beyond the abyss increased rather than reduced the jeopardy he was in, and this made him vulnerable. Bora saw in it the mark of coming disaster.
Under old man Canaris, there had always been two kinds of officers in the Abwehr. There were those who, from the first days of war, readily intervened to counter the excesses of the SS in the field and of the Gestapo behind the lines, gradually accumulating a list of ideological trespasses. And then there were those who, feigning loyalty, entertained strange and sometimes objectionable connections inside and outside the army, in a game of chance that gradually became an end in itself and threatened to make them lose touch with reality. These were officers of the old school – including the youngest among them – who implicitly trusted one another to the extent of speaking openly and too much; a seemingly untouchable caste. Even Admiral Canaris, who was the epitome of astuteness, in the end placed esteem for his colleagues before prudence, and paid for it.
Bora was not among this latter kind. Notwithstanding his stepfather’s influence, or perhaps because of it, he belonged to the new world of those who behaved as soldiers employed by a regime ought to behave. When he was in the Abwehr, he’d belonged to the first kind: determined, sometimes impertinent, but skilled in political dialectic, not inclined to familiarity and, as far as army rules were concerned, fastidious nearly to a fault. He chose his words carefully.
“Colonel, in little more than a year’s time I’ve executed two human beings with whom I had no personal quarrel and who nominally were on our side – for service reasons, of course, but that’s beside the point. One doesn’t know what killing is until one kills in cold blood.” He did not add the obvious: Assassination entails juggling with ethics, a unique brand of resolve and the willingness to forfeit one’s existence if need be.
Stauffenberg understood Bora’s motive for the disclosure. “Sometimes, you will agree, preserving one’s life is imperative.”
No, no, no. How warm it was in the room. Bora felt the cruelty of
the hour like an additional burden: a foretaste of purgatory and a sign that none of them would be spared, come what may.
“Speaking only for myself,” he said, “I’ve reached the conclusion that it is best not to have personal stakes in any future benefits.”
Stauffenberg crumpled the handkerchief before pocketing it. “What, you separate the act from its successful outcome? You remind me of the Boeselager brothers, the swashbuckling mentality of the cavalrymen on the Russian front; Curtius the Roman knight, who sacrificed himself in the bog for the sake of victory! Speak frankly, colleague: does the idea of high treason itself trouble you, or are you afraid?”
This time Bora couldn’t help but betray his anger by blushing. “If I were afraid, I’d have kept quiet or turned to someone else, instead of coming to you, Colonel von Stauffenberg. I have been trained in intrigue and, whatever my personal view of the matter, I am duty-bound to tell you that the many rumours that are circulating are full of details, and unless the odds are with you the deed mustn’t even be attempted.”
Had he been someone else, Stauffenberg would probably have grown furious already; but instead, what Bora read on his face was utter frustration and an unwillingness to listen to reason.
“Permit me to argue the point,” he pressed on. “Making the attempt and failing in it would be a catastrophe. This late in the war, unless you have support from outside the Fatherland, even in the unlikely case that you are successful, such an act will convince no one. It will not keep the Russians from reaching Germany ahead of the Americans – it will not – I have family and friends in the east, I know whereof I speak – and it will not save Germany from abject defeat and an unconditional surrender. We both know it. Unless avoiding these is not the practical aim that has led our brother officers as far as to conceive of high treason —”
“I can’t believe it.” These, or something like them, were the words that Bora heard the exasperated Stauffenberg whisper.
“You forget the army’s honour.”
“That’s long lost, unfortunately.”
“What about individual honour?”
“After years of acquiescence, that is now lost as well. The western allies don’t trust any of us. It’s a fact. And we can’t blame them.”
“Not true.” Stauffenberg paced the floor, his booted tread echoing on the bare wood. “You forget the forgiveness of sins.”
“After millions of victims?” Difficult as it was for him to keep his voice down, Bora had no choice but to whisper. “We’re both Catholic. I haven’t forgotten, and I’m not denying the forgiveness of sins: but there are limits to the right to expect forgiveness from the good Lord. Or from the enemy.”
“The hour of repentance is never behind us.”
“In the privacy of our souls, yes, but that doesn’t avail Germany. Practically speaking, your chances of success against the Party are – what? Did you work them out? Seven to one? Eight? Nine to one? For God’s sake, Colonel! It irks me to use the word, but I beg you to reconsider.”
“Are you mad? Either you’re mad, or you are an officer impervious to disgust.”
Bora was losing hope that he’d be able to make himself heard. “I am impervious to disgust in the sense that it is the souring of something we’ve previously enjoyed.”
“Don’t think yourself a saint.”
“I don’t. Nor am I, for all my faults, a repentant sinner.”
“But your kind proposes no alternative: your alternative is to do nothing!”
Bora was left to wonder what “his kind” might be: he hoped it meant officers extraneous to the plot, rather than cowards, or worse. “Speaking in clichés is unworthy of us, Colonel von Stauffenberg. Have we really no other arguments? There’s much that can yet be done, on a daily basis – even if it’s a thankless job.”
“I will hear no more of this.” In his agitation, Stauffenberg missed the handle of the door the first time he reached for it. “Go. This is the end of our conversation. And I warn you, Bora, whatever you or other doubting Thomases may have in mind – know that nothing and no one can stop what has been set in motion.”
“God help us, then.”
“He will. In this life, I think that we have nothing more to say to each other.”
“I agree.”
At the last moment – the door had already swung open – something in Stauffenberg’s demeanour caused Bora to anticipate and dread what he might be about to add. It came upon him with such heart-rending certainty that he actually had to fight back tears.
“Don’t offend me by asking whether I can be trusted to keep the secret, sir. You very well know that I shall.”
Outside, a breath of wind made it easier to breathe in the hot air than it had been in the suffocating room. Bora walked to the parapet by the canal in a daze, climbed down the steps and lit a cigarette on the bank, staring at the water’s lazy flow.
The moment he snapped out of his bewilderment would be so painful, that he tried to hold on to the numbness produced by his confusion. The image of Salomon bobbed out of the chaos of ideas swirling in his mind, Salomon vacillating between betraying his brother officers by revealing the plot, and committing high treason by keeping the secret. Now, in his current anxiety, Bora could gauge what his old commander must be going through. It would be a miracle if he hadn’t already cracked under the load. Stauffenberg was right: finding him before someone else did was unquestionably the priority – and close to impossible.
He deeply inhaled the cigarette smoke, to keep his queasiness under control. The last time he’d entertained the thought of “being spared” was before Stalingrad. Yet as early as 1942 he’d got wind of unofficial meetings, secret personal contacts that had nothing to do with the demands of the war … The subtle spoor of rebellion trailed by officers like Oster or General von Tresckow had reached him long before Lattmann had mentioned them. Bora had not tried to learn more, nor would they tell him anything: he was already too exposed to be useful to them. As Stauffenberg had put it, he was played out. He’d burned his bridges, it was true. But he recognized the familiar, pungent whiff of smoke, and knew that something else – and somebody else – was burning now.
What he’d just heard had come as a terrifying confirmation, rather than news.
At this very moment, the afternoon cargo train from the east is disgorging animals for the slaughter. How fitting. It was one of those times when Bora would have been grateful if someone had put an end to his life by shooting him from a merciful distance. Not for the act in itself, but for oblivion: being there, and suddenly not being there. Not even “pulling away from things” was helpful at times like these. Helplessness was something he denied himself; in the past, he’d wiggled out of it no matter how desperate the situation, but there was a limit to one’s ability to deny reality. He could see no way out of the bind. Whenever he felt overwhelmed, his usual next step was simply a physical next step. So he paced along the bank of the canal, asking himself whether terror tasted of anything, and whether you could recognize its taste in your mouth.
9
Every truth is twisted.
NIETZSCHE
HOTEL ADLON, 4:16 P.M.
Bora had to make an effort not to stare at them: a cluster of General Staff and administrative officers – and he was sure that a few of them were the same he’d seen days earlier in the same lobby – stood around, with document cases and travel bags at their heels. The same tense air of expectation hovered about them, as if a long-postponed examination were underway.
A mechanical greeting was all that Bora exchanged with the group as he walked to the desk. There, he had to wait until a showy girl in a red turban had finished complaining about a bar of soap disappearing from her room. He doubted that it could happen at the Adlon; more likely she’d pocketed it and now wanted more. She’d never have dared the trick with the concierge, and it didn’t seem to work even with this slyeyed young clerk.
Even before she had walked away in a huff, Bora had changed hi
s mind about enquiring if Lieutenant Colonel Namura was still at the hotel. His curiosity might attract attention, and that was exactly what he wanted to avoid. He climbed the stairs to the floor where he had been staying until Wednesday, intending to try his luck directly.
It was still early in the day, and most officers assigned to military and diplomatic duties would not leave work before five o’clock, or later. Unless the late-November air raid had razed it, the seat of the Japanese legation in Berlin would still be adjoining the imposing Italian embassy on Tiergartenstrasse, a short ride away in a taxi.
If Namura leaves his workplace punctually at five, he won’t be here before five thirty, but I can’t wait more than half an hour. Bora knocked on his old neighbour’s door, knowing that it was probably a waste of time. As expected, no one answered. What if he’s moved out? If he has moved out, or worse, has done away with himself, I could be waiting here until doomsday. Someone else might be occupying his room now. Worse, the hotel detective downstairs might wonder about me, and lie in wait for me with questions, if he thinks that I’ve stayed upstairs too long, given that I don’t have a room here.
At ten past five, Bora met Namura just as he was about to go back downstairs.
“Namura-Chusa, good afternoon.”
This form of address, placing his army rank after the surname, was formally correct. Few, if any, westerners used it, and Namura showed by a flickering of his eyelids that he was surprised to hear it.
“Bora-Chusa,” he replied. “I thought you’d left the Adlon.”