by Walter Ellis
It turned out they were to dine in the embassy. It was the wrong time for lunch in Spain, where everything was two hours behind the rest of the world. They moved from Hasselfeldt’s office to a private dining room upstairs, where they were served pea and ham soup, then lamb stew scented with rosemary by a waiter wearing a swastika armband. A signed photograph of Hitler flanked by two half-size German flags dominated one wall of the room. Another wall contained two matched canvases by the Belgian surrealist, Magritte, which surprised Bramall until he realised that their subject was the distinction between appearance and reality – presumably an SD preoccupation.
During lunch, conducted in a mixture of English and German, the two men skated lightly around the royal duties on which Bramall was seemingly engaged in Madrid. Hasselfeldt expressed the hope that he had not embarrassed his guest in any way in the hotel bar on the night of his arrival. “I’d no idea who you were,” he said, truthfully. “I was just looking for a little conversation.”
It was then that Bramall noticed, hanging on the wall to the right of the window, next to a series of pictures apparently taken at the Nuremberg rallies, a framed photograph of himself talking with Hitler at Mosley’s wedding. The shock made him gasp – much to his host’s amusement.
“Ach so!” he said. “You have seen it, then. I was wondering how long it would take. I’m afraid I must apologise again. Just my little joke.”
“Yes, but how on Earth?”
“Oh! Quite simple. I send your picture, together with your name, to Berlin and Berlin sends me this. I have to tell you, it was quite a surprise.”
Bramall remembered the flashbulb going off in the Ritz. So that was it. He had to hand it to the fellow. He must have been trained in the theatre. Still, no real harm done. Given that his cover was never supposed to be a secret, what difference did it make? Might even speed things up.
Hasselfeldt was now smugness personified. It was as if he had set the stage for a parlour game and was enjoying watching it play out. “But tell me – how did it come about? I’m afraid the information on the back of the photographic print is a little sketchy.”
“Pure chance, I assure you,” Bramall replied, blinking. “I’d been working closely with Sir Oswald for several years, and the occasion of his wedding, at the home of Dr Göbbels, was the opportunity of a lifetime. Still, I couldn’t believe it when I was summoned to meet the Führer. It was such a shock – and an honour.” He let his voice trail off. “Of course that was before the war. It would be a little different today.”
More defiance, but muted. He wondered how he was doing.
Hasselfeldt gave no clue He listened politely, then wiped his mouth almost delicately with his napkin and called for coffee and Schnapps. After a moment, he seemed to make up his mind about something and leaned across the table. “Herr Bramall,” he said, “give me your hand.”
“I’m sorry?” He hadn’t expected this. Was the fellow queer?
“Your hand. I read palms, you know. The practise is much encouraged by Reichsführer Himmler. Astrology, too. We are all of us given indicators of our fate.”
“Oh, I see.” Nervously, he held out his hand.
“Ah yes,” said Hasselfeldt, prodding at his palm with his fingernail. “The love line is a bit thin here at the start, with many branches, but clarifies itself later. Here, do you see? And the head line – straight and extending quite far over, but touching your heart line at this point. I wonder if that holds any significance for you. Then the life line. Oh, now this is interesting. So many twists and false trails at the beginning, but then – ha! – a revelation. All becomes clear. Perhaps our meeting was ordained. What do you think?”
“I’m afraid, I know little of such things.”
“No, of course not. You are a rationalist, are you not? But Fate applies to all equally. It is a matter of making the most of what is possible.” He let go of Bramall’s hand. “Come,” he said, “we should return to my office.”
They took the stairs. As soon as he was seated once more at his desk, Hasselfeldt picked up a pencil and began to roll it between his slender fingers. He stared hard at Bramall. “You will have gathered by now,” he said at last, “that my role at the Legation extends some way beyond the mere exigencies of trade.”
The traffic on the street outside seemed all of a sudden to go quiet. “The thought had occurred to me.”
“Just so. And I have to tell you that your arrival here in Madrid intrigues me. My information is that you are a member in good standing of our British sister-party, the BUF. You are also someone who, as we know, has had the honour of a personal conversation with the Führer. In addition, I am hearing reports that you are – what shall we say? – disenchanted with the present state of affairs between our two countries. Given your history and outlook, it comes as no surprise that you should be one of His Royal Highness’s chosen advisers. He would naturally wish to have someone around him whose appointment owes nothing to the warmongering of the Churchill clique. I might even go so far as to conclude that you and I share a particular … Weltanschauung – a common outlook. What do you say? Would that be a fair interpretation?”
“You wouldn’t necessarily be wrong. But that doesn’t mean …”
The Austrian cut off the protest with a wave of his hand. He stared at Bramall, who did his best to maintain a steadfast gaze, though his heart was thumping. “Of course. It is a fine judgement, is it not? You have consented to meet with me here just days after your arrival in Spain. I did not have to persuade you. You came willingly. What sort of a man, I ask myself, would visit the Legation of his country’s bitterest foe in time of war? A naïve man? A fool? Yes. But I don’t think you quite fall into either or those categories. A spy, then? A possibility. But one whose tradecraft would appear to be seriously deficient. Could that be you? Perhaps. Or then again, you could be a highly experienced agent, whose apparent lack of guile is in fact the product of the most studied artifice? In that event, your naivety could be a double bluff. So many doors, and only one that leads to the truth. Which is it? I wonder.”
Bramall still said nothing, but let his mouth fall open slightly. There was no point in denying or confirming any of this. The Austrian waited several seconds before he spoke again. “I am informed that you spent some time the other evening talking to a Fraulein Isabella Ortega.”
The Gestapo officer. He must have reported back straight away.
“What if I did? I’m a single man. I can talk to whoever I like.”
Hasselfeldt steepled his fingers so that Bramall could see the fine bones of his wrists. On the third finger of his right hand was a silver signet ring, with a tiny skull and crossbones – the Death’s Head. His voice dropped to a steely whisper. “I doubt Colonel Ortega’s daughter revealed much of herself to you during your brief encounter – though not, I think, for want of trying on your part. But here is what is important. The young lady is spoken for. The man she is to marry, Herr Luder, is a prominent Italian banker and a trusted friend of the Reich.”
Bramall could hardly believe it. “Luder, you say. Felipe Luder?”
Hasselfeldt’s eyes narrowed. “You know him?”
“We ran into each other when I was in Argentina.”
“Ach! Small world! But then you will know that he is not a man to be crossed.”
“For God’s sake, I only just met her.”
Hasselfeldt smiled thinly – for he was a man who enjoyed his work. “I am not blaming you. Truly! We both know what Spanish girls are like. They are so … tempting. But that is not the point. I need to know that you are not playing some kind of ridiculous and futile double game. I shall look upon this as a test – an earnest of your good faith.”
Bramall felt trapped. He had been out-manoeuvred and rendered, for want of a better word, impotent.
Hasselfeldt purred with satisfaction.
“Do we understand one another?” he asked, once more extending his cigarette case.
This time, Bramall did not refuse. “I think we do,” he said.
“That is excellent. I am most gratified.” The Austrian adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and joined his hands together on the blotter on his desk. “Now let us move on. We could spend all day out-smarting one another, but, frankly, I haven’t the time. You were stationed in Vienna, were you not?”
“Nineteen thirty-four, thirty-five. You’ve obviously done your homework.”
“I dislike surprises. You will learn that.” He ran the length of the pencil back and forward beneath his nose, as if it were a fine cigar. “An interesting period. An object lesson in the recovery of order from chaos. Did you know, by the way, that your former embassy is now the regional headquarters of the National Socialist Flying Club?”
Hasselfeldt, Bramall decided, was like a surgeon with a scalpel. He knew just where to place the blade for maximum effect. “No,” he said, “I hadn’t heard.”
“Yes. Apparently they picked it up for a song.”
“Is that a fact? The Horst Wessel Song, I should imagine.”
“Very droll.” Hasselfeldt’s face fell. He now looked like a doctor giving bad news to his patient. “You are a very funny man, Herr Bramall. I would be careful, however, if I were you, about where you choose to deploy your English sense of humour. In the New Order, jokes are not high on our list of priorities.”
“No laughing matter, then?”
“But there you go – doing it again. So … audacious. I trust you found your country’s defeat in Norway and France equally amusing.” He took off his glasses and made a minor adjustment to one of the stems. “Your problem – and I do not envy you – is that you do not know how much I know or what actions I may be about to put in motion. You might suppose that the same is true in the opposite direction. In any event, my advice to you is the same – and you would do well to remember it. When Spain joins the Axis, as it undoubtedly will, you, Herr Bramall, will become at that moment an enemy alien, unprotected by any quasi-diplomatic status you may currently enjoy. Work with us and you will survive the transition. You may even prosper. Make mischief and … well!”
He twisted the pencil so that it was stretched between his fingers and thumbs and broke it in two with a snap. It was a trick that Bramall presumed must have been taught to him on Day Two of his SD interrogation class and seemed unworthy of him, hinting perhaps at the schoolboy bully concealed inside the suave manipulator. He would have to remember that.
“But there is no need,” Hasselfeldt continued, “for us to dwell on such negative possibilities. You are, one might say, a free agent, and it is up to you which course you adopt.”
“Well,” said Bramall, “I am certainly ready to discuss matters of mutual concern. But I will not betray my country. You should know that.”
Hasselfeldt pursed his lips before he spoke and there was a definite twinkle in his eyes. “Of course not,” he said. “You are a man of honour, as are we all, I hope. I am not asking you to become a traitor. I am asking you to become the truest kind of patriot: the kind of man who puts country before self. Is that too much for you?”
Bramall made a show of swallowing hard. “If you put it like that.”
“Well, there we are then. Ours will be a partnership aimed at peace and reconciliation.” Hasselfeldt glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Oh! But I am so forgetful. Before you go – one other thing. Your employer, the Duke of Windsor, lately of the House of Saxe-Coburg und Gotha [he lingered on the Royal Family’s well-known German family lineage]. An interesting figure, much exercised, as we have said, by the … difficulties that exist between our two countries. It would be useful to know what action he might be willing to consider to help resolve these difficulties. And you, my friend, as a British patriot, are perfectly placed to come up with the answer. In this, as in all things, we should be a team, working together for the new Europe. Do not disappoint me, please.” He smiled an oily smile. “Let us leave it at that. We are both busy men. If there is anything else I can do for you, please to let me know.” At this, he sat suddenly to attention and his right arm shot out. “Heil Hitler!”
As soon as he was alone, Hasselfeldt sat staring once more at the photograph of Bramall in conversation with Hitler. The fellow was so plausible. In the picture, he looked the very soul of solicitude, obviously hanging on the Führer’s every word – as well he might if he were a true Fascist. But what if he was not what he claimed? Berlin could have got it wrong. And the fellow was Irish, after all. He knew Oswald Mosley alright. Of that there was no doubt. He had also provided sympathetic coverage of the Nationalist position in the Civil War, with only the occasional sideswipe at the excesses of the Condor Legion. The question was, what did it all add up to?
Berlin had sent him several pictures. One showed Bramall at a BUF protest in London. He looked at it now. It was newspaper quality and grainy, but there was something there.
Reaching into one of his desk drawers, he drew out a large magnifying glass. Two minutes later, under the powerful light of his desk lamp, Hasselfeldt poured over an enlarged image of the old Daily Mail photograph taken at the Cable Street riot. Mosley was standing at the head of his men, eyes staring fixedly ahead, arms folded – in unconscious emulation of the Führer, perhaps. Several of the men in the BUF front rank were hitting out with clubs. On the other side, a group of Communists – Jews most probably – shook their fists and shouted abuse. Some threw bricks and stones. Hatred and mutual antagonism were what screamed out from the scene as caught by the camera. But then he turned to the figure standing almost isolated to Mosley’s left. One of his hands was placed on top of the arm of a Blackshirt lieutenant, as if to restrain him. Bramall was staring, open-mouthed, as if he could not believe what was happening. Hasselfeldt’s sense of unease increased. He had seen that stare before. But where? Then it came to him. He had seen it in the eyes of a city policeman in Graz who stepped in to stop a group of SA thugs from beating up a Rabbi on his way into synagogue. It was May, 1933, and what happened had inspired him to become a National Socialist. He was inspired by what he saw. Two of the SA men seized the officer from behind. Another grabbed hold of his hair. Together, they forced him to look at what was happening from close up. The look in the man’s eyes as the Rabbi’s face became streaked with blood told its own story. It was a look of … horror.
Madrid: British Embassy, June 28
Sir Samuel Hoare, who had not expected his brief note to Bramall to elicit a personal response, was distinctly put out when its recipient turned up at the embassy asking to see him. “My message was a warning,” he said.” Nothing more. I thought I had made it clear that you were not to involve me in your schemes.”
“I realise that. But I’m worried that things may be about to get out of hand.”
Hoare was seated at his desk. The room was unostentatious, but comfortable. What interested Bramall was the set of photographs showing Hoare engaged in his two favourite pursuits, ice-dancing and fencing. There was even one showing him at full stretch, lunging with a foil at Oswald Mosley. Now he leaned forward at his desk, fearful of chaos. “What do you mean?”
“It’s the Duke. I’m afraid he’s developing a messiah complex.”
“A what?”
“He’s starting to believe in the Second Coming – regally speaking, that is. He has been persuaded that if only the right support can be mustered, here and in Germany, he could yet be the salvation of his people.”
“Does he now? Well, we all have our views on what might be agreed with Berlin, but that’s most unfortunate.”
The Ambassador, who had excused himself from a meeting with David Eccles, of the Department of Economic Warfare, in order to hear what Bramall had to say, was fast running out of patience with the Duke. “Are you telling me that His Royal Highne
ss, after everything that has been said, might actually fall for Berlin’s blandishments and make a total arse of himself? Is that it?”
Bramall couldn’t help smiling.
“In a nutshell, yes – though I don’t think he’d see it quite that way himself. As far as I can tell, he views the war with Germany as a kind of diplomatic cancer that needs to be cut out. It’s time, he says, for someone to rise to the occasion and wield the knife, and if London can’t see that, then what’s a chap to do? And all this before anyone has turned the screws on him. That’s the thing. For the moment, from what I can see, the Germans are content to work behind the Spanish, waiting to see what pickings come their way. No, it’s the man himself, fuelled by a higher patriotism, love, the Divine Right of Kings – whatever you want to call it. He’s convinced the war is lost and he’s ready to step in as the British Pétain.” He looked straight at Hoare. “You’ve got to muzzle him or else get him out fast. If he won’t go back home, what about the empire? We rule a quarter of the globe, for God’s sake. There has to be somewhere that needs a High Commissioner or a Governor General. What about Canada or South Africa? Maybe New Zealand? Couldn’t get him further away than that.”
Hoare snorted. “Taken. Jobs like that don’t grow on trees, you know.”
“Don’t they? Aren’t they in the gift of the Crown, routed via Downing Street? If the PM can appoint the Archbishop of Canterbury and decide who gets to be Master of my Cambridge College, he can surely find a job for the Duke of Windsor. I’m telling you, Sir, the man is about to snap. All it needs is the right offer in the right place.”
“And I take it the right place is Spain.”
“Where else?”
“What about Portugal?” Already, Hoare was wondering if he might not profitably export the problem to Lisbon.