Statement by a man named Valentin Gebhardt. Gebhardt is not mentioned by name in the present book. The only reference to him is the short sentence which describes how a man standing beside General Tanz on the edge of Promenade Square in Warsaw was hit by a bullet and collapsed. Gebhardt, then a sergeant, was severely wounded. He belonged to the dispatch-rider section of between two and four men which had to accompany General Tanz everywhere in action:
“The General never turned a hair, even under the heaviest fire. He never wore a steel helmet either. Some of the lads used to say he had an arrangement with the Devil and others said he just couldn’t care less. One of them even reckoned he wanted to die. But that was all bullshit. General Tanz had more guts than the rest of them put together.
“In the days when I knew him he was always in the thick of it with that sub-machine-gun of his, loosing off one magazine after the other. His belt was always stuffed with grenades and he had several pistols. One he always wore himself, the second he kept in the glove compartment of his car and the third had to be brought along in reserve by his orderly.
“Tanz was a crack shot. We used to say that if one of the enemy saw the whites of Tanz’s eyes it would be his last sight on earth. No quarter—that was his rule, and he stuck to it even when things started to go to pot.
“I was still with him then. That was during the first winter in Russia, just short of Leningrad. Tanz was going at the enemy hell for leather, as usual. Even the special shock troops couldn’t keep up with him, and my number two had to be replaced five times in seven days. It was a tough number, I can tell you. Then we suddenly found ourselves cut off. It took us two days and nights to fight our way out—partly with arms and ammunition taken from the Ivans. Nearly half the division bought it in the process. There were some companies which could hardly muster a platoon.
“I went out like a light when I stopped one that time in Warsaw, but when I came to there was a bottle of brandy by my bed. ‘With the General’s best wishes,’ the Sister told me. That was Tanz all over! And I was one of his best D.R.s.”
Further conversations with Gottfried Engel, formerly assigned to Major Grau as a sergeant in counter-intelligence. Extracts from tape-recordings made eighteen years after the events described:
“I can only repeat that I was in a subordinate position. I was not authorized to dictate policy and never did so. I was what they call an executive agent.
“As for the three generals you mention, I’d sum them up as follows:
“1. General von Seydlitz-Gabler, Corps Commander. One of the old school, with all its virtues and vices. He’d really have been more at home in the last century. His wife was the power behind the throne, and there must have been times when he hated her guts. She pushed him too hard, and no man can stand that indefinitely.
“2. Lieutenant-General Tanz, Commander of the élite Nibelungen Division. A career-general of the first order with no inhibitions whatsoever. Rose from the ranks of the Freikorps and had just what it takes to go places. There were only two alternatives for him: a cross on his chest or another over his grave. He had an almost legendary reputation, and anyone who didn’t help to foster it became his personal enemy. Presumably that applied to Major Grau and me.
“3. Major-General Kahlenberge, Chief of Staff of the Corps Commander. Middle-class origins. Hard to sum up. Kept himself and his opinions very much to himself. No one ever really managed to get to the bottom of him. Tough to deal with and a shrewd negotiator. Extremely competent in almost everything he did and considerate towards his subordinates. Had a rather odd sense of humour at times. He was the real brains of the outfit. He certainly acted as von Seydlitz-Gabler’s throttle and brake, and for all I know he may have steered him as well.
“The rest is common knowledge. We were sent to Paris, and a murderer—who might or might not have been a general —was reprieved for the time being.
“Fate plays funny tricks, though. Almost two years later, in July 1944, we all met up again in Paris.”
PART TWO
The Case
Human lives for sale
PARIS, 1944
1
Lucienne sang, beseeching her audience to speak to her of love. She had closed her eyes as if dreaming, but it might have been because she was dazzled by the harsh glare of the spotlight. It might also have been because she preferred to shut out her surroundings, for many of the men who were watching her wore uniform, and it was not the uniform of her own country or its allies.
“Isn’t she terrific!” whispered Captain Kraussnick.
He bent forward confidentially as he spoke, not unlike a black marketeer commending the quality of some merchandise to a prospective customer. Kraussnick regarded Lucienne as his personal discovery, and a special table was permanently reserved for him next to the stage.
“Are you getting a percentage out of this?” asked General Kahlenberge.
General von Seydlitz-Gabler, who sat beside him, murmured: “The creature’s got a voice like silk!”—which reminded him that his wife had recently expressed a desire to buy some dress lengths.
Lucienne went on singing. She was not a performer like the great Sasha. Lucienne had to live and her establishment needed the business. The great Sasha liked to scintillate, to demonstrate his regal superiority. He regarded himself as an essential component of French history, but Lucienne was a Parisienne, no more and no less. It was almost a matter of indifference to her who listened to her as long as she was loved as an institution devoted to the chanson.
People who heard Lucienne seemed to be bathed in the glow of her reputation. She sang in a pool of rosy light, and the fleshy faces bordering it radiated pleasure and satisfaction. The sameness of their uniform was not so far removed from the uniformity of dinner jacket or tails. Even generals could let themselves be seen in uniform here because a visit to Lucienne counted as a sort of cultural outing.
There was a scattering of night-club femininity—identical ivory faces partitioned by the black and scarlet streaks of eyebrow and lip, the former thin and the latter thick, but both applied with panache. Here and there was a naked-seeming expanse surmounted by a pair of blue eyes—female members of the occupying forces clad in blue or field grey. Women in uniform, but women for all that.
The song which begged the listener to speak of love—and nothing else—had several verses. Lucienne sang them all in the same abstracted way, as if immersed in a sea of emotion and melody. Her audience hardly dared breathe.
The last notes died away and the lights went up to a burst of applause. There was a universal raising of glasses to lips—at least six bottles’ worth inside five seconds, the manager calculated swiftly. Lucienne’s nightly appearance was the establishment’s most lucrative asset.
“Well, did I exaggerate?” asked Captain Kraussnick.
“I found her most stimulating,” conceded General von Seydlitz-Gabler. The General had been highly decorated since Warsaw but was still in command of a Corps. Kahlenberge, his indispensable assistant, was still Chief of Staff but had been invested with the Knight’s Cross and was now a lieutenant-general.
“Has the General any special request to make?” Kraussnick inquired.
“Not at the moment,” said von Seydlitz-Gabler.
“But you can sound out the ground, my dear chap,” added Kahlenberge with an eye to the future.
The entertainments specialist rose promptly to his feet, not forgetting, before he went off to make inquiries, to see that a new bottle of Veuve Clicquot Rosé 1933—the third, and what a year!—was placed within reach, chilled to a temperature of between twelve and fourteen degrees. Although Kraussnick was a connoisseur it was not an easy job to maintain his reputation, let alone enhance it. In his experience generals preferred young flesh, but that was just where the market was shortest.
“One can forget one’s troubles in a place like this,” General von Seydlitz-Gabler said pensively. “We ought to make the most of it.”
Kahlenberge drai
ned his glass with relish. He found himself doing everything with relish these days. It was as though he were being challenged to choose between life and death. As long as no one forced him to die he chose life, but anything might happen, especially in a world in which soldiers were compelled to behave like bandits.
Kahlenberge smiled opaquely and leant forward. “One way or another, we’re going to have to make up our minds what sort of country we want. All the signs are there if you know where to look for them.”
The G.O.C. stared at the ceiling, screwing up his eyes at the brightness of the overhead lighting. He saw a vista of snowy white and glistening gold interspersed with a red as rich and warm as life-blood. The cross-beam above his head was adorned with squatting putti, firm-fleshed and compact as Würzburg baroque, except that these putti were pink as marzipan and rouged like miniature whores.
“I refuse to resort to underhand measures,” he said. “Candour has always been my watchword.”
Kahlenberge nodded cheerfully. “Which is precisely why you ought to find it easy to define your position when people ask you what sort of Germany you want.”
“I’m a man of moderation,” said the General, with all the caution of an experienced angler. “I refuse to accept things unthinkingly just because someone tries to ram them down my throat. What’s more, I’ve always been conscious of my duty to Germany, which is one reason why I’m a general.”
“And that,” said Kahlenberge gently, “is why you must automatically be against everything which claims to represent Germany today.”
Von Seydlitz-Gabler blinked at the lights again. “I have tried to serve my country faithfully for as long as I can remember.”
“No one expects anything else of you.”
The G.O.C. slowly shook his imposing head, deaf to the still muted laughter that rippled round his table like water from a fountain playing at half strength. The joys of Parisian night-life had not yet reached their zenith. Von Seydlitz-Gabler sighed a little and drank a good deal, temporarily overcome by the feeling that there were hard times ahead.
Kahlenberge regarded the G.O.C. through narrowed eyes, savouring his agony of mind with unrestrained enjoyment. He had recently seized upon every opportunity to make disquieting allusions to an inevitable catastrophe which lay in the immediate future.
“Either tonight or tomorrow I shall be meeting a group of officers. I am convinced that their intentions are above reproach.”
“For heaven’s sake be careful, my dear chap!”
“Something positive must be done as soon as possible. What can I tell them about your own attitude?”
The G.O.C. was perspiring heavily, like a man in a Turkish bath and his ruddy features had taken on the sheen of wet varnish. “My sympathies,” he said, “are always with what is right and good.”
“Can you tell me what that means in practical terms?”
Kahlenberge’s question remained unanswered for the time being because a shadow had fallen across the table. It belonged not to Kraussnick but to Grau of the Abwehr—now Lieutenant-Colonel Grau. He bowed sedately. Far from diminishing, his innate self-assurance seemed to have increased with the years.
Kahlenberge looked annoyed. “Well, what are you doing here? I thought you spent your whole time chasing spies and traitors?”
“Why not here?” Grau inquired blandly.
General von Seydlitz-Gabler had straightened up in his chair. He looked forbidding. “Must you ruin our meagre ration of enjoyment?”
“As a matter of fact, General, I came to bring you some news which I thought might prove of interest. General Tanz is on his way to Paris.”
“Has he got another of his divisions cut to ribbons, then?” asked Kahlenberge bitterly.
“More or less,” Grau gave a smile of concurrence. “General Tanz’s division is to be quartered in the Versailles-Fontainebleau area for regrouping.”
“And you get a kick out of the idea?”
‘It always gives me pleasure to look back on our instructive times together in Warsaw.”
On that note Lieutenant-Colonel Grau withdrew, strutting through the room—so it seemed to von Seydlitz-Gabler at least—like a peacock. He gave the impression of being on home ground wherever he went. Even the band, which had just struck up a musette waltz, seemed to match the rhythm of his stride.
The G.O.C. blinked at his Chief of Staff. “Surely he wouldn’t dare to bring up that Warsaw business all over again?”
“We only got as far as the first act.” Kahlenberge folded his hands Buddha-fashion. “The next act may prove superfluous if more important events intervene. I’ve no idea where the senior members of the Abwehr stand—whether our friends have won them over or whether Grau figures on their black list.”
“Let’s hope he does,” said the G.O.C.
“Be that as it may, do you sympathize with what these men are trying to do?”
The G.O.C.’s face darkened as though he were straining hard to hear some inner voice. “Perhaps. All the same, I don’t feel happy about it.”
Shortly afterwards Captain Kraussnick reappeared, bringing word of “various charming creatures,” well-developed and “anxious to please.”
The General shot Kahlenberge a reproachful sidelong glance. “I just don’t feel like it,” he grumbled with the air of a disgruntled Jupiter. “I’m not in the mood any more.”
The Mocambo Bar was packed. Inside, the temperature had risen to tropical heights. A saxophone howled its way up the scale, performed a few velvety somersaults and then plunged back, gurgling and choking, into the muddy depths of its lower register. Lance-Corporal Rainer Hartmann took his uniform jacket off.
“Why not your shirt too while you’re about it?” asked the girl beside him.
“Maybe later on,” said Hartmann, meaning it as a little joke, nothing more. He pulled the girl to her feet and prepared to push cheerfully through the packed dancers, but they stood aside for him.
Hartmann was saddened. He wanted to belong, to be just one of the pleasure-seeking crowd. The people around him were like himself—young, greedy for life, filled with a yearning for the scent and warmth of other bodies—but they avoided him. It was probably because he was wearing uniform, for almost all the other habitués of the Mocambo Bar were Frenchmen in civilian clothes.
“Something worrying you?” asked the girl he was dancing with.
Hartmann’s reaction was almost violent. “I’m happy,” he assured her. “I like it here. I come here often. I virtually discovered this place. Do you like it?”
“My name’s Ulrike.” The girl in his arms relaxed against him. “You’re welcome to call me Ulrike.”
“But do you like it here?” Hartmann asked hopefully.
“I like it because I’m here with you.” Ulrike’s lips were so close to his ear that he could almost feel them. “I’ve always wanted to be in a place like this—with you.”
Hartmann recoiled instinctively. Ulrike was the G.O.C.’s daughter and his friend Otto was under instructions to look after her, but Otto was hitting the bottle at the bar. His broad hindquarters and amorphous back were visible across the dance floor.
The next time Ulrike von Seydlitz-Gabler pressed her body gently against his, Hartmann did not recoil. It must have something to do with the atmosphere, he reflected. Just the attraction of the unfamiliar—a meaningless game, that was all, but yet another proof of how wonderful Paris was.
Everything Hartmann saw and heard pleased him: the sparse lighting with its soft gradations of red, the solid brick walls and the hypnotic beat of the drums, like the pulsing wing-beats of a flock of birds on the rise. He also liked the people who frequented this modest place of entertainment.
“Where can I wash my hands?” asked Ulrike when the music stopped.
Hartmann showed her. He was no stranger to the amenities of the Mocambo Bar—kitchen, bottle store, office and solitary toilet—all of them the size of a pocket handkerchief. He wandered over to the bar. Otto, his friend,
companion and guide was there, and so was Raymonde. Raymonde meant Paris to Hartmann, even if it was the Paris of suburbs and back-yards, short-time hotels and Métro entrances.
Raymonde rinsed some glasses and smiled at him.
“You’re going great guns with Mademoiselle von Seydlitz-Gabler,” said Otto admiringly, his suety, pig-like face beaming. “But don’t go burning your fingers.”
Without waiting for Hartmann to ask, Raymonde put a crème de menthe frappée in front of him. Jealousy was alien to her, probably because she felt confident of her own special qualities. She didn’t regard Ulrike von Seydlitz-Gabler as competition, and lack of space did not prevent her from waggling her hips provocatively at Hartmann in the diminutive cubby-hole behind the bar counter.
“Why not hand Raymonde over to me for the night?” Otto suggested casually. “I’m sure Ulrike would make it up to you.”
“Are you speaking from experience?”
“Heaven forbid!” Otto sounded shocked. “I’m not tired of living. I leave that sort of caper to you.”
Rainer Hartmann felt a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder. It belonged to Ulrike. “Shall we dance again?” she asked.
He felt himself swept away by the music. The band was playing a blues—the Basin Street Blues—with a mixture of passion and attenuated melancholy. The extra-strong crème de menthe, his seventh of the evening, hung about him like a heavy velvet curtain. His uniform jacket was draped limply over a chair somewhere.
“I feel wonderful,” said Ulrike, hugging him. “I may even be happy too—I’m not quite sure.”
The Night of the Generals Page 9