“One can be happy here,” Hartmann assured her. He was hopelessly enraptured, a condition which always afflicted him when he was being lapped by waves of private yearning. Out of spontaneous gratitude more than anything else, he pressed Ulrike von Seydlitz-Gabler to him. Glancing across at Raymonde he saw that she was still smiling at him. His happiness was complete.
Except for one thing. He wanted all the French people in the room to smile at him—not only Raymonde. He loved them, surely they could feel that, but there always seemed to be a vacuum round the Germans dancing there—round him too, even though he had taken off his uniform jacket. It began to get on his nerves.
“Why are they so prejudiced against us?” Rainer Hartmann asked sadly. He surveyed the solid wall of faces round him and had a violent impulse to smash through their cold indifference. “Something ought to be done about it.”
“We’ll just have to be patient and hope for better times,” Ulrike told him.
“It’s not good enough just to hope for better times. Why shouldn’t we try and do something about it?”
Ulrike smiled at him. “Don’t they say that when two people are happy it’s catching? Or isn’t that enough for you, Rainer?”
“What about humanity as a whole?” Hartmann’s voice rose to a shout. The combined effects of seven crèmes de menthe, the viscous heat and pulsating music had done their work only too well.
He left Ulrike standing, pushed his way through the jungle of dancing figures and climbed on to the platform, gently dislodging the saxophonist. He raised both arms as though in supplication. The music stopped, and a hundred upturned faces swam before his gaze like extinguished lanterns.
Hartmann stood on the stage in a rather obscure cellar bar in a street just off the Champs-Elysées. At that moment, the Eastern and Western fronts were threatening to collapse, men were dying by thousands in places no one had ever heard of, war material thundered against war material and the world seemed to be parcelled up into mass graves.
But Hartmann stood there, a figure clad in clumsy ammunition boots, crumpled wood-fibre trousers and a greyish-yellow shirt dark with sweat at the shoulders, the whole surmounted by an excited, perspiring face.
“Friends!” cried Rainer Hartmann passionately. He spoke French with difficulty. His “mes amis” sounded hoarse, but it seemed to have an arresting effect. At least no one shouted him down.
“When I say ‘friends’,” Hartmann continued in his wooden schoolboy French, “I mean it. I’m sorry, I speak your language badly, but I mean what I say.”
“That’s something, anyway!” a Frenchman called out encouragingly.
A number of people laughed, women mainly, but their laughter sounded almost affectionate. Raymonde, his beloved Raymonde, who was still behind the bar, clapped. Quite a few of the others joined in the applause—whether in fun or not it was hard to tell.
“I am a German!” Hartmann cried with enthusiasm. “You are French! But we’re all human beings! I can’t help this war—I didn’t start it and neither did you. But we’re all part of it, so we have something in common. We belong together. We want to live. Let’s live as best we can!”
“Bravo!” shouted a number of Frenchmen.
The few Germans in the room stared at each other, more in amazement than anything else. One who sat near the exit seemed to be writing something down. Presumably he was taking notes. Ulrike von Seydlitz-Gabler stood rooted to the spot. Raymonde was still smiling, but Otto sat frozen to his bar stool like a hunk of ice.
“Are you completely off your rocker?” he asked Hartmann when things had returned to normal. “You could be shot for what you did just now—don’t you realize that? You belong in a nursery school, not a war. You know, sometimes I have a horrible feeling you’re dead but you won’t lie down.”
Just over half an hour later a military police patrol, duly alerted, marched in and arrested Hartmann.
Police Headquarters in the Quai des Orfèvres worked a twenty-four hour day. The more violent the age, the more violent the crimes committed in it. As Monsieur Henri Prévert—commonly known as “Henri le doux”—used to say in private: “We’ll soon be living in policeman’s paradise. It won’t matter what you do—you’ll automatically be committing some crime or other.”
Henri Prévert was a pear-shaped man whose hindquarters appeared to dominate the rest of his body. His face looked as though it had been hurriedly kneaded together out of baker’s dough and his eyes were reminiscent of old, worn out buttons. Behind this façade, however, lurked an accurate and highly sensitive instrument, for Prévert had what was probably the best brain currently available to the Paris police force.
The telephone on his desk buzzed briefly three times. This signified the presence of a visitor—to be precise, the sort of visitor who could walk in unannounced. Under prevailing circumstances this could only be a member of the German counter-espionage service. Prévert guessed that it would be Engel, the bloodhound who spent most of his time making life difficult for him, but he was wrong. The door opened to reveal Lieutenant-Colonel Grau himself.
Prévert’s doughy features betrayed no reaction whatsoever. They never did—indeed, they seemed incapable of registering any expression other than indifference.
“This is an honour, Colonel Grau!” Prévert’s voice sounded as if it had been filtered through absinthe, but his manner was cordial and welcoming.
Grau sat down with the easy grace of a cavalryman mounting a charger. He raised his chin inquiringly. “Have you got a bad conscience, Monsieur Prévert?”
“No, why should I have? After all, you’ve come to see me, Colonel. If I had blotted my copy-book you’d have sent for me.”
Prévert had what was probably one of the most difficult jobs in occupied France. As chief of a newly formed department within the Sûreté Nationale, it was his duty to maintain the requisite contacts between the forces of occupation and the French police authorities. No one envied him his task, and his colleagues were convinced that his head sat lighter on his shoulders than any other in France.
Grau got down to business without any preamble. Empty courtesies and diplomatic shadow-boxing were superfluous with a man like Prévert. He said: “I want to make a deal with you.”
Prévert nodded readily. He knew that it was not a question of silk, cognac or antiques. When people bargained with him it was for human Eves. “I shall do my best not to swindle you,” he said.
“Monsieur Prévert,” said Grau, “what I have to offer is something which will presumably interest you as a Frenchman: the lives of a few French patriots. I might be able to hand over half a dozen of your heroes, providing they’re still in our custody and I can exert pressure in the proper quarters.”
“And what is your particular interest, Colonel?”
“Not small fry, Monsieur Prévert, I can tell you that. I’m interested in bigger fish—really big ones, perhaps.”
Prévert inclined his head and shoulders in a gesture of complete understanding. He was not particularly surprised by Grau’s suggestion because Engel had already made hints in that direction. Grau was evidently after big game.
“A tall order, Colonel, but not entirely out of the question. Some of the necessary material may already be to hand. I’m thinking mainly of the work done by our special agents in the security section which I set up to represent your interests.”
This “security section” was Prévert’s own personal brainchild. Its official task was to give the Germans free rein and effective backing, its true function to record incidents, conversations and behaviour—in short, to register everything from petty misdemeanours to serious crimes. One extremely efficient team of operatives had been installed in the brothel in the Rue St. Honoré, which was frequented by senior officers. They employed listening devices of the highest technical precision—all, be it noted, for the benefit and protection of the Germans, who dreaded to think what might happen if a German officer fell into a pimp’s clutches.
“
It’s not easy,” Prévert went on. “There’s always some reshuffling going on. For instance, a flourishing establishment specializing in perversions has sprung up in the Avenue Montaigne. Another new house just round the corner in the Rue François employs minors only. We’ve got all these establishments under surveillance, of course. There are German officers among the regular patrons of the Rue François and I could give you a sizeable number of names which appear on the books of homosexual houses—those of three members of your department among them.”
Grau brushed this aside much as he would have a fly. “I’m not particularly interested in that sort of thing,” he said contemptuously. “Almost everyone has a little lapse now and then, depending on how drunk he is, and there are homosexuals everywhere. I’m interested in bigger perversions. Naturally you could give me lists of names, Monsieur Prévert. But I want more than that—considerably more.”
Prévert raised his bull-dog nose as though snuffing the air. If he could actively help to decimate the Germans-whatever Grau’s intentions were—why shouldn’t he, especially as he would be preserving a few of his compatriots from certain death. He meditated for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders.
“What, for instance,” he finally asked in his husky absinthe-laden voice, “would one of your generals be worth?”
“Three Frenchmen,” Grau replied promptly. “Three taken from any list you care to give me, except that it must contain at least ten names. I reserve the right to choose. I’m not omnipotent, you understand. I have to take great care not to tread on the toes of the S.D. or the Gestapo.— But I don’t need to explain that to you. Paris will soon see the last of those unpleasant organizations, anyway. Our business takes priority. Can you tell me which general may be involved in your offer?”
Prévert hesitated. Grau was not the sort of man to haggle with. He was tricky to handle, but he always put his cards on the table.
“Are you familiar with a general named Kahlenberge?”
“It’s a deal!” said Grau. “What can you offer me in this connection?”
“Give me a day or two to assemble my material. There are still a few gaps.”
“I shall be back tomorrow, Monsieur Prévert.”
INTERIM REPORT
FURTHER PARTICULARS
Notes supplied by a journalist who is an expert on the events that took place in Paris in July 1944 and has written several important articles on the subject:
“There is scarcely anything to add to what is already known about the group which formed itself round General von Stülpnagel, commander-in-chief of the German forces in France. The conduct of most of the officers who were directly involved in the conspiracy against Hitler merits our unqualified respect, and the conduct of Lieutenant-Colonel Cäsar von Hofacker, in particular, was distinguished by historic greatness.
“Apart from this clearly defined group at the top there existed numerous others composed of sympathetic but passive accomplices, and others of men who had become party to the conspiracy by accident. Then, again, there were officers who guessed a great deal but knew nothing for certain. These individuals circled the main groups like satellites, cautiously trying to make contact but failing.
“Still other men, regimental officers as well as staff officers and generals, formed their own independent groups and tried to build up their own networks. They conspired with and sometimes—unwittingly—against each other. Each felt that things could not go on as they were, but all lacked centralized direction—though it must be admitted that this was scarcely possible under the circumstances.
“As a result, attempts at conspiracy sometimes took curious forms. One important rule was to put nothing in writing and avoid suspicious turns of phrase on the telephone because the enemy might be listening in. In this instance, the enemy was the S.D. and the Gestapo, although many also regarded the Abwehr as such. The only comparatively safe method of communication was direct contact between two individuals or very limited groups of individuals.
“It was essential to avoid attracting attention. Conversation between two officers in the same department presented no special difficulty, but when the officers in question had no official connection with one another the problem became exceedingly awkward.
“Neutral and inconspicuous places were favoured as venues for this type of conversation. Among them was the Métro, especially Lines 1 and 7 between Palais Royal and Hôtel-de-Ville. It was not unusual for contact to be made in cafés, and von Falkenhausen of the Commander-in-Chief’s staff developed a craze for taking bicycle rides dressed in civilian clothes, complete with typically French basque beret.
“Consider the general situation. The Eastern Front was steadily contracting, the Allies had landed in Sicily, and the Normandy front, which had held hitherto, was now showing signs of collapse. Still based in Paris were numerous headquarters staffs and various units belonging to all three services—e.g. an army, a navy and an air force headquarters, each with its own garrison troops—the Commander-in-Chief, France, the senior S.S. and police chief, France, the headquarters of the S.D., France, the staff of the Quarter-Master-General, Western Command, and so on.
“Furthermore, stationed in and around Paris were numerous units of varying size, some held in reserve, some ordered there for regrouping and transfer and some intended as garrison and ‘pacification’ units.
“Outwardly, however, Paris hardly seemed to have changed at all. It was still, to quote an expert, regarded as an El Dorado by many Germans.”
Statement by ex-Sergeant Johannes Kopisch, formerly a member of the Provost Corps and as such permanently engaged in disciplinary duties within the garrison area of Greater Paris:
“Why do I still remember that evening so well? Because the whole business seemed so goddam stupid. You come up against a lot of funny things in the Provost Corps, but what happened that night was just plain idiotic.
“I can’t tell you the precise date and time, but it was after midnight and damned sticky—it was like a Turkish bath the whole of that July—up till the 21st, that is. I can still remember the exact date. Why? Because that’s when it began to rain. My notebook fell into a puddle and I was bloody near transferred to the front on account of it. My captain was a pernickety sod. I could tell you a thing or two about him!
“All right, I’m coming to it. It must have been a few days before the 21st. We were out on patrol as usual, me and a pal in a truck. Up and down the Champs-Elysées all the time, from the arch to the square and back again.
“Well, while we were driving up the Champs—or were we driving down? I can’t remember—someone stops us and says: There’s a chap giving a defeatist speech in the Mocambo Bar.’ I said: ‘Breathe!’ but he wasn’t tight or we’d have sent him off with a flea in his ear. As a matter of fact, he was an N.C.O.—a real spit-and-polish type. There wasn’t anything for it but to go and take a gander at the Mocambo Bar.
“We collared the lad who was supposed to have spoken out of turn and I winked and said: “Well?’—encouragingly, if you understand me. And what does the fellow say, the stupid bastard? Just says: ‘Yes.’ Admits the lot. Never thinks of shooting the only possible line—you know: I was drunk, I was misunderstood, I meant the exact opposite—and all the rest of the old bullshit.
“I couldn’t believe my ears! This chap Hartmann was actually proud of his night’s work—even asked what all the fuss was about. I ask you, how dumb can you get?—Stirring up the French and calling the war a load of crap in front of a few dozen witnesses! Mind you, he may have had a point, when you think about it today, but you just don’t do things like that.
“Well, I had to take this Hartmann along, and a few witnesses as well. One of them said she was a general’s daughter. I had a good laugh at that until I found out her old man really was a general. Anyway, I reported the matter. What else could I do? It was my duty.
“What sort of impression did Hartmann make on me? Well, as I said, he was a poor stupid bastard. Nice chap all the same—a bit
soft, but nice, there’s no denying that. He sort of tickled me. I got the feeling he wasn’t quite right upstairs. Why? I don’t know. It was just a feeling.”
Deposition by ex-Lieutenant-Colonel Sandauer, formerly G.S.O.1 in General Tanz’s division. This deposition was accompanied by an assurance that it could be used as an affidavit at any time. It was supplied in writing, seventeen years after the events referred to.
Exact date: 18th September 1961:
“I should like to stress that there can be no talk of ‘squandered lives’ in connection with the Nibelungen Division of which General Tanz was the commanding officer, neither during operations in Poland and Russia nor during similar engagements in France. The transfer of our division to the Greater Paris area in July 1944 was not in any way a reflection on its commander.
“The true facts are as follows:
i The losses sustained by General Tanz’s division remained within what may be described as normal limits at every stage.
ii Even if our casualties sometimes appeared unusually high by layman’s standards, this was attributable solely to the fact that, as an elite division, we were always in the forefront of the fighting.
iii The division’s chain of command remained intact at all times, and was never for a moment endangered or interrupted. The only possible exception to this was the situation which developed outside Leningrad in December 1941. On that occasion General Tanz was cut off while personally leading an assault, and our command post was subjected to concentrated artillery fire. Due to a combination of these two unfortunate circumstances the division temporarily ceased to be operational.
iv The widespread rumour that General Tanz received orders, allegedly from the Führer himself, to refrain from direct and personal participation in military operations does not accord with the full facts.
“As a private individual, I should like to add the following rider:
“General Tanz was essentially a fighting man, but after the Leningrad incident he was always at pains to keep the division under strict control at all times. Since the only normal method of doing this was from Divisional Headquarters, the General was compelled to avoid personal involvement in the field.”
The Night of the Generals Page 10