The Night of the Generals

by Hans Hellmut Kirst

  The General did not stir. His eyes were narrowed to the point of invisibility, but his Knight’s Cross with its various bars twinkled brightly. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  “Come closer, Hartmann,” bade Sandauer.

  Hartmann complied. The General’s immobile face seemed suddenly to grow in size. His thin, knifelike mouth moved, and Hartmann heard a voice, chill and clear as the reaches of outer space, say: “Show me your hands.”

  Hartmann obediently extended his hands towards the seated figure. After a short pause he turned them over so that his palms were uppermost. His fingers did not tremble.

  “Carry on, Sandauer,” said the General.

  This concluded the interview. Back in his office, the G.S.O.1 indulged in a smile. He lowered himself into his chair and removed his glasses.

  “You didn’t make a bad impression.” Sandauer sounded as though Hartmann had passed a stiff examination against odds. “The General has accepted you, and that’s as good as a medal. However, it’s early days yet. Everything will depend on whether you really do your stuff. You’d better sit down. There are still a few matters I want to discuss.”

  Sandauer began to ply Hartmann with questions. They struck him as superfluous, if not absolutely pointless, but he did his best to answer them fully. The G.S.O.1 wanted to know where he had spent his childhood, what schools he had attended, what subjects he had specialized in, what his special interests were, where he had normally spent his school holidays and what his favourite reading-matter was.

  Hartmann was tempted to ask what it was all about, but Sandauer’s patient inquisitorial technique allowed of no digressions. He fired his questions with the regularity of a man reading from a carefully devised questionnaire.

  “Don’t bother to work out whether there’s any point in my questions or not,” Sandauer said with a smile. “You’re not qualified to judge, Hartmann—not yet, anyway. You’ll just have to take it from me that there is. Right, let’s get on with it.”

  Hartmann found the next group of questions even more peculiar than the preceding one. Sandauer wanted to know if he had ever had an unusual illness, if any of his family had had an unusual illness, if he had any medical knowledge, if any close or distant relation of his was a doctor, if he had any friends who were interested in illnesses and discussed them with him.

  “No,” answered Hartmann resignedly.

  “Don’t be surprised by my curiosity, Hartmann.” Sandauer wiped his glasses with meticulous care. “Anyone who is to be introduced into General Tanz’s immediate vicinity has to be put through a fine-tooth comb.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sandauer leaned back and heaved a deep sigh, closing his lustreless eyes. “You will begin your duties with General Tanz tomorrow, July 18th, at eight o’clock in the morning. At that hour you will be waiting outside the Hotel Excelsior in the Place Vendôme with the Bentley. The General’s room number is thirty-three. At eight o’clock, mark you, not a second before or after. Detailed instructions have already been worked out and will be handed to you at the end of this interview. Sergeant Kopatzki, who is the General’s No. 1 orderly for the time being, will be able to give you a number of tips. Pay the utmost attention to all he tells you. By tomorrow morning you will have worked out an exact itinerary for submission to the General. It must take in all the main places of interest in Paris. Concentrate on works of art. But steer clear of tombs—even Napoleon’s! Remember, the watchword is relaxation.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sandauer replaced his glasses. “Among the particulars I shall give you will be a telephone number at which I can be reached at any time. If anything out of the ordinary happens—anything which exceeds your competence, Hartmann—ring me at once. It only remains for me to wish you good luck. You’ll need it.”

  Rainer Hartmann felt an overwhelming desire for a double cognac, but that was not the only reason why he made for the Mocambo Bar late that night. Raymonde would be there, Raymonde with her gentle smile, tolerant good humour and straightforward willingness to please. To Hartmann, she was like a life-line in a sea of troubles, and he could happily have spent the rest of his life with her.

  He forced a path through the closely entwined couples.

  One or two French people nodded to him, and his spirits rose slightly at this mark of distinction.

  Hartmann pushed his way up to the bar and grasped Raymonde’s cheerfully extended hand. He didn’t say “Good evening” or “How are you?”—just held her hand tightly for as long as she would let him. It was not a situation which could last indefinitely because Raymonde was on duty and he wanted his double cognac.

  “I’m out on my feet, Raymonde. I don’t know why, but I feel as if I’d swallowed the cat.”

  “Cheer up, it won’t last.” Raymonde flashed him an encouraging smile. “There are a couple of people over there just dying to take your mind off things.” She pointed to the far corner of the cellar.

  Otto, who sat there beaming like an amiable dumpling, raised his hand and beckoned Hartmann over. Then he jerked his thumb sideways at the girl sitting next to him. It was Ulrike von Seydlitz-Gabler. Otto’s gesture was rich in unspoken hints of primitive pleasures to come.

  Hartmann muttered something which Raymonde failed to catch but was certainly not expressive of delighted surprise. She told him not to keep his friends waiting and remonstrated with him when he protested that the two at the comer table were acquaintances, not friends.

  “She’s a nice girl, and really attractive. Most men would be happy to have her as a girl-friend.”

  “But I’ve got you.”

  “Not tonight you haven’t,” she said with a grin. “I’m a bit off-colour.”

  As ever, Raymonde was entirely undismayed by the presence of competition, being convinced that any man who knew her and went elsewhere would only find confirmation of her own superior charms.

  Reluctantly, Hartmann strolled across to the table where Otto and Ulrike were sitting. Otto shouted a few words of welcome above the noise of the band, waving his arms like flails. Ulrike said simply: “I’m glad you came.”

  Before Hartmann had a chance to reply a mountainous figure loomed over the table. It was Sergeant Stoss, but a new Sergeant Stoss, apparently inflamed by vast quantities of alcohol.

  “Hartmann!” he yelled, flinging his arms wide. “So you’re still alive, old cock! You won’t be for long, take it from me. You’re as good as dead—done for—finished—kaput! Just a heap of manure—good for daisies and dandelions and nothing else!”

  Hartmann tried vainly to extricate himself from the Sergeant’s clutches, but there was no stopping him. Stoss had tanked up with alcohol for the first time in years because tomorrow morning he would be able to sleep off the effects like a hibernating bear. After an eternity of abstinence, he was enthralled by the prospect of two or three days’ concentrated drinking. And he owed it all to Hartmann—that poor, clueless, good-natured imbecile Hartmann!

  “Write him off, girlie!” hiccupped Sergeant Stoss, bowing unsteadily in Ulrike’s direction. “Believe me, he’s done for only he doesn’t know it yet. Come on, give us a dance. Cheer up, sweetie-pie, Hartmann’s had it but old Stoss is here. Let’s go!”

  Hartmann got up and stood between him and Ulrike. “I’d better warn you, Sergeant,” he said in an undertone. “This young lady is General von Seydlitz-Gabler’s daughter.”

  “Marvellous!” Sergeant Stoss roared ecstatically, swaying like a flag-pole in a high wind. “That’s the best story I’ve heard for a long time. As a man who appreciates a joke—and I’m one—I can only say: if she’s the Corps Commander’s daughter I’m Goering’s brother!” He slapped his thigh with a noise like thunder.

  “I’m off duty now,” Hartmann said warningly.

  “Shit!” said Stoss. “Don’t talk to me about your private life. You haven’t got one any more.”

  “You’re drunk,” said Hartmann.

  “Of course I am!” yelled Sergeant
Stoss, clinging to the back of a chair. “Of course I am, but I’m a sergeant too, and I don’t like to see lance-corporals being annoyed by drunken sergeants. So get lost, Lance-Corporal. That’s an order!”

  “You can’t do that!” cried Ulrike, outraged.

  “Keep out of this, sweetie-pie,” Sergeant Stoss told her contemptuously. “This is man’s business. It’s above your head.”

  Hartmann stationed himself protectively in front of Ulrike. “Sergeant, you’ve absolutely no right…”

  “Shut up! Go off and get some kip—right now. That’s a direct order. You’ve got a heavy day in front of you, take it from me, and if you aren’t out of here in five minutes I’ll call the M.P.s and have you locked up. Got me?”

  “I’m going,” said Hartmann, his face dark with shame and fury. He knew he couldn’t risk another brush with the military police. “I’m going, but you haven’t heard the last of this.”

  “I hope not,” Stoss growled. “If you’re still in a condition to discuss it this time tomorrow I’ll be the first to congratulate you.”

  “What about me?” Ulrike asked.

  “You can stay as far as I’m concerned,” said Stoss condescendingly.

  Hartmann strove to save his face. He turned to Ulrike. “Otto will take you home. Try to understand my position. I must go—there’s no alternative. We’ll have to say good-bye for now.”

  “Will I see you tomorrow?”

  “Perhaps, I don’t know. I hope so.”

  “So do I.”

  “Your five minutes is just about up,” barked Sergeant Stoss. “Either you make yourself scarce or I go and ‘phone the M.P.s. I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to do that, or your girl-friend either.”

  “I don’t put up with boorish behaviour from anyone,” Ulrike said pugnaciously.

  “No?” Stoss grinned at her. He liked a girl with spirit. “I tell you what. Go and complain to your daddy—you know, the general. I’d be interested to see what happens.”

  INTERIM REPORT

  FURTHER DOCUMENTS

  Expert opinion of Herr B., the former sergeant in German counter-espionage who has a special knowledge of events which occurred in the Paris area during July 1944:

  “Frenchmen were generally kept under surveillance by Frenchmen, as much for linguistic reasons as anything else. However, since Germans also came into contact with Frenchmen, it frequently happened that members of the occupying forces were watched at the same time. As a result, many confidential discussions were recorded by the French authorities, and it is highly probable that these included conversations relating to the officers’ conspiracy.

  “I met Monsieur Prévert, who has been repeatedly mentioned in this connection, on only one occasion. Prévert was a strange man. He did not seem particularly impressive at first sight, but as soon as he opened his mouth one knew without doubt that he had extraordinary ability.

  “In a profession such as his, it is far from uncommon to trade in human lives. The rules of demand and supply operate there as elsewhere, and Prévert would naturally have been an expert at conducting such negotiations.

  “Initiates into the conspiracy were not certain which way General Kahlenberge’s sympathies lay. Apparently, he never established contact with the main group of conspirators, and it seems far more likely that he acted off his own bat and formed his own little circle. He is not, therefore, a clear-cut case.

  “Thus the crucial question here is not: what were General Kahlenberge and his possible backers worth?—but: what was a man like Kahlenberge worth to a man like Prévert? To Prévert, French patriots were naturally more important than a German general. Only this explains what actually happened.

  “The role played at that time by Lieutenant-Colonel Grau has never been fully explained. He had the reputation of being an unusually accomplished expert on espionage and sabotage. Some classed him as one of the Canaris circle and others as a member of another opposition group, but he may have been a lone wolf. On the other hand, certain circles regarded him as a potential danger, probably because no one ever managed to sum him up.”

  Statement by Jacques Dumaine. Though not mentioned by name anywhere in the present book, Dumaine was the proprietor of the Mocambo Bar in Paris in 1944. He is now (1961) the proprietor of a restaurant (credited with one star by Michelin) at Les Sables, north of La Rochelle. The notes reproduced here cover only a few sentences taken from a three-hour interview:

  “The Mocambo Bar was always jammed full—mostly with young people. All they wanted to do was live it up—forget, get drunk, make love. It didn’t matter what language they spoke or whether they wore uniform or not.

  “… I remember Hartmann well. He always looked as if he was hungry but didn’t quite know what for. He spoke appalling French. It still makes my ears hurt to think of it. But what spirit!

  “Perhaps my weakness for the lad had something to do with Raymonde. I wonder if he ever realized how lucky he was to have her…

  “… Yes, he gave a speech at my place. I could have hugged him, but I never got the chance. I was busy serving customers, and a little while later the Boches came tramping in looking like a lot of tortoises in those helmets of theirs…

  “The next day Hartmann was back again. He was like one of those toys—you know, you stand them on their heads or give them a shove and they bob up smiling.

  “What ever became of him?”

  Further comments on Lieutenant-Colonel Grau by ex-Sergeant Engel:

  “I spent a lot of time with him, in private as well as on duty. He talked to me a great deal, but I never made out what his real ideas were. Sometimes, when he made a risky remark I didn’t know whether he meant it or whether it was just a sort of joke.

  “There were times when he had to keep five balls in the air at once. It was part of the job. People were always sticking their oar in—the S.D. and the Gestapo, for instance. Grau had his hands full, shaking those lads off, and every so often there was a rumpus. For example, the S.D. swore that Grau had knocked two of their men off.

  “But a lot of the army boys in the Paris area also got hot under the collar when Grau appeared on the scene. He enjoyed hauling senior officers out of their beds late at night and arresting them—in the politest possible way, of course.”

  4

  It was the morning of July 18th 1944, and Paris lay there radiant in the splendour of high summer like an attractively dishabille woman of mature years and warm-blooded beauty who was preparing to rise and begin another in a long succession of pleasurable days.

  Or so, at least, Rainer Hartmann felt, though others might have described the morning in more prosaic terms, e.g.: sky cloudless, temperature average for the time of year and traffic normal, or rather, normal for war-time conditions. Anyway, it was Paris as it had always been and would always be—endless façades of petrified grandeur in every conceivable shade of grey, grey-black and black, sweltering in brilliant sunlight.

  It was precisely eight o’clock, and Hartmann was standing beside the Bentley in front of the main entrance of the Hotel Excelsior. His forebodings of the previous night had vanished, leaving him pleasantly excited at the prospect of what he was sure would be an unusual experience. The thought of General Tanz’s rugged, adamantine inaccessibility did not perturb him unduly. Even Tanz, he told himself optimistically, would succumb to the unique enchantment of the city sooner or later.

  A sergeant emerged from the hotel and hurried up to him. He looked pale as death and was carrying a briefcase —though “transporting” might have been a better description. He handled it as gingerly as if it contained a live bomb which might explode at the slightest jolt.

  “Are you Hartmann?” the sergeant inquired. “My name’s Kopatzki, but you’re welcome to call me Paul. I’m General Tanz’s No. 1 orderly—for the time being, that is. I may have lost the job already. I forgot to take his laces out before cleaning his shoes this morning. If he notices it I’m done for.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Hartm
ann.

  “You needn’t be.” Sergeant Kopatzki showed the whites of his eyes like a cowed but cunning mongrel. “I ought to have done it ages ago. Hell throw me out on my neck and get me fourteen days’ spud-bashing, but it’ll be a rest-cure after all I’ve been through.”

  Hartmann was at a loss for an answer, but one thing seemed certain: Kopatzki, Paul, was hardly a bundle of joy. “Is the briefcase for me?”

  “You bet your sweet life it’s not! This briefcase belongs to the General. It’s got his holiday rations inside, if you like to call them that.”

  Kopatzki held out the briefcase to Hartmann. Its dark pig-skin surface gleamed like a mirror.

  “Hand-polished!” Kopatzki said bitterly. “It only takes a quarter of an hour a day to bring the shine up, but the General’s got three of the sods.”

  Hartmann made to take the briefcase, but Kopatzki stepped back hastily, his face betraying alarm. “Don’t put your sweaty paws all over it! Haven’t you got any gloves?”

  “What do you mean, gloves? I’m not a flunkey.”

  Paul Kopatzki laughed hoarsely but without malice. “Please yourself, it’s all the same to me. You can dig your own grave as soon as you like, but you’re not going to do it at my expense. I’m responsible for this briefcase until you and the General drive off.”

  So saying, Kopatzki stowed the case away with his own gloved hands. He put it in the back of the Bentley, first satisfying himself that the floor was spotlessly clean. “I never mind helping a pal,” he said. “Sometimes there’s no choice.”

  Hartmann was informed that the briefcase contained “refreshments,” to whit: a bottle of cognac, a bottle of gin and a Thermos flask of strong black coffee, seventy beans per cup, temperature forty degrees centigrade. “One degree over or under and the General will throw it at your head or the nearest wall.”