The Night of the Generals

by Hans Hellmut Kirst

  General Tanz halted. Not a muscle of his face moved, but his eyes travelled over every inch of the Bentley, taking in the headlamps, the bonnet and wings, the windscreen and windows, the paintwork on the doors, the tyres, rear mudguards, wheels and hub-caps. His expression was completely inscrutable.

  “Open the bonnet, Hartmann.”

  The General took two paces forward—then, after a short pause, a third. He bent over the engine and examined it closely. Pulling a snow-white handkerchief from his breastpocket he rubbed it round a sparking-plug and held it up to the light, apparently without discovering any dirt. Then he bent down again and rubbed his still virgin handkerchief against the engine block, concentrating on the distributor-head.

  Hartmann stood there in his brown reach-me-down and possessed his soul in patience, knees braced, chin in, chest out and fingers aligned with his trouser seams in the regulation manner, thinking what all other ranks think on such occasions—an unprintable phrase meaning roughly: “I couldn’t care less!” For all that, his palms were moist with sweat.

  Tanz again scrutinized his still spotless handkerchief, his face as expressionless as before. Then, with a brisk sweep of his arm, he poked it back into his breast-pocket and climbed into the Bentley. Hartmann closed the bonnet.

  “A tour of the city,” commanded Tanz.

  Hartmann experienced a transient sense of relief. He closed the near-side rear door without excessive noise, slipped into his seat and drove off, grasping the wheel in his smartly begloved hands. This time he drove without any preconceived plan. Tanz didn’t seem to care what he saw or which direction the car took. He issued no orders and made no suggestions, registered neither approval nor dissent. He just sat there drinking in silence.

  Hartmann criss-crossed Paris at random, chauffeuring the Bentley along the Left Bank, crossing the Seine by one of the many bridges, driving along the Right Bank for a spell and then repeating the process. Above the scarcely audible hum of the car’s superb engine Hartmann became aware of a noise which he could not immediately identify. It sounded like the monotonous patter of falling rain, yet the streets were dry and the sun shone as brilliantly as ever on the gleaming expanse of windscreen in front of him.

  The monotonous drumming sound persisted. Very cautiously, Hartmann leant sideways until he could see the General in his driving-mirror. He saw Tanz’s stern wood-carving of a face, then his left hand holding a half-filled glass, then his right hand. His fingers were drumming on the leather arm-rest with the rhythmic regularity of a metronome. They continued to do so for minutes on end, like the moving parts of some intricate machine.

  “Stop,” said the General suddenly. The car rolled to a halt “What’s that building?”

  “The Invalides, sir.” Almost before the words were out of his mouth, Hartmann remembered Sandauer’s express warning on the subject. The Invalides was one of the places to be avoided.

  “Let’s have some details,” said Tanz.

  Hartmann reached for the guide book which lay ready on the seat beside him. He opened it and read the appropriate section aloud, carefully omitting any passages which might offend the General’s alleged susceptibilities. The Invalides— a classical edifice dating from the reign of the Roi Soleil—the Jesuit cathedral annexed to it, begun in 1679, consecrated in 1706—a military museum from 1905 onwards.

  “I’d like to see it,” Tanz announced. “Wait here.”

  He got out and advanced on the Invalides with his habitual air of ownership. Hartmann gazed after him resignedly, aware that he had been guilty of suppressing an important fact, namely that the Invalides contained the tomb of Napoleon and sundry other captains of war. But surely Tanz must realize that? It was a piece of information which even a German general should know.

  Hartmann shrugged his shoulders and systematically began to clean the Bentley with dusters, wash-leathers, dust-pan and brush. He had ample opportunity to indulge in this diverting pastime.

  After two hours the General reappeared, looking white and sick. He strode up to Hartmann and fixed him with a piercing stare. “Was that your idea of a joke?”

  Hartmann thought it wiser not to reply, guessing that any attempt at an apology would be dangerous. He took refuge in the role of chauffeur and silently opened the nearside rear door.

  “Tombs!” The General spat out the word contemptuously. “I didn’t come to Paris to look at graves. I’ve seen enough to last me a lifetime.” His voice grew menacing. “People don’t take liberties with me, Hartmann. Another blunder like that and you’ll find yourself carting dung, not driving a general.”

  Tanz climbed in. He fished about in one of his briefcases and produced a notebook—Hartmann could not make out its colour—in which he made a lengthy entry. Hartmann scarcely dared look in the driving-mirror, but when he plucked up courage to do so he saw that Tanz’s forehead was heavily beaded with sweat as though he found writing an immense physical effort.

  “Fresh air,” he said eventually.

  Hartmann drove westwards in the direction of the Bois de Boulogne. He kept close to the Seine at first, warned by recent experience to avoid the Place de L’Etoile and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Passing the Palais de Chaillot—innocuous because it only contained pictures—he made for La Inférieur.

  Hartmann’s sense of relief at having reached the Bois without incident was marred by a sudden fear that its long tree-lined avenues might remind his passenger of a military cemetery. This seemed unlikely, but Tanz’s reactions were unpredictable.

  However, once Tanz had lunched at a local inn, a certain measure of harmony returned to the atmosphere. Trout with almonds followed by half a chicken from the spit, white wine with the former, red wine with the latter, a pernod before the meal, a cognac after it, a cigar with coffee and cigarettes between courses—all seemed to have had a mellowing effect.

  “This whole business disgusts me,” Tanz confided when he was once more installed in the car, “but even I have to relax once in a while. It’s like voiding one’s bowels—revolting but inevitable.”

  “Do you have any particular plans for the afternoon, sir?”

  “The paintings in those postcards of mine, Hartmann—I’d like to see them.”

  “The Impressionists, sir?” Hartmann could not hide his incredulity.

  Tanz gestured impatiently. The right side of his face twitched twice, and when he spoke his voice was as sharp as a razor.

  “Don’t stare at me in that stupid way! I refuse to be gawped at, do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Move off!”

  Hartmann cowered over the wheel as if a cold and steely hand might grip him by the nape of the neck at any moment, though he knew that all he could feel was the General’s cold and steely gaze. There was no escaping the sensation, so the best thing was to accept it as calmly as possible. This must be just another of the bewildering eccentricities for which Tanz was noted.

  Hartmann traversed the Place de la Concorde and parked the car beside the Jardin des Tuileries on the corner of the Rue de Rivoli—exactly where it had stood the day before. Tanz climbed out and stood there surveying his surroundings like a man who was seeing them for the very first time.

  “You go on ahead and buy the tickets,” he told Hartmann. “Then get hold of a catalogue and follow me round the exhibition. I want details, but only constructive ones. Don’t try and blind me with science.”

  What followed was an exact repetition of the previous day’s performance. The General stalked past the paintings as though he were inspecting a guard of honour. Methodical as ever, he examined No. 1 in the catalogue first, then No. 2, then No. 3 and so on, allotting each picture precisely the same number of seconds.

  Hartmann followed Tanz as he had done twenty-four hours earlier, reading out the same details in the same discreet undertone.

  “Edouard Manet, Vase of Peonies, painted 1864-63, signed, oils 91 x 69 centimetres…”

  General
Tanz’s tour of inspection was such that he never entirely came to rest. It was impossible to tell whether or not his pale eyes registered what swam into their field of vision. From time to time he clasped his hands together behind him, kneading his fingers until the knuckles cracked under the strain. His pursed lips resembled the coin slot in a telephone booth. For a full hour, not a word emerged from them.

  Hartmann felt dazed and apathetic. The exertions of the previous twenty-four hours had sapped his powers of resistance and left him as weary as a dog after a long day’s hunting. He began to tell himself, in so far as the interminable catalogue notes left him time, that there was a reason—some reason—for everything. A man like Tanz always knew what he was doing. Any other explanation was unthinkable. The man was a general.

  At last, the end of Hartmann’s ordeal came in sight. They had already reached the upper floor and only a third of the pictures, at most, remained to be seen. When they passed Monet’s three remarkable versions of Rouen Cathedral—in the light of dawn, early morning and high noon—General Tanz seemed to be on the point of shaking his head. He evidently failed to grasp why anyone should have bothered to paint the same scene three times, but that did not prevent him from appreciating the artist’s seemingly futile perseverance.

  Then, as though drawn to them by a loadstone, Tanz strode up to the central group of van Gogh’s paintings. At first it seemed as if he found them no more than agglomerations of paint, wall-coverings, catalogue numbers. He reacted negatively to the Arles section as to the Auvers. Neither Dr. Gachet nor the church nor the inn were capable of holding his gaze or halting his progress.

  Suddenly he stopped as if brought up short by a wall. Before him hung the van Gogh Self-Portrait, “Vincent in the Flames,” a glowing, glassy-green inferno of icy, all-devouring flames, a human being at the seething heart of the Universe, a man’s last glimpse of himself before night falls on his soul for ever.

  Tanz stood rooted to the spot. Minutes passed. Then Hartmann saw his granite shoulders begin to sag as though weighed down by a massive but invisible load. His head drooped, but his eyes remained fixed on van Gogh’s merciless expression of man’s ultimate torment.

  At length, and with a visible effort, the General mustered his reserves of energy. He straightened up, turned, and walked to the staircase, body erect but feet trailing. His right hand groped for the banister as he made his way downstairs. Emerging into the open, he stumbled across the gravel forecourt, past the weather-worn garden benches, to the balustrade.

  Here he stood supporting himself, breathing heavily like a marathon-runner breasting the tape. His back slowly straightened and his gaze travelled across the Place de la Concorde, where the guillotine had once stood, to the Champs-Elysees and the Arc de Triomphe at its further end, in the shadow of which, probably unknown to him, lay the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

  Hartmann posted himself behind the General at what he considered to be an appropriate distance, not understanding what had happened, merely waiting without knowing what for.

  He waited for thirty-five minutes.

  Frau Wilhelmine von Seydlitz-Gabler thought she knew the world—her world—pretty well. She was aware of her husband’s weaknesses and of his commendable efforts to conceal them, efforts which succeeded admirably with everyone but her.

  “Your daughter’s honour and future happiness are at stake, Herbert.”

  “Perhaps so,” said General von Seydlitz-Gabler, hedging, “but I have a nasty feeling that our daughter’s idea of her honour and future happiness differs considerably from yours.”

  “These are the facts, Herbert. Ulrike was out of her room almost all night, but she didn’t leave the hotel. That much is certain. The only question is: whom could she have been visiting in the hotel?”

  “Whom indeed!”

  “Why not Tanz?”

  Frau Wilhelmine produced this trump card from her sleeve with studied composure. She measured the world by her own standards. Why, she asked herself, shouldn’t Ulrike have taken the gamble she herself had taken almost a quarter of a century ago? In her own case, not that Herbert seemed to remember, it had virtually been a question of confirming a fait accompli, but Ulrike might easily be capable of doing the same thing under less favourable circumstances.

  “Impossible!” Von Seydlitz-Gabler’s voice rang with conviction. “Not Tanz!”

  “We obviously can’t remain indifferent to Ulrike’s goings-on, but I admit that we may be biased. What we need is to discuss it with—someone who can be regarded as neutral and reliable. You know who I’m thinking of?”

  Von Seydlitz-Gabler was in no doubt whatsoever. The only name which presented itself was that of Kahlenberge—Kahlenberge the reliable, the experienced, the crafty. He was just the man for a ticklish problem of this sort.

  Kahlenberge appeared wearing an air of cheerful deference.

  Frau Wilhelmine had no intention of rushing things. She proceeded diplomatically, first fulfilling her social obligations by ordering the floor waiter to serve coffee and brandy. Then, after a monologue on the subject of maternal solicitude, she produced her punch line:

  “Could it have been General Tanz whom my daughter visited last night?”

  “Quite possible,” Kahlenberge replied laconically, “but scarcely probable. After all, he’s not the only man who was staying here last night.”

  “General Kahlenberge,” Frau Wilhelmine said urgently, “I can see that you know something about this affair.”

  “Your ladyship is very acute.”

  “I insist on the truth, Kahlenberge,” von Seydlitz-Gabler demanded.

  “Of course, sir, though I’m a little reluctant to give a frank answer in this particular case. It may lead to misunderstandings.”

  “Not with me,” Frau Wilhelmine assured him. “Please go on.”

  “When a young girl stays away from her room all night,” Kahlenberge said smoothly, “why should the man in question be a general? Why shouldn’t it be someone of her own age—a young lance-corporal, for instance?”

  “A lance-corporal!” Frau Wilhelmine’s spontaneous yelp of outrage could not have been more heartfelt if she had caught a butler adulterating vintage burgundy with common tap-water. “May I inquire what prompts you to make such a suggestion?”

  “I occasionally have a chat with Otto, my chief clerk,” said Kahlenberge. “He can be very interesting at times.”

  “And do you make a practice of discussing private matters with this man?”

  “Only private matters. It isn’t my habit to discuss official business with my subordinates.”

  “Quite right,” put in von Seydlitz-Gabler, who evidently felt it necessary to advertise his presence from time to time. “When we’re on duty we issue orders and give instructions.”

  “I’m not unaware of that, Herbert.” Frau Wilhelmine’s eyes remained fixed on Kahlenberge. “The only thing I am unaware of is the precise nature of General Kahlenberge’s conversations with his clerk.”

  “Otto is rather like an old and trusted retainer. He’s a gossip of the first order—knocks any woman into a cocked hat, saving your presence. He makes a habit of telling me all he knows, hears or suspects on any subject.”

  “My daughter included?”

  “Your daughter included. You see, Otto has a friend, a lance-corporal named Hartmann.”

  “Hartmann?” said Frau Wilhelmine.

  “You may remember him. You were kind enough to take him under your wing in Warsaw.”

  “It can’t be true!” von Seydlitz-Gabler exclaimed in outraged tones.

  A gentle flush mantled Frau Wilhelmine’s neck and rose to her cheeks. It was an alarm signal. “My constant concern for the welfare of your men is entirely disinterested and has never overstepped the bounds of propriety, Herbert. Surely you wouldn’t reproach me for it!”

  “Forgive me, my love!” von Seydlitz-Gabler said hastily. “Of course I’m not blaming you. It’s this young swine—what’s he called again?—Har
tmann, that’s right, I’ll remember the name. How dare a person like that intrude into our private affairs? I just can’t believe it.”

  “Go on, General Kahlenberge,” Frau Wilhelmine urged dramatically. “Don’t spare my feelings.”

  Her request was totally superfluous. Kahlenberge hadn’t the least intention of sparing anyone’s feelings.

  “Your daughter got to know Hartmann in Warsaw, though how well I cannot say. They exchanged letters, and since they reached Paris they’ve been seeing each other again.”

  “Seeing each other again!” interjected Frau Wilhelmine, clutching at a straw. “That needn’t necessarily mean anything. It may be quite harmless. Besides, lance-corporals don’t stay at the Hotel Excelsior.”

  General Kahlenberge cleared his throat significantly and glanced at von Seydlitz-Gabler as though he were a placard bearing an important announcement. Frau Wilhelmine followed his gaze.

  “Have you something to tell me, Herbert?”

  “Absolutely nothing, my dear, except for one small detail. Lance-Corporal Hartmann is staying in this hotel on Kahlenberge’s orders and with my approval.”

  “And what’s he supposed to be doing here?”

  “Lance-Corporal Hartmann’s job,” Kahlenberge announced cheerfully, “is to make General Tanz’s leave as pleasant as humanly possible.”

  “Incredible,” said Frau Wilhelmine tonelessly. “Well, Herbert?”

  “The situation will be rectified,” promised the G.O.C.— “through the proper channels, of course. I refuse to tolerate such an infamous breach of trust. Take the necessary steps, Kahlenberge.”

  INTERIM REPORT

  EXTRACTS FROM FURTHER DOCUMENTS, RECORDS AND STATEMENTS

  Information volunteered by Hector Meurisse of Paris, hall porter, still employed by the Hotel Excelsior when interviewed in 1960

  “Our hotel, which you tactfully call the Hotel Excelsior—and I’m sure the management will be most grateful to you for being so discreet, monsieur—was one of the most reputable in Paris, and still is. We weren’t directly controlled by the German authorities during the Occupation. We were merely instructed to give priority to special guests, and the guests they allotted us were all V.I.P.s—though not by international standards, of course.