The Night of the Generals

by Hans Hellmut Kirst

  Kahlenberge: “With his division. But what’s this all about, Prévert?”

  Prévert: “I’ll gladly tell you as soon as I know more details myself. May I ask whether plans for the forthcoming operation are complete yet?”

  Kahlenberge: “They appear to be. It may already be under way.”

  Prévert: “Good. All the best, then. I’ll keep in touch.”

  2.04 p.m.

  Once again the Quartermaster-General’s office at Zossen came on the line asking for Colonel Finckh, and once again Finckh heard the quiet, unemotional unfamiliar voice. This time it said: “Gone off.” Then the ‘phone went dead.

  This meant that Colonel Stauffenberg’s bomb had exploded, that the sands had run out at last, that the Führer was no more.

  Why wait any longer?

  2.08 p.m.

  Inspector Prévert outlined his plan of action to Lieutenant-Colonel Grau:

  “I’ll look through the reports so far submitted and have a word with Detective-Inspector Magron, who has been handling the case. Then we’ll inspect the scene of the crime. In the meantime we ought to look for the missing Bentley—and Hartmann too, of course.”

  “I’ll contact the Provost Marshal and get him to authorize special patrols.”

  “I shall need information from Wehrmacht personnel, Hartmann’s friends in particular. It’s important to know who he was friendly with, what his habits were, whether he had any favourite haunts, what women he was seeing—routine questions of that nature.”

  “I’ll put Engel on to it. He’s good at that sort of thing.”

  “Excellent,” Prévert declared. “One of my men can handle inquiries at the Hotel Excelsior, but who’s going to collect statements from Tanz and the other generals?”

  “I’ll deal with them,” Grau replied, adding grimly: “It’ll be a pleasure.”

  “If you take my advice, Colonel, you’ll wait until we’ve completed our preliminary investigations and have the basic facts at our finger-tips.”

  “Of course. But then I’ll make a thorough job of it.”

  2.52 p.m.

  General von Seydlitz-Gabler was resting. He had doffed his uniform jacket, pulled off his glossy shoes and opened his waist-band. He lay motionless on the bed, his slightly parted lips emitting an occasional rattling sound.

  A series of loud knocks roused him from his well-earned afternoon nap. He woke up with a snort, frowning.

  “I don’t wish to be disturbed!” he called.

  It was a vain hope. The door opened to reveal Melanie Neumaier, looking distraught. Then she was pushed almost brutally to one side and General Kahlenberge appeared. He closed the door behind him and walked swiftly to the G.O.C.’s bedside.

  “The time has come,” he said.

  Von Seydlitz-Gabler propped himself on one elbow. He looked as exhausted as if he had just returned from a route march, but his eyes were cold and censorious.

  “The time for what?”

  “I’ve just had a personal call from Berlin, from an old and trusted friend of mine in the Bendlerstrasse. He promised to ‘phone me if anything unusual occurred. According to his information, a bomb went off in the Führer’s headquarters during the morning conference. They say Hitler is dead.”

  “Is it official?” von Seydlitz-Gabler asked.

  “We’re expecting code-word ‘Valkyrie’ at any moment.”

  “But you haven’t received it yet, so it’s not official. What do you expect me to do, Kahlenberge? Why must you insist on pestering me with vague assumptions? I badly need my afternoon sleep. Kindly bear that in mind.”

  3.45 p.m.

  A preliminary conference in Inspector Prévert’s office at the Sûreté. Those present: Lieutenant-Colonel Grau and Inspector Prévert. Matters under discussion:

  i Aforesaid Bentley found abandoned in the Place de la Concorde by a military police patrol and taken into custody.

  ii Inquiries at the Hotel Excelsior virtually useless. Impossible to check on the movements either of General Tanz or Lance-Corporal Hartmann. The porter, though willing enough, had apparently been asleep for a large proportion of the night.

  iii Existing findings confirmed by further investigation at the scene of the crime. Motive for murder almost certainly sexual. Copy of particulars submitted to Abwehr, i.e., Grau. Those corresponded in every respect to the unsolved murder in Warsaw.

  iv Inquiries made by Sergeant Engel had elicited a few clues and a lot of gossip, particularly about Hartmann’s so-called love-life. Two names emerged: those of Ulrike von Seydlitz-Gabler and a girl called Raymonde, the latter employed at the Mocambo Bar.

  Inspector Prévert walked over to the gigantic street map of Paris which covered one entire wall of his office. He tapped two points with his fingers: the Place de la Concorde, where the Bentley had been discovered, and the Mocambo Bar, where Raymonde worked.

  “Here’s where we’ll start,” he said. “You know, Colonel, elementary reasoning turns up trumps again and again, mainly because people tend to be elementary themselves. They think and act accordingly, especially when they’re in a hurry. Leave this part of it to me and concentrate on your generals.”

  4.06 p.m.

  The Headquarters of the G.O.C.-in-C., France, were located in the Hotel Majestic. The conspirators waiting there included the G.O.C.-in-C. himself—General von Stülpnagel—and several members of his staff, among them Lieutenant-Colonel Cäsar von Hofacker, hub of the conspiracy in Paris.

  The officers waited with pale, strained faces. No definite news had come through yet. Plans were complete, but the code-word which was to set them in motion had still not arrived.

  At last Lieutenant-Colonel Hofacker was called to the telephone. Berlin was on the line. Hofacker listened with bated breath as von Stauffenberg himself gave him the news. Then he replaced the receiver and turned to the others.

  “The coup d’état is under way. Government offices are being occupied at this moment.”

  4.26 p.m.

  After a brief but vigorous interrogation of the proprietor of the Mocambo Bar, Inspector Prévert was directed to an address in the Rue de l’Université, near the Pont des Invalides. Here he climbed to the third floor, which comprised two studios and a number of attic rooms.

  Leaving a police escort on the landing, Prévert entered the room alone. As expected, he found two people inside. They were scantily dressed and looked thoroughly alarmed, though not for reasons of modesty.

  “No need to get excited,” Prévert told them soothingly, “I’m not from the vice squad. All the same, I’d put something on if I were you. You can catch cold even in the middle of July.”

  “You’re in the way!” Raymonde said belligerently.

  “I’m quite certain I am,” agreed Prévert, “but I have a job to do, and in this particular case my activities take precedence over yours.”

  “I can live with whoever I please,” said Raymonde, undeterred.

  “But of course.” Prévert smiled. “There’s nothing so inalienable as the right to make a mistake.”

  He turned to Hartmann with an expression of endearing benevolence on his pudgy face. The young man intrigued him. “I don’t suppose you want to identify yourself as Lance-Corporal Hartmann of the Wehrmacht, do you? If you did I should have to hand you over to the German authorities—and I hardly imagine you’d want me to do that.”

  “What do you want?” Hartmann asked.

  “To begin with, I’d just like to have a chat with you—but not here. May I ask you to accompany me?”

  “Over my dead body!” Raymonde cried dramatically.

  Prévert’s smile broadened. “If my information has any basis in fact, it might well have come to that!’“

  “What if I refuse to come with you?” asked Hartmann.

  “Don’t worry,” Prévert said encouragingly. “I have a feeling that you’re over the worst. You may be luckier than you know, if anyone can be described as lucky in times like these.”

 
5.52 p.m.

  General von Stülpnagel, G.O.C.-in-C., France, summoned the G.O.C. of the Greater Paris area.

  He said: “There’s been a Gestapo Putsch in Berlin. The Führer has been assassinated.”

  The G.O.C. clicked his heels.

  Any questions? No questions.

  The G.O.C.-in-C. said: “You’re to take the Paris S.D. into custody. All senior officers of the S.S. must also be detained. Fire-arms are to be used in the event of resistance.”

  The G.O.C. took the proffered map showing the location of all S.S. and S.D. barracks, clicked his heels again, and withdrew.

  5.58 p.m.

  General Kahlenberge received more news from Berlin, again via his old and trusted friend in the Bendlerstrasse. Apparently, all was going according to plan.

  Kahlenberge urgently demanded to know whom he could consult in Paris, stressing that he needed definite orders, not for himself but for his commanding officer. His friend apologized for not being sufficiently well-informed but mentioned the name Hofacker.

  Kahlenberge cursed vigorously as they were cut off. He and his friends did not belong to the inner circle of the conspiracy and lacked the necessary contacts. The situation called for decisive measures, but what measures?

  Faithful to his undertaking, he put through a call to Prévert and gave him the news.

  Prévert promptly called Grau. “The die is cast—or whatever one usually says on such occasions. We must act accordingly. How would a trip to the provinces appeal to you? I recommend the Lyons route. They have the best chefs in France down there.”

  “Later!” Grau said impatiently. “At the moment wild horses wouldn’t drag me away from here—let alone a cordon bleu.”

  “Think it over carefully, Colonel, and don’t take too long about it. Why stay here? The conspiracy seems to have got off to a promising start. You’d only be in the way. Why endanger yourself unnecessarily? Your best plan is to get out of the firing line. I’m going to.”

  “No!” exclaimed Grau, stubborn as a Provençal donkey. “I’m staying put—for the moment, anyway—and I beg you to remain here too, at least until the Rue de Londres affair has been cleared up.”

  “But my dear friend, don’t you realize that things could become dangerous for people like us? There may be a massacre. At least let’s go to ground in Paris for the next twenty-four hours. I just can’t understand why you’re ready to risk your neck for the sake of a comparatively straightforward murder case.”

  “It’s anything but a straightforward murder case to me, my friend. To me it’s a job that’s got to be done. When I saw the first body two years ago it meant more to me than a human being who had been bestially murdered. I saw it as a symbol of degradation, a symbol of the criminal brutality which was infiltrating the nation I loved. Forgive me for sounding pompous. I just want you to know how much this means to me.”

  Prévert sighed. “In that case,” he said laconically, “I don’t suppose there’s anything more I can say.”

  “You’ll stay?”

  “Perhaps, but I suggest we keep on the move. It would be foolhardy to sit around in our offices waiting to be picked up. You know at least three places where I can be reached. I’ve got a couple of your telephone numbers. Let’s try our luck. One more thing: Lance-Corporal Hartmann is locked up in a cell at the Sûireté. He’s not ready to talk yet, but it can only be a matter of minutes. I’ll keep you posted.”

  6.08 p.m.

  The code-word “Valkyrie” reached von Seydlitz-Gabler’s headquarters. As soon as the signal came through, Kahlenberge hurried in to see the G.O.C.

  “Now it’s official!” he said.

  “Are you sure there’s no mistake?” von Seydlitz-Gabler asked apprehensively.

  “It’s here in black and white.”

  Von Seydlitz-Gabler squared his shoulders. “Well, an order’s an order. There are no two ways about it. But I insist on being informed immediately if the order is rescinded.”

  Kahlenberge at once alerted all units within the Corps, including the Nibelungen Division. In doing so, he alerted General Tanz. Lieutenant-Colonel Sandauer, imperturbable as ever, asked for more details.

  Once Kahlenberge had told him what he knew, all Sandauer had to do was to consult the carefully compiled list of Divisional emergency procedures. Under it, General Tanz’s division had to occupy several strategic points, among them power-stations and waterworks in the southern outskirts of the city, the communication centre at Fontainebleau and a number of ammunition and supply dumps. In addition, the maximum possible number of up-to-strength combat units had to be mustered ready to move off.

  Sandauer silently took notes. He read back his orders word for word and then went to see General Tanz.

  Tanz received the instructions from Corps Headquarters impassively. “Well, let’s get moving!” was his sole comment.

  “I advise against it,” Sandauer said drily.

  “Why?” Tanz inquired.

  “I don’t like it, sir. There’s something funny about the whole business. I can’t believe our S.S. units would back a coup d’état against the Führer—the idea’s absurd. In my opinion, any mistake we make in a situation like this could be fatal.”

  “What do you suggest, then?”

  “A personal call to Supreme Headquarters, sir.”

  “Why not?” said Tanz. “After all, the Führer has told me more than once to consult him personally if I have any problems.”

  “I consider it vital to clarify the situation, sir.”

  “Right, get through at once.”

  Sandauer’s efforts to reach Supreme Headquarters were not immediately successful. Even the code-word “Lightning” failed to secure the necessary priority. Undeterred, Sandauer asked for the Propaganda Ministry in Berlin.

  The Ministry switchboard answered promptly, and thirty seconds later Sandauer was told that Dr. Goebbels would speak to General Tanz. Shortly afterwards, the ear-piece vibrated with the nasal tones, once heard never forgotten, of Hitler’s right-hand man.

  “A clique of unprincipled and reactionary officers is trying to seize power. These individuals allege that the Führer is dead, but this is not the case. This very day, Adolf Hitler will broadcast to the German people. In a situation like this, the Führer counts on the support of his loyal followers.”

  General Tanz listened intently. He knew where his loyalties lay. Fidelity was no empty delusion, especially when it could prove profitable.

  “Heil Hitler!”

  He turned to Sandauer. “Alert all units under my command. And make it clear, in case anyone needs reminding of the fact, that in my division only my orders count. No one else has any jurisdiction over it.”

  6.18 p.m.

  Inspector Prévert looked at his watch. Hours had passed, and that at a time when every minute was precious. Prévert had taken off his coat, loosened his tie and opened his collar. He was chain-smoking.

  Rainer Hartmann stood in front of him, pale and silent. His head drooped like a wilting flower.

  “Haven’t you any faith in me?” Prévert asked hoarsely.

  “No,” said Hartmann, “no faith in you or anyone else.”

  Prévert looked up. There was a trace of perplexity in his expression, but his eyes showed that he was not in the least tired. Although he was- on the verge of losing his temper, professional experience told him that this would be the worst possible thing to do.

  “Hartmann,” he said, concentrating afresh, “you have refused to make a statement, and I regard that as a point in your favour. Criminals normally try to exonerate themselves, whatever they’ve done. They try to explain away their conduct or lay the blame on others. You’ve made no attempt to do that. Why not?”

  “If I told you the truth you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Perhaps you underestimate my powers of imagination.”

  “Maybe.” Hartmann contemplated his clasped hands.

  Prévert began again from the beginning. He ran through a
ll the findings which had so far been evaluated: the permit found beside the bed, the finger-prints on the cognac bottle and glass, the blood on the doorpost—belonging to Hartmann’s blood group—and the graze on Hartmann’s forehead, the Bentley, which had been seen parked outside the house in the Rue de Londres, and finally Hartmann’s flight, which could be construed as indirect evidence of guilt.

  “For all that, Hartmann, I refuse to believe that you could have committed this crime. Everything I know about you, both from Raymonde and your personal dossier, speaks in your favour. I’m genuinely convinced that you didn’t commit this frightful crime—in which case, who did?”

  “I distrust everyone!” Hartmann shouted. “Why should I confide in you? I don’t know who you are or who you’re working for. I’ve seen everything now. As far as I’m concerned, anything’s possible, and the viler it is the more likely it is. You can string me up for all I care. It’s only what I’d expect.”

  6.49 p.m.

  Lieutenant-General Tanz, escorted by a motorized unit, drove to Corps Headquarters. As his staff car screeched to a halt, Tanz pumped the sub-machine-gun in his right hand up and down three times. Men swarmed from the trucks and raced to take up their prearranged positions, blocking every exit and entrance and occupying the surrounding area.

  Tanz advanced on the G.O.C.’s office flanked by two chosen officers in battle-dress and steel helmets. He was accompanied by four N.C.O.s and twelve men with hand-grenades in their belts.

  General von Seydlitz-Gabler received Lieutenant-General Tanz standing. He omitted to extend his hand.

  “What brings you here?” he asked.

  “The Führer is alive,” Tanz said ominously.

  “I should be overjoyed if that were so,” von Seydlitz-Gabler answered promptly, “but I am otherwise informed.”

  “Your information is incorrect,” declared Tanz. He proceeded to quote verbatim from his telephone conversation with Dr. Goebbels. “A clique of unprincipled and reactionary officers is attempting to seize power.”

  “That information may be equally incorrect.”

  “No,” Tanz said stolidly. “I have spoken to Berlin on the ‘phone. The Führer will be addressing the German people later today.”