by Therese Down
“I think… Adolph, perhaps? Or maybe Heinrich or Hermann? It is not decided.”
Hedda looked up sharply and could not this time disguise her alarm as she turned towards Walter, though she said nothing. He looked at her steadily and without a trace of warmth. Klaus suddenly snatched his napkin from his knees and rose from the table.
“I think, Walter, it is time you and I talked. Let us leave the ladies and – where can we go? The drawing room? I, for one, would like a cigar.” So saying, he picked up the brandy bottle, bowed to Agna and Hedda, and took his leave.
When the men were alone, Klaus remained standing and took an elegant cigar case from an inner jacket pocket and offered a cigar to Walter, who declined with a dismissive gesture from his position in an armchair. Walter never took his eyes from his father as the older man busied himself in cutting off the end of his fine Dutch cigar with a tiny gold guillotine made for the purpose and which he kept in a waistcoat pocket. Then, still without regarding his son, Klaus took his silver gasoline lighter from an inner pocket on the opposite side of his jacket from that in which he kept his cigar case and lit his cigar with great care. Finally, tilting back his head slightly and squinting to avoid smoke, he spoke.
“Walter, you are an SS officer and now Chief Logistics Officer to Hermann Goering, but you are still my son, and though I have not said it in either of our memories… I love you.”
Walter could not help the widening of his eyes or the sudden guffaw that escaped him. He said nothing, but continued to watch his father, a look of bemusement on his face.
“I don’t blame you for being cynical – I did not much… eh… coddle you when you were a boy. My error perhaps, but I was a soldier and I wanted my son to be a soldier. You understand?”
“Perfectly.”
Klaus contemplated his son for a long moment. He was struck by the otherness of him and the distance between them. How angular, how strong and how very much the man Walter seemed now. But what sort of man? That was the question that burned in Klaus’s heart. He could not quite believe that he was too afraid to ask it outright.
“I was, in spite of what you suppose, always proud of you, Walter. I know we have disagreed a good deal in the past about how you spent your time – and my money – but I always thought you were a good boy – a good man – at heart. And now… now you are thirty – in your prime and about to become a father yourself.”
“Father, what is it you are here to say? I know you will not approve of my closeness to Prime Minister Goering. You do not approve of his… methods. But you will surely know that I cannot discuss my work, and it is better if you and I do not do so.” Walter had some difficulty speaking these words, for his father’s declaration of love for and pride in him had affected him in ways he could not yet process. The immediate effect was, though, to make him less determined to distance himself from this man whose approbation he had sought openly until it seemed it would never come.
“Walter, you and I come from a distinguished line of military men. Your ancestors were Prussian nobility.” Klaus’s expression was earnest as he took a chair from beneath a polished occasional table and placed it squarely before Walter’s armchair and then sat close, facing his son. Only the repeated movements of Walter’s Adam’s apple gave away his mounting nervousness. “I love Germany! Goddam it, Walter, your grandfather was a Field Marshal before I was, and gave his life for this country. Your great-grandfather fought Napoleon under Wilhelm and helped to make this nation what it was before the French took their latest revenge upon us with this confounded Treaty. And his father before that lost his life defending Prussia at Saalfeld. For goodness’ sake, Walter, I don’t think there has been a time when a Gunther was not defending Prussia or Germany with his life on a battlefield. And now here you are…”
“Father, I really…” Walter made to rise from his chair, but Klaus was determined to speak, raised his right hand in a gesture intended to prevent his son’s rising.
“No, Walter, let me finish. Von Schleicher was a fine man and an exceptional general. He helped Hitler to gain power, as you know. And now, because he had differences of opinion with the Führer, he is dead. Murdered. Yes, Walter –” Klaus responded to Walter’s raised hand and shaking head by raising his voice – “there is no other word for it. Murdered! Hear me out and then I will go. Von Schleicher was my friend, my true friend. Do you remember how, on summer days, you and your mother and I would visit his house and how he would sit you on his knee and tell you how proud you should be of who you are? He loved you, Walter, and his wife, Elisabeth…” Here Klaus paused and seemed to wrestle with his emotions, unable to look at Walter until he could continue. “She was such a lovely woman – so noble and gentle. She would spoil you, Walter, with sweets and what-not. Do you remember?” For answer, Walter lowered his head and nodded slightly. “Well, they were gunned down like dogs – like dogs – in their own home, and for why, Walter?”
“Father, I am not privy to such things. I…”
“Walter, I hope you never will be privy to decisions to murder honourable men and their wives. This is why I am here – to beg you not to make decisions that will make you more than privy to such things. Be careful, my son, of Goering and of your Führer. They will make a murderer of you if they can.” There was a pause during which neither knew what to say, and then Klaus spoke again. “I think they may already have done so.” Just as Walter had suspected, it seemed rumours of his actions at the vice chancellery had reached his father’s ears.
“That is enough! I must insist you stop this instant, Father, and I would like you to leave.” Walter stood up abruptly. Klaus too rose to his feet. It had been a very long time since they had been this physically close.
“You will hear me or you may shoot me, Walter. But I shall finish what I came to say.” Klaus’s tone was steady and authoritative. “Von Schleicher wanted only to bring back a little Prussian dignity to present political proceedings. He was the voice of reason in the wilderness. If he had succeeded in resurrecting Hohenzollern, what strength, what unifying greatness might we have harnessed once more in Germany! And what sanity might now prevail in this godforsaken Reich! Yes, Walter, and I use the term ‘godforsaken’ with full intent, for there is no… no… goodness in the dictates of your Führer.”
Walter considered whether he should push his father out of the way and fetch his gun. He looked at Klaus as coolly as he could manage and recalled the instant when he had shot the vice chancellor’s advisor. Could he shoot the man in front of him?
“Do you know what the motto is of the House of Hohenzollern, Walter?” Walter did not answer. Klaus turned away from his son, contemplated his dead cigar for a moment, then dropped both hands at his sides before facing Walter again and continuing. “It is Nihil Sine Deo – Nothing without God. And that, Walter, is precisely what your Nazis are. No matter how powerful, how brutal, how… thuggish they become, they are nothing without God, and Germany will never be made great by such men. My son, you will never be a great man if you walk with such men. There, now I have said what I came to say. I am done.”
“You are done? Yes, I should think that is the whole point, Father. You are done – you and all your Prussian friends!” Walter walked away from his father, assumed a central position in the room. “You are finished. You cannot resurrect what is dead, and von Schleicher was a fool to try. He was, as the Führer said, an enemy of the state. He was trying to undermine the new order and take Germany back to a time of… of social division and…” – Walter struggled for fluency against tides of anger and blood pulsing through his head – “…pomposity, which has no place in a Socialist state!”
Visibly shaken by his son’s fury and the unambiguousness of his declarations, Klaus had heard Walter’s last speech without turning to watch him make it. Now he contemplated the younger man with an expression of enormous sadness. There was a long silence. When Klaus still said nothing, Walter continued, slightly less vehemently, “Move with the times, Father.
Embrace the opportunities which are still there for you and do not try and divide the nation you and your ancestors fought so hard to unite. What is honourable about conspiracy? Von Schleicher, Bredow, the others – they are conspirators against this Reich. I… I will not have this treachery in my house.”
Klaus looked tired. He reached for the chair on which he had sat earlier, turned it so that it faced Walter, and sat down once more before continuing. When he spoke, his voice was gentle, his tone rather flat.
“Do you know your great and noble Goering is spreading rumours about other generals – disgusting and untrue… filth about their private lives? Is this the mark of a great man, a good man? Every week we hear some new lie about someone. Just yesterday I heard that von Fritsch is supposed to be a… a… homosexual – outrageous! The man is honourable to his bones and would retch at the thought of… well, well… And now – now that Field Marshal von Mackensen has dared to denounce the murders of von Schleicher and his wife in their own home – and poor Bredow, of course – now he has done that, will he be next?”
Walter regarded his father, said nothing. His face was very red and he swallowed often; though in anger or anxiety, Klaus could not discern. He appealed once more to what he hoped was the goodness deep in his son’s heart. “You tell me, Walter, is this honourable behaviour? Is this the glorious Germany for which your ancestors fought and died? How did we get from Frederick the Great to Goering, Walter? Can you tell me? Berlin is the birthplace of kings. What will it become under Hitler, do you think? When he has annihilated all possible opposition and forbidden us even to think for ourselves – when he controls the army utterly and when Goering and his murdering Gestapo have succeeded in terrorizing all who dare to express an opinion – tell me, Walter, what sort of Berlin, what sort of Germany, will we have?”
Walter recrossed the room to stand over his father. He feared his intense emotions might affect the pitch and steadiness of his voice and he wanted to be manly and impressive – even now. But never in his wildest imaginings had he thought his father would be so incontinent of thought, so imprudent. As Klaus took out a handkerchief from a trouser pocket and wiped his brow, then relit his cigar with shaking hands, Walter began to collect his thoughts. Father or not, what this man had just said was treacherous. If Goering had heard just a snippet of the spiel that had poured from Chief of Staff Officer Klaus Gunther’s mouth he would have had him shot. And this treason was unsluiced in Walter’s own drawing room! It spread like poison over the chintz and gleaming brass, the polished furniture and elegant mantle. How unspeakably selfish of this old man to bring this compromising slander to his house – uninvited and unannounced.
Walter knocked the cigar from his father’s mouth, then followed it to where it fell and crushed it underfoot. Klaus simply watched.
“I must ask you to leave at once! I did not ask you here. I… I simply cannot believe that you dared to say such things in my own house. Did I ask you here, hmm? Did I?” Walter paced the room, his fury growing with every turn, a note of barely controlled hysteria in his voice. “No! You took it upon yourself to arrive in my house, eat my food and drink my wine. Then you… then you pollute me with all that… all that Prussian old school rubbish! All that…” Inarticulate with wrath, Walter stopped pacing and faced his incredulous father. “Your time is gone. That is what you cannot stand. This is not a time for… for kings and… and Prussian Field Marshals with moustaches who think war must be fought with pistols and sabres. Look around you – Germany is dying on her feet, but we are reviving her – Hitler is reviving her!”
He stood entirely unafraid now before his father, and as he spoke, the contempt he felt was evident. Klaus leaned forward in his chair, rested his arms on his thighs, bent his head and contemplated the ground. Walter struggled to regain composure and stood square before Klaus. “Tell me, Field Marshal, have you even heard of the Junkers 87 dive bomber? No? Let me tell you about it. I am deploying prototypes at this very time – it is part of my job at the Air Ministry. It is a plane which will make the Luftwaffe the finest military airborne force in the world. It can dive at eighty degrees… but the pilot is so comfortable… he is in total control, so… so he can make precision judgments at a practically vertical angle about where to drop his bombs. It will revolutionize warfare. Under Prime Minister Goering, your Prussia will be an almighty power once again. If you cannot see that, old man, then I suggest… I suggest you keep quiet about your blindness.”
“Or?” At last, Klaus looked up at Walter. His expression was neutral; his eyes, when they met Walter’s, fearless and clear. He stood up slowly.
“Or,” Walter stepped back and seemed less sure of himself now that his father had risen and held his gaze, “or else you might find yourself compromised in your work as Chief of Staff Officer for the Führer, Field Marshal Gunther.”
“I see.” Klaus nodded as though he at last understood something, and then, sighing, he patted his pockets to ensure all the smoking paraphernalia he possessed was in place. He lifted the chair he had used and crossed the room to replace it beneath the table. “You are wrong to presume I have not heard of your Junkers plane – the Stuka, they are calling it? Junkers himself is dead, I think. Yes, yes - February of this year. He was sent…” and here Klaus turned to look at Walter, emphasized the word, “to Bavaria, I think. Did you know this?” Again, Klaus nodded, shrugged his shoulders a little, turned away from Walter and began walking towards the drawing room door. “He owned that firm, you know – of course you know. But he said the wrong things. Just like the others. Just as I have done this evening. I am going, Walter. I shall see myself out.” But just as he opened the drawing room door, Klaus shut it gently again and half turned towards Walter, his hand still on the door handle. “In case you are ever… privy to such a discussion, I would rather be shot than sent to Bavaria. I never liked the place. Too much singing.” And then he opened wide the door and passed through into the hallway.
Agna knew better than to ask what had happened in the drawing room. Her husband’s crestfallen posture and her son’s clenched jaw told her all was far from well. With a heart already grieving, she threw herself at Walter and clung to his neck like a stricken lover. He did not raise his arms to return her embrace, but muttered his goodbyes before turning from the open door and marching across the hallway and up the stairs.
Hedda embraced her now sobbing mother-in-law and bade Klaus goodbye. He half smiled at her, but made no attempt to embrace her. Halfway to the car he turned and said only, “I wish you well, Hedda. Look after my grandchild, hmm? There is noble blood in the child’s veins. Oh, and Hedda…”
“Yes, Herr Gunther?”
“You might be interested in asking your father what he is working on so hard these days. I hear he is a very brilliant man. Says all the right things.”
When Agnette was born fifteen days later, Hedda wrote a short note to Agna and Klaus to inform them that they had a granddaughter and to tell them her name. She promised that she would send a photograph as soon as she had the chance. Walter left the choice of baby’s name to Hedda and did not object to its resemblance to that of his mother, although he never mentioned either of his parents again and forbade Hedda to do so. Neither Agna nor Klaus telephoned the Rudolf Virchow hospital to see if they had a grandchild, and Hedda never received a reply from them to her letter announcing Agnette’s birth.
CHAPTER TWO
In July 1940, Agnette was almost five years old and her brother, Anselm, was two. Walter was now Oberst Walter Gunther, serving with Flak Regiment General Goering. The same iron nerve and unflinching obeisance under pressure which had first won Walter particular notice in the vice chancellery in 1934 had served him well after war was declared. He had distinguished himself serving in Denmark in April 1940 in Operation Weserubung. The Norwegian air force had had little defence against the might and confidence of the Luftwaffe or its anti-air force battalions. Ecstatic to be serving his country in combat at last, Walter was able to demo
nstrate his credentials as a warrior of outstanding pedigree. He could not fly his beloved Stukas, but he could jump from one without a second thought and, crystal clear in his objectives, complete any operational task assigned to his battalion.
He was among those who landed at Aalborg in the small hours of the morning on the 9th April 1940 and, largely unopposed, took the airbase, creating a vital refuelling station for the later invasion of Norway. A few days later, Walter’s skills with a Flak 38 anti-aircraft gun helped to drive the Allied Forces from central Norway, while the Junkers 87 dive bombers blasted French and British destroyers from the Norwegian Sea. Walter returned to Berlin at the end of April a hero. He fully expected to be deployed in France in a very few months, but for now was basking in his glory and the special regard of Goering himself.
One particular morning in July 1940, Walter was fixing his collar before an elaborate Georgian mirror in the bedroom he occasionally shared with his wife, while shouting to Hedda to get a move on in readying the children. They had a luncheon invitation from Prime Minister Goering himself. They would be travelling by chauffeured car to the splendid Carinhall, a vast Prussian estate in the Schorfheide Forest, north of Berlin, which Goering had acquired in 1935 and where he now lived with his second wife, Emmy, during the summer months.
Walter shouted from his room, giving full vent to his irritation. “Hedda, are you ready now? The car will be here in ten minutes. And can you shut that boy up, please? It is an intolerable racket!”
From Anselm’s room a little down the corridor from where Walter was now putting on his jacket, smoothing his oiled hair in preparation for donning his uniform cap, Hedda responded as lightly as she could that she was practically ready. The truth was a little different. Anselm would not remain still enough to have his jacket put on and arched his back against her, screaming his protests and folding his arms rigidly across his chest to prevent her putting them into the sleeves. Hedda tried to soothe the child while keeping her own temper, for she knew that if Anselm were still uncooperative by the time his father wished to leave, there would be punishment – for both of them. Little Agnette sat sullenly on her brother’s bed and watched, frowning as her mother lost her balance from her crouching position and tumbled with Anselm onto the floor in an ungainly heap. The child screamed more loudly and Hedda struggled to rise without crushing him, without snagging her stockings or twisting her ankle in an attempt to gain footing in her high heels.