Out of Mecklenburg

by James Remmer

  ‘I recall staying there myself,’ said von Menen. ‘New Year’s Eve, ’38, I think. A group of us had been to a dance at the nearby Delphi.’

  ‘You won’t be doing any dancing tonight, Carl,’ said Hoffman. ‘Dancing in public has been banned for over two years.’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘No. There’s nothing left to joke about these days.’

  Through the Brandenburg Gate the picture was surreal, like a scene from the battlefields of the Great War – bombed-out buildings, craters and weird, skeletal silhouettes of splintered trees. It looked like another planet. Hoffman made a left at the Grosser Stern, skirted around what remained of the zoo, and headed off along Kurfürstendamm. A right turn at Fasanenstrasse brought them alongside the Savoy.

  ‘Wait here a second.’ Hoffman popped inside and was back in a minute, a large smile on his face. ‘You’re in luck; they have a room.’ He lifted von Menen’s luggage onto the sidewalk, scribbled down a brief note and pushed it into his hand. ‘It’s been great seeing you again, Carl, really it has. Here’s my address and telephone number. Let’s not wait another six years before we meet again, okay? Life’s too short. In the meantime, if you need anything, anything at all, please call me.’

  There was something… ah! ‘Madrid… Going there again next week!’ Von Menen could scarcely believe his luck; Hoffman, the ideal intermediary, a chance he could not give up. Cortes, the epitome of discretion, would see it that way too, von Menen knew he would.

  ‘As a matter of fact, Ulricht, there is something, if you’d be so kind. Do you have another piece of paper?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Von Menen scratched down Cortes’s name and address, plucked the pocket watch from his breast pocket and held it in his hand. ‘You might think this a bit of an imposition, Ulricht, but my watch gave up on me yesterday and the fellow whose name I’ve just given you lent me this. He’s a good friend and I’d like to get it back to him as quickly as possible. He’s a lawyer. We went to Madrid University together and we’ve kept in touch ever since. But if you think that it’s, well, irregular…’

  ‘No, that’s quite all right, Carl, leave it with me. I’ll deliver it personally.’

  ‘Thanks, Ulricht. I owe you.’

  Even in its less functional state, the Hotel Savoy was an oasis of calm and organised efficiency, a citadel of welcome relief amid the desert of chaos and mayhem. The feeling of warmth and invulnerability was immediate.

  In the lobby stood the graceful and polished front-of-house director, Johann Ritter, himself the symbol of five-star luxury, stylish in a half-morning suit, two centimetres of starched white cuff peeking from below the hem of his sleeves, his beard and moustache clipped to mathematical precision.

  ‘Good evening, Herr von Menen, welcome to the Savoy. I believe I know your father, General von Menen?’

  ‘That’s right, yes.’

  ‘Your parents stayed here last May. It was after the air raid, terrible business. Your father was on leave… And you, sir, have you been here before?’

  ‘Yes, about six years ago; 1938, I think it was.’

  ‘Well, you’ll find things a little different nowadays. We’re a bit lacking in certain quarters, but we do our best. It’s the war, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  ‘I’ve put you in room 501. It’s on the top floor, directly ahead of the staircase, overlooking Fasanenstrasse. Problem is, we’re not allowed to use the lift, and we’re short of staff… bellboys, porters, all gone, all conscripted… so I’ll give you a hand with your luggage. Herr Hoffman mentioned that you’d been away for a while?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then perhaps I should give you a few words of advice about air raids. First, do you have a flashlight?’

  Von Menen fished in his bag, pulled out a torch he’d bought in Buenos Aires three years previously, and gave Ritter a quick “on/off” demonstration.

  ‘Good, then you won’t need a candle. If you hear the siren, make your way directly to the shelter in the basement. No need to change out of your pyjamas, just put your jacket and trousers on over the top. It can be quite chilly down there.’ The conversation continued all the way up the staircase. ‘There’s plenty of hot water,’ said Ritter, ‘but the rules here are just the same as those outside – only one bath per week, on either Saturday or Sunday.’

  At the second floor, a group of chattering Orientals passed them on the landing. Ritter noted the bemused expression on von Menen’s face.

  ‘Japanese,’ he whispered. ‘They’ve been here since their Embassy was bombed.’

  Reaching the fifth floor, von Menen’s thoughts turned to his parents. ‘What about telephones? I’m very anxious to get in touch with my mother.’

  ‘There’s a telephone in each room, sir. You’ll have to go through the switchboard, of course, but if you give me the number, I’ll get Frau Horstmann to place a call for you tomorrow morning.’

  They reached the room. Ritter unlocked the door, went in first and placed the two suitcases by the side of the dressing table.

  ‘The bathroom is over there, sir; telephone by the bed; light switch above the headboard. If you require an extra blanket, there’s one in the wardrobe. Oh, and this is very important… the curtains must be closed before you switch on the lights. The police are very strict about blackout procedures.’

  Ritter took his leave and von Menen switched out the light. Peering through a chink in the curtains, he saw the vague outline of the Delphi Dance Palace, the past engulfing his mind – Saturday night gaiety, joyous amusement; Sigi Bredow, Lutzi, Gustav Helldorf and himself, swaying to the big band sound of Teddy Stauffer. Now, it was only a memory. Even the Kreisau Circle was just a memory, buried beneath the failed attempt to topple Hitler. Berlin was being swept away, and with it would go the rest of Germany.

  Von Menen saw a desperate future, all the more fearsome by the biting anguish at the back of his mind. How long will it be before my links with the Kreisau Circle emerge? His life was more precarious now than it had ever been.

  16

  Sunday 22nd October 1944

  Selling Vidal’s scheme to von Ribbentrop would not be easy, still less von Ribbentrop convincing Hitler that there was sufficient merit in it for the Nazis. Yet with Germany almost on her knees, von Menen was confident that some elements of the Nazi hierarchy would trade even Bavaria for a safe haven in Argentina, let alone a shipment of arms. For them, Vidal’s hare-brained scheme would prove too tempting by far.

  At five-thirty in the morning, after an anxious, sleepless night, and with a desperate craving to explore the streets of Berlin, von Menen left the Savoy and headed towards Kantstrasse. It was still dark, but the light cast by the crescent moon was enough to make him gasp in horror at the ghostly, darkened shapes of burned-out buildings.

  Hurrying along Fasanenstrasse, he passed the Kurfürstendamm, eyes falling upon a scene of biblical proportions, the ruination horrific, the air a fusion of charred wood, damp rubble, gas and putrefied flesh. He felt like a man in an alien land. Further along, he stopped at a place he’d known so well, but no longer recognised.

  Where once had stood Lutzi’s apartment, a rusting, jagged piece of metal reached up from a high pile of masonry, looking like the outstretched arm of a drowning man. Von Menen’s mind spun back to his last night in Berlin, the memory of Lutzi, Sigi and Gustav echoing inside his head, a lump rising in his throat, tears coursing unashamedly down his face.

  Pushing the memory to the depths of his mind, he wiped the tears from his cheeks, headed towards Budapester Strasse and began the long trek to the Foreign Office. But a short diversion to Lützowstrasse fetched another anguishing sight: The Bredows’ sumptuous villa, where the “gang” had often partied until the early hours, had vanished. All that remained was a huge mound of rubble. Von Menen fr
oze at the vision, the tension in his chest almost squeezing the life out of him, his grandfather’s words tolling in his mind like the bell of death: ‘Hitler will lead this country to ruination.’

  It was nearing light when he reached Wilhelmstrasse, the skyline a profile of destruction. Beyond the Reich Chancellery stood what remained of the Foreign Office, the main entrance flanked by two SS guards. One noted his name and escorted him inside.

  Von Ribbentrop’s one-time grandiose headquarters looked like an abandoned building site, heavy oak timbers forming a jumbled architecture of shored-up walls, ceilings, doorways and windows. It was damp and cold. Marble floors that had once resounded to the footsteps of German and foreign dignitaries lay fragmented, cracked and splintered. The lavish fittings and plush carpets had gone, and with them, the feeling of splendour and richness.

  Only a small number of staff were on duty, the bulk of the organisation now operating from the safety of a cluster of villages in Silesia. A thin, gaunt man with bulbous, watery eyes announced himself as the Duty Officer. He handed von Menen a travel warrant, a wad of coupons and a typed itinerary.

  ‘You’re to travel to Krummhübel tomorrow morning,’ the Duty Officer said. ‘A certain von Althoff will be waiting to meet you at the station.’

  ‘Von Althoff?’

  ‘Yes, he phoned yesterday.’

  Von Menen looked heedfully at the SS guard. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any mention of the name Werner, is there?’

  ‘Afraid not, just von Althoff. You’re to take the courier train from Görlitzer Station at six in the morning, change at Hirschberg and take the local train to Krummhübel. Von Althoff will be waiting for you on the platform. And don’t lose the rail warrant. Without it, you won’t get on the train.’

  Von Menen made his way back to the Hotel Savoy, his mind full of renewed suspicion. Who is von Althoff? Who will be my host at Krummhübel – Werner, Schellenberg or Kaltenbrunner?

  *

  It was an ecstatic meeting. Klaus and Anna von Menen hadn’t seen their son in over three years, and it showed. A full thirty seconds passed before Anna finally untangled herself from her boy. She moved back a step, reached out and touched his face, as if not quite sure that he was standing there.

  ‘We couldn’t believe it when we heard your voice on the phone,’ she said excitedly, the questions coming in quick-fire succession. ‘Where’ve you been? What have you been doing? Will you be staying?’

  ‘I flew in from Madrid on Saturday and stayed with Juan for a couple of weeks. Sorry I didn’t phone, but it was quite impossible. He sends his very best wishes, by the way. Now… tell me about Katrina and Jürgen.’

  ‘They’re both fine. Katrina is…’ – Anna saw the General glancing her a caution – ‘well, she’s staying with Marlena in Hanover. She’ll be home in a few days. Jürgen, too, we hope.’

  They sat down, listening attentively as von Menen recounted his nauseating experience along Kurfürstendamm.

  ‘I went round to Lutzi’s place, or what was left of it. Afterwards, I passed by the remains of the Bredow villa. Are they…?’

  ‘Sigi and her mother were out during the raid, but Herr Bredow was killed,’ replied his mother, ‘and the news about Lutzi isn’t so good.’ She turned, looked searchingly at her husband. ‘Klaus, I think you should tell him.’

  ‘Tell me what?’ asked von Menen anxiously. The General gestured to the two adjoining rooms. ‘It’s all right, Father, I’ve checked. Both rooms are empty and the light fittings are clean.’

  Inching himself a little nearer to the edge of the bed, Klaus von Menen gathered himself. ‘Carl, a lot has happened since you left. Life in Germany is not what it used to be, not even in 1941.’

  ‘I know, Father. I’ve seen it outside and I’ve read about it in the foreign press, though I suspect I’ve seen and heard only the half of it.’

  ‘Remember Lutzi’s brother, who worked at the War Ministry?’

  ‘Konrad?’

  ‘Yes. He was arrested a few days after the attempt on Hitler’s life. His immediate family was arrested. Lutzi was one of them… and Sigi, too. The Gestapo refer to it as “kith and kin” detention. Lutzi was held at Lehderstrasse Prison. The last we heard was that she’d been moved to a concentration camp; Flossenbürg, we think.’

  ‘And Sigi?’

  ‘They kept her at Gestapo headquarters for a few days and then released her. No one knows where she is now.’

  ‘And… what became of Konrad?’

  ‘He was hanged at Plötzensee Prison last month.’

  Von Menen took a long gulp of air, his face white with rage.

  ‘Many suffered the same treatment,’ explained the General. ‘You knew Adam von Trott zu Solz, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I heard about his fate. I heard about Helmuth von Moltke, too.’

  ‘Gottfried von Bismarck fared a little better. His name saved him, but only as far as a concentration camp. As for Helmuth von Moltke, he’s still being held, as is General Oster, Canaris’s number two. Word has it that they’re in Ravensbrück. You’ve heard about Rommel, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, the Spanish newspapers carried the story… Embolism, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s how it was reported. Truth is, he was alleged to have been involved in the plot, too, but he chose the alternative to a show trial. Shortly after being visited by two generals, he poisoned himself.’

  Von Menen got to his feet and paced back and forth between the door and the window, his mind about to explode. He sat down again, turned to his father and said, ‘You haven’t mentioned Gustav Helldorf.’

  His mother rose from the edge of the bed and gently took hold of his arm. ‘Gustav is dead, Carl. He was killed on the Eastern Front at the beginning of August. There was no way we could let you know. All the non-conformists in Government posts were called up a long time ago. They caught up with Gustav just after he and Lutzi were…’ She paused, her lips quivering.

  ‘After he and Lutzi were what?’

  ‘Married, last June. Five weeks later, Gustav was in uniform and on his way to the Eastern Front. We didn’t find out that he’d been killed until September. I tried to get in touch with his mother, but we heard she’d gone to stay with her sister at Hanover. As far as I know, she’s still there. I tried phoning the house at Schwerin several times, but the calls were never answered. It’s doubly sad for Frau Helldorf. You see, Gustav’s older brother, Friedrich… he was shot down before Stalingrad, almost two years ago.’

  Numb with grief, von Menen dropped back in his chair. He clenched his fists, pressed his eyes shut and shook his head slowly in disbelief. ‘I can’t believe it. The whole of the Helldorf men-folk, dead: first, Gustav’s father in 1917, and now Gustav and Friedrich.’ Von Menen got to his feet again, grief overtaken by a fusion of frenzied thoughts. Dazed, he walked over to the window, looked out across Fasanenstrasse, probing the burned-out husks on the opposite side of the road. ‘Father,’ he said in a hushed voice, his back to the room, ‘I could see some merit in a limited action against Poland, just to regain unrestricted access to East Prussia. But the rest of it… I mean, what was the real purpose in attacking Russia?’

  ‘Hitler’s demented obsession, Carl, his mindless determination to smash communism and colonise the east.’

  ‘Colonise the east? Colonise the whole damn Universe, more like it. For nearly three years, we’ve been fighting the whole world: the British Empire, the Americans and the Russians. Now we’re fighting the Italians and meanwhile we’ve lost our influence in Latin America. It’s been a complete catastrophe! Perhaps you could tell me, Father, how the hell we allowed ourselves to get into this mess?’

  Disabled by the directness of his son’s question, the General looked helplessly at his wife, searching for a modicum of inspiration. Their eyes staged a brief discussion. ‘I sup
pose it’s because I, and others like me, allowed it to happen,’ he replied, in a voice full of remorse.

  ‘You suppose, Father? Then why didn’t the likes of you and the others – by which I presume you’re referring to your Prussian colleagues – join with Beck, von Witzleben, Stülpnagel and Rommel? It would have been the proper thing to do!’

  ‘Carl!’ cried his mother, noting the General’s look of despair. ‘You know our position as far as the Nazis are concerned. We despise them, just as much as you do. Our views have not changed and neither have your father’s principles – Prussian officers do not mutiny.’

  ‘Mother, mutiny is open rebellion against constituted authority! The Nazis do not have constituted authority.’

  General von Menen endeavoured to calm the situation. ‘But in 1932, Carl, the electorate of this country presented Hitler with a massive democratic mandate.’

  ‘Thank you, Father, but I know all about that – if you’re hungry, you’ll vote for anybody and if you’re very hungry, you’ll vote for the Devil. And that’s what most people did, they voted for the Devil!’

  ‘I wouldn’t argue with that, but when Hindenburg died, ninety per cent of the electorate of this country, ninety per cent, mind, voted to support Hitler’s notion that he should become Head of State, as well as being Chancellor.’

  ‘But that was over ten years ago – since when he’s received no votes at all, because no one’s allowed to vote. How many votes do you think he’d have got after Stalingrad?’ Von Menen, his anger spent, caught the dejected look on his father’s face. Then, when he thought about his own, feeble, miserly role with the Kreisau Circle, the memory of Vidal and all that had happened in Argentina, he was sickened by his own sanctimony. ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ he said, his voice loaded with regret, ‘I wasn’t intending to be personal. You know how much I love and respect you.’