by James Remmer
In the silence, all they could hear was the click, click, click of busy knitting needles, as Frau Steiger, seemingly oblivious to the gist of the conversation, nodded approvingly at her husband’s words.
Von Menen buried his head in his hands. ‘Christ, Hans, what the hell has happened to us all?’
‘Carl, you’re talking in the past when you should be thinking about the future. That’s what your father’s concerned about right now: the future of German youth, and that means Katrina, Jürgen – and you. That’s the stark reality. What we have to do now is survive. Maybe it’s not for me to speak to you like this, and if you think I’ve been lecturing you, I’m sorry, but a lot has happened these last few years. Times have changed, people have changed – it’s inevitable. Whatever your father told you out there, Carl, and whatever he said back in Berlin, give credence to it. I’m sure it was sound advice.’
‘Thanks, Hans. I just needed to hear it from someone else. It’s just that, well, Father doesn’t seem right. He’s okay when you’re talking to him, but when you catch him alone, he looks entirely lost. Mother’s noticed it, too.’
‘We all have,’ replied Steiger.
‘I thought maybe it was because he’d…’
Steiger raised an eyebrow, ‘Flipped his lid? Hell no, not your father. He’ll still have his sanity long after the rest of us have been carted away.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting that he’d lost his head. It’s just that he seems to have given up… lost his will to fight. It’s not like him.’
‘Your father hasn’t given up, Carl, he’s simply come to terms with the inevitable. He realises that if we carry on like this, the only route to salvation for Germany is through defeat and ruination. What’s going on back east is wholesale slaughter. It’s a hopeless cause. Soldiers are dying for no reason at all. Your father’s a professional soldier, a loyal one, too, but ever since Stalingrad he’s been in a state of perpetual torment.’ Steiger saw the puzzled look on von Menen’s face. ‘Oh, I know all about the conversation you had with him at the Savoy Hotel. He was half expecting it. The truth is, your father would have backed von Witzleben, Beck, Rommel and the others, but if he had done, he and I would have been on the gallows months ago, and possibly, by association, Manfred and Jürgen, with your mother, Greta, Katrina and Aunt Ingrid languishing in Flossenbürg. You must understand that?’
Von Menen looked blankly at the floor. ‘Sorry, Hans. You’re right, I know you are.’
‘Carl, you and your father are like two peas in a pod,’ exhorted Steiger. ‘Whatever it is that has officially brought you back to Germany, I wouldn’t mind betting that it’s only the half of it. I suspect the other half is locked away in your conscience… von Moltke, Adam Trott, von Bauer and the rest of them. You were worried that your name might appear, and in your absence you thought that your parents might, perhaps, be used as scapegoats. Right?’
‘That’s about the way of it, yes.’
‘Well, you’re safe, Carl… We’re all safe… We’re still alive. What we have to do now is make sure we stay that way.’
‘You won’t mention to Father that I…?’
‘Spoke to me about him? Of course not; I respect him too much.’ He reached across the table and gripped von Menen’s wrist. ‘I respect you, too, Carl – it’s good to have you back.’
‘It’s good to be back.’ Von Menen smiled at them both, then glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Look, I really must get going. I’ll see you tomorrow night.’
Greta exchanged a difficult look with Hans. ‘Er… afraid not, Carl,’ she said.
‘You mean you won’t be there?’
‘We’d love to be with you, Carl,’ explained Steiger, ‘you know that, but it’s my brother’s sixtieth birthday and our plans to visit him were made some weeks ago.’
‘Harald, sixty?’
‘Yes, tomorrow.’
‘Is he still farming, over at Bützow?’
‘Yes, still struggling with three hundred acres. He’s got the old band saw working again and I’ve promised to give him a hand sizing down some timber. You wouldn’t believe the amount of wood up there, and these days, there’s quite a demand for it.’
‘Well, wish him a very happy birthday from me.’
Saturday 28th October 1944
Von Menen’s sudden and unexpected appearance left his brother-in-law, Jürgen Lanze, completely bewildered.
‘What the…?’
Oily rag in one hand, starting handle in the other, von Menen made his way across the courtyard, an ear-to-ear smile across his face. ‘No jokes about Diegos, Inca tribesmen or the long-lost sons of the Conquistadors,’ he warned jovially, ‘otherwise…’ – the greasy end of the handle was perilously close to Lanze’s nose – ‘I might just try and crank you up!’
Lanze grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘Why, you…! When the hell did you get back?’
‘Landed in Berlin last Saturday night, arrived here yesterday.’
‘Well, it’s terrific to see you, Carl,’ smiled Lanze. ‘You look marvellous. You’ve heard the news, I presume?’
‘Yes, congratulations! I’m delighted for both of you. Seems that congratulations are in order for other reasons, too,’ he added, casting an eye on the three gold braid rings around the sleeves of Lanze’s tunic and the black-and-silver cross dangling below his neck.
‘Oh, that… It’s nothing, really.’
‘Come on, Jürgen, it’s the Knight’s Cross. You don’t get a Knight’s Cross for nothing. I suppose you’re one of those aces I’ve been reading about – a tonnage king, right?’
‘Something like that. Anyway, what about you? Here for good, or are you just—’
‘Goodness, Jürgen, you’re no different to the others! Here I am, just back, and already you want to know how long I’ll be staying.’
‘Uncle’ Manfred von Leiber, a confirmed bachelor whose hair had turned prematurely grey at the age of thirty, was a handsome, robust and genial individual with a sharp and incisive wit.
In the new era of National Socialism, his balanced and logical thinking had long since marked him out as an overcautious realist, his views bringing him into conflict with a certain contemporary, Grand Admiral Dönitz. In January 1943, after Dönitz’s promotion to Commander-in-Chief of the German navy, it was no coincidence that Manfred von Leiber’s future followed a banal route, languishing in a mundane and nondescript post at Danzig, until he was transferred unexpectedly to the new U-Boat headquarters at Bernau.
It was von Leiber who had instilled in von Menen his love for the sea, taught him how to sail, explained the complexities of terrestrial navigation and instructed him in the use of nautical instruments. It was a very special relationship, yet the beautiful lady at von Leiber’s side was hardly von Menen’s image of a potential ‘aunt’. The dazzling Eva Schilling was a tormenting reminder of someone more than 11,000 kilometres away.
‘Manfred tells me that you have just returned from Madrid,’ said Eva, ‘and before then you were in Buenos Aires.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Ah,’ she sighed, ‘Buenos Aires. What a beautiful city.’
‘You’ve been there?’ asked von Menen eagerly.
‘Yes, in ’31; September, I think it was. I’d just made my first appearance in Paris and a few days later I boarded L’Atlantique on her maiden voyage. I was supposed to appear at the Colon Theatre, but I went down with a severe throat infection and ended up spending the best part of two weeks in bed at the Hotel Plaza.’
‘So you didn’t see much of Buenos Aires, then?’ asked von Menen.
‘Not as much as I’d have liked. By the time I was well, I had to leave for New York.’
Eva had so much to say it seemed she would never stop talking. Von Leiber had heard it all before, yet the others found Eva’s spell-bin
ding exploits fascinating, with Al Jolson, Paul Robeson, Irving Berlin, Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers and even the Duke and Duchess of Windsor acclaimed as personal friends, as no doubt they were. Theatre had found a new dimension on the von Menen estate. Whenever Eva halted to take a sip of wine or pick at a morsel of food, everyone waited patiently for the next chapter. In the chronological sense, she soon arrived at 1938 and her meeting with “that horrible little man” in Berlin.
After dinner, the men adjourned to the library, leaving the three ladies to embark on the next part of Eva’s global merry-go-round. Katrina’s brief absence to freshen up gave her mother the chance to broach the delicate question of matrimony.
‘Eva, what you were telling me on your last visit… I don’t suppose Manfred has…?’
‘No, he hasn’t said anything. If you ask me, Anna, I suspect he thinks our age difference is too much. Personally, I think it’s nonsense. I’d marry him tomorrow, but I’m not doing the asking.’
In the library, the only topic of conversation among the men was the war, the consensus unanimous: time was running out and Germany’s prospects looked bleak. An apocalyptic future was bearing down from the east. The Russians were on their way, bringing with them a regime that would condemn Germany to another period of tyranny and oppression.
*
Sunday 29th October 1944
Von Menen was sitting with his mother on a wrought iron bench at the edge of the rose garden, enjoying the calm sunshine. He told her all about Maria, though made no mention of the danger she was in.
‘Is it a serious relationship?’ asked Frau von Menen.
‘About as serious as it could be – I’ve asked her to marry me and she’s accepted.’
Just then, the sound of footsteps could be heard approaching along the gravel path. The General was soon upon them, his wife full of eagerness.
‘Klaus, Carl’s asked a lady to marry him. Her name is Maria.’
‘Where did you meet her – Krummhübel?’ joked the General.
‘Hardly. I’ve known her for over three years; met her on the boat going over to Argentina. She’s a doctor, trained at the Charité.’
‘Did she accept your proposal?’
‘Yes, she did.’
‘Well, there’s a thing. Never had a doctor in the family before.’
‘She’s Argentinian, too,’ hastened Anna, thrilled at the news. ‘Looks like we’re going to keep the Spanish language in the family after all.’
‘And her father?’ asked the General.
‘He’s a surgeon, owns a large estate in the Province of Córdoba.’ Noting the excitement building in his mother’s eyes, von Menen was quick to quash any hasty conclusions. ‘For the moment, I’d rather you didn’t say anything to the others. My future looks decidedly shaky and it’s not inconceivable that I might never go back to Argentina, which means—’
‘We understand, Carl,’ she reassured him. ‘We won’t say a word.’
Von Menen embraced her and received a hearty pat on the back from his father. Anna von Menen, her eyes still bright, proceeded to potter around the rose garden whilst he and the General repaired to the house.
‘Are we likely to be disturbed, Father?’ von Menen asked as they reached the drawing room. ‘Because I need to talk to you about something very important.’
‘I shouldn’t think so. Your mother will be out there for some time. Since the departure of the last gardener, she’s given to tidying up the roses herself. And Katrina and Jürgen have gone for a walk. What’s the problem?’
‘Do you remember, in January, when Argentina severed diplomatic relations with Germany?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I didn’t go to Paraguay. I didn’t go anywhere. I stayed in Argentina, with Foreign Office approval.’
‘Seems a bit strange, given the circumstances,’ said the General.
‘Yes, but there was a reason for it. A certain Argentine colonel, a man I’d been dealing with since my arrival in Buenos Aires, was anxious to maintain contact with Germany. I was that contact.’
‘In that case… why have you come back?’
‘Because the colonel wants to get rid of Perón and he wants Germany’s help.’
The General gave a dry laugh of disbelief.
‘It’s true. He needs modern weapons and that’s why I’m here, to try and organise a shipment of arms to Argentina. I’m waiting on a decision from von Ribbentrop… and I imagine he’s waiting on a ruling from…’
‘Hitler?’
‘That’s what I suspect, yes.’
‘That could take some time.’
‘I know, but that isn’t my biggest worry. You see, this surge of so-called Peronism, in Argentina?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, it isn’t Peronism at all. It’s the ideology of the man I’ve been talking about. Colonel Filipe Vidal. He’s a colleague of Perón’s, but Perón has side-lined him.’
‘He wants to regain his influence?’
‘No, he wants more than that – he wants the Presidency. If he gets it, he’s promised the resumption of full diplomatic relations between Argentina and Germany.’
‘A bit presumptuous, isn’t he?’
‘That’s the way I see it, too, but Vidal doesn’t. He fervently believes that he can rule Argentina, and Germany will win the war.’ Von Menen’s eyes glittered. ‘The only division between Vidal and Hitler is that Vidal’s uniform is more stylish… and he’s got brains.’
‘A Nazi with brains? Now that makes him a very dangerous individual.’
‘Dangerous and cunning. You see, if Hitler does fail to stop the Allies, Vidal is offering safe haven in Argentina for members of the Nazi hierarchy.’
‘But… surely… you don’t have to co-operate with him.’
There was a brief silence. ‘I have no choice, Father.’
‘But… why?’
Von Menen clamped his hand to his forehead, a desperate look in his eyes. ‘Because Vidal also happens to be Maria’s uncle. He has made it plain that, if I don’t co-operate, Maria…’ His voice broke slightly. ‘Well, she’ll come to some harm.’
‘His own niece! He really does sound like a Nazi.’
‘That’s only the half of it. Having witnessed the state of Berlin, I just couldn’t countenance that kind of thing happening in Argentina. I couldn’t live with it.’ Von Menen slowly clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘The fact is, whichever way I turn, I’m trapped. If Hitler agrees, the consequences don’t bear thinking about: there’ll be untold bloodshed, and I don’t want that on my conscience. And if he doesn’t agree, Vidal will kill Maria. I know he will.’ His face was a patchwork of indecision. ‘At first, I thought I could handle it… I had a few ideas… but now I’m not so sure.’
‘Ideas?’
‘Spike the whole operation. Place a bomb in the arms shipment timed to detonate after the arms have been transferred. Abort the whole operation on some trumped-up pretext… Denounce Vidal… Anything, anything at all to resolve it. The problem is, it’s not resolvable!’
The General gripped his son by the shoulders. ‘You’re working ahead of yourself, Carl,’ he said quietly. ‘Personally, I wouldn’t be trying to reach a decision just yet.’
Von Menen met his father’s eyes and made an effort to calm himself.
‘This man, Vidal, might be a bit like Hitler, but Hitler has been in power for over eleven years. Such things do not happen in Argentina. It’s quite conceivable that by the time you return, both Vidal and Perón will have been consigned to the history books. If you want my advice, pray that Hitler will sanction it, get back to Argentina and worry about the rest later.’
Von Menen made to speak, but the General raised his arm to forestall the question.
‘Dump the arms at sea, if need
be. Take Maria to Brazil, lay low for a while, then head for the United States. But whatever you do, get the hell out of Germany. There’s no future for you here.’ Concealing the moisture welling in his eyes, the General turned away. ‘If you doubt my sentiments, don’t…’ – his voice, cracking with emotion, grew quieter, until it was almost a forlorn whisper – ‘because the end of the von Menen dynasty in Mecklenburg is only a winter away. I have absolutely no illusions about that. Believe me, if Katrina and Jürgen had a similar chance, I’d give them exactly the same advice: leave Germany!’
‘What about Mother and yourself?’
‘Your mother and I are a little too old for that, Carl. We’ll probably move to Flensburg with the Steigers. The British and Americans wouldn’t dare allow the Russians to get that close to the Danish border.’ The General ambled over to the window and smiled at the image of his wife, busying herself in the garden. ‘Looks like your mother’s not short of a thorny problem herself.’
Peering through the window, von Menen caught a glimpse of his mother, the hem of her coat entangled in a rose briar. He saw the sad smile in his father’s eyes and realised that everything really was coming to an end.
On Monday morning, von Leiber returned to Bernau, Jürgen headed back to Lübeck and Eva took off in the general direction of Geneva. In the evening, with the Steigers back from Bützow, Frau von Menen arranged a farewell party for Fritz, the handyman, who was leaving just ahead of his eightieth birthday.
With Fritz gone, all that remained of the original staff was Schwartz, Ursula – a burly, fifteen-stone cook from Munich – and the housekeeper, Elizabet, not far short of Fritz’s years herself. Just like the entire east wing, which had been closed since Christmas 1942, a large part of the west wing was mothballed.
As winter approached, Frau von Menen continued with her struggle to create some semblance of order in the rose garden, the General forever telling her that her efforts were futile. ‘The Russians won’t appreciate it one bit,’ he kept saying.
Meanwhile, in order to conserve what was left of the latest, and perhaps final, load of solid fuel to be delivered, Steiger and von Menen busied themselves transferring a mass of logs from the rear of the stable block to the relative dryness of the old laundry house.