Sara usually only appeared in the Salon when Heydrich had special guests he wished to impress – or rather entrap. It was how he had got Fritsch just before Christmas. The army commander had been in with two fellow officers. They were drunk. Heydrich was not there. The army hated him, and with good reason. Sara had her orders. She made a play for the general at the bar. It had worked. The two were laughing and joking until well after midnight, when Sara had suggested a swim in the private pool; just us, she had said.
Fritsch was cautious, even if drunk.
“Just us – really?” he had asked.
“Of course.”
She had smiled sweetly and let one hand rest on his thigh. A few minutes later he was naked, moving his scarred body along the pool with a clumsy breaststroke as Sara swam beside him. And the cameras never stopped.
Sara had settled her account with life the moment they picked her up and drove her to Berlin. She knew her life was over and merely wished to find a swift way to end it. It was Joseph who had kept her alive.
Her twin brother had been a member of the underground communist party and, worse still, had joined a small resistance group in Hamburg. They did nothing too drastic, circulating underground leaflets attacking the party and especially the Führer, defacing party posters. Such offences merited execution, but when he was caught they sent him to a new concentration camp in the east instead and began to watch his family more closely.
As a well-known Jewish family, the Sternscheins were in any case already under the watchful eyes of the Gestapo. It was when Heydrich saw a surveillance photo of Sara smoking at a café that the idea came to him.
Bonner took Sara aside and briefed her. She had heard it all before. The target had to be charmed, seduced and compromised. The photographs must show him in acts of sufficient depravity to place his reputation and career beyond redemption. The target was an enemy of the Reich and thus must be destroyed. She listened, looked at two photographs, nodded and said nothing. What irritated Bonner about Sara was that she showed no gratitude. Her brother would have been executed by now, and she and her family would have been in a camp, but for Heydrich’s intervention. Here she was, living a comfortable life in Berlin in a rented room next to the Salon, with all bills paid, and with little more to do than satisfy the lust of a few perverted middle-aged men.
In return, she received monthly letters from her brother, in his handwriting, assuring her of his survival in a camp called Buchenwald. Every three months, she was handed a photograph of her mother reading a current copy of Hamburg’s evening newspaper in the front room of their home. Most Jews, thought Bonner, would have regarded that as an act of mercy. Sara and her brother were at least safe. After all, things were going to get much worse for the rest of her tribe in Germany. The forced emigration programme had not had the required result, despite the terror tactics used against the community. There were simply too many left, maybe as many as six hundred thousand. Heydrich was said to be working on other solutions to the problem.
Bonner had never subscribed to the fiction that Jews were somehow responsible for the defeat in the last war. It was a central plank in the party ideology and it was important to support it vocally and publicly, and he did so. Privately, he had never had a problem with them. Jews always seemed to be bumping into history, or maybe history bumped into them, but frankly so what? He wasn’t religious and didn’t give a damn who had nailed Christ to the Cross.
The real battle lay with the communists. Those bastards had undermined the country after the war, seeking to subvert it in the name of Marxist tyranny. That was what he was fighting for. He had fought in the street battles against the reds in the early twenties in Munich, Frankfurt and Berlin. The republic had been sliding towards anarchy then, and the communists were well organised and using weapons imported from the new Marxist regime in Moscow.
Bonner got up and put out his cigarette. Sara stood up beside him.
“Understood?” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
He stepped towards her, put his arm around her waist and let his hand slide over the curve of her backside. The dark eyes looked straight at him. He held her gaze and squeezed softly. She didn’t smile, merely nodded in the direction of the fanlight door.
“You want to come in?”
You had to admire the nerve of the girl. She knew he could not follow her into the Pink Room. Sara was reserved for special visitors, and Bonner suspected Heydrich included himself in that category. Heydrich controlled the film and recording room at the top of the building. There were times when the operators were told to turn their machines off and leave for the evening.
Any other member of the service, even one so senior as himself, would risk dismissal at best if they were caught on film with this woman. She knew that, which is why she was tempting him. And she was tempting. There was something about her that seemed distant, unobtainable, as if the real Sara Sternschein was somewhere else and this was a cipher she had created to perform in the Salon.
“No, I want you to follow my orders.”
“You know I always obey orders,” she said.
There was laughter in her eyes when she looked at him. She turned and walked away through the fanlight door.
4
On the evening of 5 February, just three weeks after Macrae and Primrose had arrived in Berlin, they were playing a game of backgammon at home before supper when they received the first of a series of telephone calls.
The first caller was Halliday, who was clearly in a hurry.
“No time to talk. Just listen to the radio at seven.”
He rang off. Macrae turned the radio on and refreshed his whisky and soda. Primrose looked up from the backgammon set.
“What’s happening?”
“I don’t know. It must be serious if Halliday is in a flap.”
Instead of the hourly news bulletin, the announcer said an important communiqué had been issued by the Reich Chancellery, which he would read in full.
The head of the armed forces and war minister, General Werner von Blomberg, had resigned with immediate effect on health grounds. The commander of the army, General Werner von Fritsch, had also resigned.
The announcer then read out the names of sixteen generals who had been relieved of their commands and placed on the reserve list. Forty-four other senior officers, including a number of field commanders, were said to have been transferred to other units. There was a rustle of paper as the announcer paused, as if unable to grasp the text that followed.
The chancellor, Adolf Hitler, would become supreme commander of the armed forces and minister for war. The minister of foreign affairs, Neurath, had resigned, to be replaced by Joachim von Ribbentrop.
The ambassadors in Vienna, Rome and Tokyo had also been replaced.
Macrae placed a bottle of whisky and a soda siphon by the phone. It was midnight when he finished the last call. Sir Nevile was the first to contact him after the radio announcement, insisting on an early meeting the next morning. Then the political attaché David Buckland rang to ask what the hell was going on. The War Office called from London with requests for a lengthy analysis, to be ready for an emergency cabinet meeting the following morning. And then journalists from every British newspaper represented in Berlin rang for quotes and comment, anything to make sense of what most were describing as a Nazi purge of the army.
Macrae realised they had his home number through long acquaintance with his predecessor. The final call was from William Shirer.
“We haven’t met. My fault. Thanks for your card. Shall we have a drink at the Adlon tomorrow evening?”
“Anywhere but there,” said Macrae.
“OK, make it the Drei Schwestern at seven. Small place off Gendarmenmarkt. General Staff use it, but no harm in that.”
Macrae was drunk by the time he staggered into the bedroom. Primrose was reading a magazine in bed, with curlers in her hair.
“You poor thing,” she said. “What a night.”
&n
bsp; “This is just the start,” he replied.
The next morning, the German newspapers gave the news front-page treatment with sensational headlines. The more informed correspondents pointed out that Blomberg had not been popular with his fellow senior officers, owing to his closeness to Hitler. That was what made his dismissal all the more surprising. None of the reports even hinted at the remarriage of the general, although all noted his recent divorce. Fritsch was a different matter. He was popular, highly regarded, and there was even speculation in the controlled press about an army backlash against what officers were said to see as a political takeover. And that was the point the German papers conveniently ignored but which the western correspondents fully understood: in making himself head of the army and minister for war the German chancellor had placed his country on the path to inevitable conflict with the European powers.
Macrae leafed through the daily papers at breakfast the next morning while forking pieces of grapefruit into his mouth. Primrose had not dissected the fruit properly, so that the segments clung together as he lifted them. First one, then a second fell onto the papers.
Primrose looked up from the previous day’s edition of the London Times as he grunted in irritation.
“I thought we had a grapefruit knife,” he said. “You know, the one with the curved blade.”
“It got lost in the move, like a lot of other things.”
She reached over and used her knife to cut the remaining grapefruit into separate pieces.
“I don’t suppose I’ll be seeing much of you for a few days,” she said.
“Yes, I’m sorry. It’s going to be busy.”
“I’ll be going out tonight. The cook will leave something for you in the oven.”
Macrae looked up in surprise. “Where are you going?”
“Some of the wives are having a night out.”
“Really? Where?”
“I don’t know, a drink at the Adlon maybe and then dinner somewhere.”
Sir Nevile was smoking a cigarette when his staff assembled for the morning briefing. This was highly unusual and against his own strict orders. He looked as if he had slept little and they noted that he had cut himself shaving that morning. Before him lay a pile of German newspapers and to one side a file of cables that had come in overnight from the Foreign Office.
They took their coffees and found seats around the long polished mahogany table, which had been a focal point of the British diplomatic day in Berlin since the embassy was first established in 1872. That had been in Bismarck’s time of the Second Reich. Now they were to hear how His Majesty’s Government intended to deal with a crisis in its successor.
Sir Nevile thanked everyone for coming at such short notice. It was important, he said, to set the current developments in German politics in context.
The door opened and Halliday came in, looking less like a poacher and more like a sheepdog that had lost its flock. Shaggy and shambolic were adjectives that inevitably came to mind when the SIS agent appeared. Macrae noted Sir Nevile’s obvious irritation. The ambassador had paused midsentence and waited while Halliday poured a cup of coffee and sat down.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said.
“I was just saying that it is important to place the current developments in context. There is a great deal of sensational reporting in the German press this morning and, from what I hear, the British press are no better.”
Sir Nevile picked up a sheaf of documents and waved them at those around the table. He was the head of one of Britain’s biggest missions abroad, with a complement of over a hundred, if you counted the commercial and consular staff, and they all needed to know and understand the government’s reaction to what an irresponsible press in both countries was describing as a political coup and a Nazi purge.
The Daily Express in London had a screaming headline above a crude cartoon showing a jackboot kicking open a door marked “War”. It was utterly irresponsible. A free press was all very well, but there had to be limits. The papers had no right to whip up war hysteria at a time when calm diplomacy was required.
The eyes of the world were on Berlin. The staff around the table and the wider British diplomatic community had to understand what had been discussed well into the early hours of the morning. He had talked on a secure telephone line with both the PM and Sir Anthony Eden, the foreign secretary. The question that had been tossed back and forth was how to respond to Hitler’s sudden seizure of military power – indeed, how would the German army respond?
“I wish to share a view that was agreed in London last night and that will be put to cabinet this morning,” he said. “You all know that the cause of this current crisis is the marriage of General Blomberg to a young woman who turns out to … have had a past.”
He can’t even use the word “prostitute”, thought Macrae. A late-nineteenth-century mind shaped by the Victorian values of womanly virtue and gentlemanly conduct is seated at the head of this table trying to explain how to deal with a group of gangsters.
“HMG thinks Hitler has succeeded in manoeuvring himself out of a difficult position with remarkable adroitness,” the ambassador continued. “He has taken the opportunity to remove the conservative elements of the army who posed a threat to his legitimacy, while at the same time showing the wilder element of the National Socialist Party that he is in charge and that his will is supreme.”
David Buckland was the first to break the silence.
“This can’t be a good thing, sir, can it? The one check on Hitler’s power has gone.”
“Not at all,” replied the ambassador smoothly. “If I can quote you the very words the prime minister said to me only …” He raised his left arm, looking at his watch in an exaggerated gesture designed to give emphasis to his remark. “Only a few hours ago: ‘It will be much easier to deal with a man who is not continually looking over his shoulder fearing a military coup. The Reich chancellor is both head of state and head of the army, and effectively minister for war, and thus someone with whom we can negotiate in confidence.’”
There was a further silence around the table, finally broken by the noise of a door closing quietly. Halliday had left the room.
The Drei Schwestern restaurant was designed to resemble a hunting lodge. Stuffed game birds were placed in each of the mullioned windows looking out onto the street. Two large sets of antlers locked horns over the studded wooden door on which there was a knocker fashioned from an old rifle butt. Inside, mounted heads of stag, boar and what looked to Macrae like wolves lined the walls. A leaping log fire at one end of the room and candles set on tables spread with red patterned cloths provided the only light.
On one side, alcoves had been created to give diners more privacy. A large menu by the door written in old-fashioned curling script announced a series of middle-European dishes, most of which featured dumplings of one kind or another. In January, the hunting season was at its height and the menu made much of the hare, venison, pheasant and partridge on offer.
Shirer was already there when Macrae arrived, sitting in an alcove in front of a large tankard of beer.
“You like it?” asked the American.
“It’s like a Hollywood version of what a German tavern should look like – without the lighting.”
“It’s a bit dark, I agree. The army loves this place – senior officers, that is. It’s not cheap. They like the atmosphere and they don’t mind those either.” Shirer pointed to three young waitresses dressed in lederhosen with white cotton blouses.
The restaurant was already almost full. There were several officers in uniform among the guests, the firelight glinting off medals, brass buttons and shiny straps. Swastika armbands were visible at every table, catching the eye as glasses were raised in frequent toasts.
They ordered venison soup with dumplings and Macrae chose a Wiener schnitzel to follow, while Shirer opted for roast duck.
“Thank you for coming,” said Shirer. “I know you’re very busy.”
�
�I am, but one of my more pleasant duties is reading transcripts of your broadcasts.”
Shirer laughed and drank his beer, leaving white froth on his moustache.
“They can’t get enough of it in the States. To a lot of people Hitler is some kind of messiah.”
“‘Messiah’?”
“Sure, giving the bolshies a good kicking. Bringing order and discipline back, putting people to work. You should hear Henry Ford on the subject.”
“They quote him a lot in the press here.”
“Sure they do. They love him. He’s done a lot of deals here.”
“They appreciate his views on the Jews, I suppose.”
Shirer paused as the soup was placed deftly on the table by a waitress. Macrae noticed that the pendant around her neck was a small swastika set in a circle of faux diamonds.
“They quote him on Jews all the time. Man’s a raging anti-Semite. But you know what? Your government and my government don’t give a damn about the Jews.”
Macrae murmured his assent. In all the briefings he had been given in the embassy and in conversation with his fellow attachés, the treatment of Jews was hardy mentioned. Never once had Sir Nevile Henderson commented on the forced immigration, seizure of property, street beatings and compulsory wearing of the yellow star. When Macrae had asked why no stronger protest had been made, the ambassador had treated the question with the condescension of a teacher addressing a new pupil in class.
“This is a brutal regime; we never doubt nor deny it. Our job is to stop that regime starting a conflict that will drag Britain and France into a second great war. The treatment of Jews, Gypsies and what the government deem social misfits is regrettable, but it is none of our business.”
Macrae wanted to ask what Queen Victoria’s favourite prime minister, the great Benjamin Disraeli, would have made of such a policy. But he didn’t, and no one else in the meeting seemed to find anything untoward in the ambassador’s statement.
Midnight in Berlin Page 6