A Kiss for the Enemy (40 page)

‘That may be so. But if things go as they should in the next two hours there will be – moral authority – here in Berlin. It will be compulsive. The clock has already struck.'

‘Right,' said Becker. He put down the telephone and moved towards the door of his office. He felt afraid.

Berlin. 17.00.

Fromm looked at his Chief of Staff.

‘What's happening. Stauffenberg? When did you get back here? I want a full report –'

‘
Herr General
, it's my duty to tell you that you must consider yourself under arrest. A room has been prepared.'

There was a long silence.

‘You are placing your own commander under arrest, Colonel von Stauffenberg?' said Fromm calmly. ‘Why?'

‘Explanations must wait. I regret it. There is danger to the Reich. Operation “Valkyrie” has just been ordered.'

‘By whom? And against what threat?'

Stauffenberg ignored these questions and left Fromm under guard. Soon the first troops would be moving into the Government quarter of Berlin. They had lost hours, he thought to himself angrily, but he mastered the anger and summoned up those reserves of faith and serenity which had invariably inspired all around him. The important thing now was to secure Berlin and to get the Head of State, General Beck, to speak urgently to the various Commanders-in-Chief in the field. Of course their enemies would try and overturn matters with the SS – they'd always been ready for that. ‘Valkyrie' provided for army reinforcements from Potsdam. If real energy was shown the ring could be held. General von Hase, Commander of the Berlin District, had, Stauffenberg knew, been waiting hours for word from the Bendlerstrasse. Now at last he'd received it, and set the Berlin Guard Battalion moving towards the centre of the city.

Rastenburg. 18.00.

‘Here's another signal from Berlin, on a wide distribution, telling commanders to secure their communications and respond only to – wait! There's something else coming through!'

The lieutenant felt immense excitement. What a day! A man in SS uniform stood by the door of the monitoring office, alert and interested.

‘A very illuminating run of signals,' the latter said contentedly, ‘very illuminating indeed!' He took a copy of the tape as the signal ended and pinned it to several others of the same kind.

Berlin. 19.30.

‘Arzfeld, you heard the broadcast?'

‘I did.'

There was silence between them and after a little Frido said, ‘Well, goodbye.'

At half past six that evening all radio programmes had been interrupted for a special announcement. It stated that, in spite of rumours, the Führer was alive and well, and that later he would speak to the German people. At seven o'clock the Propaganda Minister, Dr Goebbels, had broadcast that a dastardly
attempt had been made to kill the Führer and overturn the Government. The attempt had been made in order to strengthen Germany's enemies. It had failed.

Nobody was allowed to leave the Bendlerstrasse that night. At half past nine Frido walked slowly down to the main entrance. Soldiers of the Berlin Guard Battalion stood at the door both inside and outside the building.

‘All movement is forbidden,
Herr Hauptmann.
'

‘By whose orders?'

‘General Fromm.'

So Fromm had been released from arrest! Frido did not at the time know that all troops were acting under the directions of the Commander of the Berlin Guard Battalion, Major Remer, who had received orders from Hitler himself. Fromm was exercising a little authority but it was to be shortlived. Frido retraced his steps. There were tanks at the end of the street, clearly visible from the windows. Tanks had been part of the ‘Valkyrie' plan. But whose orders were they now obeying? And what were those orders? Nobody seemed to know.

And Frido did not dare ask too much. Colonel von Stauffenberg was certainly not in his office. Casually, Frido said to one of the colleagues in his room,

‘Has anybody seen the Chief of Staff since he returned? He must know what's going on.'

‘Must he?' Frido met a hard stare. Men were talking in whispers in every office.

It grew dark – a hot July night. Frido, for the hundredth time was walking down the stairs, making an excuse to visit another office, range the corridors. Many doors were locked.

Suddenly he
became aware of an extraordinary phenomenon. The main staircase window, which opened on to the Bendlerstrasse car park, was admitting, from blacked-out Berlin, a blaze of light. Astonished, he climbed higher, shifted the corner of a blind and peered out.

The car park, in defiance of all regulations, was illumined by what appeared to be searchlights – probably, thought Frido, the headlights of military trucks lined up for the purpose. He became aware of figures moving in the shadows and some shuffling on the edges of the brilliant pool of light. He could only imagine one explanation. He turned away from the window and closed his eyes. A few minutes later he heard the shots.

They were walking, Becker and he, in the Grunewald once again. It was an evening ten days later, the first occasion when both had found it possible to keep a rendezvous.

Frido was beginning to piece things together. He had been interrogated twice: Becker so far not at all. Frido had, he thought convincingly, expressed ignorance of anything except what had been apparent. Yes, of course everybody knew that Colonel von Stauffenberg had flown to the Führer's Headquarters. Yes, he had heard rumours of an accident at Rastenburg during the afternoon. Certainly he was aware that Colonel von Stauffenberg had returned – not as a matter of dramatic import but expectedly: somebody had said, quite casually, ‘the Chief of Staff's back'. Certainly he was aware ‘Valkyrie' had been ordered, although his own responsibilities were not concerned with operations but with future organizational planning which had fully occupied his day. No, he'd not found the ordering of ‘Valkyrie' ‘suspicious'. It seemed a natural precaution if there really had been some sort of disturbance at Supreme Headquarters, it was what one would expect. Yes, he had been aware of an order informing all Districts and Field Commanders that Field Marshal von Witzleben was appointed Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces. The order had originated from the
Wehrmachtamt
, as one would expect, and had reached Home Army – in another part of the same building – as a matter of course. Naturally, everybody had been surprised, because it was generally thought that the Field Marshal suffered ill health, which had earlier led to his resignation from the position of Commander-in-Chief West. It was, he had to admit, curious but it was certainly no part of a captain's duties to question the matter. If the Führer were incapacitated, which was the presumption, it was not for junior officers to have opinions about his choice of who should be entrusted with the command of the Armed Forces of the Reich.

As to ‘later events' that evening, he had been stunned and, naturally, deeply upset. Everybody had admired Colonel von Stauffenberg as a brave and highly efficient soldier. Frido had, he explained patiently, only once met General Olbricht. No, he had never had the slightest suspicion that either of these – or others whose names were repeatedly put to him – were not devoted patriots.

‘And that,' said Frido grimly as they walked dejectedly along the same path they had trod in a very different mood a week earlier, ‘was the exact truth.'

Becker knew pretty accurately what had occurred in Berlin.

‘The Commander of the Guard Battalion, Remer, thought something was odd when he heard “Valkyrie” was ordered. On his own initiative he went to the Propaganda Ministry. He saw Goebbels, and told him that he had to take his orders from General von Hase, his immediate superior, and that these were to deploy his battalion around the Government quarter and await further orders from von Hase. Goebbels handed him the telephone. It was Hitler himelf – from Rastenburg. Goebbels had explained to Hitler that Remer would shortly be with him, and our Führer was able not only to show he was alive – Remer recognized that voice – but gave him direct orders and power over everybody in order to carry them out. Then it was simply “
Jawohl, mein Führer!
” Our people were prisoners.'

‘And of course,' said Frido with despair in his voice, ‘within minutes of German commanders everywhere being told that Hitler was dead and Witzleben was Commander-in-Chief, they were hearing from Keitel that this was false, treasonable nonsense. We lost about three hours. They might – they just might – have made the difference.

Becker said, ‘I doubt it.' He knew the doubt would be unpopular with his companion. ‘I doubt it. Too many things were wrong. Nobody secured the radio transmission centres. In spite of what was done at Rastenburg the other side were able to communicate. I still think Commanders of Districts, Army Groups and so forth were unlikely to obey anyone else's orders once they knew Hitler was alive. And, as I told you last week, I'm sure the soldiers wouldn't have done so, whatever their superiors did.'

Frido disputed nothing. He looked as if he would never smile again. He said, ‘It's all over now. It failed. I'm not ashamed to have been a small part of it. I'm proud.'

Becker looked at him shrewdly. He was fond of von Arzfeld but thought him rash. Frido's sombre defiance made Becker uneasy. He hoped his friend would not court martyrdom.

‘Have you heard much about the – er – enquiries?'

‘Oh,' said Frido indifferently, ‘they'll be pursued in the usual way. Nobody dares speak of it, there are whispers, murmurings in corners – General so-and-so, Colonel such-and-such. You know Fromm was arrested after all? The Gestapo have got him. I've no pity for him. It was he that had Stauffenberg, Olbricht and the others shot that night. He called it an “instant Court Martial”. It was murder – he thought they'd implicate him in the end, although they'd arrested him. He'd been nodding and winking for a long time. Then he told Beck to shoot himself. The old gentleman made a mess of it and Fromm had him finished off. They shot Stauffenberg and the rest in the car park. I heard it.'

They walked on in silence. After a little, Frido said softly,

‘I'm sorry we involved you in this. They'll pursue every scent – even after us little ones. They'll not give up. For myself, I've cared about nothing else for a long time. I'm proud. But you were new to it. I sincerely hope –' He halted and said rather stiffly,

‘I hope no harm will come to you, my dear Becker.'

Becker said gently, ‘I'm proud too.'

‘At present nobody would understand that. We're hated. Not only by
him
and
them.
I think most ordinary, decent Germans also hate us, think we've tried to betray them. As for
him
, he'll have an orgy of revenge. Did you see the article last Sunday in the Party paper?'

‘“We must exterminate the entire breed!”'

‘That's it. The entire breed. What our Führer in his broadcast that night called “a very small, aristocratic clique … ambitious, unprincipled, criminally stupid officers”. Well, I'm happy to be of their number.'

‘Ach, well,' said Becker evenly. He took his friend's arm, ‘
Maybe one day it will all be understood.' Becker was Swabian, with a Swabian's stolidity. He spoke without emotion, ‘Maybe one day they'll all understand.'

It was three months later, in October, 1944, that Robert Anderson walked into Oflag XXXIII.

‘I couldn't believe it, that day in 1940,' said Anthony, ‘that day when I got hit. And you of all people turned up!'

‘No, it was you who turned up. I was where I was meant to be.'

‘And then I simply ran into you in London, out of the blue. And now you're here! What would war be without coincidence!'

He felt better than he had since captivity began, twenty-two long months ago. For several weeks he and Robert were engrossed in exchanging experiences. As far as Anthony could make out, officer prisoners were moved at intervals of not more than twelve months from one camp to another. When first captured he had been shipped to Italy and handed over to the Italians.

‘A bit of grenade got me on the left hip. At first I felt as if half my leg was blown off, but in fact there was little more than bruising, although it hurt like hell, and I passed out.'

‘You're even more accident prone than me,' said Robert. ‘Any bomb or grenade that goes off near you seems to hit you.'

‘But never seriously. Anyway I soon found myself in Italy. And you can imagine the relief when we were taken over by the Germans, after the Italian surrender a year ago.'

Robert couldn't. ‘Relief?' Captured himself in Italy by the Germans, in the Rapido valley at the start of General Alexander's offensive in May, 1944, he raised his eyebrows.

‘Relief! The Italians were hell. One never knew what would happen next. No system. No discipline. I reckon that in military as in political life anarchy is crueller than oppression.'

‘You haven't changed!' Nor had Robert. He still frowned
at the same time as he smiled. He still appeared furiously indignant with everything or nothing. He had acquired from battle or captivity no trace of tolerance. It was, Anthony thought, pure joy to see him. For a little, an old friend's companionship, the warming experience of being able to talk of shared memories, could dissolve the parched boredom of Oflag XXXIII.

Robert's regiment had sailed from England to Sicily in July, 1943 to take part in the invasion of the island. They had been committed to the Italian campaign in November and had taken part in the slow, bitter push through the mountains from Naples to Cassino. Then, at the beginning of the attack that would take the Allies to Rome and north to the Gothic Line in the Appenines, a German mine had smashed Robert's lower leg. A German patrol had found him. The leg was treated efficiently and was mending fast. Six weeks in hospital had been followed by a month in transit of one kind or another. Robert still limped but declared he was as active as ever. Oflag XXXIII was his first regular camp.