The Night of the Generals (27 page)

"That's just what I told the police at the time. The Stable was always packed. It was a popular place. My wine merchant, who was under a personal obligation to me, made sure that the drink never ran out. There were always barrels of Bordeaux. Did I ever have anything to do with a general--on the premises, you mean? It's possible. Ministers came sometimes, not to mention prominent painters and authors.

"Yvonne--the girl from the Rue de Londres? Yes, she was a regular customer of mine. Not what you'd call a pin-up, but a willing girl and extremely good value for money. She disappeared suddenly that evening, but for the life of me I couldn't tell you when and who with. Excuse me, won't you? I'm rather busy."

Otto the Fat, clerk and confidant of General Kahlenberge: "Don't you believe it, old cock! Of course we painted the town red occasionally--we were in Paris, after all. But always within limits, mind, so have a care! Don't go saying anything you can't prove.

"Why should I waste my time talking about Hartmann? What's the point? I'm not a historian or a fortune-teller. We got pissed together sometimes. Anything the matter with that? There you are, then. That's all there was to it.

"I'm ready to stand up and swear I never told Hartmann he was for the high jump. Everything was correct and above board between us. There wasn't any question of threats and so on. Hartmann just hopped it. Why, God only knows."

M. Paul Victor Magron, formerly a detective-inspector in the homicide division of the Paris police, now a chief inspector in the South of France: "War is to crime what the coming of spring is to a garden, if you'll pardon the poetic simile.

"Please don't expect me to remember every detail, monsieur. Prostitution paid enormous dividends at the time and the mortality rate amongfilles de joie was correspondingly high.

"As usual, prostitutes got themselves murdered far oftener than housewives or office girls. The commonest motives were greed or revenge, though there were also abnormal crimes which could not be classified as sexual murders proper. All such cases were routine, so to speak. However, the murder in the Rue de Londres had certain unusual features. All crimes of violence are inhuman, monsieur, but this one was nothing short of bestial. What was more, suspicion fell on a member of the former German Wehrmacht.

"Thanks to that, the case was taken out of my hands. I was only too glad to obey instructions. I passed on the particulars to the official responsible for maintaining contact between the French and German authorities.

"Did I hear you mention the name Prévert? Well, monsieur, it was you who did so, not me."

Colonel Martin Volges, Army Medical Corps, retd., formerly attached to the Nibelungen Division and now chief medical officer at a Hamburg clinic: "I'm a specialist in organic diseases. I also have a knowledge of surgery, but I have never devoted any time to the study of psychiatry, psychoanalysis or related subjects. I think it only fair to stress this.

"I cannot claim that General Tanz was ever one of my patients. As far as I am aware, he flatly refused all medical treatment. General Tanz consulted me on only a few occasions--five at most--and at no time did I subject him to an exhaustive physical examination. He merely told me that he had been suffering from severe headaches and recurrent sleeplessness, so I confined myself to prescribing the appropriate medicaments. Since I was never in a position to conduct a full examination I must decline to make any further comment. Subject to that proviso, however, I can state that General Tanz enjoyed what might have been described, under prevailing circumstances, as normal health. I further state that I had neither occasion nor cause to believe that General Tanz showed symptoms of any unusual ailment."

Captain Kahlert on the subject of Lance-Corporal Hartmann: "... I had abundant and repeated opportunities to observe and assess Lance-Corporal Hartmann, who was directly under my command. As his immediate superior, it was one of my duties to submit official reports on him. Their gist was roughly as follows: "Hartmann, Rainer, is an extremely intelligent and adaptable soldier. He is versatile, possesses a pleasant appearance and may be described as well-read, even cultured. He is hardworking, but careless and not endowed with any great sense of duty. He might even be described as unstable.

"His character is not easy to define, nor does it seem noticeably well-formed. He lacks toughness and drive and would be incapable of shouldering any major responsibilities. His soldierly qualities are far from developed.

"It would not, therefore, be advisable to entrust him with special duties of an exacting nature. It is also conceivable that his unbridled imagination could lead him to make statements which, while they might be unconscious exaggerations, might equally be lies.

"On the basis of this assessment, H. must be regarded as an unreliable individual and an awkward subordinate. Consequently, caution is indicated."

Extract from a letter written by ex-Lieutenant-Colonel Sandauer: "... I must confess not without a profound sense of shock, that your allegations have shaken me to the core. I shall resist the temptation to ask you how you have the effrontery to make them. Instead, I shall take into consideration your evident conviction that you are acting in good faith, and try, with all the tolerance at my command, to answer your questions as objectively as possible.

"First, kindly note the following: I should never have taken it upon myself to ignore, let alone hush up, any suspicious or pathological behaviour. It necessarily follows that I was never aware of anything which might point to behaviour of that sort. If I had been, my conscience would have compelled me to intervene regardless of the consequences.

"The only possible inference is that spiteful and malicious tongues have been at work--or rather, that one man's pathological condition has prompted him to impute the same condition to another. I have no idea where your information originates, but I am convinced that this is a case where 'Stop thief!' is being shouted by the perpetrator of the theft.

"I implore you to think again before you proceed to cast aspersions on the honour of a veteran military commander. There is such a thing as a duty to history. Woe betide the man who tries to evade that duty, especially if he lives in Germany and means to go on living there."

Extracts from two letters taken at random from several dozen replies received by the author. The first was written by ex-grenadier Matthuber of the Nibelungen Division, the second by a fellow-grenadier of the same division named Biermann: "... I only hope you realize the truth. That man was war personified. He had eyes like a snake. We used to tremble when he looked at us. Sometimes we were absolutely petrified with fear..."

"... I can only warn you! Don't trample on our sacred beliefs. He was a hero, the sort of man whom only the Third Reich could have produced. We went through hell for and we'd be ready to do so again..."

7

Diary of a day in Paris; 20th July 1944

Circa 1.15 a.m.

Murder in the Rue de Londres, estimated on the basis of subsequent medical findings to have occurred between midnight and 3 a.m.

General Kahlenberge was making renewed efforts to enlist his G.O.C.'s support for the conspiracy against Hitler and his henchmen. Von Seydlitz-Gabler was being as evasive as ever.

Frau Wilhelmine was sitting up waiting for Ulrike to return.

Inspector Prévert and Lieutenant-Colonel Grau had ironed out their differences so successfully that they were now indulging in an exchange of views on red wine, horses and women.

Lieutenant-Colonel Sandauer, G.S.O.1 of the Nibelungen Division, was poring over his reorganization plans.

Otto the Fat was drunkenly--and fruitlessly--endeavouring to seduce Fräulein Melanie Neumaier, the G.O.C.'s lady-in-waiting.

Sergeant Stoss, General Tanz's driver, had been laying siege to Raymonde in the Mocambo Bar, but had now given up and was applying himself to a bottle ofcrème de menthe.

The Allies had penetrated the Normandy front at several new points. In a month's time Paris would no longer be in German hands.

In the East, Russian armies were moving inexorably towards the frontiers of the Third Reich.

A briefcase containing a time-bomb was standing in a certain Colonel Stauffenberg's room in Berlin.

Hitler was trying to sleep.

Hour by hour, thousands of soldiers and civilians were vanishing into the insatiable maw of total war. Thousands more were begetting new life.

Sergeant Engel of the Abwehr, who had just completed one of his nocturnal interrogations, was in a philosophical mood. "Why do human beings cling to life?" he mused. "Probably because they haven't a clue what it's all about."

2.21a.m.

Lance-Corporal Hartmann emerged from the house in the Rue de Londres. He stood forlornly in the darkness for a minute or two, then got into the Bentley and drove off in the direction of the Champs-Elysées.

Abandoning the car there, he made his way on foot to the street in which the Mocambo Bar stood. He stationed himself in a doorway opposite the establishment and waited. A glance at his watch told him that if all went well he would not have to wait much longer. He lit a cigarette, shielding it in the hollow of his hand. The chill night air made him shiver.

He began to count the trees in the street, then the houses, then the windows. He noted numbers and forgot them immediately. Then he started counting again, determined not to think about what had happened.

Shortly after three o'clock the last customers left the Mocambo Bar, gently prodded by the bouncer. Some slipped away like shadows, others loitered to discuss weighty matters in loud, drunken voices and one man began to sing, but they all eventually vanished into the darkness.

Except for one hulking figure standing alone in the middle of the street, swaying slightly but solid as a baulk of timber. Like Hartmann, Sergeant Stoss was waiting for Raymonde.

A quarter of an hour later Raymonde appeared, having made up her books for the night. Stoss bore down on her, cooing like a loftful of pigeons. When his blandishments had no effect he started making massive bids: a hundred marks--three hundred marks--five tins of canned food and a hundred marks--three tins and two hundred marks--seven tins and... Raymonde shoved him in the chest. He staggered backwards and sat down hard on the cobbles. Still sitting there, he began to curse vehemently, pouring out a stream of unflattering epithets of which "dirty French tart" was one of the mildest.

Raymonde hurried off and Hartmann ran after her on tiptoe, hugging the walls. After three hundred yards he caught up with her. She flung her arms round his neck.

"Can I come with you?" he asked.

"Of course."

"Can I stay with you?"

"The whole night?" she asked hopefully.

"Maybe even longer."

"What are we waiting for?" said Raymonde happily, tugging at his arm.

3.00a.m.--7.00a.m.

Death may be the great leveller, but sleep is not. If there is a sleep of the just it is only logical that there should be a sleep of the unjust. There are numerous other categories as well.

Frau Wilhelmine slept the sleep of the watchdog. Ulrike dozed uneasily, either because her conscience pricked her or because the thickduvet on her bed was too hot for her. General von Seydlitz-Gabler sweated profusely and dribbled into his pillow. Kahlenberge tossed and turned, dreaming of labyrinthine intrigues. Grau lay curled up like a worm. Prévert stared wearily into the darkness. General Tanz lay supine, deathly still and smiling faintly like a marble effigy on some medieval tomb. Hartmann clung to Raymonde with a desperation which Raymonde was only too glad to construe as passionate abandon. When they finally slept it was as though they were one body.

The summer night was warm and the sky clear as glass. It promised to be a hot and sultry day.

7.03a.m.

General Tanz woke up as though roused by a mental alarm clock. He sprang out of bed with his brain refreshed, skin clear and movements supple and relaxed. He performed some callisthenics, surveying the radiance of the morning from his window as he did so. Then he telephoned the porter, Question: where was Hartmann, his orderly?

Answer: the porter had gone to wake him at the normal time but found his room empty. There was no indication as to where else he could be. His bed had not been slept in.

Question: was the car--a Bentley--in the courtyard? Outside the hotel? In the garage? Parked in the Place Vendôme? In a side street?

Answer, half an hour later: the said Bentley was not in any of the places mentioned nor anywhere else in the vicinity of the hotel.

There followed a lengthy telephone conversation with Lieutenant-Colonel Sandauer. Tanz reported that Hartmann and the Bentley were nowhere to be found. Sandauer was thunderstruck. No one had yet uttered the word "deserter," but Sandauer jotted it down on the pad lying in front of him.

Tanz told Sandauer that whatever lay at the bottom of it all he relied on him to make the necessary inquiries. He was feeling full of beans, he announced, and intended to cut short his leave at once. He asked for Stoss to be sent over with his staff car, adding that he greatly looked forward to getting down to work with his men again.

8.19a.m.

A man named Jean Marceau entered the house in the Rue de Londres. Marceau acted as pimp to the woman on the third floor and had come to collect his cut, which usually amounted to fifty per cent. His women were selected for their efficiency and high return on capital, hence his appearance of solid prosperity. His official profession: commodity broker.

Marceau was aghast at the slaughter in the bedroom and would have beaten a hasty retreat, but since the concierge had seen him come in there was nothing for it but to do the right thing and call the police.

In less than half an hour Detective-Inspector Paul Magron of the Sûreté arrived with a small band of assistants. He recognized Marceau's function without difficulty, examined the body and soon discovered a piece of paper under the commode by the bed.