He had been unforgivably careless. Fatally careless.
The towel dropped to the floor. Naked he went over to the bedside table and picked up the telephone. How could he find Hartmann? He tried to think. Hadn’t he said something about preparing a foreign press summary for Hitler?
The operator said, ‘Can I help you, Herr Legat?’
‘No. Thank you.’
He replaced the receiver.
As fast as he could he dressed. A fresh shirt. His Balliol tie. Once again he found himself kicking on his shoes as he walked. He slipped on his jacket and went back out into the passage. He realised his hair was wet. He plastered it down as best he could, nodded to the detective and knocked on the Prime Minister’s door.
‘Come!’
Chamberlain was with Wilson, Strang and Dunglass. He was wearing his spectacles, studying the two copies of the draft declaration. He glanced briefly at Legat. ‘Yes?’
Legat said, ‘Forgive me, Prime Minister, but I’d like to make a suggestion with regard to your visit to Hitler.’
‘What?’
‘That I should accompany you.’
‘No, that’s quite impossible. I thought I made it clear – no officials.’
‘I am not proposing myself as an official, sir, but as a translator. I’m the only one of us who speaks German. I can make sure that your words are being accurately reported to Hitler, and his to you.’
Chamberlain frowned. ‘I hardly think that’s necessary. Dr Schmidt is very professional.’
He returned to his perusal of the document and that might have been that, but Wilson spoke. ‘With respect, Prime Minister – remember what happened at Berchtesgaden, when Ribbentrop refused to give us a copy of Schmidt’s notes of your first long private conversation with Hitler? To this day we don’t have a full record. It would have been a great help to us if there had been a British translator present.’
Strang nodded in agreement. ‘That’s certainly true.’
Chamberlain could be peevish when he felt he was being pressured. ‘But it would threaten to change the whole tenor of the meeting! I want him to feel this is very much a personal conversation.’ He slipped the two copies of the declaration into his inside pocket. Wilson looked at Legat and shrugged slightly: he had tried. A noise came from beyond the window. Chamberlain’s brow creased in puzzlement. ‘What is that sound?’
Strang pulled back the curtain fractionally. ‘There is a huge crowd in the street, Prime Minister. They’re calling for you.’
‘Not again!’
Wilson said, ‘You should go out on to the balcony and wave to them.’
Chamberlain smiled. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘You must! Hugh, open the window, will you?’
Legat undid the catch. In the garden opposite the hotel and in both directions along the street the crowd was even greater than it had been on the previous day. As the spectators noticed the French windows opening they began to roar, and when Legat stood back to allow Chamberlain to step on to the small balcony the din became tremendous. Chamberlain bowed modestly three or four times in each direction, and waved. They started to chant his name.
In the hotel suite, the four men listened.
Strang said quietly, ‘Perhaps he’s right – perhaps this is the one moment when Hitler can be persuaded by sheer force of popular opinion to moderate his behaviour.’
‘You can’t accuse the PM of lacking imagination,’ said Wilson, ‘or courage. Even so, with great respect to Alec, I’d be happier if one of us was in there with him.’
After a couple of minutes, Chamberlain came back into the room. The adulation seemed to have energised him. His face glowed. His eyes were unnaturally bright. ‘How very humbling. You see, gentlemen, it is the same in every country – ordinary people the world over want nothing more than to live their lives in peace, to cherish their children and their families, and to enjoy the fruits that nature, art and science have to offer them. That is what I wish to say to Hitler.’ He brooded for a moment, then turned to Wilson. ‘Do you really think we can’t trust Schmidt?’
‘It’s not Schmidt who concerns me, Prime Minister. It’s Ribbentrop.’
Chamberlain thought it over. ‘Oh, very well,’ he said at last. ‘But be discreet,’ he warned Legat. ‘Don’t take notes – I only want you to intervene if my meaning is not being properly rendered. And make sure you keep out of his line of sight.’
3
Prinzregentenplatz had scarcely changed in the six years since Hartmann had last seen it. As they came up the hill and rounded the bend his eyes went immediately to the spot in the north-east corner where he had stood with Hugh and Leyna – on the pavement beneath a large white-stone apartment building with a high red-slate roof. A similar-sized crowd had gathered in the same place today, hoping for a glimpse of the Leader.
The Mercedes drew up outside number 16. A pair of SS sentries guarded the entrance. Seeing them, Hartmann realised he was still carrying his gun. He had grown so used to its snug weight, he kept forgetting he even had it. He ought to have dumped it during the night. If they had picked up Frau Winter he must surely be next. He wondered where they had arrested her – at the office, or in her apartment – and how they were treating her. As he climbed out of the car after Schmidt he could feel the sweat trickling beneath his shirt. The guards recognised Schmidt and waved him through and Hartmann slipped in after him. He was not even asked his name.
They passed another pair of SS men in the concierge’s office and climbed the communal staircase – stone at first, that became polished wood. The walls were tiled an institutional grey and green, as in a metro system. There were dim electric lamps but the light came mostly from the landing windows that looked out on to a small rear garden of fir and silver birch trees. They clumped up noisily, past apartments on the ground and first floors. It was said by the Propaganda Ministry that the Führer still had the same neighbours as he did before he became Chancellor: proof that at heart he remained a simple member of the Volk. Perhaps it was true, thought Hartmann, in which case what strange goings-on these people must have seen over the past few years, from the death of Hitler’s niece in 1931 to yesterday’s lunchtime visit by Mussolini. They continued to climb. He felt trapped, as if he were being drawn relentlessly by some dark magnetic force. He slowed his pace.
‘Come on,’ said Schmidt. ‘Keep up!’
On the second floor, nothing distinguished the apartment’s solid double door from the others. Schmidt knocked and they were admitted by an SS adjutant into a long, narrow vestibule. It stretched away on either side, parquet-floored, with rugs, paintings, sculptures. The atmosphere was silent, unhomely, unlived-in. The adjutant invited them to sit. ‘The Führer is not yet ready.’ He moved away.
Schmidt whispered confidingly, ‘He keeps late hours. Often he doesn’t emerge from his bedroom until noon.’
‘You mean we may have to sit here for another hour?’
‘Not today. Chamberlain is due at eleven.’
Hartmann gave him a look of surprise. It was the first he knew that Hitler was meeting the British Prime Minister.
It took Chamberlain’s car several minutes to break free from the clutching hands of the crowd around the front of the hotel. The Prime Minister rode in the back with Dunglass, Legat sat up front next to the driver. Behind them was a second Mercedes carrying the Prime Minister’s two bodyguards. They made a partial circuit of the square and then sped off across Odeonsplatz into a district of elaborate royal palaces and grand public buildings that Legat vaguely remembered from 1932. He studied Chamberlain in the wing mirror, gazing rigidly ahead. People were shouting his name, waving at him. He sped on, oblivious. No longer the dry-as-dust administrator of popular legend, he had become a seer – a Messiah of Peace, robed in the drab costume of an elderly accountant.
They drove on to a bridge with a stone balustrade. The river was wide and green, the strip of trees along the embankment an advancing line of fire: red, gold, orange. The
sun lit the gilded figure of the Angel of Peace leaning forwards on top of her high stone column. Beyond the monument the road looped through a park. Emerging, they began to climb the slope of Prinzregentenstrasse. Legat had always pictured it as steep, in the way that one misremembers scenes from childhood, but now in a powerful car it seemed no more than a gentle incline. They passed a theatre on the right and suddenly they were in the space in front of Hitler’s apartment, and this at least was exactly as he had carried it in his mind, right down to the crowd on the pavement who recognised Chamberlain and started to cheer. Again, the Prime Minister, in his mystic state, didn’t even glance across at them. The guards saluted and an adjutant stepped forward to open the car door.
Legat let himself out and followed Chamberlain and Dunglass through the entrance and up the steps into the gloomy interior.
The adjutant ushered the Prime Minister into a small caged elevator and pressed the button, but it failed to move. He tried for another half-minute, his handsome young face turning blotchy with embarrassment. Finally, he had to pull open the gate and indicate they should proceed on foot. Legat fell in beside Dunglass as they climbed the stairs behind Chamberlain. Dunglass whispered, ‘No ink last night, hardly any telephones that work. I don’t think these chaps are quite as efficient as they like to make out.’
Legat was praying that Hartmann would be there. He was not sure what he could offer God in return, but it would be something, he promised Him – a different life, a fresh start, a gesture equal to the age. They arrived at the second floor. The adjutant opened the door to the apartment, and there – mirabile dictu – was Hartmann, sitting with his long legs stretched out. Beside him Legat recognised Hitler’s translator. They both stood when they saw Chamberlain. Hartmann stared at Legat but there was no opportunity for anything more than a glance to pass between them: the adjutant was insisting Legat follow Chamberlain and Dunglass across the hall and into the room opposite. He told Schmidt to come, too. Hartmann made a move to accompany them but the adjutant shook his head. ‘Not you. Wait here.’
For a few seconds Hartmann stood alone in the empty lobby. Legat’s brief glance had been full of warning. Something else must have happened. He wondered if he should slip away while he still had the chance. Then he heard a door open to his right and he turned to see Hitler emerging from a room at the far end of the corridor. He was smoothing his hair and straightening his brown Party jacket, checking his armband – fussy, last-minute adjustments, like an actor preparing to go on stage. Hartmann jumped to his feet and saluted. ‘Heil Hitler!’
Hitler looked at him and raised his hand in absent-minded acknowledgement but gave no sign of recognition. He stepped into the room in which the others were waiting and the door was closed behind him.
Afterwards, Legat would be able to claim – not boast: that was never his style – that he had been in the same room as Hitler on three separate occasions, twice at the Führerbau and once in his apartment. But, like most of the British eyewitnesses at Munich, he was never able to provide anything more than the most commonplace description – Hitler looked as he looked in the photographs and the newsreels, except in colour, and the main shock of the encounter lay simply in finding oneself in proximity to a world-famous phenomenon, like seeing the Empire State Building or Red Square for the first time. One detail stuck in his mind, though. Hitler smelled strongly of sweat – he had detected it in his study and caught a whiff of it now as he passed. He had the body odour of a frontline soldier or a workman who had not bathed or changed his shirt for a week. He was yet again in a dour mood and made no attempt to hide it. He stalked in, greeted Chamberlain, ignored everyone else, then went and sat in the furthest corner of the room and waited for his visitor to join him.
The Prime Minister took the armchair to his right. Schmidt sat on his left. The adjutant stationed himself by the door. It was a big room, running almost the entire length of the apartment, looking out on to the street, and furnished in modern style, like a salon aboard a luxury liner. There was a library alcove at the far end, crammed with books, where Hitler and Chamberlain were sitting; an area of sofas and chairs in the middle, where Legat and Dunglass had perched themselves; and a dining table at the opposite end. Legat was close enough to hear what was said but far enough distant not to impinge on the conversation. However, because Hitler was in the corner, it was impossible for him to obey the Prime Minister’s instruction and entirely escape the dictator’s eye line, and from time to time he noticed those strangely opaque blue eyes flicker in his direction, as if he was trying to work out why these two strangers were present in his flat. There was no offer of refreshment.
Chamberlain cleared his throat. ‘First of all, I would like to thank you, Chancellor, for inviting me to your home and for agreeing to hold one final conversation before I return to London.’
Schmidt translated faithfully. Hitler was sitting slightly propped forward by a cushion. He listened, nodded politely. ‘Ja.’
‘I thought we might briefly discuss some areas of mutual interest between our two countries on which we might be able to co-operate in the future.’
More nodding. ‘Ja.’
The Prime Minister reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small notepad. From his inside pocket he produced his fountain pen. Hitler watched him warily. Chamberlain opened the first page. ‘Perhaps we might begin with this terrible civil war in Spain …’
Almost all the talking was done by Chamberlain: Spain, Eastern Europe, trade, disarmament – he ticked off the list of topics he wished to raise and to each Hitler responded briefly, without being drawn into detail. ‘That is a matter of vital interest to Germany,’ was the most he would say. Or, ‘Our experts have made a study of the subject.’ He fidgeted in his chair, folded and refolded his arms, looked over at his adjutant. Legat thought he was like a householder who had agreed in a moment of weakness to let a salesman or a religious proselytiser over the threshold, bitterly regretted it, and was looking for an opportunity to get rid of him. Legat himself kept glancing at the door, trying to calculate how he might be able to escape long enough to whisper a warning to Hartmann.
Even Chamberlain seemed to detect that his audience was becoming distracted. He said, ‘I realise how busy you are. I mustn’t detain you further. What I wish to say in conclusion is this. As I left London yesterday morning, women and children and even babies were being fitted with masks to protect them against the horrors of poison gas. I hope, Herr Chancellor, that you and I can agree that modern warfare, the brunt of which will be directed as never before against ordinary civilians, is abhorrent to all civilised nations.’
‘Ja, ja.’
‘I believe it would be a pity if my visit passed off with nothing more than the settlement of the Czech question. In that spirit, I have drafted a short statement putting on record our mutual desire to establish a new era in Anglo–German relations that may bring stability to the whole of Europe. I would like us both to sign it.’
Schmidt translated. When he came to the word ‘statement’ Legat saw Hitler dart a look of suspicion at Chamberlain. The Prime Minister drew the two copies from his inside pocket. He handed one to Schmidt. ‘Perhaps you would be kind enough to translate this for the Chancellor.’
Schmidt glanced at it, and then began to read it out in German, carefully emphasising every word.
‘“We, the German Führer and Chancellor and the British Prime Minister, have had a further meeting today and are agreed in recognising that the question of Anglo–German relations is of the first importance for the two countries and for Europe.”’
Hitler nodded slowly. ‘Ja.’
‘“We regard the agreement signed last night and the Anglo–German Naval Agreement as symbolic of the desire of our two peoples never to go to war with one another again.”’
At that, Hitler cocked his head slightly to one side. Clearly, he had recognised his own words. A slight frown appeared. Schmidt waited to be told to go on but Hitler said nothing. In t
he end, the translator continued of his own accord.
‘“We are resolved that the method of consultation shall be the method adopted to deal with any other questions that may concern our two countries, and we are determined to continue our efforts to remove possible sources of difference and thus to contribute to assure the peace of Europe.”’
For several seconds after Schmidt had finished, Hitler didn’t move. Legat could see his gaze travelling round the room. A process of calculation was evidently under way. Presumably, it was hard for him to refuse to sign sentiments which he had himself expressed in public. Yet it was also obvious that he resented it – resented this fussy old English gentleman tricking his way into his home and presenting him with this démarche. He suspected a trap. The English were cunning, after all. On the other hand, if he signed it, at least the meeting would be over and Chamberlain would clear out. And in the end it was only a scrap of paper, the expression of a pious hope, without any legal consequence. What did it matter?
This – or at any rate something like it – was what Legat afterwards surmised must have gone through the dictator’s mind.
‘Ja, ich werde es unterschreiben.’
‘The Führer says yes, he will sign it.’
Chamberlain smiled with relief. Hitler clicked his fingers at the adjutant, who hastened towards him, pulling out a pen. Dunglass stood to get a clearer view. Legat saw his chance and walked over to the door.
Hartmann had sat for ten minutes in the deserted vestibule. The press summary lay on the chair beside him. To his left he could hear the faint sounds of plates clattering, a woman’s voice, a door opening and closing. That, he guessed, must be the service area – the kitchen, cloakroom, servants’ quarters. The Führer’s bedroom must therefore be to the right – the place he had emerged from. The door to the room where Chamberlain and Hitler were meeting was closed; he could hear nothing through the thick wood. Hanging next to it was a watercolour of the Vienna State Opera House – technically proficient, but stilted and soulless. He suspected it must be Hitler’s own work. He rose and crossed the parquet floor to examine it. Yes, there were his initials in the bottom right-hand corner. Pretending to study the picture more closely, he glanced towards the Führer’s bedroom in the shadows at the end of the passage. There was a room adjoining it, only four or five paces away. Curiosity overcame him. He looked towards the kitchen to check he was unobserved, then casually crossed to it and opened the door.