Dominion

Chapter Twenty-Two

GUNTHER CALLED SENATE HOUSE from a telephone box just outside Birmingham, leaving Syme in the car. Gessler had been waiting for the call, and told him to report for a full debriefing immediately when he returned to London. A little over two hours later, Syme dropped him off at the embassy and Gunther went straight up to Gessler’s office. The senior man listened while Gunther gave his impressions of Muncaster, as a man consumed by fear but evasive and secretive. He told him, too, about Muncaster’s other visitors, who had been at the flat before them and, he believed, had searched it.

Gessler frowned, his black eyebrows almost meeting in the middle. He was worried. ‘Were they Resistance?’

‘I think they could be. Why else carry out a search of the flat?’ Gunther laid the photographs he had removed on the table and pointed. ‘If they were university friends, they’re in there.’

‘Damn it!’ Gessler burst out. Gunther was surprised; on Friday he had seemed like a man who kept his emotions in check. He told Gunther to write his report, then go home and return early the following morning. Gessler himself would talk to Berlin overnight.

Gunther sat in the little office he had been given along the corridor and wrote quietly and steadily in his small, neat hand. The office was bare apart from the obligatory desk, chairs and filing cabinets, and a wardrobe where he kept his Gestapo uniform. He wore it seldom, thought he looked fat in it, the puffy shapelessness of his face emphasized by the uniform’s clean, hard lines. He resented that Gessler looked trim in his SS uniform, though he was ten years older. There were pictures of Hitler and Himmler on the walls, photographs of his brother and his son on his desk. The window behind the desk had a panoramic view of London, the same as Gessler’s office. After an hour he walked back to the flat, dead tired.

He had something to eat and watched the news, followed by a repeat of Mosley’s broadcast. It was good the British had done this at last, but Gunther wondered why now. Before going to bed he read his son’s letter again. Gunther had been to Krimea to visit Michael last summer, two days on the train clacking through the Belorussian forests and swamps then across the Ukrainian plains, manned concrete guard-posts at every mile on the track. Michael had been happy to see his father again, and they had gone to the beach almost every day. His son was energetic and enthusiastic, blond and athletic. He had Hans’ undisciplined enthusiasm too and, perhaps, the beginnings of his dead twin’s physical grace. Michael had turned eleven in October; all he had been able to do was send a present and a card. He went to bed and slept uneasily, tossing and turning. He had a confused dream of being with his brother again in the forest, the night Heydrich had addressed them by the lake. Hans was looking away from him, over the water, infinite sadness in his handsome face.

He returned to the embassy at eight the next morning. When he entered Gessler’s office the SS man was staring out of his window, down over the city. His eyes were bloodshot and, remarkably for such a neat man, he was unshaven. He must have been up all night. There was a cold, leaden sky again today, a touch of fog in the air. Gessler waved him to a chair. He was frowning, tense with anxiety and excitement, quite different from Friday.

Gunther still felt the flat sadness of the evening before in himself. He didn’t try to fight it; it helped him stay distanced, objective. He noticed that the report he had prepared last night was lying on Gessler’s desk, alongside the photograph of Muncaster’s university group.

To break the silence, he said, ‘The papers this morning are full of the Jews being moved. The government are congratulating themselves on a smooth operation.’

Gessler turned and gave him a nod and a thin smile, like a stern schoolteacher acknowledging a pupil whose work was good. ‘That is your line of business at home, isn’t it? From what I understand the British operation wasn’t entirely without problems. And of course,’ he added contemptuously, ‘some of the preachers are making a fuss, trying to organize protests. If only England were Catholic; the Pope knows the Communists are his real enemy.’

‘But they’ve all been gathered in?’

‘Nearly all. Almost 150,000. I knew it was going to happen, of course, but unfortunately I couldn’t tell you.’ The old self-importance was back in Gessler’s voice. ‘The operation had to be kept very secret for it to succeed.’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘It was part of a larger deal between the governments. Up to now the British have always resisted our pressure. But now –’ he gave a wintry smile – ‘we may be able to get a Jew-free Europe at last. We’re talking with the French, too, about a final clear-up over there.’

Gunther nodded. ‘What’s going to happen to the British Jews now?’

‘They’ll be sent to the Isle of Wight, then out East. Hopefully soon. Arrangements are being made for their reception in Poland. Getting the Auschwitz ovens up to full capacity.’ He smiled again. ‘Beaverbrook’s never been that much of an anti-Semite, but he knows what side his bread’s buttered on.’

‘He’s effete and corrupt. Like Laval, like Quisling. We’ll need better men to build the new Europe.’

Gessler nodded agreement. ‘Yes. General Franco’s the only one with any real spine. He shot all his enemies at the first chance.’ He sighed and scratched the bald crown of his head. Then he said quietly, ‘I spent a lot of time talking to Berlin last night. The Führer is very ill indeed. I was told he could die at any time.’ He leaned forward. ‘I’m authorized to tell you this because when he does die there will be a struggle for control. Those loyal to the SS must be ready.’

Gunther suddenly felt cold. ‘Ready for what, sir?’ he asked.

‘A power struggle between us and the army. Things aren’t good in Russia, and we think the Russian winter offensive this year will be a big one. And there’s been an outbreak of bubonic plague among our troops in the Caucasus. The army want a settlement, the Russians keeping everywhere east of Moscow and north of the Caucasus.’

‘What? With the Communists? Zhukov and Khrushchev?’ Gunther answered bitterly. ‘Because that’s what they are, however they fudge it and talk about their Great Patriotic War.’

‘No. SS Intelligence think the army are already lining up other factions in Russia. The criminal element that’s always existed under the Communist state – some of them have made money now the Russians have brought limited markets back. And some in the Russian Security Police, old NKVD people who made friends in our army during the Nazi-Soviet Pact. It’ll be a criminal state, ruling the old Russian ethnic areas.’

‘We’ll be in eternal danger.’ He thought of his brother Hans. ‘Is that what five million Germans have died for?’

‘That’s why we have to be ready. In case, God forbid, the SS has to fight the army.’

‘What about the Party?’

Gessler shook his head. ‘Divided. Speer is with the army. Reichsführer Goebbels is the biggest Party figure now Göring’s dead and poor Rudolf Hess is in a madhouse: he’s the Führer’s nominated successor. He could make things go one way or the other. He’s strengthening his position. That’s what this deal with Beaverbrook is all about. Strengthening his ties with Britain, giving them economic support we can’t afford in exchange for getting rid of the Jews.’

‘Goebbels has always been totally sound on the Jews.’

‘He’s wobbly on Russia, though. This could be a manoeuvre to link Germany to England and through them to the US. There’s talk that Stevenson might embargo trade relations with Europe; if he does it would hit us hard. Goebbels is loyal to the Führer but with the Führer gone—’

Gunther considered. ‘With the British Jews actually deported, the Americans would have no choice but to accept that reality. They would no longer be a possible bargaining issue for them.’

Gessler said, ‘If there is a battle for control of Germany it could ripple through this embassy.’ He shook his head. ‘After all our victories, I thought, we can’t lose, we’re omnipotent. But now—’

‘We still can be, if we keep our courage,’ Gunther countered. ‘SS power has been growing for twenty years.’

Gessler said, more to himself than Gunther, ‘If there is a struggle and the SS lose, I suppose they can’t shoot all of us. I expect we’ll all be demoted and redeployed.’ His manner softened unexpectedly, became confidential. He took off his pince-nez and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘I wonder where. I was in Leningrad in 1942, you know. After the army cut the city off completely and starved them all to death over the winter. The Wehrmacht has never hesitated at what has to be done in Russia, some of them will pretend to scruples if they argue for peace but I’ve seen the army lads in action out there, seen how they deal with the Russians. But more and more of the senior officers have lost the spine for it. Weakness in the face of the enemy.’ He sat still, reflecting. ‘I was with the first SS group into Leningrad, in April, to question some of the few survivors – mostly Communist Party officials, they had what few supplies were left by then, though even they were like walking skeletons. God, the city stank, what our artillery and bombing had left of it. Three million bodies, rotting in that rubble. The corpses could be dangerous, you know, especially if there was a pile of them – they decomposed fast when the snow went. The gases would build up inside and they’d explode. You’d hear them banging off, at night. Wolves had come in to forage, and there were rats everywhere. No water, no sewage – we all had to clear out again after a month, the troops were coming down with typhoid – it’s all still cordoned off. At least in Moscow we took the city without a long siege; kicked the population out and put them in camps to starve quietly. The Führer wants to demolish the buildings and build a lake there when we win. But I never want to go east again; it was disgusting.’ He wrinkled his face with distaste, sighed, then focused on Gunther again. ‘I see from your file you’re divorced, Hoth.’

‘Yes, sir. But I have a son in Krimea.’

‘I have a wife, two daughters, in Hanover. I taught physical education in a school there, when I came back from the Great War. Then I joined the Party, then the SS. I did well.’

A little golden peasant, Gunther thought, not wanting hard times back again. ‘We’ll win through, sir,’ he said quietly.

Gessler slammed his hand on the desk, his mood turning in a moment. ‘Of course we will! None of us must doubt it!’ He took a couple of deep breaths, replaced his pince-nez, then spoke calmly again. ‘Don’t repeat anything of what I said to anyone.’

‘Of course not, sir.’

‘Besides, it may be mostly rumours. You know what HQ’s like.’

‘Yes, sir.’ But Gunther still felt cold.

‘Now, these visitors Muncaster had,’ Gessler said, businesslike again. ‘Do you still think they could have been Resistance? After sleeping on it?’

‘Yes, sir. It’s not certain but it is possible.’

‘Why didn’t Dr Wilson tell you other visitors were coming?’

‘I think he didn’t know, sir.’

‘He’ll be phoned this morning.’ Gessler shook his head. ‘If they were Resistance, how would they know about Muncaster?’

‘The obvious answer is through the Americans. The brother will have told them all about what happened.’ Gessler nodded. Gunther thought, all about what? What exactly did Muncaster know? And how much did Gessler know of it?

‘And the old man definitely reported Muncaster as saying “The Germans mustn’t know”.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Given how important this could be, Berlin agrees Muncaster should be brought here and questioned. He would fold quickly, I am sure; we would soon find out whether he actually knows anything important.’

Gunther said, ‘I think locking him in the basement and telling him a few details about what we can do should be enough.’

‘Good. Actual interrogation of a British citizen is politically tricky. They like to keep things in their own hands.’

‘I know.’

Gessler frowned again, tapping his fingers on the desk. ‘And that is our problem. What I would like to do is send an SS squad into that hospital and just take him. But the orders from Berlin are that we must avoid doing anything that would cause a stir. If the British authorities realize Muncaster’s importance they may want to keep him. We don’t want the British secret services anywhere near this; they’re unreliable, full of wild adventurers. And if the Resistance people are onto Muncaster, too, it is vital they know nothing of our involvement; they might try to snatch or kill him first.’

‘They’ve had access to him already. If he has a secret the Americans don’t want to get out then why haven’t they killed him yet?’

‘Maybe the Americans want him alive. Maybe the British Resistance want his secret for themselves.’

‘What if these visitors come again?’

‘Dr Wilson will be told very firmly to ring a good friend of ours in the British Home Office. He’ll do it, he’ll huff and puff but he knows he could lose his job if things go wrong.’

‘Don’t forget he has a relative in the Health Ministry.’

‘It’s the Home Office that counts. Meanwhile we need to look into the people in that university photograph, two of whom the old man thought he recognized, which brings me to the next issue. How did Syme do yesterday?’

Gunther had considered how to answer this. ‘Very well. Took the lead in questioning Muncaster, but took cues from me. I don’t think Muncaster even realized I’m foreign. Then Syme helped me get into the flat.’

‘How far do you trust him?’

Gunther considered. ‘He’s not an easy colleague. Bit of a chip on his shoulder about us being in charge. He’s clever, he’s guessed there’s more to this than meets the eye. But he’s fond of money and the good life, and I’ve told him he’ll be rewarded for helping us.’

Gessler tapped the photograph of the group at Oxford. ‘Would you trust him to look into this, find out the identities of the people in this picture? The names the visitors gave at the asylum were fake, of course.’

‘Yes. But I’d watch him; if it came to a conflict between British and German interests, I’m not sure which way he’d jump. He’s a good Fascist, but, as I say, with a chip on his shoulder. The question of reward would be important.’

‘You don’t like him, do you?’ Gessler asked.

‘No. But that doesn’t matter. I think he can be very useful.’

‘Then let’s play on his greed.’ Gessler smiled. ‘It works often enough.’ He was his old confident self again, as though the conversation about Hitler’s illness had not taken place. ‘I’ll speak to his superintendent. Ask for him to contact Oxford, find out who was in that photograph. Take Syme to a top restaurant tonight, say the Cafe de Paris; we can arrange the booking. Thank him for his help, talk about a grateful German government opening a Reichsmark account for him.’ He looked at the clock on the wall. ‘And now, I have a call from Berlin due shortly. Go back to your flat, contact Syme, butter him up. Apart from that, wait in for the telephone.’ He looked at Gunther sharply again. ‘But be ready now, for anything. And remember this, Heydrich himself wants Muncaster in our hands. And if it comes to it, Syme is dispensable.’

That night Gunther took Syme to dinner at the Cafe de Paris as arranged. When he got back to the flat he had telephoned Syme’s office, put on an artificially jovial voice. Then, as he was not supposed to go out, he phoned the embassy to ask if they could get him a dinner suit. They delivered one an hour later, just the right size, with a crisply ironed shirt. They had booked places for them at the restaurant, too, which couldn’t have been easy at a few hours’ notice.

He turned what Gessler had said over and over in his mind. He had known, objectively, that Hitler was ill and might die, and that the politics then could become difficult, but being told it was a strong possibility now was different. For over twenty years Gunther had believed the Führer was something more than human, delivered to a broken Germany by Fate. He remembered the posters on the streets in the thirties, All This We Owe to the Führer. He knew Martin Bormann was Hitler’s right-hand man, but also that he was a nonentity. Gessler was right, Goebbels was the key figure. Which way would he jump, towards the SS, or the army? Gunther sat and calculated, but underneath it all was cold fear at the thought that Hitler, the keystone of everything, could soon be gone.

Eventually, worn out with thinking, he went and lay down on the bed. He fell into an uneasy doze, and had a dream about his young son. Michael was walking through a field of stubble, and Gunther knew there were mines in the field but somehow he was powerless to call out to the boy. Then he saw someone else crossing the field, walking towards Michael. It was his brother Hans. He knew that Hans and Michael were both about to be blown up, but though he tried to shout to them he couldn’t speak, could only utter a little croak. He woke up gasping for breath.

There were no calls from the embassy and at seven he phoned Gessler’s office where his coldly efficient secretary confirmed they would contact him at the Cafe de Paris if need be. He walked up to Euston Square tube; there was fog in the air, a sulphurous tang that made him cough as London fogs always did. If it persisted he would have to get one of those facemasks. He remembered his nightmare. He felt full of emptiness and fear. He must show Syme no trace of it.

On the tube platform he saw a huge garish poster: a man in a clown’s outfit with a painted face holding up a big flaming hoop through which a lion jumped. Billy Smart’s Circus Christmas Spectacular. He wondered if there were any circuses in Krimea.

The Cafe de Paris was a huge basement room. Gunther had been there when he was posted in England before, usually for boring embassy functions. He had heard that in 1939–40, when the British were terrified of German bombs, it had been advertised as the safest restaurant in London. The lighting was low, little shaded lamps on the tables. Gunther had hoped for a place in the balcony area that surrounded the ballroom – somehow he always felt safer watching things from above – but he was led to a table near the dance floor, with a view of the band. They were playing loud, discordant jazz music.

Gunther looked at his watch; he was early. He glanced over at the people at the other tables. Some older women wore ballgowns but most of the younger women had short dresses, some wide and flouncy, others daringly tight. Many had expensive mink stoles over their bare shoulders. Four Wehrmacht colonels sat together, probably military advisers from the embassy, Rommel’s people, part of the clique who wanted to cut a deal with the enemy. They looked cheerful and confident. At a big table nearby a group of middle-aged Englishmen accompanied by younger women who looked like prostitutes were getting cheerily, noisily drunk. From their shouted conversation he gathered they were from ICI, celebrating a possible new contract with Siemens. A waitress came and he ordered an orange juice. He didn’t want to drink too much alcohol tonight.

Syme arrived a quarter of an hour later, in a dinner suit that was too big for him. Gunther sighed inwardly, then rose to shake his hand. They took their seats. Syme looked round, his expression appreciative. ‘Quite a place, eh? I’ve heard of it, but never been.’

‘We wanted to show our appreciation.’ A waitress appeared. ‘What will you have to drink?’

‘A brandy if that’s all right. Push the boat out. What’s that you’ve got?’

‘Orange juice. But I’ll have a brandy now.’

Syme said, quietly, ‘I got called in by the superintendent today.’

‘Did you?’

He smiled conspiratorially. ‘They want me to carry on helping you.’

‘And what do you think about that, William?’

‘I’ll be glad to.’ A serious expression came over his thin face. ‘Sounds like you put in a good word for me. I’m grateful.’

‘Whatever we can do.’ The drinks came. Gunther raised his glass. Syme shifted in his chair; Gunther wished again that he wouldn’t twitch about all the time.

‘Let me know what you need.’ Syme laughed. ‘We’ll be like Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, solving the great crimes.’

Gunther smiled, though he had always thought the Sherlock Holmes stories contrived and moralistic, not like the real world. The band finished their number, to Gunther’s relief, but then an exaggeratedly handsome, Latin-looking man in a suit with sparkly lapels walked onto the stage. Everyone clapped, and Syme gave a little whistle. ‘Wow, that’s Guy Mitchell.’

‘Who?’

‘American singer. He’s big, not like Crosby or Sinatra but pretty good. They’re always playing him on the radio.’ He laughed with pleasure. The man sang a couple of numbers; he had a good voice but the lyrics were nonsensical. Syme had turned to watch, foot jigging in time to the music. Gunther was relieved when the singer bowed and left the stage; his stomach was grumbling and he wanted to order. Syme, who was on his third brandy now, turned back to him.

‘Good stuff, eh?’ He looked speculatively at the girls with the businessmen’s party. ‘There’ll be dancing later. Those tarts look taken but there might be others who aren’t.’ He raised his eyebrows. Gunther noticed his Cockney accent had returned as the drink loosened his tongue. How foolish, this English obsession with class. As a Fascist Syme should know it was race and nationality, not class, that mattered. He said, straight-faced, ‘Your voice has changed.’

Syme smiled sardonically. ‘You need to try to talk a bit posh if you’re aiming to reach the top of the Service. Don’t drop yer bleedin’ aitches. Now, what about lookin’ for some nice juicy tarts?’

Gunther shook his head. ‘I don’t seem to have the energy these days. And I must get up early tomorrow.’

A waiter came and they ordered. The food was good but the band started again and they had to raise their voices to talk. Syme said, ‘Don’t you like the music?’

‘No. It is like all the American influences I see over here. Loud and brash, tuneless.’

Syme looked at him with amusement. ‘What do you prefer, German classical stuff?’

Gunther shrugged. ‘Anything but this.’

‘Our Arts Ministry’s trying to encourage traditional folk music, morris dancers waving silly twigs around village greens, blowing penny whistles.’ He laughed. ‘I prefer something with a bit of a swing.’

‘Negro music. I thought you didn’t like blacks.’

Syme leaned across the table. He said seriously, ‘You know, mate, I like you, but you should take the chance to enjoy life a bit. Let the old juices flow.’

Gunther smiled ironically. ‘I have given my life to duty.’

‘The generation that has sacrificed everything to save Europe?’

‘And you for your Empire, too.’

Syme leaned further forward. ‘Listen, I know the Russkies aren’t completely sorted out yet, but they will be. And everywhere else, we’re top dogs. We’ve got everything. All the Jew money, like you got when you carved up Switzerland with the Frogs and the Wops in 1940.’ He laughed. ‘That was a masterstroke. You got all the Swiss banks, confiscated all the assets the German Jews put there after you came to power. Russian assets too. Germany and us together, we call the shots, so we get the goodies. We should take advantage of it.’

Gunther smiled and inclined his head. ‘If things go well with this,’ he said, ‘grateful people in Germany might open an account in Basel for you.’

Syme’s eyes sparkled. ‘That would be – great.’ He grinned. ‘I’ve already been promised that if things go well there’s a four-bedroomed house in Golders Green earmarked for me, a Jew’s house, full of expensive furniture.’ He took a drink of the fine wine he had ordered. ‘Live a little, mate,’ he said, a half-friendly contempt in his voice. ‘I plan to.’