Hans Kirst - The Night of the Generals

The Divisional Commander’s current combat orderly, new at his job and destined never to grow old in it, sprang out of the staff car. Bustling round to the back he opened the boot, removed a Thermos flask, a china cup and the saucer belonging to it, wiped the two latter articles with a linen cloth, poured out some coffee and extended the result of his labours to the General with a slightly tremulous hand.

“Too cold,” said Tanz after a brief appraising glance.

The combat orderly froze in his tracks, realizing that he had committed some inexcusable blunder. Either the coffee had not been hot enough when he poured it into the Thermos, or the flask itself was defective, or he had paid insufficient attention to the external temperature. Whatever the reason, he was to blame. His hands started to shake so violently that the coffee slopped over the rim of the cup and flooded the saucer. However, he had ceased to be the centre of attention.

General Tanz was contemplating, almost lovingly, the houses on the far side of the intersection. Major Sandauer was watching the General. Sergeant Stoss, sitting at the wheel of the Mercedes, appeared to see nothing but the street ahead of him. Behind the Mercedes stood two armoured scout cars, both equipped with wireless, and the Divisional Commander’s permanent dispatch-rider detachment, four soldiers encased in gleaming black leather and mounted on powerful B.M.W.s. For all of them, nothing existed save what lay ahead, least of all the trembling orderly, who slunk back to his place.

“We’ll carry out a tactical exercise,” said Tanz.

“Without the G.O.C.’s approval?” Major Sandauer, G.S.O.1 of the Nibelungen Division, asked the question in an undertone. His words were intended for the ears of the Divisional Commander alone.

“An operation of this type,” said Tanz undeterred, “requires the most meticulous planning. I consider it vitally necessary that we first try out on a small scale what we shall have to carry out later on a large scale. Only then will we be able to operate with any guarantee of success. Alert the division, Sandauer. Code word: Waldfrieden.”

Sandauer nodded, but permitted himself a small aside. “Is Corps to be notified?”

“Later. The operation will be little more than a test exercise, but I regard the experience to be gained from it as absolutely indispensable. We’ll try out on four or five streets what we may have to do later with forty or fifty—without arousing any unnecessary attention. Afterwards we’ll see.”

“Is the whole division to be alerted?”

“Down to the last man. When I do a thing I do it properly or not at all.”

“You must keep up appearances,” declared Frau Wilhelmine von Seydlitz-Gabler. “People expect it of you. You owe it to your position.”

“Of course. ” The G.O.C. was convinced that he had possessed a marked talent for keeping up appearances ever since his infancy. His father, also a general and land-owner, had instilled it into him at an early age, and one of his earliest recollections was of shaking family retainers’ hands at harvest festivals and on Christmas Eve. He still remembered the moist and fleshy hand of the housekeeper, the dry leathery fingers of the first coachman and the soft, velvety little paw of the chamber-maid who used to sigh at him provocatively in the upstairs corridors.

“You’re absolutely right, my dear,” he said, mustering a smile. “As always.”

“An evening of convivial good taste,” she declared, as though issuing an edict.

General von Seydlitz-Gabler groaned almost inaudibly. His feet hurt. The new shoes which his wife had put out for him that morning had a certain solid elegance, but they were too tight. Wilhelmine’s solicitude was something of a trial at times.

“We ought to make the occasion a cultural event,” announced Wilhelmine. “I’m thinking of a reception for a few specially invited guests, with music.”

“Excellent,” said the G.O.C. deferentially.

“Not a big concert—no orchestra, not even a string quartet—just a pianist.”

“We’ll dig one up.”

“He must play some Chopin, of course.”

“Of course.”

“We are in Warsaw, after all.”

“True, my dear. Don’t worry, well arrange it—some time in the next few days.”

“This evening,” Wilhelmine said blandly.

The General nodded in reluctant but unequivocal agreement. “I’ll get Kahlenberge to lay it on.”

“He is already doing so.” Wilhelmine subjected her husband, who sat slumped exhaustedly in his arm-chair, to a look of searching tenderness. “Take those new shoes off if they’re pinching you, Herbert. Be comfortable while you have the chance.”

Major-General Kahlenberge was organizing things. As always, he made it his first concern to organize the organizers. Otto the Fat was detailed to make the reception rooms look festive. Captain Kraussnick, an acknowledged specialist in the field of entertainment, was made officially responsible for the guests’ comfort, and Melanie Neumaier, the Corps Commander’s “Iron Maiden,” was entrusted with the compilation of the guest list.

Having got his plans safely under way, the chief planner found himself sitting around with time on his hands. He decided to send for Lance-Corporal Hartmann.

Hartmann duly appeared, but stood in the doorway eyeing Kahlenberge mistrustfully. Kahlenberge’s initial reaction was a long paroxysm of almost soundless laughter. Then his face grew abruptly serious.

“Well,” he asked, “have you got things straightened out? Do you see why one wrong answer would be enough to send that handsome head of yours rolling? You must learn to be practical, Hartmann. Right, tell me this: have you ever had the smallest contact with the Russians, that’s to say, the Communists?”

“Never!” protested Hartmann vehemently. “How could I have?”

“Wrong first time!” Kahlenberge shook his head. “Ringing assurances always sound fundamentally suspicious. If you want people to believe something, say it simply—unless of course you’re addressing a political rally. It’s always a mistake to bellow one’s convictions in private, so don’t yell ‘never’—just say ‘no.’ And remember: look them in the eye like a good German and hold yourself like a proper soldier, confidently but with respect. That’s what counts.”

“Yes sir,” said Hartmann promptly.

“Think carefully before you answer these questions—you’re bound to be asked them. Have you ever been in contact with Communists? Did your father belong to the Party? What about your brother, your uncle, your brother-in-law? Has your sister or fiancée ever had an affair with one?”

“No,” Hartmann answered simply. The General’s admonitions were beginning to sink in.

“That’s right. Stick to the word ‘no’ wherever possible,” Kahlenberge recommended. “Never say ‘I don’t know’ or give a qualified answer. It sounds suspicious.”

Hartmann began to smile for the first time, sensing the goodwill Kahlenberge felt for him. “I think I’m beginning to get the hang of it, sir.”

“To help strengthen your position a little, I propose to take you on to my staff. You’ll work in my department until further notice—Otto will break you in. But just remember—make one mistake and you’ll never get a chance to make another. What’s more, you’ll be endangering me as well. Is that clear?”

Hartmann understood. He nodded, breathed a sigh of relief and withdrew, rightly concluding that the interview was at an end.

General Kahlenberge did not watch Hartmann’s departing figure. Instead, he picked up the ’phone and asked for Major Sandauer. Kahlenberge and Sandauer entertained a mutual regard for each other’s tactical skill, which meant in effect that they intrigued against one another only when circumstances rendered it unavoidable.