Hans Kirst - The Night of the Generals

“It’s not easy,” Prévert went on. “There’s always some reshuffling going on. For instance, a flourishing establishment specializing in perversions has sprung up in the Avenue Montaigne. Another new house just round the corner in the Rue François employs minors only. We’ve got all these establishments under surveillance, of course. There are German officers among the regular patrons of the Rue François and I could give you a sizeable number of names which appear on the books of homosexual houses—those of three members of your department among them.”

Grau brushed this aside much as he would have a fly. “I’m not particularly interested in that sort of thing,” he said contemptuously. “Almost everyone has a little lapse now and then, depending on how drunk he is, and there are homosexuals everywhere. I’m interested in bigger perversions. Naturally you could give me lists of names, Monsieur Prévert. But I want more than that—considerably more.”

Prévert raised his bull-dog nose as though snuffing the air. If he could actively help to decimate the Germans-whatever Grau’s intentions were—why shouldn’t he, especially as he would be preserving a few of his compatriots from certain death. He meditated for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders.

“What, for instance,” he finally asked in his husky absinthe-laden voice, “would one of your generals be worth?”

“Three Frenchmen,” Grau replied promptly. “Three taken from any list you care to give me, except that it must contain at least ten names. I reserve the right to choose. I’m not omnipotent, you understand. I have to take great care not to tread on the toes of the S. D. or the Gestapo.—But I don’t need to explain that to you. Paris will soon see the last of those unpleasant organizations, anyway. Our business takes priority. Can you tell me which general may be involved in your offer?”

Prévert hesitated. Grau was not the sort of man to haggle with. He was tricky to handle, but he always put his cards on the table.

“Are you familiar with a general named Kahlenberge?”

“It’s a deal!” said Grau. “What can you offer me in this connection?”

“Give me a day or two to assemble my material. There are still a few gaps.”

“I shall be back tomorrow, Monsieur Prévert.”

Notes supplied by a journalist who is an expert on the events that took place in Paris in July 1944 and has written several important articles on the subject: “There is scarcely anything to add to what is already known about the group which formed itself round General von Stülpnagel, commander-in-chief of the German forces in France. The conduct of most of the officers who were directly involved in the conspiracy against Hitler merits our unqualified respect, and the conduct of Lieutenant-Colonel Cäsar von Hofacker, in particular, was distinguished by historic greatness.

“Apart from this clearly defined group at the top there existed numerous others composed of sympathetic but passive accomplices, and others of men who had become party to the conspiracy by accident. Then, again, there were officers who guessed a great deal but knew nothing for certain. These individuals circled the main groups like satellites, cautiously trying to make contact but failing.

“Still other men, regimental officers as well as staff officers and generals, formed their own independent groups and tried to build up their own networks. They conspired with and sometimes—unwittingly—against each other. Each felt that things could not go on as they were, but all lacked centralized direction—though it must be admitted that this was scarcely possible under the circumstances.

“As a result, attempts at conspiracy sometimes took curious forms. One important rule was to put nothing in writing and avoid suspicious turns of phrase on the telephone because the enemy might be listening in. In this instance, the enemy was the S. D. and the Gestapo, although many also regarded the Abwehr as such. The only comparatively safe method of communication was direct contact between two individuals or very limited groups of individuals.

“It was essential to avoid attracting attention. Conversation between two officers in the same department presented no special difficulty, but when the officers in question had no official connection with one another the problem became exceedingly awkward.

“Neutral and inconspicuous places were favoured as venues for this type of conversation. Among them was the Métro, especially Lines 1 and 7 between Palais Royal and Hôtel-de-Ville. It was not unusual for contact to be made in cafés, and von Falkenhausen of the Commander-in-Chief’s staff developed a craze for taking bicycle rides dressed in civilian clothes, complete with typically French basque beret.

“Consider the general situation. The Eastern Front was steadily contracting, the Allies had landed in Sicily, and the Normandy front, which had held hitherto, was now showing signs of collapse. Still based in Paris were numerous headquarters staffs and various units belonging to all three services—e. g. an army, a navy and an air force headquarters, each with its own garrison troops—the Commander-in-Chief, France, the senior S. S. and police chief, France, the headquarters of the S. D., France, the staff of the Quarter-Master-General, Western Command, and so on.

“Furthermore, stationed in and around Paris were numerous units of varying size, some held in reserve, some ordered there for regrouping and transfer and some intended as garrison and ‘pacification’ units.

“Outwardly, however, Paris hardly seemed to have changed at all. It was still, to quote an expert, regarded as an El Dorado by many Germans.”

Statement by ex-Sergeant Johannes Kopisch, formerly a member of the Provost Corps and as such permanently engaged in disciplinary duties within the garrison area of Greater Paris: “Why do I still remember that evening so well? Because the whole business seemed so goddam stupid. You come up against a lot of funny things in the Provost Corps, but what happened that night was just plain idiotic.

“I can’t tell you the precise date and time, but it was after midnight and damned sticky—it was like a Turkish bath the whole of that July—up till the 21st, that is. I can still remember the exact date. Why? Because that’s when it began to rain. My notebook fell into a puddle and I was bloody near transferred to the front on account of it. My captain was a pernickety sod. I could tell you a thing or two about him!

“All right, I’m coming to it. It must have been a few days before the 21st. We were out on patrol as usual, me and a pal in a truck. Up and down the Champs-Elysées all the time, from the arch to the square and back again.

“Well, while we were driving up the Champs—or were we driving down? I can’t remember—someone stops us and says: There’s a chap giving a defeatist speech in the Mocambo Bar. I said: ‘Breathe!’ but he wasn’t tight or we’d have sent him off with a flea in his ear. As a matter of fact, he was an N. C. O.—a real spit-and-polish type. There wasn’t anything for it but to go and take a gander at the Mocambo Bar.

“We collared the lad who was supposed to have spoken out of turn and I winked and said: “Well?’—encouragingly, if you understand me. And what does the fellow say, the stupid bastard? Just says: ‘Yes.’ Admits the lot. Never thinks of shooting the only possible line—you know: I was drunk, I was misunderstood, I meant the exact opposite—and all the rest of the old bullshit.

“I couldn’t believe my ears! This chap Hartmann was actually proud of his night’s work—even asked what all the fuss was about. I ask you, how dumb can you get?—Stirring up the French and calling the war a load of crap in front of a few dozen witnesses! Mind you, he may have had a point, when you think about it today, but you just don’t do things like that.