Hans Kirst: The Night of the Generals

She kissed him, very lightly, on the lofty dome of his noble brow, and then released him. He closed his eyes in momentary relief. When he opened them again his wife was once more seated at the desk, as she had been when he first awoke.

It was not an unfamiliar sight. Wilhelmine made it her business to take an interest in everything to do with his work. She had played an active part in every stage of his career, and even in war-time she hurried to his side whenever circumstances permitted, as they did from time to time. General von Seydlitz-Gabler, it should be explained, was a specialist in pacification. Having mastered the art of appearing strict and paternal simultaneously, he made an acceptable conqueror. Thus it was no accident that his headquarters were located in Warsaw, and it was this fact which made it possible for his wife to visit him.

“How do you interpret these suggestions from Supreme Headquarters?” she asked, holding up a document resembling a diagram.

The General’s limp skin looked grey as a worn-out dishcloth, but he summoned up a brisk nod of approval. “You’ve put your finger on the essential point, my love. It contains nothing but suggestions.”

“And you can interpret them as you think fit?”

“Of course, but my interpretation must be dictated by the conditions prevailing here.” The General hoisted himself up in bed slightly, as though trying to enhance the dignity of his appearance, but conditions were hardly in his favour. He sank back again.

“Surely, Herbert,” she inquired gently, “isn’t it always advisable to be decisive in a position like yours?”

“By all means,” he replied, fidgeting with the buttons on his pyjama jacket, “but the decision involved here is one of far-reaching importance. Under certain circumstances I might be compelled to burn parts of this city to the ground.”

“And what would your conscience say to that?”

“Decisions of this nature must be very carefully weighed.” Growing restless, the General rolled out of bed, his pyjamas billowing loosely except in the nether regions, where they moulded themselves tightly to his haunches. He disappeared into the bathroom, leaving the door open. “The consequences could be simply catastrophic.”

“Why do you imagine Supreme Headquarters has allotted you General Tanz’s division?”

“Purely a safety measure. Just because I’m allotted a division of that sort, it doesn’t necessarily mean that it will be used.”

A fierce jet of water shot into the basin as von Seydlitz-Gabler spun the taps in an endeavour to drown his wife’s observations, however valuable, but his efforts were in vain. Wilhelmine had followed him in and stood leaning against the door-frame smiling pensively.

“Damn it all!” exclaimed von Seydlitz-Gabler in an access of sudden but muted energy. “I really can’t understand your everlasting preoccupation with this chap Tanz. There’s a great deal to be said for him, I’ve no doubt, but he hasn’t got a Regular Army background—never went through the mill as we did. I find it a little irritating, the way you always sing his praises.”

Wilhelmine smiled. “I have my reasons, and they should be good enough for both of us. After all, Ulrike is just as much your daughter as mine and Tanz is more than a successful general—he’s a bachelor as well. Besides, there’s a sort of tradition at stake. When Father was your C. O. he told Mother that I was going to marry the best man in the regiment—and that happened to be you.”

Major-General Klaus Kahlenberge, Chief of Staff to General von Seydlitz-Gabler, tilted his chair back from the desk, digging the heels of his boots into the floor as he did so. The chair tottered alarmingly, but Kahlenberge had an admirable sense of balance.

“Do me a favour, Otto,” General Kahlenberge told the pancake of a man who stood facing him. “Don’t ask me any trick questions at this ungodly hour of the morning. What’s a human life worth?—I could say, a pinch of cow-shit. I might equally say, a very great deal. No, the real answer is, it all depends. Every human being has his market value. It fluctuates according to supply and demand, that’s all.”

“I know Lance-Corporal Hartmann pretty well, sir,” said the rotund man in corporal’s uniform.

“So what?” Kahlenberge gave a long, dry-as-dust laugh. His hairless skull glistened as though it had been basted with oil. It always shone like this, hence the nickname “Moonface,” a sobriquet which his subordinates used whenever they were absolutely sure he was not within earshot. His eyes, greenish and phosphorescent like those of a lynx, twinkled with amusement. The rest of his face was smooth, round and inflated, as though modelled in plasticine.

“You say you know Lance-Corporal Hartmann. Where from, may I ask? Did you play in the same sand-pit as children or were you drafted into the same shower when you joined up?”

Otto the Fat, corporal clerk and plaything of General Kahlenberge, grinned broadly. The General had put his finger on the spot as usual. Kahlenberge possessed what amounted to a sixth sense. You couldn’t pull the wool over his eyes, which was why he was never boring to work for.

“My dear Otto,” Kahlenberge continued, rocking to and fro precariously, but with evident pleasure, on the hind legs of his chair, “you’re a clown, and as such indispensable to me for purposes of light entertainment. If I can ever do you a favour you only have to ask me. Why not, after all? War gives us a chance to play God. All right, let’s play.”

“The question of justice comes into it too, sir.”

Kahlenberge burst into another peal of laughter. It was a mirthless sound like the distant croaking of a vulture.

“The concept of justice varies according to who defines it, Otto. Besides, Hartmann must either be a blithering idiot or an idealistic dreamer—which usually comes to much the same thing. If he had an ounce of common sense he wouldn’t be where he is today. The only thing he can be, as long as he’s here with us, is what he’s already listed as in official records: dead. A dead man doesn’t get into trouble and doesn’t make any for other people. All the same, it’s quite a challenge, raising someone from the tomb.”

Sensing that his request was as good as granted, Otto allowed his spherical features to radiate gratitude. He gazed up at the General Staff maps on the wall with the expression of a true believer glimpsing heaven, Hartmann’s fate was really a matter of indifference to him, but he liked to maintain a pleasant working atmosphere and thought it advisable to give the General a chance to demonstrate his generosity from time to time. General Kahlenberge found it enjoyable.

“Very good, sir,” said the fat corporal, “I’ll classify the Hartmann case as top priority.”

“Do that thing, Otto,” Kahlenberge replied tersely, slapping his riding-boot with the flat of a ruler. “I always welcome it when my men try to serve the cause of justice, so-called. Humanitarianism gives one an appetite for work. Besides, a senior officer likes to feel that he’s surrounded by willing numbskulls.”

Otto received the last observation with the composure of a man for whom such pronouncements were a daily occurrence—which they were, at least in General Kahlenberge’s entourage. Kahlenberge uttered aloud, and with relish, things which others hardly dared to think, and Otto provided him with a loyal audience.

“I can hear the Almighty coming,” said Kahlenberge.

“Half an hour earlier than usual, sir.”

“I might have guessed it. He develops a tremendous capacity for work whenever his wife honours him with her presence.”

At that point von Seydlitz-Gabler entered the room and conversation ceased. Otto froze to attention like a bowl of jelly that has suddenly and miraculously set. Even Kahlenberge interrupted his perilous balancing-act and stood up, doing his best to assume an expression of alert deference.