Hans Kirst: The Night of the Generals

The G.O.C. raised one hand in greeting. It was a friendly gesture which included the corporal clerk as well as the Chief of Staff, but it also served as a signal to Otto to make himself scarce. The first and most important conversation of the day was always conducted in private.

“I devoted last night to a thorough study of the suggestions contained in the Supreme Commander’s directive.”

General von Seydlitz-Gabler enunciated these words in an almost oracular tone. With his slightly rotund frame encased in an excellently tailored uniform, he now resembled a photograph in one of the more flashy illustrated magazines—the sort normally adorned with a caption reading: “One of our military chiefs.”

“My intensive study of the directive has convinced me that we are being given a special opportunity, Kahlenberge, an opportunity whose successful exploitation almost certainly depends upon the skill and effectiveness with which we put General Tanz’s division to work.”

Kahlenberge’s greenish eyes glowed briefly. “Tanz’s division,” he said, selecting his words with some care, “has apparently been very successful—in its own way—at carrying out assignments of the utmost difficulty. One word of command from you and Tanz will raze Warsaw to the ground. But what would be the point? An unbroken sea of rubble is a pretty enervating sight and dead men don’t offer any resistance—they just stink, as any fool knows. A corpse can’t shoot back but it can’t be useful to you either. In my submission, sir, the most radical solution isn’t necessarily the best one.”

The G.O.C. nodded sagely. Whatever he did, as long as he was in full regalia, looked impressive. There was something grandiose and heroic about his gaze, something prophetic, too. The only question was, what did the future hold in store? Kahlenberge was prepared to venture a guess.

“Given half a chance,” he went on, “Warsaw could become a living hell. There may well be a Jewish uprising in the ghetto and the Resistance movement will certainly make its presence increasingly felt elsewhere in the city. If so, we shall be partly to blame for tolerating the filthy slaughterhouse tactics that are being employed in this country. If we don’t do something soon we shall go down in history as collaborators in mass-murder.”

“I didn’t hear that last remark,” said the G.O.C. with dignity. “My dear Kahlenberge, you’re continually letting yourself be drawn into making bold and, if I may say so, dangerous assertions. You can’t say I haven’t warned you.”

“All right, sir, as far as Warsaw’s concerned we’ve been more leisurely—so far, anyway. But we’re not going to be allowed to sit around in Warsaw for ever. That’s why I recommend playing a waiting game. Sending in Tanz’s division prematurely would be the worst thing possible. It would be tantamount to the radical solution I mentioned. Tanz has almost certainly been granted special powers by Supreme Headquarters. His favourite hobby is arson, and the one thing we can’t afford to do is give him a chance to indulge in it.”

General von Seydlitz-Gabler’s jaw muscles tightened. “As you may be aware, Kahlenberge, I was reared on the classics, but as a student and admirer of ancient Greece I know that one cannot escape the responsibilities thrust on one by Providence. They may be an immense burden, but one has no right to evade them.”

“But what if history takes even half a step in the direction of normality, as it occasionally has done in the past? Do you want to be branded as the man responsible for the destruction of Warsaw?”

Von Seydlitz-Gabler glanced at the staff map of Warsaw lying on Kahlenberge’s desk. Thick red arrows transfixed the stubby, narrow shape of the ghetto and those quarters of the city which had recently given trouble.

“Have you been working on something, Kahlenberge?” asked the G.O.C. hopefully.

“These are General Tanz’s plans, sir. They were submitted to us for scrutiny. As you can see, the General wastes no time in getting down to business.”

“Not bad,” said von Seydlitz-Gabler admiringly. It was the experienced professional speaking. Nothing could cloud his evident pleasure in matters of pure strategy. “General Tanz is undoubtedly a man of action. I’m sure it will pay to establish friendly relations with him—in the most tactful way, of course. What would you think of inviting him to lunch?”

“A lunch party for General Tanz,” mused Kahlenberge. “What about including some ladies?”

The G.O.C. agreed with alacrity. “Not at all a bad idea, Kahlenberge. I know my wife would be happy to attend, and my daughter too, no doubt.”

“To put a little more life into the party we could also invite Major Grau of Abwehr,” Kahlenberge suggested casually. “Grau’s an adept at entertaining the fair sex. He’s always got a fund of interesting little anecdotes. At the moment he has a murder story on his books—one which promises to have sensational repercussions. He mentioned it to me on the ’phone a few minutes ago.”

“He’s welcome to come as far as I’m concerned,” said von Seydlitz-Gabler with a characteristic air ofnoblesse oblige.

“I’ll lay it on, sir,” Kahlenberge said crisply. His eyes narrowed to slits. “People like Major Grau can be extraordinarily amusing—as long as they don’t amuse themselves at your expense. It’s hard to tell sometimes.”

Lieutenant-General Wilhelm Tanz, commander of the Nibelungen Division, stood erect in his open Mercedes staff car. His left hand rested on the windscreen frame. In his right, with elegant nonchalance, he held a sub-machine-gun. He surveyed the stretch of road ahead with eyes as clear as a mountain stream, and when he spoke it was with sovereign calm.

“Well set up the first road-block here.”

Tanz looked like a painting by someone who had tried to capture the essence of heroism. With his lithe athletic figure, slender boyish hips, gladiatorial width of shoulder and finely chiselled features, he gave the impression of being a successful cross between a mountaineer and a seaman. He towered above everyone around him.

The General’s driver, Stoss by name and—for the moment at least—sergeant by rank, stared rigidly ahead. It was his duty to watch the road even when the staff car was stationary. His gloved hands rested on the steering-wheel—another of Tanz’s whims. As the General’s personal driver, Stoss had to be ready to drive off at a moment’s notice.

Major Sandauer, the Divisional G.S.O.1, considered it superfluous to ask any questions and silently pencilled in the General’s road-block on his map. He looked colourless and schoolmasterish, rather like Himmler only more intelligent. His eyes had a penetrating quality.

“We’ll take a leaf out of the fisherman’s book,” Tanz continued. “First we’ll mark out a wide perimeter and then we’ll start combing the outlying streets. That should set the fish in motion. Naturally, they’ll try to make off in the opposite direction, but we’ll have road-blocks there to cut them off. By the time we’ve closed the net we’ll have the rebels exactly where we want them—with their backs to the ghetto wall.”

“What about the civilian population, sir?” asked Major Sandauer.

“One can hardly talk of a normal civilian population in this place.” General Tanz described a chopping movement with the hand that held the sub-machine-gun. “We’ll put them through the sieve. Anyone who looks in the least bit suspicious will be held for questioning.”

Major Sandauer noted down three points for discussion with Corps: means of transport, additional support and the maintenance of security. The last item covered temporary prison camps and ancillary arrangements such as latrines, a hospital, food distribution and interrogation facilities.