Hans Kirst - The Night of the Generals

“Similar, though not identical in every respect, was the position in which one of my highly esteemed and often-decorated brother officers, General Tanz, found himself after the Second World War. Whatever he did, his thoughts were centred upon Germany, upon Germany as a whole, upon the German as a soldier and an individual, upon the need to safeguard the achievements of the Western world…”

Verbatim report of a further telephone conversation between Detective-Sergeant Hornträger of Dresden and Detective-Inspector Liebig, temporarily in East Berlin: Hornträger: “I tried to get hold of Wyzolla, as you requested, but it proved to be impossible. Sergeant Wyzolla is away on an official trip at the moment. He’s escorting General Tanz to Berlin. Tanz’s chief staff officer told me that he’s attending a conference at the Ministry of Defence, but that’s all I could get out of him. He left at about two o’clock yesterday afternoon and they don’t know when he’ll be back.”

Liebig: “Damn and blast!”

Rainer Hartmann opened his eyes, blinking sleepily. His bedroom curtains were drawn, but the subdued afternoon light hurt his eyes. He was lying fully clothed on his bed in the Pension Phoenix. It might have been minutes or hours since he dozed off—he didn’t know. Something seemed to be groping for him, oppressing him, enveloping him. He couldn’t identify it, but it was there. Shaking off his lethargy With an effort, he sat up abruptly.

A squat, dimly defined figure was standing at the foot of his bed. It looked familiar, even in the half-light “So it’s you!” Hartmann grunted.

Prévert pulled up a chair and sat down. “My dear Hartmann, don’t pretend you’re surprised to see me.”

Hartmann leant back against the bed-head, almost as if he were flinching away. “Considering what’s happened to me in the past few days, I should have guessed that you were behind it all. I just couldn’t bring myself to believe you were capable of such a dirty trick.”

“It’s part of my job,” said Prévert. “How do you imagine I could deal with unscrupulous individuals effectively if I were a mass of scruples myself?”

“What do you want?”

“Why ask a question you know the answer to—subconsciously, anyway. All right, if I must be explicit: it’s time.”

“I suppose you’re waiting for me to say ‘Time for what?’ Well, I won’t. I just don’t care. The only thing that matters to me is that you’ve seen fit to take advantage of a number of decent people, including our mutual friends in Antibes, my mother and Ulrike.”

Prévert settled himself comfortably on the hard wooden chair. “My dear Hartmann, that’s what friends are for. I’ll give you some good advice: don’t underestimate a mother’s unselfishness—and as far as Ulrike is concerned, I can only congratulate you. That girl has the sort of courage most men only dream of.”

“Do you mean Ulrike’s in on this, too? Do you mean she’s playing your game—letting herself be used for the sake of something she doesn’t understand?”

“My dear boy,” Prévert said patiently, “that remarkable young lady of yours immediately grasped what it has taken me weeks and you years to realize: the past cannot be dismissed; it has to be overcome. A man can’t always do that on his own. He needs people to help him—in your case, Ulrike and—please believe me—myself.”

Hartmann hitched up his socks, straightened his trousers and buttoned his shirt—all mechanical acts designed to gain time.

“You’re welcome to go on living as you have been doing—if that’s what you really want. There’s a ’plane leaving for Nice via Munich and Geneva in just over an hour’s time. You can catch it comfortably.” Prévert spoke like a ticket-clerk giving information. “My car’s waiting outside. You only have to say the word and you’ll never see me again, or Berlin—or Ulrike, probably.”

“Or General Tanz either, I suppose?”

Prévert chuckled gleefully. “He’s in the bag,” he said. “I only have to pull the string, but I can’t do it unless you help me.”

“And what’s likely to happen if I do?”

“A lot of things,” Prévert conceded. “Loaded pistols sometimes go off and typewriters can be just as dangerous in their own way. Wherever there’s power there are men who abuse it. Human beings are the most unreliable creatures in the world. For all that, there are such things as friends.”

“And are you one, Prévert?”

“Where my friendship for you is concerned, all I can say is—try me.”

Hartmann drew a deep breath. “All right. Maybe I’ve nothing more to lose. If I’m wrong, at least I’ll know how much I did have.”

“How I envy you,” Prévert said softly, “and how well I understand you. Life has dealt you one slap in the face after another, but you still cling to your faith in human nature. You’ve lost nearly everything that makes a normal person’s life bearable—and yet, when I claim to be your friend, you don’t hesitate to return the favour. Ah, my dear boy, what have I done to deserve this moral incubus? Fundamentally, even I believe in the existence of goodness. How do you account for that?”

Frau Wilhelmine was making the necessary preparations for the reception in honour of General Tanz, aided by Wyzolla, who had been made available to her for the purpose by Tanz himself. Wyzolla had proved an able assistant, instantly carrying out anything that sounded remotely like an order. Frau Wilhelmine watched him with a tinge of nostalgia. The dear dead days were not so dead after all.

“You’ve been extremely helpful,” she told him.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Wyzolla replied with ingenuous self-assurance. “I try to be.”

The hotel management had reserved the so-called “Green Salon"—also known as the “Hunting Room"—for the von Seydlitz-Gablers’ reception. Frau Wilhelmine checked the arrangements in person and then telephoned Kahlenberge. He seemed delighted, and promised to come, adding: “I’d very much like to bring a friend of mine—a Frenchman.”

“Is he an influential person?”

“Definitely,” Kahlenberge assured her brightly. “You might describe my friend Prévert as a power behind the throne. He can make careers and break them. Given the right combination of circumstances, even the President of France would find it hard to evade his clutches.”

“In that case, bring him by all means.” Frau Wilhelmine sounded impressed.

Her next victim was a junior minister who happened to be visiting Berlin. Being a man who accepted all invitations on principle, he proved easy meat, as did a visiting diplomat from the Benelux countries. The latter was reputed to be a very minor force in the Council of Europe, but Frau Wilhelmine threw him into the pot for good measure. His function would be mainly decorative.

The next name on her list was the managing director of a famous electrical engineering firm. After putting up a brief but fruitless struggle, he weakened when Kahlenberge’s name was mentioned, reflecting that Kahlenberge’s firm manufactured special vehicles for transporting turbines and marine cable.

Frau Wilhelmine then proceeded to rope in a member of the Berlin Senate, who was noted for his vast network of contacts. He was also noted for his slightly wry sense of humour, which he took care to display when accepting her invitation. “I shall be delighted to come, dear lady, and so will my latest wife.”

The last remark drew Frau Wilhelmine’s attention to a problem of secondary but undeniable importance: the so-called gentler sex. Since no great reliance could be placed on Ulrike and the Senator’s “latest wife” was an unknown quantity, she would have to hunt up two or three females, preferably attractive.