Hans Kirst: The Night of the Generals

“Dear Fräulein Neumaier, I wonder if I might ask you to arrange for a fresh tablecloth and matching napkins?”

Melanie Neumaier, the General’s personal assistant and long-time chief secretary, was Frau Wilhelmine’s favourite victim. Melanie cherished a profound and transparent devotion for “her” General and probably dreamed about him at night, but she hardly represented much of a danger. Her potential attractions were to a great extent nullified by an ample nose. What was more, her inordinate shyness with men had won her the nickname of “the Iron Maiden.”

“Dear Fräulein Neumaier, I wonder if I might also ask you to look around for some glasses that harmonize with each Other? It would be so nice if we could have four matching sets. We need hock, claret and champagne glasses, as well as tumblers. Would you mind doing that for me?”

No one could have withstood Frau Wilhelmine’s frosty courtesy. Besides, past experience indicated that the General’s mood was largely dependent on that of his wife, and the General’s well-being was very close to his subordinate’s hearts.

“I wonder if I might ask you to polish these glasses?”

This time the victims were Lehmann, the General’s batman, and two orderlies detailed for the occasion. They polished away, possibly consoling themselves with the thought that when the war ended—if it ever did—they would emerge as trained hotel staff.

Frau Wilhelmine von Seydlitz-Gabler seemed to be everywhere at once: in the kitchens, where a capon was sizzling fragrantly; with General Kahlenberge, who as Chief of Staff was theoretically responsible for organizing the lunch; with Melanie Neumaier, who wrote out table-cards, arranged flowers and made telephone calls; and with the staff superintendent, who was persuaded to part with special stores of various kinds after a short struggle.

“I wonder if I might ask you to find some ice-buckets for the wine—silver ones, if possible?”

The Generalin was not one to shy at fences, most of which she took at the first attempt. She had wasted no time in combing the multitudinous rooms of the Liechnowski Palace for articles of value and gathering them around her, well aware that the effect of a painting is often determined by its frame.

By the time she had finished, the suite occupied by her husband and herself resembled an inhabited museum. It was filled with damasks from Lyons, marble from Carrara, paintings from Paris, furniture from Rome and, scattered among these, fine examples of Polish craftsmanship, notably a massive and elaborately decorated table from a Cracow workshop of the late eighteenth century.

Wilhelmine von Seydlitz-Gabler’s majestic features grew stern as her daughter Ulrike entered the room.

Ulrike was a slim, bony girl with an air of extreme reserve. If her father’s prayers had been granted she would have been a boy, but Ulrike resolutely emphasized her femininity. Her hair-style, for instance, was downright provocative—a long smooth creation which enclosed her head like a silken curtain.

Ulrike was a source of some worry to her parents. She was largely devoid of the sovereign self-confidence which might have been expected in a general’s daughter, nor was she particularly choosey about her friends. So, Ulrike had to be watched, and that was why, when she took up war-work, she was always “posted” somewhere within her parents’ reach. At the moment she was working at garrison headquarters.

“Ah, there you are, my dear,” said Frau Wilhelmine. “You must be wondering why I sent for you.”

Ulrike von Seydlitz-Gabler was young. Her eyes were blue and untroubled as a Mediterranean sky in summer. “I suppose I’ve put my foot in it again,” she said sweetly. “What have I done wrong now?”

“My dearest child,” said Wilhelmine, all mother and general’s wife, “I worry about you more than you give me credit for. I worry about your future, too.” She indicated one of the tall chairs that stood round the table. “After all, you’re a woman now.”

“Maybe,” said Ulrike, almost sadly. “Sometimes I think so too. It’s the war, probably.”

“You’re not an innocent girl any longer, Ulrike. We needn’t pretend to each other.”

“Why should we? Nobody’s to blame. It’s not your fault or Father’s either. I’m doing war-work here because you insisted on it, but when you do war-work you meet a lot of soldiers—and they’re not all as old and respectable as a Corps Commander.”

“Don’t misunderstand me, Ulrike. I’ve no intention of reading you a moral lecture. On the contrary, we all have to learn from our mistakes. I’d like to know whether you’re happy, that’s all.”

“Is it essential to be happy with things the way they are?”

Frau Wilhelmine brushed the question aside. “I’m no stranger to this sort of situation, my dear. When I was your age I gave myself to a lieutenant—one summer night in the park. I need hardly add that he was an exceptional man, but who was I to tie myself to a young, impetuous lieutenant? Later I met a captain, a much more balanced, mature and stable man. He became your father.”

Ulrike crossed her legs. It was a defiant gesture, but her mother refused to be distracted. When Frau Wilhelmine could see the winning-post ahead she pressed on regardless like the thoroughbred she was.

“We women,” she pursued, quite unperturbed, “have our occasional moments of weakness, but when the hour of decision comes we choose a man of solid worth, the man who seems worthiest of our love.”

“And who do you suppose that might be in my case?”

“A general at the very least, Ulrike. That’s why I asked you here today. I think it’s high time you settled down. I’m thinking of General Tanz, of course.”

“Tanz! You want me to marry a war memorial?”

“What could be finer than to become the wife of a unique man like that?”

Frau Wilhelmine spoke with immense conviction. She had a hundred arguments at her finger-tips, each one more cogent than the next, but she was not given a chance to produce them because at that moment the generals entered the room.

There were five at table. The G.O.C. presided over the gathering with Lieutenant-General Tanz on his right and, since they were an odd number, his wife on his left. Ulrike was seated between Tanz and Kahlenberge.

Frau Wilhelmine led the conversation, keeping an eagle eye on the mess waiters meanwhile. “Major Grau of Abwehr will be joining us for coffee,” she announced. Her tone hinted that this was a piece of skilful planning—first the generals and their womenfolk, then the lower ranks—but the real reason was rather more prosaic: the capon would not stretch to more than five.

“I’m no slave to the pleasures of the table,” declared General von Seydlitz-Gabler, plying his knife and fork with gusto, “but I appreciate my food.”

“It’s all a question of refinement,” said Frau Wilhelmine, always quick to corroborate her husband’s pronouncements whatever the subject under discussion. “Don’t you agree, Ulrike?”

“As far as I’m concerned,” said Ulrike carelessly, “the main thing is to have enough. I’m always hungry. The kitchens at garrison headquarters don’t produce food like this.”

“We also live frugally here,” said von Seydlitz-Gabler in a tone of mild but unmistakable reproof, “but we enjoy offering hospitality. This is a special occasion. We often have nothing but bread and butter with artificial honey for breakfast.”

“A man can conquer the whole world,” interjected Major-General Kahlenberge, busying himself with a chicken-leg, “without ever being able to satisfy all his acquisitive urges.”

Remarks of this sort obviously irritated Frau Wilhelmine von Seydlitz-Gabler, who liked to steer conversation along less abstract lines. Pushing back her plate, which was not entirely empty, she said: “Whatever our normal standard of living, we must always be prepared to do without things when occasion demands, as it does in times like these. Don’t you agree, General Tanz?”