Philip Kerr - A Man Without Breath

I shook my head. ‘I’ve already eaten,’ I said.

But in truth, what with the smell of formaldehyde and the dead body and the prospect of investigating a murder that I’d committed myself, I had lost my appetite.

Wednesday, April 7th 1943

In Smolensk’s Glinka Concert Hall – where else? – I attended a piano and organ recital at the invitation of Colonel von Gersdorff. On the programme was Bach, Wagner, Beethoven and Bruckner, and it was supposed to make everyone feel good about the fatherland, but it only made us all sick that we weren’t at home and, in my own case, back in Berlin listening to some more cheerful music on the wireless: I could even have withstood a couple of numbers from Bruno and his Swinging Tigers. Of course being an aristocrat Von Gersdorff had an Iron Cross in classical music. He even brought along an antiquarian leather-bound score that he followed during Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier , which not only struck me as redundant but a bit flashy too – a bit like taking The Laws of the Game to a football match.

After the recital we went for a drink at the officers’ bar in Offizierstrasse, where in a quiet corner that felt as if it were a million kilometres from the bowling alley at the German Club in Berlin, the colonel told me he’d received a telemessage that Hans von Dohnanyi and Pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer had finally been arrested by the Gestapo and were now being held at Prinz Albrechtstrasse.

‘If they torture Hans he could tell them about the Cointreau bomb and me and General von Tresckow and everything,’ he said uncomfortably.

‘Yes, he could,’ I said. ‘In fact it’s highly likely. It’s not many men who can withstand a Gestapo interrogation.’

‘Do you suppose they’re being tortured?’ he asked.

‘Knowing the Gestapo?’ I shrugged. ‘It all depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On how powerful their friends are. You have to understand, the Gestapo are cowards. They won’t put a man through a performance like that if he’s especially well-connected. Not until they’ve read the score as thoroughly as you did back in the concert hall.’ I shook my head. ‘I don’t know much about the pastor-’

‘His sister Christel is married to Hans. His mother is Countess Klara von Hase. Who was the grand-daughter of Karl von Hase, who was pastor to Kaiser Wilhelm the second.’

‘That’s not the kind of connections I was referring to,’ I said, politely. ‘How close is your friend Hans von Dohnanyi to Admiral Canaris?’

‘Close enough for it to hurt them both. Canaris has been on an SD list of enemies for some time now; so has Hans’s boss, Major General Oster.’

‘That figures. The RSHA never did like sharing responsibility for intelligence-gathering and security. Well then, what about the ministry of justice? Von Dohnanyi used to work there, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, he did. He was Reich Minister Gurtner’s special adviser, from 1934 to 1938, and got to know Hitler, Goebbels, Goring and Himmler – the whole infernal crew.’

‘Then that will certainly help. You don’t torture someone who was on nodding terms with the leader until you’re really very sure of what you’re doing. Maybe this Gurtner fellow can help him, too.’

‘I’m afraid not. He died a couple of years ago. But Hans knows Erwin Bumke very well. He’s a senior Nazi judge, but I’m sure he’ll try to help Hans, if he can.’

I shrugged. ‘Then he’s not completely without friends. So that will deter the Gestapo, for sure. Besides, Von Dohnanyi is an aristocrat and he’s army and the army looks after its own. Chances are the army will insist on a military court.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Von Gersdorff, with a palpable look of relief on his handsome face. ‘There are senior figures in the Wehrmacht who will try to speak for him, albeit quietly. General von Tresckow’s uncle, Field Marshal von Bock, for example. And Field Marshal von Kluge, of course.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t count on Clever Hans at all.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Von Gersdorff. ‘Von Kluge can be a bit Prussian in his sense of duty and honour, but I firmly believe Gunther is a good man. Henning von Tresckow has been his chief operations officer for over a year now and-’

I shook my head. ‘Let’s get some air.’

We stepped outside and walked up Grosse Kronstadter Strasse as far as the Smolensk Kremlin wall. Against a purple sky full of stars, the fortress looked as if it was made of gingerbread, like the sort of edible house I’d eaten every Christmas as a boy. There, in the cold silence, I struck a match against the brick, we lit some cigarettes, and I told him what Martin Quidde had told me.

‘I can’t believe it,’ protested Von Gersdorff. ‘Not of a man like Gunther von Kluge. He comes from a very distinguished family.’

I laughed. ‘You really think that makes a difference, don’t you? The old aristocratic code?’

‘Of course. It has to. Yes, I can see you think that’s very funny, but this is what I’ve lived my whole life by. And I firmly believe it’s the one thing that’s going to save Germany from absolute disaster.’

I shrugged. ‘Maybe. But I’m still right about Von Kluge. You can’t trust him.’

‘No, you’re wrong. He knows my father. They’re from the same part of West Prussia. Lubin and Posen aren’t so very far away from each other. This corporal of yours must be mistaken.’

‘He’s not mistaken,’ I said. ‘Not in the least.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure. I haven’t heard it myself, but he says there’s a tape recording of Hitler’s conversation here in Smolensk with Von Kluge. At Krasny Bor.’

‘My God, where?’

‘It’s quite safe.’ I took the tape out of my coat pocket and handed it to him.

Von Gersdorff looked at it blankly for a moment and shook his head. Finally he said: ‘Well, if it’s true, that would explain a lot. Why Gunther changed his mind about us all shooting Hitler, at the very last minute. All of his prevarications are now explained. All his nit-picking objections. It’s true, Henning still hasn’t forgiven him for that. But this: this is something else. Something quite despicable.’

‘I couldn’t agree more.’

‘The fucking bastard. And to think that Henning vetoed a bomb at Krasny Bor so as to spare Gunther’s life. We could have nailed Hitler there, without a shadow of a doubt. You see the problem is always the same: getting Hitler away from his headquarters, where he’s well protected. I can’t imagine we’ll ever get him on his own like that again. Damn it all.’

‘Yes, that is a pity.’

‘This corporal,’ said Von Gersdorff. ‘Can he be trusted?’

‘He can now,’ I said.

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Because he’s dead. I shot him. The idiot was threatening to expose this tape to all sorts of people. Well, you can imagine how that might have ended. At least I assume you can. If you can’t then maybe you’re not as conspiracy-minded as I think you need to be. Nor as ruthless.’

‘You murdered him?’

‘If you prefer that word. Yes, I murdered him. I had no choice but to kill him.’

‘In cold blood.’

‘And this from the man who was going to blow Hitler up on a Sunday.’

‘Yes, but Hitler is a monster. This fellow you killed was just a corporal.’

‘As I recall, Hitler used to be a corporal, too. And what about your Cointreau bomb? It’s not just Hitler that would have killed, but his pilot and his photographer and maybe his fucking dog, for all I know.’

I grinned, almost enjoying his squeamish discomfort, and then I laid out a possible chain of causation that included a compromised Field Marshal von Kluge being interviewed by the Gestapo and out of sheer panic informing them of everything he knew about all of the army plots to kill the leader that had been hatched in Smolensk. As a teleological account it might not have satisfied Plato or Kant, but it was enough to forestall any further cavilling on the part of my very particular friend.