Читать книгу The Kaiser’s Last Kiss - Alan Judd - Страница 8

TWO

At the gatehouse Untersturmführer Martin Krebbs ensured that his platoon was satisfactorily disposed before opening his ration pack for lunch. One section was escorting the Dutch guard back to their barracks, one had taken over the guard duties and the others were eating their rations after sorting out bunks and bedding and cleaning the lodge. The Dutch soldiers had not left it in a bad condition – as the filthy French would have, judging by what he had seen of their quarters during the push through France – but it was not up to Wehrmacht, let alone Schutzstaffel, standards.

He looked again at Huis Doorn. His orders were not to interfere with the old Kaiser but to heed his summons, if any came, and to report back anything that was said. SS Standartenführer Kaltzbrunner, his SS colonel, would interview the Kaiser himself in due course and report to Berlin on his attitudes. Berlin would then decide what to do with the old man. Krebbs’s job, meanwhile, was to ensure that the Kaiser did not stray or fall into enemy hands, and to see that no unauthorised personnel were permitted contact with him. Unfortunately, no one had yet provided him with categories of authorisation and he was not even sure whether Major van Houten would now count as an authorised person. It was with some misgivings, therefore, that he had permitted the Dutchman to accept the farewell lunch invitation. He could not check with Standartenführer Kaltzbrunner because the telephone lines were still down and, though he should have been issued with a radio, radios at platoon level in the Wehrmacht had become mysteriously scarce during recent weeks. He made a note in his black pocket book to raise the question again at the next briefing.

Although no palace, Huis Doorn was far larger than any private house that Krebbs had been in. It had four storeys, large windows, a good slate roof, a substantial front door and regular gables. He liked its symmetry – he always liked symmetry – and thought it the sort of house that he would have if he were rich. The Kaiser, it was well known, was exceedingly rich. Despite all the impoverishment of the German people following the Supreme Warlord’s misconduct of the last war, he had kept his fortune, living abroad in evident comfort. Meanwhile, honest men who had fought and suffered, such as Krebbs’s father, had struggled to bring up a family on the pittance a carpenter earned in Germany in the 1920s, hampered all the time by his gas-damaged lungs. He had died three years before of TB, a death made yet more horrible than it might have been by those weakened lungs. It had been left to Krebbs to support his younger sister and their mother. Well, fortunately, he had been up to the challenge and now they could feel proud to have a son in Schutzstaffel. And he had reason for pride in himself: already he had seen more action than many senior officers. First, he had taken part in the subjugation of Poland with Germany’s Russian allies who, though they might not be trustworthy in other ways, were at least sound where the Poles were concerned; secondly, he had then had the good fortune to take part in the invasion of France and had seen real fighting during the advance to Dunkirk. The French and British would have good cause to remember the SS Totenkopf – Death’s Head – division. A pity many of the enemy had escaped across the sea, though gratifying numbers had not.

Thinking of this inevitably reminded him of that other business that had happened at the same time, the massacre of the English prisoners at the farm near Le Paradis. It was not his fault, not his doing, but the memory of those sprawling bodies heaped behind the barn was sawdust in his mouth, spoiling the taste of everything he recalled from that period. Not that his other memories were the luxuriating sort he liked to pick over and chew in quiet moments, though there was nothing to be ashamed of in them, either. Most vivid was the afternoon trapped in that bitter, hot little gully with the lead company, thirsty, exhausted, sweating in their uniforms, the screams of the wounded mingling with the shouted commands, the thumps and shocks of mortars and shells, the hateful whine of shrapnel, the spiteful whipcracks of bullets, the stink of cordite and shit. This was all too vivid if he let himself dwell on it, as was his own confusion and fear when he realised they were trapped. There was the first numbing shock of not knowing what to do next, no orders, no procedure to follow, no way forward, no way back. Then there was the sight of troopers from another company fleeing in panic, and the sickening certainty that something had gone suddenly, horribly, irreversibly wrong. Everything in life had made sense until that dry, unexpected afternoon; things had followed on one to another, everything seemed to be leading somewhere until now, incredibly, it was as if it were all about to end in that ridiculous little gully. It was unreasonable, absurd. It could not, surely, end in this squalid, insignificant bit of turf, fit only for sheep to die in, not for him. Yet while it seemed it might, he had been reduced to a waking trance, aware of everything but incapable of anything. Along with his soldiers, he had simply lain there, numbed and paralysed, until the breakout, made by troops to their right, when all had been well again. Except, afterwards, for those English prisoners.

Krebbs was lifted from these memories by the sight of a young woman – a maidservant to judge by her dress and apron – who had come round from the back of the house and was walking down the drive towards them. His soldiers had noticed her and were already making remarks. For him there had been neither time nor opportunity for girls since Renate in Munich. The Polish girls were pretty – those Slavic cheekbones – but full of hate and fear. In France he had seen hardly any, his unit having fought its way through woods and fields while others had the less arduous task of relieving towns and villages that were quickly surrendered, like Paris itself. He had heard, though, that the French girls were more available than the Polish. As for these Dutch, it was early days – he had yet to get near enough one to speak – but there had been that encouraging vision in the orchard, a tall blonde beauty carrying a basket who had stood her ground and stared as the soldiers in the back of the lorry whistled and waved.

He glanced at himself in the full-length mirror he had had fitted to the wall around the corner from the guardroom door so that the guards could check that they were always properly turned-out. Briefly, surreptitiously, he approved his own reflection: his field grey uniform was smart despite campaigning, his boots respectable, his chiselled features clear and fit-looking. Since the invasion of Poland the Führer himself had adopted the grey tunic of the Waffen SS, which was essentially the Wehrmacht uniform but with the eagle and swastika prominent on its left sleeve. The collar of Krebbs’s tunic, however, bore not only his rank insignia but his Totenkopf divisional symbol, the silently eloquent Death’s Head. He could never see it, on himself or anyone else, without a tremor of pride. Death to the enemy, unsparing unto death of oneself; this was what it meant to be in the Waffen SS, the Führer’s Praetorian guard, the shock troops of first and last resort. With luck, there would be time for a run later that afternoon. It was paradoxical that war, for which you trained so hard, should make it difficult to maintain an acceptable fitness routine.

The girl, meanwhile – no tall blonde beauty – nevertheless looked trim and shapely enough as she approached. He would talk to her himself, even though she were only a servant. She might have useful intelligence on the Kaiser’s attitudes and on how things were in the household which he could report back to Colonel Kaltzbrunner. Also, she might know when the Dutch major could be expected to return from lunch. He remained anxious about that.

He walked unhurriedly up the gravel path towards the maid, his hands clasped behind his back, staring as a policeman might stare at a citizen he was about to challenge. At first she looked straight back at him but as they closed she lowered her eyes. He approved the clean smartness of her apron and dress, the smoothness of her dark hair, parted in the middle of her submissively bowed head and neatly gathered into a tight bun. He imagined her letting it slowly down while seated at a candle-lit dressing table.

She dispersed his fantasy by looking up, her grey eyes betraying neither nervousness nor any hint of flirtation. Her eyebrows were dark and even, her lips and teeth regular, her skin smooth and slightly tanned. She was older than him, he guessed; late twenties, perhaps even thirty. He had to resist the impulse to click heels and bow, as one did to ladies, since she was only a servant and his soldiers would mock him among themselves.

‘Herr Offizier,’ she said, before he could address her. ‘His Royal Highness and Princess Hermine hope you will be free to join them for dinner this evening.’

His Royal Highness was Highness no longer and should be addressed merely as Prince Wilhelm, as he had been before he succeeded to the throne. The briefing had been strict on that. Clearly, things were different in the household, but Krebbs let it pass. He should not accept this invitation without permission, he thought, as he looked at her.

‘Please thank them for the invitation and say I am pleased to accept.’ There was time to seek permission and if he had to turn them down, well, so be it. The thing now was to keep her talking. ‘If you have a moment, Fräulein, there are some questions I must ask.’ He turned off the path and began walking slowly towards the moat, at a slight angle to the house and away from the gatehouse. The short grass had dried off and he could feel the sun on his uniformed shoulders. It was a bright, cheerful day, with blue sky and puffy white clouds. As he had hoped, she fell in alongside him. ‘My questions concern the attitudes of Prince Wilhelm and Princess Hermine and those of their German staff towards the Third Reich in Germany, and also their attitudes concerning the occupation of The Netherlands. Also, whether they have had any contact with enemy powers or with powers sympathetic to the enemy.’

‘I am new to His Highness’s staff, Herr Offizier, and I have no intimate knowledge of Their Highnesses’ attitudes, nor of the attitudes of the Germans who are here with them. My position is a junior one.’

Her voice was quiet and low, which he liked, and her German flawless, her diction almost too precise. He liked that, too. ‘You are Dutch?’

‘Yes, from Friesland. Fries is my first language.’

‘Has Prince Wilhelm ever, in your hearing, said anything about Herr Hitler, or the Nazi Party or the Third Reich?’

‘Here in Huis Doorn Their Highnesses keep what is called Doorn Law, according to which it is not permitted to discuss the new German government.’

‘What does he say about England?’

She was looking straight ahead at the narrow bridge across the moat, to the side of the house. There were ducks and water lilies. ‘He says that England has always caused him trouble because his mother was English and because many German people thought he was too much in favour of the English and because it is well known that Queen Victoria died in his arms. But the English did not trust him either because they thought he was too German.’

‘That is true about the Queen Victoria?’

‘He says it was in his arm, his good arm. He sat without moving for two and a half hours. “She softly passed away in my arms,” he says. But of England now, he says it is run by Jews and freemasons and is part of the conspiracy of international capital to encircle Germany.’

Krebbs nodded. She was evidently a willing source. He would be justified in seeing more of her. ‘It is good that he says that, not only because it is correct but because it is good for him. And the Princess?’

‘I have never heard the Princess speak of England. But the old Empress, Princess Dona, is said to have hated the English.’

‘Does the Princess say anything of Germany?’

‘I believe she admires Herr Hitler and thinks he has done many good things for the German people.’

Such ready co-operation could be either genuine, or naive, or a front. Her answers fitted each. Similarly, her apparent lack of resentment of him, the representative of the invader, was either encouraging or something more sinister.

As they approached the moat some of the ducks waddled towards them, quacking. ‘His Highness feeds them every day,’ she said. ‘It is part of his routine, like sawing and chopping wood.’

There was sudden barking behind them as Arno bounded across the lawn, his thick black fur raised and his fangs visible. The ducks took fright, splashing and squawking back into the water. For the first time, he thought, she appeared to lack confidence. She stood still as the dog approached.

‘Be careful, this is Arno, the Princess’s dog. He bites strangers sometimes.’ She held up her hand as the dog ran at them, calling his name, but he did not stop.

Krebbs faced the dog, keeping his hands behind his back. He was confident with dogs, proud that they respected his authority. He particularly liked German Shepherds, beautiful, strong, loyal dogs. Anyway, he had already made friends with Arno at the gate lodge. Arno slowed as he neared them, barking still, his hackles up. This was a warning, not an attack. Krebbs could tell.

‘Arno, sit,’ he said quietly. The dog stopped, uncertain and growling. Krebbs held out the back of his hand. ‘Arno, come.’ The dog advanced warily and sniffed the back of his hand. Its hackles went down and it wagged its tail slowly. Krebbs carefully fondled its head, then held out his hand, palm down, above it. ‘Arno, sit.’ Arno sat. Krebbs sensed the maid relax behind him.

‘You must be good with dogs. Normally, Arno heeds no one but the Princess.’

‘You do not like them?’

‘Some dogs, but not Arno. He does not like me. I can tell.’

‘It must be something he senses about you, perhaps that you are frightened. They sense fear.’

‘Maybe.’ She resumed walking parallel with the moat, heading for the rear of the house.

Krebbs tapped his thigh for Arno to come to heel and continued beside her. The dog obeyed. ‘Also Jews,’ he said. ‘Some, especially these Shepherds, can sense Jews.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Probably by their smell.’

He did not want to go any nearer the house, not yet. He stopped. ‘I must see to the guard. Will you be serving at dinner this evening?’

‘I don’t know. It depends who else is on duty.’

‘It would be best if people do not know the subject of our conversation.’ She said nothing. Her silence and self-containment made him uneasy. ‘What is your name?’

‘Akki.’ She added no other.

‘My name is Martin. Untersturmführer Martin Krebbs. I am from Leipzig.’ She said nothing. The ducks milled about on the moat while Arno sat at Krebbs’s heel. ‘I hope you do not feel too badly about the occupation of your country. It is necessary because of our enemies but it is not ill-intentioned.’ He spoke rapidly, his words unplanned. She gazed into the moat. He observed the turn of her neck and the profile of her cheek with his eyes but felt them in his chest, as if he had been hit. ‘While I am here I shall try to make it all right for you.’ It was foolish, unnecessary, wrong, he knew; but he wanted her to react to him.

She glanced at him, still saying nothing, then turned and headed for the house. Arno went to follow but Krebbs tapped his thigh and led him back to the gatehouse.

Major van Houten returned from lunch not very long after, to Krebbs’s relief. He seemed sober but said little. Krebbs decided to escort him to the barracks himself. It was some distance away but the lorry that had taken the Dutch soldiers there had returned with those of his own he had sent to escort them. Motor transport was something else that had become mysteriously scarce of late, at platoon and company level, anyway. Perhaps, with the continent all but conquered, the High Command was considering opening another front, such as the invasion of England, so long overdue. That would be harder fighting than anything they had yet faced, if Le Paradis were anything to go by, though the pathetic little English army was now much depleted even allowing for those that had escaped from Dunkirk, and its equipment was anyway inferior. But they would be bitter, the English, if they ever found out about Paradis.

Meanwhile, the Dutch major showed no sign of wanting to flee – indeed, he had had his chance over lunch – and permitted himself to be relieved of his side arm without demur. He answered questions put to him, volunteered nothing and seemed perfectly correct, although his imperturbable, doleful manner made it impossible to tell what he was thinking, and therefore what he might do. Krebbs disliked ambiguity and uncertainty, and wanted to be rid of him. He also disliked the driver of the lorry, an unfortunately all too typical representative of the transport platoon of the Wehrmacht battalion to which he was attached. The drivers appeared to regard their vehicles as their own and gave the impression that transporting soldiers was at best a favour, at worst an imposition. Not that the driver said anything, of course, but his expression on realising that he would have to bring Krebbs back after dropping off the major and so miss the HQ company meal was eloquent enough for Krebbs to consider a charge of dumb insolence. However, there were plenty of other things to be doing and he did not want to miss his own dinner because of the formalities of disciplinary action. The driver turned the lorry round and sat with the engine idling. Krebbs left Arno with the guard, telling them not to feed him. German Shepherds had to be kept in good shape.

Princess Hermine sat before her ornate dressing-table mirror, contemplating the ruin of her face. Hair one could do something with, other bits could be covered up, but the sagging and wrinkling of the face, the drawing-down of the lips, the stretching and pouching of the cheeks, the awful, daily collapse of an entire landscape was saddening beyond words. Why could not God have made an exception of the face? Let everything else age, let it all go, but keep the face young, or at least presentable. The worst thing was that the wrinkles showed most when she smiled. Yet she liked to smile, when appropriate. In youth, her smile had been a great asset; it would be hard to give it up now.

She touched her wiry hair a few more times with the delicate silver brush, part of her wedding present from Willie. Her blue dress with white silk lower sleeves would do for dinner, along with a single string of pearls. It would be sensible not to be too ostentatious and anyway it was not as if their guest were important in himself, only for what he represented. It was essential that he should report back – surely he would report – on a modest and well-disposed household. After all, if one could not keep one’s face one could at least take some satisfaction from one’s achievements, and nurture one’s ambitions.

As for achievements, she had not done badly. First, she had escaped her family. The Poison Squirt, as her sisters used to call her, had stunned them all with her rich and successful first marriage and then her five children, bang, bang, bang, like peas from a pod. Then came her comfortable widowhood and everyone had assumed that was it with her until, bang, she had stunned them again – stunned them speechless – with her marriage to the widowed Kaiser. What did it matter that he preserved Dona’s room as a shrine, with only himself and the cleaning maids allowed in while she, the Princess, had to make do with lesser rooms? And what though he spent hours in Dona’s rose garden, in contemplation and prayer? He was so obviously glad not to be alone, so grateful to her for marrying him, so fond of her and so generous, always giving her things.

Only on one important subject did they differ, and that was submerged most of the time. This was the question of striving for a Hohenzollern restoration, the Kaiser’s triumphant return to Germany as its king once more. It was quite obvious that Germany needed royal leadership to counter-balance this regime of corporals and tobacconists. Not only to counter-balance, but to complement and complete. They were not doing badly, these Nazis, and one could have much sympathy with them; in many ways they were right, and certainly they were doing well with this war. But they needed guidance, wisdom and experience, someone who could ensure the allegiance of the armed forces and the aristocracy. Naturally, there was only one who could do that.

The problem was Willie, not because he was against returning to his rightful throne – on the contrary, it was the very thing that, deep down, he most longed for. Of that she was sure. However, he could not acknowledge it fully, it was too delicate, rejection would be too wounding, worse than the original exile and more final. Therefore, his Princess must take soundings for him and prepare the way. Not for herself, of course. It made no difference to her whether she became Empress of Germany – though her sisters, yes, imagine what they would say – but she would do it for his sake. It would mean so much to him. So, it was important to be nice to these Nazis, especially now that they were here in Holland and, as always, had it in their power to continue or refuse Willie’s financial allowance. Again, if one could not keep one’s face, one could at least keep one’s head and perhaps do the state, and dear Willie, some service.

The Princess left her room. The door to Dona’s sanctuary was shut, as always, but Schulz, Willie’s valet, was creeping along the corridor in his usual funereal manner, his face irritatingly expressionless, as if he were aware of no one or nothing. In fact, he noticed everything and was treasured by Willie for his ‘unfathomable discretion’.

‘Is His Majesty in the late Empress’s room?’ she asked.

Schulz looked absurdly surprised, as if the wall had addressed him. ‘No, your Highness.’

‘Do you know where he is?’

‘Yes, your Highness.’

‘Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me.’

‘He is in the rose garden, your Highness.’

She looked out from a window and saw him, on a bench, bareheaded, his stick between his knees. He had a better head of hair than many men half his age, albeit that it was silver now, like his beard. The three dachshunds, ridiculous creatures, were playing nearby. The roses were like a red sea around him. For a moment it reminded her of a sea of poppies, the sort of thing the English had made such a fuss about since the last war. Willie was wearing his field grey uniform, the one he had worn at their wedding. That was a good sign; it showed he meant to impress by being businesslike, not just showy. He often wore uniforms in the evenings, normally more elaborate than this. He had a ridiculous number – over three hundred German alone, plus Russian, Austrian, Portuguese, Swedish, Danish and English. She had once remarked to him that if they became poor he could sell his uniforms to the various armies and navies to help them all keep the war going.

Field grey was also a good choice because it showed solidarity with the Wehrmacht and with the Nazi attempts to create a new, more egalitarian, social order. She hoped he would not wear his medals, but if he did – well, probably no one nowadays remembered that he had never won or earned any of them. It was doubtful that he any longer acknowledged that even to himself. Anyway, medals might impress the young Untersturmführer. Willie must – would – be king again. She went down to the rose garden to be with him.