The Kaiser’s Last Kiss

The major was still chewing, an action that made his face even sadder and funnier than usual. The Kaiser would tell Hermo about it later.

‘Thank you, your Highness,’ the major replied in his careful German. ‘All is well with me. It is an emotional time, that is all. I apologise.’ He inclined his head.

‘My dear fellow, I understand. It is an emotional time for everyone, this new war. Where will it end? Wars are more easily started than stopped and my fear is that the machinery of warfare will run away with Herr Hitler, as it ran away with me. But he has done well so far, I grant him that. Tactically, he has done the correct things and has evidently learned the lessons of the High Command’s failure last time.’

The major’s spaniel eyes stared at the Kaiser’s. ‘Do you believe he has done the correct thing in invading us, your Highness?’

‘Correct from his point of view, yes. Necessary. He has done the necessary thing. You see, major, this war is not with The Netherlands. It is important that you and your people understand that.’ The Kaiser dabbed his lips with his napkin. ‘No, this war is with France. It is the unfinished business that was prevented last time by England. Since then the French have behaved so badly in the territories they occupied after the armistice that a resumption of our war has become inevitable. They have been brutal to the German population, including children, and they wished to continue to starve them. They even tried to stop the English from lifting the blockade after the war. Did you know that more than three hundred and fifty thousand German people died as a result of the blockade – after the war, not during it? My own private secretary, von Islemann, lost four aunts because of it. Four aunts!’

The Kaiser stared across the table. There was something ridiculous in the notion of four aunts. How many aunts did a normal man need, for goodness’ sake? Were they fat before the blockade? Four fat aunts fading away. It was a laughable thought, the sort of thing the major might normally remark upon, but he appeared to have lost his humour. The Kaiser felt he ought to demonstrate his own seriousness. ‘People fear that because I have lived in Holland for over twenty years I do not know what the German people are thinking. But I do. I know very well what the German people think because people tell me and because I understand them here.’ He thumped his chest with his right hand. ‘It is not war itself they seek, but they hunger for justice and war is the only way. So for this new war, they have, since 1918, been ready to march at once, to strangle the French. Well, now they are doing that but they cannot finish the job properly until they have driven Juda out of England, as they are driving them from the continent. The Jews and Anglo-American commercialism and materialism make it impossible for European peoples to live in decent peace and spiritual harmony. This war will be a divine judgement on Juda-England, you will see. That is why the soldiers of the Wehrmacht are here in Holland, Major van Houten. It is not against you or your country, and when the business is complete they will go. I promise you that.’

The Princess nodded. ‘I do not believe the Nazis have anything against The Netherlands. Occupation is a regrettable necessity. It will pass, I am sure of that. It will become as water under the bridge.’

The major looked at her. ‘No doubt it will pass, Princess. I too am sure of that. But not before much blood has sweetened the water beneath our bridges.’

The major’s words hung in the air and rather soured luncheon, the Kaiser felt. The Dutchman was making more of the business than circumstances warranted. After all, it was not as if the Wehrmacht had done anything seriously unpleasant.

The Kaiser took his coffee standing, obliging Major van Houten to do the same. The Princess withdrew. They gazed out over the lawns, where the gardeners were tending the rhododendrons; the Kaiser’s three dachshunds were hunting in the bushes. He insisted the major sample a liqueur, feeling it might brighten the fellow, but declined any himself. He never touched liqueurs, nor whisky, though he liked to see others doing it. It was almost time for his afternoon nap.

He laid his good hand upon the major’s shoulder, gripping it. Even at eighty, his grip was enough to make men wince, but the major he gripped reassuringly. ‘You must let me know if there is anything I can do. You have family I can help, perhaps? I provide for more than fifty relatives of my own, so one family more would make little difference. And you yourself. You must let me know what happens. I fancy I may still have influence with the German authorities, if necessary.’

Major van Houten inclined his head. ‘Your Highness is most kind.’

The Kaiser patted him. ‘Cheer up, my good fellow.’

The major continued to stare at the rhododendrons. Tears stood in his eyes again. ‘Forgive me, your Highness. It is the shame of occupation and defeat.’

‘I know, I know – knew – those feelings only too well, major.’ He paused, then recollected himself. ‘But you must brace up, as my English family would say, and face it like a good’ – he almost said ‘German’ – ‘soldier.’ He let go of the major, finished his coffee and dabbed his lips once more with his napkin. ‘And now I must have my nap.’

TWO (#ulink_3b75815f-43f6-5d7c-bd50-56ddab1af7ea)

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.’