The Kaiser’s Last Kiss

‘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.

THREE (#ulink_5df54ec0-7dda-5707-9e59-675f220a60b6)

Krebbs was anxious before and during dinner, though not because of his table manners. He had learned those on becoming an officer and, although this table was more a minefield than most – more dishes and implements and the danger of arcane customs he had never heard of – he felt protected by his status. Not only because of his commissioned rank, but because his SS insignia guaranteed immediate recognition and respect wherever he went. It did not guarantee liking, but – like him or loathe him – no one could ignore a representative of the SS.

Whether or not he was liked nevertheless did make a difference to Martin Krebbs and he generally tried to render himself likeable. His first cause of anxiety had been whether he would get to the dinner at all. He had arrived at the barracks with Major van Houten that afternoon to find battalion headquarters in confusion. A few hours, he was learning, could be a long time in war. He had left an organised, efficient unit that morning, one that was grateful after weeks in the field to have the luxury of proper barracks and an attractive part of Holland to occupy. Arrangements were being made to accommodate Dutch Army prisoners, pending High Command decisions as to what should happen to them. Krebbs and his new friend, Stefan – a Wehrmacht Oberleutnant who had displayed none of the stand-offishness of the other officers in the Wehrmacht unit to which Krebbs was attached – had even secured a room to themselves.

But when he arrived with the major late that afternoon he found the battalion dispersed. Headquarters was still there but the commanding officer was away at a senior officers’ briefing. Only headquarters company was still in residence, functioning as guard and administrator, the others having been hurriedly deployed many kilometres away in some undefined coastal defence role, allegedly temporary. The second-in-command had gone with them, taking most of the remaining transport. There were rations only for the headquarters company and now, suddenly, many more Dutch prisoners than anticipated. No one had any idea how long they were to be kept, whether it was permissible to disperse them to their homes, whether they were to be set to work, or what. Everyone was appealing to Hauptmann Buff, the harassed adjutant, who had neither the authority to make decisions about such matters nor any guidance from higher formations, who were preoccupied with their own problems. The quartermaster had taken the room that Krebbs and Stefan had found for themselves.

The parade ground was crowded with disarmed Dutch soldiers, sitting, talking, smoking or simply standing in surly groups. They were not men who had been defeated in battle; there had been some fighting – one or two Dutch units had fought well – but most Dutch soldiers had not fought. They had been ordered by their officers to surrender in the face of the overwhelming force that had swept across their country like the North Sea breaking in to their beloved polders. Surrender doubtless bred both relief and resentment. Krebbs told the lorry driver to park at the edge of the parade ground and be ready to return with him and his escorting soldiers within twenty minutes. He told Major van Houten to wait while he asked where, or to whom, to consign him.

The major glanced at his several hundred morose compatriots who, though unarmed, could easily have overpowered their captors. His long face was as lugubrious as ever but something in his eyes suggested the nearest Krebbs had seen to a smile. ‘Don’t bet your pay-packet on getting an answer, Herr Leutnant,’ he said, calling Krebbs by his Wehrmacht equivalent rank.

Krebbs had left the barracks early that day in good spirits, having been told that guarding the Kaiser was an important task which the High Command wished to be performed by Wehrmacht troops under command of an SS officer. It appeared he would combine the advantages of having his own independent daytime command with the comfort of good barrack accommodation at night. Now, however, guarding the Kaiser seemed the last, and least, thing on anyone’s mind. The adjutant’s office was crowded with supplicants and applicants, while engineers squeezed in and out testing telephones and laying new lines. Everyone was talking and at first no one heeded Krebbs’s clicked heels and crisp ‘Heil Hitler!’ salute at the door. He always made a point of that rather than the traditional army salute.

Hauptmann Buff half raised one hand, holding a cigarette, but without getting out of his chair and without interrupting his questioning of an engineer. When he had finished with the man he looked up at Krebbs with weary eyes. ‘What are you doing here?’

Krebbs explained.

‘Feed him to the birds, if you like,’ the adjutant interrupted. ‘You can see what it’s like here. We’ve been made a collection point for Dutch armed forces throughout the province, only no one told us. At the same time all four rifle companies have been detached to coastal protection in case of English raids and I’ve been left with the remnants of HQ company to do everything. Just be grateful you’re not here. I should stay at Doorn if I were you and keep your head down. If the old man wants you to have dinner with him, eat it. There’s bound to be more of it than anyone will get here. Meanwhile, just make sure no unauthorised persons approach him and that he doesn’t make a bolt for it or do anything stupid. Note anything important he says or does so you’ve got something to report to your SS Standartenführer, your colonel – what’s his name? – Kaltzbrunner.’ He pronounced the name with careful distinction. ‘As for your Dutch major, tell him if he’s got any food in his pocket he should eat it now, before anyone else does. Then make yourself scarce before I find you something to do. Heil Hitler.’ He put the cigarette in his mouth.

There was an ironic edge to the adjutant’s dismissal that took Krebbs aback. It suggested an attitude corrosive of discipline and endeavour, the sort of thing for which he had seen men sacked from Braunschweig, the SS officer academy. SS personnel were supposed to report such instances; he would remember it. He went off to retrieve his kit from the room that was now part of the quartermaster’s ample suite of offices, then returned to find Major van Houten standing smoking by the lorry. Nobody, anywhere, guards or prisoners, seemed to have any idea what to do. Everyone was standing and staring at everyone else. There was no tension, no expectation, only a depressed waiting. There was not even a football.

‘Your driver, Herr Leutnant, may have gone absent without leave,’ said the major. ‘As soon as you left he said he was going to the toilet and he has not reappeared. Your escort – my escort – are catching up on doubtless well-deserved sleep in the back. It may be possible to find and reprimand your driver in this sad situation but it would take some time and meanwhile someone might commandeer your lorry. If I were you, Herr Leutnant, and speaking as one officer to another’ – the major’s expression gave nothing away but the exaggerated lowering of his voice suggested humour – ‘I would take your lorry and your men and go, quickly. In all armies it is the same: you are either doing something, or something is done to you.’ He transferred his cigarette to his other hand and took a key from his tunic pocket. ‘I took the precaution of relieving your driver of his ignition key. I hope you don’t object to a German soldier taking orders from an enemy officer. If you do, you can add it to his charge sheet.’

Krebbs had never driven a car, let alone a lorry. Nor, he knew, had any of his men. Finding the driver and then dealing with him would certainly take time. He might not get back for dinner with the Kaiser. He was as determined not to let that happen as he had been about anything in life, except perhaps getting his commission. It was essential, he told himself – and would have protested to anyone who asked – that this first move of the Kaiser’s should be accepted. It was important to the Reich to have a co-operative and approving, or at least acquiescent, Kaiser in exile. Neutral countries would be impressed by that, just as they would be impressed the other way if the Kaiser defected to England or somewhere – well, it would have to be to England or its empire, since there was no other enemy left to fight now. But behind all his reasoning, like sunlight filtered through leaves, was the pleasing image of the maidservant. He had persuaded himself that she would be there; and if she would, he would, even though she was only a servant.

‘Can you drive?’ he asked.

Major van Houten’s eyebrows arched. ‘I am a qualified army instructor.’

‘Would you be so good as to drive us back?’

‘If that is an invitation to co-operate with the invader, it would be treasonable to comply. But if it is an order from a captor to his prisoner-of-war, it would be correct.’

Krebbs permitted himself a smile. ‘It is an order, Herr Major.’

The major drove the unfamiliar lorry better than its Wehrmacht driver, with less grating of gears and less bumping and jerking. The noise in the cab made conversation difficult, which suited Krebbs because he wanted to think. At least, that was what he told himself but now that he had the opportunity he found nothing on which he wanted, mentally, to dwell. He wanted neither to recall the past nor – his more usual state – to fantasise about a glorious future. He felt he was somehow floating in no-man’s land, seeking nothing, imagining nothing. It was a novel state, but not unsettling. As they approached the tall trees of Doorn the major turned to him. ‘I am sure you will take good care of your charge, Herr Leutnant, but there is one small piece of advice I should like to offer, if it is permitted.’

‘It is permitted.’ Krebbs was beginning to feel he could like the man, despite his being an enemy.

‘Be respectful of him. He is half a genius and half a child. He is clever but not always wise. He has great inner youth, he is much younger than his years. He has never properly grown up but he has much valuable experience. He is not tactful but he is sensitive. Listen to him, put up with him, and you can learn, as I did.’

‘So, what can I learn from the old man?’

‘You can learn’ – the major paused while he turned at the village crossroads towards the gate lodge, going hand over hand on the heavy wheel and changing down with an adroit double-clutch movement – ‘you can learn from his wrongness. When he is most wrong, you learn most.’