The Kaiser’s Last Kiss

‘He is often wrong, then?’

‘He is at least half wrong, always. It is his nature. But he is also half right and not always how you expect.’

Now, sitting at dinner, they were all listening respectfully as the Kaiser described his archaeological discoveries on Corfu. Archaeology had become his passion and his mottled old face became animated as he spoke, heedless of the breadcrumbs in his pointed white beard. He had founded and now annually hosted the Doorn Research Society, a symposium. He should, Krebbs thought as he halved his last piece of cold meat, to make it seem more, have been a professor, not an emperor. That was where his true gifts lay. Krebbs was not sure where Corfu was, though he was increasingly sure that he had been wrong to let Major van Houten drive himself back to the barracks, unescorted. It was all very well accepting the major’s argument that, since his family lived in the officers’ quarters beside the barracks, there was nowhere else he would be tempted to go. He knew, too, that the lorry had not enough fuel to get much farther. It would be all right, most probably, but it still would not look good in an inquiry if it were not. It was wrong, whatever his reasons. He had made the decision hurriedly, in order not to be late for dinner, and now the girl was not there. Perhaps she had the night off. Perhaps she had a boyfriend. Apparently the Kaiser nearly always had cold meat in the evenings.

Apart from the Kaiser and the Princess, dinner comprised only himself and the Kaiser’s private secretary, von Islemann, with his Dutch wife. Von Islemann was pale, exact, polite and unforthcoming. He had been with the Kaiser since before his exile and was reputedly devoted to him. He was certainly too loyal, Krebbs felt, to be pumped on his master. Also, he probably thought too well of his own aristocratic background, and too little of Krebbs’s, to form anything like common cause, unless under the pressure of events. Nothing he said betrayed any indication of his attitude towards the Reich. His Dutch wife seemed a pleasant, easy-going, practical sort of woman, a daughter of the household at Amerongen where the Kaiser had spent his first few years in exile. She talked about the tulip-growing areas of Holland and their contribution to the economy, as well as about Leipzig, Krebbs’s home town. No one mentioned the occupation. Krebbs was surprised that the Kaiser wore field grey; he had assumed he could afford something more elaborate and special.

‘And what does Herr Hitler propose now?’ asked Princess Hermine. ‘He carries all before him so expeditiously. Will he stop here?’

It was a moment before Krebbs realised she was addressing him. He put down his fork. ‘I regret, Princess, that I am not privy to the Führer’s plans. Once we have made the coastline of Europe properly secure, I imagine we shall prepare to deal with England.’

The Princess smiled encouragement. ‘Certainly, logically, it must be the next thing to do.’

The china rattled as the Kaiser struck the table with his good right arm. ‘It is not only logical, it is a necessity – the necessity if we are to save European civilisation for the world. We must free England from the Jews and the freemasons and the capital that is corrupting her. Then we must establish a European customs union and a European currency as I have been urging for more than forty years and show the world what a Christian civilisation means. For forty years have I been urging Juda-England to decide whether she is with Europe or America but now the time has come to decide for her, since she cannot make up her own mind. Your Führer’ – he looked portentously at Krebbs, as if pronouncing weighty judgement – ‘does well.’

During the pause that followed von Islemann murmured, ‘Heil Hitler’. It was impossible to tell whether he was serious or mocking.

The Kaiser got stiffly to his feet and raised his glass of sparkling red wine. ‘To Germany. May God protect her and save her from encirclement.’

They stood and toasted. As they sat Krebbs caught his holster on the arm of the chair. He shifted his belt a fraction, with a creaking of leather. He alone had come armed to the table. No one had said anything, of course, but he felt awkward despite the enhanced sense of importance and the thrill of potency that bearing arms always conferred.

After dinner the ladies withdrew to Princess Hermine’s sitting-room and the men to the Kaiser’s smoking-room where, in studded leather armchairs beneath the dominating portrait of Frederick the Great, they took liqueurs and cigars. Krebbs was served last, which enabled him to follow von Islemann in choosing whisky. The Kaiser had only coffee, but they all had cigars.

The Kaiser continued to talk about archaeological digs on Corfu, with von Islemann making informed comments. Krebbs said nothing. In one respect it had been a satisfactory evening: he had something to report on the Kaiser’s attitude towards the Reich. Such a report, particularly as it would be the first, might go all the way to the top, especially if it were favourable. He had learned already that favourable reports gained higher and wider circulation than unfavourable, and brought more credit to their originators. Of course, the Kaiser’s remarks and toasts could simply have been for Krebbs’s benefit in an attempt to ensure that the Reich would continue paying the royal allowance, now possibly in jeopardy because the Kaiser was technically no longer in exile but in German-controlled territory. Krebbs could imagine Colonel Kaltzbrunner taking that line. It would be best, therefore, if he said it himself, in his report, thus getting credit for that, too. He felt he was learning the ways of bureaucracy.

He sipped his whisky, matching von Islemann sip for sip. It was very good whisky, better than any he had tasted. Several times the Kaiser interrupted his own monologue in order to re-light his cigar. Krebbs enjoyed his cigar, too. It was mild and flavour-full but not hot, like cheaper ones. Who would have thought that he, a carpenter’s son who might never have left Leipzig, would one day sit with the Kaiser, drinking his whisky, smoking his cigars and talking after dinner? It could never have happened without National Socialism. His father, loyal soldier of the Kaiser, would have been proud. He would write to his mother about it. He accepted more whisky, and then more.

Von Islemann was leaving. Perhaps they all were. Krebbs was struggling to get out of his armchair with cigar and whisky in hand when the Kaiser, who had remained seated, waved him down. ‘It is not necessary for you to leave, Untersturmführer. You can stay. We can talk.’

Krebbs settled back, shifting several times because his holstered pistol was digging in to him again. He felt very slightly dizzy, and blamed the cigar.

‘You would like some more whisky?’ asked the Kaiser.

‘No, thank you, your Highness.’ He was supposed, of course, to address the old man as ‘sir’ or ‘Prince Wilhelm’. To call him ‘your Highness’ implied recognition of him as emperor, which he no longer was. But it was awkward when everyone else around him used the term, especially as the Kaiser had just accorded him his SS rank rather than its Wehrmacht equivalent. Now that they were alone, Krebbs felt easier about doing what the Kaiser expected.

‘Some more water, perhaps?’

‘Please, thank you, your Highness.’

‘I drink mainly water. I do not abide whisky.’ The Kaiser pressed the servant bell. ‘Tell me about your life, Untersturmführer. Was your father in the war?’

The Kaiser was interested in Krebbs’s father’s war service, asking many questions, and Krebbs talked freely. When Krebbs described how his father had won his Iron Cross during Operation Michael, the 1918 Spring Offensive, the Kaiser held up his hand.

‘I, too, have the Iron Cross. Would you like to see it?’

‘Thank you, your Highness, I should like to very much.’

The Kaiser gave orders to someone evidently standing just behind Krebbs, out of sight. Krebbs did not turn to look, feeling it better to stay still. He had let his cigar go out and had ceased to sip his whisky. The man behind him said something and left the room.

Afterwards, Krebbs convinced himself he had sensed her presence before he saw her. It wasn’t only the rustle of her skirts when she came in bearing the medal on a cushion but a change in the atmosphere of the room, felt as a sensation on the back of his neck and head, like a passing ray of heat. Still he did not turn but watched her come into view carrying the small purple cushion with both hands. She knelt deftly before the Kaiser to show it to him, her tightly-pinned dark hair shining beneath the candelabra. The Kaiser took his medal and indicated that she should put the cushion on the round table before them. She straightened and did so, then stood by with her hands clasped before her. Krebbs sought to catch her eye but her head was bowed. The light fell now on her cheeks, forehead and eyelids. He gazed at the dark arches of her eyebrows.

With his good hand, the Kaiser held out his medal to Krebbs. ‘The Iron Cross, First Class,’ he said, reverentially.

Krebbs took it. His father’s was Second Class. The other difference was that his father’s was earned. It was well known that the great Warlord of the Second Reich had never fired a shot in anger, or been shot at, or mined, or shelled. Or gassed. Krebbs handed it back, saying nothing.

‘I have many other medals and honours,’ said the Kaiser. His watery blue eyes opened wide, as in astonishment at his own achievement. ‘And I have many, many uniforms, German and foreign. I will show you my uniforms. Come.’ He got to his feet, laid his medal on the cushion, and walked, slow and upright, towards the door, his cigar propped in his unmoving left hand. Unburdened by cigar and whisky, Krebbs left his own chair with reasonable ease this time and stood with arm outstretched, indicating that the girl should precede him, though it was not clear that the invitation had included her. He raised his eyebrows and smiled. She glanced at him without smiling, picked up the cushion and medal and, with a further faint rustle of her skirts, followed the old man.

They walked in silent procession into the corridor outside the Kaiser’s study. The corridor was lined with books and had a desk and telephone by the study door. From there they went past the stairs and through a large sitting-room to a high, closed door. The Kaiser’s cigar left a thin, vanishing trail of smoke behind him. The girl followed, holding the cushion before her like a crown. Krebbs watched the hem of her black dress as it brushed and swayed against door-jambs and banisters. Once, it lingered on the back of a sofa like a surreptitious caress. He could hear the creaking of his own leather boots and belt. There was no dizziness now, just a little light-headedness. He felt confident that something good was going to happen. An ornate mantel clock tinkled ten as they passed. The rest of the house was already silent.

The Kaiser paused at the door and addressed Krebbs over the head of the girl. ‘You will never have seen so many beautiful uniforms. All are mine.’

He turned on the electric light, leading them into a long, high, yellow-patterned room with floor-to-ceiling windows and drawn, heavy gold curtains. High up were pictures of princes and generals, though this time Frederick the Great’s usual dominance was shared with Frederick III, the Kaiser’s father. Throughout the room, on long wooden hangers, were hundreds of uniforms in black, gold, red, yellow, sky blue, white and shades of green. There was a warm, rich smell of expensive cloth. It was a grove of exotic military plants.

‘Is it not splendid?’ the Kaiser asked, with a wave of his right hand, in which he once again held his cigar. ‘There is nothing like it, anywhere. So many regiments, so many no longer in existence, of course. But if Herr Hitler runs short of uniforms for his soldiers I, the Kaiser, could help him. I could furnish a regiment from here.’ He laughed, stroking the epaulettes that adorned a colonel of Tsarist cavalry. He walked slowly between the aisles, touching the uniforms and commenting on them as if everyone shared his passion. He was careful to keep his cigar ash away. The girl followed with the medal on its purple cushion. Krebbs caught her eye once more, again without obvious response, while the Kaiser enumerated the vanished Austro-Hungarian regiments of which he had been honorary colonel.

‘They were the best at uniforms, Franz-Joseph and his people. They would be still, there would still be an Austrian Empire if only they had taken my advice.’ He stopped, so that they all stood close together. He exhaled smoke in the girl’s face while addressing Krebbs. ‘Well, at first it was the old man’s – Bismarck’s – advice. “Run your empire from Hungary,” he told them. “Get into the middle of it. Vienna is too small, too remote.” I told them so myself, many times. I told Archduke Ferdinand before he was murdered. That was the incident which started the last war, you see, before we expected it. We were dragged into it by Austrian incompetence. If the Archduke had heeded me he would not have been killed.’ He laughed and puffed again on his cigar. There were tears of mirth in his eyes. ‘You know, Ferdinand, he was so fat, they had to sew him into his uniform. This is why, when he was shot, they could not unbutton him. It was his own fault. I always said to him, I said, “You should be grateful you are not English. They would call you Fatty Ferdie there.” He did not like that. Every time I said it, no matter how often, he did not like it.’ He laughed again and walked on.

Krebbs waved the smoke from the girl’s face with an exaggerated sweep of his arm and a mock bow. This time she smiled.

‘And here,’ continued the Kaiser, stopping at the top of the next row and tapping another uniform shoulder, ‘is my colonelcy of the Imperial Russian Guard, awarded me by the hand of my cousin, the Tsar himself. God rest his soul. What happened to him and his family was terrible, you know. Terrible.’ His face was earnest now, almost urgent. ‘They butchered them, those Bolsheviks butchered them, the children too, every last one. These are the people who are now your Herr Hitler’s closest allies. Out of spite, they did it. Malice. Spite.’ He clenched his fist, flattening his cigar between his fingers. ‘That is why England must be destroyed. A word from England at that time would have been enough to prevent it. Only amid the ruins of London will I forgive my cousin Georgie, their king. He is the dog who did not bark, when he alone could have. I could do nothing. I had to flee in case my own family suffered the same at the hands of the German Bolsheviks.’