Midnight in Berlin (15 page)

Finally Koenig took them through the house to the ballroom at the rear. The semicircular room with glass walls and dome had been built onto the back of the house by his father at the turn of the century, he explained. The death of Queen Victoria at that time had liberated England from the oppressive social conformism of her reign and dancing parties suddenly became fashionable in London. Paris and Berlin quickly followed the new fashion. The stately waltz and foxtrot were swept away to be replaced by fast-moving ragtime dances with risqué names like the Black Bottom. Even more daringly, the tango arrived from Argentina, creating the shocking sight of couples dancing not just cheek to cheek, but thigh to thigh. Dancing schools sprang up in major cities, and across Europe ballrooms were added to stately homes, country houses and hunting lodges. Such additions merely required a well-sprung and polished wooden floor and a small stage for the musicians, although the invention of the gramophone had rendered the latter unnecessary for an evening's entertainment.

The guests looked around the ballroom in wonder. Curved glass windows encircled the room. Pillars painted in red and white stripes rose to support the domed roof. Hollows had been carved into the pillars to hold candles, which in this case were red in colour and threw a shimmering light up to the glass roof. White candles had been placed at intervals behind the cushioned seating that ran around the room beneath the
windows. Where the ballroom abutted the straight line of the house, white panelling had been laid and from this a white tasselled canopy hung over a small circular dais.

The room looked to Primrose less like a ballroom and more like a cross between a fish tank and a gigantic greenhouse that had been decorated for a children's party.

A waiter appeared with glasses of champagne. Koenig proposed a toast.

“To friendship between our two great countries,” he said.

They clinked glasses and drank. Koenig mounted the stage and raised the lid of a large wooden box. A gramophone was revealed inside. He pulled out a wooden drawer beneath the instrument and took out a handle, which he inserted into the machine and began turning vigorously.

“He's very proud of that instrument,” said Colonel Schiller, who was swaying back and forth as if on a ship's deck.

Primrose resisted the temptation to giggle. Their host was trying to operate a gramophone that must have been in use during the last war. His neighbour the colonel was clearly incapable of dancing and would probably fall flat on his face if he tried. The colonel's wife was beaming at everyone with a demented smile, while Gertrude lay limply on the seating by the window, looking as if she had recently been raised from the grave and wished for nothing more than a swift return to that state.

As for her husband, Primrose looked around and saw him on the far side of the room. He was smiling that thoughtful, interior smile, a smile made for no one but himself. Something had made him happy, thought Primrose. They had been away a long time before dinner, those men, and had joined them all rather drunk. More talk about a bloody war, she supposed.

Koenig finally turned to his guests.

“Sorry about that. This machine belonged to my brother Angelus. He took it with him to the trenches. Very important family treasure. Plays wonderfully well.”

He turned, put the stylus on a record and stepped down to join his guests. The music of Glenn Miller filled the room with a surprisingly rich sound, emanating as it did from a small wooden box. Koenig offered an arm to his wife with a bow. She stood up and he led her gently onto the floor. She was smiling as she stepped into his arms, her feet matching his as they moved in a fast version of the waltz.

He led her into quick turns, whirling around in time to the steady beat of a bass drum behind the rise and fall of the band's brass section, pausing to hold her, so that both were momentarily frozen in one as if they had stepped into each other; then they broke apart and swirled away. Primrose and the others watched in amazed admiration the acrobatic grace with which they moved. Gertrude had suddenly come to life in her husband's arms. Their bodies and limbs merged in sinuous flowing movements to the seductive tempo of big-band swing. They moved in a sensuous embrace that suggested an unlikely depth of passion between them.

Gertrude wore an expression of total concentration as she took the lead from Koenig, pressing into him, moving and swaying with him, so that the dance became something more than mere motion to music. He was utterly rapt in her arms, watching her intently as her mouth opened, and even above the music Primrose heard her gasp as he turned her in a tight pirouette.

Macrae glanced at his wife. Primrose was following the dancers' every move, clearly impressed at the grace and passion that flowed across the floor, and perhaps a little jealous.

Encouraged to believe they could do the same, the remainder of the party rose to their feet. Primrose felt a tap on her
shoulder. Colonel Schiller was standing behind her. He bowed and clicked his heels. She glanced appealingly at Macrae but saw he was being held in a close embrace by the colonel's wife, who was moving him around the floor as if propelling a wheeled piece of furniture across the room. Schiller slid his arm around her waist and took her hand. She felt hot whisky-and-wine breath on her cheek. His eyes were glazed. He gripped her waist tightly and tried to guide her in a series of fast turns, with steps that had little relation to the music. His legs became tangled with hers and she felt him gripping her ever more tightly as he lost his balance. She struggled to hold him up while trying to find some form of movement that bore a relationship to the music.

The music suddenly stopped. Everyone paused. Breathing hard, Macrae stepped back from the colonel's wife and began to thank her. She immediately stepped forward and took his arm, waiting for the music to begin again. Primrose released herself from the colonel and steadied him. Koenig leapt onto the dais, wound the gramophone furiously and selected a new shiny black record.

A waiter appeared with fresh glasses of champagne. Primrose drank her glass gratefully. She was hot, thirsty and desperate to get away from the colonel. He watched her drink.

“You dance very well,” he said. “I'm afraid I really cannot match the music.”

“Oh, you do awfully well,” she said, wondering why people have to lie on such occasions. The music had begun again, an up-tempo jazz version of a popular standard. Koenig shouted above the music.

“Tommy Dorsey band with something jazzy! Something to get us all in the mood.”

“I would rather sit this one out,” said Primrose.

Colonel Schiller was insistent. He liked jazz and wanted to dance. She was swept back onto the floor. Across the room, Primrose saw Macrae being wheeled furiously into a series of turns by the colonel's wife. She was clasping him close to her and seemed to be trying a cheek-to-cheek version of the tango. He looked desperate.

Gertrude had gone. Koenig was dancing by himself, circling the floor with an imaginary partner in his arms. He seemed utterly absorbed. Schiller suddenly fell with a thump onto the floor. Encouraged by Koenig's solo performance, he had broken away to perform a series of twirls and had tottered across the room until his feet slipped from under him. His wife had left Macrae to help him. They sat down heavily by the window while she mopped his brow. Koenig came off the floor to pour them all a glass of champagne.

“Where's Gertrude?” asked Primrose.

“She's gone to bed. She's not well and dancing always tires her. She sends her apologies for neglecting her social duties.”

“Oh, I am sorry,” said Primrose. “She dances beautifully. You both do.”

“Thank you. Perhaps you would have the next dance?”

Primrose was about to reply that it was late and they had to leave in the morning when Colonel Schiller and his wife joined them. Primrose noticed that Macrae had left the room.

“All too much for me,” said the colonel. “I never could dance.”

“Well, I enjoyed myself,” said his wife, “but I think, how do you say it in English? I mismangled your husband a little.”

“Yes, he did look a bit mismangled,” said Primrose. “What have you done with him?”

“Come on, we're having one more dance,” said Koenig, and he put another record on.

The colonel and his wife edged to the door, making goodnight noises. Koenig paid no attention and took Primrose onto the floor. They began to dance to a slow melody called “The Way You Look Tonight”.

“Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers,” he whispered. “They're good, aren't they?”

Macrae had searched the ground floor for what seemed like a long time looking for a lavatory. He finally found an oak-panelled room by the back door filled with boots, shoes, brushes, hunting clothes and an assortment of umbrellas and riding crops. He leant forward, his head resting on an arm against the wall, and tried to calculate the alcoholic content of the stream that flowed into the bowl.

He had as usual broken his rule to match every glass of wine or whisky with one of water. He looked into the mirror. The face that stared back seemed grey and crumpled. He had learnt something that could be of real importance that night. The journey had been worthwhile. Why would Koenig have gone to the trouble of inviting him for the weekend if they had not meant what they said?

He returned to the ballroom. Colonel Schiller and his wife had gone. Many of the candles had guttered, leaving the room in semi-darkness. He picked up his old glass. Primrose and Koenig were dancing slowly, closely entwined, to the music of a song with which he was faintly familiar.

He tried to make sense of the information. Senior officers in the Wehrmacht would lead a coup against Hitler if they were asked to use force against their Czech neighbour. Their men would follow orders. That piece of information was certainly true; you could bet on that. The German soldier was by instinct and training loyal to his unit and commanders.
There was no question that if senior officers gave orders, they would follow.

They would need a general to lead them, of course. Who would that be? Not Keitel, for sure. Maybe Halder or Beck. But this would only happen if Britain precipitated the crisis by making a stand against Hitler. If the Führer backed down, his war strategy would be shown for what it was – bluff. Then the army would move. But what was Macrae going to do with the information?

Koenig left the dance floor to put on a new record. A light rain was tapping on the dome roof. He looked up briefly. He did not seem to notice Macrae in the darkened room. One thing was for certain: Macrae could not tell the ambassador. The colonel was right. Henderson would take the information to Göring, and Göring would pass it straight to Hitler and the Gestapo. Stalin had just purged his entire officer class, ordering the execution of tens of thousands of entirely innocent men, on the grounds that they posed a possible threat. Hitler would not dare contemplate such barbarity, but there would be a purge all the same; arrests, show trials, executions.

Koenig and Primrose began to dance again, this time at a slower tempo, to a long-drawn-out solo by a saxophone player whose notes floated from the gramophone and coiled around the dancers in a melodic embrace. Primrose lacked the skill and grace of Gertrude, but she danced with desire. It was evident in every step she took; in the way she held him, her fingers locked through his; in the way she rested her head on his shoulder, with her cheek against his; in the way she pressed herself against him. Koenig's dance with his wife had been an act of remembrance, a recital of past pleasures recalled in dance, a long-married couple finding release rather than lust on the ballroom floor. With Primrose it was
different, as was obvious to anyone watching from the shadows that night.

Halliday was lounging against the wall by his office door when Macrae returned the next morning.

“Decent weekend, was it?” he said.

Macrae unlocked his office. There was ten minutes before the morning meeting and he needed a coffee. The secretary he shared with the others had not turned up on time. He put the kettle on to boil and reached for the jar of instant coffee below the telex machine. Halliday followed him into the room. He would want coffee too. He was known as the embassy scrounger.

“Get any shooting in?” asked Halliday.

“It's not the season.” Macrae was tired, the tone abrupt. There were times when a little of Halliday went a very long way.

“Oh, I know, but still plenty of pigeon, rabbit, hares, that sort of thing?”

Macrae thrust a cup of coffee at him.

“I thought you were supposed to spy on the other side.”

“Take it easy,” said Halliday. “I just thought it might be useful to see if you are hearing what I'm hearing.”

“Which is?” snapped Macrae.

“Dear me, but you're in a bad mood. We can discuss this later.”

“No, go on.”

“Czechoslovakia, Sudetenland, and the army is …”

“Not happy?”

“Exactly, but how many units at what level, do we suppose?”

“We suppose nothing. Let's have a drink later.”

At lunchtime Macrae walked back from the embassy towards home. He had eaten a sandwich in the canteen and needed time to think. It was the first warm day of spring and he wanted to see if the park had finally thrown off winter. He passed by the Brandenburg Gate, dodged the traffic and crossed the road to Charlottenburger Chaussee. It was lunchtime and people were hurrying to meet friends, maybe lovers, or just heading home. The trees of the Tiergarten were breaking into leaf and a large flock of starlings darkened the sky as they swooped overhead as if to celebrate the fact.

Ahead in the crowds a taxi stopped on the avenue. Under new traffic rules it was illegal to park anywhere near national monuments. A woman got out and the cab drove off rapidly. The woman began walking away from him, about a hundred yards ahead. She was hatless and her long dark hair fell in ringlets over a light fawn overcoat. She seemed to be looking for somewhere to sit down. She looked too glamorous for a secretary or an office worker but might be the wife of a wealthy businessman, thought Macrae. Even from behind, there was something familiar about her. He quickened his stride until he was a few paces behind. Now he was sure. The woman sat down on a bench.