Midnight in Berlin (26 page)

He instantly felt ashamed. How every un-English, how unlike the behaviour expected of a British diplomat. The house was in darkness but the light was on over the front door. He put the key in the lock and turned to look across the road. He thought he had seen a figure sheltering under the trees when the cab pulled up, and he half expected the person to emerge and flag down the vehicle. There was nothing, nobody, just the night rain and an empty house. He opened the door, slung his dripping raincoat on a hat rack made of old antlers and went up to the drawing room.

The coal fire had been well stocked and was still alight. The coals glowed in the darkness with a warm, comforting light that reminded him of teatime in the nursery during winter
nights in Scotland. Liking the effect, he turned on a single standard lamp. He went to the window to draw the curtains. They would be having dinner somewhere now. He looked at his watch. It was almost ten. No, they would be in bed by now, in a strange apartment or maybe a hotel. Well, he was going to have a large drink, turn the light off, sit by the fire and let his mind wander over the glowing coals. He went to the drinks table and picked up a bottle of cognac, but decided on red wine from the decanter.

The doorbell rang. He went to the window but could see no one on the doorstep. He went downstairs and opened the door cautiously. She was standing on the doorstep, hatless, wearing a long black raincoat that reached over leather boots. The rain on her face made her look as if she had been crying. Her dark hair was plastered against her skin.

He quickly looked up and down the street.

“What are you doing here?”

“I don't want to come in.”

“Of course you must come in. You're soaking. Quickly.”

They spoke at the same time, blurting out the words so that they collided and jumbled into gibberish. He held the door open and closed it quickly as she stepped into the hall. He helped her off with her coat and hung it on the antler stand, where it dripped onto the floor.

“What are you doing here?” he said again.

“I won't stay long. They told me at the club you had been in. I thought you might have my papers. I didn't know when you were coming again. So I came round. I hope you don't mind.”

“But you shouldn't be here.”

“You're alone, aren't you?”

The grandfather clock chimed ten o'clock. They would have dined well, those two, good food and fine wine no doubt
adding to the passion of their encounter. Curiously, the thought made him hungry rather than angry.

“Yes. Come in and have a drink. I'll get us something to eat.”

“I'm not staying. I came for the papers.”

He placed both hands gently on her shoulders. She was wearing the grey Salon dress this time and not the usual clingy eye-catching outfit. The dress felt damp.

“Come upstairs and dry out. There's a fire in the drawing room. I'll get the documents. You want a drink?”

She said nothing as she took off her shoes and started up the staircase. She paused at the landing and looked down.

“Did you say a drink?”

“Yes. Brandy?”

She nodded. He went into the kitchen, poured a glass of brandy and another of red wine, carved two generous slices from a venison pie in the fridge, placed them on a tray with a jar of pickles and some bread, and walked carefully up the stairs.

She was sitting cross-legged on a rug by the fire, holding her head to the heat, so that her hair fell in a black curtain in front of her face.

He placed the tray on the rug and sat down beside her.

“You shouldn't be here, you know.”

“I'll leave if you want me to.”

“It's all right, we have time. How did you know where I live?”

“They know at the club; don't ask me how.”

Of course they knew at the club, he thought. They know everything. The Gestapo had been watching him since he arrived, and now he had a Gestapo agent sitting on the rug in front of his fire. With a brandy in her hand.

“I know what you're thinking,” she said. “Don't worry. I just want the papers and I will go.”

“No, stay,” he said.

He knew he was being stupid, jumping the taxi queue again, pushing that old lady out of the way in the pouring rain, an irrational, impatient act born of the enveloping madness of his life in Berlin.

“Where is your wife?”

“At the opera.”

There was a silence. He raised his glass and looked at the golden tongues of flame dimly visible through the ruby clouds of burgundy. He should never have pushed that lady out of the way. Unforgivable behaviour.

“I have your travel permit, but there is a small problem.”

“What?”

“It is only valid for two weeks. You have to leave by the twenty-second of this month.”

She laughed. “That's not a problem. I can't wait to get out of here.”

“Where will you go?”

“I don't know. Train to the Dutch border, train or bus to Rotterdam, and then a ferry.”

“To England?”

She nodded, looking at the fire. “Yes, England.”

“You have money?”

“Enough. I have been thinking of this for a long time.”

“And in England what will you do? You have family? Friends.”

She shook her head. “Don't worry. I will be fine.”

“I can give you a number to call. There will be people interested in talking to you.”

“Is that a condition for this?”

“No.”

“Good, because I have done with all that.”

She raised the balloon of brandy, drank and began coughing.

“I must go,” she said.

“Back to the club?”

“Where else?”

He leant forward and kissed her lightly, then more firmly. She pulled away.

“Not now, not here.”

She got up and smoothed her dress. He pulled the envelope with the documents from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she said, and in the firelight he could see she was crying real tears. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, sniffed and smiled. She held up the envelope. “This is my new life. Thank England for me.”

They went downstairs. He helped her on with the raincoat and opened the door.

“Come to the club tomorrow night,” she said. “Late, about midnight.”

Macrae shook his head. “Too dangerous. You said so yourself.”

“You will be safe, I promise, and I have something for you.”

She kissed him quickly in the hall and pulled away as he tried to draw her towards him again.

“Tell me now.”

“I don't have time; your wife will be back soon.” She looked at the clock. It was almost eleven. She turned at the door. “Tomorrow, late?”

“I can't.”

“You must. General Beck was with me last night. He was very drunk – and very indiscreet.”

“Beck? Are you sure?”

“As sure as his medals – and he has a lot of them.”

With that, she walked into the night. It had stopped raining. A broken-faced moon glowed above the trees, a pearl
strung on the necklace of the night. He watched her cross the road and disappear into the gardens that lay between the house and Charlottenburger Chaussee. It would be a twenty-minute walk back to the Salon. She would start work again and take another man into her arms and into her bed. Sara Sternschein, the woman who had just kissed him, the woman with whom he had lain beneath the bushes of the Tiergarten, the woman who last night had slept with the chief of the General Staff of the German army.

He had no idea when Primrose came to bed, but he woke the next morning to find her setting a cup of his favourite Earl Grey on the bedside table.

“You were sleeping like the dead,” she said.

“When did you get in?”

“Oh, I don't know, late. There was a party after the opera.”

He remembered that she said she would find a friend to take his place.

“Who did you find to go with?”

“Didn't I tell you? That nice woman Daisy Wellesley. She loves opera. Charming, she is, such good manners. Drink your tea.”

She was wearing a bathrobe and went to the bedroom door.

“I'm going to have a bath, so don't rush,” she said. “Oh, and I almost forgot. I met your friend Florian at the opera. He had a message for you.”

Koenig was there?”

“Yes, with a group of friends, mostly officers and their wives, I think. Now, what was it he wanted me to tell you?” She frowned, thinking. “Oh yes, the cartographic room at
the Prussian State Library on Unter den Linden. There are some old maps he wants to show you … Can't think why.”

Macrae swung his legs out of bed. “Did he say when?”

“Oh, eleven, I think.”

“When, for Christ's sake, Primrose? What day?”

He was shouting. He had lost his temper. He had pushed the old lady out of the way again. Primrose gazed at him blankly. That is what she always did when he got angry. She refused to engage, closed up like a clam and walked away.

“Tomorrow,” she said, and went into the bathroom.

At the embassy that morning, Macrae was told that his appointment for a private interview with the ambassador had been cancelled. Sir Nevile Henderson had decided to travel to Nuremberg a few days before the National Socialist Party rally in order to “get the lie of the land”, as his secretary put it.

“He sends his apologies and hopes to see you there,” she said.

He will certainly see me there, thought Macrae.

There was a pile of letters and cables on his desk. He called Daisy in and began the Monday-morning chore of sorting through them together, until they reached that time of morning when coffee, or in his case black tea, was less a luxury than an urgent necessity.

She sat as usual in a corner chair. They gossiped about who was doing what in the mission, what new films were on, harmless trivial conversation. Daisy had a full social life and her famous ancestry seemed to encourage rather than deter German suitors. It was not long before she thanked him for the spare ticket to the opera.

“Your wife and I had such a good time – champagne before and a wonderful first act with that American soprano.”

“First act?” said Macrae.

“Well, the second act was brilliant, but Mrs Macrae didn't feel well and left at the interval. I hope she got home all right. I offered to go with her, but she was frightfully decent and said she would manage.”

The next day Macrae walked into the map room of the Prussian State Library in a well-lit gallery at the back of the building. Koenig was leaning over a large display case when Macrae entered. He was wearing a grey lounge suit with scuffed suede shoes and holding a magnifying glass to an old map that had been laid out on a raised display desk. The only other person in the room was an elderly attendant in a shiny black suit with a swastika armband. The man's face was a map in itself, a series of deep lines and clefts in skin the colour of old parchment. His clothes hung loosely on a skeletal frame and he was leaning against the wall as if it was the only way of remaining upright.

Macrae wondered whether the display of Nazi insignia at the heart of such a learned institution was a demonstration of personal conviction or merely another example of political camouflage. The attendant certainly did not look like one of the National Socialist Party's “strength through joy” warriors.

Maps going back to the early days of European cartography in the twelfth century hung on the walls, illuminated by spotlights slung from ceiling gantries. The display desks contained the most interesting examples. Leaning over his shoulder, Macrae saw that Koenig was using the magnifying glass to examine an early-seventeenth-century map of the territory that would become known as Germany. At that time
it was a collection of kingdoms, all shaded in different colours. In elegant Gothic script the inscription read “The Kingdom of Germany 1648”.

Koenig turned, snapped out a straightened arm and said loudly,
“Heil Hitler!”

Immediately the attendant levered himself away from the wall, straightened up, stood stiffly to attention, raised his arm and gave a loud
“Heil Hitler!”
in return that echoed round the room.

Koenig gave a broad smile and shook Macrae's outstretched hand, placing an arm around his shoulder. Speaking in a whisper, he said, “Everyone's an informer these days – it's the only way to make any money.” Then, speaking normally, he went on, “Let me show you something of Germany's great past. Make notes if you wish.”

Macrae reached inside his jacket for a notebook and, having searched in vain for a pen, accepted a pencil from Koenig.

“It is 1648 and the Thirty Years War has just ended,” said Koenig, “and here you see the medieval city of Nuremberg, a key trading centre and focal point of resistance to the Hapsburg Emperor.” He lowered his voice again. “The crisis will be triggered here at the party rally. The speech will be at 6 p.m. and he will fly back to Berlin that night. Then the Potsdam division under Brockdorff will move into the city to make the arrest.” He raised his voice. “And here you see in Thuringia a garrison strategically placed to repel invasion from the east.” He pointed to a small town on a crossroads. His voice dropped to a whisper again. “This is where General Erich Hoepner commands an armoured division that will block any move by the SS from Munich.” Then, in a normal voice, he said, “You are making notes?”

Macrae was writing rapidly in the few remaining pages of his notebook.

“Old maps are like old buildings and old people – they have great stories to tell,” said Koenig, moving his finger from one medieval city to another: Hamburg, Munich, Mannheim, Hanover, Frankfurt.

He described the part they played in the First German Reich, the empire that called itself Holy and Roman but was in fact a series of seventeenth-century principalities that would unite to form modern Germany two centuries later. Bismarck would be the emperor of the Second German Reich, waging victorious war against the Balkan states and France.