A Man Without Breath

In Smolensk’s Glinka Concert Hall – where else? – I attended a piano and organ recital at the invitation of Colonel von Gersdorff. On the programme was Bach, Wagner, Beethoven and Bruckner, and it was supposed to make everyone feel good about the fatherland, but it only made us all sick that we weren’t at home and, in my own case, back in Berlin listening to some more cheerful music on the wireless: I could even have withstood a couple of numbers from Bruno and his Swinging Tigers. Of course being an aristocrat Von Gersdorff had an Iron Cross in classical music. He even brought along an antiquarian leather-bound score that he followed during Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier, which not only struck me as redundant but a bit flashy too – a bit like taking The Laws of the Game to a football match.

After the recital we went for a drink at the officers’ bar in Offizierstrasse, where in a quiet corner that felt as if it were a million kilometres from the bowling alley at the German Club in Berlin, the colonel told me he’d received a telemessage that Hans von Dohnanyi and Pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer had finally been arrested by the Gestapo and were now being held at Prinz Albrechtstrasse.

‘If they torture Hans he could tell them about the Cointreau bomb and me and General von Tresckow and everything,’ he said uncomfortably.

‘Yes, he could,’ I said. ‘In fact it’s highly likely. It’s not many men who can withstand a Gestapo interrogation.’

‘Do you suppose they’re being tortured?’ he asked.

‘Knowing the Gestapo?’ I shrugged. ‘It all depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On how powerful their friends are. You have to understand, the Gestapo are cowards. They won’t put a man through a performance like that if he’s especially well-connected. Not until they’ve read the score as thoroughly as you did back in the concert hall.’ I shook my head. ‘I don’t know much about the pastor-’

‘His sister Christel is married to Hans. His mother is Countess Klara von Hase. Who was the grand-daughter of Karl von Hase, who was pastor to Kaiser Wilhelm the second.’

‘That’s not the kind of connections I was referring to,’ I said, politely. ‘How close is your friend Hans von Dohnanyi to Admiral Canaris?’

‘Close enough for it to hurt them both. Canaris has been on an SD list of enemies for some time now; so has Hans’s boss, Major General Oster.’

‘That figures. The RSHA never did like sharing responsibility for intelligence-gathering and security. Well then, what about the ministry of justice? Von Dohnanyi used to work there, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, he did. He was Reich Minister Gurtner’s special adviser, from 1934 to 1938, and got to know Hitler, Goebbels, Goring and Himmler – the whole infernal crew.’

‘Then that will certainly help. You don’t torture someone who was on nodding terms with the leader until you’re really very sure of what you’re doing. Maybe this Gurtner fellow can help him, too.’

‘I’m afraid not. He died a couple of years ago. But Hans knows Erwin Bumke very well. He’s a senior Nazi judge, but I’m sure he’ll try to help Hans, if he can.’

I shrugged. ‘Then he’s not completely without friends. So that will deter the Gestapo, for sure. Besides, Von Dohnanyi is an aristocrat and he’s army and the army looks after its own. Chances are the army will insist on a military court.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Von Gersdorff, with a palpable look of relief on his handsome face. ‘There are senior figures in the Wehrmacht who will try to speak for him, albeit quietly. General von Tresckow’s uncle, Field Marshal von Bock, for example. And Field Marshal von Kluge, of course.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t count on Clever Hans at all.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Von Gersdorff. ‘Von Kluge can be a bit Prussian in his sense of duty and honour, but I firmly believe Gunther is a good man. Henning von Tresckow has been his chief operations officer for over a year now and-’

I shook my head. ‘Let’s get some air.’

We stepped outside and walked up Grosse Kronstadter Strasse as far as the Smolensk Kremlin wall. Against a purple sky full of stars, the fortress looked as if it was made of gingerbread, like the sort of edible house I’d eaten every Christmas as a boy. There, in the cold silence, I struck a match against the brick, we lit some cigarettes, and I told him what Martin Quidde had told me.

‘I can’t believe it,’ protested Von Gersdorff. ‘Not of a man like Gunther von Kluge. He comes from a very distinguished family.’

I laughed. ‘You really think that makes a difference, don’t you? The old aristocratic code?’

‘Of course. It has to. Yes, I can see you think that’s very funny, but this is what I’ve lived my whole life by. And I firmly believe it’s the one thing that’s going to save Germany from absolute disaster.’

I shrugged. ‘Maybe. But I’m still right about Von Kluge. You can’t trust him.’

‘No, you’re wrong. He knows my father. They’re from the same part of West Prussia. Lubin and Posen aren’t so very far away from each other. This corporal of yours must be mistaken.’