The Versailles Legacy
(Work in Progress)
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Chapter 1
January 1939
Captain Helmuth Brandt was not Army. He wore the uniform, but he did not move like a regular. There was a vague insolence in the way he stood before the desk not quite at attention, his head thrown back, his eyes directly challenging Erich down a noble Aryan nose. He had presented his papers and now stood waiting for a decision.
“SS Panzers,” Erich said. “A fighting unit.”
“Yes sir.”
“You’ve been with me for only a week and you want a transfer?”
“Excuse me, General. I just want to fight.”
“If OKH wanted you in a fighting unit would they have assigned you as my aide?”
“The very reason for my request, sir. To apprise them of an unfortunate mistake.”
“Something you must learn, Captain. First, OKH doesn’t make mistakes, and will not appreciate your presuming so.”
“With respect, sir, I trained to fight.”
“Don’t argue, Captain.” He stabbed his signature to the application. “I’m approving this request, but I warn you of its inevitable denial at OKH. Dismissed.”
The crack of heels was like a rifle shot. Brandt made a vaguely sloppy about-turn.
“Captain.”
“General?” He turned again.
“When I dismiss you I still require you to salute. Transfer or no transfer.”
The captain’s blond face turned to red. He cracked his heels again and flung his right arm stiffly forward. “Heil Hitler!”
“Captain.”
“Sir?”
“This is an army office. You wear the army uniform. An army salute will be adequate.”
Dead silence. The blue eyes glittered. The heels clicked quietly. The arm described a quiet army salute.
With a curt nod Erich returned the salute, and watched Helmuth march out the door. Put this young fanatic in his place for the simple pleasure of doing it? Gain his enmity in one thoughtless stroke?
He was more certain than ever that Helmuth was either SS or Gestapo, who hated this posting and wanted out.
Gestapo? Helmuth?
But this was not unusual. These new officers didn’t have the ethical background of the old Officer Corps. Things like this were always happening. All this Nazi stuff. Officers appointed to staff without first going through the system, without even the courtesy of prior consultation. The Army assigned a man, the High Command reassigned him, the Gestapo investigated him, the SA beat him up on his way home, the SD threw him into prison and… if he were lucky… the Army sprang him out again.
Nobody knew these days what in hell anybody else was doing.
Stupid way to run an army.
Was he himself under surveillance? Of course the senior officers had always routinely been under a magnifying glass. But was the captain appointed his personal watchdog?
Not a new thought. Teased his mind ever since Helmuth had reported in as his new ADC, allowing Paul to escape to a combat regiment in Stettin, training on the tanks. Combat regiment. Lucky devil to get free of the politics. And politicians.
He went back to writing summaries for next week’s conference. Equip and muster three army groups at strategic points along the eastern frontier. The High Command was going quite mad with undefined policies and schedules that changed on the shifting breezes. If they actually planned to go into Czechoslovakia, surely these units ought to be deployed farther south and west. Did this mean Czechoslovakia was off the table? Were they preparing for… Danzig? Three army groups? Far beyond requirements for a limited exercise like the Corridor. Poland then? Were they going all the way into Poland?
One could tell nothing these days from the political climate. All this diplomatic posturing. The whole world bent on every phrase Adolf uttered.
He sat back and stretched. Sharp twinge where the old shard of shrapnel dug against his spine. His reminder, every day, of war. Were they about to go off again? England could prevent this if Chamberlain would only stop wiggling and stare Adolf in the eye. Call his bluff as the Americans would say. And those Americans, sitting fat and plush and self-righteous on the far side of the Atlantic, useless bunch of provincials. Official American foreign policy, stay out of Europe. And the French. The poor benighted French just kept dithering in perpetual panic. The whole world stood off in mindless terror, inviting Adolf to break loose and take over. How had the Nazis ever got this far? Gang of hoodlums…
The door opened. The captain stepped in. “Excuse me General, the telephone.”
“I’m not even here, damn it. It’s New Years, Helmuth, why don’t you go home?”
“The Foreign Minister, sir.”
He sat abruptly tall in his chair. Stone silence for that instant. Silence of the mind as well as in the room. What did Ribbentrop want of him?
He took up the telephone. “Schellendorf, sir.”
“Ah, Schellendorf. My apologies to intrude upon the quietude of your Sunday…” He spoke with the exaggerated High-German accents of a stage actor, “…but I extend an unusual request from the British First Secretary. It seems he would like you, specifically by name, as a man who speaks English like a native…”
“You yourself speak excellent English, Minister.”
“But never with the British,” Ribbentrop laughed. “Regardless, he’s asked for you. The occasion, Schellendorf, is the British Ambassador’s New Year’s Levee, so! Medals, sash and sword. And General Staff ceremonials, not your prehistoric cavalry blues, if you please. Eleven hundred hours.”
“Oh great God…!”
“I’ll probably see you there. Heil Hitler.”
Click.
Less than an hour.
He left the papers piled on his desk. He pulled on his greatcoat and cap and stuffed his gloves into one coat pocket. “Be sure to lock everything in the safe,” he said to Helmuth. “My briefcase too, it’s by the desk.”
“Yes sir.”
“Then you’re dismissed. Take a holiday. I have to attend this thing.”
“Yes sir.”
He walked out along the corridor past the closed doorways. His heels cracked on the stone floor and echoed in the silence. At regular intervals, as prescribed by 1938 Standing Orders, black-uniformed SS guards stood as though sculpted into the architecture. They presented arms with a slap and a crash as the general passed, but did not meet his eye or twitch an eyelash. Their Mausers, he knew, were loaded.
What a damned stupid way to live, he thought. Like mindless stone. Who in hell would ever volunteer for that?
But they were the Schutzstaffel, an elite corps of killers.
Was Helmuth one of them? Or one of the far more deadly Gestapo?
*
Secretly he enjoyed wearing the ceremonials. It gave him a moment of resplendence, harking back twenty-five years to the days of Empire when he’d first put on the uniform. Back to simpler days. Blue cavalry tunic laden with gold braid and gold buttons and braided epaulets and braided high collar, and medals on a bloody rainbow of ribbons. Red stripe down the trousers, General Staff, the proud tradition. Adolf couldn’t take that away. He’d never liked the helmet. He carried it under his arm, white horsehair plume swaying, as he stepped through the reception line at the British Embassy. A light click of the heels to greet the British First Secretary. Kissed the gloved fingers of the Secretary’s wife. He gladly gave the helmet over to a steward.
The Embassy surged with people and noise and blazing lights. On the mezzanine above the foyer a group of musicians played the Eine kleine Nachtmusik. He threaded through the crowds into the huge ballroom, chandeliers glittering overhead, a hundred murmuring voices, an occasional outright laugh. “Hello, how are you…” “Happy New Year…” The music came louder in the ballroom than outside. People had to raise their voices to talk. Snatches of different languages, a lot of English. He saw a few familiar faces, nodded and passed on. No-one was dancing: the music was not for dancing. Some people were already drinking champagne, but he couldn’t see the bar through the press of the crowds. Ceremonial uniforms, the British in red or black tunics, yellow-striped black trousers, and black jodhpur boots. A few Scottish kilts. The ladies wore formal gowns and jewellery, as if it were last night’s New Year’s Eve ball rather than a morning ceremony.
“Erich! Erich von Schellendorf! Skiing weather!”
He turned. “Phil Ryder, for heaven sake! When did you get back?”
“Just on my way through. Again.” Ryder was an American journalist, a lean lank fellow in a plain business suit threading through the glittering crowd. They shook hands. “Listen, old son, I’m in a real bind.” He took Erich by the elbow to change his direction in the huge room. “Got an old friend who doesn’t know a soul in Berlin, but I’ve got to catch a ride to Paris. Can you offer her a drink, she doesn’t speak German. And maybe see her back to her hotel? She’s staying over at the Eden.”
“Well, I…”
“Celia, here we are!” Ryder called out.
A woman turned in the crowd. Her eyes were all that he saw for that instant. Large, direct, serene eyes. Cool grey eyes that took him in and were not dazzled by the glitter of his medals or the sabre at his thigh or the loops of gold braid across his chest.
“Celia, may I present General Erich von Schellendorf from Heidelberg. Erich, she loves Heidelberg, you’ll have lots in common. Celia Ashton from Chelsea, London.”
Her smile was quick, punctuated with pink lip colour. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a severe bun and held in place with a bit of silver. In this ballroom twinkling with gold and diamonds and haute couture, she wore a modest lean cocktail gown of blue silk and a simple silver chain at her throat.
“Chelsea?” He met her eyes again.
“Heidelberg?” Smiling eyes.
He chuckled at Phil’s irony. “So much in common.” Phil had already disappeared in the crowd, leaving them to dangle. “Shall we look for the bar?”
At the bar she accepted a glass of champagne. “Well,” he said, raising his glass to her, “here’s to a new year, new beginnings, new friends, and peace in Europe.”
Her smile was quick. “Oh yes.” She raised her glass.
They drifted in the crowd. “How do you find Berlin?” he asked her.
“Very interesting. Very… A bit drab, to be honest, but such a lot of goings on, it feels like the centre of the world. Which I suppose it is these days. The parades and the marching and those red swastika banners. All rather… warlike and Wagnerian, but I suppose that’s how it’s meant, isn’t it.”
“It does much for public confidence.”
“A bit frightening at times, all the uniforms and marching. The ordinary people, though, seem to me polite and rather quiet. What do you do in the army?”
“I push mountains of paper.”
She laughed, as if the idea delighted her.
“And what do you do?” he asked.
“Do?” She seemed surprised. “Why, nothing. I do nothing.” Her own answer seemed to surprise her even more. She stopped strolling and turned to look into his face. On little blue shoes with high heels she was almost the same height as he. “Do you know, in fact, I do…” She seemed amazed, “…absolutely bloody nothing!”
He smiled. “Well aren’t you bloody fortunate.” He added quickly, “But then what do you do for amusement?”
“I travel quite a lot between Switzerland and Chelsea. I write a little. Children’s books, if I have a decent theme.” She smiled swiftly. “And I garden. My daughter’s at school in Bern, you see, and my garden is in Chelsea. Quite a lot of travel back and forth. School holidays, that sort of thing.”
“A pleasant sort of life.”
“Rather humdrum, I should say. So then what do you do for amusement?”
“I play with a camera. And I still ride a bit, keep in shape.”
“Ride?”
“Horses. Cavalry.” He smiled. “Long past for me.”
Waiters in red-and-white livery had begun moving swiftly among the crowd carrying trays of wine glasses which they were serving to every person in the room. Erich returned his champagne to the tray and accepted a glass of red wine. Beside him the Ashton woman did the same, then started to lift it to her lips. He gave her a tiny shake of his head. She paused. People around them stood quietly waiting, glass in hand, not yet drinking. The music stopped. On the stroke of noon the First Secretary stepped up to a podium at the far end of the ballroom. The musicians sounded a shrill vibrato that brought silence.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the Secretary called in a loud speech voice, “meine liebe Damen und Herren, chers Mesdames et Messieurs, I regret that Sir Nevile Henderson is not here to greet you personally today. In his stead I wish you all a most happy and peaceful nineteen thirty-nine!!” He raised his glass high. “Long live King George the Sixth and all in his domain! Long live the British Empire!”
They lifted their glasses then.
The little group of strings burst forth playing a vigorous God Save the King.
Erich searched the crowd, noted who didn’t respond to the toast. Over by a window chatting with the British Military Attaché, Ribbentrop intercepted Erich’s glance and nodded absently to him. “There’s the Foreign Minister,” he said to her.
“Is Hitler here?”
“Oh, I doubt he’d come. He’s probably taking the holiday in Bavaria.”
She took half a step sideways to look into his face. He was beginning to get used to those eyes. “Tell me,” she said, “what you people really think of him.”
“I’m not allowed an opinion.”
“Why not?”
“Because the Army is here to serve the government in power, not to question it.”
“Did you vote for Hitler?”
“No.”
Her tension melted. “Well! Having admitted to that, tell me what you think of him. As a private person. As a thinking person.”
He smiled and cast a glance across the crowd now surging and mixing again. He counted only a few other German officers, and Ribbentrop in his morning suit-and-sash over in a corner, now head to head with an Italian diplomat.
“In my position,” he said, “I cannot be a private person.” Then responding to the disappointment in her eyes he added, “But I believe Hitler probably… when it comes to threats… is rather more noise than substance.”
“Well!” she exclaimed. “I thought he was God to you people.”
“On the other hand, he certainly pulled the country out of the depression and returned us to equality among nations, for which I’m personally, if not professionally, grateful.”
Her faint smile was puzzled. She searched his face.
“What?” he challenged, discomfited.
“Not professionally grateful? Wasn’t he responsible for building up the army in the past few years? I’ve heard… ten million, was that the number? From a hundred thousand when he came to power? Wouldn’t that please a general?”
He laughed. It was so outrageous. “The propaganda perhaps, but certainly not the fact.”
“Another fascinating concept,” she murmured. “Propaganda. What does that mean?”
“Propagated, um… information? Lies, perhaps?”
She laughed. “Where did you learn to speak English so beautifully? I mean with hardly a trace of an accent.”
He feigned outrage. “I have no accent! I was born and raised in London. Went to Winchester as a boy, then Cambridge for a year.”
She smiled over the rim of her glass. One eyebrow shot up and subsided.
She’d drawn him into saying far more than he’d intended.
He sipped the wine and scanned the crowds. Ambassadors from everywhere, didn’t they have their own thing to do on a New Year’s Sunday? “What brings you to Berlin?” he asked her.
He’d stirred her out of a muse of her own.
“My daughter.” She turned her attention back to him. Her grey eyes had tiny flecks of amber. Her mouth seemed always smiling, the corners turned delicately upward. “She’s here for a student seminar with the Berlin Philharmonic.”
“She’s a musician?”
“She plays the cello. Apparently she’s rather good for her age.”
“How old is she?”
“Thirteen.”
“And where is she today?”
“Oh, she steadfastly refused to come along. She wanted to practice, so I left her at the hotel. I must be back soon, take her down to tiffin.” She laughed and added, “Luncheon.”
He could not stop himself. “Perhaps you’ll allow me to take you both out to… to tiffin.”
She lowered her eyes, and he thought there was a hint of a blush. “That…” She looked up at him again, direct as a rapier. “That’s extraordinarily kind of you.”
* * *