respectful of him. He is half a genius and half a child. He is clever but not always wise. He has great inner youth, he is much younger than his years. He has never properly grown up but he has much valuable experience. He is not tactful but he is sensitive. Listen to him, put up with him, and you can learn, as I did.’
‘So, what can I learn from the old man?’
‘You can learn’ – the major paused while he turned at the village crossroads towards the gate lodge, going hand over hand on the heavy wheel and changing down with an adroit double-clutch movement – ‘you can learn from his wrongness. When he is most wrong, you learn most.’
‘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.’
