The Kaiser’s Last Kiss. Alan Judd

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      Meanwhile, the Dutch major showed no sign of wanting to flee – indeed, he had had his chance over lunch – and permitted himself to be relieved of his side arm without demur. He answered questions put to him, volunteered nothing and seemed perfectly correct, although his imperturbable, doleful manner made it impossible to tell what he was thinking, and therefore what he might do. Krebbs disliked ambiguity and uncertainty, and wanted to be rid of him. He also disliked the driver of the lorry, an unfortunately all too typical representative of the transport platoon of the Wehrmacht battalion to which he was attached. The drivers appeared to regard their vehicles as their own and gave the impression that transporting soldiers was at best a favour, at worst an imposition. Not that the driver said anything, of course, but his expression on realising that he would have to bring Krebbs back after dropping off the major and so miss the HQ company meal was eloquent enough for Krebbs to consider a charge of dumb insolence. However, there were plenty of other things to be doing and he did not want to miss his own dinner because of the formalities of disciplinary action. The driver turned the lorry round and sat with the engine idling. Krebbs left Arno with the guard, telling them not to feed him. German Shepherds had to be kept in good shape.

      Princess Hermine sat before her ornate dressing-table mirror, contemplating the ruin of her face. Hair one could do something with, other bits could be covered up, but the sagging and wrinkling of the face, the drawing-down of the lips, the stretching and pouching of the cheeks, the awful, daily collapse of an entire landscape was saddening beyond words. Why could not God have made an exception of the face? Let everything else age, let it all go, but keep the face young, or at least presentable. The worst thing was that the wrinkles showed most when she smiled. Yet she liked to smile, when appropriate. In youth, her smile had been a great asset; it would be hard to give it up now.

      She touched her wiry hair a few more times with the delicate silver brush, part of her wedding present from Willie. Her blue dress with white silk lower sleeves would do for dinner, along with a single string of pearls. It would be sensible not to be too ostentatious and anyway it was not as if their guest were important in himself, only for what he represented. It was essential that he should report back – surely he would report – on a modest and well-disposed household. After all, if one could not keep one’s face one could at least take some satisfaction from one’s achievements, and nurture one’s ambitions.

      As for achievements, she had not done badly. First, she had escaped her family. The Poison Squirt, as her sisters used to call her, had stunned them all with her rich and successful first marriage and then her five children, bang, bang, bang, like peas from a pod. Then came her comfortable widowhood and everyone had assumed that was it with her until, bang, she had stunned them again – stunned them speechless – with her marriage to the widowed Kaiser. What did it matter that he preserved Dona’s room as a shrine, with only himself and the cleaning maids allowed in while she, the Princess, had to make do with lesser rooms? And what though he spent hours in Dona’s rose garden, in contemplation and prayer? He was so obviously glad not to be alone, so grateful to her for marrying him, so fond of her and so generous, always giving her things.

      Only on one important subject did they differ, and that was submerged most of the time. This was the question of striving for a Hohenzollern restoration, the Kaiser’s triumphant return to Germany as its king once more. It was quite obvious that Germany needed royal leadership to counter-balance this regime of corporals and tobacconists. Not only to counter-balance, but to complement and complete. They were not doing badly, these Nazis, and one could have much sympathy with them; in many ways they were right, and certainly they were doing well with this war. But they needed guidance, wisdom and experience, someone who could ensure the allegiance of the armed forces and the aristocracy. Naturally, there was only one who could do that.

      The problem was Willie, not because he was against returning to his rightful throne – on the contrary, it was the very thing that, deep down, he most longed for. Of that she was sure. However, he could not acknowledge it fully, it was too delicate, rejection would be too wounding, worse than the original exile and more final. Therefore, his Princess must take soundings for him and prepare the way. Not for herself, of course. It made no difference to her whether she became Empress of Germany – though her sisters, yes, imagine what they would say – but she would do it for his sake. It would mean so much to him. So, it was important to be nice to these Nazis, especially now that they were here in Holland and, as always, had it in their power to continue or refuse Willie’s financial allowance. Again, if one could not keep one’s face, one could at least keep one’s head and perhaps do the state, and dear Willie, some service.

      The Princess left her room. The door to Dona’s sanctuary was shut, as always, but Schulz, Willie’s valet, was creeping along the corridor in his usual funereal manner, his face irritatingly expressionless, as if he were aware of no one or nothing. In fact, he noticed everything and was treasured by Willie for his ‘unfathomable discretion’.

      ‘Is His Majesty in the late Empress’s room?’ she asked.

      Schulz looked absurdly surprised, as if the wall had addressed him. ‘No, your Highness.’

      ‘Do you know where he is?’

      ‘Yes, your Highness.’

      ‘Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me.’

      ‘He is in the rose garden, your Highness.’

      She looked out from a window and saw him, on a bench, bareheaded, his stick between his knees. He had a better head of hair than many men half his age, albeit that it was silver now, like his beard. The three dachshunds, ridiculous creatures, were playing nearby. The roses were like a red sea around him. For a moment it reminded her of a sea of poppies, the sort of thing the English had made such a fuss about since the last war. Willie was wearing his field grey uniform, the one he had worn at their wedding. That was a good sign; it showed he meant to impress by being businesslike, not just showy. He often wore uniforms in the evenings, normally more elaborate than this. He had a ridiculous number – over three hundred German alone, plus Russian, Austrian, Portuguese, Swedish, Danish and English. She had once remarked to him that if they became poor he could sell his uniforms to the various armies and navies to help them all keep the war going.

      Field grey was also a good choice because it showed solidarity with the Wehrmacht and with the Nazi attempts to create a new, more egalitarian, social order. She hoped he would not wear his medals, but if he did – well, probably no one nowadays remembered that he had never won or earned any of them. It was doubtful that he any longer acknowledged that even to himself. Anyway, medals might impress the young Untersturmführer. Willie must – would – be king again. She went down to the rose garden to be with him.

THREE

      Krebbs was anxious before and during dinner, though not because of his table manners. He had learned those on becoming an officer and, although this table was more a minefield than most – more dishes and implements and the danger of arcane customs he had never heard of – he felt protected by his status. Not only because of his commissioned rank, but because his SS insignia guaranteed immediate recognition and respect wherever he went. It did not guarantee liking, but – like him or loathe him – no one could ignore a representative of the SS.

      Whether or not he was liked nevertheless did make a difference to Martin Krebbs and he generally tried to render himself likeable. His first cause of anxiety had been whether he would get to the dinner at all. He had arrived at the barracks with Major van Houten that afternoon to find battalion headquarters in confusion. A few hours, he was learning, could be a long time in war. He had left an organised, efficient unit that morning, one that was grateful after weeks in the field to have the luxury of proper barracks and an attractive part of Holland to occupy. Arrangements were being made to accommodate Dutch Army prisoners, СКАЧАТЬ