Night of the Fox. Jack Higgins

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      ‘Good – we’ll see you later then.’ Rommel picked up a fresh bottle of champagne and two glasses and walked out followed by Hofer.

      As soon as the bedroom door was closed, Hofer turned in agitation. ‘It was the worst kind of mess. All that fool Koenig managed to do was blow himself up outside the main gate.’

      ‘That seems rather careless of him,’ Rommel said dryly. ‘Now calm yourself, Konrad. Have another glass of champagne and get under the shower and just take it slowly.’

      Hofer went into the bathroom and Rommel straightened his uniform, examining himself in the mirror. He was fifty-three at that time, of medium height, stocky and thick-set with strong features, and there was a power to the man, a force, that was almost electric. His uniform was simple enough, his only decorations the Pour le Mérite, the famous Blue Max, won as a young infantry officer in the First World War, and the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves, Swords and Diamonds, both of which hung around his neck. On the other hand, one hardly needed anything else if one had those.

      Hofer emerged in a bathrobe toweling his hair. ‘Olbricht and a few more up there are in a blue funk and I don’t blame them. I mean the Gestapo or the SD could be on to this at any time.’

      ‘Yes,’ Rommel conceded. ‘Himmler may have started life as a chicken farmer, but whatever else you may say about him he’s no fool. How was von Stauffenberg?’

      ‘As determined as ever. He suggests you meet with Generals von Stulpnagel and Falkenhausen within the next few days.’

      ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

      Hofer was back in the bathroom pulling on his uniform again. ‘I’m not so sure it’s a good idea. If Himmler does have his suspicions about you, you could be under close surveillance already.’

      ‘Oh, I’ll think of something,’ Rommel said. ‘Now hurry up. The men are laying on a little show for me and I don’t want to disappoint them.’

      The show was presented in the main hall of the chateau. A small stage had been rigged at one end with some makeshift curtains. Rommel, Hofer and the regimental officers sat down in chairs provided at the front; the men stood in the hall behind them or sat on the grand staircase.

      A young corporal came on, bowed and sat down at the grand piano and played a selection of light music. There was polite applause. Then he moved into the song of the Fallschirmjäger, the paratroopers’ own song, sung everywhere from Stalingrad to North Africa. The curtains parted to reveal the regimental choir singing lustily. There was a cheer from the back of the hall and everyone started to join in, including the officers. Without pause, the choir moved straight into several choruses of We March Against England, an unfortunate choice, Rommel told himself. It was interesting to note that no one tried singing the Horst Wessel. The curtain came down to a storm of cheering and several instrumentalists came on, grouped themselves around the pianist and played two or three jazz numbers. When they were finished, the lights went down and there was a pause.

      ‘What’s happening?’ Rommel demanded.

      ‘Wait and see, Herr Field Marshal. Something special, I assure you.’

      The pianist started to play the song that was most popular of all with the German forces, Lili Marlene. The curtains parted to reveal only a pool of light on a stool in the center of the stage from a crude spotlight. Suddenly, Marlene Dietrich stepped into the light straight out of Blue Angel, or so it seemed. Top hat, black stockings and suspenders. She sat on the stool to a chorus of wolf whistles from the men and then she started to sing Lili Marlene, and that haunting, bittersweet melody reduced the audience to total silence.

      A man, of course, Rommel could see that, but a brilliant impersonation and he joined in the applause enthusiastically. ‘Who on earth is that?’ he asked Colonel Halder.

      ‘Our orderly room corporal, Berger. Apparently he used to be some sort of cabaret performer.’

      ‘Brilliant,’ Rommel said. ‘Is there more?’

      ‘Oh, yes, Herr Field Marshal. Something very special.’

      The instrumentalists returned and the choir joined them in a few more numbers. There was another pause when they departed and then a steady, muted drum roll. The curtain rose to reveal subdued lighting. As the choir started to sing the song of the Afrika Korps from the side of the stage, Rommel walked on. And it was quite unmistakably he. The cap with the desert goggles, the white scarf carelessly knotted at the neck, the old leather greatcoat, the field marshal’s baton in one gloved hand, the other arrogantly on the hip. The voice, when he spoke, was perfect as he delivered a few lines of his famous battlefield speech before El Alamein.

      ‘I know I haven’t offered you much. Sand, heat and scorpions, but we’ve shared them together. One more push and it’s Cairo, and if we fail … well, we tried – together.’

      There was total silence from the body of the hall as Colonel Halder glanced anxiously at Rommel. ‘Field Marshal, I hope you’re not offended.’

      ‘Offended? I think he’s marvelous,’ Rommel said and jumped to his feet. ‘Bravo!’ he called and started to clap and behind him, the entire audience joined in with the chorus of the Afrika Korps song, cheering wildly.

      In the makeshift dressing room next to the kitchen, Erich Berger slumped into a chair and stared at himself in the mirror. His heart was beating and he was sweating. A hell of a thing for any actor to perform in front of the man he was taking off, and such a man. A name to conjure with. The most popular soldier in Germany.

      ‘Not bad, Heini,’ he said softly. ‘Mazel tov.’ He took a bottle of schnapps from the drawer, drew the cork and swallowed some.

      A Yiddish phrase on the lips of a corporal in a German Fallschirmjäger regiment might have seemed strange to anyone who had overheard. His secret was that he wasn’t Erich Berger at all, but Heini Baum, Jewish actor and cabaret performer from Berlin and proud of it.

      His story was surprisingly simple. He had performed with success in cabaret all over Europe. He had never married. To be frank, his inclinations ran more toward men than women. He had persisted in living in Berlin, even as the Nazis came to power, because his aging parents had always lived there and would not believe that anything terrible could ever happen. Which it did, of course, though not for a long time. As an entertainer, Baum was of use to the Reich. He still had to wear his Star of David on his coat, but a series of special permits kept him afloat and his parents with him, while all around them their friends were taken away.

      And then there was the fateful night in 1940 when he had arrived at the end of his street, coming home from cabaret, in time to see the Gestapo taking his mother and father from their house. He had turned and run, like the coward he was, pausing only in a side street to tear the Star of David from his coat. He was forty-four years of age and looked ten years younger on a good day. Nowhere to go, for his papers told the world he was a Jew.

      So, he’d caught a train to Kiel with the wild idea that he might be able to get a ship from there to somewhere – anywhere. He’d arrived just after one of the first of the devastating RAF raids on that city, had stumbled through the chaos and flames of the city center, searching for shelter as the RAF came back for a second go. Lurching down into a cellar, he’d found a man and a woman and a twelve-year-old girl dead, all from the same family he learned when he examined their identity cards. Erich Berger, his wife and daughter. And one thing more. In Berger’s pocket were his call-up papers, ordering СКАЧАТЬ