To Müller’s frustration--and even with black-uniformed SS troops now surrounding the General Staff compound--his companion was lost in the mirror maze of history, consumed by events that had happened nearly two thousand years ago.
“It is the ancient problem of the Praetorian Guard,” von Reinhardt explained in what Müller felt were maddeningly restrained and logical tones. “The Guard ultimately elects the new Caesar. Because they have the arms in the capitol, their votes count more than others. For example, when Cassius Chaerea assassinated Caligula, the Republic might have been restored. Instead, the Guards nominated and elected the cripple Claudius, preferring that the new dictator be loyal to them.”
Colonel Wolfgang Müller shook his head. The tall, aquiline-nosed aristocrat was his best friend among the officers of the General Staff, but it was a friendship of opposites.
Müller’s watery blue eyes focused through thin wire-rim spectacles at his companion. “All well and good, Gunter, but outside are men with guns who will kill us if Himmler gives the order!” Müller wanted a firm, commanding voice, but his last few words came out with a squeak. Spiritually, Müller saw himself as a man of action whose physical body betrayed him. In his role of staff supply officer, he knew that he had helped to solve the logistics problems associated with the Vengeance Weapon project, but although he knew intellectually that that was a real contribution to the war effort, it fell well short of the Teutonic heroism to which he secretly aspired.
Reinhardt’s brilliance had made him an officer much in demand; from intelligence to planning, senior officers enjoyed having his trained analytical mind at their disposal. Reinhardt was a member of the Nazi Party, but sometimes Müller thought he was a little too cynical in his humor to truly fit in.
The tall colonel joined Müller at the window. A high barbed-wire fence surrounded the compound, and within that barrier, facing out, a file of gray-uniformed Wehrmacht soldiers manfully stood guard in the hot July sun. Officially, everyone was still on the same side. Civil war might threaten, but it had not yet broken out.
Late in the night, a division of Himmler’s SS troops had rumbled up to the General Staff compound. Hundreds of elite armed troops had piled out of their personnel carriers and surrounded the barbed-wire facility near Berlin.
General Horst Bücher, a fierce-eyed SS fanatic with dueling scars on each of his cheeks, had explained that on Himmler’s orders, he was sent “only to provide security to the valuable military leaders of der Vaterland in this time of great national crisis.” His cold, contemptuous stare had thoroughly contradicted the polite respect of his address.
“I know that man,” Reinhardt said. “In fact, I gave him one of those scars myself.” Absently, he fingered his own dueling scar, a thin line across his cheek that made him look, in Müller’s opinion, even more distinguished.
It had suited the Wehrmacht to pretend that Bücher was there to help. Nobody failed to understand the real message: accept Himmler’s rise to the führership or fall at the hands of the SS.
Reinhardt turned and sat calmly at his metal military-issue desk, which filled most of the tiny office. He was lucky to get a window office at all, even though his view was mostly of barbed wire and machinery. The room was neat and orderly, not a paper out of place--the complete opposite of Müller’s own working space. He imagined that even Reinhardt’s pencil drawer was neatly arranged with dividers.
Müller, too agitated to sit, paced nervously back and forth in the confined space, much like a monkey in a cage. He saw his sweaty brow reflected in the small mirror on the wall of Reinhardt’s office and dabbed at it with a wrinkled handkerchief.
Again he peered out the grimy window at the military stand-off outside. The Wehrmacht troops, so outnumbered, stood at crisp attention in their feldgrau uniforms, true German soldiers. The midnight-black SS troops laughed and gossiped among themselves, occasionally looking over at their Wehrmacht opposition with disparaging sneers. Finally Müller snatched his round glasses off his pudgy face, polished them furiously with a handkerchief, and put them back on, halfheartedly hoping that the surrounding forces had magically disappeared.
The General Staff office warren was a beehive of activity. In the narrow corridors, illuminated mostly by bare bulbs, officers and clerks moved rapidly, purposefully, carrying sheaves of paper in and out of meetings. The ranking generals were locked behind closed doors, arguing, exploring options, debating, forming and breaking alliances. The military high command of the world’s mightiest fighting force had ground to a halt with the führer’s assassination.
Müller’s frustration built until he could take no more. “How can you just sit there?” he demanded of his friend, his voice rising uncontrollably at the question mark. “Great decisions are being made! Our lives and the very life of our nation is at stake! Why aren’t you doing something?”
One thin eyebrow raised slightly, ironically. “What would you have me do, Wolfgang?” Reinhardt said. “We are soldiers. Our superiors make decisions, and we carry them out. Our superiors themselves are in the hands of world-historical forces. Our destiny is shaped by factors beyond our control, and we are merely the playthings of destiny. But I will give you this,” he added, with the hint of his annoyingly superior smile playing at his lips, that smile that made Müller feel ignorant and angry, “As Hegel says, ‘Amid the pressure of great events, a general principle gives no help.’ Truth be told, I, too, feel somewhat anxious. But, ‘what cannot be cured must be endured.’ Come, my friend. Let me buy you a cup of the wretched stuff that passes for coffee in this place. And perhaps they will still have one of your favorite pastries.”
Müller was only half placated, but he allowed von Reinhardt to lead him toward the canteen. His stomach was rumbling--it was fear, he knew, but fear made him hungry. Nervously, he wondered about the generals in closed conference, vividly imagining the chaos, the debate. What if the wrong decision was made? Would he go to his death bravely against the ferocity of the SS? His own boss, General Rowekamp, was a decent but ineffectual old fool, certainly no protection at all.
Reinhardt’s hand on his shoulder was suddenly very reassuring.
General Franz Rowekamp, white-haired, long devoid of real power, a World War I leftover, had not wielded any meaningful authority among the General Staff since the war began. Supply, reserve affairs, staff support roles were all he’d been good for. Now, as the debate of the generals entered its third hour, he could sense that his peers recognized him as a leader. His moment had finally arrived.
The senior Wehrmacht officers had gathered quickly upon the news of Hitler’s death, traveling from the various fronts and headquarters to meet here. Keitel, the chief of staff, von Kluge and Model, the front commanders, all outranked Rowekamp, but they did not want the leadership of this meeting. There was too much at stake, too many ways to gain unwelcome visibility. Their silence made their collective will clear: Let Rowekamp have the floor.
Jodl, Hitler’s lackey, sat by himself in a gloomy comer of the room, ostracized, but still a factor. Of the important officers, only the badly wounded field marshal Erwin Rommel was missing. There were even rumors that he was part of the conspiracy. Of course, there were rumors about nearly everybody right now.
The Reich’s key generals sat around the long oak conference table. For security reasons, the conference room was below ground where nothing natural could penetrate. Cold artificial light reflected harsh shadows. Everyone looked older, more worn, defeated. Tension in the room was thick. The meeting was secret, but all knew that their respective positions, however they evolved, would inevitably leak. Until the factions resolved themselves, until winners and losers became apparent, any and every opinion might become fatal. Rowekamp was old. Let him take the risk.
Three hours earlier, long before the table became cluttered with half-drunk cups of vile ersatz coffee, before the stench of stale smoke and sweat made eyes water, before the harsh glare of the lights began to reflect the building madness, Rowekamp had made his key decision.
Consensus ...we must avoid civil war, chaos for the Fatherland. I will lead gently, bring out all sides, and find the solution with which all can live
.
It had been a mission far more difficult than any he’d faced in a long, if undistinguished, career. But he had persevered, encouraging, listening, moderating.
At first only Stauffenberg, a mere colonel but the most visible of the conspirators and known to all present as the assassin of Adolf Hitler, had felt utterly free to proclaim his opinion.
“We are this close to peace! We cannot surrender all to that Nazi clown in a black costume! Our coup has been a success; Himmler cannot take power without your consent!” Stauffenberg pounded his remaining hand on the long, oaken conference table.
“Murderer!” Jodl hissed. “Traitor to the Reich! The führer’s mission must be completed. None of you here have any right to gainsay the führer’s orders. With Göring dead--at your hand, no doubt--Himmler is the highest-ranking party official; it is utterly right, legal, and moral that he assume leadership of party and nation.” Left unstated was a likelihood obvious to all: Jodl would then become his chief of staff.
“We did not kill Göring, you irrelevant lackey,” von Stauffenberg snarled. “It was Himmler himself, don’t you understand? You have sold out your people to kiss Hitler’s rosy red rectum. Now you’re only looking for another ass to kiss.”
Jodl was on his feet in an instant; there was murder in his eyes. “Traitor!” he hissed. The look on his face made it clear he could not understand why the others at the meeting had not already executed Hitler’s assassin. Stauffenberg looked at him with equal hatred, about to launch into another tirade.
“That is enough,” Rowekamp interjected curtly. “Jodl, von Stauffenberg, this meeting is to discuss the issues at hand, not trade personal insults. In my day, we settled matters like yours on the field of honor. Colonel Count, do remember that Jodl is still your superior officer. Accord him the respect his rank warrants.”
Sullenly, the one-armed colonel yielded to military discipline.
“Jawohl, mein General.”
He saluted and slowly sat back down. Jodl did not salute, but also sat.
Field Marshal Model straightened up in his high-backed seat. “This matter must be discussed, of course, but it is the very height of insanity for us to consider the transition of power and the future of the State while looking down the barrels of Himmler’s guns. Let us not forget that we command the armies of the Reich. Himmler knows that our deaths will not bring the armies under his control. There is a chain of command, and the other commanders are with their forces. Himmler has not won yet.”
Murmurs of assent from the assembled generals at Model’s assertion helped lower the combative temperature of the room.
Field Marshal Keitel put up his hand. His face was blistered and bandaged, and all knew that he had been very near to the bomb that had killed Hitler. Still, the wounding did not seem to have affected his aura of command. “Field Marshal, I utterly agree. We are soldiers. There is a chain of command. Our deaths may not matter to the destiny of the Reich. That is perfectly true. But our deaths do mean something to ourselves; at least that is true in my case. Perhaps today is the day when we must all fall on our swords like true German heroes. Then again, perhaps this is not the moment. I, myself, am not eager that it be thus.”
Model laughed. “Field Marshal Keitel, I am not eager for it either.”
The gallows humor had the desired effect. Keitel stood up to pour himself another cup of the awful brew that even the Reich’s leaders were now forced to drink. No orderlies were allowed in this room; the matter was too important and the identities of all the conspirators still unknown. The fear of another bomb had everyone edgy. Even Keitel had suffered himself to be searched. Standing, clearly welcoming the relief from staying too long seated, the field marshal turned his eyes along the table.
Rowekamp too looked around, carefully studying the faces of his peers on the General Staff. He had known many of them for years, but he could not read them today. Too much uncertainty, too much at stake for people to reveal their true emotions.
“Perhaps I may summarize?” he ventured, looking from face to face and getting agreement. “Point one: Reichsführer Himmler’s SS units occupy all of Berlin. It is more than possible that should we refuse to cooperate, we will die here.
“Point two: Since our deaths do not give command of the armies to Himmler, he has little to gain from killing us, and therefore we have some power to negotiate.
“Point three: Colonel Count von Stauffenberg’s activities did not command unanimous support among our numbers. His opinions, while part of the discussion here, do not control.
“Point four: The fact that General Bücher has offered a meeting with Himmler suggests that Himmler also sees room for discussion. Perhaps a power-sharing arrangement, a coordination of goals, might be the best possible outcome. Gentlemen, do you agree with this summary?”
There was general assent except for Jodl and Stauffenberg. Jodl sat like a church mouse, clearly afraid to push Himmler’s views too hard. For now, he seemed willing to remain quiet, though he would inevitably give a full report to the Reichsführer. His duty, his loyalty, and his self-interest remained together.
Stauffenberg tried one more protest. Standing, he looked down at his colleagues and superiors, his angular and ravaged form casting a dark shadow on the conference table, and contemptuously pronounced his position. “Very well. You remain Nazi puppy dogs. You will discuss and debate and eventually submit to the jackal’s teeth. Understand this, however. I am not alone, and those who agree with me occupy positions of power. Not all of us are revealed. Himmler will have to contend with far more than he knows, as will you. There are no safe harbors, gentlemen. Everyone must take a stand or be swept away in the flood.” He turned on his heel and stiffly marched from the room.