Gossip From the Forest Page 6

  Maiberling: But they let you go? Out of regard for your sensitivity?

  Vanselow: We had to barter with them. On the trade-union model, you understand.

  Maiberling chuckled and took a brief liquored tour into the skins of the rebel sailors.

  Maiberling: They must be enjoying themselves, those sailors, they must be having a wonderful time. Because naval officers—with exceptions, of course—are overbearing men. Overbearing.

  He tried to break wind secretly but failed and was heard throughout the lobby.

  Maiberling: You’ll have to excuse me. The schnapps has a diarrheic effect.…

  GROENER—HONEST RAILROADER

  Maiberling had not long retired, bouncing off armchairs, when a group of army officers, conversing loudly, arrived one at a time in the lobby, each turning back to continue speaking or listening to those coming on behind.

  Erzberger recognized General Groener’s fat-hipped, mean-shouldered body, unsoldierly even when fleshed out with a trench coat.

  Matthias didn’t see Hindenburg come in. He arrived, as suited a miraculous icon, without being seen to use any entrance, and for a second the ancient and familiar brute boyishness of that face froze the breath at the bottom of your larynx. Then you noticed he looked spotty and tired.

  Groener saw Matthias and the captain together and advanced on them through the spinney of easy chairs.

  Groener: They sent you, Herr Erzberger.

  Erzberger: Yes, General. I was asked for. And have been here an hour.

  Groener: And at your ease, I hope. Us … we’ve been in attendance at the château since the small hours.

  Erzberger: I see.

  Groener whispered, dragging Matthias into conclave by the sleeve.

  Groener: We talk about one subject only. That poor Willi should throw in the crown. It’s pitiful, we follow him from room to room, you can’t leave him alone for long because then he gets schemes. The Field Marshal’s in a bad state. He hates seeing Willi bullied. How many cars will you need, Erzberger?

  Erzberger: At least … let me see … four. One to lead, one for myself and Count Maiberling … he’s washing at the moment. One for Captain Vanselow and the general …

  Groener: The general?

  Erzberger: A von Winterfeldt.

  Groener: I know, I know. An old gentleman. The Foreign Office sent him here. Goes for walks in the rain. I must say not a very handy talent but he used to be military attaché in Paris in the gay days. A Francophile. Speaks French at home, they tell me. To a French wife! I suppose it counts for something.

  He called to a captain with cavalry tabs on his overcoat and asked that the general be sent for.

  Taking small dreamy steps the Field Marshal had joined them and stood with hands stretched out to the fire. The flames seemed to lap at his booted ankles—he was as close as that. His blood must be thin as coffee, Erzberger thought.

  Groener slung an arm around Matthias’s shoulder and drew him in close to the blaze. Firelight on the general’s face gave it a gargoyle look. Erzberger’s knees prickled with the heat and steam rose from Groener’s overcoat.

  From this huddle poor Vanselow had been excluded, his stature emphasized: that he was a token.

  Hindenburg: He won’t go to the telephone when the Chancellor calls. He goes out into the garden. Sits on wet benches in the drizzle. Maybe pneumonia will take him off. I can’t.

  Groener: He won’t let himself be told … the officers of his own guard find it hard to get a salute out of their men. Out at the imperial train it’s all very slack, the sentries play cards, they read. Officers can’t take action.…

  Hindenburg: It’s astounding. The Ruhr battalions … superb men … passing round socialist newspapers.

  In small and, he hoped, unnoticed ways, Erzberger’s body squirmed in the heat.

  Groener: You saw the party of officers in the lounge? We hope to gather fifty altogether. Not easily done. We’ve spoken to thirty so far. Front-line commanders. Two questions we’ve asked. First, if the Kaiser were to lead the troops in a last all-out assault on enemy positions, would he be obeyed? Second, can the troops be relied on to suppress Bolshevism—or, in real terms, to shoot down seditious Germans. Only one out of the thirty has said yes to both questions.

  The Field Marshal wandered away, blinking; some realities were too much for him, he didn’t want to hear them repeated.

  Groener: By tomorrow I should have at least forty such opinions. I’ll present them to the Kaiser. He’ll be shocked to the wishbone. It isn’t a humane method. But there we are. It’s the best that can be managed.

  The fazed Field Marshal had staggered on into the lounge, as if seeking his simple regimental origins there.

  Erzberger: You want me to tell the French? The Kaiser will go?

  Groener: Perhaps … if they ask …

  Erzberger: Certainly.

  Groener: Where did you say the count …?

  Erzberger: In the toilet.

  Groener: Oh. Sick?

  Erzberger: A little.

  Groener: Schnapps?

  Erzberger: Er … to some extent.

  Groener: If there’s any chance of his going to pieces …

  Erzberger: He’ll be all right.

  Groener did a weird half-curtsy to expose the soles of his booted feet to the fire.

  Groener: I asked for another man.

  Erzberger: The other man couldn’t have got here in time.

  Groener: You both know to ask for an immediate ceasefire?

  Erzberger: Oh yes.

  Groener: Imperative. For the saving of life, yes. But for other reasons as well. Have you perhaps seen a railway map of Belgium, Alsace, Luxembourg?

  Erzberger: Not with a professional eye.

  Groener: A dozen fishing lines tangled. Individually and together. People will remember Ludendorff and Falkenhayn, the dealers in meat. My only victory will be getting the army home intact. It mustn’t bleed apart, so to speak, it mustn’t coagulate at the railway junctions. So you have to ask for the firing to cease.

  Erzberger: Of course.

  Groener: I know you’ve come to mistrust the military …

  Erzberger: I’m not thinking in those terms now.

  The little general grinned, showing his dimples.

  Groener: You see, this time we really are the forces of unarguable good. Bolshevik Russia …

  Erzberger: I’m aware. I’m aware.

  Groener: Get us all the time you can manage.

  Erzberger had had enough of this coaching. He beat his hip twice with his good fedora. So I am your front line now, the shock trooper for the shock troops, the diplomatic Death’s Head Hussar.

  VON WINTERFELDT TAKES A WALK

  Groener: Von Winterfeldt! Good!

  A tall officer with a thin mustache appropriate to the France of 1905 had come downstairs. Behind him walked a corporal carrying a fur-collared coat of excellent cut. He did not turn his head towards the gusts of laughter from the lounge, where Hindenburg told soldiers’ stories to the young regimental officers. The ones whose opinions would finish the Kaiser.

  Groener introduced the general to Matthias. Your traveling companion, he said.

  Von Winterfeldt: I am aware of your political career, Herr Erzberger.

  Matthias’s reply was meaningless.

  Erzberger: Oh well … there we are.

  He had never got used to facing the blue eyes and sculptured faces of the vons of the earth; there were still movements of bumpkin disquiet in his stomach, the belly calling him back to his peasant state. As Maiberling had earlier said.

  Von Winterfeldt: I want it appreciated immediately: I can handle all the speaking of French.

  Groener: I’m sure that doesn’t disturb Herr Erzberger.

  Erzberger: No. I know no French.

  Von Winterfeldt was wearing kid gloves. They seemed to have an aura of talc to them. The question of who would speak French settled, he took one off to shake Erzberger’s hand.


  Von Winterfeldt: I’ve sat at the same table as Foch. At least half a dozen times. This meeting will have strange overtones for me.

  Groener: Indeed.

  Von Winterfeldt: My things are packed, my papers together. I suppose there’s time for me to take a walk.

  Groener: I think so. Erzberger?

  Erzberger: A short walk, General?

  Von Winterfeldt: Of course. Long car journeys, you see, put a test on the circulation.…

  He stretched his arms out as if he might, in fact, fly and the corporal came and draped the overcoat over his shoulders. He nodded once, a violent bob of the head, and went at ceremonial pace out through the lobby doors.

  GROENER OFFERS NO GUARANTEES

  Once more Groener had Matthias by the elbow and began to walk him toward the door of the elevator.

  Groener: Eccentric yes, but manageable. And quite clearheaded. I can guarantee that. Now …

  Erzberger felt a little peevish at being pushed along by the arm, as for having such a strange old gentleman forced on him.

  Erzberger: Where are we going?

  Groener: To my offices on the first floor. I’ve prepared some memoranda you might find useful.…

  The elevator orderly had swept the grille back for them and stood aside numb-faced. Erzberger balked. It was terror and he sweated. He wouldn’t go upstairs without Maiberling.

  Groener: I’m sorry. I do haul people about too much. Even civilians, free men.

  But he had in fact sniffed Matthias’s fear.

  Groener: I can’t guarantee anything. All but one of those regimental officers, all but one, say their men want one thing. The end. One … only one … is sure we ought to battle on. But then he’s a great-grandson of Clausewitz or someone.

  His small pink hand went on cajoling Erzberger’s left upper arm.

  Groener: Who knows what that one out of thirty might do later? To you. To me.

  Erzberger felt himself reddening. An exposed coward.

  Oh, Dr. Thyssen and all the great executives of the Disconto Gesellschaft! Who took me to your tables (board and dinner) and taught me about chablis and silverware. Where have you vanished to? This is your darling guest who has become a target in a military hotel.

  Erzberger: I understand. I want to fetch Maiberling.

  Groener: Of course.

  Erzberger: I want the cars got ready as soon as possible.

  Groener: Naturally.

  Groener detached himself from Matthias’s sleeve and stepped into the elevator. The grille closed between them. But the elevator did not immediately start.

  Groener: Matthias.

  Erzberger: Yes?

  Groener: You have my respect.

  Erzberger: All right.

  Seeming to understand what Erzberger thought—you respect me today because that serves OHL’s purpose—the general pouted and was borne away upward.

  TO THE TOILETS

  Erzberger asked the subaltern at the desk where the lavatories were. Downstairs and to the right, sir.

  There was only one locked water closet and some groaning within it.

  Erzberger: Alfred?

  Maiberling: My ulcer. Too many quick schnapps. But what is a man to do? Journey sober?

  Erzberger: Groener is here. Hindenburg.

  Maiberling made a contemptuous noise and all the water closets seethed for a second.

  Erzberger: The Kaiser will go. That’s settled, Groener says.

  Maiberling: Oh.

  Erzberger: Can I get you something binding?

  Maiberling: No. Don’t rush me.

  Erzberger: That wasn’t my purpose.

  Maiberling opened the door and clung to the white marble door jamb.

  Maiberling: Poor Willi. He was all right. He liked pornography you know. Like most respectable men. I knew his supplier out in Charlottenburg. He said Willi’s tastes were restrained—boots and a little flagellation and a leaning to Negresses, but nothing very unseemly. He said the nation could be proud of Willi’s tastes.

  Erzberger laughed.

  Erzberger: I think you make these things up, Alfred.

  The count’s jaw hung open and, in pain, he mouthed the edge of the door; showing many gold fillings.

  Maiberling: They killed Inga.

  Erzberger: Inga?

  Maiberling barked at him.

  Maiberling: You met her once.

  Erzberger: The … short lady?

  Maiberling: Plump. She was plump. Igna.

  Long ago, in the peace, Matthias had been dining at Restaurant Krziwanek. With gossipers and politicians. What non-crisis had everyone been breathless about that night? The head waiter brought a card—Maiberling’s. The count was dining in a private room and would like Herr Erzberger to come visiting for a drink. Matthias thought, will I go? I don’t want some tart flung at me. Temptations of the flesh always put him in a fluster, made him wonder was all the politicking worthwhile.

  When he went, he found Maiberling and a fat little woman with a happy pink face. Inga. An adulteress but no tart.

  Erzberger could remember thinking in some envy, they’re beside themselves. The room quivered with their self-congratulations. They expected Erzberger to add his own best wishes. Erzberger can be trusted, the count had said.

  Inga was the wife of some general; that’s all Erzberger ever knew.

  Erzberger: They killed her?

  Maiberling: She had the influenza.

  Erzberger: Oh yes. So many …

  Maiberling: She got better. Very thin. End of September her housekeeper found her. Sitting up in her bath, all her clothes on! Head blown off. And so bloody clever of them: pistol in her lap.

  He beat at the door and dribbled down the woodwork.

  Erzberger: People get so depressed after influenza. I remember Paula …

  Maiberling: For Christ’s sake don’t be a simpleton.

  Erzberger: I’m sorry.

  Maiberling: Do you know women never blow their heads off? Ask any coroner. They prize their heads. They prize their eyes, their lips.

  Erzberger: I’m sorry, Alfred.

  Maiberling: Very few, anyhow. Very few shoot themselves in the head. Not … certainly not … Inga’s type.

  The plumbing sighed resonantly. Perhaps the ghosts were there of invalids who had died for lack of Spa water in the last four summers.

  Erzberger: What happened then, Alfred? Go on. What happened?

  Maiberling: This. This happened. Her husband runs an army corps in Latvia. A hypnotic bastard—not with women, with boys, with breathless damn subalterns. And Inga and I were not always … not always secretive. So the valiant corps commander’s honor was in question!

  Erzberger: Try to be quiet, Alfred.

  For the count was not chewing the partitions any more but yelling across the tiled spaces.

  Maiberling: She was shot by his boys, his subalterns on leave.

  Erzberger: Can you be sure, Alfred?

  The count waved a fist at him.

  Maiberling: I verified it. Do you think I wouldn’t verify it? For Inga?

  Erzberger: But were they seen? The housekeeper … did she see them?

  Maiberling: What do you think? Their training! Of course she didn’t see them.

  Oh Christ, he’ll shoot some staff officer. For his dead love’s sake.

  Erzberger: Maybe you should try to understand … the depression women suffer … they more than us.…

  Maiberling: Damn you, Matthias. How dare you humor me …

  Erzberger: You ought to wash the muck from your face.

  Maiberling: … how dare you treat me as a case!

  Erzberger lost his temper and spread his thick legs.

  Erzberger: All right. What are you going to do then? Run wild upstairs? That’s what worries me. You behave like a case.

  The count, upright, snatched his overcoat from its hook behind the lavatory door. Sewn into its bulk, the weapon. He’ll threaten me, thought Erzberger, he’s quite mad. But the count wal
ked past him, laid the overcoat on a chair by the wall and poured water for washing. He spoke in a near whisper, a mere dry flutter at the back of the throat.

  Maiberling: I know about women. I spit on all your chat about depression.

  Matthias could feel the cold under his armpits; evaporating fright.

  Erzberger: Alfred, we’re not private men now. We’re on essential business.

  Maiberling: Are we? Four municipal cretins could manage it.

  He began drinking handfuls of the water he was meant to wash his face in.

  Erzberger: Is that your attitude?

  Maiberling: If you like.

  All the way upstairs Erzberger debated with himself. Will I exchange him? And, in this military ashram, for whom?

  ERZBERGER FALLS UNDER SIEGE

  In the lobby he saw Vanselow, still waiting where he had been left.

  Erzberger: You must forgive me.

  Vanselow: Not at all. You’re an important man.

  A herd of gold-buttoned staff officers moved across the lobby toward them. Soon they were encircled. An intelligence officer, about forty years old, made them a valedictory speech and offered any of his colleagues Erzberger might care for as aides.

  The solemnity of the event, fat Erzberger and deep-blue Vanselow in the middle, was debased by a loud young man—a transport officer, it seemed—who argued by the elevator door with General von Winterfeldt.

  Transport Officer: Four, yes, sir. But what you ask would practically require General Groener and the Field Marshal to walk out to the château each morning.

  Von Winterfeldt: I must insist. I am the sole army plenipotentiary. I will have special instructions from General Groener that I must read and consider in private.

  Transport Officer: If you’d be so kind as to let one aide travel with you.

  Von Winterfeldt: I wouldn’t expect any of my colleagues to travel under those conditions.

  Transport Officer: I can’t provide five limousines till noon.

  Von Winterfeldt: Come now. You must do better. Five. And before noon.

  The bland faces corraled Herr Erzberger. Many of them spectacled, and in the lenses only a small glint of their knowledge of the landslide. Choose any of us. But which of you is an assassin?