West Berlin: Late September 1965
Willy Brandt was a nice guy, one of the good guys. Everybody said so. There might be Germans who would never forgive him for fighting against Germany in the war or for accepting Norwegian citizenship, but foreign politicians adored him. He’d got on well with JFK, reasonably well with LBJ and De Gaulle and very well with England’s new prime minister, Harold Wilson—he could almost hear the phrase “Good German” on his lips, but hoped he never would.
Brandt hated losing.
He’d spent what seemed an age in Bonn, just lost the election for chancellor of the Bundesrepublik, otherwise known as West Germany. Now he was back in Berlin—his old job, his old office—suffering from … what was Churchill’s term for it? … “Black Dog Days.”
His chief of staff found him lying on the floor, his head propped up with a thick book—Goethes Sämtliche Werke Band VI. The Grundig radiogram, which sat in the corner squat as a harmonium, softly playing Schubert’s Swan Song.
“Miserable stuff,” Nell said. “Is this the mood you’re in?”
“Yes. And no.”
She put a cup of coffee within arm’s reach. Pulled up a chair and looked down at him. “The staff—your staff—would like to see something of you. They’d like a word from the mayor of West Berlin, not the hermit of the Rathaus.”
“Instead they’ve got the return of the prodigal loser.”
“Never cared for self-pity and dare I say it’s out of character.”
Brandt eased himself up, wrapped his hands round the mug of coffee.
“I said I’ll never run again.”
“Yes. We all heard that. It was the last thing you said before you fell down the well.”
“Before the dog bit me … much more appropriate. But … I was lying.”
“To the staff? To us?”
“To myself.”
Nell shrugged.
“Well. Plenty of time to change your mind a dozen times if you want. No election for four years.”
“This government won’t last four years. I need to keep … to keep a finger on the pulse in Bonn.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Did you enjoy our time in Bonn, Nell?”
“I say again, why are you telling me any of this?”
“I want you to go back. I want you to be my eyes and ears in Bonn.”
This required no thought, so Nell gave it none.
“No.”
“Is that your last word?”
“Until you start your charm offensive and wear me down.”
“What can I do to make the prospect appealing to you?”
“Nothing. I hated Bonn. It’s a hole. It’s a company town and the product is politics. I’d sooner be in KdF Stadt making Volkswagens. At least the product is tangible. Bonn is what I imagine Washington to be … the cave dwellers … everything is politics, every other person is a diplomat … the man you sit next to on the tram is a Swedish delegate, the woman ahead of you in the market queue is the British ambassador’s secretary. None of it, none of them is real.”
“You wouldn’t have to live there. Just … regular visits.”
“The answer’s still no. Fire me if you like, but I’m staying in Berlin.”
“I know … I know … you are the Berliner and I’m not. There are times I feel like a stranger in my own land. Let me finish the coffee you so kindly brought me and then I might be fired up enough for the charm offensive.”
“Fine. I’ll be in my office—in Berlin.”