Sixteen

On the evening after his talk with General von Stuelpnagel, Veelee was briefed at the Hôtel Lutetia Paris headquarters of Abwehr, the Wehrmacht’s military intelligence organization commanded by Admiral Canaris, whose sympathies provided the plotters with an excellent cover.

When the briefing was over, Veelee asked the officer who had come from Berlin for the meetings with Canaris and von Stuelpnagel to take a walk so that he could give him a message for Berlin. As they circled the Hôtel Lutetia, Veelee explained that it must be conveyed to the leaders of the army’s resistance that assassination was the only solution. Because this could not be done without involving so many conspirators of so many shades, he alone, Wilhelm von Rhode, must be chosen to carry out any attempts to be made on the Fuehrer’s life. To talk to his shorter companion Veelee bent his head downward and his monocle glittered sinisterly in the purple summer dusk as the two men walked through the tree-lined streets. He spoke rapidly of several methods he had in mind to remove the Fuehrer. Why waste a whole man? Furthermore, he pointed out, he had the rank to gain him entry anywhere.

In 1942 the objectives of the army resistance were based upon “isolated action”; that is, the marshals of the Eastern front would refuse to accept orders from the Fuehrer in his role as Commander in Chief. This nicety would allow them to believe that they were not violating their oath to Hitler, the Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces, but were only refusing to recognize him as Commander in Chief of the army. At that moment, the Home Army under General Beck would seize control of Germany, dissolve the Nazi States, depose Hitler and restore the independence of the army. Thereafter, all officers of the German armed forces could consider themselves honorably released from their oath of allegiance to the Fuehrer, and the true Germany would then be re-established. Unfortunately, the plan began and ended with the marshals in the east, and none of them were having any part of it.

By mid-1943 the leadership of the army resistance had fallen by default to junior officers. The powerful leaders of the army had been eliminated or had eliminated themselves: Colonel-General Hoepner had been publicly cashiered; Guderian had been removed from active command; Reichenau had died; von Witzleben had developed hemorrhoids and had immediately been retired; Beck was on the inactive list; Hammerstein and Franz Heller had rank but no troops. Von Rundstedt had replaced Witzleben as commander in the west, and while he was aware of the conspirators’ plans and might even have been sympathetic, he said he was far too old to become involved in such games.

In the east the marshals vacillated for various reasons. Paulus was servile, and von Kuechler was completely deaf to all arguments. Von Bock despised the Fuehrer, but he would not risk his marshal’s baton, and Manstein said that he was far too engrossed in the military problem of taking Sebastopol.

The weakest and most opportunistic commander in the east was Field Marshal von Kluge. He was a Hamlet-imitator, Major General Henning von Tresckow, his Chief of Staff, explained to Veelee. Von Tresckow was a Pomeranian; a boyhood friend and neighbor of Veelee’s who, like Veelee, had at first embraced the military promises of the Fuehrer enthusiastically. Unlike Veelee and many others, however, von Tresckow had seen his mistake and had moved into opposition, and then into resistance. The atrocities of the Polish campaign had shocked him into awareness of the crime he had been abetting, but he was one of the few who had translated shame into action.

“For two years I have been battling for von Kluge’s soul,” Tresckow told Veelee. “I dominate him now, but only in a personal way. The moment he is out of my sight he lapses into doglike obedience to the Fuehrer. You can’t imagine such vacillating. I tell you, Rhode, each time that I have him nailed to a definite plan of action, when I am absolutely sure I have him, he fades away like smoke in your fist at the most critical moment.

“We have blackmailed him. Oh, yes, I swear to you. As you know, field marshals are paid thirty-six thousand reichsmarks a year, plus an allowance—which is all right for people who want money, but it cannot compare with what has been stolen by Germans who really worship money. So the Fuehrer hands out tips—little gratuities—the way you might give a coin to a men’s-room attendant. Yes, look shocked, my dear Rhode, but it is true. And he will say, no income tax on this little tip. Yes! He gave Kluge two hundred and fifty thousand reichsmarks on his birthday—plus a permit to spend yet another handsome tip on improvements for Kluge’s estate, with a copy of a letter to Speer, the minister in charge of buildings. When I saw that letter I said, ‘At last we have the son-of-a-bitch.’ I went and waved it in von Kluge’s face. I told him I would broadcast the bribe to every man in the Officer Corps of the German Army, and he knew I meant it. But he wasn’t in the least embarrassed or humiliated, you know—not at all. He adopted the air of a man who thinks he should at least pretend to be embarrassed in the event that I did broadcast it, so he agreed to a meeting with Goerdeler, the civilian politician of the movement. It was a tricky business to get Goerdeler admitted to the area, believe me. We could never have done it without Canaris and Oster.

“The meeting was held in the Smolensk forest and I was there, Rhode. Kluge at last agreed that he would lead a mutiny of the armies in the east at the moment word came from Berlin. Goerdeler was in such high spirits that I thought he’d break out singing. Before Goerdeler could get back to Berlin—you hear me?—before Goerdeler got back to Berlin, Kluge sent a letter to Beck, taking it all back, withdrawing, changing his watery mind again.”

After the Kluge disappointment Beck appealed personally to Paulus, who was surrounded in Stalingrad, his quarter of a million men condemned to death by the Fuehrer’s shrill tantrums for victory at any price. Beck asked Paulus to broadcast an appeal to all the German armies, but though he was far out of the Fuehrer’s vengeful reach Paulus’ only reaction was a glub of radio messages singing devotion to his Fuehrer.

In all, there were three major resistance groups. The first group, consisting almost exclusively of army men, urged their Fuehrer’s arrest, trial, and legal execution. The second group, mainly civilian, wished only to discuss what should be done in the certain event that Germany lost the war, thus eliminating the Fuehrer automatically. The third group, led by junior army officers, pressed for the Fuehrer’s earliest assassination. All three groups wished fervently for a “just” peace for Germany, and with the exception of the third group, they were hesitant about ridding Germany of Hitler until they were assured of this.

Veelee shuttled back and forth between von Stuelpnagel’s headquarters in Paris and Berlin until the British and American troops landed in North Africa on November 7, 1943. On November 11th, the German Army swept across the Vichy line in France to take up positions on the Mediterranean coast. All of Veelee’s time was engaged in extending military communications across France to connect operations with Paris headquarters, through which the Fuehrer, the Bendlerstrasse, and all others concerned could remain in contact. Not until late in February, 1943, did he become available again to the resistance movement.

In the interim, his duty to the army and his sworn duty to the memory of Paul-Alain never left his mind, and always he thought of Paule waiting for him at Cours Albert I to tell her that the Fuehrer was dead and his son had been avenged. The thought of revenge hounded and exhausted him, and the fatigue affected his already unstable mind. He kept telling himself that he should not be worrying about communications: he should be in Germany getting ready for the chance that had to come. Only his reflexes and his thirty-five years of army training, which enabled him to meet implacable demands, kept him going. But he was forever looking over his shoulder toward the time and place where he had to be. When he tried to sleep he dreamed of Paule pleading with him to avenge their son. Some nights she would curse him and on others she would weep inconsolably, begging him to tell her how the boy could rest unless his father found his honor and killed the Fuehrer. Sometimes in the dreams she was his wife, but mostly she was his mother, tall and fragrant, whom he could not remember having seen after the morning when he had been taken off to enter the army—at the age of nine.

At last, in February, 1943, Veelee was sent again to the Bendlerstrasse to see General Olbricht, chief of the General Army Office and deputy to General Fromm, commander of the Replacement Army. It was planned that the revolt which would secure all German garrisons on the day when the Fuehrer was struck down would spread from this building and insure the seizure of power in Berlin, Cologne, Munich, and Vienna. Beck and Goerdeler, the military and civilian leaders respectively, still counted on Field Marshal von Kluge to assume command of the Eastern front as soon as the Fuehrer’s death had been confirmed. Only then could the Field Marshal free himself from his oath to the Fuehrer and of his paralyzing fear of him. After von Kluge had committed himself it was only a matter of hours before all other field commanders, on all fronts, followed his lead.

Veelee was accepted as an invaluable weapon. The setting of the assassination was to be at von Kluge’s and Tresckow’s headquarters at Army Group Center in Smolensk. Tresckow was in command of the plot and Veelee was to be the executioner. However, provisions were made for a second executioner, because there was an excellent chance that the first would not be at the right spot at the right time because of the shiftiness of the Fuehrer’s itinerary. He would be expected on a Monday and arrive on the Friday before or after, and the problem of luring him and his entourage from Rastenburg to Smolensk was formidable. Tresckow had been able to arrange the visit through General Schmundt, the Fuehrer’s adjutant, who was innocent of the plot, but with whom Tresckow was on familiar terms.

As always, the arrival date was fixed and canceled many times, but finally a definite date of March 13th was announced.

On the morning of that day Tresckow told von Kluge of their plan. As the Fuehrer left the plane, Major General von Rhode would drive an armored car, all weapons firing into the Fuehrer’s guard. Kluge vacillated over the plan and at last only twenty-five minutes before the Fuehrer’s arrival, the Field Marshal said that he could not countenance such an act and that no armored car would be made available to the plotters. Thus, they were forced back upon the second plan.

After tireless experimenting, the use of German-made bombs for the alternate assassination plot had been discarded because of the noise of the fuses. The Abwehr was able to secure small British bombs, of the sort used to kill General Heydrich, which had been dropped by enemy planes for underground use. Two of these small bombs were imbedded in a package wrapped to look like two bottles of brandy, and the package was to be planted in the Fuehrer’s plane on its return flight to Rastenburg. Veelee was enraged at being cheated out of his right to kill the Fuehrer, but von Tresckow took the cooler view that the second plan was probably better. An exploded plane would look like an accident, and even the semblance of one would avoid the political disadvantages of a murder which could provoke strong SS resistance.

Outwardly Veelee seemed to be in icy control of himself, but within he was consumed. For days he had been chewing combat-fatigue pills. These brought on weeping spells, but he was able to explain this to von Tresckow, who immediately understood. He had wept as he worked over the mechanisms of the small bombs; at the same time he felt great pride that soon he would be able to return to Paule and tell her that they could all rest in peace, because the job was done.

After the Fuehrer’s party arrived, there was a gala reception at which Veelee shamelessly flattered the General Army Staff’s Colonel Brandt, who was traveling with the Fuehrer’s party. Later, over a second cognac, Veelee asked Colonel Brandt if he would be kind enough to take back a little gift of two bottles of brandy to General Stieff, at Rastenburg. Colonel Brandt said he would be delighted. The following morning, Veelee accompanied Brandt to the airfield and entertained him with stories about Keitel in the First World War and, from an imagination he did not know he had, about the lissomeness of the women of Paris. As Brandt boarded the plane, Veelee started the mechanism of the bomb by pulling a piece of string apparently holding the wrapping paper together and gave the package to Brandt with thanks and wishes for a successful journey.

The bomb had no clockwork to advertise itself. A button broke a glass vial, which released a chemical, which melted a wire, which held back a spring, which moved a striker, which hit a detonator, which exploded the bomb. The plane was due to crack over Minsk in thirty minutes. Berlin was notified that the operation had begun. Undoubtedly the first word of the explosion would be radioed in by one of the fighter-plane escorts.

An hour went by, then another half-hour, and there was no word. Two hours and eleven minutes after the bomb’s button had been pulled, a routine message brought the news that the Fuehrer’s plane had landed safely at Rastenburg. The bomb had never exploded.

At seven-o-five P.M., while von Tresckow watched, listened, and sweated with him, Veelee telephoned Colonel Brandt. “Brandt? Rhode here. I hope you had a delightful trip.”

“It was a good trip, thank you, sir.”

“I really do hate troubling you like this, Brandt, but I wondered if you’d had the opportunity to give that brandy to Stieff?”

“Well, not actually, old boy, you see—”

“You haven’t?” He looked at von Tresckow, who sighed heavily, expelling air like a sea lion. “Oh, marvelous! Twenty minutes after you’d left, a shipment of some perfectly marvelous cognac—I mean the real thing arrived from my wife in Paris, and I do want Stieff to have the best.”

“Stieff? What about Brandt?”

“Nothing but the best for Brandt as well. Two of the finest and they’ll be yours in the morning. Von Tresckow’s aide-decamp has business at your place and he says he’ll be glad to take some packages along.”

With fantastic courage, Lieutenant Fabian von Schlabren-dorff, aide-de-camp to General von Tresckow and a lawyer in civilian life who had become a lion of the resistance, flew to the Fuehrer’s headquarters, calmly exchanged packages, caught a night train to Berlin and dismantled the bomb in his berth. The mechanism had worked almost perfectly; every component had performed exactly as planned except that the detonator had been defective.

Generals Olbricht and Oster, and young Colonel von Stauffenberg invited Veelee to dinner at the Zeuhaus after the assassination attempt failed, and General Olbricht thanked him for the extraordinary dedication he had shown. Then he explained carefully that they were going to have to make further plans, which would necessitate some delays, and under the circumstances perhaps—

“Delays? No, no!” Veelee shouted. “There must be no delays. My wife is waiting. The Fuehrer must be killed. My son. We must finish all of this. I want to start over again with her before it is too late. I did it wrong, all wrong, General. You are young, Stauffenberg, you know what I mean. We haven’t had days like that, not since Charlottenburg and Wuensdorf. No, no, before that, even. No delays, absolutely no delays, gentlemen. Let us make new plans here and now, but there must be no talk of delays.”

Stauffenberg seemed to take charge. “I do understand, General von Rhode. Not delays in that way—of course not. We were speaking of delays only in that the Fuehrer, as you know, moves so unpredictably. We have had explicit information that he is about to change the base of his operations to the west in order to prepare for the Allied landings.”

“To the west?” Veelee examined their expressionless faces. “Yes, yes! He would want to be in the west. That would be his post when the invasion comes.”

“Therefore, General,” Stauffenberg, himself lacking one eye and most of two hands, said in a firm but gentle voice, “we consider that you would be most useful if you would consent to return to Paris to await the next assignment.”

Relief filled Veelee’s face. “Thank you, and forgive my stupidity. I should have anticipated such a move. I am so sorry. You know”—and he made a horrible attempt to smile—“I had forgotten about the war, I think. When you spoke of landings I almost had to reconsider, but it is better that I give all my thought to killing the Fuehrer. There are many others to fight the other war. We have this one job and it is my job, only my job.” He got up so hastily that he knocked his chair over, but he did not hear it fall. “Thank you and good night. I must not lose any time. You will want me to be there, prepared. It was a lovely dinner. Good luck, gentlemen, and good night.” He fixed his monocle in his right eye socket, clicked his heels, bowed and left the room.

The three men sat silently for some time. Finally Olbricht spoke. “He was a great officer.”

“He is Germany,” Stauffenberg answered. “Broken by tyranny and unable to understand what has happened to him.”