A bleak winter daylight was breaking over countryside patchworked with snow. Walter felt like a shirker, being so far from the fighting. “I should have returned to the front line weeks ago,” he said.
“Clearly the army wants you in Germany,” said Otto. “You are valued as an intelligence analyst.”
“Germany is full of older men who could do the job at least as well as I. Have you pulled strings?”
Otto shrugged. “I think if you were to marry and have a son, you could then be transferred anywhere you like.”
Walter said incredulously: “You’re keeping me in Berlin to make me marry Monika von der Helbard?”
“I don’t have the power to do that. But it may be that there are men in the high command who understand the need to maintain noble bloodlines.”
That was disingenuous, and a protest came to Walter’s lips, but then the car turned off the road, passed through an ornamental gateway, and started up a long drive flanked by leafless trees and snow-covered lawn. At the end of the drive was a huge house, the largest Walter had ever seen in Germany. “Castle Pless?” he said.
“Correct.”
“It’s vast.”
“Three hundred rooms.”
They got out of the car and entered a hall like a railway station. The walls were decorated with boars’ heads framed with red silk, and a massive marble staircase led up to the state rooms on the first floor. Walter had spent half his life in splendid buildings, but this was exceptional.
A general approached them, and Walter recognized von Henscher, a crony of his father’s. “You’ve got time to wash and brush up, if you’re quick,” he said with amiable urgency. “You’re expected in the state dining room in forty minutes.” He looked at Walter. “This must be your son.”
Otto said: “He’s in the intelligence department.”
Walter gave a brisk salute.
“I know. I put his name on the list.” The general addressed Walter. “I believe you know America.”
“I spent three years in our embassy in Washington, sir.”
“Good. I have never been to the United States. Nor has your father. Nor, indeed, have most of the men here- with the notable exception of our new foreign minister.”
Twenty years ago, Arthur Zimmermann had returned to Germany from China via the States, crossing from San Francisco to New York by train, and on the basis of this experience was considered an expert on America. Walter said nothing.
Von Henscher said: “Herr Zimmermann has asked me to consult you both on something.” Walter was flattered but puzzled. Why would the new foreign minister want his opinion? “But we will have more time for that later.” Von Henscher beckoned to a footman in old-fashioned livery, who showed them to a bedroom.
Half an hour later they were in the dining room, now converted to a conference room. Looking around, Walter was awestruck to see that just about every man who counted for anything in Germany was present, including the chancellor, Theobald von Bethmann-Hollweg, his close-cropped hair now almost white at age sixty.
Most of Germany’s senior military commanders were sitting around a long table. For lesser men, including Walter, there were rows of hard chairs against the wall. An aide passed around a few copies of a two-hundred-page memorandum. Walter looked over his father’s shoulder at the file. He saw charts of tonnage moving in and out of British ports, tables of freight rates and cargo space, the calorific value of British meals, even a calculation of how much wool there was in a lady’s skirt.
They waited two hours, then Kaiser Wilhelm came in, wearing a general’s uniform. Everyone sprang to their feet. His Majesty looked pale and ill-tempered. He was a few days from his fifty-eighth birthday. As ever, he held his withered left arm motionless at his side, attempting to make it inconspicuous. Walter found it difficult to summon up that emotion of joyous loyalty that had come so easily to him as a boy. He could no longer pretend the kaiser was the wise father of his people. Wilhelm II was too obviously an unexceptional man completely overwhelmed by events. Incompetent, bewildered, and miserably unhappy, he was a standing argument against hereditary monarchy.
The kaiser looked around, nodding to one or two special favorites, including Otto; then he sat down and made a gesture at Henning von Holtzendorff, white-bearded chief of the admiralty staff.
The admiral began to speak, quoting from his memorandum: the number of submarines the navy could maintain at sea at any one time, the tonnage of shipping required to keep the Allies alive, and the speed at which they could replace sunk vessels. “I calculate we can sink six hundred thousand tons of shipping per month,” he said. It was an impressive performance, every statement backed up by a number. Walter was skeptical only because the admiral was too precise, too certain: surely war was never that predictable?
Von Holtzendorff pointed to a ribbon-tied document on the table, presumably the imperial order to begin unrestricted submarine warfare. “If Your Majesty approves my plan today, I guarantee the Allies will capitulate in precisely five months.” He sat down.
The kaiser looked at the chancellor. Now, Walter thought, we will hear a more realistic assessment. Bethmann had been chancellor for seven years, and unlike the monarch he had a sense of the complexity of international relations.
Bethmann spoke gloomily of American entry into the war and the USA’s uncounted resources of manpower, supplies, and money. In his support he quoted the opinions of every senior German who was familiar with the United States. But to Walter’s disappointment he looked like a man going through the motions. He must believe the kaiser had already made up his mind. Was this meeting merely to ratify a decision already taken? Was Germany doomed?
The kaiser had a short attention span for people who disagreed with him, and while his chancellor was speaking he fidgeted, grunting impatiently and making disapproving faces. Bethmann began to dither. “If the military authorities consider the U-boat war essential, I am not in a position to contradict them. On the other hand-”
He never got to say what was on the other hand. Von Holtzendorff jumped to his feet and interrupted. “I guarantee on my word as a naval officer that no American will set foot upon the Continent!” he said.
That was absurd, Walter thought. What did his word as a naval officer have to do with anything? But it went down better than all his statistics. The kaiser brightened, and several other men nodded approval.
Bethmann seemed to give up. His body slumped in the chair, the tension went out of his face, and he spoke in a defeated voice. “If success beckons, we must follow,” he said.
The kaiser made a gesture, and von Holtzendorff pushed the beribboned document across the table.
No, Walter thought, we can’t possibly make this fateful decision on such inadequate grounds!
The kaiser picked up a pen and signed: “Wilhelm I.R.”
He put down the pen and stood up.
Everyone in the room jumped to their feet.
This can’t be the end, Walter thought.
The kaiser left the room. The tension was broken, and a buzz of talk broke out. Bethmann remained in his seat, staring down at the table. He looked like a man who has met his doom. He was muttering something, and Walter stepped closer to hear. It was a Latin phrase: Finis Germaniae-the end of the Germans.
General von Henscher appeared and said to Otto: “If you would care to come with me, we will have lunch privately. You, too, young man.” He led them into a side room where a cold buffet was laid out.
Castle Pless served as a residence for the kaiser, so the food was good. Walter was angry and depressed, but like everyone else in Germany he was hungry, and he piled his plate high with cold chicken, potato salad, and white bread.
“Today’s decision was anticipated by Foreign Minister Zimmermann,” said von Henscher. “He wants to know what we can do to discourage the Americans.”
Small chance of that, Walter thought. If we sink American ships and drown American citizens there’s not much we can do to soften the blow.
The general went on: “Can we, for example, foment a protest movement among the one point three million Americans who were born here in Germany?”
Walter groaned inwardly. “Absolutely not,” he said. “It’s a stupid fairy tale.”
His father snapped: “Careful how you speak to your superiors.”
Von Henscher made a calming gesture. “Let the boy speak his mind, Otto. I might as well have his frank
