“No problem, Field Marshal.”
“Good-we’ll see you later then.” Rommel picked up a fresh bottle of champagne and two glasses and walked out followed by Hofer.
As soon as the bedroom door was closed, Hofer turned in agitation. “It was the worst kind of mess. All that fool Koenig managed to do was blow himself up outside the main gate.”
“That seems rather careless of him,” Rommel said dryly. “Now calm yourself, Konrad. Have another glass of champagne and get under the shower and just take it slowly.”
Hofer went into the bathroom and Rommel straightened his uniform, examining himself in the mirror. He was fifty-three at that time, of medium height, stocky and thick-set with strong features, and there was a power to the man, a force, that was almost electric. His uniform was simple enough, his only decorations the Pour le Merite, the famous Blue Max, won as a young infantry officer in the First World War, and the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves, Swords and Diamonds, both of which hung around his neck. On the other hand, one hardly needed anything else if one had those.
Hofer emerged in a bathrobe toweling his hair. “Olbricht and a few more up there are in a blue funk and I don’t blame them. I mean the Gestapo or the SD could be on to this at any time.”
“Yes,” Rommel conceded. “Himmler may have started life as a chicken farmer, but whatever else you may say about him he’s no fool. How was von Stauffenberg?”
“As determined as ever. He suggests you meet with Generals von Stulpnagel and Falkenhausen within the next few days.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Hofer was back in the bathroom pulling on his uniform again. “I’m not so sure it’s a good idea. If Himmler does have his suspicions about you, you could be under close surveillance already.”
“Oh, I’ll think of something,” Rommel said. “Now hurry up. The men are laying on a little show for me and I don’t want to disappoint them.”
The show was presented in the main hall of the chateau. A small stage had been rigged at one end with some makeshift curtains. Rommel, Hofer and the regimental officers sat down in chairs provided at the front; the men stood in the hall behind them or sat on the grand staircase.
A young corporal came on, bowed and sat down at the grand piano and played a selection of light music. There was polite applause. Then he moved into the song of the Fallschirmjager, the paratroopers’ own song, sung everywhere from Stalingrad to North Africa. The curtains parted to reveal the regimental choir singing lustily. There was a cheer from the back of the hall and everyone started to join in, including the officers. Without pause, the choir moved straight into several choruses of We March Against England, an unfortunate choice, Rommel told himself. It was interesting to note that no one tried singing the Horst Wessel. The curtain came down to a storm of cheering and several instrumentalists came on, grouped themselves around the pianist and played two or three jazz numbers. When they were finished, the lights went down and there was a pause.
“What’s happening?” Rommel demanded.
“Wait and see, Herr Field Marshal. Something special, I assure you.”
The pianist started to play the song that was most popular of all with the German forces, Lili Marlene. The curtains parted to reveal only a pool of light on a stool in the center of the stage from a crude spotlight. Suddenly, Marlene Dietrich stepped into the light straight out of Blue Angel, or so it seemed. Top hat, black stockings and suspenders. She sat on the stool to a chorus of wolf whistles from the men and then she started to sing Lili Marlene, and that haunting, bittersweet melody reduced the audience to total silence.
A man, of course, Rommel could see that, but a brilliant impersonation and he joined in the applause enthusiasti-cally. “Who on earth is that?” he asked Colonel Haider.
“Our orderly room corporal, Berger. Apparently he used to be some sort of cabaret performer.”
“Brilliant,” Rommel said. “Is there more?”
“Oh, yes, Herr Field Marshal. Something very special.”