Neither Arno nor the girl was any longer to be seen as he approached the house but his own three dachshunds were yapping on the terrace. The gate lodge was some distance away but the sounds of army lorries and shouted orders carried across the park, exciting the dogs. His long-range vision was still good and he glimpsed the field grey of the Wehrmacht as soldiers milled around the lodge. It was an arrow in his eye, a stab of familiarity, love, resentment and bitterness. Even the sound of boots on gravel was wrenchingly familiar. He turned his head and slowly mounted the steps. He was hot in his blue serge suit, Loden cape and hunting hat with feather, but did not wish to show it by removing anything. It was important that he should appear imperturbable, unhurried, his mind upon purposes invisible to others, higher purposes that rendered all else trivial. That was how emperors should appear.
In the cool of the house he removed cape and hat and, with more effort, his heavy leather boots, then changed into a lighter grey suit which he wore with gold tie-pin and the miniature pour le mérite in the buttonhole. Next, instead of going to Princess Hermine, he went to his study and sat for a while at his high desk with the saddle seat. It was always comforting to see his own things around him and to look upon the portrait of dear Dona. Normally he had just a sandwich and a glass of port after sawing or chopping but now that he had invited Major van Houten they would be hurrying to prepare something more elaborate, although still essentially simple. That was how he liked his food. Unless, that was, the Wehrmacht had already arrested or dismissed the Dutchman, though an invitation from the Kaiser should give them pause. It would be an early sign of their attitude towards him.
When eventually he proceeded to the small dining-room he found lunch already laid, an informal affair of cold meats and cheeses with cherries, apples, strawberries, peaches and oranges. Hermo was waiting, wearing a voluminous light green dress that covered her like a bell tent and filled out when she moved so that her progress through the house reminded him of those East Indiamen you used to see in the English Channel during the days of sail. It suited her; she was a stately, sometimes a superbly stately, woman. There were difficulties, of course, things she did not always understand, but it was far better to have a new empress than none. She was a handsome woman, and young, relatively speaking. Many people, he thought, must surely be jealous.
‘His name is SS Untersturmführer Krebbs,’ she said, with the Kaiser not yet through the door. ‘And his first name is Martin.’
The Kaiser stared expressionlessly, as always when affronted by the unexpected.
‘The officer in charge of the soldiers, the one from Schutzstaffel,’ she explained impatiently. Nervousness, or anxiety, had coloured her plump cheeks.
‘So?’ The Kaiser spoke quietly. It often intimidated people. ‘What have I to do with an SS Untersturmführer? That is the same as a Wehrmacht leutnant. A lieutenant, in other words. I have been a commissioned officer for seventy years. I was commissioned on my tenth birthday. Probably I was a leutnant before this puppy’s grandfather was born.’ He took a glass of his favourite sparkling red wine from the tray proffered by a servant. It was Assmushausen, a good German wine that he cut with water. ‘Why should I wish to know his name, especially his first name? What is it to me? You are surely not suggesting I should run to see him?’
The Princess smiled. ‘Of course not, my dear, that would be unthinkable. Forgive me if I gave that impression. The shock of seeing our German soldiers here, of seeing our own dear uniforms again, has unsettled me. I lack your experience.’
The Kaiser pinched her cheek. ‘That is natural, my pet. You must not worry yourself. All in good time. Now, where is Major van Houten? It is unlike him to be unpunctual, especially for the Kaiser.’
‘He is on his way, he is coming. He has to negotiate something with Untersturmführer Krebbs.’ Princess Hermine slipped her hand through her husband’s docile left arm, steering him carefully towards the window. He had aged several years in the past one. ‘Such a beautiful day. Perhaps it is a good omen, perhaps Herr Hitler is right to occupy Holland.’
‘It is necessary if he is to defeat Juda-England. We should have done so last time.’
‘Of course. The High Command was criminally stupid not to let you run the war as you wished. But now our soldiers are here we must use their presence for maximum benefit for ourselves. Herr Hitler has done surprisingly well so far and as you know I think the Nazis have much to be said for them, but I am sure he will find he cannot manage it alone. He will need a respected figure who can unite the country, particularly the army, behind him. He can achieve nothing without the army, no matter what the strength of the Nazi party, and the army will not be content to be ruled by a corporal. It is bound to need its Kaiser again and they will have to invite you back. That is why it is important to show now that you do not spurn the Fatherland, no matter what errors were made in the past. The first report that Berlin receives of your reactions will be from Untersturmführer Krebbs, humble as he is. That is why, my dear, I think we should have invited him for lunch with us, not the Dutchman. The Dutch count for nothing now.’
The Kaiser moistened his lips with his wine, put down his glass and patted her hand. ‘My dear, I have been working for that day since 1918 but I have less confidence than you that it will come. If Herr Hitler wished to know the Kaiser’s views, he would surely not have sent so junior an officer. Your Untersturmführer is a mere guard commander, SS or no SS. Though he could be worse than that; he could be our gaoler. But you are right; we should not disregard what he represents. I shall receive him, in good time. Meanwhile, I wish to say farewell to our Dutchman. He has done his job with propriety and has even been a good companion, according to his lights, as the English say.’
Droplets of wine clung to the Kaiser’s moustache, sparkling like tiny diamonds in the sunlight that came through the window. Though still substantial, the moustache was trimmed and turned conventionally down now, no longer the pointed, startled, upright growth known as ‘Es ist erreicht!’ The court barber, Haly, had made a fortune from the fashion that followed the Kaiser’s adoption of his creation. He should have patented it himself, the Kaiser thought, and often said.
Towards the end of the drive, near the lodge, a Dutch Army lorry was now parked and some Dutch soldiers were loading equipment into it. The German soldiers were watching them. All appeared calm. They could make out the tall figure of Major van Houten talking to the young German officer, who was fondling the unusually quiescent Arno. Major van Houten broke off without saluting and strode up the drive towards the house. His long, lugubrious face and droll, unsmiling humour had often pleased the Kaiser. He would miss the gallant major. He patted the Princess’s hand again.
‘Invite your young man for dinner. Let us see how these people behave.’
‘You are always right, dearest. You are so intelligent and wise.’
‘But you must not invite him yourself. Send someone lowly.’
Lunch was a disappointment. The Kaiser had anticipated a pleasant and nostalgic farewell enlivened by the appreciative major’s quiet irony. Instead, the major displayed neither amusement nor gratitude and allowed himself to appear visibly upset. Flushed with what the Kaiser had at first assumed merely to be heat and hurry, he claimed he had been detained by what he called the enemy. They were sending his soldiers back to the barracks which they now controlled, and had delayed sending him with them only because of the Kaiser’s invitation.
That, at least, was gratifying to the Kaiser as an indication of respect, but he thought the use of the word ‘enemy’ gratuitous, if not offensive. However, he did not riposte as he might have but remarked only that he had not yet had an opportunity to address the new Wehrmacht guard.
‘The officer is not Wehrmacht,’ said Major van Houten. ‘He is Schutzstaffel.’
The Kaiser’s shrug was intended to suggest how little such distinction mattered to him. ‘And merely a leutnant, I understand, though these SS people call themselves something