Free Gossip from the Forest by Thomas Keneally Page B

practically require General Groener and the Field Marshal to walk out to the château each morning.
    Von Winterfeldt: I must insist. I am the sole army plenipotentiary. I will have special instructions from General Groener that I must read and consider in private.
    Transport Officer: If you’d be so kind as to let one aide travel with you.
    Von Winterfeldt: I wouldn’t expect any of my colleagues to travel under those conditions.
    Transport Officer: I can’t provide five limousines till noon.
    Von Winterfeldt: Come now. You must do better. Five. And before noon.
    The bland faces corraled Herr Erzberger. Many of them spectacled, and in the lenses only a small glint of their knowledge of the landslide. Choose any of us. But which of you is an assassin?
    It was beyond Matthias, or so he thought. He thought Groener must choose the aides, arrange the cars. If necessary, get the count out of the lavatory.
    Erzberger: Excuse me.
    He broke his way out of the siege, abandoning the Tirpitz medalist. Near the stairwell the count, his arm around a young cavalry officer. His breath reeked but he was suddenly blithe.
    Maiberling: Matthias. This is young von Helldorf. Great horseman. Steeplechaser.
    The boy bowed.
    Maiberling: He wants to come.
    Erzberger: A horseman?
    Von Helldorf: Sir.
    Foch was horse artillery. Weygand cavalry. So, no doubt, von Winterfeldt. Now this young man. A clutch of hippophiles. To close the war that had spewed up the image of the martial horse.
    Erzberger: I have to see General Groener. If he agrees …
    Maiberling: It’ll be quite a picnic.
    He was on his mad swing again, from terror to gaiety. But if he’s jettisoned, Erzberger thought, I’ll have no one with me that I know. God help me. For I find Maiberling’s madness homely this terrible day.
    By the elevator door the transport officer surrendered too hysterically to old von Winterfeldt.
    Transport Officer: All right then. Five cars. Five it shall be.
    Von Winterfeldt: And I say, you must make it soon. History, you know, is in the balance.

THE CARS MOVE OFF
    At noon five limousines arrived and halted in convoy outside the front door of the Grand Hôtel Britannique. Rain polished the imperial eagles on their front doors; those parlous birds.
    The Field Marshal had visited the lobby to bid the delegates good-by. He held Erzberger close to him by the elbows. The clumsy emotion of the old man, whose breath was in any case acrid with fright, made Erzberger blink.
    On the wet pavement an officer told them that the first car carried a guide and the last was for aides: the count’s von Helldorf and a secretary called Blauert Maiberling asked loudly if he could travel with Erzberger. Though secretly unhappy, Erzberger agreed. He hadn’t wanted the count’s company to that extent, had been looking forward to solitude behind the blurred panes. As of right von Winterfeldt took possession of his vehicle and, looking about him perhaps for any acceptable companion, forlorn Captain Vanselow of his.
    There were blankets in the steamed-up interiors.
    Maiberling: Excellent.
    He wrapped himself up and sat grunting with a sort of animal satisfaction. Not thinking of faceless Inga now, in the wet earth.
    They jolted off down the polite streets of Spa. Most houses seemed shuttered. The Belgians indoors, waiting for deliverance. Soon they’d be resort people again. Soon they’d have an off-season and a season. At dark noon the mute houses wavered beyond Erzberger’s rainy window in expectation of a restored clientele.
    Cabbage fields appeared, sleeping gray lanes of vegetables. Erzberger sat back and shut his eyes.
    Jesus, you know this place, have been here; it’s the grove of olives, crab apples and agonies. What will you do for me?
    In that moment however, the leading car developed a steering fault and slewed toward a high farmhouse wall. The row of impact split Erzberger’s devout rest.
    Roadblock, he thought.