Free Midnight in Berlin by James MacManus

home before supper when they received the first of a series of telephone calls.
    The first caller was Halliday, who was clearly in a hurry.
    â€œNo time to talk. Just listen to the radio at seven.”
    He rang off. Macrae turned the radio on and refreshed his whisky and soda. Primrose looked up from the backgammon set.
    â€œWhat’s happening?”
    â€œI don’t know. It must be serious if Halliday is in a flap.”
    Instead of the hourly news bulletin, the announcer said an important communiqué had been issued by the Reich Chancellery, which he would read in full.
    The head of the armed forces and war minister, General Werner von Blomberg, had resigned with immediate effect on health grounds. The commander of the army, General Werner von Fritsch, had also resigned.
    The announcer then read out the names of sixteen generals who had been relieved of their commands and placed onthe reserve list. Forty-four other senior officers, including a number of field commanders, were said to have been transferred to other units. There was a rustle of paper as the announcer paused, as if unable to grasp the text that followed.
    The chancellor, Adolf Hitler, would become supreme commander of the armed forces and minister for war. The minister of foreign affairs, Neurath, had resigned, to be replaced by Joachim von Ribbentrop.
    The ambassadors in Vienna, Rome and Tokyo had also been replaced.
    Macrae placed a bottle of whisky and a soda siphon by the phone. It was midnight when he finished the last call. Sir Nevile was the first to contact him after the radio announcement, insisting on an early meeting the next morning. Then the political attaché David Buckland rang to ask what the hell was going on. The War Office called from London with requests for a lengthy analysis, to be ready for an emergency cabinet meeting the following morning. And then journalists from every British newspaper represented in Berlin rang for quotes and comment, anything to make sense of what most were describing as a Nazi purge of the army.
    Macrae realised they had his home number through long acquaintance with his predecessor. The final call was from William Shirer.
    â€œWe haven’t met. My fault. Thanks for your card. Shall we have a drink at the Adlon tomorrow evening?”
    â€œAnywhere but there,” said Macrae.
    â€œOK, make it the Drei Schwestern at seven. Small place off Gendarmenmarkt. General Staff use it, but no harm in that.”
    Macrae was drunk by the time he staggered into the bedroom. Primrose was reading a magazine in bed, with curlers in her hair.
    â€œYou poor thing,” she said. “What a night.”
    â€œThis is just the start,” he replied.
    The next morning, the German newspapers gave the news front-page treatment with sensational headlines. The more informed correspondents pointed out that Blomberg had not been popular with his fellow senior officers, owing to his closeness to Hitler. That was what made his dismissal all the more surprising. None of the reports even hinted at the remarriage of the general, although all noted his recent divorce. Fritsch was a different matter. He was popular, highly regarded, and there was even speculation in the controlled press about an army backlash against what officers were said to see as a political takeover. And that was the point the German papers conveniently ignored but which the western correspondents fully understood: in making himself head of the army and minister for war the German chancellor had placed his country on the path to inevitable conflict with the European powers.
    Macrae leafed through the daily papers at breakfast the next morning while forking pieces of grapefruit into his mouth. Primrose had not dissected the fruit properly, so that the segments clung together as he lifted them. First one, then a second fell onto the papers.
    Primrose looked up from the previous day’s edition of the London
Times
as he grunted in