Dukhanov could not get those words out of his mind. “Nothing of importance has happened.”
It was a troubled night in the solid stone house on Leontiyevsky Pereulok, a narrow lane which leads from Gorky Boulevard through the old Moscow merchant quarter to emerge at the Nikitsky Gates. The house, at No. 10, with its sturdy columns guarding a massive door, was heavily curtained. From the street there was no sign of unusual activity, but there had been no sleep in the German Embassy that night. After returning from his mid-evening Kremlin conference with Molotov the Ambassador, Count von der Schulenburg, sat down with his trusted friend and confidant, Gustav Hilger, to draft what was to be his last dispatch from Russia.
The task was a painful one. For days the embassy had been destroying its secret files and documents. Schulenburg knew that only a sudden and unexpected turn of events could keep Germany from going to war against Russia—in all likelihood before dawn. The prospect filled him with gloom. Hilger shared his despondency, indeed felt it even more keenly. Hilger had been born in Moscow, son of a prosperous German merchant family, and had devoted his life to Russia. He was almost as Russian as he was German. He and the Ambassador had done everything in their power to halt the onrush of war. They had even taken their lives in their hands and attempted to warn the Russian Ambassador to Berlin, Dekanozov, when he chanced to be in Moscow in mid-May. They told him as plainly as they dared that Hitler was preparing to attack. This was treason, they knew, and they would be shot if Hitler ever learned what they had done, but the danger to Germany of the prospective war was so great, in their belief, as to justify the risk. Dekanozov, with that stubbornness of which only Stalin’s best-trained lackeys were capable, shut his ears to von der Schulenburg. He insisted he could not talk of such matters; only Molotov was competent to listen.
Finally, von der Schulenburg and Hilger, utterly balked, gave up their perilous effort. 4
Now on this evening of June 21–22 von der Schulenburg drafted a telegram to the Foreign Office in Berlin, reporting the curious conversation he had had an hour before in the Kremlin with Molotov, patiently explaining to his chiefs Molotov’s almost pitiful effort to open up at this hour (when Hitler’s armies already were moving to the frontier for their dawn assault) new conversations aimed at appeasing whatever appetites Hitler might have.
Neither Schulenburg nor Hilger had hope that this cablegram would affect Berlin’s action. Both knew the die had been cast. Yet they were determined to play out the game.
The cable was drafted, encoded and sent to the message center. It was timed at 1:17 A.M. , and the Ambassador went to his residence to await events. One of his aides, Gebhardt von Walther, went with him. Hilger remained at the embassy. There were few persons left there. Not only the women and children and German businessmen, but the German experts in Russia on various missions (many of them in connection with the supplies Russia was providing to the Nazis) had gone back home. The German technicians who had been working in Leningrad to supervise the completion of the new cruiser Lützow had vanished. The naval attaché, Captain von Baum-bach, in chargé of the Lützow work had left that very evening—the last to go. The consulates had packed up. Everyone had been rounded up except a small group of Germans aboard the Trans-Siberian express, bound from Tokyo to Moscow.
Now it was the morning of June 22. The Ambassador had known for a week that this was the date set for the attack. He knew that the hour was supposed to be 4 A.M. Walther had brought this information from Berlin only the day before. Suddenly, the duty officer telephoned. A long telegram was starting in from Berlin. There was hardly any doubt what it might be. The Ambassador arose with a sigh and returned to his chancellery.
It was a troubled night in the solid stone house on Leontiyevsky Pereulok, a narrow lane which leads from Gorky Boulevard through the old Moscow merchant quarter to emerge at the Nikitsky Gates. The house, at No. 10, with its sturdy columns guarding a massive door, was heavily curtained. From the street there was no sign of unusual activity, but there had been no sleep in the German Embassy that night. After returning from his mid-evening Kremlin conference with Molotov the Ambassador, Count von der Schulenburg, sat down with his trusted friend and confidant, Gustav Hilger, to draft what was to be his last dispatch from Russia.
The task was a painful one. For days the embassy had been destroying its secret files and documents. Schulenburg knew that only a sudden and unexpected turn of events could keep Germany from going to war against Russia—in all likelihood before dawn. The prospect filled him with gloom. Hilger shared his despondency, indeed felt it even more keenly. Hilger had been born in Moscow, son of a prosperous German merchant family, and had devoted his life to Russia. He was almost as Russian as he was German. He and the Ambassador had done everything in their power to halt the onrush of war. They had even taken their lives in their hands and attempted to warn the Russian Ambassador to Berlin, Dekanozov, when he chanced to be in Moscow in mid-May. They told him as plainly as they dared that Hitler was preparing to attack. This was treason, they knew, and they would be shot if Hitler ever learned what they had done, but the danger to Germany of the prospective war was so great, in their belief, as to justify the risk. Dekanozov, with that stubbornness of which only Stalin’s best-trained lackeys were capable, shut his ears to von der Schulenburg. He insisted he could not talk of such matters; only Molotov was competent to listen.
Finally, von der Schulenburg and Hilger, utterly balked, gave up their perilous effort. 4
Now on this evening of June 21–22 von der Schulenburg drafted a telegram to the Foreign Office in Berlin, reporting the curious conversation he had had an hour before in the Kremlin with Molotov, patiently explaining to his chiefs Molotov’s almost pitiful effort to open up at this hour (when Hitler’s armies already were moving to the frontier for their dawn assault) new conversations aimed at appeasing whatever appetites Hitler might have.
Neither Schulenburg nor Hilger had hope that this cablegram would affect Berlin’s action. Both knew the die had been cast. Yet they were determined to play out the game.
The cable was drafted, encoded and sent to the message center. It was timed at 1:17 A.M. , and the Ambassador went to his residence to await events. One of his aides, Gebhardt von Walther, went with him. Hilger remained at the embassy. There were few persons left there. Not only the women and children and German businessmen, but the German experts in Russia on various missions (many of them in connection with the supplies Russia was providing to the Nazis) had gone back home. The German technicians who had been working in Leningrad to supervise the completion of the new cruiser Lützow had vanished. The naval attaché, Captain von Baum-bach, in chargé of the Lützow work had left that very evening—the last to go. The consulates had packed up. Everyone had been rounded up except a small group of Germans aboard the Trans-Siberian express, bound from Tokyo to Moscow.
Now it was the morning of June 22. The Ambassador had known for a week that this was the date set for the attack. He knew that the hour was supposed to be 4 A.M. Walther had brought this information from Berlin only the day before. Suddenly, the duty officer telephoned. A long telegram was starting in from Berlin. There was hardly any doubt what it might be. The Ambassador arose with a sigh and returned to his chancellery.
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