The Pigeon Tunnel by John le Carré

his liver-spotted hands before him. His Private Secretary, Philip de Zulueta, Welsh Guardsman, soon to be knight of the realm, sat at his side. Erler regretted in German that the car was late. I seconded him in English. Beneath the prime ministerial hands lay a sheet of glass, and under it, in typed letters large enough to read upside down, lay a prime ministerial briefing paper with Erler’s curriculum vitae. The word Dachau was written large. While Macmillan spoke, his hands travelled over the glass as if reading braille. His patrician slur, perfectly captured by Alan Bennett in the satirical Beyond the Fringe , was like an old gramophone record running at a very low speed. A trail of unstoppable tears leaked from the corner of his right eye, down a groove and into his shirt collar.
    After a few courteous words of welcome, delivered with halting Edwardian charm – have they made you comfortable? are they looking after you? are they providing you with the right people to talk to? – Macmillan asked Erler with evident curiosity what he had come to talk about, a question that, at the least, took Erler by surprise.
    â€˜ Verteidigung ,’ he replied.
    Defence.
    Thus informed, Macmillan consulted his brief, and I can only assume that his eye, like mine, again caught the word Dachau , for he brightened.
    â€˜Well then, Herr Erler,’ he declared with sudden energy. ‘ You suffered in the Second World War, and I suffered in the First World War.’
    Pause for needless translation by self.
    Another exchange of courtesies. Is Erler a family man? Yes, Erler concedes, he is a family man. I duly translate. At Macmillan’s request he enumerates his children and adds that his wife is also politically engaged. I translate that too.
    â€˜And you have been talking to America’s defence experts , they tell me,’ Macmillan went on in a tone of jocular surprise after another examination of the large print under the sheet of glass.
    â€˜ Ja. ’
    Yes.
    â€˜And do you also have defence experts in your party?’ Macmillan enquires as one beleaguered statesman commiserating with another.
    â€˜ Ja ,’ Erler replies more sharply than I would have wished.
    Yes.
    Hiatus. I glance at de Zulueta, trying to enlist his support. It is not to be enlisted. After a week of Erler at close quarters, I am all too familiar with his impatience when a dialogue fails to come up to expectation. I know that he is not afraid to show his disappointment. I know how thoroughly he has prepared himself for this meeting above all others.
    â€˜They come to me, you see,’ Macmillan complains wistfully. ‘These defence experts. As I expect they come to you too. And they say to me, the bombs are going to fall here , and the bombs are going to fall there ’ – the prime ministerial hands distributing the bombs across the glass – ‘but you suffered in the Second World War, and I suffered in the First World War!’ – that sense of discovery again – ‘And you and I know that the bombs will fall wherever they’re going to fall!’
    Somehow I translated this. Even in German it took a third of the time Macmillan had needed, and sounded twice as ridiculous. When I had done, Erler ruminated for a while. When he ruminated, the muscles in his gaunt face had a way of rising and falling independently. Suddenly he stood up, reached for his beret and thanked Macmillan for his time. He was waiting for me to stand too, so I did. Macmillan, as surprised as we all were, half-raised himself for thehandshake and slumped down again. As we headed for the door, Erler turned to me and gave vent to his exasperation:
    â€˜ Dieser Mann ist nicht mehr regierungsfähig. ’
    This man is no longer capable of government. It is a formulation that strikes the German ear as odd. Perhaps he was quoting from something he had recently read or heard. Either way, de Zulueta heard