Others appeared at the door, including Cook, Frau Goebbels and the secretaries, all invited by the groom. The room grew warm from the bodies crowded inside and I moved away from Eva and Hitler to be closer to the passageway, where I could breathe.
Hitler’s valet brought champagne and the guests drank a toast to the bride and groom. A small gale of laughter and clinking of glasses died, and everyone looked to the Führer. He sat on the couch eating a piece of iced cake. Crumbs fell from his mouth onto the lapels of his suit. Eva frowned but said nothing to chastise him, as she would have in her days at the Berghof.
When he finished eating, he said, “Now is the time to remember better days.” He wiped his fingers on a champagne towel and leaned back against the couch. “My life has always been devoted to Germany and the Party. How wonderful it was in the early days when every man, woman and child rose up in pride to answer the call of National Socialism.”
Everyone’s eyes, except Bormann’s, glazed over. We were in for a long harangue about the “good old days” of the Party and reminiscences of the Führer’s rise to power. He talked for nearly an hour. No one could do anything but hold their champagne glasses and listen as he pontificated about his youth, the glory of the early years and the terrible fate now befalling the Nazis. Finally, he lowered his head and stared at his hands. His guests remained silent, waiting to be dismissed.
He took another piece of cake and put it on a napkin in his lap. “There is one final thing to say on my wedding night.” He paused. His watery eyes took in everyone in the room. He shook his head as if he could not believe the cascading decline of his power, the shells exploding over his head, the destruction of his “lightning-war” army, was happening to him. “It’s over,” he finally said. “National Socialism is dead, never to be revived. Who would have the courage to lead such a movement but me?” His lips parted in a sardonic smile and he stared at Goebbels and Bormann in turn. They stood unflinching under his gaze.
“Anyone who wants to leave the bunker should do so,” he said.
“Never, my Führer,” Goebbels said, and saluted. Those assembled echoed this sentiment and saluted as well. I stood in the passageway with my arms by my sides.
Hitler held out his hands, as if pleading with the gathering. “You are released. Do not suffer with me. Everyone, except you, my loyal friends, has betrayed me. Even the German people have deserted me.” He clenched his fists and pounded them against his chest. “They haven’t the will to survive—they haven’t the backbone to stand up to our enemies. I have overestimated their worth from the beginning. They deserve to be crushed.” He sagged back on the couch like a deflating balloon.
Bormann shouted, “Yes, my Führer.”
Rage boiled through me. I wanted to strangle Hitler. He blamed the German people for his tyrannical failings. In one stroke, he discarded my father, my mother and my aunt and uncle who loyally supported him, even the innocent children who died in the streets in his name. No remorse flowed from the Führer. No apology sprang from his lips. Only blame. The devastating downfall was the result of the Wehrmacht. The soldiers were cowards who valued their lives more than their country; his generals and military officers were idiots who knew nothing of strategy and tactics. Who could blame the poor Führer when all of Germany was at fault?
“It will be a release for me to die,” he said. “And so I shall—here, with my wife by my side. She has chosen the same fate.”
Magda Goebbels burst into tears. Her husband rushed to her side until her blubbering subsided. Several of Hitler’s secretaries wiped their eyes as well.
As the gloom and depression of the suicidal confession spread over the room, several of the guests slipped away from the oppressive atmosphere. The wedding party was over. Hitler rose from the couch, taking care to wrap his cake in a napkin. He tucked it in his right pocket and walked past me, staring straight ahead as if in a trance, as I stood in the passageway.
Eva patted me on the shoulder. “Thank you for coming, Magda. I suppose I won’t be seeing much of you from now on.” She watched as the other guests disappeared in the passageway. “Leave as soon as you can. Get out of Berlin and head south toward Munich. The Americans will be there. They will be more forgiving than the Red Army.”
A secretary, Frau Junge, passed by and stepped into the adjoining room with Hitler.
“She’s a loyal one,” Eva said. “Junge will be here until the end.” She attempted to smile, but her mouth turned quickly into a frown. “Adolf is dictating his last will and testament. It won’t be long now.”
Eva kissed me on the cheek. “Good-bye, dear Magda.”
She walked to her room and left me with the valet and Dr. and Frau Goebbels, who sat on the couch in disbelief, stunned by their Führer’s decision to die in Berlin.
I, however, silently rejoiced.
* * *
The next morning, I sat on my bed and cried. No one came to my aid. I doubted that anyone cared, or if they did they were too tired and depressed to bother. I felt the effects of the bunker existence—the lack of fresh air, the walls closing around me, the same faces every day, a routine that never varied as the hours hung over me like those of a clock winding down. One of the SS men told me I shouldn’t worry about being outside; one couldn’t see the sun anyway because of the smoke. The Russians were firing artillery cannons point-blank as they advanced. Berlin was burning to the ground. Now shells struck above us relentlessly and the ground shuddered. The attack came faster and with more ferocity as the hours dragged on.
I pulled myself together and thought about how I could get south to Munich and Berchtesgaden. The journey seemed impossible; however, I would worry about it when the time came to evacuate—if I got out of the bunker alive.
Shortly after eleven that same morning, Cook rushed into my room, her face wild and flushed. “Mussolini is dead,” she said. “The Führer is distraught. His best friend is gone.” She sat on my cot for a time, her arms bouncing wildly at her sides as if she didn’t know what to do. “I’m not leaving him, Magda. Neither is Frau Junge. We will remain until the end.”
I grasped her hands. “You should leave with me. We can travel to Berchtesgaden. It will be safer there. We can stay with my aunt and uncle if we can’t get to the Berghof.”
She looked at me in amazement. “What about your father and your friends in Berlin?”
I shuddered. “I have no idea where my father is or if my friends are still alive. I can’t face the Russians—again.” The finality of losing my father crushed me. I, like everyone else in Germany, had lost so much. Cook leaned toward me and we both hugged. It was a simple gesture born of loss.
After a time, Cook said, “I must go. He’s not eating, but I still make his meals.” She hugged me. “Please say good-bye before you leave.”
I nodded, lay back on my cot and remained there for about twenty minutes until I could rest no longer. I got up and paced the room. I needed to see the sun, breathe the air again, before I was captured or killed. My chances of escaping the bunker seemed slim.
Cook had told me about an emergency exit on the west end leading to the bombed-out garden behind the New Chancellery that Speer had constructed. Several people, including Eva, had gone there to get a breath of air. I left my quarters and crossed through the canteen to the passageway leading to the lower bunker. I walked down the stairs. The guard gave me a quick glance and waved me through as if my presence didn’t matter. He, too, knew the end was near. The central passageway was long and led past the conference room and Hitler’s quarters. Beyond them, I saw a figure stooped in shadow near a door.
“Kill her,” I heard him say. “I don’t want her captured by the Russians any more than Eva and I want to be. The Italians have made a mockery of my friend—strung him up like a pig on a hook. I will not allow this to happen to her. . . .” He struck his fist against the wall.
He stopped, suddenly aware of my presence, and glared at me with his sunken eyes. The crisp, astute Hitler had tr
ansformed into a slouching cave dweller, a grotesque monster of the underworld. He held up his hand for me to stop, leaned toward the door and pulled it partially shut. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I was hoping to get some air,” I said.
“Only those who have permission can leave the bunker by this route.” He turned away from the door. “You might get killed.”
A man stuck his head out of the room and said, “It’s done. The poison was quick as lightning.”
“Leave me and take the puppies,” Hitler ordered. The man stepped back inside and a few moments later came out with a box. As he passed, I heard the muffled scratching and whining of the young dogs. He proceeded down the passageway toward the stairway leading up to the exit. Hitler shuffled inside. Soon muffled sobs filtered into the passageway.
I stole forward hoping to see whose death had elicited such a response from Hitler. The door was cracked. The light inside the room was harsh. Hitler knelt on the floor, his chest heaving over the black-and-tan creature that lay silently on the floor. Blondi had been poisoned.
I heard the exit door open. Then five loud shots echoed through the passageway. Soon the man returned. I stepped back into the shadows, moving away from them. “The puppies are dead,” the man told Hitler. “You no longer have to worry.”
I walked quickly, hoping to get away from what I’d witnessed. Death offered its cold hand everywhere in the bunker, even for the dog who meant so much to Hitler.
My confinement clawed at me. I walked back to the Vorbunker and toward the long connecting hallway that led to the series of tunnels running east–west under the New Chancellery. The SS guard asked me what I was doing. I was in no mood to lie. I told him I was going crazy in the bunker and needed to take a walk. He nodded, smiled sadly as if he knew what I was going through, and waved me on.
I remembered little from the night of the attack on Irmigard’s apartment. When I’d arrived, Cook had led me to the Vorbunker. Now I saw the horror that had been thrust upon the German people. Medical facilities had been constructed in several rooms. The smell of blood and flesh permeated the corridor. Several doctors moved from table to table as if animated by ghostly puppet strings. Their aprons were stained red and splattered with human tissue.
One of the doctors shouted orders to a nurse who looked lost amid the daunting task confronting her. A hundred patients, many with severed limbs, burns or open wounds, waited for them. Perhaps there were more than a hundred. The wounded lay like mannequins on the tables, covered by bloody sheets or naked in their pain. A doctor cut through the right arm of a soldier just below the shoulder. He held up the limb and then threw it into a metal tub overflowing with severed legs, arms, hands and feet. My stomach churned at the bloody sight as the stench of death filled my nostrils.
The doctor who had performed the amputation called out to me, “Can you help us?”
At first, I didn’t know what to say. I stared at him.
“We need your help,” he pleaded. “People are dying.”
I looked down the passageway. Rows of silent refugees, some of whom were decorated Party members who apparently thought they had a right to escape what others were suffering, sat on the floor looking crushed and sullen. They had not offered to help the doctors. I wondered why. Perhaps they had seen enough blood or they had no taste for the tragedy unfolding around them. I started to walk away from the makeshift hospital and then stopped. A strange question filled my head: What if I’m able to find out about Irmigard and her family? I turned and wound my way through the maze of tables to the doctor who asked for my help.
CHAPTER 21
A tortured hope also arose in me as I walked to the doctor. What if Karl wasn’t dead and he was here in the bunker? As remote as that possibility was, I clung to it for an instant.
But any hope I had of finding Karl among the hundreds of wounded was soon dashed. I looked at each of the faces filled with pain. He was not among them. The doctor shrugged when I asked him about Irmigard and my old neighborhood.
“I’d say their chances of survival were slim,” he said. “We haven’t been able to get east for weeks.”
I had little time to chastise myself for asking such questions. I shook off my sadness and asked the doctor how I could help.
I changed bandages, scrubbed bedding in a washtub, held men’s and women’s hands as the doctors cut into them. Many times I had to look away because my stomach, and heart, could not bear their screams. Anesthesia was in short supply and only the most seriously wounded were given a dosage. One man administered whiskey, with the doctors’ blessings, to those half-crazed with pain.
“I want to die,” one soldier who had lost both legs from a Russian shell told me. Another less seriously wounded echoed a similar urge to end his life. I tried my best to cheer them up, making no mention of the Reich. Rather, I told them how important they were—how they were needed on this earth. As I visited others, Hitler and his suicide pact came to mind and I marveled at how the mood of the soldiers and citizens had fallen into utter despair, mirroring the Reich leader’s psyche.
As the hours passed, the toil of struggling with the wounded, and lifting bodies, exhausted me. I found an empty chair and collapsed in it for a few minutes. One of the doctors saw me and said, “Thank you for your help. Get something to eat.”
“What time is it?” I asked.
“After nine in the evening,” he replied.
I walked back to the Vorbunker and wiped the blood from my hands. Gore spotted my dress. I bumped into Cook in the passageway. She grabbed me by the arm and dragged me along. “We’re to meet the Führer,” she said. She rushed us along until we came to the large conference room in the lower bunker. Hitler stood inside, hunched over a large map of Germany spread out across the table. His two secretaries, who had been summoned as well, stood across from him. As we entered, he took off his glasses with his shaking left hand and placed them on the table. He wore the tan uniform jacket. I’d not seen him in it since we’d left the Berghof.
All of us lined up in a row and waited for him to speak. A sad smile crossed his face and he said, “I want to thank you for your loyal service to your Führer.” He put his right hand into his jacket pocket and walked toward us with an unsteady gait. He kept his left hand on the table for balance. “The others will know soon, but I am releasing you from your oath. . . .”
He continued to speak, but we could barely hear his mumbling voice. Yet we all knew what was to come. Still, I thought of killing him.
His fingers shook in his pocket, knocking the fabric in and out in frenzied punches. Finally, he withdrew his hand and opened it. Four cyanide ampoules, their copper casings glinting in the light, rested in his palm. He gave us each one.
“I wish I could have presented you a better going-away gift,” he said. “If the Russians break in, you may prefer this to a forced captivity and their beastly ways.”
His eyes drifted from us and focused beyond the walls, as if we were not in the room. We were left standing with the poison in our hands as he shuffled off to his quarters.
Frau Junge wiped away tears and we dispersed.
“I have no intention of using this,” Cook said as we walked away. I held mine in my hand, unsure of whether I should use it on myself or Hitler. At my bed, I put the capsule under my pillow and lay down. The next thing I knew I was awakened by shouting and laughter. I got up and, bleary-eyed, staggered toward the canteen. At least twenty of Hitler’s staff, including officers, were holding a party. A pile of records sat next to a phonograph. The music blared through the room and mixed with the raucous clinking of glasses. Several green champagne bottles floated across the crowd, passed by eager hands.
A drunken SS officer approached me, unfazed by my unkempt appearance and blood-spotted dress, which I had slept in. His pants were wet with champagne and his exposed chest showed through his open shirt and uniform jacket. He collapsed against the door and put his hand on my shoulder. “Want to dance?” H
e swayed erratically with the music.
I was afraid he would topple over upon me.
“Live a little. We only have a few hours left.” He pointed to the ceiling. “The bastards are only a few blocks away. Maybe over us now. Screw them.” He winked and put his face close to mine. His breath smelled of a horrid mixture of cigarettes and champagne. “How about it, how about a little screw? What have you got to lose?”
I knocked his hand away. “Thanks for the offer, but no.” I attempted to move past him, but he grabbed my arm. I kicked him in the shin and he winced in pain.
“Little bitch!” he yelled. “You’ll get yours.” He stumbled backward away from me.
I took a deep breath, moved into the canteen and looked for a familiar face. I saw Cook and Frau Junge, who sat at a table on the far side of the room. I pushed past the revelers, many of whom could barely stand up after drinking numerous libations. Expensive chocolates and pastries sat on the tables as well. Someone had raided what remained of Hitler’s palatable luxuries. I joined the two women at the table. Cook offered me a glass of champagne. I shook my head.
“Who knows when you may have this opportunity again?” she said. “I wouldn’t turn it down.”
“No,” I said. “I want my wits about me.”
“Why?” Frau Junge asked. “The end has come. It’s only a matter of time before we’re taken out of here—dead or alive.”
“I have unfinished business.”
They both looked at me as if I had said something heretical. Cook sighed and said, “We all do.”
A nurse and a soldier danced past us, knocking into our table. We held on to its edge with our hands to prevent it from tipping over.
“Drunken fools,” Frau Junge said. “They have no respect for the Führer.” She took a sip of champagne. “Who would want to leave this life in such a state?”
Magda Goebbels appeared at the far end of the canteen, attired in a white dressing gown. She glared at the crowd and shouted, “Shame. Shame on all of you. The Führer can’t sleep. Neither can my children. Have some decency.”
The Taster Page 28
