by Len Deighton
The bag was almost empty. Wever tore it open in order to release the final grains of sugar from its folds. He tipped them into his cup with care. ‘My wife loves that clock,’ he said.
‘It’s a fine piece,’ said Stuart. It was probably the only valuable item in the entire kitchen; virtually everything else seemed improvised, plastic or broken.
‘Obsessed with it,’ explained Wever. ‘Wouldn’t hear of selling it, not even when we needed money to buy seed a couple of years ago. It belonged to her father. She nursed him through those last few months.’ There was a silence in which the tick of the clock seemed to be louder than ever. ‘Nothing is too good for that clock,’ said Wever with a brief and bitter laugh. ‘No tractor oil for that mechanism; special oil from a shop in Norwich. Only yesterday she had someone come and replace one of the chimes. It had been on order for over two months.’ He drank some of his tea but could not take his eyes off the clock. ‘I can’t stand the sound of that ticking,’ he confided. ‘And the damned thing is always slow.’
He brought out a large linen handkerchief and blew his nose with studied care. Then he drank some tea and resumed his story. ‘From Zossen I was selected for duty with the signals detachment at the Wolfsschanze. Only the very best operators were sent there,’ said Wever. Even over such a long passage of time his pride was still evident. ‘That was the Führer’s headquarters in the Görlitz forest. It was a great honour …’ Wever wiped his nose again. ‘But I wasn’t too pleased at the time – no more weekly visits to my parents, no more cinemas, dances and all the pleasures of Berlin. The Wolfsschanze was in the middle of nowhere. The Görlitz forest is in a swampy area, sweltering hot in summer and plagued with mosquitoes; in winter it’s buried in deep snow, and in between times you get the rain and fog. My parents were pleased about it; I was made an officer soon after that, in charge of the Fernschreiberkompanien. And they were pleased because all of us permanent personnel knew we would never be sent to the Russian front.’
‘Why?’
‘It was a special order of the Führer. He was frightened that the Russians might capture one of us and obtain information about him and the day-to-day life at the headquarters.’
‘You were close to Hitler?’
‘Sometimes I would see him every day. It was in February that the signals officer of Hitler’s private train – the Führersonderzug – went into hospital and I was assigned to it. Of course, there were drawbacks to the job. Every uniform had to be well pressed and spotless. No swearing, no smoking, and my communications staff were overworked.’
‘And whose job was it to look after the records?’
‘One man could not have handled the paperwork,’ said Wever wearily. ‘It’s difficult to explain it to you.’ He folded his handkerchief and pushed it back into his pocket. ‘The Führersonderzug was like a travelling circus. The train always carried a dozen aides and adjutants, two or three secretaries and two physicians, as well as a surgeon. Then there would be the press men, Hoffmann, Hitler’s photographer, two or three people from the Foreign Office, and Hitler’s personal staff – three valets and two drivers – a dozen or more railway employees, and just as many catering staff, five railway policemen and three officials of the post office. There were two girls who did nothing other than keep the silver clean and polished and counted! And all that is without his military bodyguard or his SS bodyguard, or the aeroplanes and dozens of motor cars that followed the train to be ready in case Der Chef wanted them en route. Then there was the day-to-day paperwork of the army personnel, flak-gun crews, field kitchen, military police … Can you imagine how much paper was being filed away?’
‘I want to know about Hitler’s personal documents,’ said Stuart. ‘I’m trying to discover where they went in the last days of the war. My people say you know about this.’
Wever gave no sign of having heard him. Dabs of rain hit the window. It was growing darker in the kitchen, but electric light – like remnants of pastry and the last traces of sugar – was carefully husbanded in this household. Franz Wever’s head settled deeper into his hunched shoulders and he almost disappeared into the gloom.
‘I was with Hitler almost until the end.’ Wever drank some tea. ‘On 10 December 1944, at 1700 hours we took the Führer’s special train out of Berlin to a place near Giessen where a convoy of cars took him to Adlerhorst, his headquarters. I was asked to take the place of the signals officer of the FBB – the army escort battalion. He’d been on leave in Berlin on the night of 9 December and was killed in an air raid.’
Wever was still, his eyes closed. In the wretched little kitchen, the daylight fading, he seemed to be asleep. When he spoke again it was enough to make Stuart start in surprise. ‘The train returned to Berlin on 16 January 1945. The Führer was bent and seemed unwell. We arrived about ten o’clock in the morning. The fleet of black three-axle Mercedes cars was waiting in the forecourt of the railway station. A small crowd had gathered but the police were keeping them moving. There were growing fears about another attempt on his life. Now that the Third Reich was nearly finished, there was anti-Nazi talk in the bars and Berliners had invented some bitter jokes about the Nazi leaders taking gold to South America. There had always been anti-Nazi jokes in Berlin – it was renowned for them – but the jokes were different now …
‘Once we were back in Berlin Der Chef spent more and more time down in the underground bunker where he eventually died. The American bombers would arrive just before lunch and the RAF about midnight.
‘For a few days the Führer kept his apartment in the small Old Chancellery building and continued to hold his military conferences in the big new Chancellery which Speer had designed. It had suffered several direct hits but the Führer’s study and dining room were intact. On Wednesday, 21 March, when the news was coming in that Patton’s infantry were entering Ludwigshafen, Der Chef sent for me. By that time the tapestries and valuable paintings had been removed for safekeeping and we had to detour through side passages because of the damage. Many of the windows were broken and had been crudely closed off with heavy cardboard which rattled noisily with the wind from the garden. It was depressing for anyone who remembered it as it had once been.
‘I arrived at the entrance together with Colonel General Guderian and his adjutant. They had to go through exactly the same security checks that I was subjected to, and there were armed sentries every ten paces. The whole Zitadelle – the part of Berlin where all the government buildings were – was teeming with troops. A company of the Führer Begleit Battalion was moved out of the Lichterfelde barracks at short notice and put into the Chancellery with the SS Begleit Kommando. It was chaos because the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler Wache Reichskanzlei was still there with no room to spare.
‘At the end of every corridor my papers were checked against a log-book entry. When we got to the ante-room I took my pistol from its holster and gave it to the Waffen SS guards. There was a table filled with them, each gun tagged with the name of the owner. Even Guderian and his adjutant had to hand over their briefcases for the guards to examine inside and out. There were no body checks but I don’t think anyone with a lumpy uniform would have got into the ante-room.’ Wever smiled.
‘Once inside the ante-room I saw all the big brass waiting for the daily conference. There was Keitel, Dönitz, Jodl, some of Himmler’s RSHA people and, sprawled in the armchair looking miserable, I saw Göring himself. I sat down on one of the embroidered gilt chairs feeling out of place, then the study doors opened and Günsche came into the ante-room.’
‘Günsche was Hitler’s adjutant,’ said Stuart to display his newly acquired knowledge. ‘His SS adjutant.’
‘Hitler had dozens of SS adjutants,’ said Wever, showing no admiration for this interjection. ‘Four SS persönliche Adjutanten – it was bureaucracy running wild …’ He brushed aside the interruption with a movement of the hand and sipped some more tea. ‘But SS Sturmbannführer Günsche was one of them and combat commandant too. At the end it was Günsc
he who soaked Hitler’s body in petrol and set it afire. He beckoned to me, and told the others – including Göring – that the Führer would receive them in five minutes. They looked at me as I was ushered into the study to see what it was that made me so important. I was trying to guess. As always in this sort of situation it is guilty fears that predominate. I wondered if I was going to be executed for telling some anti-Hitler joke or complaining about the dehydrated cabbage. Everyone had heard me complain about that cabbage.
‘Günsche took me through the enormous study, with the painting of Bismarck and Hitler’s gigantic desk, to a side room where they stored documents of the sort the Führer might require at short notice during his daily conferences. It was a small room and Hitler stood in the middle of it. As I came closer to him I could smell the medicated sweets he used whenever he had a sore throat. He had a pathological fear of contracting a disease of the throat.
‘He was a shocking sight. You must remember that I had seen him often. On the train I would sometimes be giving him teleprinter messages by the dozen. When things were going well, the Führer would exchange a few words. He remembered the names of my parents and my mother’s birthplace – Linz in Austria. Now I could hardly recognize him. His face seemed to have aged forty years, his eye sockets were deeply sunken and the skin of his cheeks dark, as if bruised. He was stooped and seemed to have lost the use of his left arm, which trembled constantly. His voice was very low and hoarse and almost unrecognizable to anyone who had heard his speeches of earlier years – and which of us had not! When he spoke he leaned forward and used his right hand to grasp his throat, as if to help his vocal cords.
‘Der Chef was wearing his usual plain grey, army-style jacket. But this day I noticed that there were stains on the lapel. You can’t imagine how amazing it was to see him in anything except carefully pressed, spotlessly clean clothes. I looked at his plain black trousers and civilian shoes but these were not up to his usual standard either.
‘The Führer was standing against a small table and I noticed that he put his weight against it, as if to steady himself. This confirmed the rumours I’d heard of a loss of balance and dizzy spells. Under his direction, Günsche was sorting the papers and documents into separate heaps. Against the wall there were half a dozen metal filing boxes painted dark green. FHQu was stencilled on each box, together with the word persönlich and a six-figure letter-number combination.’
Stuart almost shouted with excitement. What had looked like BBO on the box of Dr Morell’s papers was actually FHQu – Führerhauptquartier – and the shiny patch next to it was the place from which the word ‘personal’ had been removed.
‘The Führer smiled. I’m afraid my face must have registered my horror at his appearance. I stood transfixed, giving the Heil Hitler, arm upraised. But he did not respond to my salute.
‘“Captain Wever,” he said. Even in those last days he hadn’t lost his trick of remembering names. But he lowered his eyes, and that surprised me, for he usually fixed his visitors with an unyielding stare that was almost hypnotic. I lowered my arm. He motioned his head impatiently, to indicate that I should not stand at attention. “I have an important task for you, Captain Wever.” He looked up and stared me straight in the eyes again. “A very important task.” I knew him well enough to understand that I was not expected to reply until asked a direct question. I said nothing. “The enemy is now using his heaviest weapons against me in Berlin.” I noticed particularly that he said “against me” as if it were a personal vendetta. “There are certain personal documents that I have decided should not be risked. And, in the interests of history, must not be destroyed. I have therefore decided that these documents – which I have personally selected for this purpose …” Hitler indicated some piles of papers which were separated from the others, “should be put into safekeeping for future generations. It is a great trust that I place into your hands, Captain Wever.”
‘“Yes, my Führer.”
‘“Günsche will provide you with all the necessary paperwork that will ensure you co-operation from the Reichspost, the Reichsbahn, the armed forces and my SS. You will leave Berlin tonight, using my train.”
‘“The Führersonderzug, my Führer?”
‘Hitler nodded. “To Frankfurt am Main. There will be cars and an armed escort there to take you onwards. Your exact orders and subsequent destination will be given to you later; you will unseal them on the train. You will use the train’s communications to keep me informed of progress – the necessary codes and ciphers will be included in your orders – and if the train is stopped or delayed by enemy action you can call upon whatever resources you require from the appropriate authority. Is that clear, Captain Wever?”
‘“Yes, my Führer.”
‘And there it was,’ said Wever with a self-deprecatory smile. ‘That was my grand meeting with the twentieth-century Napoleon, and what had I contributed: “Yes, my Führer”, repeated over and over again. It was like that with all the people who met him: generals, admirals, inventors, U-boat captains, kings and presidents. He had you in the palm of his hand, and yet you came out of the study thinking that you’d just persuaded a highly intelligent man to do something you’d been planning all your life. That’s how it was with those damned papers.’
‘So you went back to the train as its sole passenger?’ Stuart asked.
‘You don’t understand the devious nature of the higher command,’ said Wever. ‘Hitler had instructed Günsche to prepare my movement orders and documentation. The SS Sturmbannführer did it in consultation with Kaltenbrunner, head of the RSHA, who ran the Gestapo, the Kripo and Sicherheitsdienst: one of the most powerful people in the Third Reich. Not the sort of man who would let an army captain take personal charge of top-secret papers, just because the Führer had decided that the mission required a highly experienced communications expert.’
‘He flouted Hitler’s orders?’
‘Not at all. He provided an SS officer to accompany me. The orders instructed the Reichsbahn and the Reichspost officials – “in the name of the Führer” rather than the more usual “in the name of the Reich” – to provide the SS officer with facilities required, so that Captain Wever and his “special baggage” could be transported. The wording of those orders ensured that my role was little more than a baggage porter. It was the SS that would call the tune.’
‘Who was the SS officer who went with you?’
‘Oh, don’t misunderstand me,’ said Wever. ‘This Leibstandarte officer was an old friend of mine. It wasn’t the rank and file who were wasting valuable time in these ridiculous power-plays and devious games; we knew the end was near … He was only a junior rank – Obersturmführer, like a first lieutenant – but he was an old-time regular. He’d been through the peacetime SS Junkerschule at Bad Tölz, and that was no picnic. I’d known Breslow since childhood, he was a decent man.’ Wever smiled at another recollection. ‘You can imagine that I wanted to visit my parents before we journeyed south. The way things were going with the Allies and the Russians so close, I had the feeling that I might never see the old people again. My home was near Tietz department store; I could be there in five minutes. I got out using my day pass but ran into the guard commander when I returned. He was a pig. He kept me in the guard room and phoned the military police. Luckily, Max Breslow came to my aid. He got one of the SS adjutants to straighten it out … but it was a narrow squeak for me, and I owe my thanks to Breslow. I could have been shot.’ Wever drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Did you ever try to give up smoking, Mr Stuart?’
‘Frequently.’
Wever pushed his hands deep into his pockets as if to punish them for drumming on the table. ‘Breslow was practical. When we departed he had brought two pistols – he knew I didn’t have one – and was wearing an MP 40 on his shoulder. He was right, of course – how could we have undertaken that sort of responsibility without guns? He had put a Führerhauptquartier cuff-band on his sleeve too. I was surprised – almost everyone
had ceased wearing them long before – but Breslow said it would impress the country yokels. You see,’ Wever added, ‘Breslow was a Berliner.’ His tone of voice suggested that this accolade explained everything. Stuart had known many Berliners, and liked the distinctive sort of roguish wit – Schalkheit – that the city seemed to beget. But Berliners were not renowned for modesty or simplicity. How much of Wever’s story was window dressing, designed to hide something else? ‘The family lived in a big house in Pankow, his father was Georg Breslow, the actor, a famous man in Germany. He was the one who anglicized the family name. Breslow’s mother had been a soprano with the Berlin State Opera.’ Wever reached into his pocket for a tin, tapped it on the table and then put it back into his pocket again.
‘Yes,’ said Wever. ‘Breslow was wearing his Führerhauptquartier cuff-band. I was wearing a reversible winter camouflage jacket. It was a combat soldier’s garment. I’d never been anywhere near the front line, and that bothered me, so I wanted to wear that jacket and look like a fighting man. Even so, Breslow, in his battered leather overcoat, and an old peaked mountain cap crushed on his head, looked more like a fighting man than I ever could.’
‘Breslow had been a combat soldier?’
‘He was wounded at Kharkov in the winter of 1943. The Leibstandarte was part of the SS Panzer Corps. Breslow was badly shot up and lost some toes with frostbite. When he came out of hospital he was permanently assigned to the Chancellery guard. Breslow had a chestful of awards: Iron Cross first class, assault badge, wound badge and so on. Nothing grand, but he was a man who could take his overcoat off – as we said in the army about men who had awards on their jackets.’ Wever smiled. ‘So it’s Breslow you are interested in?’
‘Were there no other special passengers on the train that night?’
‘Just me and Breslow. He went aboard before the loading began. He sent for the train commander and all the officers. He received them in the Führerwagen – actually in the Führer’s sitting room: sitting in the best armchair, his hat thrown on the writing desk as if he owned the place. He had his overcoat wide open so that they could see that he was a fighting soldier. Until then the Führer’s sitting room had been a sanctum which very few of us had entered; now it was crammed with curious faces. There were the marks of muddy boots on the carpet, and tobacco smoke in the air for the first time. Tobacco smoke! We all knew that the Führer would never board his train again.
