The Devil's Gold

by Steve Berry

  He is a hard man, fueled by hate and even more by regret. Rikka is having a difficult time. He will not take her swimming or for a boat trip down the river, or simply sit beneath the trees and enjoy the day. She tries to make life bearable, if not for him, then for herself. He tries to please her with luxury. Their house is full of silver, mahogany, and books. No one comes to visit, though. He will not tolerate visitors. His suspicions have increased since we arrived, a phobia of doubt that consumes his every day. He is so dependent on me. Odd, actually. This man of power needing me to do, say, and see what he cannot. He is paralyzed by fear and part of me is glad.

  January 14, 1971

  We have moved again. This time closer to the border with Basutoland in the eastern highlands. I was promised my release from service by Christmas, but I am now told that Luis will not let me go. He still depends on me. I seem to be the only one he trusts, if that attribute can be applied to a man such as him. I doubt he trusts anyone or anything. I promise, Issie, I will broach the subject again with him soon.

  Our new farm is lovely. It is an estate bought with profits from the gold mines. Luis was smart to invest. He continues to live a solitary life. Few venture this far east. I am still the messenger who travels into Bloemfontein. Books are my main duty. He consumes more than a dozen each month. I drive to town every three weeks when a shipment arrives. American book clubs provide the bulk of his taste. It is his one pleasure, and Rikka encourages the endeavor since it spares her the wrath of his boredom.

  He is evil and does not deserve any luxury in life. If not for my duty I would end this charade. But I can’t. It is not my nature, as I am sure you know.

  Wyatt read with a growing fascination.

  Each letter was signed, yours forever and always, love Gerhard. They were scattered over a breadth of time, and the insights were profound.

  Clearly Schüb did not care for Martin Bormann, but his feelings for Isabel never waned.

  November 19, 1971

  This land is a feast for carnivores. I have learned that steaks, chops, and cutlets eaten beneath the stars with your fingers taste far better than anything inside on a plate. Oh, Issie, I only wish you could be here. But that is impossible. Luis does not know of these letters and would be furious if he did, but I must have someone with whom I share my thoughts and you, my darling, are the only person I trust completely.

  Two days back we traveled to a farm in the south. We were told by another guest not to speak of the Anglo-Boer War. The Afrikaners who lived on the farm suffered humiliating loses at the hands of the British and still harbored deep resentment. The war has been over for a long time, so I wondered about the warning. Despite our efforts to avoid the topic, our host willingly spoke of how the British rounded up all the women and children and forced them into camps, their way of breaking the Boers, forcing the Kommandos into surrendering. Yet it had the opposite effect. The Boers fought harder. It was only when captured Kommandos were enticed to fight against their former compatriots, with the promise that their loved ones would be released from the camps, that the Boer back was broken. Many accepted the invitation, and it was their treason that eventually cost the Boers the war. Our host had a name for those men. Hensoppers. I asked what it meant and he told me, “A hands upper.” Then he spit upon the ground to show me what he thought of traitors.

  March 15, 1972

  I am about to drive north on my weekly trip to retrieve Luis’ books and obtain what specialties Rikka desires. She has lately taken an interest in knitting. Her finished products are quite lovely, though there is little need for scarves and sweaters here. She seems to make them simply to irritate Luis, as he berates her constantly for the waste of time. She clearly delights in his discomfort. Luis has invested heavily in the gold mines and is reaping enormous profits. He has even shared some of that wealth, enough to allow me to purchase an adjoining tract of land and build a home. It is a sandstone building with a clay roof surrounded by a cherry orchard. It also has a stoep where I sit in the evenings and watch the zebra, topi, and gazelle. It is my home, Issie, and for once I am grateful to Luis.

  June 23, 1976

  Luis has been in an awful mood for several weeks. He has been reading books about the war. In one Goebbels was quoted as once saying, “Bormann is not a man of the people. He has not the qualifications for the real tasks of leadership. He is but a mere administrator, a clerk, nothing more.” Bold words, Luis said, from a coward who killed himself and his wife and children. Luis speaks horribly of the Führer. He has nothing but contempt for him. He tells me that every political movement needs a revolutionary. Someone to acquire power by whatever means. Yet once it is acquired, that power must pass to those more capable of organization and control, those with the ability to administer, and it is they who ultimately rule. “Take pride in being a bureaucrat,” he tells me. “For clerks rule the world.”

  Obviously Gerhard Schüb had not been Isabel’s father, or brother, or any relation. He was apparently someone to whom she’d been emotionally attached, the two separated by Schüb’s forced duty to the Brown Eminence.

  No wonder she hated Bormann.

  He found only one letter different from the rest. Though the envelope was addressed to Isabel, the handwriting was clearly not Schüb’s.

  April 9, 1977

  You do not know me, but I am aware of your long-standing correspondence with Gerhard. You would not have received a letter from Gerhard in several months and the reason for that is going to be difficult to accept. I know it has been for us. Gerhard passed on three months back. He long suffered from a variety of afflictions. But a cold he contracted progressed to flu, then to pneumonia, and he died peacefully in his sleep. He often spoke of you and I know he wanted to see you again, but alas that is not now possible. I thought it the decent thing to let you know, as your letters that have arrived since his death make clear that you are unaware of what the Lord hath done. I am so sorry for your loss. Gerhard was a good man. He will be forever missed.

  With sad regret,

  Gordon Donaldson

  Wyatt felt the old woman’s pain. Staring at the stack of envelopes, he realized they had been her life. He imagined her waiting for the next post, anxious to hear that perhaps Gerhard may finally be coming back to Chile from South Africa.

  But that never happened. And now she was dead.

  He wanted to know who killed her and why.

  He finished his dinner and left the restaurant. Nightfall had come, and bright stars fluttered in a brilliant sky. A couple approached, arms wrapped around each other, the two walking slowly, enjoying the quiet.

  He stepped aside and allowed them to pass.

  An instant later the two lovers lunged back and he felt the barrel of a gun pressed to his neck.

  “Stay still,” the male said in his ear.

  Two more men appeared from the darkness, rifles in hand. What was a moment before decent odds had just become impossible.

  The man patted down Wyatt’s jacket but found nothing. The letters were taken from his grasp.

  “Let’s go,” the male said.

  He was led away from the café toward a parked pickup truck. He climbed up. The two men with rifles followed, guarding him in a dirty bed that smelled of dung.

  They drove from town into the woods beyond. Startled animals dodged in and out of the thickets on either side of the roadway. Some crossed the pavement at the outer reaches of the truck’s headlights, their amber eyes dancing like stars. He kept a close watch on the truck’s course and surmised that they were headed east, a wide plain ahead shimmering beneath a burnished moon. Occasionally, groves of trees disturbed the flatness with irregular shadows.

  The truck left the tarred surface and bounced its way through tall grass toward one of the groves. He decided that the roughness of the terrain would work to his advantage. After a couple hundred yards the truck stopped just short of the trees. Before the man and the woman in the cab could climb out, he rammed his elbow into the face of
the guard to his right. He wrenched the rifle away from the second man and caught him with a solid uppercut, sending the body over the side and down to the grass. He pointed the muzzle of the rifle at the other man still lying in the truck bed and turned his attention to the two from the cab.

  But strangely they did nothing in retaliation.

  “No need for that,” the driver said, pointing toward the trees. “There. He waits for you.”

  Though he knew he shouldn’t, he allowed his eyes to follow the man’s finger to a tight grove of trees with a clearing in between. Beside a roaring fire stood a short, thin figure. No features were visible, only the blackened outline of his shrunken form.

  Wyatt jumped from the truck, rifle in hand, and trudged through knee-high grass. As he drew closer, the crackling blaze soaked away the night’s chill. He saw that the fire was contained with a stone circle.

  He kept the rifle pointed forward.

  His chaotic thoughts sought unity.

  “Good evening,” the old man said. “I am Gerhard Schüb.”

  He lowered the rifle and pictured in his mind the image of the virile soldier wearing an SS uniform, the one he’d seen on Isabel’s dresser.

  Not the same person.

  The old man huddled next to the fire, who now sat in a wooden slat chair, cast an unhealthy pallor. Sunken cheeks, veined eyes, a spent face. Two deep furrows tracked a path from his aquiline nose to the corner of his mouth. His bald pate and wiry frame carried the anemic look of someone not accustomed to the outdoors, though if he was Schüb he would have spent a lifetime in the African sun. Mottled brownish blue age spots dotted his cheeks and forehead and the backs of his bony wrists. But it was the eyes that drew Wyatt, bright and alive, reminiscent of ashes glowing from a dimming fire, feverish in their admiration of the blaze.

  “You can’t be Schüb,” he said.

  The gaze shifted from the fire. “No. I am not the man Isabel loved. He died long ago. But he was a good man, who lived a good life. So I took his name.” The rasp of cigarettes echoed in the voice.

  “Who are you?”

  “Did you know your father?”

  He hesitated a moment, then said, “I did. We were actually close.”

  “Did you admire him?”

  “I did.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  Disdain filled the wizened face. “Isabel was a good woman. But she felt a great loyalty to the Third Reich. She met Gerhard Schüb in Chile. They were both young, they fell in love. She also came to know Eva Braun. Schüb was sent to Africa, by Isabel’s father, with Bormann and Braun. As you now know, he never returned to Chile.”

  “You wanted me to find those letters?”

  “They were left for you.”

  “How did you know I would come back?”

  Schüb sat silent for a moment, then said, “There’s something you must know.”

  And the older man spoke.

  His tone hypnotic, funereal.

  The words barely audible over the crackle of the flames.

  April 30, 1945. The Führer’s mood had progressively worsened since yesterday when the generals informed him that Berlin was lost and a counter-offensive, which he thought would save the Reich, had not been initiated. He became incensed on learning that Himmler was negotiating independently with the Allies for peace. That made him suspect everything related to the SS, including the cyanide capsules they had been supplied for the bunker.

  “They are fakes,” he screamed. “The chicken farmer Himmler wants me taken alive so the Russians can display me like a zoo animal.”

  He fingered one of the capsules and declared it nothing more than a sedative.

  “Malignancy,” he lamented, “is rife.”

  To be sure of the poison, he retreated to the surface and watched as a capsule was administered to his favorite Alsatian. The dog’s quick death seemed to satisfy him. The Führer then descended into the bunker and presented his two personal secretaries with capsules, commenting that he wished he could have provided a better parting gift. They thanked him for his kindness and he praised their service, wishing his generals would have been as loyal.

  Earlier, everyone had been summoned to the bunker. Hitler appeared with Bormann. His eyes carried the same hazy glaze of late, a lock of hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, and he shuffled in what appeared a painful stoop. Dandruff flecked his shoulders, thick as dust, and the right side of his body trembled uncontrollably. The German people would have been amazed to see the weakened condition of their Supreme Leader. The staff was assembled in a line, and the Führer proceeded to shake each of their hands.

  Bormann watched in silence.

  Hitler muttered as he departed, “All is in order.”

  The end was near. This man, who by sheer personality had so completely dominated a nation, was about to end his life. So much relief spread through the people present that they hurried to ground level and held a dance in the canteen of the Chancellory. Officers, who days before would not have even acknowledged those beneath them, shook hands with their subordinates. Everyone seemed to realize that postwar Germany was going to be greatly different.

  By noon the news was not good.

  Russian troops occupied the Chancellory. The Tiergarten had been taken. The Potsdamer Platz and Weidendammer Bridge were lost.

  Hitler accepted the dismal report without emotion.

  At 2:00 PM he took lunch with his secretaries and cook. His wife, Eva, who normally ate with Hitler, was not there. Their marriage was little more than a day old. Such an odd wedding. The din of battle. The concrete walls. A humid moldy aroma that stained everything with a stench of confinement. Both declared that they were of pure Aryan descent and free of hereditary disease. Goebbels and Bormann served as official witnesses. The bride and groom barely smiled.

  A queer sort of fulfillment amid overwhelming failure.

  After lunch Hitler and his wife appeared together, and all were summoned again. Another farewell occurred with little emotion, then the Führer and Eva Braun returned to their quarters.

  Within minutes a single gunshot was heard.

  Bormann was the first into the room. A smell of cyanide smarted the eyes and forced a retreat while the air cleared. Hitler lay sprawled on the left side of the couch, a bullet hole the size of a silver mark in his skull.

  Eva Braun lay on her right side.

  A vase filled with tulips and white narcissi had fallen from an adjacent table, spilling water on her blue dress. There was no sign of blood upon her, but the remains of a glass ampule dotted her lips.

  A woolen blanket was produced, and Hitler’s body was wrapped inside. The Führer’s valet, Linge, and Dr. Stumpfegger carried the body to ground level. Bormann wrapped Eva Braun’s remains in a blanket. He shouldered the corpse and carried her from the room. One of the guards called to him, and he halted in the passageway. There was a brief discussion, and Bormann laid the body in an adjacent anteroom. He dealt with the guard, then passed Eva Braun’s corpse to Kempka, who in turn passed her to Guensche, who then gave her to an SS officer who carried the body up to the Chancellery garden.

  The two corpses were laid side by side, and petrol was poured over them. Russian guns boomed in the distance and someone mentioned that Ivan was less than two hundred meters away. A bomb exploded and drove the mourners into the shelter of a nearby porch. Bormann, Burgdorf, Goebbels, Guensche, Linge, and Kempka watched as Guensche dipped a rag into petrol, lit it, then tossed the burning fuse onto the bodies.

  Sheets of flames erupted.

  Everyone stood at attention, saluted, then withdrew.

  “All that they destroyed,” Schüb said. “All who died. And it ended just like that.”

  “What does it matter?”

  “It matters a great deal. For you see, when they laid out Eva Braun’s corpse, something was different. Something no one at the time noticed. But who could blame them. So much was happening so fast.”

  He waited.

  �
��Her blue dress was no longer wet.”

  Within hours of Hitler’s suicide, Bormann donned the uniform of an SS major general, crammed papers into a leather topcoat, and fled the Führerbunker. On the Weidendammer Bridge he encountered bazooka fire, but managed to flee the scene with only minor injuries. He commandeered a stray vehicle and drove to another underground bunker constructed in secret by Adolf Eichmann, equipped with food, water, and a generator. He stayed there a day, then slipped out of Berlin and headed north, dressed as a forest warden.

  Across the Danish border he found a rescue group stationed there weeks before. He had prepared himself for the journey months earlier by burying two caches of gold coins, one in the north, the other in the south. He’d also secreted away banknotes and art treasures that could later be converted into cash. His political position gave him access to Lufthansa, cargo ships, and U-boats, and he’d utilized that privilege in the early months of 1945 to transport out of Germany all that he might need in the years ahead.

  By the end of 1945 he was in Spain. He stayed there until March 1946. His face remained obscure until October 1946 when, after he was indicted for war crimes, his picture was posted throughout Europe. It was then he decided to leave the Continent, but not before dealing with Eva Braun.

  They were in many ways similar. During the war she was intentionally kept in the background, denied the spotlight, forced to remain in the Bavarian Alps. Only those in Hitler’s innermost circle were familiar with her, so it was easy for her to meld into the postwar world.

  She’d returned to Berlin against Hitler’s orders on April 15 to inform him she was pregnant. Hitler took the news calmly, but delayed fourteen days before finally marrying her. During that time he arranged, through Bormann, for her escape. By April 22 Hitler knew that he would never leave the bunker alive. Braun objected to surviving. She wanted to die with Hitler.