by Ib Melchior
“Did you assist on any work made for Hitler, himself?” Woody interrupted. Would the man never stop talking? He wasn't remotely interested in Goebbels’ kids or Hitler's girl friend. But maybe Adolf himself.
“No.” Gotthelf shook his head. “Brigadeführer Blaschke had his personal technicians. Fritz Echtmann and Käthe Heusermann. They did all of the Führer's work. But there were many others . . .”
And on it went, until Gotthelf had run out of both steam and information.
Woody typed up a brief interrogation report. A damn waste of time. Whatever tiny hope he'd still nurtured that the interrogation of Sturmbannführer Franz Gotthelf would yield something of importance was snuffed out.
The coveted extra five points looked farther away than ever.
He brought the report to Major Hall.
The C.O. looked up brightly, as Woody entered the office. “Hey,” he said. “The CID just called. They got the two men. And they confessed. It was pretty much as you'd figured it. That rope around his arm, incidentally, was meant to make it look as if the poor bastard had been tied up. Kept prisoner. Cute touch.”
He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin. “The CID boys said thanks for a job well done.”
“Charge,” Woody said sourly. “That's a great help.”
Hall looked at the report. “Well,” he said, “did you learn anything earth-shaking from your friendly neighborhood dentist?”
Woody shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Nothing. Not a damned thing.”
4
A SOUR SMELL OF DEFEAT AND RESIGNATION permeated the Bunker, now that it had become common knowledge that the Führer had decided to take his own life. It struck Heinz Lorenz, Reich Press Representative to the Führer, forcefully as he came hurrying down the stairs to the lower level of the Führer Bunker. It was the foul, debilitating breath of Götterdämmerung. The end was truly near. An ignominious and terrifying end. True, he thought, Hitler’s grim decision to end his life in the Bunker had not been unexpected. For days he had been talking about it and making preparations. But hearing it finally voiced as an irrevocable resolution had still been a shock to him.
He walked rapidly through the far corridor past the machine room and the guard room. He always felt uncomfortable in the Bunker. This time more than ever. The Bunker moles had become so jaded to the grotesque that they did not see the morbid incongruity in the fact that the Führer in almost the same breath he announced his decision to commit suicide had also announced his intention to marry his mistress, Eva Braun. Lorenz could not help being appalled. The wedding ceremony would be that night.
Fräuleine Gertrud Junge, Trudl, one of the Führer’s personal secretaries, had taken great delight in telling everybody who would listen that she had actually been present when the Führer had proposed to Fräulein Braun. She had actually seen the historic moment! The Führer had walked up to his beloved and whispered in her ear. She had drawn back in astonishment and she, Trudl, had heard a distinct little gasp. The Führer had then hurried from the room and Fräulein Braun had come over to her. Her eyes had been moist with unshed tears, and she had whispered: “Meine liebe Trudl, tonight we are certainly going to weep!”
Her first reaction had been one of grief, she’d stated dramatically, for she had thought Fräulein Braun was referring to the Führer’s death. But she had quickly learned that she meant tears of joy.
Lorenz hurried through the door to the conference corridor and walked toward the Führer’s quarters. Despite all the gallows-courage preparations for the wedding he felt an air of resigned despair that seeped into every corner of the Bunker. Even the gloomy, depressing corridor that connected the Propaganda Ministry with the underground concrete warren that was the Führer Bunker seemed cheerful to him in comparison, the yellowish, domed lights that studded the ceiling at regular intervals almost festive.
It was shortly after 1900 hours, and Lorenz bore ill-starred tidings.
A few minutes before, sitting at his radio transmitter-receiver in his little cubbyhole of an office off the Propaganda Ministry tunnel he had intercepted a German language broadcast from Radio Stockholm. Quoting a BBC Reuters report. It had shocked him deeply.
Behind the Führer’s back SS Reichsleiter Heinrich Himmler had offered the Allies an unconditional surrender!
Lorenz was disturbed. He knew the Führer was apt to deal harshly with harbingers of unwelcome news. The bulletin he clutched in his hand might well hold disastrous consequences for himself. But withholding it might be even worse.
At the door to the Führer’s quarters Hitler’s valet, Heinz Linge, stopped him.
“The Führer is not to be disturbed,” he said.
Lorenz drew a sigh of relief. He handed the bulletin to Linge. “Urgent,” he said. “Please give it to the Führer as soon as possible.” And before there could be any discussion he turned and quickly walked away.
White-faced, livid with rage, Hitler stormed into the little hospital room. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, shaking in uncontrollable fury, he stood staring at the startled Ritter von Greim and at Hanna Reitsch sitting at his bedside.
Brandishing the Reuters bulletin over his head he screamed at them, his voice hoarse with hatred, his face distorted in such frenzy that it was barely recognizable, the blue veins standing out in his neck, bloated with rage.
“Himmler is a traitor!” he shrieked. “Der treue Heinrich hat mich verraten! Behind my back the despicable double-crosser has offered to deliver the Reich—the German people—me!—into the hands of the enemy!”
His venomous paroxysm of fury threatened to choke him. He shook the bulletin at Hanna and Greim who sat watching him, aghast.
“Must all great men suffer a damnable betrayer?” he screamed. “Caesar his Brutus. I—Himmler!"
In berserk agitation he began to pace the little room, ranting his rage at the traitorous Himmler.
Profoundly shaken, Hanna watched her beloved Führer gripped in the throes of his violent agony. Her heart went out to him. Was he to be spared nothing? Even now? She knew he had always valued and believed in the loyalty and devotion of Heinrich Himmler, his trusted, ever faithful supporter and ally. Who now, in the eleventh hour, had stabbed him in the back. She knew how deeply the wound must hurt. It was the most cruel blow of all. She knew. But she knew not what to say.
“Goering was always a contemptible opportunist. Corrupt,” Hitler mouthed venomously. “But Heinrich! Worse! Pretending to be loyal!” He suddenly whirled on Ritter von Greim. He shook a trembling fist at him. “A traitor must never be my successor as Führer of the German people,” he shouted. “You! Greim! Arrest him! See to it that he doesn’t succeed in his treachery!”
With burning, bloodshot eyes he stared at Greim, his look going through the man and beyond.
“The Russians are about to assail the Reich Chancellery,” he rasped. “You must leave the Bunker as quickly as you can.”
Abruptly he turned and stalked toward the door.
“Report to me as soon as you are ready,” he ordered.
And he was gone.
Time had run out. There were other pressing matters that had to be attended to.
Now!
Feldmarschall Ritter von Greim looked down at his bandaged foot. The wound was far from healed. He swung his leg out over the bed. Painfully he stood up, supported by Hanna Reitsch.
The Führer had given him an order to be carried out.
It would be done.
The coldly penetrating, unblinking eyes of Frederick the Great watched the two men sitting in Hitler’s study.
There is a resemblance, Bormann thought. It is in the eyes. You cannot escape them. He wondered what it was the Führer had wanted to talk to him about so urgently. Im strengsten Vertrauen—in the strictest confidence. Somehow he felt vaguely uneasy. The Führer had summoned him personally, seeking him out in the Bunker. There was an air about the man he had never seen before. The Führer seemed unc
haracteristically stoic, as if he were looking at the world with the eyes of a man already dead. That was it, he thought. It was undoubtedly the fact that death by his own hand was imminent. He dismissed his uneasiness.
Hitler fixed his deputy with a steady gaze. “It is time,” he said quietly. “It is time I told you, Bormann, that I know.”
Bormann stiffened, his instinct for self-preservation instantly alert. “Know what, mein Führer?” he asked guardedly.
Hitler sighed.
“Argentina.”
Bormann sat bolt upright. The shock exploded through him. Hitler’s eyes never left him. “Your plan to escape the Bunker and the Russians,” he said. “Your secret plan, Bormann, your preparations. Made long ago.”
Bormann’s mind raced. Adrenalin pumped its reinforcement to every nerve end in his body. How had Hitler found out? Um Gottes Willen!—how? Who had talked? It was impossible. No one could. He had seen to that. He suddenly felt a cold shudder twitch through him. Fegelein! SS GruppenFührer Hermann Fegelein. Married to Eva Braun’s sister, Gretl. Himmler’s special liaison officer to the Führer himself. Only hours before, his execution, ordered by Hitler, had been carried out. Fegelein had left the Bunker clandestinely. Hoping to escape. He, too, had had an escape plan. But the Gestapo had caught up with him. And he had been shot. He, Bormann, had been present when the bullets from the firing squad cut the poor devil in half. Was this what Hitler had in mind for him?
He was suddenly acutely aware of his Walther 7.65 in its holster on his belt. His beautifully ornamented Ehrenwaffe—Honor Weapon—presented to him by the Führer himself. Could he kill him? And claim the Führer had shot himself? Everyone knew he intended to take his own life. He quickly rejected the idea, however tempting. There was no way he could get away with it in the power struggle that would follow. Wait. He would wait. Wait to see what would develop. Use the Führer’s own axiom: As long as one lies in wait like a cat and takes advantage of every moment to deal a sudden blow or make a sudden parry, one is not lost. Possibilities will always arise. He threw up his hands.
“Mein Führer,” he protested. “I do not . . .”
Hitler impatiently waved him to silence.
“Stop it, Bormann,” he said. “There is no time for empty denials.” He placed both his hands on the table. The left one shook uncontrollably. He leaned toward Bormann. “I know,” he said flatly. Accept it. I have known for some time. About the old abandoned sewer system. The hidden supplies. The disguises. The suddenly missing workers. All of it.”
Bormann clenched his jaws. He stared at Hitler sitting quietly, contemplating him. He was right. The time was past for being evasive. For lies. He looked steadily at Hitler.
“How?” he asked.
Hitler waved a trembling hand at him. “Unimportant,” he said. He stood up. For a moment he paced in a laborious shuffle before the painting of Frederick the Great. He turned to Bormann. “Important is,” he said, unsuspected authority in his voice, “important is that your plan fits in exactly with my own!”
Bormann was thunderstruck. The Führer! Had he decided to leave the Bunker after all, now that it was too late to fly him out? In the last possible moment.
“Mein Führer!” he exclaimed. “Are you—are you planning to— break out?”
Hitler turned to look at his deputy with disdain. “Sei nicht dumm,” he chided. “Don’t be foolish.” He stopped his shuffling gait. He looked at his trembling, withered arm. “You know my decision. It is unalterable. I shall die here. In the heart of my city. My Fatherland.” Angrily he grabbed his shaking arm. “I am half dead already!”
He fixed Bormann with baleful eyes. “No,” he said firmly, “I shall not attempt to leave here. I will not take the chance of suffering the disgrace of being captured. The Bolsheviks shall not parade me in a cage through the streets of Moscow!”
Bormann had a twinge of self-disgust. He should have known. Hitler would simply have taken over the operation now that he had the facts. Not have asked to go along. Anyway it was obvious the Führer was not physically able. And every man, woman, and child in Germany would recognize him. It was not the same as with him. Very few people were familiar with the appearance of Reichsleiter Martin Bormann. Certainly not the enemy. Then what did the Führer mean?
Hitler stared at his deputy sitting in shocked silence before him. “No, Bormann,” he said, “I shall not go with you. And I will not stop you. In fact, I have already made certain arrangements to help you. To ensure the success of your escape.”
Bormann was stunned. For once in his life he was totally unprepared for what was happening. He was at once leery. He had long since learned that in the inner circle around Hitler nothing ever was what it seemed to be. The first question he always had to ask himself in any situation was: Where is the trap?
“I—I do not understand,” he said, playing for time to think. “How . . . ?”
Hitler gave a crooked little smile. He knew exactly what his deputy was thinking—and doing. So be it.
“I shall be perfectly frank with you, Bormann,” he said soberly. “I expect the same from you. I know of your plan to escape from the Bunker—and from Berlin—and to head for what I have been told is so colorfully called the Flensburg escape hatch. That you hope to take refuge in Denmark—at a certain hospital, I understand—and there wait until you can safely make your way to South America.” He sat down at the desk again.
He gazed at the silent deputy. He shook his head. “I have made better plans for you, mein lieber Bormann,” he said. “In a few hours Feldmarschall Greim will leave the Bunker. He will fly to Admiral Doenitz’s headquarters. He will hand him sealed orders from me, personally, instructing the Admiral to place at your disposal when you arrive in Flensburg—a submarine. Type XXI, ocean going, Scbnorchel-equipped. Its very existence there has been kept secret. It will take you to South America. Argentina.”
Bormann stared at the Führer. If it was true, if such arrangements had in fact been made, his successful escape to South America was virtually assured.
“Now,” Hitler said firmly, “I want you to tell me, in detail, how you expect to leave Berlin.”
Bormann thought quickly. He decided. It might all be a trap to make him divulge his plans. But he had to take that chance. He had a gut feeling that Hitler was being honest with him. Had the Führer wanted to, he could have had him shot summarily. Without any preponderance of proof. Like Fegelein. He nodded.
“An escape route has been prepared, mein Führer,” he began. “I came upon certain blueprints when the Bunker was being constructed.” He told his story carefully. “In 1936, when the new Olympic Stadium complex was built for the Olympic Games it was necessary to construct an entire new sewer system to serve the area. Some of the existing system was enlarged and rebuilt but most of it was abandoned.”
He licked his suddenly dry lips. It was not easy to have to disclose his most secret scheme. “The blueprints I acquired showed this abandoned system,” he continued. “One main conduit ran from the Tiergarten in a straight line to the west, skirting the Olympic site and dipping under the Havel River to the suburb of Wilhelmstadt.”
He paused. Hitler sat silent, listening, studying him.
“I inspected it,” Bormann went on. “I ordered every access to it walled up securely. Except two. I had . . .”
“Where located?” Hitler interrupted.
“One in a Tiergarten building directly across from the underground bunker garages approximately two hundred meters inside the park. The other in Wilhelmstadt. At those two places I had the access sealed and rigged with a built-in explosive that, when detonated, would reopen the passage.”
Again he paused. Hitler looked at him. “And the people who performed this work?” he asked tonelessly.
“Foreign laborers, mein Führer,” Bormann answered. “They were—eliminated.”
“Supplies? Equipment?”
“Stored inside the Tiergarten access,” Bormann replied. “Everything that
will be needed. Sufficient for a party of four.”
“And the blueprints?”
“Destroyed.”
Hitler nodded, satisfied. But he withheld his approval from his face. For a moment he gazed at his deputy. “I could give you my help, Bormann,” he said slowly, “or I could have you shot.”
For a while the two men sat staring at each other as the tension built in the little room. Then Hitler sighed.
“But—I have decided to help,” he breathed. “However, there is one condition.”
“What is it?” Bormann was at once on guard again.
“You must take someone with you,” Hitler said. “Someone I will choose. Understood?”
Bormann was intrigued. Who was that important to the Führer? No matter. He would agree, of course. It would be easy to get rid of whoever it would be that the Führer would saddle him with. When the time was right.
“Who?” he asked.
Hitler looked straight at him, his eyes suddenly ablaze.
“Eva,” he said.
Despite himself, Bormann looked shocked. Eva Braun! He knew the girl had pledged to die with the Führer. Everyone in the Bunker knew. When Hitler had decided to die by his own hand in the Bunker, Eva Braun emphatically had vowed to join him in death.
“But—Eva!” he blurted out. “I thought—I thought Fräulein Eva had decided to end her life here.”
Somberly Hitler nodded. “And that is how it will appear,” he said. “To the world she will die with me.” His voice suddenly rang with a strange, fanatic determination. “But she must live! She must’"
Totally mystified, Bormann stared at the suddenly agitated Hitler. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Why?”
For a moment Hitler looked at his deputy. “Because of what Dr. Haase told me,” he said gravely.
Bormann’s thoughts were awhirl. Professor Werner Haase. A brilliant physician. Tall, in his fifties, and already silverhaired, Haase was dying of tuberculosis. He had only part of one lung left, which often caused him to gasp for air. For the last several weeks he had been Hitler’s physician having replaced Dr. Brandt, arrested for some nebulous reason he no longer remembered. Haase? True, he had seen Hitler and Haase engrossed in intense, whispered conversations. He had assumed it had to do with the coming suicides. What had been said? He did not even know how to ask.
