by Ib Melchior
“Mein Führer?” he said.
“Soon the German Reich will be without its Fuhrer,” Hitler intoned solemnly. “The world without Adolf Hitler.” Some of the old fire returned to his voice. “But it is imperative that my seed, my genes, live on. A Germany in my image must endure for the ages.” He paused. He looked at Bormann—a burning, piercing gaze. “Eva Braun is carrying a child,” he said. “My heir! To be born into the world in less than five months.”
Bormann was too stunned to speak. He merely stared at Hitler.
“Eva Braun, whom I this night take to wife, will bear my son,” Hitler finished.
Bormann tried to collect his racing thoughts. The wedding. Of course. That was why Hitler wanted to marry that insipid little snip of a photographer’s assistant. That was the real reason for the ridiculous eleventh-hour wedding. To make their union legitimate. To give the Führer’s son his name. Son? He frowned at Hitler.
“Son?” he said. “How . . . ?”
“The stars decree it,” Hitler said. “The signs all predict the child will be a boy. My son.”
Bormann stared at him. He had never shared the Führer’s mystical belief in astrology. Stupid nonsense, of course. But he had an uneasy feeling that this time—this time it was true.
Eva Braun was carrying the Führer’s son!
“It is clear to you now, is it Bormann, why Eva must leave Berlin and must be brought to safety?”
“Of course,” Bormann affirmed at once. “And I pledge to you I shall do my utmost to ensure the safety of Fräulein Eva and her unborn child.”
Another promise, easy to break, he thought. Once out of Berlin he could do as he pleased. Fräulein Braun—or Frau Hitler— would have to fend for herself.
Hitler nodded. As if reading his deputy’s mind he continued: “It will, of course, be in your own interest, Bormann, to keep Eva from harm, until she is safe in South America.”
Bormann frowned at him. What did he mean?
Hitler gave him a thin smile. “Let me explain, mein lieber Herr Reichsleiter,” he said, a hint of mockery in his raspy voice. “I have amassed a vast fortune, Bormann. My royalties from Mein Kampf alone.” He spread his hands eloquently. “Unlike so many others, this was not done for my own personal benefit, but to ensure that our National Socialist ideals will never die!” He looked shrewdly at Bormann. “I do not exaggerate,” he said quietly, “when I tell you this fortune now runs into billions of Reichsmarks. It is hidden, of course, in accounts in international banks, most of it in Switzerland.” He looked steadily at Bormann. “And Eva, and only Eva, knows where and how to find it. She is the key. The sole key. The key to a vast and secret treasure, Bormann, that can become yours. That can help the survivors of this last battle ultimately to win the war. You, and others like you, who will flee to safety. Mengele. Eichmann. Stangl. Müller. You know the list as well as I.” He fixed Bormann with a piercing stare. “Eva must be kept safe. She must reach asylum in South America. Argentina. She must give birth to my son! And you, Bormann, must assure her safety. If. If the treasure I offer you is ever to be yours.”
Bormann thought fast. He had, himself, gathered quite a fortune. He had, of course, had access to the special funds hoarded in a secret account in the Reichsbank in Berlin. Realized from the jewelry, the currency, precious stones, and other valuables confiscated from the Jews before they were sent to extermination camps. And from the gold extracted from their teeth, once there. He had been able to dip into this fund, secretly, and build a fortune for himself. A great fortune, safe in Argentina.
But nothing like the wealth Hitler was offering him.
He drew himself up.
“I would protect Fräulein Braun and her child with my life, mein Führer. Whatever the circumstances,” Bormann pledged fervently.
“Of course.”
Bormann was elated. If Eva Braun knew the locations of the accounts and had the key to obtain the funds, it would not be difficult to get that information from her. Not at all.
“And so that you will know all the details, mein lieber Bormann,” Hitler continued, “each of the banks holding my accounts—in a variety of names, of course—each has been sent a photograph of Eva and a sample of her signature. Only she in person can make disposition of the money.”
He was amused to see the tiny glint of chagrin that flitted through Bormann’s eyes. He knew his deputy. He also knew he would now do his utmost to safeguard the girl. And the fortune . . .
“You may rely on me completely, mein Führer,” Bormann said earnestly. “I shall not let you down.”
Again Hitler nodded. “There is one more thing,” he said. Laboriously he got up from the desk. He shuffled to the door and opened it. His valet stood in the corridor outside.
“Linge,” Hitler said to him, “send Obersturmführer Lüttjohann to me. At once.”
Willibald Lüttjohann was awed, being in the presence of Reichsleiter Martin Bormann and the Führer himself. But he was a soldier. He kept himself from showing any emotion. He stood ramrod straight as the Führer spoke about him to the Reichsleiter.
“Obersturmführer Lüttjohann is a graduate of Skorzeny’s elite commando school, Herr Reichsleiter,” he explained. “He has distinguished himself with Skorzeny in the service of the Reich. He has been taught every possible military art and commando trick—and I am informed he excels in them. He speaks English, French, and Italian and he is a superior officer in every way, of unquestioned loyalty.”
Bormann glared at the young officer in his commando uniform. Instinctively he knew he meant trouble for him.
“Loyalty must be stamped on your heart, mein Führer,” he said. “Not merely on your belt buckle.”
Hitler smiled. “And I am reliably informed that it is, Herr Reichsleiter,” he said. He glanced at Bormann. “Obersturmführer Lüttjohann will accompany you and Eva. Just in case . . .”
He smiled to himself. It was his final safeguard to ensure Bormann’s performance. He had thought of everything. He turned to his desk. From the drawer he took one of the two large envelopes. He walked up to Bormann.
“Read this,” he said. He handed the envelope to Bormann. “You will carry it with you when you leave here. Guard it with your life. You will give it to Eva when you get to South America. It contains all the documentation she will need to prove conclusively that her son is the heir of Adolf Hitler.”
He returned to his desk. “And Bormann,” he said, “you should know that I have also made arrangements for a—a smokescreen to be laid down for your protection. Conflicting reports as to when you were seen leaving the Bunker. That you managed to escape, or that you were seen killed on the streets of Berlin, or that you defected to the Russians.” He smiled thinly. “There will be reports that you were seen taking refuge in the Bavarian Mountains. In Denmark. In many different places, in fact. All to confuse the truth, of course.”
Bormann was gratified. It was the only thing he, himself, had been unable to arrange. It would have caused suspicion. But he knew how important it could be, and he did not doubt the effectiveness of Hitler’s efforts. No one could equal the Führer at mixing truth with falsehood in exactly the right proportions to make the whole sound convincing. His motto—the bigger the lie, the more easily it will be believed—had become a truism.
“And now, mein lieber Herr Reichsmarschall,” Hitler said. “You and I will brief Obersturmführer Lüttjohann. Together. So he may know exactly what is demanded of him.”
And they did.
Finally Hitler rose. He looked gravely at the two men. “What has been said here,” he warned, “must stay with the three of us. No one else—I repeat no one—must know. The secret must remain with us.” He fixed them with compelling eyes. “Swear it! On the sacred oath you once gave to the Reich—and to me.”
Solemnly they swore.
“Now go,” Hitler said. “And prepare.”
In unison the two men threw up their arms and cried “Heil Hitler!"
Bormann
was halfway out of the door, Lüttjohann behind him, when Hitler called: “Obersturmführer Lüttjohann ! Ein Moment.” He beckoned the young officer to return. “I have some further instructions for you.”
Bormann, turning in the doorway, glared at the young man. He had been right, he thought angrily. Skorzeny’s Spitzbube— Skorzeny’s young brigand—would bear watching. Already the machinations were beginning.
He closed the heavy metal door less gently than he had intended.
Willibald Lüttjohann returned to the desk. Smartly he came to attention. “Zu Befehl!” he snapped. “At your orders!”
Hitler looked at the young man. He liked what he saw. Instinctively he knew the officer could be trusted with the special and far-reaching orders he, and he alone, was to be given. Slowly, grimly he began to talk . . .
Fifteen minutes later it was done, and Oberstühmfuhrer Willibald Lüttjohann left the Führer’s quarters fully briefed.
For a moment Hitler sat quietly at his desk. His shoulders drooped. He let his arm twitch without attempting to control it, and his face sagged.
It was done.
The two men in whose hands the future of Germany, of Adolf Hitler, now rested, had been given their all-important orders. He reflected on the momentous differences between the two. One, mature, greedy, and powerful, shrewd and devious and totally untrustworthy, concerned only with himself; the other, young and idealistic, loyal and eager to serve his Fatherland—and his Führer.
He sighed.
Stiffly he got up from his chair. He shuffled to the door to Eva’s dressing room. It stood slightly ajar. He pushed it open.
“You heard,” he said. It was a statement rather than a question.
The man who stepped into view in the doorway was perhaps forty years of age, although his powerful, athletic build made him seem younger. Rugged, yet lithe, he gave the impression of danger about to be let loose. SS Sturmbannführer Oskar Strelitz had been with Hitler from the start. He had marched with him in Munich in 1923 as a member of Stosstrupp Hitler and he had cheered himself hoarse at the Nürnberg rallies. He would lay down his life for the Führer—no hesitation, no questions asked.
And Hitler knew it.
“You heard it all,” Hitler repeated.
“I did,” Strelitz said grimly.
Hitler looked at him. He put his hand on his shoulder. “You know your mission, Oskar,” he said. “You know how important it is to me. To us. Our common cause. To Operation Future.”
Strelitz nodded.
“Follow them, Oskar,” Hitler continued earnestly. “Protect them. From any dangers. Pursuit. Betrayal. Protect Eva with your life.”
Again Strelitz nodded. It was self-evident.
“I will give you whatever written authority is needed. It will be total. But do not interfere as long as things go well. Do not make your presence known to them. Only in total secrecy lie your own safety and protection. Do nothing, unless it becomes imperative. Then, if necessary, you will take over Bormann’s task, or Lüttjohann’s duties,” he said earnestly. “You understand?”
Sturmbannführer Oskar Strelitz looked into the burning eyes of Adolf Hitler. He placed his own hand firmly on the trembling hand of the Führer resting on his shoulder. “I do!”
5
EVA ANNA PAULA BRAUN opened the wardrobe in her room adjoining Hitler’s quarters in the Bunker. She looked critically at the meager selection of plain dresses. What should she wear? It was April 28, 1945, the most important day of her life, the day she would become the wife of Adolf Hitler, Führer of the German Third Reich, and she wanted to look her best.
She lit a cigarette. She knew Adolf strongly objected to her smoking—to anyone smoking, for that matter—and she never did in his presence. But she needed something to calm her excitement.
She held out a dress. Should she wear the pretty blue one with the white collar and cuffs? She knew it was becoming to her. She rejected it. Just not festive enough. She let a stray thought flit back to her fantasies of long ago. She had always wanted to wear her grandmother’s brocade dress when one day she’d be married. But, of course, that was not possible. The dress was still at Berchtesgaden. The flowered one? No, she had worn that one a lot in the Bunker. She liked it, though. It was very much like the one she had worn the day she had met Adolf. Sixteen years ago. It had been in the photographic shop of her employer. Heinrich Hoffmann. She had been standing near the top of a ladder taking down some supplies when Adolf Hitler came in. She had been aware of the man, whom Herr Hoffmann had called Herr Hitler, watching her, and she had deliberately stretched to reach something on the very top shelf, although she did not need it. She knew her dress would ride up, and she wanted Herr Hitler to see a little more of her legs. She had good legs.
She finally selected the black silk taffeta. It had a high neck and a full skirt. It was the most festive one, and it was one of Adolf’s favorites. It fit her tightly. For a moment she frowned in concern. Would it be too tight? She had already put on a little weight. Had anyone noticed? Had Liesl given her a funny look? Just yesterday? She shrugged off her concern. Soon it would not matter. She shook out the dress. It would need ironing. Liesl would see to that. And do her hair. There was so much to be done. For a moment she thought affectionately of the maid who had served her so faithfully. Liesl Ostertag. She would have to leave her something. Some jewelry. Only she had so little with her in the Bunker.
She put the black dress, which was to be her wedding dress, on her bed.
The morbid appropriateness of its color did not occur to her. She hurried off in search of Liesl.
Adolf Hitler also had last-minute preparations to attend to, although of a vastly more far-reaching nature.
The table in the anteroom to his study had been opulently decorated in preparation for the wedding reception. The gleaming white tablecloth bore the initials A.H. as did the silver dinner set. And the champagne glasses sparkled. Only the flowers were missing. Hitler did not seem to notice any of it as he hurried toward the little hospital room of Feldmarschall Ritter von Greim. Just as he took no notice of the fire hoses snaking through the conference room corridor nor the chunks of fallen plaster on the rug. He paid no attention to the two SS officers who stood smoking as they conferred, and did not hide their cigarettes as he shuffled by, and he seemed not to hear the raucous music coming from the general dining area on the upper level of the Bunker. His world was beginning to collapse around him—and he paid it no heed.
In the corridor, Artur Axmann tried to stop him. Only a week before, on the Führer’s fifty-sixth birthday, Axmann had brought a group of his Hitler Youths to the Bunker to be decorated for bravery. The youngest had been twelve years old. He had destroyed a Russian tank. In the Chancellery garden above, Hitler had personally pinned the Iron Crosses on the puny but proud chests of the boys.
Axmann looked haggard and deeply worried. His hectic visits to the Bunker were made between battles in the city above when he could leave his headquarters on Friedrichstrasse from where he directed his Hitler Youth boys who defended the city and desperately tried to hold the Havel bridges from the Russian onslaught.
“Mein Führer,” he insisted, “I beg you! You must leave the Bunker. Leave Berlin! The Russians will overrun the Chancellery within days. Perhaps hours. I will personally take the responsibility of getting you out. Safely and unharmed.” He spoke rapidly as he walked beside Hitler who had not stopped. “I pledge to you, mein Führer, the life of every single member of my Hitler Youth to get you out to safety.”
Hitler brushed him aside. He seemed not to have heard. He entered the hospital room.
Ritter von Greim, leaning on Hanna Reitsch and a cane, was hobbling across the floor. When he saw Hitler he quickly removed his arm from Hanna’s shoulder, put his cane behind him and stood erect, placing as little weight as possible on his wounded foot.
Hitler did not notice.
“Herr Feldmarschall,” he said, “when will you be leaving?”
&nbs
p; “We plan to leave here about 2300 hours, mein Führer,” Greim answered. “We will attempt to take off around midnight.”
Hitler frowned. “Midnight is still hours away,” he said shortly. “Why delay?”
“It is the time of least enemy ground action,” Greim explained. “The very early morning hours. The only possible way to fly out is in a small, slow, low-flying plane, vulnerable to small arms fire from the ground. A one- or two-seater plane.”
Hitler nodded. “Of course. You must give yourself the best possible chance. Your mission demands it.” He looked at Hanna. “You will accompany the Feldmarschall?” he asked.
“Yes, mein Führer,” Hanna acknowledged. “Unless you will permit me to stay at your side.”
Hitler shook his head. “I told you already,” he said shortly. “Both of you. You must leave.” He turned to Greim. “You will use the same plane in which you flew in?”
“No,” Greim said. “The Fieseler Storch was destroyed. In the Russian artillery bombardment this morning. We have an Arado-96, a light artillery observation plane, standing by. It has already been fuelled. It is ready for takeoff.”
Again Hitler nodded. He seemed to hear only part of what Greim said.
“Here are your final orders, Greim,” he said. “Your mission is threefold. First—arrest the traitor, Himmler. See that he does no more harm to the Reich. Secondly—as commander in chief of the Luftwaffe use whatever squadrons are available to you to attack the Russian forces that threaten the Chancellery. Keep a corridor open to the west. To link up with the Mecklenburg pocket. Prevent the enemy from overrunning the Chancellery grounds for as long as you can. And third"—he pulled the big envelope from his uniform tunic pocket—"deliver this into the hands of Grossadmiral Doenitz. You already know part of the contents. Operation Future. There are also further instructions the Admiral must carry out.”
