by Ib Melchior
He gave Greim his hand. “I know you will succeed,” he said. “You must!”
“Mein Führer,” Hanna said, close to tears, her voice unsteady with emotion. “I implore you! Leave the city. It is not too late. Take my place with the Feldmarschall. You must live, mein Führer. For the German people. The German Reich. You must not die!” Her voice broke.
Hitler regarded her. He was obviously moved. He patted her arm awkwardly. “Meine liebe, liebe Hanna,” he said quietly. “Death will be a relief for me. I have been deceived and betrayed by everyone—except a few like you.”
For a moment he looked at them. “Hals-und-Beinbruch,” he said. “May you break your neck and your legs"—the traditional German good-luck wish. “I shall not see you again.”
He turned on his heel and with a barely noticeable limp walked from the room.
It was late when the wedding ceremony finally got underway in the small conference room. The plan had been to begin the proceedings much earlier, but it was now close to midnight.
First there had been the delay of finding two suitable rings to be exchanged. Neither the groom nor the bride had been able to provide them. And suddenly everyone in the Bunker who had been wearing wedding rings sported naked fingers. Gold was at a premium. It was all they would have left if flight from the city became necessary. Then someone had suggested the Gestapo treasury. The SS officer who brought the rings over to the Führer Bunker had wondered what the Führer wanted with two wedding rings that had been confiscated from some rotten Jews before they were gassed. When he found out he wisely kept silent. And he was only too pleased to get out of the Bunker Klapsmühle—the Bunker nut house. The groom and the bride tried on the rings for size. They were too big.
And then there had been the difficulty in finding a magistrate to perform the civil wedding ceremony. Dr. Goebbels had remembered a justice of the peace, one Walter Wagner, who had married him and his wife, Magda, and a search was mounted to find this man. He had finally been located, fighting in a Volkssturm unit near the Friedrichstrasse, and was brought to the Bunker.
The small wedding party assembled in the room included Goebbels and Bormann, who were to be the witnesses.
Bormann stood next to Eva as her witness. Eva had been baffled at the sudden, unaccustomed friendliness of the man, who alone among all the Führer’s close associates had always held her in contempt—and had often shown it, when Hitler was not present. Now the man, whom Eva considered a loathsome, oversexed toad, had been almost deferential. “Gnädiges Fräulein, may I, please?” he’d asked when he took her arm. She had been puzzled and uneasy.
Because of the unusual circumstances, both she and Adolf had requested the special war wedding procedure, so that the ceremony could be performed without the customary waiting time. Both of them had solemnly affirmed that they were pure third-generation Aryans and suffered from no hereditary diseases, facts which were duly entered in the records.
And now they stood before the magistrate. Eva in her black taffeta dress with the gold clasps at the shoulder straps, wearing a bracelet set with tourmalines, her diamond-studded watch, and a topaz pendant. Adolf was, as usual, in his uniform.
To the accompaniment of Russian artillery shells and the rockets from “Stalin Organs” exploding above, the nervous magistrate, who had been told to hurry through the formalities, began the ceremony. He looked awkward in his combat dusty civilian clothes and his Volkssturm armband.
The oversized rings were exchanged and Justice of the Peace Wagner looked solemnly at the two people standing before him.
“I come now to the solemn act of matrimony,” he intoned. “In the presence of the witnesses here assembled I ask you, mein Führer, Adolf Hitler, whether you wish willingly to enter into matrimony with Fräulein Eva Braun. If this be so, I ask you to reply, ‘Yes.’ “
“Yes,” said Adolf Hitler.
“Now, herewith I ask you, Fräulein Eva Braun, whether you are willing to enter into matrimony with mein Führer, Adolf Hitler. If this be so, I ask you to reply, ‘Yes.’ ”
“Yes,” said Eva.
“Now, inasmuch as both the engaged persons have declared their intent to enter into matrimony, I herewith declare their marriage valid before the law,” Wagner intoned, obviously relieved that his momentous duties were discharged.
Eva felt as if she would burst with excitement. She was the wife of the Führer, Adolf Hitler! At last. She was the rightful Führerin of the Third Reich, and no one could deny her. After all those long, long years. She did not even notice that her husband did not kiss her at the conclusion of the ceremony. She was used to his not showing her affection in public. The tears of happiness in her eyes were enough.
Bormann was the first to congratulate her. All smiles, he bowed to her and kissed her hand. It disturbed her, and when the magistrate asked the four principals in the ceremony—Hitler, Eva, and the witnesses Goebbels and Bormann—to sign the marriage certificate—in the proper sequence, of course—she began to sign herself Eva Braun. She laughed, crossed out the B and wrote Hitler, geb. (née) Braun.
It was done. The wedding party joined the other celebrants at the wedding feast to enjoy the good food, the wine, and the champagne.
And, as Hitler broke with tradition and toasted his new wife with a glass of sweet Tokay wine, a small two-seater Arado-96 observation plane raced along the makeshift airstrip at the historic triumphal arch, the Brandenburg Gate.
Hanna Reitsch was at the controls. Feldmarscball Ritter von Greim, who had arrived at the airstrip on crutches, sat stiffly in the second seat.
The Russians had fought their way even closer to the airstrip than when they had arrived in the Storch. The stark ruins ringing the area were tinged with a blood-red glow from the fires. Bright searchlights from Russian antiaircraft batteries lanced the night sky. And the cacophonous sounds of battle assaulted their ears.
They had been told takeoff would be impossible. Russian forces lay in wait a short distance from the end of the runway, ready to shoot down any plane that tried.
Hanna had said nothing. She had taxied to the other end of the airstrip and was now streaking down the runway, taking off with the wind instead of against it, as the enemy would expect. Fighting the controls, urging the little plane to gain speed. She hurtled straight at the six massive columns of the great arch looming before them, lifted, and barely cleared the giant bronze statue of Victory and her four-horse chariot—the famed Quadriga—that stood atop the huge gate. She willed the plane to gain altitude. Quickly the Russian searchlight crews found the small aircraft and pinned it in a latticework of blinding beams of light. Hanna climbed as steeply as she dared. Up from the nightmare of fire and smoke, suffering, and terror that was the dying city of Berlin. Up toward a cloud bank four thousand feet above. Tracer bullets zipped in fiery streaks past the shuddering wings. Antiaircraft shells burst in black puffs of destruction and the little Ar-ado-96 slipped into the concealment of the clouds and headed northwest.
Flugkapitän Hanna Reitsch and Feldmarschall Ritter von Greim had departed from Berlin.
And with them went the beginning of Operation Future.
In the Führer Bunker Eva, clad in her blue Italian silk nightgown, climbed into bed with her husband.
On the street above, Justice of the Peace Walter Wagner lay dead, killed on his way back to his Volkssturm post.
6
Obersturmführer WILLIBALD LüTTJOHANN looked at his watch. It was 1547 hours—Monday, April 30. He sat alone in the little temporary hospital room which so recently had been occupied by Feldmarschall Ritter von Greim. He had been ordered to keep himself ready to leave the Bunker at any time. That had been two hours ago. But his keyed-up alertness had not left him.
Outside in the conference corridor a macabre spectacle was about to take place. A small group of people—less than a score—was waiting uneasily. They had been summoned to bid their last farewells to their Führer. A pall of depression hung over the scene.
Time had run out.
Everyone tensed as the door to Hitler’s study opened. All eyes were upon the Führer and Eva as they stepped out into the corridor. Both were pale, but composed. Eva was wearing her favorite Italian-made shoes, and once again she wore her husband’s favorite dress, the black taffeta. A pink scarf added a touch of color. Only hours before, the dress had been a wedding gown. Now it was to be a shroud.
She embraced the women. To Trudl Junge she whispered sentimentally: “Don’t forget to give my love to my beautiful native Bavaria—das schöne Bayern.” She smiled prettily at the generals and officials, Joseph Goebbels, Martin Bormann. And SS Sturtmbannführer Otto Günsche, her husband’s senior SS Adjutant, who faithfully had guarded his life. Until now. They kissed her hand. The hand of the Führerin of the German Reich. Führerin for a day.
Hitler shuffled from one solemn leave-taker to another. In utter silence he shook their hands, one by one. But he did not look into their faces. Only when he came to his valet, Heinz Linge, did he speak. In a barely audible voice he said: “Linge, mein alter Freund, you must escape Berlin—and live.”
Startled, Linge said: “Yes, mein Führer. Why?”
“To serve him who will come after me,” Hitler whispered, his voice strangely constricted. “As faithfully as you served me.”
The last one was Otto Günsche. The officer had his orders. He would guard the door. No one was to enter the Führer’s study for ten minutes.
And Hitler and Eva went into the study.
With an ominous clang of finality the vault-like steel door swung shut behind them, and Günsche, his Schmeisser machine pistol at port arms, took up his position at the door.
Hitler took Eva by the hand. For a brief moment he stood gazing at the empty spot on the wall where the portrait of Frederick the Great, his favorite possession, had hung until a few hours ago. He had given it to his loyal pilot, Hans Baur. He looked at Eva.
“My little Tschapperl,” he said softly, calling her by the banal Bavarian term of affection he so often used. “My little ‘honey pie,’ now I have nothing but you.”
She squeezed his hand.
He looked at the table standing before the blue-and-white velvet-covered couch. On it his Walther 7.65 and a smaller caliber handgun, a Walther 6.35, had been placed—and two glass phials. He turned to Eva.
“Now,” he said.
Quickly Eva removed her scarf. She threw it on the table next to the little gun. She began to unbutton her dress.
Suddenly the door to the corridor opened.
Startled, Hitler whirled toward it.
Otto Günsche stood in the open doorway. “Mein Führer,” he said apologetically, “Frau Goebbels insists on speaking with you. She says it is of vital importance.”
Behind the officer Hitler glimpsed the woman, Magda Goebbels. She seemed hysterical. She was shouting: “There is still hope, mein Führer! You can still reach Berchtesgaden! There is still hope! You must not die! You cannot die! . . .”
He was furious. It had been close. Another few seconds. He glared angrily at Günsche. “You have your orders,” he growled. “I will not see her. I will not see anyone! You will keep that door closed. For ten minutes. Whatever happens. Is that understood?”
“Jawohl, mein Führer!”
Hastily Günsche closed the door.
Shaken, but still under control, Eva began to remove her dress. It had been close.
Hitler quickly strode to the door leading to his private room.
“Strelitz,” he called hoarsely. “Bring her out.”
SS Sturmbannführer Oskar Strelitz walked into the study. The unconscious woman in his arms bore a striking likeness to Eva.
She was without a dress. Hitler merely glanced at her. She was of no importance, a necessary sacrifice to serve his purpose. And the future. He did not know her name. Strelitz had found her. Working as a volunteer in the Bunker Lazaret. No one knew her. No one would miss her.
But she was vital to the success of the operation.
Eva Braun had to die. An Eva Braun. Her body had to be found with his. There could be no doubt. No one must have a reason to hunt for her once the Reich had been struck down.
When the time came she knew what to do.
Eva helped Strelitz to put her black dress on the unconscious woman. And her Italian-made shoes. She said not a word, but the tears were streaming down her cheeks.
Strelitz placed the woman on the sofa. He picked up one of the glass phials from the table and put it in her mouth.
Eva looked away as, with a quick motion, Strelitz clamped the woman’s jaws together, crushing the phial. Part of the broken glass fell to the floor. A violent spasm racked the unconscious body and left it still in death.
A fleet, almost impersonal embrace—as if both Eva and Adolf found it difficult to express affection in the presence of death— and they stood in awkward silence. Strelitz glanced at his watch.
“Frau Hitler. Bitte,” he said urgently. “The bandages!”
Quickly Eva walked to her own room, followed by Strelitz, who closed the door behind them.
For a moment Hitler stood alone, staring after them. Then he shuffled to the sofa. One last time. Heavily he sat down. Without a glance at the dead substitute Eva at his side he picked up the remaining phial and placed it in his mouth. He reached for his gun and raised it to his temple.
To those waiting in the corridor outside each second was an eternity. The silence was tangible—taut and heavy. The nerves of everyone were tensed to the ultimate. All eyes were on the massive, closed steel door, all ears were straining for the sound of the shot they expected to come. The shot that would take the life of the Führer. The shot they all knew would be impossible to hear through the thick, fireproof, gasproof, and soundproof double door. But still they listened. And the eternal seconds ticked by . . .
Finally Günsche spoke. “Ten minutes,” he said. “The Führer’s ten minutes have gone by . . .” He spoke to no one. Everyone.
At once Bormann strode to the door. He flung it open. Over his shoulder Günsche, Linge, and the others took in the sight that met them—every detail searing itself on their minds.
Sitting on the blue-and-white sofa were Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun. From a small hole in the Führer’s right temple the blood slowly oozed down his cheek. His right hand hung limply over the arm of the sofa and below it on the floor lay his Walther 7.65. His left hand clutched a picture of a woman to his uniformed chest. His mother. A few glass splinters fallen on it from his open mouth glinted in the light. Eva Braun was leaning into the corner of the sofa, her face partly hidden. Her little 6.35 pistol still lay next to her gay pink scarf on the table. It had not been fired. On the floor near her left foot was part of a broken glass phial. Mixed with the acrid smell of gunpowder there was a strong odor of bitter almonds in the room. The cyanamide had done its job.
Hurriedly Bormann walked into the room. Two heavy woolen military blankets had been thrown over a chair. He took one of them and quickly covered Eva’s body. Following his lead, Linge took the other and spread it over the Führer.
Bormann motioned to two SS officers. Between them they picked up the blanket-covered body of Hitler. Bormann himself carefully wrapped the blanket around the body of Eva Braun. Only her feet were visible. And on them her favorite Italian-made shoes. He lifted her up—she was heavier than he had expected—and started toward the stairs that led to the garden above.
At the foot of the stairs the six-feet, two-inches-tall Günsche stopped him. For a moment Bormann thought the man was going to pull the blanket aside and look at the body, but he merely took her in his arms and gently carried her up the fifty stone steps to the garden, followed by the grim mourners.
About ten meters from the Bunker exit, amidst the broken masonry, blackened timbers, uprooted trees, and jagged cement blocks scattered throughout the shell-cratered Chancellery garden, a shallow ditch had been dug in the rubble-strewn ground, and nearby a number of gasoline cans had bee
n stacked. Side by side the two bodies were laid in the trench.
As the corpses were being doused with gasoline, a Russian artillery bombardment suddenly exploded around the garden. Quickly the mourners sought refuge in the shelter of the Bunker entrance. Here Günsche dipped a rag in gasoline, set it afire, and hurled it out onto the gasoline-soaked bodies in the pit. At once they were enveloped in a roar of flames—an eerie obbligato to the thundering Russian barrage. And sooty smoke billowed up toward the red haze that lay over the city. Suddenly one of the SS officers snapped to rigid attention and gave the Hitler salute. Awkwardly the others followed his lead.
For a while Bormann stood with the silent group watching the blue flames eat at the shrouded bodies. Startled, he saw their limbs twitch spasmodically as the heat contracted the muscles and boiled away the tissue. The sickening sweet stench of burning flesh soon engulfed him and he quietly slipped away, disappearing into the Bunker.
It was 1853 hours. The Führer, Adolf Hitler, had been dead less than three hours. In the desecrated garden above, the flames had not yet consumed his body, but his Bunker world below had already disintegrated into a wild, profane bacchanalia.
The Bunker complex teemed with people. Soldiers and civilians seeking refuge from the hell above mingled with the milling Bunker denizens, imprisoned in a different, ungodly hell deep in the earth. The impending doom had severed every normal restraint of reason and decency. Liquor and lust, fear and despair in hellish fusion permeated everything and everybody and reigned unfettered.
No one paid attention to the three people who made their way through the crowded corridors and chambers of the Bunker system. Two men and a woman. The woman’s head was swathed in bandages and her left arm was cushioned against her body in a sling. The older of the two men wore a large, makeshift patch over one eye; he kept his head pulled down into the upturned collar of an army greatcoat. The younger man, clad in a tight-fitting black uniform, assisted the wounded woman as they hurried through the Bunker labyrinth.
