by Ib Melchior
At that exact instant a sharp, ear-splitting explosion rent the air. An artillery shell hit the wall of a gutted building, toppling it into the street. Instantly the SS men hit the ground.
Willi pulled Eva down with him. He tried to shield her from the flying debris with his body. In the eternity of a few seconds a thousand thoughts and impressions crowded in on his mind, eerily etching themselves on it in the flickering light from the burning buildings which brightened the night with a fiery glow.
A second shell hit. He saw the SS men at the lamppost scatter to seek cover. He saw the Rottenführer turn to race for the protection of an overturned truck, and he saw the bullets from Bormann’s gun rip into his back, instantly cutting him down.
Another explosion rocked the street. Russian artillery, he thought automatically. From the sound of it, fourteen-pound 76.2 field guns. The shelling came from the south. Where was the battery? In the Grunewald somewhere? The 76.2 had a range of almost fourteen kilometers. Was it the same battery that had caved in the sewer?
Explosions blasted the already ruined buildings around them. He saw Bormann start to run toward them. He saw his mouth stretched open in a shout—"Eva!"—but the sound was drowned out.
He saw the SS men hugging the ground near him, awkwardly lifting their Schmeissers to fire at the running Bormann.
He saw the Reichsleiter falter, grab his left shoulder, whirl around and race for the nearest ruins in a broken field run, the bullets—spitting in a staccato stream from the erratic SS Schmeissers—pursuing him. And he saw him disappear into the building wreckage.
Another shell hit. Walls came crashing down. The SS men cowered on the ground.
It was now!
Willi sprang to his feet. Roughly he pulled Eva with him, and clutching her arm in an iron grip he ran down the street, away from the SS manhunters, away from the grisly lamppost—and away from Reichsleiter Martin Bormann.
The streets were almost deserted. Only emergency personnel was abroad. The citizens of Wilhelmstadt were crowded into their basements and cellars in refuge. Occasional fires lit their way as Willi and Eva ran on. They crossed a broad thoroughfare littered with burned-out vehicles pockmarked with shell craters. Willi quickly oriented himself on his map. Heerstrasse. Ahead lay the Havel Lake.
The houses were increasingly suburban as they neared the lake, but none of them had escaped extensive damage.
At the water’s edge they came upon a gaily painted wooden shed. A little private boathouse. Miraculously the only damage to it was a peppering of shrapnel. A crater gouged out the road close by and a motorcycle had crashed against the door to the shed. The dead courier driver lay entangled with his demolished machine, one arm sticking up stiffly into the air as in a grotesque Heil Hitler! salute.
Willi pushed the wrecked motorbike and its rider aside, and, seeking refuge and rest, he and Eva entered the boathouse.
Several blocks to the north Martin Bormann sought refuge in the cellar of a bombed-out house. His breath came in shallow gasps, his heart pounded in his chest. He sank down against a wall and wearily leaned against it, swallowed by the darkness. He wrapped his arms around his knees and rested his head on them.
He had looked into the face of death, and he had not liked what he saw.
Nothing was as important as his life. He had already written Eva off. There was no way he would ever find her again. It was doubtful if she and that presumptuous Obersturmführer would survive the enemy artillery barrage or the wrath of the SS hangmen, when they found their leader shot. So be it. He would have to do without the Hitler treasure.
He stood up. Flensburg, and the waiting submarine, lay four hundred kilometers to the north. He would have to find transportation. Once out of Berlin he could commandeer a vehicle. The enemy was closing in on both sides of the salient. He had little time to spare.
Cautiously he emerged from the cellar.
Eva Braun Hitler had already been erased from his mind.
Willi stood inside the boathouse waiting for his eyes to accept the darkness. Eva stood close behind him. He could feel her tremble. Fear? Or exhaustion? Gradually his eyes adjusted and in the faint reddish light from the fires in the street he could make out his surroundings. To his right stood a table. A small lantern with a candle stump had been placed on it, and next to it a stack of deck-furniture cushions had been piled on the floor. With a match from his spare waterproof container he lit the candle.
He walked back to the door and closed it. The lock had splintered away from the doorjamb when the motorcycle had rammed into it, but there was a heavy dead bolt on the door. He pushed it home.
Holding up the lantern, he inspected the shed. Two windows were boarded up with heavy wooden shutters bolted from the inside. There was another door opposite the door to the street. It was closed, its dead bolt in place. Three or four wooden folding deck chairs were stacked along the wall in one corner along with a folded lounge. On one wall were some framed photographs of a small boat and several smiling people enjoying themselves; on another a bad oil painting of a schooner in a storm. A ceiling fixture in the shape of a ship’s lantern suspended beneath a ship’s wheel hung in the center of the room. Willi did not try to turn it on. There would be no electricity. In one corner a few pieces of clothing had been thrown across a pair of rubber boots. He put the lantern on the table. He unfolded the deck lounge and placed the cushions on it.
“Frau Hitler,” he said, “we will be safe here for a little while. Why don’t you get some rest?”
She looked at him, suddenly looking bone-weary. “What about you?” she asked.
“I will rest, too,” he said.
She nodded. She lay down on the lounge. Willi searched through the old clothing. He came up with a heavy jacket. He put it over her. “Try to sleep,” he said.
She nodded.
In less than a minute she was breathing the deep, measured breaths of sleep.
Willi unfolded one of the deck chairs. He sat down. He looked at the sleeping woman.
She was his responsibility now. And his alone. And so was the heir of Adolf Hitler. The future of the German Reich, the Führer had said. A new generation in his image, with his ideals.
He thought of Bormann. The Reichsleiter was lost to them now. They would never find him nor he, them. He wondered if he was still alive. He did not know what Bormann’s plan had been for them to reach Flensburg under his leadership, nor what to do if they succeeded in doing so on their own. No need for him to know, the Reichsleiter had said. That had been his decision. At least the man had been consistent, Willi thought wryly. All his decisions had been wrong!
He was suddenly grateful for the Führer’s foresight in giving him his personal instructions. Included among them was an address. An address in Potsdam. “Should a real emergency arise, Lüttjohann, use it,” the Führer had said. “The people there will give you aid—and further instructions.”
He clenched his teeth in determination. A real emergency had arisen.
He spread out his map on the table next to the lantern. Potsdam was fifteen kilometers to the south. At the southern tip of the lake. If they stayed on the Ostufer—the eastern shore—they would have to go through Grunewald. The Russians were there. The road on the Westufer ran past Flughafen Gatow. His map did not indicate if the Russians had taken the area as yet but there was bound to be heavy fighting around an airstrip. Both routes were undesirable.
The lake.
If he could use the lake itself he could reach Wannsee Forest at the southern end and, from there, Potsdam.
He looked at his watch. It was just past 0400 hours. If they were to travel on the lake it would have to be under cover of darkness. That gave them barely three hours. He looked at the sleeping woman. He was about to wake her up. He thought better of it. Let her sleep as long as possible. She would need all the strength she could muster later.
He looked at the bolted door on the lake side of the cabin. Perhaps. He opened it.
Below, mo
ored to a short pier, a small motorboat lay bobbing gently in the wavelets lapping at the shore.
His first impulse was to get the woman and set off at once. He stopped himself. Preparation. Planning. Performance. The creed of the Skorzeny commandos.
The Bormann escape route had been mapped out to take them through German-held territory. He did not know if Potsdam had fallen to the enemy or not, but it was likely that they would run into enemy patrols. They would have to appear exactly like the thousands of other refugees who always eddied in the wake of war.
He took his SS identification papers from his tunic pocket. They would do him no good. Neither would the identity disc he wore around his neck. He tore it off and discarded it along with his I.D. papers. Better no identification than identification that would harm him. His uniform. He would have to get rid of it. He rummaged through the old clothing in the corner. There was a shirt. A colorful sports shirt and a pair of dark blue pants. He changed into them. The fit was acceptable. And he could use the jacket he had spread over Eva Hitler.
What else? He would keep his gun. That would not be out of keeping. But the army issue rucksacks and most of their contents would have to be left behind. He took out the rations and broke them open.
He went over to Eva. He shook her gently. “Frau Hitler,” he called. “Wake up! We will have to leave here in a few minutes.”
Eva sat up groggily. Startled, she stared at Willi. “Your clothes . . . ” she exclaimed.
He smiled at her. “A little disguise, Frau Hitler,” he explained. “Simply as a precaution.” He gave her a ration. “Please eat something,” he said. “We will have to leave here soon. For Potsdam.”
“Potsdam!” Eva exclaimed, startled.
“The Führer instructed me,” Willi told her. “Personally. I am following his orders.”
Eva nodded. She began to eat some crackers from the ration box.
“There is a small boat below,” Willi said. “We will use it to make our way down the Havel. To Wannsee. And Potsdam.” He walked to the door. “I will check to see what condition it is in.”
Eva stood up. “I will go with you,” she said.
The boat was seaworthy. Its name, FREUDENREICH, was painted in ornate letters on the side near the bow. The word was a double-entendre. It could mean either “Joyful” or “Reich of Joy.” It was immaterial, Willi thought. Neither meaning held true any more.
A permanently built-in outboard motor provided the power. Willi examined it. It had a simple pull-string starter. He pulled it. The motor fired, sputtered, and died. It was cold. He tried again. And again.
The motor would not start.
He looked at the fuel tank. It had no gauge. In a little tool box under a seat he found a dip stick. He used it. The fuel tank was dry.
He turned to Eva. “No gasoline,” he said.
He looked around. Oars. He saw none. Even if he had, he realized, he would not have been able to use them. The build of the boat made it impossible even if that had not already been the case because of their strict time limitation. Rowing, they could never make it to Wannsee before dawn.
“Herr Obersturmführer Lüttjohann,” Eva said hesitantly. “Willi. Would—would the fuel in a motorcycle work in that?” She pointed at the outboard motor.
Willi stood up. Of course! “Yes,” he said, “it would. A capital idea, Frau Hitler!”
“Eva.”
He smiled at her. “Gnädige Frau,” he said. “With your permission—Eva.” He leaped back up onto the little pier. “Come on!”
At the door to the street he handed the candle lantern to Eva. “Hold this,” he said. He pulled the dead bolt open.
All of a sudden a deep, angry growl reached them from outside the door.
Willi frowned. Cautiously he opened the door a few inches.
Instantly the head of a huge, black dog catapulted itself at the opening. One ear torn to bloody shreds, lips drawn back over long, yellow fangs and wild eyes shining with malevolent fury in the candlelight, it snarled and snapped at Willi, as it thudded against the door. At once, behind the attacking beast, a roar of maddened barking and savage growls rent the air.
Eva screamed. She dropped the lantern and the cabin was plunged into utter blackness as Willi quickly slammed the door and bolted it. The furious scratching on it by the frenzied dog outside mingled with the growling and yelping in spine-chilling pandemonium.
Willi fumbled his way to one of the windows next to the door. He unlatched the bolt on the wooden shutter and swung it aside.
He looked out.
A gruesome sight met his eyes.
A pack of six or seven large dogs, all of them filthy and unkempt, their hides matted with dirt and dry blood from wounds and cuts, were fiercely worrying and tearing at the body of the dead motorcycle courier lying entangled in his demolished machine outside the door. Growling and snarling, they tore at the dead man’s clothing trying to yank him free. His one hand that had been raised in a mocking salute to death, its glove ripped off, was now a bloody, misshapen claw stripped of flesh.
Willi turned away.
“What—what is it?” Eva whispered.
“Dogs,” he said, shaken despite himself. “Killer dogs.”
“Dogs?” she whispered. Her mind struggled with the concept of dogs as killers. How was it possible? Fleetingly she thought of her own two sweet and loving Scottish terriers, Stasi and Negus, a birthday present from Adolf. Years ago. Gentle and fun they had been. A joy. And Adolf’s own beautiful German shepherd, Blondi, who had given her life for her master. The Führer had wanted to be sure the poison in the phials really worked, and Dr. Haase had tried it out on Blondi. She had died at once. It had been so sad. And inspiring, of course. A faithful dog sacrificing its life for its master. She had cried a little. Blondi had given birth to a litter of darling little puppies only a few days before; they had still been clinging to the cold teats of their dead mother when Günsche had shot them to death, one by one, in the garden. So they shouldn’t suffer. She wondered what would become of Stasi and Negus. Stasi was still at the Berghof in Bavaria. Negus was in the Bunker. She had loved them so. Such loyal and devoted companions. She looked toward the door. How? How could dogs turn into such terrible creatures?
“Dogs?” she whispered again.
“A pack of wild dogs,” he said. He groped around for the fallen lantern as he spoke, his voice leaden. “Forced from their demolished and burned-out homes. Separated from their dead masters. Driven mad by the bombardment, the fires, the chaos of the fighting, they roam the city in packs. Searching for food. For survival.”
He found the lantern. He relit the candle.
Eva was sitting on the floor, huddled against the wall. Even in the warm glow from the candle her face looked ashen. From the moment they had started out from the Bunker she had felt her nerves shrivel and die and disintegrate into tiny dead fragments. She had been forced to see a world she had not ever dreamed existed, to step into it and become part of it. A world where a father and son hung lifeless on a lamppost, a world where dogs became vicious killers. She shivered. She tried to crawl into herself, the only place of refuge left to her.
Willi shot her a quick glance. He recognized at once that she was about to go into shock. He had to get her mind off the horror outside.
“Eva,” he said sharply, “I need your help.” Dully she looked at him. “Find anything that will burn easily. Paper. Cardboard. That sort of thing. Put it on the table.” She stared at him, impassively. “Move!” he snapped. “Now!”
She started. She got up. She began to look around. A shelf running above the door to the boat pier had a cut-out paper border of red hearts tacked to the edge of it. She tore it off. She collected the wrappings from the rations; even Willi’s discarded I.D.
Willi had broken off a leg from one of the wooden folding deck chairs. He began to wrap the flammable material collected by Eva around one end.
“Those photos on the wall,” he said. “Take them out
of the frames. They will burn.”
She plucked the framed photographs from the wall and tore the photographs out.
“And that oil painting,” Willi said.
She ripped the painting from the frame. Willi cut it into strips with his knife. He wound the strips of canvas around the paper and photos, securing it all to the chair leg with a few strips knotted around it.
He inspected his handiwork.
The chair leg made a credible torch.
He turned to Eva. “This is what we have to do,” he said earnestly. “We must get that motorcycle in here. We need the gasoline.” His eyes locked onto hers. “Listen carefully. I will light the torch. When I say, you will open the door, just enough for me to reach through. When I am ready, I will tell you to open the door all the way—and then, slam it shut. Do you understand? I am counting on you.”
Eva nodded.
“Good,” he said. He smiled encouragingly at her. “You will do well.”
He set fire to the makeshift torch. It took time before it was ablaze.
“Now!” he called.
Eva pulled the bolt away and opened the door halfway. Willi stepped into the narrow opening.
Instantly the dogs outside looked up at him. Growling and snarling, they fixed their crazed eyes on him. The big black leader of the pack, fangs bared, leaped for his throat. He thrust the flaming torch straight at the beast. The firebrand hit the dog in the open maw, and with a startled yelp it twisted in mid-air and crashed against the side of the cabin. Howling with fury and pain it scrambled to get away. Willi waved the torch before him. Stabbing the fire at the savage pack, screaming at them, he slowly drove them back from the motorcycle and its grisly rider.
The maddened eyes of the beasts—red pits of hate and ferocity in the glow from the blazing torch—never left him. But the flames made them keep their distance.
Not taking his eyes from the dogs, Willi bent down and tugged at the wrecked motorcycle. The dogs—seeing their prize being wrested from them—moved in. Willi jabbed the torch at them, driving them back.
He pulled on the bike. Slowly it moved. He realized he could not free it from the body entangled in it; he would have to drag both bike and body into the cabin. He yanked at the motorcycle. Hackles raised along their backs, tails between their legs, burning eyes riveted on Willi, the dogs slowly moved in. Willi glanced at the torch. The flames were getting weaker. It would not last much longer.
