The Seventh Secret

by Irving Wallace

  Emily had only one uncertainty. "What if Hitler took off his Frederick the Great cameo and draped its chain around the neck of his double?"

  "I don't think he would have ever considered that. If he escaped, he escaped with the cameo still around his neck. It was his eternal good-luck charm. And if not the cameo, then there is still the gold bridge I prepared."

  Emily's eyes held on Dr. Thiel. "So you think that I should dig?"

  Dr. Thiel nodded his assent slowly. "Dig, Fräulein Ashcroft, dig deep if you want the truth. And should you come upon the truth, don't tell a soul—until you are far from Berlin and ready to tell the world. Yes, Fräulein , dig and be silent."

  Chapter Four

  So here she was, at last, seated in the back of the air-conditioned Mercedes next to Peter Nitz and heading toward the wall that divided the two worlds of West Berlin and East Berlin.

  Emily Ashcroft had awakened early, inspired by her meeting with Hitler's dentist and filled with determination to solve the mystery of Hitler's last days in hiding.

  Her first move, after ordering breakfast, had been to contact a special operator and telephone Professor Otto Blaubach at his government offices in East Berlin. He had taken her call immediately, and had been the model of cordiality. Yes, he had received her letter, had been awaiting the call, and looked forward to a reunion with her. He would be delighted to see her again in East Berlin. Would two o'clock this afternoon do? Emily had told him that the time was perfect.

  After breakfast, it had occurred to her that she had visited the East sector only once before, three years ago while accompanying her father. Her father had taken care of everything, and the crossover had seemed simple. This afternoon she would be alone, on her own. Her destination seemed more than ever alien, and she wanted an escort, someone familiar with East Berlin.

  About to ring the concierge to ask for a private car with a knowledgeable driver, she had thought of some-one else. She had phoned the Berliner Morgenpost and found Peter Nitz at his desk.

  "I'm looking for a guide," she had finally said. "I'm going over to East Berlin, and it makes me a little nervous. I know this is nonsense, still—"

  "You're quite right," Nitz had said. "I can help you. I have someone who is trustworthy. He is an independent chauffeur named Irwin Plamp."

  "Plamp?"

  "Perhaps a peculiar name for you. Like a mispronouncing of plump. He is plump. He goes to East Berlin almost daily. My newspaper uses him all the time. He drives a new Mercedes sedan. When do you want him?"

  "This afternoon. I have an appointment at two o'clock with Professor Otto Blaubach, the deputy minister, in his government office."

  "I'll see if Plamp is free. If he isn't I'll let you know. Otherwise he will be at your hotel. I think you should be ready at one o'clock."

  "Perfect."

  "I assume you are trying to get permission to make an excavation in the garden near the Führerbunker?"

  "Exactly."

  "Miss Aschcroft, have you seen the Führerbunker since 1961 when it was enclosed by the wall?"

  "Yes, I have. I saw it briefly three years ago, and I'm fairly well informed about East Germany through my father's research."

  "Perhaps I can fill you in a bit more before your meeting with Professor Blaubach. I should be only too glad to act as your guide into East Berlin."

  "Would you? That would be wonderful, Mr. Nitz."

  And now here they were in the rear of Plamp's cool Mercedes, Nitz agreeing to address her as Emily and she agreeing to call him Peter, and they were approaching a dirty gray concrete obstruction on their left. Nitz ordered the driver to stop.

  "Die Mauer," said Nitz. "The Wall."

  "Appalling!" Emily exclaimed. She stared at the forbidding barrier of concrete.

  "Hard to believe it went up overnight," said Nitz. "The Deutsche Demokratische Republik—the East German government—insisted they had built it to protect their population from Western invasion. You and I know better. In the dozen years before it was built, one-fifth of the East Berlin population left their homes and crossed over to West Germany. In fact, in the last month before the Wall went up, over one hundred forty thousand East Germans fled into West Germany. In the years since, seventy-two East Berliners have been killed trying to scale the Wall into West Germany.

  "The entire wall between the two Germanys covers about one hundred twenty kilometers—for you, seventy-five miles--more than eighty-five percent of it originally solid concrete, the rest of it composed of wire fences. The actual Wall between West and East Berlin runs about forty-six kilometers or twenty-nine miles. Its average height is three point five meters, which translates to eleven and a half feet. Right here . . ."

  Emily saw that they had turned and were driving parallel with the Wall. She saw again what she had seen on her previous visit. The Wall was a riot of graffiti—slogans and art—sprayed or painted on nearly every foot of it. It was topped, all the way, by some sort of concrete pipe.

  "Beyond the Wall, as you have seen for yourself, over on the East German side," said Nitz, "there is still a squared-off military zone, with plenty of barbed wire and anti-tank crosses. These have deep underground supports. This so-called Frontier Security Zone has tall concrete watchtowers at intervals, each occupied by three East German soldiers, holding machine guns or using their binoculars. Inside the zone stands what is left of the Führerbunker. Not much to see, as you know."

  Emily noted that they were slowing down as they approached a vacant lot overgrown with weeds that featured nearby a cluster of sightseeing buses, tourist cars, a flea market, a refreshment shop, a souvenir store with revolving stands of postcards, color transparencies, and maps for sale outside. Off to the right, only a dozen yards from the Wall, stood an observation structure with a platform on top, crowded with tourists peering across the Wall and into the area that was the East Berlin Security Zone.

  "We will park here in the old Potsdamer Platz, if you like," said Nitz. "I thought you might want another look at the Führerbunker from the platform."

  "Definitely," agreed Emily. "I told you my last look was only a short one. But now that the Führerbunker is my ultimate destination—well, let's go."

  They were out of the Mercedes, and Emily was following Nitz to the foot of two wood-and-pipe outdoor staircases that ascended above the Wall. Together they climbed up short flights of steps to the viewing platform. They worked their way past a half dozen tourists to reach the railing at the edge of the platform. Once again Emily looked out over no-man's-land.

  There was a manned watchtower at the far right, and a grayish brown motorcycle with a driver and occupied sidecar drawing up to it to discharge some replacement guards attired in dark green uniforms. There were abandoned streets made unusable by barriers formed of ugly jagged steel crosses, and in the distance a low fence and gate that admitted the soldiers from East Berlin.

  Nitz was pointing ahead. "The Führerbunker," he announced.

  Emily squinted off.

  Nitz directed her gaze. "You remember? That mound of dirt, a sort of hump of earth about twenty feet high, to the left of the narrow road the guards use, back there about four hundred yards from where we stand."

  "Yes, I can see it,"

  "In 1947 the Russians bulldozed it, but not quite," said Nitz. "Apparently they just covered it over, because once an East German who was handy with a shovel tried to dig down into the bunker. He thought he could create a tunnel for East German refugees trying to escape. The German was stopped, but he found that some of Hitler's old chambers were then intact under that dirt mound. Anyway, the Chancellery garden, which you want to excavate, was this side of that dirt mound. How does it look to you?"

  Emily gazed hypnotized at the mound. "Looks difficult, but it can be done. First I've got to get permission to go ahead."

  "All right, then we should go ahead," said Nitz, taking her elbow.

  After they had left the observation post, and were in the back seat of the Mercedes once
more, their chauffeur Plamp twisted his pudgy body from behind the wheel and peered inquiringly at them through his maroon-tinted sunglasses. "Checkpoint Charlie next?"

  "Checkpoint Charlie, definitely," said Emily.

  It was not until they had arrived at Friedrichstrasse that Nitz spoke again. "Actually, there are six other entry points to get into East Berlin. But this one, Checkpoint Charlie, is the major one for non-Germans."

  They drew near a sign that read: YOU ARE NOW LEAVING THE AMERICAN SECTOR. In the two tin sheds next to it were three soldiers. Nitz identified them as British, French, and American army Military Police. The MPs paid no attention to them, and Plamp drove past, braking before a barrier with a sign reading: STOP.

  A rangy, dour uniformed East German guard came up to the driver's seat. Plamp showed him their passports. The guard raised the pole barrier and Plamp drove forward. From the glass enclosure atop a faded yellow concrete watchtower, two other East German guards were observing them. Emily noticed that there were three partially cobblestoned lanes into the checkpoint, and Plamp had taken the inside one. Plamp parked and then stepped out of the Mercedes and headed toward the first of three yellow sheds off the street on their right.

  Nitz turned to Emily. "This will take about fifteen minutes," he said. "You know the routine. Plamp is showing them our passports, buying seventy-five German marks for the three of us, finally giving customs control the declarations we filled out. I'm sure you remember."

  "I remember," said Emily.

  In less than fifteen minutes, Plamp returned and settled behind the wheel. Instantly, two East German guards materialized, one at either side of the Mercedes. One opened a door to inspect the interior of the car, poking into the dashboard compartment, side pockets of the doors, under the seats. Emily watched as the second guard, who had remained outside, lifted the hood of the car, closed it, went around the Mercedes to raise the lid of the trunk, closed it, then picked up a broomstick with a rectangular mirror attached to the bottom and slid it beneath the car.

  Emily shook her head sadly. "Why do they do this? They know people don't have to be smuggled in. Only out."

  "They're searching for contraband. They know there's an eager black market in East Germany, as you'd expect."

  The second barrier pole went up. Plamp inched the Mercedes forward to a third barrier pole. Another guard had taken the passports and was stonily comparing their photographs to their faces. Satisfied, he returned the passports to Plamp and the final barrier was raised.

  The Mercedes moved ahead, and they were still on Friedrichstrasse but in East Berlin.

  Emily exhaled her breath. "Peter, I wonder if Professor Blaubach is familiar with what goes on at the checkpoint?"

  "He should be," said Nitz with a thin smile. "He is a leading East German functionary."

  "But he seems so nice."

  "I'm sure he is nice. It is his country that is paranoid."

  As they came to a red light at Leipziger Strasse, Emily pushed forward from the depths of the rear seat to speak to the driver. "Take us to the Brandenburg Gate," she ordered. "After that, I want to go slowly down Unter den Linden so that I can have another look. Then you can take me to the address I gave you off Marx-Engels Platz where Professor Blaubach has his offices."

  "But first," Nitz instructed the driver, "drop me at the Café am Palast. Then take Fräulein Ashcroft to her appointment, wait for her, and pick me up on the way back."

  Plamp nodded and they were on their way.

  In a few minutes, Emily saw and recognized the Brandenburg Gate through the car window. The three parts of the monument, the smaller ones and the huge central one, could be seen beyond the curve of a low wooden fence.

  "Really impressive," said Emily. "It's ironic that the greenish sculpture on top is called the Goddess of Peace." As they turned right into a wide thoroughfare, Emily repeated breathlessly, "And Unter den Linden, so beautiful."

  It was beautiful, one of the shadiest and most gracious avenues she had ever seen. There were sidewalks and gleaming shops on either side, and in the center a long, narrow pasture of a park lined on either side with green trees.

  Emily half-turned to Nitz. "I keep forgetting that this was the very heart of Hitler's Berlin, as we have it in our book, before Berlin became a divided city and the East Berliners wound up with the main artery."

  "But the West Berliners got the bigger share of the industry, parks, lakes, people."

  "True," Emily admitted.

  As their Mercedes proceeded up Unter den Linden, Emily could see that the boulevard ahead was clear.

  "Hardly any cars here, no traffic," Emily said.

  "Because cars are still too expensive, except for diplomats and DDR government officials," Nitz reminded her. He pointed to automobiles parked along the center strip dividing the avenue, fixing on a small compact. "That's the most popular, the Prabant. Did you know the body is actually made from pressed paper? It runs on a two-cylinder motorcycle engine. It costs five thousand four hundred pounds in your money, and the average East German earns maybe one thousand marks a month or three hundred sixty pounds. But he has little else to spend money on, so he often saves for such a car. It may take him six years of saving and waiting to get a Prabant. It would take him longer for the Eisenach over there, and the Wartburgh over there. Those have metal bodies, and are also made on this side of the Wall. As for the other sturdy numbers—that's a Czechoslovakian Skola, and next to it is a Landa produced by Fiat in Italy for the Soviet Union.''

  "I don't see any Russian soldiers around."

  "You won't. Not in this city. They're all outside East Berlin, an enormous army."

  As their Mercedes crept along Unter den Linden, Emily studied more carefully the buildings on either side. To the left, the Hungarian embassy, the Polish embassy. On their right the Soviet embassy with its white marble bust of Lenin in the forecourt. Then a Meissner Porzellan shopfront, an Aeroflot Agency, an Import Food store displaying edibles from Vietnam and China.

  Gradually the structures grew in grandeur. Humboldt University, students coming and going. The Neue Wache—the Monument to the Victims of Fascism and Militarism—with its eternal flame inside and its goose-stepping changing of the guard outside.

  "Plamp," Nitz called out. "If you don't mind, I'll get off on this corner."

  "Why?" asked Emily, surprised. "Where are you going?"

  "I'll be across the street at the Café am Palast. It's on the corner of the new six-hundred-room Palast Hotel built by the Swedes for the East Germans. Don't worry about me, Emily. I'll be reading the local newspapers and having some tea, and maybe a sweet. Irwin will take you to your good Professor Blaubach."

  Nitz opened the car door, stepped out on the corner, but before shutting the door, he added, "Don't forget, Emily, you are now in the middle of the sector that was once Adolf Hitler's pride and joy. His Old Reich Chancellery was over here. Now it is a parking lot. And, of course, within the Frontier Zone, his Führerbunker. The ruins of the mighty Third Reich, Hitler's Reich meant to last a thousand years but which lasted only twelve years and three months." One more thin smile. "The Third Reich with its mysteries. Be sure you get the chance to solve them."

  Settling into the chair facing Professor Otto Blaubach's polished oak desk, Emily realized that this was her opening bid to solve one of the major mysteries of the twentieth century, and it must succeed if she was to go further.

  She watched Professor Blaubach making his way to the highbacked leather swivel chair behind his desk. He had not changed much since she had last seen him three years ago. He appeared somewhat older, slower, but his gray hair was neatly combed, the bow tie and dark gray suit and vest were immaculate. He was wearing his gold-framed glasses on the bridge of his narrow pointed nose. In greeting her, his countenance was as kindly as ever, creased with lines of sympathy, but his manner was still a trifle reserved.

  He was sitting now, pulling himself in closer to the desk. "A drink, Miss Ashcroft? Soft or hard,
as you wish. "

  "No, thank you. I don't want to take too much of your time." She smiled. "You called me Emily the previous times we met."

  "Did I? Ah, that was because you were with your father and seemed more a young person to me. Now—now you are a grown lady, making a reputation on your own on television. But you are quite right. The use of Miss Ashcroft does seem inappropriate, all things considered. It shall be Emily." He picked a Spanish Toledo steel letter-opener, in the form of a miniature rapier, off his desk: Toying with it he said, "So you are resuming where your father left off?"

  "That is what brought me to Berlin and to you," said Emily. "My father was so grateful that you obtained permission for him to excavate before his accident."

  "Now you wish to do as he planned to do. You wish to dig up the garden next to the Führerbunker ."

  "Yes, the garden." On impulse she added, "Also, the bunker as well."

  Professor Blaubach's eyebrows went up. "The Führerbunker too?"

  She tried to understand her impulse to add the bunker itself. She realized that it was more than impulse. She recalled Dr. Max Thiel's two pieces of evidence to search for. Hitler's real gold bridge with its tiny clasp. Hitler's cameo with the face of Frederick the Great. If they could not be found in the shallow ditch or bomb crater in the garden, there was still a possibility that Hitler had left both behind somewhere in the private quarters of his underground bunker. If the garden site produced no evidence, a search of the buried bunker might be helpful.

  "Yes," she repeated, "it would be a good idea for me to try the bunker after excavating the garden."

  "Umm. The bunker might give us a bit of a problem. We bulldozed it—actually the Soviets did so—plowed it over to remove it from public view. They were always afraid unrepentant Nazis might look upon it as the shrine of a martyr. Digging in it could make certain of my colleagues uneasy."