The Last Battle: The Classic History of the Battle for Berlin

by Cornelius Ryan

  By the time they reached the Anhalter Station, its bunker was already jammed. Elfriede finally found them a place on one of the stairway landings. A single weak light hung above their heads. In its glow, people could be seen crowding every foot of floor space and every stairway of the building. Conditions in the bunker were unbelievable. The floor above was reserved for wounded, and their screams could be heard night and day. Toilets could not be used because there was no water; excrement was everywhere. The stench was nauseating at first, but after a time Elfriede and Erich no longer noticed it. They passed the hours in a state of complete apathy, hardly talking, unaware of what was happening outside.

  Only one thing intruded on their private thoughts: the continuous screaming of children. Many parents had run out of supplies of food and milk. Elfriede saw “three small babies being carried down from the floor above, all of them dead from lack of food.” Next to Elfriede sat a young woman with a 3-month-old infant. At some point during their stay in the bunker, Elfriede noticed that the baby was no longer in the mother’s arms. It was lying on the concrete floor next to Elfriede, dead. The mother seemed dazed. So was Elfriede; she remembers “that I simply saw that the child was dead without being upset in any way.”

  On Potsdamerstrasse, the House of Tourist Affairs was being shelled. In the 44-room underground shelter there were more than two thousand people, and Margarete Promeist, who was in charge of the shelter, had her hands full. Besides civilians, two battalions of Volkssturm had recently been moved in because, Margarete was told, “the Russians are getting closer.” Harried and near exhaustion, Margarete had been more than grateful for the telephone call she had received a short time before. A close friend had volunteered to bring her some food. Now, as she moved about the shelter, forty-four wounded civilians were brought down from the street. Margarete hurried over to assist with the casualties. One of them was beyond help—and as she sat quietly beside the dead body of the woman who had come to bring her food, Margarete “envied her quiet and peaceful smile. She, at least, has been spared our via dolorosa.”

  While most people were going underground for the duration of the battle, druggist Hans Miede patrolled his beat as air raid warden for the public shelter at Bismarckstrasse 61 in Charlottenburg. As shells exploded all about him, he looked balefully at a poster on the wall of the building opposite the shelter. The text, printed in gigantic letters, read, THE HOUR BEFORE SUNRISE IS THE DARKEST.

  For Dr. Rudolf Hückel the sunrise was far away. For weeks now the eminent pathologist had been a source of deep worry to his wife Annemaria. She believed he was headed for a nervous breakdown. Some time earlier he had shown her a cyanide capsule whose deadly potency he had improved upon by the addition of acetic acid. He had told her then that if Berlin’s situation worsened, they would commit suicide. Since then Frau Hückel had seen how “the intensity of the war, its senselessness, and my husband’s rage against Hitler had all gotten the best of him.” Now the limit of Dr. Hückel’s endurance had been reached. After hours of listening to the screaming of shells, the doctor suddenly got up, ran to the open window and yelled out at the top of his voice, “Der Kerl muss umgebracht werden!”—That fellow [Hitler] must be bumped off!

  Hitler’s finger stabbed the map. “Steiner! Steiner! Steiner!” he shouted. The Führer had found the answer. SS General Felix Steiner and his troops, he cried, were to attack immediately from their positions in the Eberswalde on the flank of Von Manteuffel’s Third Panzer Army; then they were to head south, cutting off the Russians’ drive on Berlin. Steiner’s attack would close the gap that had opened when the northern flank of Busse’s Ninth Army crumpled. On Hitler’s map it appeared a brilliant move. Zhukov’s drive now looked like an arrowhead, its base on the Oder, its tip pointing directly at Berlin. Along Zhukov’s northern flank was the little flag that said, “Group Steiner.” Hitler was confident once more. Steiner’s attack would re-establish contact between the Third and Ninth armies.

  There was only one thing wrong with the Führer’s scheme. Steiner had virtually no men. Earlier, Heinrici had decided to place under Steiner the Ninth Army troops that had been shoved to the north by the Russian drive. Unfortunately, the widespread confusion at the front and the lack of time had made it impossible to gather sufficient forces to make the Group Steiner operational. In effect, there was no Group Steiner. But the name had stuck, and so had the little flag on Hitler’s map.

  Now Hitler phoned Steiner. “As I remember the call,” Steiner said, “it reached me between 8:30 and 9 P.M. Hitler’s exact words were: ‘Steiner, are you aware that the Reichsmarschall [Goering] has a private army at Karinhall? This is to be disbanded at once and sent into battle.’ While I was trying to figure out what that was supposed to mean, he continued, ‘Every available man between Berlin and the Baltic Sea up to Stettin and Hamburg is to be drawn into this attack I have ordered.’ When I protested, saying that the troops at my disposal were inexperienced, and when I asked precisely where the attack was to take place, the Führer gave me no answer. He simply hung up. I had no idea where or when or with what I was to attack.”

  Steiner called Krebs, explained his situation and told the Chief of OKH that he did not have troops. “Then I recall Hitler cutting in on the conversation. At that moment I was explaining to Krebs that my troops were totally inexperienced and that we had no heavy weapons. Hitler gave me a long lecture and closed with these words, ‘You will see, Steiner. You will see. The Russians will suffer their greatest defeat before the gates of Berlin.’ I told him that I thought the Berlin situation was hopeless. I was completely ignored.”

  Shortly thereafter Steiner received the official order to attack. The last paragraphs read:

  It is expressly forbidden to fall back to the west. Officers who do not comply unconditionally with this order are to be arrested and shot right away.

  You, Steiner, are liable with your head for the execution of this order. The fate of the Reich Capital depends on the success of your mission.

  ADOLF HITLER.

  After his conversation with Steiner, Hitler called the Luftwaffe’s Chief of Staff, General Koller. “All Air Force personnel in the northern zone who can be made available are to be placed at the disposal of Steiner and brought to him,” Hitler said, his voice rising. “Any commanding officer who keeps back personnel will forfeit his life within five hours. They must be told of this.” Then he screamed: “You, yourself, will guarantee with your own head that absolutely every man is employed.”

  Koller was dumbfounded. It was the first he had heard of Group Steiner. He called General Dethleffsen at OKH and asked, “Where is Steiner? Where should our troops be sent?” Dethleffsen did not know, but promised to find out as quickly as possible.

  Throughout this frantic period, one man, Heinrici, knew nothing at all about the scheme. When he finally heard, he called Krebs. “Steiner does not have the strength to make such an attack,” Heinrici said angrily. “I reject the order. I insist on the withdrawal of the Ninth Army. Otherwise, Krebs, the only troop units still in position to defend Hitler and Berlin will be lost. Now, I tell you if this final request is not approved, then I must demand to be released from my post.” Could he, Heinrici suggested, have an appointment with Hitler to discuss the situation? Krebs flatly vetoed the idea. “It’s just not possible,” he said. “The Führer is overworked.”

  For the record, Heinrici noted the outcome of the conversation in his personal war diary: “My appeal to the highest officials to bear in mind the responsibilities they bore to the troops was rejected with the words, ‘That responsibility is borne by the Führer.’”

  The life of Army Group Vistula was drawing to a close. Heinrici knew that it could last only a few days longer. His career, too, seemed to be running out. The General was well aware that his unbending obstinacy over how to fight his losing battle was considered the worst kind of defeatism by Krebs. Now, without warning, during the night of April 21, Heinrici received word that General Eberhard Kinzel, Vis
tula’s Chief of Staff, was to be replaced. The man who was to take over his job was Major General Thilo von Trotha, one of Hitler’s most ardent disciples. Heinrici believed that Krebs had deliberately put Von Trotha in the post to try to influence his decisions. If so, it was a senseless move. “I know this Von Trotha,” Heinrici told Colonel Eismann. “Maybe he’s intelligent, but he embellishes the facts; he has a kind of flashy optimism. His feet,” the General observed tartly, “are in the air.” When Von Trotha arrived, Heinrici decided, he would isolate him completely and deal only with Eismann. It was a dangerous procedure to adopt with a Hitler favorite, but Heinrici could not concern himself with that now.

  Before dawn of the twenty-second, a second announcement reached Heinrici. The Berlin Commandant, General Reymann, telephoned. “I am being replaced,” he told Heinrici. The events that followed Reymann’s removal had some of the qualities of slapstick. His successor was another high-ranking Nazi Party official, a certain Colonel Kaether, a man so obscure that his first name is lost to history. Kaether was immediately promoted to major general, jumping the interim rank of brigadier general. He spent the rest of that day delightedly phoning his friends the news. By nightfall Kaether was a colonel again, having been removed from the post: Hitler himself had decided to take command temporarily.

  Meanwhile, the man whose future was to be most closely bound to the city’s last days was getting himself into serious trouble. General Karl Weidling was completely out of communication with any headquarters, including that of his immediate superior, General Busse. Weidling’s 56th Panzer Corps had been so battered and so often encircled by General Katukov’s First Guards Tank Army that he had lost all contact with his colleagues. Rumors were flying that Weidling had deliberately retreated, and Weidling was not on hand to refute them. Hitler had heard these stories. So had Busse. After waiting almost twenty-four hours for news, both men issued orders for Weidling’s immediate arrest and execution.

  When the smoke cleared on the outskirts of Bernau, Captain Sergei Golbov saw the first prisoners coming out of their defenses. The fighting here had been murderous. It had taken Chuikov’s troops almost half a day to advance five miles in this sector, fourteen miles northeast of Berlin. Now parts of the town were in flames, but tanks were pushing through, heading southwest for the Berlin districts of Pankow and Weissensee. Golbov sat on his newly confiscated motorcycle watching the prisoners. They were a sorry-looking lot, he thought—“gray-faced, dusty, bodies sagging with fatigue.” Golbov looked about him and was struck by the disparity between the works of man and those of nature. Fruit trees were beginning to bloom. “The blossoms looked like white snowballs, and in the suburbs every little garden had flowers, but then the huge black war machines, the tanks, crawling through the gardens—what a contrast!”

  Golbov took out of his tunic pocket a folded copy of the newspaper Red Star, carefully tore off a small strip of the paper, shook some tobacco onto it and rolled a cigarette. Everyone used Red Star paper; it was thinner and seemed to burn better than Pravda or Izvestia. It was as he lit the cigarette that he saw the German major staggering up the road toward him.

  “Leave my wife alone!” the man was shouting in Polish. “Leave my wife alone!” Golbov watched, puzzled, as the wild-eyed officer staggered toward him. When the German got closer, Golbov got off his cycle and went toward him. Blood was pouring down the major’s hands.

  The German lifted his blood-streaked arms and Golbov saw that he had slashed his wrists. “I’m dying,” the man gasped. “I’ve committed suicide. Look!” He thrust his bleeding hands toward Golbov. “Now! Will you leave my wife alone?”

  Golbov stared at him. “You stupid fool,” he said. “I’ve got other things to do than bother your wife.” He called out for the medics, then held the man’s wrists to stanch the flow of blood until the first-aid men arrived. It was probably too late anyway, Golbov thought, as the medics led the major away. “Leave my wife alone! Leave her alone!” the German kept yelling. Golbov leaned back against the motorcycle and relit his cigarette. Goebbels has done his work well, he thought; what do they think we are, monsters?

  Bruno Zarzycki, tears staining his face, stood in the street as the liberators he had waited so long to see passed by. The Communist leader in the Neuenhagen-Hoppegarten area, twelve miles east of Berlin, was delighted because now everyone could see what he had known all along: that Goebbels’ propaganda about the Soviets was fabricated of the most vicious lies. Red Army troops, trim and efficient, had entered Neuenhagen and had quickly passed through, heading west for the Berlin districts of Weissensee and Lichtenberg. There had been practically no fighting in the town. Most of the local Nazis had left on April 15. At that time Bruno had told Mayor Otto Schneider, “When I see the first Russians I’m going out to meet them with a white flag. Fighting would be useless.” The Mayor agreed. Only one man had put up a fight: the fanatical Hermann Schuster, head of the party’s social welfare unit. He had barricaded his house and opened fire on the first reconnaissance units. It was a one-sided battle. The Russians had efficiently wiped out Schuster and his house with hand grenades. Bruno and the other members of his Communist cell burned their Volkssturm arm bands and met the Russian troops with a white flag. Bruno was happier than he ever remembered being. He shared all his information with the Soviet troopers and told them that he and his friends were “anti-fascists and always had been.” For Bruno the arrival of Zhukov’s soldiers brought on the miracle cure he had anticipated weeks before: his ulcers disappeared. For the first time, he could eat without nausea or pain.

  The cure was to be short-lived. Bruno’s detailed plan for the future socialistic administration of the town, which he confidently offered to the conquerors a few weeks later, was turned down. A Russian official heard him out and then had responded with one word: “Nyet.” On that day—three months after Bruno Zarzycki had watched with pride and wonder the arrival of his idols—the ulcers which he had always called “fascist-inspired” returned, worse than ever.

  In the Lehrterstrasse Prison, condemned Corporal Herbert Kosney did not know how much longer his luck would hold. The confirmation of the death sentence pronounced on him by civil authorities was still pending action by a military court. Herbert was living on borrowed time. On the twentieth he had been informed that the military tribunal would hear his case the following day. He knew what its verdict would be, and that he probably would be executed immediately. But the next morning, when he arrived under guard at the courthouse at Plötzensee, the building was empty: everybody had fled to the shelters.

  Although the surprise Russian bombardment had saved him, the reprieve was only temporary. Kosney had now been told that his trial would take place Monday, the twenty-third. The Russians were Herbert’s last hope. If they did not reach the prison before that date, he would surely die.

  Because of the shelling, the prisoners had been moved down into the cellars. Herbert noticed that the guards had suddenly become friendly. There were rumors that some prisoners had already been released and that others might be allowed to leave within the next few hours. Herbert was certain he would be held, but he hoped that his brother Kurt might get out.

  Kurt, too, was aware of the rumors, but he knew what Herbert did not—that they were at least partly true. The names of some Jehovah’s Witnesses—convicted conscientious objectors who performed various menial chores in the prison—had been called out, and the men had been given release slips which would permit them to leave the prison. One Witness did not seem to be in much of a hurry to depart, Kurt noticed. The man was sitting at a table in the cellar, carefully cleaning the last morsel of food from his tin plate. “Why aren’t you leaving with the others?” Kurt asked. The man’s explanation was simple. “My home is in the Rhineland, behind the Western Allies’ lines,” he said. “There’s no possibility of getting there. I’m just going to sit tight and stay here until the whole thing is over.”

  Kurt looked at the man’s release slip. If the Witness was not go
ing to use it, he knew someone who could. As the prisoner continued eating, Kurt kept him in conversation, moving closer to the yellow paper that signified freedom. After a few more moments of amiable chatting, Kurt managed to slip the paper into his pocket; undetected, he walked off.

  Quickly he found Herbert and offered him the precious release order. To his astonishment, Herbert refused it. Because he was condemned to death, the Gestapo would capture him no matter what, Herbert said. Kurt had been imprisoned only as a suspected Communist; he had not been charged with anything. “You’ll have a better chance,” Herbert told his brother. “You go.” Then he added with false enthusiasm, “We’ll all probably get out today, in any case. So you might as well go first.”

  A short time later, his bedroll over his shoulder, Kurt Kosney walked into the guard room on the main floor and joined a line of Jehovah’s Witnesses being processed out. One of the guards, an SS sergeant named Bathe who knew Kurt, looked right at him. For one awful moment Kurt expected to be grabbed and hauled back to the cellar. But Bathe turned away. The man behind the desk said, “Next.” Kurt presented his slip. Five minutes later, his official stamped release in hand, Kurt Kosney stood in the street outside the prison. He was a free man. The street was being swept with gunfire and “the air was thick with shrapnel,” but Kurt Kosney hardly noticed. He felt “deliriously happy—as though I had drunk about twenty brandies.”

  The Russians were in Zossen. General Rybalko’s Third Guards tankers had captured the High Command headquarters intact, along with a handful of engineers, soldiers and technicians. Everyone else had gone.

  Rybalko’s tired, begrimed tankers blinked in amazement at the brilliant lighting in the vast underground rooms. As they wandered through galleries, living quarters and offices, evidences of a speedy exodus were apparent everywhere. Major Boris Polevoi, a political commissar attached to Koniev’s headquarters, saw that the floors were littered with maps and papers. In one room a dressing gown lay on a desk; nearby was a leather case filled with family photographs.