Twilight of Gutenberg

by Hitoshi Goto

  That day, Hitler convened a meeting in the small conference room next to his office.

  This meeting was different to the usual strategy meetings and information exchanges regularly held in the evening or late at night. Other than Hitler, there were Dönitz, Bormann, Ribbentrop, and Göbbels in attendance, and the only one of these connected to the military was Grand Admiral Dönitz, Commander in Chief of the Navy. The subject under discussion was the destination of a submarine that was due to set sail from Germany.

  “Of course it should go north,” touched off Göbbels.

  “North? Where to?” asked Dönitz.

  “Thule,” responded Göbbels, utterly serious. “Thule is the spiritual cornerstone of the Germanic culture that once prospered in northern Europe,” he explained passionately. “Thule will give us the power to achieve victory for Germany. Astrology supports this. This is the most difficult time, and if we can get through this period, our immortal army will again rise up and gain victory. The holy ground must be on the white island in the north.”

  “But Mein Führer,” put in Bormann, “Realistically, if we go north there is only Greenland. If we already had a military base there it would be one thing, but as it stands, the environment is far too harsh for a small child, apart from anything else.”

  “Yes, extreme cold is wretched for a child,” Hitler agreed. “I don’t think Eva would allow it.”

  “That’s why I think Latin America is the best place to send Romulus. It is already home to many German emigrants, including many staunch Nazi party members taking refuge there. It would be the ideal place to revive the Third Reich.”

  “But it’s a long way to Latin America. Would he arrive there safely?” Hitler said, shaking his head doubtfully.

  “Mein Führer, they’re conventional submarines, but one is fitted with the latest snorkel. The captain I will appoint is young but one of the best. I am certain that he will safely deliver Romulus to Latin America,” said Dönitz, full of confidence as the former commanding officer of the submarine fleet. Hitler nodded, satisfied.

  “So, shall we leave it up to the Navy to formulate the navigation plan?” proposed Bormann, and everyone agreed.

  “Well then, let’s go on to the next matter,” Bormann said, turning to Ribbentrop. “Foreign Minister, you used to be the Ambassador to Britain and know the history well. Would you explain it to the Führer?”

  †

  U977 had served as escort for the fleet based at Swinemünde, but the muzzle door protecting its bow torpedo launcher had been damaged by ice in the Baltic Sea and needed repair. It had therefore docked at the Hamburg shipyard from March to April 1945, and repairs had now been completed, albeit imperfectly.

  Sub-Lieutenant Schäffer had suddenly received orders to report to Berlin. Ostensibly he was to make his farewell to his mother living in the city, but in reality he had been summoned to Hitler’s Official Residence.

  Schäffer was puzzled. If he was being ordered on an attack, why not just depart from here in Kiel? Why at this point did he have to go to Hitler’s residence in Berlin?

  He couldn’t for the life of him think of any good reason.

  Memorandum

  Kenichi heard me out, and didn’t speak for a while after I finished.

  That silence spoke volumes to his shock at what I’d told him. He was a devoted product of the naval academy military training, and it must have sounded far beyond the bounds of common sense to him.

  Which part had particularly shocked him, I wondered. Commander Yagyu’s letter? That I’d come here at the British military’s bidding? The existence of Romulus?

  Suddenly he broke his silence with an unexpected question.

  “Do you remember Armaments Minister Speer?”

  I had no idea what he was getting at. “Yes, but…”

  He was one of the few decent people in the top ranks of the Third Reich, Kenichi explained to me.

  I recalled the young man with bushy eyebrows I’d seen at Hitler’s side in Paris five years earlier. Maybe that had been him?

  “He has been very considerate towards me. He is one of the Germans that I am close to. After I leave Berlin, he will probably take care of you in an emergency, Yasuo. I just happen to be going to pay a visit to the Armaments Ministry, so I’ll take you with me.”

  Having said this, he stood up. I felt a rush of joy. It seemed to me that Kenichi was indicating he’d understood my mission.

  The Armaments Ministry building was not far away. When we announced our arrival at the entrance, we were shown into a kind of reception room where we waited in silence. We were not offered coffee, but Minister Speer soon came alone into the room. So he was the man I’d seen with Hitler in Paris.

  There are not many people who leave an extraordinarily good impression at first sight, but he was one. He was just forty years old and looked worn out from stress, but his handshake was firm. I took an immediate liking to this architect turned minister, and he appeared to be interested in me as an artist. Kenichi offered to interpret from German, but he spoke in English to me. His English was a bit formal, but we could understand each other without any difficulty.

  To start with I told him about my life as an artist in Paris, and how I’d seen him at Hitler’s side in the square before the Eiffel Tower five years earlier. Unfortunately he didn’t remember me from that time.

  As the conversation progressed, I realised that he truly did love Germany and its people.

  “Our Führer has ordered me to destroy everything once we know beyond all doubt that we are losing the war,” he told me gloomily.

  “Everything?”

  “Yes. If we lose, the German people have no right to continue living. So the autobahn, the factories, telephone exchanges, bridges… everything.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. I know you can’t avoid important infrastructure being destroyed by the enemy during wartime, but this was the country’s own leaders reducing everything to ashes. It was fundamentally different.

  “But even if you lose the war, there will be people who survived. What about the children?”

  “That’s what I asked. What about our responsibility to the future of the German people?” Speer said, then went on helplessly, “And the Führer’s response was that all the superior Germans have already died. The only ones left are those who have no right to live.”

  I was speechless. This was so crazy I could hardly believe my own ears.

  “I’ve been travelling around Germany ever since trying to ensure that his orders are not followed.

  Seeing the look on my face he nodded. “Yes, I am disobeying my Führer’s orders. I may be arrested and executed at any time.”

  “And what’s more…” put in Kenichi, “It’s not only the roads and power stations that he’s trying to save, but art too.”

  In fact, it had been Speer who had urged Furtwängler to go into exile in Switzerland, he told me. Furtwängler had stayed in Berlin even after many musicians, writers, and artists, most of them Jews, had left. His beliefs were irreconcilable with Nazism, but he loved the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, which was the jewel of Berlin and of Germany. Being anti-Nazi he was watched by the Gestapo, but he refused to abandon the members of his orchestra, and it was only when Speer had guaranteed their safety that he finally made up his mind to go into exile.

  On 29 January 1945, he conducted the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra performing symphonies by César Franck and Brahms, and was due to return to Berlin the next day. However, he took Speer’s advice and instead got on a train headed for Switzerland.

  “Unfortunately Göbbels decided to conscript the orchestra members into the Volkssturm militia for the defence of Berlin,” Speer said, his face clouding. “Making soldiers of those first-class musicians, whatever next!”

  I was speechless.

  “However,” he said, looking up
with a fierce glint in his eye, “Tomorrow’s concert by the Berlin Philharmonic will be the last chance.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mr. Hoshino, are you interested only in art, or do you like music too?”

  “As a pastime, yes.”

  “I’m glad. Please do come to the concert tomorrow. It will be the last concert by the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra.”

  “What?”

  Speer seemed to think I’d misunderstood his intention, for he smiled and said, “Please don’t worry. It’ll be reformed once the war’s over. After the concert, I’ve arranged for them to escape to the west. The last piece will be Wagner’s “Twilight of the Gods,” after which I’ll put them on a bus leaving Berlin. The Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra is a treasured asset of the German people. I have a duty to make sure it is left for the next generation.”

  I was truly delighted to hear this. This man really seemed to me the epitome of firm character and righteousness.

  He studied my expression for a while, then said, “And now, Mr. Hoshino, you have come to Berlin despite the grave dangers at this time. I don’t suppose you’re here for sightseeing.”

  It was a pertinent question. Seeing that I was finding it hard to speak, he went on, “I suspect you may be here on some kind of mission… if I am not very much mistaken, it is related to securing the peace process as soon as possible for Japan or Germany. If I can be of help, please let me know any time.”

  The next day, 12 April, was cold. In the afternoon I put on the overcoat my brother-in-law had given me, and headed for the concert hall. The orchestra’s home had been damaged in an air raid, so it was being held in the Beethoven Hall. The venue was unheated, and the cold seeped up through my feet. I sat on the small folding chair I’d brought with me and wrapped myself in a blanket. I was surprised to see the hall lit up with the regular lighting despite the shortage of electricity.

  The audience was abuzz. It seemed the rumour that this was probably the last concert was going around. From my place right at the back, I caught sight of Minister Speer. Since Kenichi had just introduced us the day before, he would probably remember me, and sure enough he winked when he saw me. The use of the lighting today must be upon his express instructions, I realised. He was, indeed, the orchestra’s guardian.

  The musicians and conductor Robert Heger came on stage, to the audience’s applause. The hall remained lit while the orchestra tuned their instruments, then went dark. Only the lights on the individual music stands shone brightly, like torches leading the way to Valhalla.

  The conductor’s baton solemnly began to move, starting with Brünnhilde’s Aria from Wagner’s “Twilight of the Gods.” I was drawn into listening, the war temporarily forgotten.

  Next they played Beethoven’s Concerto for Violin and Bruckner’s symphony “Romantic.”

  The last piece was as Minister Speer had said the day before. It was the most fitting piece for Berlin in its present situation, the finale to Wagner’s “Twilight of the Gods.”

  The orchestra was just about to start playing it when I felt a tap on my right shoulder.

  I turned to see diagonally to the right behind me a man around 60, his golden hair already flecked with platinum and parted neatly to one side, wearing a well-tailored overcoat.

  I tilted my head in acknowledgement, and he gave a little wave with the newspaper in his right hand.

  It wasn’t in German, or in French or English, I noticed. When I saw the word Svenska, I finally realised.

  A Swedish newspaper. He was from Sweden!

  It was as I’d been told in London: I was to be contacted after I arrived in Berlin, but I never imagined the contact would be in this form. I trembled with excitement.

  And then the performance started.

  First the percussion instruments, so low I could hardly hear them. Then the tuber came in as though suppressing its emotions. The swelling tones of the percussion instruments started again. This time the tuber responded low and ominous. Then simultaneously the big drum was struck and the grave melody of “Twilight of the Gods” came gushing forth.

  The misdeeds of the Gods, Siegfried on the funeral pyre, Brünnhilde riding her horse into the flames in order to die with him: I listened enthralled by the storm of music. Finally there was a clash of cymbals and a crescendo of percussion as it reached the terrible catastrophe that destroyed Valhalla. It had to be an unmistakeable hint that the end the Third Reich was coming, too.

  The tragic, magnificent music enveloped the audience. By the end of the performance, tears were running down my cheeks.

  I picked up my folding chair and headed straight for the concert hall’s exit without turning to look at the Swedish gentleman. Before I knew it, he was walking at my side. He started talking to me very naturally in English about his impression of the concert we had just been listening to. Anyone watching us would naturally assume that we had both been moved by the performance and were talking about our impressions. Carrying on our conversation, we gradually distanced ourselves from the other concertgoers.

  Fortunately Kenichi, who had promised to come and meet me in his car, had not yet arrived.

  We sat on a bench outside the hall and introduced ourselves. I was astonished to learn that he was actually an art dealer. An artist and an art dealer. There would be nothing unnatural about us having a talk together. I was full of admiration for the meticulous planning that had gone into this meeting.

  †

  In the end, Kenichi persuaded me to go home with him to the place where he and Setsuko had evacuated to two nights previously.

  As drove, he started speaking, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

  “From now on I’ll be talking to myself.”

  “What?”

  “Whatever I say will be just me talking to myself, so don’t pay me any attention.”

  “All right,” I said, finally realising what he was getting at.

  “It must have been around the end of last year. I was approached in confidence by someone from the Foreign Ministry. He believed that in the end Germany would win the war, and if by any chance Berlin was occupied, planned to continue all-out resistance from the fortifications in the Southern Alps. However, he was considering Japan as an emergency refuge for the top members of the government should they wish, and wanted to start making the necessary arrangements with the Japanese government.”

  “So, how did you answer?”

  “I’m just talking to myself.”

  “Yes, sorry.”

  “In principle we would welcome them. The Japanese government is determined to fight this war to the final victory together with Germany. However, how would they get to Japan? I left it at that. Then about two months ago, Rear Admiral Oshima was approached by the German navy.”

  “Ah.”

  “They proposed sending a submarine with the VIPs aboard from Norway, and meeting up with a Japanese submarine in the southern Atlantic which would take them the rest of the way to Japan, and wanted to know if that would be possible.”

  I suppressed the urge to speak and kept my mouth shut. Kenichi cleared his throat.

  “The Japanese navy responded that although we would like to send a submarine in accordance with the spirit of our alliance, we were preparing to do battle on our mainland, and all our long-range submarines had been assigned for use in a special Kaiten attack unit. We could not spare even one.”

  “Kaiten?” I muttered.

  “Maybe you don’t know about those, Yasuo. They are manned torpedoes used to bomb ships.”

  “What on earth?”

  “The Imperial Navy has extremely advanced torpedo technology. The type 93 torpedo can easily be converted to this use by fitting it with a cockpit and large quantities of gunpowder. It is possible to fit up to six Kaiten torpedoes onto a submarine. Not only is it a small, lightweight, hi
gh-speed missile, it is operated by a human and has an astounding accuracy rate,” he said drily.

  “I’ve never actually seen one, but from what I know of the type 93, its diameter must be about one metre at the most. I can’t help thinking what a small, dark space that is for the pilot. Once he enters it and the hatch is closed, he is unable to move other than to operate it. And then he crashes it into an enemy ship. This form of attack was apparently introduced in November last year.”

  So the kamikaze weren’t just aircraft pilots. The Japanese navy had been deploying human torpedoes too! I could hardly believe my ears.

  “In any case, the navy said they couldn’t provide a submarine, but if the German navy could get the VIPs to Penang, they could fly them from there to Japan. Penang is an island on the western side of the Malay Peninsula, and the Imperial Navy has made provisions for the German navy to have a base there too. According to information I received last week, the Germans accepted that proposal. In the event that this mission is undertaken, there is a high possibility that a new and powerful submarine with an extremely long range will be assigned to it. The latest model of the Type 22 will apparently be put into commission soon, and I think it’s likely that they will use it for this. They will communicate the names of the top government officials and the planned route to the naval attaché just before setting sail. If I’d been staying in Berlin I would have been the contact person, I think, but I have been ordered to move south.”

  “Contact person?” I asked.

  He no longer got angry with me, and answered me frankly this time.

  “The final decision won’t be made in Kiel, but here in Berlin. The request will come directly from a senior naval official at the Führer’s official residence, apparently.”

  “Which means?”

  “That the passengers will include top officials who are currently in Berlin now. Also, that this top secret information will apparently be delivered in a letter by courier to the Japanese embassy on the Tiergarten, which is located close to the official residence. The embassy has been requested to burn that letter as soon as the information has been communicated in a telegram to Japan via Switzerland. The only one of those left in the embassy in Berlin to have been informed of this is Counsellor Kawahara, but he’s from the Foreign Ministry, not the navy. Therefore…”