Twilight of Gutenberg

by Hitoshi Goto

  †

  I found myself unexpectedly having to stay the night at Sonnenberger’s side. It appeared he no longer had any work to do either, so we had dinner together in the dining room next to his office. Quality wines and champagne were brought out to accompany the hams and sausages. It was a sumptuous feast.

  We chatted pleasantly about Paris with no reference to our previous conversation. He had studied there over ten years before me. Our ferocious exchange earlier was still on my mind, but I enjoyed having an unrelated debate about art.

  A high-ranking SS officer with the highest command of law and order enjoying a drink with an artist in the underground bunker—a strange scene indeed. It must have been because we were getting close to the end...

  Eventually the conversation turned to family. Now I couldn’t see the man sitting before me as one of the top leaders of the SS. He must have been aware that he didn’t have much time left. To borrow an expression from the Japanese, it was like a samurai removing his formal attire in order to talk openly and informally. We could feel the armour around our hearts loosening.

  He was not in the slightest surprised to hear that I had a wife and daughter in London. His family had been living in Dresden, he said, but they fell victim to February’s air raid.

  “I went to the spot where my house had been. I couldn’t find any trace of my wife and daughter there, let alone their bodies. Even their bones must have been burned to ashes in the extreme heat. I’m all alone in the world now.”

  The expression on his face now was utterly unlike that a short time ago when he had been talking so cruelly of Jewish people.

  “To tell the truth, losing my family did make me think about a lot of things. But what good does that do? I can’t do anything about it on my own. Germany is a big prison, and I just happen to be a guard of that prison. And a guard has to fulfil the duties given to him, however inhuman it is. It’s the job,” he said, his voice getting smaller and smaller. He looked down.

  Then he admitted frankly that he had been the one to issue the order to kill the Manteuffels. It had been under instructions from Kaltenbrunner, but he didn’t intend to avoid the responsibility for what he had done. Maybe he felt a need for atonement at the last moment.

  I was shown to a plain room with a bed in it. Now and then I could hear the sound of exploding shells.

  As I closed my eyes, various things passed through my mind. I could clearly see the smiling faces of my family, but I drove them from my thoughts. Kenichi and Setsuko, the Swedish art dealer…

  Next time I opened my eyes, there could well be a Soviet soldier standing there. I would probably be safe if I showed my Japanese diplomatic papers, but if I couldn’t answer his questions he might shoot me.

  I would surely have had a higher chance of survival had I not got into the car yesterday and had stayed in the embassy. But I didn’t regret coming here.

  At some point, I dropped off to sleep.

  When I woke up, at first I didn’t know where I was.

  Then, finally, the events of yesterday came back to me. But I had no idea what the time was. I remember having stayed up late drinking with Sonnenberger, though.

  I looked at my watch—already afternoon!

  I wished I had a change of underwear, but that was asking too much. I got up, and went to Sonnenberger’s room.

  He was already at his desk, dressed in his black uniform. Seeing me, he raised his hand in greeting. First he offered me lunch, and an SS officer took me to the dining room where I had sandwiches washed down with French red wine.

  Afterwards I went back to Sonnenberger’s office. He didn’t appear to be doing anything much, simply waiting for me to come back.

  The individual side of him that I had glimpsed last night was nowhere to be seen, and he was one again an impeccable SS officer.

  “You did sleep well, didn’t you? A lot has happened in the meanwhile, you know.”

  “Such as?”

  “There is currently fierce fighting around the Reichstag. It’ll only be half a day, one day at the most, before the Soviets come to this bunker.”

  “I suppose I can’t return to the embassy.”

  “Unfortunately that’s too dangerous. You could easily be shot by a sniper walking down the Tiergarten.”

  “What else?”

  “Hitler is no longer single. Yesterday he formally married Eva Braun.”

  “So he gave up celibacy, huh?”

  “He no longer has to present himself to the German people as an ascetic dictator. But it’s ironic.”

  “What is?”

  “The plane carrying Hitler’s son from Bavaria to Oslo crashed en route. There are no survivors.”

  This came as a big shock to me. So Romulus was dead?

  The bunker suddenly shook from a nearby explosion.

  Immediately afterwards, the same SS officer as last night came running in again. Ignoring my presence he announced in a loud voice, “The Führer has killed himself!”

  Sonnenberger listened in silence, and when the officer had gone he turned to me.

  “Hoshino, in any case, it appears the twilight of the gods is upon us.”

  1-2 May 1945

  Escape from Berlin

  Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat. In this distracted globe. Remember thee!

  Hamlet was possessed by his father’s ghost, and after Hitler’s suicide, the people left behind were probably controlled by his ghost too.

  From around 16:00 on the thirtieth, the incineration of Hitler and Eva’s remains started. There was just one objective: to not let even a tiny piece of them go into Soviet hands.

  At around 18:15 Bormann sent a telegram to Dönitz informing that Hitler had named him his successor. At this stage, Hitler’s fate was still kept hidden.

  At 19:00, General Weidling, commander of the 56th Panzer Corps as well as the Berlin Defence Commander, ordered a 24-hour delay in the escape plan.

  On 1 May, soon after midnight, the flames that had consumed Hitler’s corpse died down, but his body had not been fully reduced to ashes.

  Soon afterwards, General Krebs, Chief of Army General Staff, departed from the bunker. He had experience of being stationed in Moscow, and understood Russian. He had just under 5 km to his destination: he walked holding up a white flag, on his way to negotiate a ceasefire.

  About an hour and a half later, Krebs reached the 8th Guards Army battle command post where he communicated the news of Hitler’s suicide. Commanding officer Chuikov didn’t look impressed, although he did contact Marshal Zhukov, who in turn called Stalin for instructions, waking him from his sleep.

  “Find Hitler’s body. And don’t accept anything less than unconditional surrender from the Germans,” came the order from Moscow.

  The following morning, the Soviets fought the SS Foreign Corps for the Reichstag building stair-by-stair, room-by-room, and finally attached a red flag to part of the domed roof.

  Göbbels sent Dönitz a top-secret telegram informing him of Hitler’s death.

  Before long, the German 56th Panzer Corps Chief of Staff visited the battle command post of the Soviet 8th Guards Army and informed them they would not concede unconditional surrender. Krebs’ negotiations had failed. Eventually the Soviet shelling started again.

  At around 20:30, Göbbels and his wife ordered an SS officer to shoot them. A bullet was fired into each of them, killing both.

  At 22:15 the BBC broadcast the news of Hitler’s death and Grand Admiral Dönitz taking over as his successor.

  Thus Hitler’s death was now public, and the ceasefire negotiations had ended in failure. After Germany rejected unconditional surrender, there were just three options left to those who remained in the bunker.

  Firstly, those too proud to be taken prisoner by the Soviet Army could take their own lives. Göbbels, General
Burgdorf, and General Krebs had taken this route.

  Secondly, they could surrender to the Soviet forces who would soon be arriving there. However, should they take this course of action, they had no way of knowing when they might be released, or even whether they would be sent to Siberia.

  Thirdly, they could escape from the bunker, slip through the Soviet net around the city, and make their way to the western front and surrender to the Allies. The difference in treatment by the Allies and Soviets was expected to be roughly equivalent to Heaven and Hell.

  At that point in time, there were about five hundred people left in the bunker. Above ground the 11th SS Panzergrenadier Division Nordland under the command of General Mohnke had been deployed around the Reichstag building and was still fighting. As the front line moved back and the defended area reduced in size, conversely the resistance was stronger.

  The underground bunker was connected by tunnels to the metro. It was decided to form a number of escape parties and make a breakout late that night.

  Bormann’s party was to be the last to leave, and planned to walk along the tracks from Wilhelm Station at the junction between Voss Strasse and Wilhelmstrasse to Friedrichstrasse Station. From there they would go over ground to cross the bridge over the River Spree. It was a dangerous plan, but the biggest obstacle was whether or not the Weidendammer bridge over the River Spree was still under German control. As the Swedish art dealer had anticipated, Moltke Bridge was already thought to have fallen into Soviet hands given the battle for the Reichstag building had already started. Weidendammer Bridge was the only one left.

  If they could break through there, they would head directly west or northwest until encountering the Allied forces, or if they were even luckier, the German forces under Dönitz’s command.

  Memorandum

  Sonnenberger began changing into civilian clothes. The moment he took off his SS uniform, he looked dramatically different. Paying no attention to me, he rubbed soot on his face and clothes, deliberately making himself look exhausted.

  “So what are you going to do?” he asked me. “Are you coming with me? You can stay here, or escape, as you please. But returning to the Japanese embassy in the Tiergarten will be too dangerous. There is a battle for the Reichstag building, so I suppose the Reds must have taken the Tiergarten. It’s possible they’ve already taken the embassy itself, too—and sooner or later they’ll be here, too. If you stay here, you should show them your diplomatic papers. That will probably save you from being killed on the spot.”

  “So you’re escaping, then.”

  “Suicide would be easy—my family is waiting for me. Although they’ll be in Heaven, and I no doubt will go to Hell.” He gave a lonely laugh. “But Bormann and I can’t die. We have orders to carry out.”

  “Orders? Even now at this stage?”

  Sonnenberger hesitated a moment, then said slowly but clearly, “It’s to do with Romulus.”

  I was confused. “Hang on a moment. Didn’t you say that Romulus died in an accident?”

  Sonnenberger had been meticulously preparing a knapsack, and now slung it on his shoulders. “Ah yes. But that doesn’t mean it’s all over. I told you it was a two-layer secret, didn’t I? Well, then, I’m off!” he said, and left the room.

  †

  1 May, late at night.

  Bormann was leading the breakout. It was the first time I’d seen him, but to me he only looked like a middle-aged man of middling height and build, nothing like an SS powerhouse.

  Sonnenberger briefly introduced me to him, and easily obtained permission for me to join. He wore a hat low down over his eyes, and sunglasses. Hitler’s private pilot Hans Baur was right behind me. Altogether there were about twenty of us.

  It was decided that I would leave with Sonnenberger, and we sneaked out of the bunker. There were almost certainly Soviet snipers around, but it appeared they hadn’t noticed us.

  We first went eastwards along Voss Strasse, and reached Wilhelmstrasse Station in safety. From here we would walk along the tracks to Friedrichstrasse Station. This way there was less danger of being spotted by Soviet soldiers. However, nobody had brought a light and it was hard to find our way, so we gave up and went over ground at Stadtmitte Station. Our next objective was Unter den Linden. Friedrichstrasse Station lay just beyond.

  Coming out onto Unter den Linden, I was dumbfounded. The beautiful world depicted in Mori Ogai’s novel had vanished. Flames rose up here and there, shells flew overhead, tracer bullets flashed by. Berliners, now refugees, were making their way between the mountains of rubble in long snaking lines. Sonnenberger and I blended in with them.

  Weidendammer Bridge came into view. There was a full-blown battle going on here as German forces led by tanks tried to break through the Soviet line on the bridge in order to make their escape northwards.

  On the other side of the river, we saw a large black object. A Soviet tank! Its gun was pointed our way, and abruptly a flame erupted out of it with an ear-splitting noise and flames rose up near us. The Soviets had already reached the opposite bank. We were compelled to take refuge by the wall of a concert hall near the bridge over the Spree to avoid being shot. There we found the group that had left the bunker before us. Sonnenberger pointed one of them out, and whispered in my ear that it was Axmann, the leader of Hitler Youth.

  Then two German tanks appeared on this side of the river, and everyone cheered. At a time like this there was probably nothing more reassuring than the sight of a friendly tank.

  Sonnenberger and I followed a little way behind the right side of the tanks. Then the first tank shook as though it had received a strong impact. For a moment we thought it had been hit by an enemy bazooka, but it was safe and resumed its way over the bridge.

  Suddenly right beside me came a hissing sound like something being punctured and a loud thud. I turned to see Sonnenberger fall clutching the right side of his belly, blood rapidly staining his clothes.

  “Stay strong!”

  I grabbed his arms and dragged him into the shadows. There I knelt down and supported his upper body on my lap.

  “It’s no good,” he said. As he spoke, blood welled up from his mouth.

  “Don’t speak! I’ll get help!” I said, looking around frantically, but of course there weren’t any medics around.

  “Don’t bother. Ro-Romulus…” he said on, his voice faint.

  “What?”

  “Hi-Hitler’s special directive no. 3, Operation Romulus, to be precise. The Führer called it by the code name Wolf. According to legend, Romulus was raised by a she-wolf and went on to found the nation… the Roman Empire lasted a thousand years. The Third Reich will also last a thousand years. There is another secret to Romulus…”

  Sonnenberger tried to keep going and coughed severely, spewing out a large amount of blood. His voice lost strength, and he appeared to switch from French to German. “Romulus’s… die Wol—” Abruptly his body went limp. I lay his body down, and did my best to fold his hands over his chest.

  What was the other secret? Hadn’t Romulus died after all? Had the crash been faked, and Hitler’s son was still alive somewhere?

  But I didn’t have time for sentimentality or reflection. Before wondering about the whereabouts of Hitler’s son, my life was in danger right here and now.

  The German tanks were proceeding over the bridge, a line of people following behind. Some people began to proceed along the raised railway embankment from Friedlochstrasse station probably in the direction of Lehrter Bahnhof.

  From behind me came a hissing sound and something repeatedly hitting the ground in a line at my side. Machine gun fire!

  Now!

  I turned and ran for the building on my right, and threw myself into its shadow. My heart was beating wildly. For the time being I was out of sight from the Soviet snipers.

  Before departing I had committed the
map to memory. If I wasn’t mistaken, my first objective was a building two blocks ahead. I looked around me, then ran. And then I saw the underground entrance just as the Swede had told me.

  There!

  My hands shaking, I took the key out of my inside right pocket. It slipped through my fingers—maybe they were covered in sweat or grease—and clattered to the ground.

  Oh!

  The ground was pitch black. I scrabbled around looking for it.

  I’ve lost it!

  I’d been desperately searching the ground with both hands for a few seconds, or maybe it was several tens of seconds, when from behind me came a voice “Stoy!”

  I froze. I raised my hands and slowly turned.

  A Russian soldier stood there with a light machine gun, the muzzle pointing right at me. I could be shot at any moment.

  “Fascist?” he asked me looking puzzled. He was asking if I was German, probably confused by my Asian features.

  “Nyet. Japonski… Iaponia!” I said loudly, although I didn’t know if this would help. Just then I felt my right foot nudge something on the ground.

  The key!

  It appeared this Soviet soldier had never seen a Japanese before. Tilting his head inquiringly, he slowly trained his gun on me. Were his features central Asian, or from the Caucus? I started shouting all the names from the Soviet Republic that I knew.

  “Kazakhstan! Kyrgystan!”

  “Nyet. Azerbaijan.”

  Azerbaijan?

  A newspaper article I’d read in Paris. The German army’s summer offensive had targeted an oil-rich town in that country. I racked my brains. Where had it been?

  “Baku!”

  He shook his gun. It seemed I was wrong. This was hopeless!

  “Omi…Hachiman!” I yelled, half resigned.

  Astonished, he pointed to himself. “Khachmaz! Khachmaz!” he shouted, and using his hand that wasn’t holding his gun, he joyfully took my hand. Somehow he’d apparently decided I was a friend, a stroke of luck.