by Trevor Hoyle
Willi’s face creased into a smile.
‘The Reichsführer went berserk. “This is complete and utter madness!” he shouted. “If I were to discuss such a plan with General Wenck I should be denounced as the first defeatist in the Third Reich. The fact would be served up to the Führer piping hot!” Poor Walter. Filled with such good intentions that always seem to go wrong.’
Yet it was evident that Willi revelled in poor Walter’s discomfiture, not even bothering to hide his delight. I reflected, looking at Willi, how cautious one has to be, even (or especially!) with one’s closest associates; not one of them would hesitate to stab his dearest friend in the back if there was anything to be gained by it.
We moved on to talk of other matters. Willi was unrelievedly gloomy about the spring offensive in the Far East. ‘The British can’t fight the Japanese,’ was his opinion. ‘They’re too much the gentlemen playing a jolly game of cricket. The Japanese have their code of honour too, but it doesn’t prevent them butchering the Filipinos. Do you know, Theo,’ he said, looking at me keenly through the cigar smoke, ‘I sometimes wonder what it would have been like to have had the Japanese as allies instead of the British. The Japs believe in total war too, you know. Weltmacht oder Niedergang*.’
‘You think Mandrake has let us down?’ I asked, watching him carefully.
‘No, not Mandrake himself. The British people. They’ve no heart for this fight. No stomach for it either. They’d never have ventured so far east if it hadn’t been for Australia and New Zealand.’
‘It’s a difficult war out there. The conditions aren’t what they’re used to. Now in France and the Low Countries their rule is strict and absolute. Their invasion went even more smoothly than ours when we took Poland.’
‘What days those were,’ Willi said dreamily, a rapt smile encapsulating his cigar. ‘That was the Reich at its best, the flower of German manhood in full bloom. “Our finest hour”, as Mandrake said.’
‘It was a brilliant speech,’ I agreed. ‘A graceful compliment.’
‘Do you think the Allies will win?’ he asked abruptly, gazing at the ceiling as if the question was of no consequence.
I considered my reply. ‘I think America is the stumbling-block. They’re not yet fully committed to the war effort. If they decide on complete mobilization then the Allies could be up against it. We need to strike at them, not wait for them to come to us.’
‘True, true.’ Willi lowered his head and glanced round the room. ‘You’re closer to the Führer’s privileged circle than I am.’
‘I’d hardly say that,’ I smiled modestly.
‘Come now, Theo, you know it’s true.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Have you heard any talk of a secret weapon? A wonder weapon? Something that could be used to knock both Russia and America out of the war at a single stroke?’
I gazed at him without, I hoped, any expression. Was he testing me? Was there some doubt as to my political loyalty? This would need delicate handling. ‘Not a wonder weapon as such,’ I replied ambiguously.
‘But you have heard of U235?’
‘Oh that,’ I said. ‘Oh yes.’
‘It hasn’t even been mentioned in conference yet – ultra top secret known to just a select few. Christian put me wise.’
‘Christian?’
‘Eckard. Chef Luftwaffenführungsstab.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘The scientists are almost at the stage where they are ready to test it. Apparently – I find this impossible to believe, quite frankly – they say it will decimate an area ten thousand kilometres square.’
‘That’s what I heard too.’
‘Can you imagine it?’ He waved his cigar in the air. ‘With a device like that we could wipe out Moscow, Leningrad, New York, Washington, San Francisco, Tokyo …’ He became lost in dreadful contemplation, a small bemused smile on his lips.
‘How big is it, this device?’
‘No idea,’ Willi said. ‘Not a clue. Eckard says it contains some kind of new material, very unstable stuff by all accounts. That’s what they call U235. But how it works and what the actual device is like he couldn’t say.’
‘An area ten thousand kilometres square.’
‘Tremendous, eh? That’d teach ’em who was boss.’
‘And we’re almost ready to test it?’
‘Later this year. They’ve selected the Ukraine as the site. Wipe out a few million more peasants. My God, they’ll wonder what’s hit them.’ He emitted a little squeak of amusement and choked on the cigar smoke.
‘Probably why they call it the wonder weapon,’ I said, punching his arm.
*
20th April, a great celebration: the Führer’s birthday!
Unfortunately he wasn’t feeling very well and we had to curtail the festivities. An informal party for about fourteen people had been arranged, to take place during the afternoon, but when I attended him shortly after 2 p.m. he was in a dreadful state. His left arm and left leg were shaking uncontrollably and when he rose to his feet his stoop was even more pronounced than usual. He complained of a headache and said that his vision was affected; there was also a strange pallor to his skin, like a mottled grey. Most odd.
Immediately I prepared a triple injection: 200 mg. of Amylobarbitone to calm the nervous system, 60 mg. of a parasympatholytic (Hyoscyamine) to relieve the tremors in his limbs, followed by 6 mg. of Picrotoxin to act as a stimulant.
He became lethargic for half an hour, went into convulsions (probably the effect of the Picrotoxin) and then revived and seemed to be his old self once more. It was important that he look fit and healthy because Goebbels had sent a film camera team along to take some newsreels of the Führer on the balcony, enjoying his birthday celebration. By about three-thirty he was able to stand and walk unaided, so we went outdoors and Hitler played with Blondi, making a great fuss over his Alsatian. Eva had put on (at my insistence) a bathing costume and we frolicked about for twenty minutes or so for the benefit of the camera.
In a brief respite later on, standing by the rail and pretending to be drinking in the marvellous alpine scenery, I asked Eva what she had heard of this device known as U235. She said that it had been mentioned but that was all, and I told her to find out everything she could about it.
Obersalzberg, May 1943
More meddling interference from Brandt and his cronies. ‘We are concerned,’ they write in a memorandum, ‘for the health of the Führer. His general demeanour we find disturbing and we think it advisable to meet with yourself and discuss in some precise detail the medication you are prescribing.’
It is signed Dr Karl Brandt, Begleitarzt (Surgeon to the Führer); Dr Hans Karl von Hasselbach, Deputy Surgeon; Dr Erwin Giesing, E.N.T. Specialist.
If the idiots think I am going to allow them to step in now, after all these years, and make a mess of all I’ve worked for, the careful planning, the scrupulous diagnostic case-work, the hours of preparing new compounds and mixtures – if they really believe I am going to stand aside and let them queer the pitch they must be out of their heads.
Himmler arrived this morning bearing more bad news. As if the North African and Middle East campaigns weren’t going disastrously enough, the Reichsführer now brings word that the anticipated breakthrough on the Eastern Front hasn’t materialized and isn’t likely to in the foreseeable future. The Russian forward position (‘the thin red line’, as Himmler remarked of it contemptuously), when just on the point of breaking, received American and Japanese reinforcements; not a large force, so it appears, but they were equipped with the new GM tanks and Mitishubi armaments. The result – stalemate.
I wasn’t present when the news was given to the Führer but I heard later that he was speechless, eyes bulging, foaming at the mouth, and he had another bout of the twitches. This from Julius, who keeps me informed of everything that goes on during my absence.
The strategic dilemma, it seems, is that the Allied General Staff is very much afraid that if a breakthrough isn’t ma
de during the summer months the fierce Russian winter will bog down the troops of both sides till the spring of ’44 at the earliest. The Führer will not stand for this and Himmler’s mission is to agree an immediate strategy and carry the decision posthaste to Field-Marshal Reichenau. However, I very much doubt whether Hitler is in sufficient possession of his faculties to make any kind of rational appraisement of the situation; nor is he able to form a workable or even coherent plan of action.
Julius also mentioned that, during his audience with the Führer, Himmler broached the subject of a special squad, to be known as the SS HADER Unit, whose purpose, as near as I can make out, is to create discord and strife amongst the civilian population of occupied territories. Why it is necessary to do this I haven’t a notion, unless the Reichsführer believes it will hinder their resistance movements. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that the idea emanated from Wulf, Himmler’s personal astrologer, who has a strong influence on all his decisions.
I haven’t confided this to anyone, not even to Eva, but the behaviour of many of the high-ranking officers seems to me of late to be verging on the lunatic. They are more concerned with building their own little empires than with trying to win the war. At this rate it will drag on for years and might even lead to the unthinkable possibility of defeat for the Third Reich.
Felix and I have discussed this matter before, on several occasions, but I think it might be advisable in the very near future to open an account in Switzerland. Should the worst happen and all assets are frozen it would be foolish to be left holding millions of marks which wouldn’t be worth the paper they’re printed on. The plan would entail a discreet transfer of capital to Switzerland, buy gold, deposit it in a numbered account, and make preparations for a speedy departure.
I shall inform Felix of my intention without delay. One never knows.
*
Another disturbed night: they seem to be occurring much more frequently now.
I had settled down with a good book, a nightcap, and a box of my own special brand, and after reading for about an hour was drifting off into a beautifully relaxed sleep when my bedside telephone started ringing. It was Heinz Linge, the Führer’s manservant. He told me to come at once and tend to the Führer who had, in his phrase, ‘gone cuckoo’. I put my dressing-gown on, picked up my bag, and hurried along to the Führer’s private apartments on the floor above.
The bedchamber was in a frightful mess. The dressing-table had been swept clean, there were bottles and jars all over the floor, including several vials of Dr Koester’s Antigas Pills; the wall drapes had been torn from their fitments, and one of the wardrobe doors had all but been wrenched from its hinges. The large ornamental mirror of Venetian glass had a splintered crack from top to bottom and all the lightshades were askew.
The Führer was standing amidst the debris, arms taut at his sides, fists clenched, eyes fixed as in a trance on some distant non-existent object. He was wearing pyjamas and a silk dressing-gown embroidered with his initials, one letter on each lapel in large gothic script.
Although my attention was on him I caught the fleeting impression of Eva’s white strained face amongst the crumpled bedclothes, tear-streaked, watching me with a kind of dumb terrified pleading. I motioned to her to remain calm and stepped up quietly behind the Führer.
He seemed to be in the grip of a catatonic brainstorm, totally rigid except for his jowls which were quivering and his nostrils flaring and closing, the harsh breath rasping in his throat.
This requires careful handling, I thought to myself. He doesn’t seem very well, probably a tummy upset; the news from the Eastern Front must have disturbed his gastric juices. However, I have seen him suddenly lash out on such occasions, blindly, completely oblivious to his surroundings, and I didn’t want to receive a black eye or a broken jaw for my pains.
‘Are you all right, mein armes, krankes Kälbchen?’*
His breathing faltered at this familiar phrase and he whimpered a little down his nose. I put both hands on his shoulders and gently pushed him towards a chair. He sank down into it, I could feel his body trembling, and it was as though someone had released the strings on a puppet and the tiny wooden limbs and tiny wooden head are slackly at rest.
‘Have you had the visions?’ I asked, taking his limp wrist and feeling for the pulse. ‘Have they been troubling you again?’
He stirred and lifted his head a fraction, apparently seeing me for the first time; the dull blue-grey eyes hardened into focus, the lips moved, the moustache twitched, and he said:
‘I couldn’t get it up.’
‘Get what up?’
He made a weary indication with his head in the direction of the bed.
‘Well, you are a bad boy,’ I said. ‘I gave you some tablets for that, don’t you remember? And some ointment to rub on it.’ I released his arm and it flopped into his lap.
‘I took the tablets and used the ointment but they didn’t work. I just felt dizzy. What am I to do, Theo? I can’t do the trick. I want to but I can’t.’
‘Now, now, don’t upset yourself.’ I glanced over his head at Eva and she was making a strangling gesture with both hands round an invisible throat and miming instructions to go with it. I cautioned her with a slight gesture and she stuck her tongue out at me.
‘Is it the spirits, do you think?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘You told me that the spirits of the body sometimes get angry and take their revenge by disobeying the owner’s wishes.’ He was looking at me beseechingly.
‘That might be the reason. It’s very complicated. It might be the spirits but it could well be the signs. Have you studied the omens recently? If the omens are not propitious it’s possible that the spirits of the body are fighting amongst themselves. The juxtapositions are all-important.’
He sighed heavily. ‘I wish I understood it more clearly. Where did you learn all these things, Theo?’
‘It took many, many years to become an adept. I studied the mystical chronicles and drank deeply at the well of ancient wisdom. It is a gift, this understanding, not given to many.’
‘What would I do without you, Theo? All the rest are vermin. They think they can fool me with their degrees and their paper qualifications. But they couldn’t even relieve me of the cramps.’
I sat down in the chair opposite and took his hands in mine. ‘Dismiss them from your thoughts, süsses, armes Kindchen* Adolf. If they had their way they would butcher you – slit you open and poke around inside. Why, only the other day von Hasselbach—’ I checked myself. ‘Not that it matters. Let us forget it.’
‘Forget what?’ he said, his body stiffening.
‘Never mind, it isn’t important. In any case they don’t really mean it.’
‘What don’t they really mean?’ His hands were clammy and cold in mine. ‘What is it, Theo? What have they been saying about me?’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘If you must know, mein Führer, if you insist on dragging it out of me …’
‘Yes. Yes. I do. What is it?’
‘They say you have Parkinson’s disease.’
He looked at me thunderously. ‘They dare say that? Those quacks, those cretins say I have a disease? I have never met the man. Whose son is he? Have I met him? Is it contagious?’
‘Whose son do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Parkin’s.’
‘No, you misunderstand, Liebchen. The disease is called Parkinson’s. It is a nervous complaint.’
His lips were working, his jaw thrust forward pugnaciously. ‘Nervous?’
‘Otherwise known as shaking palsy.’
His eyes bulged and the veins in his neck stood out. His hands, held within mine, were like claws. He tried to speak but the words were strangled in his throat.
‘Characterized by rigidity of the facial muscles,’ I added.
Tiny specks of foam escaped his lips. His left eye developed a nervous tic. He tried again to speak but nothing came out.
‘It produces, so they say, a mask-li
ke expression,’ I informed him. ‘There’s also muscle weakness which leads to a peculiar stooping gait. It’s a disease usually associated with people approaching old age, caused by deterioration of the brain cells.’
‘Urglhhmaaach!’ went Hitler.
‘I’ll read you the full definition if you like,’ I said, reaching for my bag. ‘I have a medical dictionary with me.’
His head moved jerkily to and fro in what I took to be a negative reaction.
‘You’d better give him something, Theo,’ Eva said. ‘He’s about to have another fit.’
‘Not yet, I want him to remain conscious. I can’t talk to him if he’s flat out.’
I patted his hand and made soothing noises for a few minutes and gradually he regained control of his motor functions. A semblance of colour returned to his face, though once again I noticed the peculiar discoloration of the skin: blotches of sickly pasty grey on his cheeks and forehead. I must give him some calamine for that, I remember thinking.
When he had recovered I led him back to bed and tucked him in. ‘Don’t worry your head about von Hasselbach and the other quacks,’ I said. ‘While I’m here nobody will harm you.’
Eva looked at me and then raised her eyes to the ceiling in mute despair.
I said, ‘We shall have to consult the signs and omens. The spirits of the body are unsettled; they are unhappy.’
‘I only wanted to get it up.’
‘I know, I know,’ I placated him. ‘Quite natural. When was the last time it was hard? That you can remember.’
Hitler gazed into the room and after a moment’s hesitation said, ‘Don’t know,’ somewhat sulkily, and I thought I saw a tear in his eye.
I sat down at the bedside and stroked the silken sleeve of his dressing-gown. ‘Listen. I have some new stuff that’s supposed to work wonders. It’s been tested on captured Russian airmen and the reports up to now have been very favourable.’
He turned to look at me, one eye obscured by a lock of greasy black hair. ‘Will it do the trick?’ he asked morosely.
