When was the last time you saw Reichsführer Himmler?’
Hoffman stared at him in contempt. He grabbed the man by the lapels and dragged him further in, then marched over and slammed the door. He took the man again and forced him towards his desk. ‘You fool,’ he snarled. ‘Keep your voice down. Don’t you know that Himmler is discredited? He tried to negotiate with the Americans, and Hitler found out.
He’s been branded a traitor. The Feldgendarmen wil kil you just for mentioning his name.’
Unverzagt tried to push him away, and Hoffman held him tight for a moment before relenting. The man straightened his lapels, then pul ed something out of his coat pocket, keeping his fist closed around it. ‘The Reichsführer has always had your best interests at heart, Hoffman. Do you remember as a boy it was he who directed you to join the Luftwaffe? And he has always looked after your family. I am to tel you they are safe from the Russians, in Plön on the Baltic Sea.
They are being guarded by the SS. If al goes to plan, you wil be joining them soon.’
Hoffman stared at the man. ‘What the devil are you talking about? How do you know this?’
‘Five months ago, Himmler took you to visit SS
headquarters at Wewelsburg Castle. He took you to the vault below the SS Generals’ Room, and showed you something. Do you remember what it was?’
Hoffman kept staring. This was absurd, to dwel on Himmler’s nonsense at a time like this. He remembered the visit wel enough, a tedious tour through al the rooms named after mythical Aryan heroes, before the lecture about the swastika by the Ahnenerbe man. But he especial y remembered what Himmler had shown him, in a secret vault deep inside the castle. He had been sworn to utter secrecy.
Unverzagt peered at him. ‘Good. Your face betrays nothing. That is what the Reichsführer saw in you as a boy. Utter reliability. You have kept your word. Your loyalty wil be rewarded.’ He opened his hand, took Hoffman’s and put something in it, a folded piece of paper. Hoffman opened it and looked, then closed his hand over it. It was the same symbol he had seen in the vault in the castle. The reverse swastika. He stared at Unverzagt.
‘What do you want with me? Now of al times, for Christ’s sake? Haven’t you seen what’s going on outside?’
Unverzagt remained unmoved. ‘Five months ago, after you’d recovered from your wounds, the Reichsführer saved you from certain death on the Eastern Front by having you posted to Berlin. It was essential that you were in the very heart of the Reich, a war hero feted by the Führer. And then two days ago you were posted here, to the Zoo tower. There is something hidden here, something that wil fulfil our destiny. Your role wil soon be revealed to you. I am here to forewarn you. Remember your family, Herr Oberstleutnant. Remember little Hans. He awaits you.’
Unverzagt turned to leave. Hoffman remained rooted to the spot, his mind in a turmoil. The man strode to the door, then turned. ‘Herr Oberstleutnant. I meant to check. You can stil fly, after your wound?’
Hoffman stared at him, baffled. ‘Fly? Of course.’
‘Good. And you are an expert night navigator. You attended the training school last year. We saw to that.
Until we meet again, Hoffman. For the new Reich. For the new Führer. Sieg Heil.’
Unverzagt opened the door and was gone, pul ing it shut behind him, leaving Hoffman rooted to the spot.
What the hell was that all about? Was it yet another desperate scheme, another deluded fantasy of salvation? He opened his hand again and saw the symbol on the piece of paper, the reverse swastika inside a red roundel. He shook his head. It was al nonsense. Himmler would surely be dead by now.
Unverzagt was unhinged, had dreamed up this fantasy in the oxygen-starved bedlam below.
Hoffman’s visit to Wewelsburg would be wel known among Ahnenerbe fanatics like Unverzagt, who had seen Himmler promise to induct him into the SS when the war was over. It had even made the front page of the SS newspaper. And Unverzagt would have known about Himmler’s special interest in him from al the hero propaganda feting his achievements as a Stuka ace, glorifying the wisdom of the Reichsführer in encouraging him to fly at an early age. Hoffman crumpled the paper into his pocket and put the encounter from his mind. There was enough madness in here already. He picked up his binoculars, slung them round his neck and then turned round one last time to look at the place where he had spent these last hours, on very probably his final day alive. In the corner was a marble bust, lying broken and forgotten among the flecks of paint that had fal en off the wal in the vibrations. It was Bismarck, the Iron Chancel or, the portrait bust that used to preside over the Troy exhibit in the Museum. Hoffman stared at the forlorn scene. What was it Bismarck had said? War with Russia must be avoided at all costs. On impulse, he came to attention and clicked his heels, then he turned and marched quickly towards the open door and the shrieking hel of the Soviet onslaught.
13
A few minutes after 10 a.m., Hoffman emerged on the roof inside the flak-battery command post, a circular concrete shelter like a truncated cone with wal s that rose a metre or so above his height. He looked up, squinting at the overcast sky, and saw the dark pal of dust and soot that hung over the city. The sky seemed to reflect a red glow from the flames, and from the dust of mil ions of pulverized bricks that hung in the air like a mist of blood. Climbing up the stairs from the squalor and seething humanity below, Hoffman had thought of the medieval axis mundi, the ascent to heaven that seemed to be promised by the smudge of daylight he had seen at the top of the stairs; yet when he reached there, al he found was another vantage point over hel , as if he himself were fated to be among the orchestrators of this horror. He remembered swimming in the lakes of Bavaria as a boy, looking down and seeing the lens of sulphur that divided the living lake from the dead lake below, and never having the courage to dive through it. Here it was as if he were trapped beneath that opaque layer, cut off forever from the light of the sun. Beyond the sight of God.
He felt his nostrils burn, and the grit of brick dust on his teeth. After the atrocious stench of the stairwel , he had yearned to take a breath of fresh air, but out here it was acrid, fume-laden, and caught in his throat. Yet the pal of dust had lessened with the ceasefire of the last few hours, and he could discern other smel s too: a waft of cordite from the flak guns; wisps of black markhorka tobacco, brought for the flak gunners by the boys who stole out at night from the tower to loot Russian corpses, some never to return; and the honey-sweet smel of decomposing flesh, rising up everywhere from the rubble of the city. And there was another smel , not a Berlin smel but the farmyard smel of Russia, of thousands of horses dragging supply wagons for the Red Army that snaked into the city behind the advancing soldiers and tanks, coming from nearly every direction now. Two days ago, the remaining German perimeter had been a rough rectangle five by fifteen kilometres. Now it was little more than the Tiergarten and the strongholds on either side. He felt as if he were standing on a precarious mound of solid ground in a lake of lava.
Soon they too would be swamped, islands in a sea of blood, and then submerged in the red tide like some ghastly modern-day parable of Atlantis.
He pushed past crouched helmeted figures to the only officer present, a Luftwaffe Hauptmann with aviator wings on his tunic like his own, another pilot in an air force that no longer had aircraft. The man wore a battered forage cap and radio headphones that were hooked into the fire control panel. Hoffman lifted one earphone, cupped his hand and bel owed into the man’s ear. ‘Where’s the battery commander?’
The man looked up quickly, his face grey and unshaven, then gestured repeatedly with one arm.
‘The ammunition elevator,’ he shouted. ‘Trying to restart the backup generator.’
Hoffman released the earphone and looked over at the massive iron cupola that protected the elevator shaft. He and the battery commander had banked on having the big guns in action to divert attention while they went below and carried out their plan to surrender the tower. He would give the man
ten minutes. No more.
He climbed up to the rim of the command post and gazed
around.
The
concrete
exterior
was
pockmarked from Soviet shrapnel and shel fragments. The roof was about half the size of a footbal pitch, with circular bastions at each corner containing the twin 128mm flak guns, and beyond that an outer curtain with 37mm and quadruple 20mm guns. Some five hundred metres beyond the Zoo tower to the north-west, he could see the top of the L-Tower, another concrete monstrosity containing the giant Würtzburg radar that directed the fire of the guns against Al ied bombers. Month after month they had come, week after week, relentlessly, American by day, British by night. Many times during his posting in Berlin he had seen the flak guns do their work, and watched American B-17s split in half and flutter down like giant silvery leaves, and the burning parachutes of British aircrew plummeting like flares in the night. But the last raid had been ten days ago, and that already seemed like another war. The barrels of the big guns had been lowered to provide counter-battery fire against the Soviet howitzers, and then to fire point-blank into the advancing infantry and tanks. Now they were at their lowest possible elevation, eighteen degrees below horizontal, poised to fire their last salvos before the Red Army stormed into the Zoo grounds below.
Hoffman shut his eyes for a moment and listened. It was the first time he had been up here and not been overwhelmed by the roar of Russian artil ery and the shriek of Katyusha rockets, the ever-enclosing ring of fire that seemed to course round the city like a giant electrical current. He could hear voices on the gun platforms, hoarse with cordite, raised against their own deafness. He heard the rumble of fal ing masonry, like the sound of calving glaciers he had seen from his aircraft in the fjords of Norway. But he could tel that the ceasefire was beginning to unravel.
He heard the harsh roar of tank engines in the distance, the sound of churning tracks. Somewhere the fighting had started up again; he heard the ragged rip of a German Spandau machine gun, a hol ow echoing sound in a faraway street, then the rattle of Soviet sub-machine guns and the thud of grenades.
The Russians had been using captured German Panzerfaust anti-tank weapons to blast their way through rooms, house by house, street by street.
Beneath the storm of artil ery and rocket fire this was stil an infantryman’s war, a war of sniping, grenades, man-pack flamethrowers, desperate knife fights in the darkness, the incessant sub-machine guns. No quarter was being given by either side. He could hardly imagine what was happening to the civilians stil in their homes, those who had not sought refuge in the suffocating hel of the bunkers and the flak towers like this one.
He heard the drone of an aircraft, then opened his eyes and saw a solitary Soviet Il-2 Shturmovik dive-bomber bank and begin its dive directly towards him.
He shaded his eyes, and watched with professional detachment. There would be no chance of the bombs damaging the concrete tower, but they could disable the guns and kil the crews. Already bombing and Soviet artil ery had put most of the 37mm and 20mm guns on the outer gal ery out of action. But it was a doomed attack. The pilot had needed to begin his dive from a higher altitude, yet that would have put him above the pal of smoke, unable to see his target. As it was, he would be unable to reach a steep enough angle to aim his bomb. Exactly on cue, the remaining 20mm quadruple gun on the platform erupted in a sharp crackle. The aircraft was shredded and then disintegrated, plummeting out of sight below the edge of the tower into the Tiergarten and exploding in a firebal , the metal fragments pattering harmlessly against the concrete wal s below.
Hoffman recal ed his own glory days as a Stuka dive-bomber ace during the Blitzkrieg five years before, when the whole world seemed to be fal ing to German force of arms. Then, he had thought little about the Nazis; he had been driven by a young man’s exuberance and the smal world of camaraderie and loyalty and honour. And now here he was, commander of the newly formed 9th Luftwaffe Parachute Division Lebelstar, the last-ditch defenders of the Reich. They were al here on the roof now, his division: the thirty-odd boys of the Hitler Youth and Luftwaffe auxiliary who stil survived from the flak battery. As soon as the Soviets advanced beneath the minimum trajectory of the guns, his orders were to remuster these boys as elite paratroopers, somehow find weapons for them and lead them out to final glory in the scorched and blasted streets below. And he had been given no choice. The Feldgendarmerie would execute anyone who faltered, himself included.
The Nazis did not even trust their own heroes.
A boy detached himself from the group in front of one of the big guns and came running towards him.
He could be no more than twelve, and was wearing lederhosen shorts and an outsized helmet that wobbled as he ran. His face was tense, wax-like beneath a shock of blond hair, and smeared with filth and tears. Dried blood caked his neck below his ears where they had been bleeding. Hoffman had taught the boy to leave the chin strap unfastened on his helmet, to open his mouth and grimace to equalize the pressure in his Eustachian tubes, to lean forward to avoid the blast of the guns ripping his lungs, but there was nothing he could do to save the boy’s hearing. The lad had latched on to him when Hoffman had arrived for the first time on the roof two days before. Maybe he reminded him of his father, probably dead like the fathers of most German children, remembered only by a photograph of a man in a uniform like his own. ‘Herr Oberstleutnant,’ the boy piped breathlessly, coming to a halt in front of him. ‘ Wann kommt der Russ? Wann kommt der Iwan? ’
It was a child’s question of a father, asking the unanswerable. Hoffman knelt down in front of him.
There were no Feldgendarmen up here on the gun platform; like most Nazi thugs they were frightened of it, of the reality of war. It was the one place where nobody was listening or watching. He tapped the boy’s helmet. ‘Can you hear me?’
‘ Was? ’ The boy screwed up his face. Hoffman raised his voice.
‘When you know Ivan is coming, take off this helmet, right? You don’t want to look like Hitler Youth.’
He reached into his trouser pocket and took out a half-finished packet of cigarettes. ‘These are American. Save them and offer them to Ivan, right?
Then find an officer. You know how to recognize Russian officers? Show him the room where I’ve been working. Tel him there are important secrets there, in the order books. You understand me?’
The boy clutched the cigarettes, put them careful y in his pocket and looked at Hoffman, nodding.
Hoffman felt a knot of anguish in his stomach. He remembered Goebbels’ children, the girl with the sad eyes. He remembered the pilot in his squadron who had made a forced landing near a Ukrainian vil age, and had seen the SS-Einsatzgruppen at work. He had returned to the squadron shocked. ‘Their children cry just like our children,’ he had said. Hoffman put out his hand to touch the boy’s face, then remembered watching Hitler doing the same only a few days before in front of a ragged line of Hitler Youth, the Führer’s left arm shaking uncontrol ably behind his back, his right hand stroking cheeks, tweaking ears. It had been repulsive. Hoffman let his hand drop to the boy’s shoulder, and squeezed it. He nodded towards the gun. ‘You’d better get back to your post. It won’t be long now.’
He turned to look for the battery commander. Then he heard the boy yel ing: ‘Alert! Alert!’ Hoffman spun back and saw the boy at the parapet, looking out.
Others rushed to join him, and Hoffman fol owed. For the first time since coming up here, he gazed down at the ruins of the city looming out of the smoke, at the gutted shel s of buildings with their upper windows open to the sky. East over the Tiergarten he saw only a shifting miasma of smoke, and he fol owed the boy’s gaze down to the street to the south beyond the Zoo grounds, where they knew the Russians would come. About five hundred metres away he saw the lingering smoke of an explosion, and the dust of a col apsed building. They al watched, and waited.
Then the man next to the boy jostled him
and put a hand on his arm. ‘Ivan’s out there, you can count on it.
But don’t tempt him. Let’s get back to the guns.’
They left the parapet, but Hoffman remained, looking down at the smouldering wasteland between the base of the tower and the beginning of the city block. In the nearest buildings lay the first line of German defenders: the odd surviving machine gun, a sniper he had seen go out camouflaged in black like a wraith. Between the buildings and the tower lay the ruins of the Berlin Zoo, pocked by shel craters fil ed with black and yel ow scorch marks. Down there was the last line of defenders, boys and old men of the Volkssturm militia armed with the final wonder-weapon the Reich had thought fit to issue them: the Volkshandgranate, made from a charge of explosive embedded in a piece of concrete, useless against tanks and barely effective against men. The Zoo animals were stil there too, in broken cages and blasted compounds: dead goril as and elephants, shel -shocked baby baboons clinging to their mothers.
He stared, watching a monkey outside its shattered cage, limping round and round, half-crazed. He could hear songbirds, and wondered if they were deafened to the sound of their own music. He remembered the flowers that day he had come here with his son. It had been late spring then, as it was now, and the rhododendrons should be coming out. He smelt that farmyard smel again, the dung from thousands of Russian horses. It conjured up an image he had seen in the room below in the book by Heinrich Schliemann on ancient Troy, a woodcut of the ruins before the excavation: a pastoral scene of grazing animals and shepherds among the tumbled wal s. He wondered whether Berlin could become like that, or whether this place would be too poisoned and blighted by history ever to nurture life again.
Then he saw it. He whipped out his binoculars. The boy had been right. The ghostly shape of a Soviet T-34 tank poked through the rubble at the end of the street, probing forward. He saw flashes, exploding shel s, lines of tracer bul ets, the lick of a flamethrower. An engine screamed, and then he saw the tank dip and rol over the rubble, its turret traversing, seeking a target. He could see the padded black helmet of the tank commander. Behind it an American Studebaker truck lurched into view, disgorging troops. An American truck. His heart leapt, but then he remembered dive-bombing a merchant ship off Norway with lines of those trucks lashed down on its deck, destined for Russia. The soldiers fanned out on either side of the street, picking their way through the rubble. One appeared tottering along on a bicycle, with a Panzerfaust anti-tank rocket strapped to the front. Hoffman remembered the parade he had attended with the Führer a few days before, seeing off boys of the Hitler Youth as they rode into battle on those bicycles. It was hard to tel whether the Russian cyclist was deadened to the danger around him, or whether he was deliberately cycling to his nemesis like the German boy who had ridden the bicycle before him. Suddenly the cyclist flopped sideways, his head disintegrating in a spray of red from a sniper’s bul et. There was a burst of sub-machine-gun fire and the sniper’s rifle clattered down from an upstairs window into the street below. The fal ing bike set off the Panzerfaust, which screeched into the building opposite, exploding and bringing down the entire facade in a cascade of brick and dust. On the upper floor a bathroom was revealed, the porcelain bathtub hanging precariously from the open frontage with a shattered mirror behind, a jarring scene of domestic intimacy. The T-34 roared and squealed forward, the driver grinding the gears as he negotiated a route through the piles of masonry.
Gods of Atlantis Page 26
