“I suppose so. Your credentials give you that right. Why? You have a sudden craving for borscht?”
“No. Not at all. For spectacle.”
*
April 30, 1945
Lieutenant Khaldei sat behind the pilot clutching his precious cargo. It had taken him four days to get it, and at that moment, he would have faced down a hand grenade rather than give it up. Astonishing that, in the middle of a war, Moscow could spare no large Soviet flag. And it was breathtaking to think he had actually had to argue with party bigwigs before they would surrender two good red tablecloths. Thank God for relatives in the garment trade, for it was his uncle who had known how to cut out a hammer and sickle in the right proportions, then had spent the night attaching one to each side. Now the entire bundle was as heavy as a dead horse, but safely at his side.
Chapter Thirty-four
April 26, 1945
The Charité hospital was nearly in ruins. Bombs had destroyed the dermatological and eye clinics and severely damaged many of the buildings housing patient wards. All surgical operations had been moved to cellars and newly constructed bunkers. Beds were distributed through every undamaged part of every remaining building, wherever possible according to the nature of the wound or ailment. But the staff was overwhelmed, and the shortage of medication, antiseptics, and morphine rendered much of the hospital service merely palliative, and scarcely even that. As an ambulatory patient, Rudi had been moved to a low-maintenance sector, and Katja was at first not able to find him. Only after she recalled the name of his regiment was she able to locate his patient number and subsequently the ward into which he was placed.
But the chaos obviously enabled Peter to integrate himself somewhat invisibly as an orderly and thereby stay close to Rudi. While he helped feed or carry patients, or tend to the basic physical needs of bed-stricken men, no one asked him who he was. So far.
When Katja came in, Rudi was sitting up in bed. She passed Peter, who was mopping the floor nearby, and embraced Rudi, careful not to touch his injured shoulder. “I’m so glad to see you up. Can you walk?”
“A little. With help,” he murmured. He didn’t say any more but his eyes darted back and forth, as if he watched some event invisible to everyone else.
“What are you doing here?” a woman’s voice behind her asked. Katja turned to see Nurse Rumoldt confronting Peter as he mopped. “You’re not on the staff. Why aren’t you in uniform? Filthy coward, do you think you can hide here? She waved over the SS guard who stood at the end of the corridor. “I do not recognize this man. Would you please ask to see his identification?”
The SS man held out his hand. “Papers, if you please,” he said.
“Well…I…don’t have them at the moment…”
“Of course he doesn’t have them at the moment. Can’t you see he is on duty? Please allow my orderlies to do their work.”
Katja stifled her surprise at the unexpected intervention. “Thank you, Dr. von Eicken,” she said calmly. “In fact, I need the orderly here to help this patient to the lavatory.”
Von Eicken nodded agreement. “Yes, carry on, both of you. Nurse Rumoldt, perhaps you can accompany me to the pharmacy to see if we have any antiseptic soap left.” Glancing once over his shoulder, the doctor led the thwarted nurse down the corridor away from the suspect.
“That was a warning, Peter,” Katja said. “And she’s a shark. It’s only a matter of time before she comes at you again. I think you both should come with me to the house at Grünewald. No one knows what’s going to happen when the Russians overrun Berlin, but I’d feel better if you both were out there with me. At least we’ll have a little food and a few places to hide.”
“What about Frederica,” Peter asked. “Will she come too?”
“No, she can’t. She’s with Adolf Hitler.”
*
April 27, 1945
Erich Prietschke hunkered in a doorway scanning the street before he emerged. In the kilometer-by-kilometer retreat since Stettin, the 11th armored grenadier division Nordland had been decimated. Now, in the suburbs of Berlin, the artillery fire that had destroyed his unit had given way to small-arms fire, and he had to watch his every step.
The street was a jumble of wrecked vehicles, twisted Strassen-bahn rails, open sewer pipes, and smoking bomb craters. It provided just enough cover for him to make his way along the avenue. He saw a Volksstürmer crouched and waiting with a Panzerfaust on his shoulder. Farther along, a team of Hitlerjugend squatted in a shell hole manning a machine gun on a tripod. They rattled off a round
at intervals, more out of nerves than the likelihood of hitting an enemy target.
Erich himself was at loose ends, for no one was left in his unit to mount an offensive and he was reduced to fighting alone. He stood now, one brave soldier defending the capital and last stronghold of the Reich, and felt the power of the oath he had sworn to Adolf Hitler to fight until the last cartridge.
But already he was seeing signs of cowardice among his own people, and it enraged him. The Hitlerjugend were brave, but too many of the Volksstürmer lacked the moral stamina to stay at their posts until the end. Nothing infuriated him more than seeing them break and run.
At that moment, two figures, an elderly man and a boy, sprinted toward him, away from the advancing Russians. They both wore Volkssturm armbands. Cowards, surrendering the homeland, he thought. He’d put a stop to that. “Halt!” he called out, and marched toward them. Both were covered with the soot that rose from the street at every new explosion. “Get back to the front, you swine!” he barked, holding his luger at arm’s length toward them.
The older Volksstürmer stopped in front of him and peered at him for a moment through bloodshot eyes.
“Erich Prietschke? Is that you?”
“What? Who the hell are you?”
“It’s Marti Kraus. Remember me? Leni’s cameraman. This is Johannes, my son. You met him back then too? He was a baby then.”
“I don’t care who the hell you are. A million men have died for Germany, and you think you’re special because you made a film? Get back to the front.”
“Erich, be reasonable. Why should three more of us die for this insanity? My son, especially, deserves to live.” He stepped past Erich but Johannes didn’t move.
Prietschke grabbed Kraus by the upper arm. “Don’t make me shoot you. You took a sacred oath. We all did, to Germany and the Führer. Running away undermines what the rest of us are doing. It’s spineless and it’s treason.”
“He’s right, Vati. I’m not a coward!” Johannes did an about-face and dashed back toward the advancing soldiers that skittered along the far end of the street. He held his rifle out in front of him, as if it alone could shield him. He had not run more than a hundred meters when two figures emerged and stood shoulder to shoulder. With automatic weapons, they raked the street from side to side, before disappearing again. Johannes fell without firing his rifle.
“You stinking bastard!” His father spun toward Prietschke. “You and your filthy oath!”
“Coward! Traitor!” Erich Prietschke fired his luger point-blank at the cameraman. He had no time to reflect on what he had just done; the Russians with the automatic weapons were advancing again and he had to take cover. But at least he had Russians to shoot at now.
*
April 29, 1945
Frederica sat on her bunk watching the other women play cards, hoping to be called out for dictation or to type a communiqué. The radio speech that Dr. Goebbels had so carefully prepared for the Führer to deliver to his people lay unread on Hitler’s desk, and Goebbels had not called on her again. She felt suffocated.
How could she escape? Could she feign sickness? Go up to the surface for a smoke with one of the other women and run for it through the line of guards? Impossible. She was trapped with the monster and she would die with him. If only she could contact Katja.
After tapping on the door an SS guard opened it a crack. “It’s time. Would the ladi
es be so kind…” He held the door open and signaled with his arm that they should go down the corridor to the lower bunker.
It was the first time she had been invited to the Führerbunker, but she saw that it was laid out just like the upper one. Very likely the walls were thicker, but the same central corridor led them past doors to the left and to the right. Only the carpet was nicer, and paintings hung on the walls. She had no time to study them, but was certain they were all original.
They stopped at the end of the corridor where a table had been set up with bottles of champagne and trays of small cakes. Through an open doorway to a sort of sitting room, she could see two figures with their backs toward the door, and it took her a moment to realize it was Hitler and Eva Braun. In front of them, facing the doorway, someone was speaking to them while Joseph Goebbels and Martin Bormann, Hitler’s right-hand man, stood behind him. When Eva Braun said, “I do,” with a nervous giggle, Frederica knew she was witnessing a wedding.
A few minutes later the new couple emerged to polite applause and walked slowly along the row of well-wishers to shake hands. Frederica was once again appalled. The Führer of Germany was stooped and haggard, his eyes bloodshot and dead. He smiled mechanically at each greeting. When he reached Frederica, she shook his hand, found it soft, his grip limp. He held his left hand behind his back, but the trembling had grown worse and showed in the jerking of his shoulder.
“Warmest wishes.” She spoke the usual formula, though it seemed as grotesque as the ceremony itself. “Thank you, my dear,” Adolf Hitler replied and moved on to the next secretary. All that Frederica noted was that the brief ruler of Europe had brown teeth and foul breath.
The new bridegroom then invited the three secretaries, nurse, doctor, Herr and Frau Goebbels, Bormann, and several adjutants to champagne and cake, and all drank a stiff, hurried toast. The cake, Frederica had to admit, was rather good, only the second piece she’d had in years.
Eva came around for a little cheek-kiss from each of the guests and fluttered in the imitation of a happy new bride. Frederica overheard her whisper to Traudl, “Actually, I’d hoped for a bigger ceremony, but considering the circumstances…”
The reception was short, and then the new couple withdrew for the rest of the night. Frederica checked her watch. It was four o’clock in the morning. The newlyweds looked worn down, and Frederica rather doubted they would carry out the nuptial rite. She shook the grotesque image of their coupling from her mind and returned to the upper bunker with the other secretaries.
As she stood at the door of her room, Joseph Goebbels approached her. With unusual informality, even warmth, he asked if she would carry out one more assignment the following morning.
The Führer would dictate his final testament to Traudl Junge, he explained, but he himself wished to simply make a final statement, and would she type it for him? She agreed and then, emotionally drained, took to her bunk.
Morning came within hours and breakfast consisted simply of coffee and rolls. The larder was running short. Goebbels appeared and led her once again to a room in the lower bunker where a typewriter was already set up.
“My last declaration will be short, a simple explanation of why I have remained here with my family. Please, begin typing as I speak.” He cleared his throat.
The Führer has ordered me, in the event of the defeat of the capital, to leave Berlin and to lead a new government appointed by him. For the first time in my life I must categorically refuse to obey an order of the Führer. My wife and children join me in this refusal. Otherwise, for the rest of my life, I would consider myself a dishonored deserter and cowardly turncoat, who would lose not only his self-respect but the respect of his people—a respect which is the prerequisite for any further service in the building of the future of the German nation and the German Reich.
She typed the brief statement in duplicate and presented it to the Reichsminister. He read it, distracted, and handed it back to her. “Please keep it in your possession. I expect you’ll be asked to present it at some future time.”
“Yes sir,” she said, and folded both original and copy carefully into thirds and slid them into her skirt pocket.
The door to the adjoining room opened and Traudl Junge emerged with her own typescript and passed her in the corridor. Hitler stopped before Frederica and took her hand again. “Fräulein Brandt. You still have time to leave Berlin and I give you permission. A small contingent of people will break out soon, and you should go with them.”
For all his momentary generosity, Frederica knew she looked into the face of depravity. Not of the sadist or the brute, for she doubted he had ever laid a cruel hand on any creature. No, it was not as interesting as that. It was simply the face of a bland, petty, simple-minded man who had sensed the smoldering resentment of a defeated people and fanned it year by year. He’d taken anger and made of it a hunger that grew until it became vast and predatory. Then he had unleashed it upon the world.
Yet she smiled gratefully, her hand in his. She expected it to be cold, the bloodless claw of death, but it was warm, fevered, and trembling. Then after a soft squeeze of her fingers, he let go and shuffled back to his sitting room.
Relieved at the sudden change in her fate, Frederica turned to Goebbels, who stood nearby. “Is it all right? Can I leave?”
“Yes, of course, you’re not a prisoner. But I would beg you to stay a few more hours. I require one last, very important thing. If you don’t mind.”
Frederica nodded reluctant agreement, knowing she had no choice. Generals brushed past them to confer with the Führer, and so Frederica returned to the upper bunker to await instructions.
Half an hour later, the same generals strode past her again, their expressions grim. She did not need to know the content of the last military briefing. It was written on all their faces. The Reich was in its death throes.
For lack of other occupation, she sat with Traudl and the Goebbels children, amazed at how well-behaved they were. Perhaps they had absorbed the fatalism that now pervaded the bunker and hoped, the way children do, that good behavior would keep them from harm. Traudl had just dealt cards when they heard the gunshot.
“Bull’s-eye!” Helmut Goebbels piped out with boyish delight. But a gunshot in the lower bunker could mean only one thing. Magda Goebbels stood up and rushed the children into their room and closed the door. Frederica sat frozen in place.
In a few minutes, SS men came along the corridor carrying two bodies on stretchers. Though both were covered, the head of the larger corpse had a bright red stain seeping onto the cloth. Frederica grasped now why Goebbels had asked her to stay longer. He wanted someone to record the macabre events. She wondered for a moment what the soldiers would do with the two bodies.
She’d lost all sense of time again, and though she returned, spent, to her room, she slept in fitful segments, fully dressed. At one point she was awakened by the voice of Goebbels quarreling with his wife. “No, I’ll do it! That’s final,” Magda said, her voice high and shrill. Frederica shuddered.
The children’s room was just across from the secretaries’ quarters, and Frederica needed only to stand in the doorway to see the grim drama begin. Magda entered the children’s room solemnly. Goebbels himself glanced once at Frederica and then began pacing the length of the corridor. He’d made ten lengths, back and forth, when Magda came out, her face frozen. Husband and wife looked at each other briefly, then Goebbels did an about-face and marched toward the steps leading up to the entrance. Magda followed him in large hurried strides, as if late for an engagement.
Frederica followed. As she passed the telephonist at the guard station, she asked him, “What day is this?” and he answered, “May Day. The first.”
Two SS men already stood by, jerricans at their side. Without ceremony or embrace, Joseph and Magda Goebbels stood across from each other, stone-faced. The Reichsminister compressed his lips as he pointed his pistol at his wife’s head and fired. Though she dropped immediately at his
feet, Goebbels did not look down before firing into his own head and falling over her.
The soldiers separated them and laid them roughly parallel, then poured gasoline over the bodies. Frederica watched, riveted, as they dropped a match onto the bodies, which lit with a soft “whoof.” A blue flame engulfed them, first consuming their hair, then blackening their faces, then Frederica turned away. But there, just to the side of where she stood, was another shell pit, and in it lay two other charred bodies. She guessed who they were.
Shells were landing at the far end of the chancellery garden, and Frederica started toward the bunker. But in mid-step, she weighed the two horrors: being trapped underground when the Russians arrived or running the gauntlet between their shells. The choice was clear. She strode purposefully across the smoking, blasted ground of the chancellery garden and no one stopped her. None of the SS guard seemed to care any longer and, in fact, they had no one left to guard.
It was night but the city under fire was neither light nor dark, just a sooty gray that brightened with each explosion, then returned to purgatorial murkiness. She stumbled over rocks and bricks and shell holes, struggling toward the Wilhelmstrasse. At the southern end, she could make out a tank, presumably Soviet, but she ducked around crushed vehicles and presented too small a target for its shells.
She headed directly north to the River Spree where the Wilhelmstrasse became the Luisenstrasse. Before the bombing, it would have been a pleasant fifteen-minute ride on the Strassenbahn from the propaganda ministry to the Charité, but now she would have to cover the entire distance dodging fire and more or less in a crouch. She saw a dead Wehrmacht soldier in the middle of the street and snatched up his helmet without stopping. It was too large and sat low on her head, but it might save her from shrapnel or falling bricks from walls exploding all around her.
Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright Page 23
