Heroes

by David Hagberg

  Germany? What has that madman done to us?” Schey came out of his thoughts and stopped. He shook his head. “You should not say things like that, Marlene. Not to someone like me who works at headquarters.” I

  She smiled and patted him on the cheek. “You’re a nice boy, Dieter, and your loyalty to the end is touching. But you’re not facing the facts.”

  “I came back to help.”

  “Indeed. That was your first mistake …”

  Schey turned away. These days he could no longer bring up a clear picture in his mind of Katy back in Oak Ridge or of Eva where she fell in New York City. Instead, he was seeing a montage of them both. It was like double vision. Like what he imagined a schizophrenic might see.

  Actually, getting out of New York City had been easy, as had crossing the Canadian border disguised as Canadian soldiers. It had taken nearly two days to make it to the airfield in a remote section of Newfoundland, and two more days from there to their refueling depot in Greenland, then on to Norway, and finally home.

  There had been a lot of confusion when he returned. Some of the officers treated him as a hero, while others at headquarters treated him as a big fool. There were even snickers when he was given the Iron Cross, in gold. The Fiihrer himself had hung it around his neck, with shaking hands, in what should have been the highlight of his life.

  But Katy and Eva were dead and gone. His parents were killed in a bombing raid more than a year ago, and Berlin had never even bothered to inform him. There was no one else in Germany for him. He could not stand to be alone. Especially not at night, when he would hear his son crying and coughing in the upstairs bedroom of their Oak Ridge home.

  “I’m sorry. Dieter,” Marlene was saying. “I am truly sorry. I forget what happened to you.” She looked around at the empty cages and beyond the park toward the smoking ruins of the city.

  “God, what a terrible, terrible waste.”

  She was blonde and blue-eyed, but there her resemblance to Eva ended. There was a hard edge to her that was never present in Eva, despite Eva’s sometime bravado. Marlene wore too much makeup, and she sometimes swaggered when she walked, as if she were a model on a runway.

  “What do you think it will be like afterwards?” he asked.

  She turned back. “There will be no more bombing!”

  “It will be Versailles all over again. Only this time much worse.”

  She laughed. “You have been brainwashed. What do you know of the Versailles treaty? You read it in a history book, just like me. German history books.” {

  “You won’t be treated very well,” he blurted. He did not know why he wanted her to bend.

  She laughed again. ‘ ‘The slut of the OKW? The hero’s prize?” “I’m sorry, Marlene; I didn’t mean it.”

  “Sure you did. How do you suppose we met? Why do you suppose I was so willing … at first?”

  Schey felt as if he were being backed into a corner. “You don’t have to stick around. I’m not holding you.”

  “Oh no, you don’t,” she snapped, suddenly alarmed. “You have your little bauble. I have mine.”

  “I’ll give you my rations, if that’s what you’re worried about …”

  She stepped back and slapped him in the face. The unexpected blow snapped his head back. His hand went to his cheek.

  “You son-of-a-bitch! You Schweinhundl You think I want your ersatz coffee and cheap cigarettes?”

  None of the other strollers in the park bothered to stop and watch. Berliners were numb to almost everything these days.

  He didn’t know what to say.

  “I want you, Standartenfiihrer Schey. I don’t want to be alone when the end comes. Misery loves company … you have heard the expression, no doubt? Well, it’s my misery, and you’re the company.” She shook her head. “You can continue to run off and play war games in the Reichs Bunker. But you will come back to me in my little Charlottenburg hovel. And when it’s over and it’s my turn to protect you, I will be there still.”

  Like so many other civilians, she had no concept of what the end would be like, especially if the Russians got to Berlin first.

  “I have to go,” he said.

  “Oh no, you don’t, my hero colonel,” she said, taking his arm. “Your appointment is not until four o’clock. You made the mistake of telling me that first. We have two hours together.

  Back at my place.”

  She led him out of the Tiergarten, down toward Kurfiirstendamm, where he had left his car near the Auslandsorganisation—or what remained of the building.

  The lingering odor of Marlene was still on him when his driver, Sergeant Wilbur Proknow, dropped him in front of the Kaiserhof Subway Station on Voss Strasse. Damage here seemed to be much greater than in other parts of the city. But the Fiihrer Bunker was just around the corner, and along with the Reich Chancellery, this made for the most tempting of all target areas.

  He dismissed the driver, then paused a moment to sniff the air. Berlin smelled like a cross between garbage and plaster dust.

  Always a haze hung over the city from the bombing. It was a part of coming home that he had not been prepared for.

  The SS guards at the main entrance to the subway station saluted Schey as he passed, and then he went down the broad marble stairs to the lower level where he checked his Luger and signed in with an SS lieutenant.

  “Just one moment, Herr Colonel, and your escort will be up,” the young officer said. His left arm had been lost from just above the elbow. The sleeve of his black tunic was pinned up. Schey had trouble keeping his eyes away from it.

  Embarrassed, Schey turned away, slapping his gloved hand against his trouser leg.

  “How is it up there, sir?” the lieutenant asked.

  Schey turned back. “Lieutenant?”

  “The weather, sir. What’s it like today?”

  Schey shrugged. “Not bad. At least the bombing has stopped for a time. There are a lot of people out walking.”

  “In the park?”

  “Yes, but everywhere else, too.”

  The young lieutenant smiled, but then a civilian in baggy trousers came up the stairs from the lower level.

  “Colonel Schey,” the gray-haired man said tiredly. They shook hands.

  Schey remembered him from debriefings a couple of months ago. He had been at a place called Kummersdorf East outside the city for the past few weeks. Schey had thought his debriefings, which had been going on for months now, had finally come to an end.

  “I don’t know if there is anything else I can tell you, sir,” Schey said. The man was an atomic scientist, but Schey could only remember his first name. Bertrand.

  “Neither do we, Colonel,” the scientist said.

  Schey followed him down the stairs and along the tunnel into what once had been a maintenance area for subway cars. Desks and a few cots had been set up on the far side, away from the tracks, but in the middle of the cavernous hall some great machine had been set up. Wires ran in every direction from it. Huge blades for cooling jutted out. And above and below a central chamber were what appeared to be huge electromagnets. Ductwork ran off at odd angles. A dozen men were working on it.

  The scientist was obviously proud of the contraption. “Well, what do you think?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

  “You were in the United States. You saw their efforts. Come, man, how does this compare?”

  Schey gazed at what amounted to a toy by comparison, and he thought about K25, the gas diffusion plant outside Oak Ridge. It had been only one of four operations. The building was more than a mile long. He shook his head.

  “It does not compare, sir.”

  The scientists grinned, apparently misunderstanding. “I told them,” he said. But then he lowered his head. “Still, it is too late for us. The war will soon be over, will it not?”

  Schey nodded. “It is only a matter of days, perhaps weeks.”

  “Who will be first in Berlin, the Americans or the Russians?
”

  “The Americans probably, but we have some intelligence that Eisenhower may hold Patton back and allow the Russians to come first.”

  The scientist did not seem overly upset. He glanced at his machine. “It is called a cyclotron, Herr Colonel, but I suppose that means little or nothing to you.”

  “It is a particle accelerator,” Schey said. “High frequency oscillations drive a charged particle in increasing circles as it gathers energy.”

  The scientist’s mouth dropped open. “You … amaze me, Herr Colonel. You do understand something of this business.”

  “Only the smallest amount. I know that the Americans are very close. And I also know …” Schey let it trail off.

  “Yes … yes?”

  “I know that Germany would never have developed the weapon.”

  “I know that. We all do. The war has ruined our chances.”

  “No, sir. I mean ever. Even if the war had not come here to Germany, we would never have managed to come up with the bomb.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “We don’t have the industrial capacity. We never did have.

  You have seen my reports.”

  The scientist smiled indulgently. “You could not have been everywhere at once, Colonel. One man in your position could never have properly evaluated something so technical.”

  “Sir?”

  “You were mistaken.”

  “About what?”

  “About everything,” the scientist said in irritation. “Vast warehouses to store war materials we can understand. Machines that take up buildings nearby two kilometers on a side? …“He shook his head. “I think not even in America.”

  It didn’t matter after all, Schey thought. He had been dreading these appointments with the scientists. He wasn’t any longer.

  “Perhaps you are right, sir.”

  The scientist nodded. “Of course, Colonel, of course.”

  Schey took a step closer to the big machine. “The cyclotron works well, sir? You have sufficient equipment on hand? You have no need of further supplies?”

  The scientist almost laughed out loud. “My dear Colonel, you don’t seem to understand something here.” Schey said nothing.

  “This machine is months, perhaps even a year away from actual operation.”

  “I don’t see then …”

  “It is a research tool, not a production device. This is a laboratory, not a factory.”

  “Then why have I been called here today? What do you want of me? I thought you desired information on the American project?”

  “You thought wrong, Herr Colonel. We are proud of our work here, of course. But I called you here to show you at what stage we had come to. We need permission to begin dismantling this equipment before the Americans or the Russians show up. It would not do for such toys to fall into wrong hands.”

  “And that is all?”

  “Yes,” the scientist said resentfully.

  “Then tear it down!”

  “No, it is not that easy. We will need permission from the .

  highest authority.” I “I’m on the Reich Chancellery staff, I can …” i

  “The highest authority, Herr Colonel,” the scientist insisted.

  “The Fuhrer?” . <

  “Yes.”

  Schey turned away. He was puzzled. “Why me, sir? Why don’t you speak with the Fuhrer yourself? He would have to listen to you.”

  “It is you, Colonel Schey, who must speak with the Fuhrer on our behalf.”

  “But why me?”

  “Come, do not be so modest.”

  Still Schey did not see.

  “You are a hero of the Reich, Herr Colonel. You have the ‘ Fiihrer’s ear. You have his confidence. You have his favor.”

  Schey backed away a couple of steps. The scientist came after him.

  “You must do this for us, Colonel Schey. For Germany. We are depending upon it.”

  Several of the other scientists had stopped their work and were ‘ watching Schey.

  He was a hero of the Reich, verdammtl He had the Iron Cross to prove it. His fingers touched the medal close around his neck.

  And this is what it had come to. They wanted him to be a favor broker. Marlene was using him for protection. The scientists wanted him to plead their case. And the Fuhrer … the Fuhrer looked to him as the ultimate salvation of Germany..

  He thought about Oak Ridge and about Los Alamos. He i thought about the years he had lost going into deep cover in the United States. And he thought about his more personal losses, Katy and then Eva. But instead of becoming angry, a great sadness came over him. He was a hero of the Reich. Not just for his work in Oak Ridge and Los Alamos, but for what he could do here as well.

  Schey nodded. “I will speak with the Fuhrer.” “This evening, perhaps?” the scientist asked hopefully.

  “Yes,” Schey said. He took one last look at the machine they wanted to tear apart and hide, and then with the scientist he went back upstairs where he retrieved his Luger from the one-armed lieutenant and signed out. I

  Outside on the street he took a deep breath, then turned and walked up the rubble-strewn street to the ruins of the once-proud Reich Chancellery and around back where he was stopped by the SS guards. He showed his pass and was allowed into the rear courtyard and gardens, where he was again stopped and his pass again checked, even though the guards recognized him.

  They saluted, then allowed him down into the Fiihrer Bunker.

  The stairs angled back fifty feet beneath the Chancellery, and just at the bottom he checked his Luger with the desk sergeant and took off his gloves and overcoat as he went through the door into the main corridor that ran all the way back to the dayroom.

  The place smelled of sweat and cooking and slightly of urine.

  Apparently, one of the toilets had backed up again. They had been having trouble with them lately.

  He could hear music playing softly from the dayroom, and when he came in Propaganda Minister Goebbels was deep in discussion with Luftwaffe Chief of Staff General Karl Roller and an SS general he did not recognize.

  “Ah, Colonel Schey,” Goebbels said, looking around. He was smiling broadly. “Go right in; he is expecting you.”

  “Is the afternoon staff conference finished, sir?” Schey asked respectfully. Goebbels was a very powerful and very perverse man. Being around him was like dancing near a high-tension wire, someone had once said.

  “Of course, of course. Go right in.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Schey said. He left the dayroom, and went to the rear section of the bunker where the offices, conference room, and the Fiihrer’s personal quarters were located.

  There were a lot of officers waiting in the corridor or hunched over desks in the various offices. Several greeted Schey warmly.

  Others ignored him.

  Around the corner near the conference room, Keitel, Jodl, and Krebs came past him. They did not even notice his presence.

  The Fuhrer momentarily was alone at the long conference table. He was looking down at a large map. He had a slight palsy which caused his head to wobble. His left arm hung slack at his side, and his right hand, raised to his lips, shook slightly. He looked terribly exhausted, Schey stood there at the corner for a moment, until Hitler, sensing his presence, looked up.

  For a moment there was no recognition in the Fiihrer’s eyes, and Schey could do nothing but stare. But then Hitler’s face broke into a tired grin.

  “Ah. The one man in all of Germany whom I can trust completely.” He came around the table, beckoning for Schey.

  “I can rely on no one, you know,” he said. His voice sounded raspy. “They all betray me. And the whole business makes me sick.”

  Schey did not know what to say. He was sick at heart. The air in the room was almost too thick to breathe.

  “If anything happens to me, Germany will be left without a leader. I have no successor. Hess is mad; Goering has lost the sympathy of the people; Himmler would b
e rejected by the party.

  No, there is only me.”

  It was snowing furiously when David Deland tromped up Bascom Hill toward the University of Wisconsin’s administration building.

  Nothing had been quite the same since he had come home. His father was ill, the weather unsettled, and the war seemed to be dragging on forever.

  They had all expected the fighting in Europe to be ended by last Christmas. When the first of the year came and went, the predictions were for February, or mid-March at the latest. They were saying mid-April now. Just two and a half weeks away. He didn’t know if he believed it. No one did.

  He shifted his briefcase to his left hand, pulled open the door, and stepped inside the big building, crossed the main hall, and took the stairs up two at a time to the university president’s office.

  He supposed he still wasn’t used to his civilian status. No longer did he have to continually look over his shoulder, although he did; no longer did he have to be concerned about whom he talked to, though he tended to be somewhat reticent now; no longer did he have to live with the moment-to-moment fear, although he still awoke at nights in a sweat; no longer did he have to be concerned where his next meal came from or who his friends were.

  It had taken him several months to come down from the tremendous stress. And still he had a long way to go.

  For a few weeks after he had gotten out, he had remained in Bern with Dulles, doing his debriefings. Then they sent him back to the school in Virginia to teach the new recruits and some of the older hands what it was really like in the field.

  But by Christmas he had been released from active duty, and then discharged, providing he would return to the University of

  Wisconsin at Madison, to work at the Army Mathematics Research Center.

  He had agreed wholeheartedly. But it was much different than he remembered it and far lonelier than he imagined it would be.

  His friends, even his girlfriend from before the war, had no conception of what he had become. Some of them had gone so far as to tell him to shake it off, to forget about it. But he could not, of course.

  E.B. Fred’s outer office was usually busy at this hour on a Monday morning. Today only his secretary sat behind her desk.