Not very convincing. Why hadn’t they brought his diaries? Perhaps they were saving them for the very end?
Everything, all the questions, the results of all the interrogations from the Frontier Police College, then Prinz-Albrecht Strasse and finally here, came out now, as Huppenkothen spoke.
The words flowed around Canaris—meaningless, in one sense, because he was so intimately familiar with the material, and yet made more ominous than ever before because of the nature of this proceeding.
He glanced from Stawitzky on one side to Huppenkothen in the middle and Kogl at the opposite side of the bench. Then he looked at Thorbeck. They all understood what was happening here. They all understood the sham. They were simply going through the motions so that it would all be down in black and white on paper.
Was Wilhelm Canaris murdered? Of course not! There was a proper trial! Rules of evidence were meticulously observed. The question of jurisdiction and venue? … Everything was breaking down because of the war. We did what we could in the name of justice. But traitorous acts must be dealt with. Swiftly. Harshly.
The courtroom was suddenly silent. Canaris blinked. They were waiting for him to speak. He would speak indeed. As he had for all of these months.
“As you well understand, gentlemen, at the time I was supposedly committing these acts of treason, I was head of Amt Ausland/Abwehr. In that position, may I remind you, it was my job—my duty—to involve myself in every aspect of intelligence gathering. Within, as well as without, Germany.”
“You knew about the coup d’etat plans?” Huppenkothen asked indifferently.
“Of course, I’knew about the plans all along. I followed them with great interest.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
WStf “Because the plans never materialized. It was merely talk. If and when it had become dangerous to the Reich, I would have acted.”
“They said you were a part of the planning itself.”
“They?” Canaris asked imperiously. “Who are they?”
“Colonel Oster, for one,” Stawitzky interjected.
Canaris shook his head. “Naturally he would think such a thing. I was going along with them to better ascertain their true intentions.”
“I see,” Huppenkothen said. “But let’s come back to that in a moment or so. I would like to explore now, the winter of 1939-40. There were certain discussions you had with a number of our military commanders.”
There was no direct evidence for anything they had charged him with, unless they brought out his diaries. He kept expecting Huppenkothen to motion to Thorbeck, who would then slip into the side room and come out with the three books. At that point it would be over for sure. Just the threat of that happening began to wear Canaris down.
For months, until just recently, he had gone without a decent diet. For months he had been forced to lead an almost underground, and certainly an unnatural, life. His strength began to fail him now, when he needed it the most.
Sometimes his interrogators laughed at him; at other times they shouted, but it was meaningless sound. He had no real sense of the passage of time, although he suspected that the trial was going very fast. Too fast.
Suddenly Stawitzky stood over him. “You miserable, stinking little traitor. You wanted to kill our Fiihrer. You wanted to deliver our armed forces to the enemy on a silver platter.”
“No …” Canaris started to say, when Stawitzky reared back and smashed his fist into Canaris’ already damaged nose.
The pain was unbelievable, although he did not black out. The room spun around and around, and his stomach churned. There was a movement, and they were shouting something, but it was all so indistinct, so unreal, that he could not focus on any of it.
He could only try to hold on to his own sanity, his consciousness, for as long as possible.
Hans Oster was suddenly there in the courtroom. He stood across the room from Canaris, who was slowly beginning to see and hear what was happening.
“You were with us, Willi,” Oster was saying, as if from a very great distance.
“No,” Canaris mumbled. It was hard to talk. His face seemed swollen and very numb.
Oster was mad. “Oh yes, you were. In every phase of our activities. He was there.”
“No,” Canaris cried again. “It was all for show. Don’t you understand?” “No,” Oster shouted. “That is not true. I can only say what I know—I’m not a rogue.”
Thorbeck came around to the side. He looked a long time at Canaris. “Colonel Oster was your chief of staff. Are you telling the court, Heir Admiral, that he is falsely incriminating you? Is that what you are telling us?”
Canaris looked from Thorbeck to Huppenkothen and the others on the bench, and then to Oster … poor Hans. He shook his head. There was no fight left in him. “No,” he mumbled.
“Speak up,” Thorbeck boomed.
“No,” Canaris said, looking up.
It was after ten when they passed the guardroom in the bunker and walked slowly down to the cells. Canaris, through pain dimmed eyes, had glanced at the clock.
The verdict had been guilty, of course. The sentence, death. It had all been predetermined.
Meitner had warned him that the Fiihrer had gone into a rage when he had learned of the diaries. He had ordered all of the conspirators destroyed. And now, despite the illegality of the trial, despite the fact he wasn’t really guilty of any crime against the Reich, and despite the fact the war would be over any day now, the end was at hand.
Corporal Binder was especially careful with Canaris as they entered the cell, but Kriiger was swaggering now, and he shoved Canaris toward the cot, making him stumble.
“You little traitor,” he spat.
Binder turned on him. “You Schweinhund, keep your hands off your betters!”
Kriiger stepped back, surprised. But then a slow grin spread across his face. “All right, Binder. You may have your way. But I will not forget this.”
“See that you don’t,” Binder said. He turned and helped Canaris to his cot. “How do you feel, Herr Admiral? Can I get you something?”
Canaris looked up. He shook his head. It was very hard to keep focused. It was as if he were in a dream. Time kept slipping away from him.
“I’ll check on you a little later, if I can,” Binder said. He turned and left the cell.
Canaris lay back and closed his eyes. The room wanted to spin at first, but then it settled and he dozed off.
He kept seeing Huppenkothen and the others in court. Then Meitner’s image swam into view, but his old friend was crying.
He saw Baron Kaulbars and Uncle Mau and the others back in Berlin. His dogs, Kasper and Sabine, were there, as were Motte and the other Arabians.
Later—he did not know how much later—he could hear Lunding tapping on the wall from the next cell. For a long time Canaris lay where he was, half listening to Lunding’s code but not understanding it. He was too tired. The man had been a great comfort these weeks. Now, however, he wanted simply to sleep.
But the signaling continued, and finallylte dragged himself up and then sank to the floor at the foot of his cot, his head resting carefully against the wall. He waited for a break. When it came, he began his message.
“Nose broken last interrogation. My time is up.”
Lunding tapped something in response, but Canaris could not make it out.
“Was not traitor. Did my duty as German.”
Again Lunding signaled something. Canaris could read the urgency in the message, but he could make no sense of it. He was so sleepy.
“If you survive, remember me to my wife,” he tapped, and then he turned away. He looked at his cot. It seemed an impossibly long distance up. He could not stay here on the floor.
Somehow he managed to drag himself back up. He pulled off his coat and tie, then took off his shoes and socks, and lay down on his back. He closed his eyes and was asleep almost instantly.
He dreamed again. But this time his images
were unclear and very far away. He felt yearnings, but no desires for anything concrete on which he could focus. It was frustrating, but even in his dreams he could sense the passage of time, and he was not surprised or shocked when a commotion out in the corridor awoke him.
It was still early morning. The sun had not come up yet, although the yard outside his window, lit by arc lights, was almost like day.
He could hear guard dogs barking, and a number of voices seemed to be arguing. There were many people outside his door.
His cell door came open. “Out you come,” someone shouted^
Canaris did not recognize the voice, but he sat up and managed to get to his feet when Kriiger and several other SS guards crowded in. They roughly unhooked the shackles from Canaris’ ankles and the handcuffs from his wrists.
He was led out of the cell, then down the corridor, and around the corner from the guardroom.
Karl Sack was there, along with Bonhoeffer and Gehre. They were nude. Their emaciated bodies were blue-tinged in the harsh overhead lights. No one said anything. They all averted their eyes.
“Get undressed,” one of the guards told Canaris. “You, too,” he said to someone behind.
Canaris turned as Hans Oster came down the corridor. His old chief of staff acted as if he were drunk or on some sort of drugs.
He did not seem to recognize anyone.
They got undressed, and Canaris shivered. It was very cold.
His arms were tied painfully behind his back, and then he was led to the rear door, the others directly behind him. His guards seemed to be in a big hurry. Everyone was nervous.
At the door, though, they hesitated a moment. There were a lot of SS guards and officers crowded into the tiny space now.
Huppenkothen was just within the doorway, as were Kogl and Stawitzky. Thorbeck stood to one side, and there were others whom Canaris did not recognize.
He looked around for Corporal Binder, but the man was no where to be seen.
“All right, Caesar first,” someone from behind said, using Canaris’ prison code name.
The door opened and he was pulled outside. The early morning air was intensely cold. The entire yard was lit up by strong lights.
The stones were very hard on his feet, and it was windy.
At first Canaris could not see where he was being led because the lights were blinding him, but then they stopped in front of a low stepladder over which dangled a noose. The rope was attached to a large hook in an overhang at the edge of the building.
“Up you go,” his two SS guards said, half guiding, half lifting Canaris up the two steps.
There was no ceremony. No reading of the sentence. Nothing.
Canaris managed to glance back toward the door as the noose was put around his neck and tightened. He could see Huppenkothen and Stawitzky there. Neither one of them was smiling now.
He just looked back when he felt the steps jerked out from under him, and the noose pulled up so terribly … Dear God … he was dying here! … And still it was the same night. Marlene had not returned yet, and Schey was very worried about her. The Allies had come through an hour ago, but most of their loads had been dumped on Tiergarten, Mitte, and Wedding, not here.
He had dragged himself out of bed, wakened by the noise of the bombing, and he had gone up the back way to stand in the courtyard as he smoked his last cigarette.
The smoke made him light-headed, and for a while, as he watched the flashes toward the northeast and listened to the dull thumps and rumbles, he had to reach out and hold on to the corner of the doorway so that he would not fall down.
He was very weak. He could not remember when he had eaten last, although vaguely, at the back of his mind, he thought Marlene may have fed him something. Days ago, was it?
After the bombing he had gone back into the apartment and rummaged around for food. He only found a bit of coffee and a tiny packet of raw sugar that Marlene had been saving. With difficulty he brewed the coffee on the gasoline stove, and when it was done, he poured all of the sugar into one mug and brought it over to the small table in the sitting room.
He sipped the coffee, burning his lips, the ultrasweet taste turning his stomach. But he continued, alternately blowing on the hot brew and then sipping. The sugar, he knew, would give him energy. He was going to need it.
For a long time he sat in the darkness, sipping his coffee and listening for any kind of a sound. The family that had lived upstairs had moved away weeks ago, and now there was no one left in this building, though other buildings on this street were occupied.
The Russians were coming and everyone was frightened of what would happen if they were caught here in the city. A lot of them had gone out into the countryside. Of course, the army was stopping them now, but at first a lot of them had gotten free. If the Fiihrer could remain here in Berlin, then his people certainly should not be allowed to desert.
Besides, the people in the country didn’t want Berliners in any event. There had been reports of Germans attacking and killing Germans!
For a time, as Schey sat there in his stocking feet, his chest bare, he thought about the United States and tried to compare his life there with this now. But after a while he realized that he was not being fair. His life in Bavaria, however, and later, in Rudesheim on the Rhine and here in Berlin, before he was posted overseas, had had a quality to it, had had a gentleness, a softness, and even a sophistication that was certainly beyond anything he’d encountered in Oak Ridge or in New Mexico.
The U.S. was very big, very rawboned, very back-country, while Germany had the charm the Americans used to call “Old World.”
There was no comparison in that respect. None at all, in his mind. And besides the hurt in his chest from his wound, there was an even deeper ache in his gut for the time past.
His Iron Cross, the metal softly gleaming, was hung by its ribbon over the lamp shade on the table. He reached out and touched it. The medal turned, catching a stray reflection.
He’d expected a parade ground ceremony, of course. His peers were supposed to be there. There’d be pomp and speeches; there’d be a band; his father would be in the stands, and der Fiihrer would come out with his entourage. He’d say a word or two, arid then place the medal around Schey’s neck.
He had not expected the sniggers. He’d not expected the sideways glances, the raised eyebrows. He’d not expected the urgent messages interrupting the ceremony, the bombing raid that afternoon, nor the fact that the assembly had taken place fifty feet underground.
He turned his eyes away from the medal. Nor had he expected to be put on the radio, exhorting his fellow soldiers and countrymen never to lay down their arms, to fight until the very end for the honor and the glory that was Adolph Hitler.
God in heaven, had he been so wrong? Had his entire country been so terribly wrong all this time?
Scorched earth. Der Fiihrer had given the order for everything to be destroyed. Bridges. Factories. Farm fields. Everything.
When the enemy came across the frontier, they’d find nothing but scorched earth.
Schey finished his coffee, then dragged himself away from the table and back into the bedroom; there he sat heavily on the bed and reached for his Luger where it hung in its holster. He pulled it out, checked to make sure the clip was full, and then closed his eyes against the tears.
Der Fiihrer … his Fuhrer … was mad. If he were allowed to continue, all of Germany would be destroyed. Every person, every man, woman, and child, every last blade of grass would die.
He had to be stopped!
Schey reached for his boots.
The other three men in the barn kept looking at Deland as if he were some sort of a monster.
“It’s the SS uniform,” Dannsiger explained, looking up from the map spread out on the flat hood of the Kriegswagen. It was a Volkswagen. A people’s car. Dr. Ferdinand Porsche had designed it at the Fuhrer’s behest. This was the military model.
Germany’s answer to the American jeep
.
“Are they coming into the city with us?”
“None of us are coming into the city with you, Edmund …” Dannsiger said, but he bit it off, suddenly realizing that he did not know Deland’s real name. “What does your pay book call you now?”
“It’s better you do not know,” Deland said. “I am Edmund.”
Dannsiger nodded. “Marti wondered about you.”
“Did she escape?”
“No,” Dannsiger said. He looked at the map. “I will have to show you here where his apartment is located. And then I am leaving.”
“Where are you going?”
“West. We are going to try to get to Hannover. Or somewhere near there.”
“Because of the Russians?”
Dannsiger nodded, grim-lipped. “It will not be long. And it will not be very pretty.”
“Has there been any report of Russians already in Berlin?” Deland asked.
Dannsiger was startled. “Advance units?” he asked. But he answered his own question. “No, I do not think so. They would have to be either very brave or very stupid, or both. Berlin is a very difficult city just now.”
Deland nodded. He looked at the street map. “You said something about him being wounded.”
“His girlfriend said he had been shot. She had no details, but she said he is very weak. The bullet is still in his chest. He apparently isn’t able to leave the apartment … just here.”
Dannsiger pointed a pencil to a street just off Reichenhaller Strasse. “It is number 37, in the basement. There is a front entry as well as a back.”
Deland leaned closer toward the map and studied it for a long moment or two. There was no alley behind. “How about the buildings around it? What kind of shape are they in?”
“There have been a few hits in the area, but very few. The block is in fairly good condition. There is a series of courtyards in the back, however. They can be reached through the tailor’s shop on the corner.”
“There is no one in that building?”
Dannsiger looked up and shook his head. “No. They have been gone for a very long time.”
“Were they Jews?”
Heroes Page 36
