Authors: Michael Dobbs
Misch turned to the boys. ‘Hang him! And put a placard around his neck which says “Deserter”. And if you can’t spell “Deserter” I’ll shoot the teacher.’
No one doubted his word, and as one boy stirred from his petrification so the others followed. Not until they had carried out the orders to the full did Misch replace the pistol in his holster. He was nervous and uneasy, his pale cheeks unnaturally
flushed, shocked with the realization of what he had done. ‘Back to your posts,’ he commanded. The schoolmaster nodded, and they returned silently to the building of the barricade, trying to keep their backs towards the lamp post.
Misch turned away and for the first time seemed to notice Hencke, who had stood silently behind him throughout. ‘You’ll understand, of course. After all you’ve been through.’ Misch smiled nervously. ‘The Fatherland means everything to me.’
‘I think I need a piss,’ Hencke responded, and clawed his way over a pile of bricks to the shell of a gutted building. He disappeared for a few moments behind a wall before reappearing. ‘Hey, Misch. Come and see what I’ve found.’
He beckoned him over and Misch clambered after him until they were both hidden behind the wall.
‘What’s up? What have you discovered?’
Hencke turned to face Misch until they were no more than inches apart. ‘I just wanted you to know what I thought of that little episode outside, Misch.’
The quizzical look was still on Misch’s face when the bayonet which Hencke had filched from one of the boys’ rifles caught him between the ribs. Then there was surprise, the pain hadn’t yet hit him. Only when Hencke twisted the blade upwards, snapping two ribs and penetrating the heart, did Misch’s eyes bulge as the agony forced him on to the tips of his toes. He grabbed Hencke’s shoulders with what was left of his rapidly ebbing strength until they were eyeball to eyeball, and Hencke could feel the fear and panic in Misch’s hot breath as he began to choke on the blood rising in his gorge.
‘But I thought you’d come back to help save us …’
‘No, you murdering bastard. I’ve come from Mr Churchill. To kill Hitler.’
He gave another twist of the bayonet blade and Misch fell back dead at his feet.
Hencke arrived at his destination well after midnight. The RAF had finished with their nightly bombing attack on the German capital and there was a lull in the early hours as the survivors waited for the return of the American bombers by day. It was a routine with an awesome familiarity for Berliners. Somehow the city still functioned; hundreds of thousands went about their duties, baking, selling, stamping ration cards, clearing the streets, keeping the water and electricity flowing, distributing newspapers, even delivering mail – anything was better than sitting back to wait for the arrival of the Russians. Although there was a blackout the driver was able to see his way without difficulty; a choking cloud of soot and phosphorous smoke hung low across the city and the light from innumerable fires reflected back into the desolate streets, giving even darkest night a sickening edge of brightness. It was the fresh piles of rubble and unfilled craters scattered across the roadways which made the passage so difficult; wide boulevards had been turned into obstacle courses and several times they had to turn back and divert away from streets that were completely blocked or had turned into great tunnels of fire. More than once Hencke had helped the driver shift obstructions; they wrapped wet handkerchiefs around their faces to protect themselves from the
hot, suffocating ash and fumes. At one point their way was obstructed by a body. The driver got out, grabbed the body under the shoulders and dumped it to one side.
‘Was he dead?’
‘Who knows? If we stopped for every body, we’d never bloody get there.’
Since Hencke had returned alone to the car, the driver had dropped any vestige of military discipline and respect. He had a job to do and he’d do it, but he didn’t have to pretend to enjoy it. When Hencke explained that Misch ‘hadn’t made it’ back from the growing chaos on the other side of the barricade, the driver didn’t bother to ask why. It was too frequent an occurrence to arouse even his slightest interest; his only regret was that Hencke hadn’t suggested they turn round and head westward with all the others.
They passed beside the Brandenburg Gate in the very heart of Berlin. It stood largely intact and shining in the glare of nearby fires, an awesome reminder of sights which seemed buried deep in a time when it had been illuminated by the torches of victory parades and the Fuehrer had taken the salute of adoring millions. But the military bands and the tramp of marching feet had gone; there was only the explosion of time-delay bombs and the shudder of collapsing buildings to interrupt the complaints of his driver and the low growl of the Mercedes engine.
They drove directly into the underground garage off Hermann Goering Strasse. Even by night and with many of its windows blown out or boarded up, the looming edifice of the Reich Chancellery was clearly recognizable. Teams were at work dealing with the rubble from the most recent aerial
onslaught but it was no longer being taken away and hidden, merely pushed aside to allow access. Inside the building the upper storeys had been vacated, parts of the roof and most of the windows having gone, but on lower floors and in the cellar there were still hundreds of people scurrying about their business. Indeed, as Hencke emerged from the garage into the heart of Berlin’s main government complex, he entered a different world. While outside the great capital city lay in ruins, inside there remained at least a semblance of discipline and control. Even the driver had started saluting senior officers again. Telephones still jangled, commands were barked, soldiers scampered to obey. Yet as Hencke was led by an orderly through a maze of underground cellars and tunnels, he couldn’t help but notice how fragile seemed this veneer of order. There was no hiding the weariness in the limbs, the ashen signs of exhaustion in the faces of men who had survived too long on too little sleep, the soiled uniforms which bore the dust and filth of excursions into the outside world and which no one bothered any longer to clean or replace. In many places the refuse of meals and drinking sessions lay uncleared, and Hencke passed two generals who were obviously drunk. Strangely their uniforms bore the least sign of battle grime, the only stains seeming to have come from spilt wine and soup.
Soon they were out of the cellar and up to the ground floor, where spartan utility gave way to the splendour of marble floors, rich carpets and still finer tapestries, all of which were spotted with the marks of fallen plasterwork. The lights burned brightly for the windows were heavily boarded and, as the orderly led the way down corridors and through
rooms which echoed to their footsteps, Hencke was conscious of the soiled splendour of a once magnificent showpiece. Drawing-rooms had been transformed into sleeping quarters bursting with metal cots; where great receptions had once been held were piled man-made mountains of provisions and wooden crates; a burnished Steinway in the music room had been pushed aside to make way for an array of maps surrounding a briefing table, and everywhere there was a sense of desperate struggle to avoid the short descent into chaos. But still the heart of government was beating, even if the effort involved was proving colossal.
The orderly, a lieutenant, stopped outside a towering pair of carved doors and instructed him to wait. He knocked sharply and from deep within there came a muffled order to enter. He disappeared for a second and exchanged a few brief words before reappearing. ‘He’s ready for you,’ was all he said before ushering Hencke through the doors.
The room behind the doors had once been a small reception-room – small, that is, only by comparison with the great halls through which they had passed. It was a good thirty metres long and decorated with gilded mirrors, oil paintings of traditional hunting scenes and a vast crystal chandelier which cast a delicate light across the inlaid oaken floor. Whatever furniture had once adorned the room had gone. In the middle now stood a large baize-covered table surrounded by chairs, sufficient for a briefing meeting of thirty, with a huge map of Berlin and its approaches pinned up at one end of the room. At the other end, beside an ornate fireplace whose mantel was covered in fine pieces of blue and white porcelain, was a vast pillared desk with a marble top
which was all but hidden beneath neat piles of paper. And beside the desk stood the unmistakable, reed-like figure of Josef Goebbels.
‘Hencke! Is it really you inside those rags? What a spectacle you make! But you are most welcome!’ Goebbels paced stiffly across the room, his right foot pointing awkwardly inwards, extending his hand in greeting. A smile of amusement played on his lips as he studied his unkempt prize. While the undersized Reichsminister was dressed immaculately in a conservative double-breasted suit with a pearl-white shirt, his dark hair brushed back and glossy with brilliantine, Hencke made a miserable sight. The change of clothes provided by the local police after his rescue on the beach had never fitted properly; now they were stained with the mud and dust from shifting obstructions and rubble. His boots and trousers had become soaked from the flooding of broken water pipes, a dark brown stain of dried blood clung to his left sleeve and around his neck still hung the grimy handkerchief he had used to protect his mouth from the burning air.
‘Ha! I see you come well gift-wrapped,’ Goebbels chuckled, clapping his hands in delight. He was clearly exultant. ‘I am not a superstitious man, Hencke, but to have you delivered back to us, on such an auspicious day, is more than even my scepticism can take.’ He saw the bewildered look on Hencke’s face and led him towards two comfortable chairs which stood on either side of a low occasional table. ‘Sit down, my dear Hencke. We have much to talk about.’ He poured coffee from a silver pot and began.
‘Do you know what day it is?’
‘Herr Reichsminister, I scarcely know what year
it is. I have been in a prison camp, on the run, in fishing smacks on the Irish Sea and in a submarine at the bottom of the North Sea …’
Goebbels stretched over to grasp his hand and still him. ‘The twentieth of April, my dear Hencke. The Fuehrer’s birthday. I have organized a very special celebration for him. And a very special prize. Hencke,
you
are that prize!’
‘I … am to be presented to the Fuehrer?’
Goebbels’ saturnine face was unusually animated. ‘Yes. Oh, yes. The arrival of perhaps the bravest man in Germany represents the return of hope and good fortune. My God, it will be better medicine than anything those quacks have poured into him in months.’ The long creases about his face became suddenly harder and his voice lost its celebratory edge, becoming quiet, almost conspiratorial. He leaned close to Hencke as if afraid his words might be overheard, the blood vessels at his temples swelling as he strained forward. ‘You must realize, Hencke, the Fuehrer may not be the man you remember. The assassination attempt at Rastenburg last year … it caused him grave damage. He was so close to the bomb it was a miracle he survived. His ear drums shattered, his hearing damaged, his sense of balance gone …’ Goebbels was talking slowly, choosing his words with care. ‘The worries he has borne over so many years on our behalf have taken their inevitable toll. He has given so much of his own strength to our cause, it is vital for us in turn to replenish it with our full support and encouragement. He is tired, unwell. He needs reassurance. While he has the will to carry on, so does Germany. Later today all of the party’s leaders are arriving from their posts around the country to honour and
strengthen him, to reinforce his desire to carry on in his great task. And that is why your arrival is so timely and so important. You are the embodiment of the German spirit to continue the fight; he will regard your presence as an omen of good fortune, a harbinger of victories yet to come.’
‘I fear I will disappoint the Fuehrer …’
‘Hencke, you are Odysseus escaped from the clutches of the Cyclops and returned to Ithaca. This is no time for modesty. You have achieved more than any other captured German since this war began … But tell me, we know so little of you – no more than your name.’ He was on the edge of his chair – like a cat waiting to pounce, thought Hencke. ‘Tell me more about yourself.’
So they sat while Hencke talked, of his childhood in the Sudetenland, the German-speaking part of Czechoslovakia which had been almost the first of the Third Reich’s territorial claims in Europe, stripped from the Czechs in 1938. Of his modest life as a schoolteacher, of his even more modest entry into the Wehrmacht as an ordinary infantryman, of his capture outside Bastogne on Christmas Day last as the Ardennes offensive turned to ignominious rout, of his incarceration and of his run for freedom. And as he spoke his mind was in turmoil. He’d only just arrived and already he was taking coffee with Goebbels – they were going to
push
him at Hitler! – could it all be so easy? Of course not. He needed time to think and his confusion and obvious exhaustion were causing his words to stumble. He took refuge in a yawn, mumbling an apology before Goebbels interrupted him.
‘I have tired you enough. There is much for us to discuss still, but you must get some rest before our
celebration this afternoon – it would not do for you to fall asleep on the Fuehrer! And we must do something about your gift-wrapping … Hencke, I am appointing you to the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler, the most elite division in the Waffen SS. Its name is synonymous, as now is yours, with valour and dedication to the Fuehrer. I congratulate you! So, rest. There are a few hours before the Americans return to snatch our sleep from us and wake the dead. We can continue this later …’
Hencke’s head swam from fatigue and the overwhelming atmosphere. He hadn’t seen Goebbels give any signal, but when he looked up the orderly was waiting to escort him away. He rose stiffly with Goebbels’ hand on his elbow for support. ‘Sleep well, brave Hencke,’ the Reichsminister said, assisting him towards the door. At the threshold he paused, taking Hencke’s hand.
‘I have never been able to fight in the front line, but you seem to have shown enough heroism for both of us. You’re a very brave man, Hencke. Indeed, coming from the Sudetenland it could be said that you were part of this war even before it began.’
Hencke nodded. Goebbels didn’t know how right he was.
‘Tell me, where in the Sudetenland were you born?’
Hencke froze. The hand which held his, which had supported him across the room, had now become a restraint, a manacle holding him back. He knew their conversation had become interrogation and he would need all his wits about him. But his tired body no longer wanted to fight the fatigue and he felt paralysed by the touch of the hand and the brush of
the seemingly innocent words. Goebbels’ dark eyes and lean, saturnine face had the hypnotic power of a swaying cobra, and for a moment it appeared as if Hencke could say nothing. He knew why Goebbels had asked.
‘Eger,’ he said softly. ‘February the second, 1910. I was born just outside Eger.’
Goebbels nodded. ‘They will be very proud of you. Well, goodnight, Hencke. And don’t worry about a thing. We’ll take care of you.’
And Hencke was gone. With a thoughtful look Goebbels walked back to his desk. He spent some time pondering over a slow burning cigarette before he lifted the phone.
‘Bormann? Hencke’s arrived. In Berlin. In the Reich Chancellery. Look, you’re the man with the records. I want you to find out a little more about him. Schoolteacher. Born second February 1910 outside Eger in the Sudetenland … No, seems fine, but he’s too valuable for us to take chances. I’ve arranged for someone to keep an eye on him, just in case. At times like these you can never be too sure …’
Replacing the receiver he checked his watch. He opened a large drawer in his desk and switched on the small radio which was inside, fiddling with the tuning dial before settling back to listen to the news service of the BBC. Nowadays it was the only way he could find out precisely what was going on. And Goebbels always insisted on knowing what was going on.