Authors: Michael Dobbs
Hencke was taken aback at the greeting and sat silently on the sofa.
‘You know, Hencke, you and I have so much in common,’ Hitler continued, lowering his head unsteadily to meet a piece of cake held in an equally unsteady hand. ‘We are both men of valour, holders of the Iron Cross,’ he said, wiping smudges of cream from his mouth with the back of his hand. He pointed proudly to the medal, the only decoration on his tunic apart from his tiny gold party button, which had been awarded for bravery under fire as a courier, a mere corporal in the First War before he was gassed and invalided out. That had been in the distant past, more than a generation ago, in another world.
He was muttering away through mouthfuls of cake. ‘And me as an Austrian and you from the Sudetenland, we understand the need to build a Greater German Reich, to bring all Germans together – not like those feeble minds and faint hearts who nowadays flood out from every sewer to question why we ever needed to send soldiers across the blasted Rhine! They’re like a plague …’ His pale
face coloured rapidly with indignation. ‘All about me there are men who think they know better, who disobey my orders, who betray the Reich. The generals are the worst. I, almost single-handed, gave them the continent of Europe.’ His voice rose, bits of cream cake spraying across the table. ‘Everything but England, that puny island governed by the son of a pox-ridden aristocrat. I gave it to the generals, Hencke, and what did they do? Prick-pullers every one. They’ve thrown it all away!’ His voice had gained a remarkable strength for someone so frail. There was still passion in those glassy eyes, a flickering glow like a candle trying desperately to revive itself on the last traces of wick. The willpower and determination were still there, struggling to find some remnants of physical energy on which to cling. The puppy discreetly jumped down from his now-exposed position and waddled out the door. ‘Not one of them knows what it is like to have been under fire, to have an enemy trying to shoot the balls off you, that feeling of exhilaration when you realize the bastard’s missed. They’ve never risked their lives in battle, like you and me. They have betrayed us both, those aristocrats from their military academies. Why else were you left to rot in a prison camp? Why – else – am – I – here?’ His hand beat down on the table, but the effort and animation were rapidly tiring him. His lips could no longer keep pace with his anger, and saliva dribbled down his chin, which he did not bother to wipe. He settled back once again in his chair, the flame subsiding.
‘And the German people … I wanted so much for them, expected so much of them. They have failed me. The Reich has turned into a great field of white flags for the Russians and Americans to harvest; and
you won’t find a single German who can ever remember supporting the Party, let alone coming to one of my rallies to cheer until they were hoarse. Do you remember, Hencke? Berlin, Nuremberg, Munich – rallies of more than a million wonder-filled people. Where have they all gone?’
His mood had become depressed and a look of anxiety crossed his face. His moustache and nose, swollen and pulpy in old age, twitched in agitation and he began biting one of his fingernails until it was red and ripped to the quick. ‘Tell me, what was it like waiting to die, in that submarine? On the bottom of the ocean?’
Hencke couldn’t see the purpose of the question; he didn’t know how to react. He decided to be honest, answering slowly.
‘Terrifying.’
Hitler nodded, as if he understood. ‘Different from facing death in the field, in the open air? Tell me, is there anything noble about … waiting to die. Stuck in an underwater tin can?’
Or stuck in an underground box, thought Hencke. So that’s what is getting at him. Facing the Russians in his Bunker won’t be the same as facing the French in the trenches; he’s worried he may not be up to it. ‘No, nothing noble.’
Hitler sighed, the breath rattling in his lungs. ‘Hencke, look at me. As you see I am not a well man. I am not physically strong. There are those who see this and believe that the war is over. They wish me to make an end of it, here in Berlin. Particularly some of the generals. The war is lost, they say, but we can still save Germany if we end it properly, nobly.’ His hand came up to tap his forehead and his bleary eyes stared directly at Hencke. ‘But I have not
lost my mind yet, Hencke. What damned purpose is served by dying like rats in a cellar, tell me that? Where’s the nobility of a Russian bullet in your guts – or worse! Having your body dragged through the streets of Moscow behind some hairy-assed commissar?’ He leaned forward, his brow wrinkled with concern. ‘And then there are the women to consider; it’s not just me. They have served me so loyally, more faithfully than any man. They have stood by me when the men were trampling on babies in their rush for a seat on the plane to Switzerland. Would it be
noble
of me to leave them to their fates here, under the bellies of sub-human Russians who don’t give a damn whether it’s a dead woman or a dead sheep and will screw the lot? That’s how my noble Prussian generals would repay their loyalty.’ The flame in his eyes had found more fuel. ‘They underestimate me, those cretins. I may not be able to fight at the front any more, but I’m not yet finished. No, not by a long way! Those cowards in the High Command forget that Julius Caesar was an epileptic but it didn’t stop him conquering half the world. I don’t forget! I don’t forget that no enemy ever defeated Caesar, his stinking generals stabbed him in the back!’
He reached over to grasp Hencke’s hand but his fingers were so unsteady he had to use his other hand to quell the shaking. He was already breathless and wheezing painfully. ‘Hencke, I have a plan. The war will not end. We shall stay in Berlin a few days longer and give the Russians a bloody nose. Then we shall fly to the mountains! We can fight for months from there, up where the air is sweet and the sun will shine upon us. We shall leave this shit hole of Berlin for the Americans and Russians to fight over.
Jewish capitalists marching from one side and Jewish Bolsheviks from the other. Imagine! The mightiest blood-letting history has ever seen. They can lob artillery shells at each other over the fucking Reichstag, for all I care. We are
die von dem Berg
, people of the mountain. We don’t need vast panzer divisions and to hell with all those miserable, whingeing, double-crossing generals. Just a few thousand of us, carefully chosen. People like you, Hencke. We can stay up in Berchtesgaden until the Americans get bored and limp back home after they’ve stuck their bayonets up the bums of half of Russia. We shall have new weapons, deadly new nerve gases, Tabun, Sarin, atomic weapons perhaps. Then – will – be – our – time – again!’
He collapsed back in his chair, exhausted, unable to continue.
Hencke, too, was incapable of speech. Deep inside, in the parts where men cry and rant about the injustices of life, he cursed whatever forces had brought him to this underground bedlam. They had brought him into the lair to inflict his mind with further madness, shown him an evil beyond comprehension, filled him with such horror that he knew he would burn in hell if he failed to wipe out this evil. And yet he had been left powerless, stripped of means or ideas to end it all. He could see no shadow of a chance.
‘It can work, can’t it, Hencke?’ Hitler asked, interrupting his thoughts.
The endless alpine war? Hencke had to admit to himself that, like so much madness, it just might. He nodded.
‘I knew it. You are my lucky mascot, Hencke, sent to let me know that with valour like yours we can
still achieve anything we want.’ He shook his guest’s hands limply and he had started to mumble with exhaustion. ‘This is a happy day … very special one for us both … miserable bastards, to hell with the doctors and their suicide pills. They can shove them up their wives’…’
Suddenly Hitler halted his litany of abuse, and Hencke looked up to see that they had been joined by another figure, a woman, pretty, lithe, smiling, early thirties. It was one of the group of friends he had seen laughing in the cellar of the Reich Chancellery. Hencke expected outrage at this unannounced interruption but, instead, Hitler gathered his energies and rose unsteadily to his feet, straightening his jacket, kissing the woman tenderly on the hand. Gone was his rambling coarseness of a moment before.
‘Hencke, allow me to introduce you to Fraülein Braun, a dear and trusted friend of mine.’ Having effected the introduction, he sank down heavily in his chair.
‘I came in to make sure you weren’t tiring yourself,’ she said to him. ‘It seems I came not a moment too soon.’ There was a scolding tone in her voice and her blonde, shoulder-length hair fell about her diamond-shaped face as she leaned over Hitler. She turned to Hencke. ‘Captain, forgive me, but I think it’s time for the Fuehrer to rest. He has so much still to do …’
‘No, one last thing,’ objected Hitler. ‘Hencke, I have something for you.’ From beside his chair he produced a red leather case which he thrust at his guest. ‘Something special.’
Inside, Hencke found a solid silver photo frame. Inlaid into the metalwork was a small gold swastika.
It carried a photograph of Hitler and there was writing, a dedication in practically illegible scrawl which he struggled to decipher.
Hitler hurried to cover the embarrassment of his growing inability to control a pen. ‘It says: “To Peter Hencke, A brave and devoted follower. From your Fuehrer, Adolf Hitler”. I don’t give those to everyone, you know.’
‘I find it difficult to know what to say.’
‘Well, that’s it. Time for a rest. Perhaps see you later, Hencke.’ With that he pulled himself awkwardly out of his chair. Having straightened himself, Hitler bowed courteously to the woman and shuffled off into a neighbouring room. The interview was at an end. Hencke never had a chance.
The office was dark, the only illumination coming from a candle on the desk. The power had failed again. Bormann was in foul mood. He loathed Goebbels, for the intellectual gifts which Bormann could never match, for the significant role he had played in the early days of the Movement, for the access to Hitler which this gave him, and for his role as
Der Chef’s
oldest – and nowadays seemingly only – trusted counsellor. Over the years Bormann as the archetypal bureaucrat had outmanoeuvred and outlasted most of the others, but he had never learned how to handle the Reichsminister for Propaganda. Goebbels always seemed one step ahead. And Bormann seethed when he remembered how Goebbels had spoken to him, in the presence of the secretary, too. No one else would get away with that … He was in no mood to tolerate the prevarication he was getting on the telephone.
‘Look, I don’t want a debate on logistics, I don’t
want to hear how busy you are and I don’t give a damn if your pet dachshund keeps crapping on your best carpet because of the shelling. This is not an enquiry. Nor is it a request, you little jerk. This is a
Fuehrerbefehl
, an order direct from the man himself, and if it’s not obeyed I shall come down personally to the Ministry and string you up on a meat hook with my own hands. So if you want to live to see tomorrow night I suggest you drop whatever else you are doing and get me some answers. Can I make it any clearer than that?… That’s right. H-E-N-C-K-E. Peter. Check his birth certificate, his university records, his teaching diploma, his collar size, his taste in music, everything … I don’t know if he’s married, cretin. It’s your job to find out! By midday tomorrow. Understand?’
He was just about to throw another barrage of abuse down the receiver when the connection went dead. Bormann stared at the mouthpiece, unable to decide whether the phone had been put down on him or the land line had once again been cut. He was still looking at it when the secretary, kneeling directly at his feet, ran the tips of her fingers across her heavily rouged lips.
‘Shall I continue now, you big bear?’
‘Captain Hencke, I know your plan. I think you have come here to cause the most extreme havoc.’
Hencke froze and his brow creased in bewilderment as he saw the young woman’s green eyes staring directly at him.
‘Do you realize that four of my best friends are at this very moment threatening to murder each other in order to decide which of them is going to be the first to be seen with you in Berlin?’ Her face lit up
in mischief and a peal of laughter echoed around the small Bunker sitting-room. As she laughed she swung her narrow hips, causing her silk dress to rustle.
‘Fraülein Braun, I’m not sure I understand …’
‘Come on, Captain. You surely don’t think it’s only the likes of Goebbels who take an interest in you.’
‘I fear I would be a miserable disappointment for one lady, but for four?’ He shook his head in self-condemnation.
‘Don’t fool yourself, Captain. You might have evaded the clutches of Churchill and the entire British Army, but I can assure you that you will not escape so lightly from my girlfriends. They have instructed me that if you refuse I am to get the Fuehrer to sign a personal order!’ She laughed gaily once more, and Hencke was still wondering who this extraordinary woman was who had walked in on Hitler and then propositioned him on behalf of her friends when her laughter suddenly died. Her face puckered and her hand came to her forehead.
‘Oh, this Bunker! The atmosphere is so oppressive, my head is ringing. It feels as if the entire roof has fallen in on me …’ She was in genuine distress.
‘Perhaps some fresh air,’ Hencke suggested. ‘I would offer to escort you, but I’m lost beyond the end of the corridor.’
She studied him carefully for a moment. ‘Would you mind, Captain? I’d be grateful. Let me show you the way.’
Left with little choice, he followed her out into the corridor and past the guard, but not the way he had arrived. She guided him in the opposite direction, past a foul-smelling latrine and through yet
another guarded steel door, but this time no one stopped to check him, the guard simply saluting him – or was it her? – and stepping back. Then on to a concrete stairway, which rose four flights until he could feel the soothing brush of fresh air on his face. They emerged into a garden from underneath the cover of a huge concrete blockhouse, twenty feet high, with an unfinished pill-box tower looming beside it. A broken cement mixer leaned drunkenly against its bare walls. In the fading light he could see the garden was mostly laid to grass with a few trees, but the lawn was badly churned from the impact of bombs and shells and most of the leaves had been stripped from the trees. Even the high walls of the Reich Chancellery surrounding the garden had been unable to provide much protection. A greenhouse nearby stood sagging and badly shattered; Hencke could smell the fragrance of jasmine wafting through the broken panes, made all the sweeter by the acrid smell of smoke which hung across the city.