Eva (8 page)

Tooling along down the road from Albersdorf Woody felt good. He was driving himself. He was too keyed up not to be doing something. So, it hadn’t been the kind of case he’d hoped for. He had solved it. Without ever learning the name of the victim. Or his killers. Hot damn! In the back of the jeep sat Szarvas, eagerly testing the wind as they sped down the road. Woody had decided to take him back to Corps. The little guy deserved better than a bunch of mangy goats—and Krauts. Perhaps repatriation to his hometown, when the time came. Reunion with his family. He’d do his damndest.

Fossano, sitting next to him, gave him a sidelong glance. “That patch trick was pretty damned smart,” he said. He yawned. “Huber sure was an ornery bastard. I wonder what the other guy would’ve been like.”

“Anton?”

“No. The other guy in the house.”

Woody stopped the jeep. He stared at Fossano.

“What other guy?” he asked sharply. “You didn’t tell me you saw someone else in the house!”

“I didn’t. I just figured there’d be someone else. Out in the field, maybe. How the hell should I know?” He sounded suddenly defensive. Had he screwed up? He hadn’t thought it important. Shit!

“Why do you think there was another man in the house?” Woody asked, his voice measured.

“Well, I was poking around in Huber’s bedroom. You told me to take a look. There was a big wardrobe, kind of. It was full of clothes. Huber’s mostly. But some of them were a lot smaller and more dress-up like, I guess. I thought they’d have to belong to some other guy. But didn’t
see
nobody!”

At once Woody turned the jeep around. He barreled back toward the Albersdorf farm.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” he snapped. “You heard that shithead, Huber, tell me only he, his daughter, and the old farmhand lived at the farm.”

“The hell I did,” Fossano said defensively. “He must’ve told
you
that. He didn’t tell
me
nothin’.”

Woody clammed up. He suddenly realized the corporal was right. He had still been sitting in the damned jeep when Huber made his statement.

“I didn’t think it was important,” Fossano said sullenly. “Anyways, I thought you got everything you wanted.”

Woody kept quiet. He cursed himself. It was his own damned fault. He’d been stupid. He should have remembered he wasn’t working with a trained investigator but with a driver from the motor pool. It wasn’t Fossano’s fault. It was his. All of a sudden it all came together. Huber’s reticence. The girl’s apprehension. His own nagging feeling. Shit! He hoped he wasn’t too late.

He stopped the jeep outside the farmyard. Gun in hand, followed by Fossano, he quickly ran to the door.

For a second he listened. Then he kicked it down. There were four people in the
Bauernstube.
Huber, his daughter, Anton—and a slightly built man in his forties, standing in the process of putting a sausage wrapped in newspaper into a rucksack.

Startled, they stared at the Americans.

“Up against the wall!” Woody ordered sharply. “Hands on top of your heads. All of you.
Move!
”

They scrambled to obey.

Huber looked furious. He turned angrily to Anton and his daughter. “I told you not to bring that imbecile into it,” he snarled. “He told them.”

“Szarvas told us nothing,” Woody said. “
You
did. With your gorilla bulk and your ham-sized fists. And a bunch of clothes in your closet four sizes too small!”

Huber glared malevolently at him. He said nothing. Woody looked at the stranger.

“You might as well tell me who you are,” he said.

The man drew himself up. “I am
Sturmbannführer
Franz Gotthelf,” he said. Though he was obviously frightened, his voice was firm. “I am not a military man. I am a dentist.”

“What are you doing here, Major? House call?”

The quip went over the German’s head. “I—I left Berlin,” he said. “The Russians are closing in. I thought—I thought I could hide out in a small village. Until it is all over. I knew my—my rank in the SS would make it difficult for me, if I were captured.” He nodded toward the glowering Huber. “This man put me up. I needed a place of refuge. He needed the money I paid him.”

“I bet,” Woody said. He looked at the SS officer. “Major,” he said, “have you ever had a ride in a jeep before? If not, this is your chance.” He motioned with his gun. “We are taking you back to Corps.”

“You’ve been busy,” Major Hall said. He looked at Woody, draped over a chair before him. “Would you like another case— or is one a day enough for you?”

“Hell, Mort,” Woody said. “It all came together. The damned case solved itself.”

Hall picked up the Corps directory. “I’ll get the CID boys on it right away,” he said. He started to look for the number.

“Courtesy of CIC.” Woody grinned.

“What about that dentist pal of yours?” Hall asked.

“I’ve got him stashed in the local jail. The MPs have taken it over. He’ll go back to Army detention tomorrow.”

“Did you question him?”

“What for? He's just a dentist. The only reason I pulled him in is because his SS rank is high enough to qualify for mandatory arrest.”

“Get a statement.”

“Oh, shit, Mort! A lousy dentist. They can do that at AIC.”

“I don't care if he is an undertaker. We hooked him and I want an interrogation report.”

“Okay, okay. Don't get your guts in an uproar.”

“Get what you can. The research section likes that sort of crap,” Hall said. He grinned. “Anyway, I thought you were all fired to hell to get this case! Go see what you can extract from your dentist friend.”

“Oh brother,” Woody groaned. He uncurled himself from the chair and, sighing deeply, left the office.

SS Sturmbannführer
Franz Gotthelf had obviously resigned himself to his fate and had decided to be cooperative. It was easy for him. He had nothing to hide. He had answered every question Woody had put to him. Fully and candidly. He had told his interrogator his entire life story and career as a dentist, from dental school to when he began to work for the Führer’s personal dentist. A great honor, of course.

Woody was vaguely interested. Perhaps the man could come up with something of interest after all. Somebody was sure to be excited about Hitler's teeth.

“Did you work on the teeth of Adolf Hitler yourself?” he asked.

“No, no,” Gotthelf protested quickly. “Only
SS Brigadeführer
Blaschke did that. He was the Führer's personal dentist. The General did all the work on the Führer's teeth himself. I—I was not involved in that at all.”

“What did you do?” Woody asked.

“I assisted. On the dental work done for many of the high-ranking party members. And the military. The Goebbels family. Dr. Goebbels. He had some problems with his maxillary left molars. And I sometimes worked on the children's teeth.
Feldmarschall
Keitel, of course. And
Reichsleiter
Bormann. I worked on a gold crown for his right bicuspid in the lower jaw. Very successful. And Eva Braun. We made . . .”

“Who's Eva Braun?” Woody asked.

Gotthelf looked embarrassed.
"Fräulein
Braun is—eh—the Fuhrer's special friend,” he said lamely.

“His mistress, you mean?” Woody was intrigued.

Gotthelf nodded.

“Well, well,” Woody chuckled. “Will wonders never cease? Nice-looking chick?”

Gotthelf blushed. “I do not know-chick,” he said stiffly. “We worked on a bridge for
Fräulein
Braun,” he continued. “I was to have fitted it myself. But it was finished too late. The fitting never took place. The bridge still lies in the laboratory in Berlin. And there was work for the secretaries who worked for the Führer.
Fräulein
Junge and
Frau
Christian. And I made a crown for . . .”

“Did you assist on any work made for Hitler, himself?” Woody interrupted. Would the man never stop talking? He wasn't remotely interested in Goebbels’ kids or Hitler's girl friend. But maybe Adolf himself.

“No.” Gotthelf shook his head. “
Brigadeführer
Blaschke had his personal technicians. Fritz Echtmann and Käthe Heusermann. They did all of the Führer's work. But there were many others . . .”

And on it went, until Gotthelf had run out of both steam and information.

Woody typed up a brief interrogation report. A damn waste of time. Whatever tiny hope he'd still nurtured that the interrogation of
Sturmbannführer
Franz Gotthelf would yield
something
of importance was snuffed out.

The coveted extra five points looked farther away than ever.

He brought the report to Major Hall.

The C.O. looked up brightly, as Woody entered the office. “Hey,” he said. “The CID just called. They got the two men. And they confessed. It was pretty much as you'd figured it. That rope around his arm, incidentally, was meant to make it look as if the poor bastard had been tied up. Kept prisoner. Cute touch.”

He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin. “The CID boys said thanks for a job well done.”

“Charge,” Woody said sourly. “That's a great help.”

Hall looked at the report. “Well,” he said, “did you learn anything earth-shaking from your friendly neighborhood dentist?”

Woody shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Nothing. Not a damned thing.”

A
SOUR SMELL OF DEFEAT AND RESIGNATION
permeated the Bunker, now that it had become common knowledge that the Führer had decided to take his own life. It struck Heinz Lorenz, Reich Press Representative to the Führer, forcefully as he came hurrying down the stairs to the lower level of the Führer Bunker. It was the foul, debilitating breath of
Götterdämmerung.
The end was truly near. An ignominious and terrifying end. True, he thought, Hitler’s grim decision to end his life in the Bunker had not been unexpected. For days he had been talking about it and making preparations. But hearing it finally voiced as an irrevocable resolution had still been a shock to him.

He walked rapidly through the far corridor past the machine room and the guard room. He always felt uncomfortable in the Bunker. This time more than ever. The Bunker moles had become so jaded to the grotesque that they did not see the morbid incongruity in the fact that the Führer in almost the same breath he announced his decision to commit suicide had also announced his intention to marry his mistress, Eva Braun. Lorenz could not help being appalled. The wedding ceremony would be that night.

Fräuleine
Gertrud Junge, Trudl, one of the Führer’s personal secretaries, had taken great delight in telling everybody who would listen that she had actually been present when the Führer had proposed to
Fräulein
Braun. She had actually
seen
the historic moment! The Führer had walked up to his beloved and whispered in her ear. She had drawn back in astonishment and she, Trudl, had heard a distinct little gasp. The Führer had then hurried from the room and
Fräulein
Braun had come over to her. Her eyes had been moist with unshed tears, and she had whispered: “
Meine liebe Trudl,
tonight we are certainly going to weep!”

Her first reaction had been one of grief, she’d stated dramatically, for she had thought
Fräulein
Braun was referring to the Führer’s death. But she had quickly learned that she meant tears of joy.

Lorenz hurried through the door to the conference corridor and walked toward the Führer’s quarters. Despite all the gallows-courage preparations for the wedding he felt an air of resigned despair that seeped into every corner of the Bunker. Even the gloomy, depressing corridor that connected the Propaganda Ministry with the underground concrete warren that was the Führer Bunker seemed cheerful to him in comparison, the yellowish, domed lights that studded the ceiling at regular intervals almost festive.

It was shortly after 1900 hours, and Lorenz bore ill-starred tidings.

A few minutes before, sitting at his radio transmitter-receiver in his little cubbyhole of an office off the Propaganda Ministry tunnel he had intercepted a German language broadcast from Radio Stockholm. Quoting a BBC Reuters report. It had shocked him deeply.

Behind the Führer’s back
SS Reichsleiter
Heinrich Himmler had offered the Allies an unconditional surrender!

Lorenz was disturbed. He knew the Führer was apt to deal harshly with harbingers of unwelcome news. The bulletin he clutched in his hand might well hold disastrous consequences for himself. But withholding it might be even worse.

At the door to the Führer’s quarters Hitler’s valet, Heinz Linge, stopped him.

“The Führer is not to be disturbed,” he said.

Lorenz drew a sigh of relief. He handed the bulletin to Linge. “Urgent,” he said. “Please give it to the Führer as soon as possible.” And before there could be any discussion he turned and quickly walked away.

White-faced, livid with rage, Hitler stormed into the little hospital room. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, shaking in uncontrollable fury, he stood staring at the startled Ritter von Greim and at Hanna Reitsch sitting at his bedside.