Five Days That Shocked the World: Eyewitness Accounts from Europe at the End of World War II (39 page)

Mussolini himself was in the morgue, awaiting burial. He had always wanted to be buried in the family plot at Predappio, his hometown, but the authorities had decided otherwise. Along with the other Fascist leaders from the garage, he was to be buried the next day in Milan’s municipal cemetery at Musocco. They were all going to be buried together, side by side in the same grave.

The grave was to be left unmarked, so that the bodies couldn’t be dug up and desecrated. The bad news for Rachele, the news she really didn’t want to hear, was that Clara Petacci was going to be buried beside Mussolini, lying next to him in death as she had in life. Rachele may have been the mother of Mussolini’s children, the woman he claimed to have always loved, but it was the glamorous Clara, with her high heels and her makeup, who was going to be with him in death. Rachele’s only consolation was that she was still alive and still had the children. She kept them very close as they were taken to their accommodation in Milan and settled down under American guard to a miserable night’s sleep.

24

BERLIN FALLS

IN BERLIN, IT WAS ALL OVER.
The city had surrendered. There was still fighting in the suburbs, but the defenders in the center were laying down their weapons and emerging sullenly from the rubble. Germany’s capital had fallen, and the red flag flew undisputed all over the city.

The process had begun just before six that morning, when three German civilians from the Ministry of Propaganda presented themselves at Marshal Chuikov’s headquarters and told him Göbbels was dead. They brought a letter from Hans Fritsche, the ministry’s deputy director. With a voice that sounded like Göbbels’s, Fritsche had originally made his name as a radio announcer, and still had a following across Germany. As “the last responsible representative of the government,”
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he presented his compliments to Chuikov in writing and formally requested him to take the city of Berlin under his protection. He also offered to make an announcement on the radio, urging Germans everywhere to stop fighting and surrender.

The civilians were followed by General Weidling, commander of the Berlin garrison, who reached Russian headquarters just as they were leaving. The Germans were evidently speaking with different voices. Sensing chaos at the Chancellery, Chuikov asked Weidling why Krebs hadn’t come instead, and was told that he had probably committed suicide. Weidling himself was in a highly nervous state, breaking down uncontrollably at one point while the Russians pretended not to notice. He hadn’t heard of Dönitz’s broadcast on the radio and was surprised to learn that Hitler’s death was public knowledge. He couldn’t guarantee a general surrender, either, because he had lost contact with some of his forces and had no control over the SS.

Chuikov told him not to worry about it. At his instigation, Weidling sat down and drafted an order for all German troops in Berlin to stop fighting at once. The order was typed up by Weidling’s staffer, Major Knappe. Keeping the original for himself, Chuikov sent Knappe off with a Russian officer to tour the streets in a Jeep, announcing the news to the troops and showing carbon copies of the surrender to senior commanders.

They went first to Russian divisional headquarters, where a German-speaking Russian tackled Knappe about Auschwitz. Knappe had no idea what he was talking about. He claimed not to have heard of Belsen, Treblinka, or Buchenwald, either. “Don’t pretend you don’t understand!” yelled the Russian, storming angrily out of the room.
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There was still fighting at the Anhalter station when they arrived. From a group of German prisoners, Knappe selected a pair of sergeants to return to their own side under a white flag, risking SS fire to deliver Weidling’s order to the German commanders. The same procedure was followed at several different places. Then Knappe and the Russian captain returned to Chuikov’s headquarters for a celebratory lunch. They had champagne and caviar, tarts, meat, cheese—every conceivable kind of gourmet food. Knappe was well fueled by the time he was sent to the rear to join a column of German prisoners. He had hardly arrived when a Russian guard tried to steal his boots.

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THE BIG PRIZE
was the Chancellery. Officially, it was captured after a fierce fight by Marshal Zhukov’s troops, who stormed the building soon after three that afternoon. Major Anna Nikulina of the Ninth Infantry Corps then had the honor of raising the red banner on the roof.

Unofficially, the Chancellery had almost certainly been abandoned long before. There were still three hundred wounded Germans in a makeshift hospital in the basement, but they were in no position to put up a fight. Russian troops from Koniev’s division, ignoring orders to allow Zhukov’s men in first, appear to have reached the building early that morning. Annoyed that their own advance had been halted to let Zhukov have all the glory, they had pushed ahead without permission to find that nothing stood between them and the open doors of the Chancellery.

Whatever the real story, it was certainly true that Hitler’s bunker had been abandoned. The only person still there when the Russians arrived was Johannes Hentschel, a civilian mechanic who had stayed behind to look after the generator that ventilated the building and pumped water to the wounded troops. His friend Rochus Misch had left at about ten to four that morning, joining one of the last groups to break out from the Chancellery. They exchanged letters for their wives beforehand, in the hope that one at least would get through. After Misch’s departure, Hentschel had been left all alone in the bunker, wishing that he could have gone, too, yet knowing that the wounded soldiers in the hospital depended on him to keep them supplied with water until the Russians came.

The bunker was no place to be alone. Several of the occupants had committed suicide rather than join the breakout. Generals Krebs and Burgdorf had shot themselves after a mammoth drinking session. Others had followed suit. By Hentschel’s calculation, there were at least nine bodies lying around unburied, either in the bunker itself or just outside the entrance. He wasn’t sure of the exact number because some of the bodies lay behind closed doors, which he certainly wasn’t going to open.

Terrified that some lunatic might have left a time bomb somewhere, primed to go off as the Russians appeared, Hentschel had made a thorough search for explosives as the bunker was evacuated. He had also checked the bunker’s electric wiring with his volt meter. He had found nothing amiss, but he still wasn’t happy being the only one to stay behind. The place seemed like a crypt to him, after everyone else had gone. A charnel house.

About 5:00 a.m., unable to stand it any longer, he went upstairs for a few minutes to get a breath of air. Stepping out into the Chancellery garden, he saw that dawn was just coming up over the ruins of Berlin:

The garden looked like some cemetery where the gravediggers had gone on strike. There were eight or nine bodies sprawled about in awkward, ghoulish poses, heads off, bellies torn open, here and there stray arms and legs.

When I strolled over towards the gazebo, I spotted both Göbbels bodies, still side by side. They weren’t burned, only roasted. Göbbels’s face was deep purple, like a mummy’s. Frau Göbbels’s face had been horribly consumed by fire. Her dress was only charred. Captain Schwägermann had not done a very efficient job of cremation.
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Back in the bunker, Hentschel switched on the radio and listened to the BBC news in German. It was not good. Dönitz had announced the Führer’s death, “fighting valiantly in front of his troops,” if the admiral was to be believed. The United Nations was meeting in San Francisco, and the Americans had advanced well beyond Munich. Hentschel thought he heard something about the red flag flying over the Reichstag, but after more than sixty hours without sleep, he couldn’t remember for sure.

There was nothing to do now except wait for the Russians to come. He occupied the time by checking his machinery again, making his rounds of the bunker to ensure that everything was working as it should. He was terrified of what would happen when the Russians did arrive. They might throw grenades down the stairs or blast the place with a flamethrower. If they used high explosive, his lungs might be ripped apart by the air pressure. Whatever they did, his chances of survival did not look good.

By Hentschel’s account, it was just after nine that morning when he heard the first Russian voices. They were female: a lot of chattering and giggling coming from the tunnel that led to the Chancellery. Bracing himself, he put his hands up as a group of about twelve uniformed women appeared. They seemed to be doctors, or trainee medics, carrying satchels and duffel bags. The senior one spoke German in a fluent Berlin accent.

After asking what Hentschel was doing there, they inquired about Hitler. He explained what had happened and was then questioned about Hitler’s woman. Her clothes, her glad rags. Where were they?

Sensing the purpose of the duffel bags, Hentschel led them to Eva Hitler’s room. She had always loved clothes, changing her outfit five times a day in the bunker in an attempt to cheer everyone up. According to bunker gossip, she had a lot of exotic underwear and frilly stuff that was hard to come by in wartime. The women went to work, pulling open the drawers and stuffing everything they found into their bags.

They took lamps as well, helmets, bottles, photographs, SS dress daggers, carpets, crystal, Hitler’s monogrammed silver, an accordion, a tablecloth, and a copy of
Mein Kampf
. They were hard at it when two Russian officers emerged from the tunnel. Some of the women broke off what they were doing and brushed guiltily past them, hurrying back toward the Chancellery with their loot. The rest continued rummaging while the two officers confronted Hentschel and put a pistol to his head.

In fractured German, spoken with a Yiddish accent, the senior officer demanded to know where Hitler’s body was. Hentschel had not seen it burned and couldn’t say for sure. He showed them Göbbels’s children instead, lying in pairs on bunks that folded down from the wall. The bodies had evidently not been removed, as Traudl Junge had thought, but were covered in white sheets, only their bare legs visible. The Russians took one look and quickly closed the door again.

More Russians arrived, about twenty young officers in battle dress. They had liberated the bunker’s champagne and were knocking the tops off with their bayonets. Cheerfully offering some to Hentschel, they began to sing a drinking song and danced around him as if he were King of the May.

Unused to champagne, Hentschel was soon squatting dizzily on the floor while the Russians poured another bottle over his head. He was delivered eventually to the military police, who stole his rucksack and wristwatch before taking him away. They were passing the emergency exit to the bunker when it suddenly opened and the remaining Russian women burst into the garden, “whooping like Indian squaws in a Western movie. Above their heads, one in each hand, they were gaily waving at least a dozen brassieres, all black satin trimmed with lace.”
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Exhausted, Hentschel fell asleep in the garden for a few minutes while waiting for other prisoners to be collected. At about midday, they were all herded together and marched out of the Chancellery toward a waiting truck. It was the first time in almost a fortnight that Hentschel had left the building. He never forgot the sight that met them on the Vossstrasse:

Dangling bodies of some six or seven German soldiers were suspended from lampposts. They had been hanged. Each had a crude German placard pinned or tied to his limp body—traitor, deserter, coward, enemy of the people.

They were all so young. The oldest may have been twenty, the others in their mid-teens. Half of them wore Volkssturm armbands or Hitlerjugend uniforms.

As we were shoved into our truck, prodded in the buttocks by bayonets, I saw that I could almost reach out and touch one of those lifeless boys. He looked about sixteen. His wild, bulging, porcelain blue eyeballs stared down at me, blankly, unblinking. I shuddered, looked away. I was ashamed in front of those Russian soldiers, peasant boys. Their stoic, stern silence was reproof enough.
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*   *   *

WHILE HENTSCHEL
was taken away, the first of several Russian search teams was hurrying toward the Chancellery to begin the hunt for Hitler’s body. The Russians were not convinced that he had been cremated, or even that he was dead at all.
Pravda
had voiced its doubts in an article that morning. But if he was dead, the gold star of a Hero of the Soviet Union had been promised to whoever found the body. Ignoring the protests of the soldiers, the search team from SMERSH (Death to Spies) sealed the garden and bunker to all unauthorized personnel and went to work to unearth the corpse.

It was a thankless task. There were body parts all over the place, most of them impossible to identify. There was a danger, too, that the Germans might have left booby traps behind, as Hentschel had feared, bombs primed to explode hours or even days after their departure. The SMERSH team waited until their engineers had checked the bunker and declared it safe. Then they rolled up their sleeves and began the painstaking business of picking through the rubble in search of something, anything, that would show beyond dispute what had happened to the Führer.

Göbbels was easy enough to identify. With an orthopedic boot and a caliper on one leg, he had already been pointed out by Hentschel. Next to him, Magda Göbbels may still have been wearing the golden Nazi Party badge given to her by Hitler. Krebs and Burgdorf could be identified from the contents of their pockets. But of Hitler himself there was no sign, no evidence that his body had ever been taken out and burned, as the few Germans they had found so far kept insisting.

Marshal Zhukov visited the Chancellery later, coming to view the scene for himself. He was not allowed down into the bunker, ostensibly because it still hadn’t been cleared, but perhaps also because Stalin’s agents had orders to report their findings only to their master. Instead, Zhukov spoke to some wounded prisoners who were adamant that they knew nothing about Hitler or the Nazi leadership, didn’t know anybody more senior than their company commander. Zhukov was inclined to believe them, since they were only rank-and-file soldiers, nothing to do with the hierarchy.