Last Man to Die (28 page)

He felt an overwhelming need to have something other than solid concrete above his head. Walking slowly down the steep steps leading from the Chancellery entrance, he saw makeshift barricades being erected out of tree trunks, wrecked vehicles,
sandbags, anything which was heavy yet could still be moved. Waffen SS troops were being stationed at every point around the Chancellery as if a direct attack were expected at any moment. The troops were speaking not German but a mixture of foreign tongues – French, Norwegian, Latvian, even Russian. These were the foreign volunteers, skimmed from the occupied countries, renowned for their ferocity and total indifference to casualties. They had little to lose, since dying in battle offered a far better fate than any they could expect if returned as prisoners to their native countries. Hencke wondered if anyone else saw the irony, the heart of the most racially pure Reich in history being defended by foreign mercenaries.

Choking clouds of smoke and dust swirled through the streets around the Chancellery. In spite of continuous shelling and high risk of death there were lines of women with buckets drawing water from standpipes. The city’s water supplies had been shattered, there was little left to drink and nothing with which to fight the flames or wash away the sewage. The stench was appalling. On another side of the street was stacked a pile of weapons, rifles of many makes and descriptions, boxes of grenades and ammunition, pistols and
Panzerfausts
, at which both men and women picked, equipping themselves with weapons and trying to find ammunition that matched. Several old men, armed with Italian rifles and a handful of bullets each, were being marched off in the direction of the U-Bahn tunnels while a detachment of Hitler Youth on bicycles collected anti-tank weapons before riding east. At every point along the broad boulevards was destruction. Shattered tanks, trucks, buses, artillery wagons, scattered
like children’s toys. A field gun lay twisted with its barrel resting on the ground in symbolic surrender. From the back of a nearby ambulance with its driver dead at the wheel came the screams for help of the wounded. There were bodies everywhere, young, old, women and children too. No attempt was being made any longer to collect or cover them, and many of those that lay in the roadway had been hideously crushed under truck wheels or tank tracks.

By the side of the Brandenburg Gate there lay the smouldering wreckage of a light airplane with its single wing pointing accusingly towards the sky, the victim of a desperate attempt to put down on the emergency airstrip by the Gate. The wreckage had been pushed aside by a tank to allow other planes to take their chance on the rubble-strewn runway. In the wooded Tiergarten beyond the Gate the trees stood stripped of all leaf and many branches. Hencke had to remind himself that it was spring, that they should all have been in blossom and bud. Trunks of uprooted trees were being hauled away by teams of men and horses to act as barricades, while from the branches of many of those still standing swung the bodies of Germans, some in uniform and some not, hanged for desertion and cowardice by the flying squads of SS and SA troops who were combing the city in an attempt to stem the growing flood of capitulation. All around there were craters and shell holes, the fresh earth thrown up in the form of gaping mouths, like graves waiting to receive their dead.

This was the reality of Berlin, the reality which those in that madhouse of the Bunker wished to maintain and extend through endless war. Except Eva. She had seen through it, recognized the
self-deception, the futility of it all. If only her infatuation and loyalty hadn’t blinded her to what was necessary to end the madness. But there was no hope of that, she was devoted to Hitler. There was no more chance of her acting to thwart him than a shadow might trip its owner. Poor Eva.

In the midst of the battered Tiergarten, he came to an abrupt halt. A thought gripped him, all but choking his heart. Impractical, impossible, but a flicker of hope. And what had he got to lose, except his regrets? He started to run, back towards the Reich Chancellery.

‘What? What’s that you’re saying? Speak up, I can’t hear a damn thing. What about Peter Hencke?’

Bormann was bawling down the telephone, trying to make head or tail of the splutter pouring from the earpiece. The phone-lines from Karlsbad had all but collapsed, and it was the third attempt they had made to get through to him. The Czech city was surrounded by American forces who were pounding the place into hell on earth. It might be only hours before Hausser’s Army Group decided to ignore the
Fuehrerbefehl
to fight to the death and started surrendering. It didn’t help that Soviet troops were also scarcely twenty miles away, willing and eager to finish off the job if the Americans couldn’t.

‘Speak up, speak up!’ Bormann screamed, but it was no good. The phone was dead. He rapped the receiver a couple of times; there was no response. He snorted contemptuously as he replaced the instrument in its cradle. If it were that important they would phone back again. He resumed his packing.

All was confusion inside the reception area of the Chancellery. Hencke had to force his way past milling crowds of soldiers, rather more of whom seemed to be armed with suitcases and knapsacks than with rifles. Little pretence remained that effective control or defence of the city was still possible. At one desk, abandoned by its duty clerk, an officer gabbled down a phone making arrangements for his departure. He was obviously talking to his mistress, instructing her to pack immediately. Another phone stood unused on the desk and Hencke grabbed it anxiously, rattling the cradle for attention. He demanded to be put through to the Bunker switchboard, and was mildly surprised when the connection was immediately made. He was still more relieved when, as he requested, they connected him to Eva’s suite. Either his name meant something to the switchboard operators or, more likely, they no longer gave a damn.

When she answered the phone he could hear the noise of children laughing in the background. He surmised she was playing with Goebbels’ children and that there were probably other women in the room. She was coy, but there was evident warmth in her voice.

‘Captain, you are well, I trust?’

‘You’ve heard? About the break-out?’

‘Yes, of course. I shall be leaving with the Fuehrer tonight.’ There was little enthusiasm in her words. ‘It’s my duty,’ she added. She clearly felt the need to explain.

‘I have been instructed to leave also.’

‘I know. I suggested to the Fuehrer it might be a good idea …’

‘I don’t want to go.’

‘What? Why on earth not?’ she exclaimed.

‘I came back to Germany to fight for what I believe in. I think I can do that best by remaining here in Berlin.’

‘But you are the Fuehrer’s mascot, his symbol …’

‘How much better a symbol will I be if I stay behind to help lead the resistance, to fight to the last. That’s the sort of symbol that will keep the white flags from flying!’

‘Peter, do you really want to die that much?’ In her surprise and confusion she had dropped the discreet formality.

‘No. I don’t want to die. But this way I can die without regrets. Remember?’

‘How could I forget?’

Their words were guarded, anxious of eavesdroppers. Greim was drawing closer to him, clearly curious.

‘I have a favour to ask.’

‘Anything.’

‘I want the Fuehrer to release me from his order, and allow me to remain in Berlin. And I want the opportunity to bid farewell to him personally. It would mean everything to me.’

‘He doesn’t see many people on their own any more. He says they only ask to see him alone if they have terrible news or want to tell him the war is lost …’

‘Help me! There is so little time left. I would ask Goebbels but he is too busy for such matters, and I know of no one else to ask. Could you, this afternoon, take me to see him? It would mean everything.’ Greim was edging nearer, in a moment he would be beside Hencke and able to hear every word.

‘It’s very difficult …’

‘Please, Eva. Remember. It’s an honour I’m willing to die for.’

The voice on the other end of the phone trembled with emotion. ‘You are a very exceptional man, Captain Hencke. I’m so very glad I met you.’

Hencke was becoming desperate. He turned his back on Greim, as if trying to shield the receiver from the noise of the officer who was shouting on the next phone. ‘The Fuehrer, Eva. Can you arrange it?’

There was a long silence. Greim, making no pretence as to his intentions, came round and sat on the desk beside him, cocking his ear to catch every word.

‘Tea. In my room in the Bunker. Four o’clock sharp. Don’t be late.’ With that the phone went dead.

Hencke threw an evil look at Greim, but the sergeant’s attention seemed to have been distracted. At the next phone the officer had abruptly ceased shouting and was staring with incredulity at the receiver. A moment before he had been talking to his mistress in the suburb of Wannsee, scarcely ten miles from the Reich Chancellery. Now all he could hear coming out of the phone was a guttural male voice gabbling in what sounded very much like Russian.

Greim followed Hencke like an unpleasant smell as they walked down the tunnels and towards the Bunker. The checkpoints were all in place; whatever other chaos was going on the FBK still seemed certain of its duty. Hencke was anxious that the security checks might delay him, make him late, but at last he entered through the final steel door and was in the corridor of the Vorbunker. She was there, too,
smiling. He offered a formal nod of respect and she took his arm, leading him towards the stairs that led down to the Fuehrerbunker.

As they started to descend the wrought iron staircase there came the clatter of Greim descending after them. Eva turned to him.

‘Sergeant, where on earth do you think you’re going?’

Greim looked uncomfortable. ‘I have instructions, Fräulein. From Reichsminister Goebbels himself. I am to accompany the captain everywhere and ensure his safety.’

She laughed gaily. ‘I assure you that he will be perfectly safe taking tea in the Fuehrerbunker with me. Or do you suspect me of wishing to attack him?’ Her tone was light but mocking.

Greim began to stammer with embarrassment. ‘No, Fräulein, but my orders …’

Her gaiety had gone, in its place only taut impatience. ‘Sergeant, your orders do not require you to be either ridiculous or impertinent. I promise you the captain will come to no harm.’

Greim writhed, a picture of misery. ‘But I shall have to report to the Reichsminister …’

‘And if you continue your insolence I shall be reporting to the Fuehrer!’

She was staring angrily at him, defying him to continue down the stairs. Greim felt himself caught between the hot breath of a firing squad and the frozen gales of Siberia. He had to choose between Goebbels and Eva Braun, and knew whatever he decided he couldn’t win. He looked once more into her indignant eyes. Shit! She was here and Goebbels wasn’t. It was bound to be all right if he stood guard at the top of the stairs. As the slut said, what the
hell could happen down in the Fuehrerbunker? Greim turned on his heel and disappeared.

Bormann threw himself down the corridor as if the hounds of hell were at his heels, his face beetroot red and spittle-covered from the exertion and his growing sense of panic. The telephone call had got through just as he was completing his packing in the Chancellery. The line from Karlsbad was as terrible as ever and held out for less than three minutes, but three minutes had been enough, and – string up the entire milk-sucking Signal Corps from piano wires! – when he in turn tried Goebbels in his Bunker office but a few hundred yards away, he found the land line chewed to pieces by a Russian shell and out of action. So he’d been forced to run. He was very unfit. The sweat poured down his face and he thought he was going to bring up a bellyful of salami and sauerkraut. Since the telephone call there had been a terrible pounding in his temples and for a moment he wondered whether he was having a heart attack; it seemed a considerably brighter prospect than anything Goebbels was likely to do to him when he heard. He forced his tired legs onwards.

The sight of a wild-eyed Deputy Fuehrer charging down the tunnels towards the checkpoints unnerved some of the FBK guards – perhaps the Russians were already here … or Bormann had cracked, he was always the one most likely to … perhaps they should shoot him. But such was the bull-like charge that he was past them before they had a chance to think. He hauled himself through the bulkhead door which led to the Vorbunker, took a huge lungful of air and bellowed.

‘G-o-e-b-b-e-l-s?’

A bewildered adjutant paused from his packing, the sight of such animalistic fury rendering him utterly incapable of response.

‘Where’s Goebbels, you bastard?’ Bormann screamed. He lunged towards the adjutant who had begun to tremble. He was about to lay his huge paws on the wretch when the soldier waved towards one of the doors leading off the corridor.

‘But … but he’s recording his radio broadcast. He mustn’t be disturbed.’

With a wild sweep of his hand Bormann threw him aside and crashed through the door.

Eva Braun’s suite led directly off the Fuehrer’s sitting-room, and was furnished in similarly frugal style. Only a coat of pale yellow paint on the walls differentiated it from the other dingy cubby holes of the Fuehrerbunker. Hencke sat in an armchair while she busied herself on the small sofa pouring tea, moving to one side the vase of fresh flowers on the table. It was a scene almost identical to that of the Fuehrer’s own tea party for him. Except there was no orderly. And the nearest guard was in the corridor, out of sight and out of earshot.