The Gods of Atlantis (33 page)

He undid the leather flap of the holster on his waist, took out his Luger, ejected the magazine and checked that it was full, then pushed the magazine in again and cocked the pistol, shoving it back in the holster but leaving the flap open. He thought for a moment, then snapped the flap shut. The
Feldgendarmen
must see no hint of his intentions. He felt for the two extra magazines in the pouch on his belt, then straightened his jacket and peaked cap, passing his hand over the Luftwaffe badges on his tunic and the Knight’s Cross at his neck. He prayed that he and the battery commander had got the timing right. All radio communication with the Chancellery had ceased the day before. There had been rumours that the Führer had killed himself, and then a Chancellery secretary who had fled across the Tiergarten had confirmed it. A Soviet red banner had been seen flying over the Reichstag, glimpsed in the light of a flare during the night, and the barrage of shells and rockets had diminished. There had clearly been some kind of ceasefire, but Hoffman knew it could not last. The Chancellery and Gestapo headquarters were defended by battle-hardened remnants of the SS-Nordland and SS-Charlemagne divisions, fascist sympathizers from occupied Europe who had volunteered for the force. It was the final ghastly irony, that the last-ditch defenders of Germany should be foreigners fighting in the name of an Austrian
psychopath because the army he had created to defend his adopted homeland was an army of ghosts. With daylight now, it could only be a matter of time before the Soviets realized that the SS would not surrender, and unleashed hell. As soon as that happened, any hope of surrendering the flak tower and saving the thousands of lives inside would surely be lost.

A drop of condensation splatted on the open diary in front of him. He quickly blotted it out with his sleeve, smearing the pencil writing of the final paragraph. He tore three blank sheets from the back of the book, folded them and put them with the pencil in his tunic pocket, then closed the book, resting his hand on the embossed gold swastika and eagle symbol on the front. He had written his diary in a foolscap army order book so that prying eyes might think he was drafting a plan of battle for his phantom division. Instead he had written down everything.
Everything
. It was an eyewitness account of the last weeks and days of the Reich, by one who had been close to the monsters who had created it. Hoffman had been a Luftwaffe ace, had chalked up enough missions to win the Knight’s Cross with oak leaves and swords, but after being wounded and grounded he had become one of Hitler’s strutting peacocks, a Nazi war hero. He had been promoted, showered with honours, feted. He had been inches from Hitler, from that chalk-like face, those eyes like a snake’s, the foul breath. He had played with Goebbels’ children, their names all beginning with H in honour of Hitler, their lives inextricably bound up with the fate of their Führer; he remembered the oldest girl, Heine, with her sad eyes, last seen in the Führerbunker when he had left it two days before. He had attended parties and celebrations, his face preserved for all time in the newsreels and propaganda photographs, waving and smiling as the Führer bestowed yet another award, inspected yet another doomed Hitler Youth regiment. And as the final months had passed, as the Red Army had closed in, it had become even more grotesque. Only ten days before, he had attended the final concert of the Berlin Philharmonic to hear the last act of Wagner’s Ring Cycle so beloved of the Nazis, the
Götterdämmerung
. On the way out, uniformed boys of the Hitler Youth
had offered them trays of cyanide tablets to keep ready for the last curtain in Hitler’s own opera. Then Hoffman had been obliged to join the inner circle on a trip to the circus, and had watched the performers on horses go round and round, swirling like some vortex in his mind, amongst SS officers with plump fröuleins on their knees, laughing and crying, maudlin and self-pitying, the champagne flowing. And meanwhile the killing had gone on all round them: the
Feldgendarmen
stringing up deserters from lamp posts, summary executions of slave labourers in the streets, bodies left in pools of blood to join those killed by the Allied bombing and the relentless Soviet advance.

His own son
. He steeled himself again. That was the only reason he had gone along with it all.
The only reason
. He knew what had happened to the families of those who had plotted against Hitler the year before. He had been on the Eastern Front then with his squadron, just trying to stay alive. But since being posted to Berlin and being sucked into the vipers’ nest, he knew that the eyes of the Gestapo and their informers had followed him everywhere, reporting his every move. Hitler the Führer loved his war heroes, but Hitler the man loathed them because he could never be one himself. Himmler was even more mercurial, the slipperiest of them all. It was a terrible truth, but every day of suffering in Berlin, every day in which thousands more died, was another day of hope for Hoffman’s family. The longer the Soviets could be staved off, the more chance there was that his wife and son might escape. They lived near Elsholz, thirty kilometres south of Berlin. Hoffman could not go there because any attempt to leave the city would be met with instant retribution from the
Feldgendarmerie
. General Zhukov’s Third Army was sweeping in from the east, the Americans from the west. Terrible stories were reaching Berlin of mass rape by Red Army soldiers. He remembered, on his way back from that awful night at the circus, helping a limbless veteran of Stalingrad back into his wheelchair in a bombed-out S-Bahn station. The soldier had raised a stump in an ironic Heil Hitler salute.
Don’t bother with me
, he had said.
If the Ivans do to us only half of what we did to them, then what you see of me now, this half of a man, this is nothing
. There had been a chance, just a chance, that the
Americans might get to Elsholz first, that the defence of Berlin might hold the Soviets off long enough for Hoffman’s family to fall into Western hands. But now there were reports of the Russians having passed west beyond the town and meeting the Americans on the Elbe. He could only pray that his wife Heidi and son Hans had escaped, and meanwhile try to save as many lives here as he could while there was still time.

He looked at his watch. Three minutes to ten. He stood up and placed the order book containing his diary on top of the left-hand crate, the embossed Nazi eagle and swastika on the cover facing up. He would tell the
Feldgendarmen
outside the door that the order books on his desk contained top-secret plans for a breakout from Berlin, that they were on no account to let anyone in, and that he would be returning shortly with the flak-battery commander to discuss tactics. In truth he had no intention of returning, but he needed to leave the diary where it might be found by a Red Army intelligence officer. He knew the savage punishment meted out by the NKVD to Russian soldiers who damaged anything of intelligence value, so any discovery like that would be likely to fall into the right hands. There was another book lying on the crate, an open copy of Schliemann’s
Troy
that had been there when he had arrived, evidently being read by the unpleasant Dr Unverzagt while he had guarded the crates. He moved the volume so that it partly concealed the diary. He noticed that the opened page showed drawings of ancient pottery with swastika decorations, and he remembered a tediously mystical lecture by Von Schoenberg, a student acquaintance of his at Heidelberg University and now one of Himmler’s Ahnenerbe, about the swastika, claiming that it had been the symbol of the first Aryans, even of Atlantis. Hoffman curled his lip in disdain.
Atlantis
. He shut the book. He hoped the Soviets would see these artefacts for what they were, as treasures for all mankind, and that their place in history would be shorn of all the twisted fiction that had been used to justify the appalling crimes committed by Himmler and the SS.

There was a sudden commotion at the door. It swung open, and one of the
Feldgendarmen
clicked his heels. ‘Herr Oberstleutnant. This man
insists on seeing you. He tried earlier, but you were on the roof with the flak gunners. I’ve checked his papers. He’s a member of the Nazi party.’

Hoffman strode irritably over. ‘Who the devil is it?’ Then he saw the unsavoury form of Dr Unverzagt trying to squeeze in, being held back by the other
Feldgendarm
. Hoffman waved his arm dismissively. ‘I have no time for this man.’

The
Feldgendarm
nodded and pushed Unverzagt roughly back, but he shouted out: ‘Herr Oberstleutnant. Listen to me. I have news of your family.’

Hoffman stared at him. Saying that was the easiest way to gain entrance. Everyone wanted news of their families.
But it might be true
. He gestured at the guard to release him. ‘All right. Two minutes, no more.’

Unverzagt sprang forward, and then pushed the door nearly shut. He turned back and hurried over to Hoffman, speaking urgently. ‘Herr Oberstleutnant. When was the last time you saw Reichsführer Himmler?’

Hoffman stared at him in contempt. He grabbed the man by the lapels and dragged him further in, then marched over and slammed the door. He took the man again and forced him towards his desk. ‘You fool,’ he snarled. ‘Keep your voice down. Don’t you know that Himmler is discredited? He tried to negotiate with the Americans, and Hitler found out. He’s been branded a traitor. The
Feldgendarmen
will kill you just for mentioning his name.’

Unverzagt tried to push him away, and Hoffman held him tight for a moment before relenting. The man straightened his lapels, then pulled something out of his coat pocket, keeping his fist closed around it. ‘The Reichsführer has always had your best interests at heart, Hoffman. Do you remember as a boy it was he who directed you to join the Luftwaffe? And he has always looked after your family. I am to tell you they are safe from the Russians, in Plön on the Baltic Sea. They are being guarded by the SS. If all goes to plan, you will be joining them soon.’

Hoffman stared at the man. ‘What the devil are you talking about? How do you know this?’

‘Five months ago, Himmler took you to visit SS headquarters at Wewelsburg Castle. He took you to the vault below the SS Generals’ Room, and showed you something. Do you remember what it was?’

Hoffman kept staring. This was absurd, to dwell on Himmler’s nonsense at a time like this. He remembered the visit well enough, a tedious tour through all the rooms named after mythical Aryan heroes, before the lecture about the swastika by the Ahnenerbe man. But he especially remembered what Himmler had shown him, in a secret vault deep inside the castle. He had been sworn to utter secrecy.

Unverzagt peered at him. ‘Good. Your face betrays nothing. That is what the Reichsführer saw in you as a boy. Utter reliability. You have kept your word. Your loyalty will be rewarded.’ He opened his hand, took Hoffman’s and put something in it, a folded piece of paper. Hoffman opened it and looked, then closed his hand over it. It was the same symbol he had seen in the vault in the castle.
The reverse swastika
. He stared at Unverzagt.

‘What do you want with me? Now of all times, for Christ’s sake? Haven’t you seen what’s going on outside?’

Unverzagt remained unmoved. ‘Five months ago, after you’d recovered from your wounds, the Reichsführer saved you from certain death on the Eastern Front by having you posted to Berlin. It was essential that you were in the very heart of the Reich, a war hero feted by the Führer. And then two days ago you were posted here, to the Zoo tower. There is something hidden here, something that will fulfil our destiny. Your role will soon be revealed to you. I am here to forewarn you. Remember your family, Herr Oberstleutnant. Remember little Hans. He awaits you.’

Unverzagt turned to leave. Hoffman remained rooted to the spot, his mind in a turmoil. The man strode to the door, then turned. ‘Herr Oberstleutnant. I meant to check. You can still fly, after your wound?’

Hoffman stared at him, baffled. ‘Fly? Of course.’

‘Good. And you are an expert night navigator. You attended the
training school last year. We saw to that. Until we meet again, Hoffman. For the new Reich. For the new Führer.
Sieg Heil
.’

Unverzagt opened the door and was gone, pulling it shut behind him, leaving Hoffman rooted to the spot.
What the hell was that all about?
Was it yet another desperate scheme, another deluded fantasy of salvation? He opened his hand again and saw the symbol on the piece of paper, the reverse swastika inside a red roundel. He shook his head. It was all nonsense. Himmler would surely be dead by now. Unverzagt was unhinged, had dreamed up this fantasy in the oxygen-starved bedlam below. Hoffman’s visit to Wewelsburg would be well known among Ahnenerbe fanatics like Unverzagt, who had seen Himmler promise to induct him into the SS when the war was over. It had even made the front page of the SS newspaper. And Unverzagt would have known about Himmler’s special interest in him from all the hero propaganda feting his achievements as a Stuka ace, glorifying the wisdom of the Reichsführer in encouraging him to fly at an early age. Hoffman crumpled the paper into his pocket and put the encounter from his mind. There was enough madness in here already. He picked up his binoculars, slung them round his neck and then turned round one last time to look at the place where he had spent these last hours, on very probably his final day alive. In the corner was a marble bust, lying broken and forgotten among the flecks of paint that had fallen off the wall in the vibrations. It was Bismarck, the Iron Chancellor, the portrait bust that used to preside over the Troy exhibit in the Museum. Hoffman stared at the forlorn scene. What was it Bismarck had said?
War with Russia must be avoided at all costs
. On impulse, he came to attention and clicked his heels, then he turned and marched quickly towards the open door and the shrieking hell of the Soviet onslaught.