‘Join in if you want. You don’t have to make reservations,’ the lieutenant muttered. The angry snatch of Hencke’s head gave him his answer. ‘OK, if you’ve seen enough, follow me,’ and they passed through a side back door into bright light. They were in a rest area, with comfortable chairs and sofas arranged round coffee tables. It was yet another world, and officers sat exchanging conversation and bonhomie with each other and a variety of women while orderlies passed between them dispensing drinks. Hencke shook his head to clear his thoughts, trying to ensure that what he had just witnessed was not simply the product of an exhausted mind beset by twisted dreams, but the stench of the hospital still swirled in his nostrils and he knew there was no mistake.
‘I need a drink,’ the lieutenant said, and without asking went across to a table that served as a bar and ordered two. He and Hencke tossed them straight down.
‘Who are these women?’ Hencke enquired.
‘A mixture. Mistresses. Secretaries. Civilian personnel. Even housewives. Some are just spectators, here for a gawk and a good time, but many of them have run to the Reich Chancellery terrified of Ivan, fleeing from what they imagine is going to happen when he gets his hands on them. It seems that most of them after a drink or two prefer German hands, and plenty of them.’
The door behind them opened and the general, now fully clothed but with his uniform jacket unbuttoned, came through. He was pink with the exertions of his latest victory and raised a triumphal paw in greeting at a fellow officer who was drinking with three women. He strolled over to join them; there was no sign of the girl he had left behind.
‘Down the corridor there’s a dental surgery,’ the lieutenant continued. ‘You know, big black leather dentist’s chair which can be adjusted to different positions. The latest trick is to strap a woman in it and tilt it to whatever angle you fancy. Two men often have a go at the same time. Then you stop for a drink, strap her in the chair some other way, tilt it to a new angle and start all over again. It’s a particular favourite with the generals.’
‘Rape?’ Hencke was incredulous. He had thought himself no longer capable of surprise.
‘Don’t be a bloody fool. The girls are queuing up for it. Look around, do you see anyone complaining? It’s like collective hysteria. There’s nowhere else for them to go. They’ve probably lost their husbands or lovers in the war, they’re alone and frightened. They come here and throw themselves at the nearest man with a pistol on his belt, desperately seeking protection and a way out. But after a couple of days and nights down here in the cellars they seem to catch the contagion. They call it Kellerkrebs – cellar cancer. As long as they can’t see the war or hear it too well behind twenty feet of concrete, they manage to persuade themselves that it no longer matters, that Ivan’s buggered off and they’re safe. They drown everything in drink and fuck away all their cares. Live for today, for tomorrow we die … Who knows? When you think of what is going to happen, maybe they’re right.’
He turned to order another drink and as he did so, three prettily dressed women wandered into the room, and the hubbub of conversation momentarily became subdued. They were in their late twenties or early thirties and appeared to be looking for a friend, for another woman detached herself from a group of senior officers and hurried to greet them. After exchanging a few moments of girlish laughter they all left together, and the conversation in the room resumed unabated.
‘Who were they, Lieutenant?’
‘Them? Doesn’t pay to notice them, Hencke. Particularly not in this part of the Chancellery. Forget you ever saw them.’
‘It seems there is a lot this evening I am supposed to forget.’
‘No, Hencke. Don’t forget the rest. I want you to remember all that sewage we’ve just waded through, because that’s the Berlin you’ve come back to save. And if you’re half the saviour Goebbels supposes you to be, it makes you the most dangerous man there is in this insane city.’
ELEVEN
Hencke awoke to the sound of bombing overhead. It was shortly before noon; the American air force had returned for their daily visit. Down in the cellar of the Reich Chancellery where Hencke had been billeted in one of the crowded sleeping quarters, the noise was like the rumble of distant artillery fire, the thick alluvial sand on which Berlin was built cushioning and deadening the effects of all but the most direct of hits. Yet after months of saturation bombing, almost everything had been directly hit, several times. The lamps overhead swung as if agitated by an imperceptible subterranean wind, fine plaster and cement dust settled on every surface and nobody seemed willing to talk as they listened for the one that had their name on its nose cone.
Underground the routine of bombing seemed the only way of distinguishing between night and day. People ate when they felt hungry, drank when they wished to forget, slept when they were too exhausted to stay awake any longer or, if they had the energy and desire, went in search of a signalwoman. Many, particularly those with no front line duties, had found reason to be there a very long time. The longer they accepted the shelter of the cellar and the less contact they had with the outside world, the more unreal it became. And Hencke was told that the Fuehrer had been in the cellar almost constantly since mid-January.
Before Hencke had managed to scratch the sleep from his eyes the lieutenant was at the foot of his bed. ‘Knew you wouldn’t sleep through this lot, not yet. Takes a couple of days before you no longer give a damn …’ He held some clothes and boots. ‘Try these. The boots are waterproof. Might come in handy, just in case you get caught short while you’re busy saving Berlin.’ As he mocked he threw the items on the end of the bed. They were the black dress uniform of the Waffen SS, complete with silver piping, distinctive collar markings, armband of the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler division, and captain’s shoulder flashes. Hencke looked at the officer’s pips incredulously, rubbing them with his thumb to make sure they were real.
‘Why, didn’t they tell you, Captain?’ the lieutenant goaded. ‘Way things are going you’ll be a bloody general by the end of the week. Or dead. Sir.’
Hencke decided not to argue the point – he wasn’t here to argue, and he was too confused as to what was going on. The lieutenant enlightened him.
‘Lunch – or, in your case, breakfast. Then you’ll be taken to the birthday knees-up. Your big moment.’
‘Where is the Fuehrer?’ He hoped it seemed a perfectly natural question, but Hencke held his breath, waiting for the response. He couldn’t afford to arouse suspicion.
‘Where he always is. In the bloody Bunker, of course.’
‘The Bunker? It’s separate from the cellar?’
‘The whole of this part of Berlin’s been tunnelled out into several cellars and shelters. Under the Chancellery, Propaganda Ministry, Air Ministry. There’s a little world of underground empires down here, all crisscrossed and interconnected; half the time you expect the bloody Minotaur to pop his head round the corner. But there’s only one Bunker. No, I lie. Two. A Vorbunker where most of his personal staff bury themselves, and then down to the Fuehrerbunker proper. Twenty feet below sewer level, the underworld of Berlin. They say even the rats come out with a headache. Although the fact that the air conditioning doesn’t work properly is supposed to be a state secret. Hey, they might even shoot me for telling you.’ His face brightened for the first time that day.
‘And the birthday celebration is there?’
‘Good God, no. Too damned small. Get Goering and two fat Hausfrauen down there and the rest would suffocate. No, the Fuehrer’s going to honour us by coming up to face the daylight for once, and look Berlin in the eye for the first time in months.’
So maybe that would be it. His one chance of success. He wouldn’t get more than one chance, and perhaps not even that. He washed and changed into his uniform, the uniform. He felt like an ancient knight donning armour invested with evil powers. The fit was immaculate, yet the collar felt unbearably tight around the throat as if it were trying to grip and strangle him.
As he fastened the last button on the tunic his chest heaved and he had trouble breathing – somehow the uniform seemed to be trying to take him over, to make him one of them. Only when he checked the leather holster and found the Walther 7.65, cleaned and with a fully loaded clip, could he begin to fight back against his anxieties and convince himself that he, not the uniform, was in control. Like everyone else he was sweating in the accumulating heat of the cellar, yet every few minutes a cold river of apprehension would flood down his backbone. They were going to take him to Hitler. Just like that. Could it really be that easy? Or had he already been sucked into this underworld of madness and illusion where nothing was as it seemed? He waited for over three hours, trying to control the writhing knot in his stomach, wondering if he would be forced to take the lieutenant’s advice and use his boots.
He quickly discovered that nothing was going to be as easy as it might have seemed. When the lieutenant returned they walked several hundred yards without once leaving the Reich Chancellery. It was vast and very crowded, bustling like a railway station. The remnants of an entire city and several Wehrmacht armies had been poured into its cellar and lower floors until the building had filled and overflowed. Growing piles of suitcases and kitbags were tucked away in corners and there was the constant clatter of people arriving; those departing did so less obviously. Armed soldiers were everywhere and he thought it could be only moments before one of them spotted the unmistakable blush of treachery which he felt certain marked his face, but they all seemed too busy with their own affairs to pay attention to him.
It changed when they ran into the checkpoint. They had arrived in the antechamber of the so-called Court of Honour and armed guards were everywhere, relieving guests not only of coats and bags but anything that might conceivably resemble or contain a weapon. No one was exempt, not even high-ranking staff officers. All had to give up side arms and briefcases, the women their handbags. The Walther on which Hencke had focused so many ill-formed hopes in the last few hours was taken and a record entered in a huge ledger which had once been used to keep the accounts of the Chancellery kitchen. Even ceremonial dress daggers were confiscated. No chances were being taken; nothing, it seemed, could get past.
Yet even that was not enough. Four more FBK guards were waiting as they proceeded from the antechamber, two to watch with machine pistols poised while the other pair saluted each guest before submitting them to a careful body search. Women were dealt with in a separate corner by two female adjutants who looked as if they could take on a whole parachute platoon and still be through by breakfast. Passes and identity cards were inspected and checked against a master list; at Hencke’s turn the lieutenant produced a sheet of paper, flourishing it at the guard and nodding towards Hencke. The guard seemed impressed.
‘Here you are.’ The lieutenant handed the paper to Hencke. ‘Your pass. Signed by Goebbels himself. For Chrissake don’t lose it or they won’t let you out this side of World War Three.’
Only then were they permitted to pass into the magnificent Court of Honour, the Ehrenhof, the traditional place of celebration. Never had it looked more incongruous. The chamber glittered with its finery of medals, bejewelled batons, party insignia and gaily bedecked womenfolk, but the pride of Nazi society milled around like cattle at pasture, penned into one section of the room behind a cordon of guards while those still waiting to join the festivities formed an obedient, shuffling line leading through a final security check. The absence of people from much of the hall gave the proceedings an eerie, echoing quality. Only when he looked up beyond the lofty marble columns did Hencke understand why. Although the polished stone floor had been swept of debris since the last bombing run, full across the gilded ceiling ran two cracks wide enough to take a man’s arm to the shoulder. The ornate chandelier of a thousand pieces of crystal was lit, but lurching at a sickening angle from broken supports. No one could be sure when it would come smashing down, only that it must, and probably before the coming night’s air raid was over.
His pass was inspected once more, his face examined, but still no one detected any mark of guilt. At last he was amongst the guests and, as he looked round, the knot in his stomach gave another savage wrench. Almost beside him, sweat pouring down his face, was the huge, bursting figure of Goering in full Reichsmarschall’s regalia, beaming broadly, sipping his drink and taking a regular, nervous look at his watch. He seemed like a man who had an urgent appointment somewhere else, his agitated eyes suggesting that he didn’t mind it being anywhere else, so long as it was outside Berlin. Nearby stood the diminutive figure of Himmler, oddly shaped forehead, thick glasses, no chin, no trace of humour in his face, also looking distracted, unable to concentrate on the conversation of his companions, his eyes moving restlessly around the room. There was Bormann, and Speer, Ribbentrop, Axmann … The whole damnable hierarchy of the Nazi Party seemed to have gathered, yet Hencke could sense something amiss. There were bursts of jocularity and laughter, but the appreciation of a neighbour’s attempt to raise spirits was perfunctory. A laugh, an edgy smile, and the faces returned to grimness. A five-piece military band struggled to provide entertainment but their scratchy performance suggested they had been hastily gathered and never played together before. There were also cameras and a film crew, moving round the gathering to capture the scene for the instruction and admiration of future generations in the Thousand-Year Reich. All the formalities and substance of an historic celebration had been brought together, yet the spirit was missing. There was little attempt to circulate, few of the leaders showed even the slightest interest in talking to their senior colleagues, preferring to bury themselves in small talk and joking with more junior personnel or the women. It was difficult to escape the atmosphere of unease and mistrust. Only Goebbels, dressed in the freshly-pressed brown jacket of his party uniform, seemed intent on circulating, shaking hands, talking, encouraging, listening, nodding his head in approval or wagging his finger to emphasize a point. He appeared to be the only common factor, the only remaining link amongst the remnants of what had once been the most formidable political organization Europe had ever seen.
‘Ah, Hencke. You’re here. Come forward, don’t be shy.’ Goebbels had spied him, hovering uncertainly, and the Reichsminister raised his hands above his head and clapped for attention.
Hencke stepped forward, feeling like the pig being paraded in front of the revellers at Schuetzenfest before they fell on the creature and tore it apart. Their eyes devoured him, stripping him, probing, questioning, wondering what sort of man was this. The sea of bodies parted and he was drawn onward, his legs leaden with trepidation, his bladder screaming for his boots, certain that at any moment some accuser would step forward to denounce him as he followed the diminutive figure of Goebbels towards the far side of the gathering. The band’s leader, nervous of his responsibilities and with no one to guide him, struck up the Horst Wessel Song.
Zum letzen Mal wird nun Appell geblasen!…
The signal sounds for one last charge!
We stand ready for the struggle.
Soon Hitler’s flag will fly above all,
The days of slavery will be shortlived!
The words seemed apt, but the Nazi carol was a marching song intended for raised voices and the crashing of boot leather, and its strains played at slow tempo on clarinet and violin seemed ludicrously out of place.
Then he was there. In front of him. Face to face with Adolf Hitler.
The band trailed off in relief as Goebbels started to speak. ‘My Fuehrer,’ he began. His voice was gratingly loud, although he was standing close beside his leader. ‘I have the pleasure to introduce the man who has scorched the feathers of Churchill’s tail, who took on the English war machine and won. A proud German who knows his duty both to you and to the Fatherland, a symbol of Germany’s indefatigable desire to continue resistance until final victory.’ It all sounded like cheap theatre, but the entire birthday party was nothing more.
‘I present to you Captain Pet
er Hencke!’
Slowly a hand extended towards him, and Hencke reached out to grasp it, raising his eyes to those of the German leader. As their hands touched and eyes met, Hencke felt paralysis grip his wits as confusion flooded through his senses. He remembered the Hitler of the newsreels and the great victory parades, the strut, the confidence and arrogance, the raised chin, the flicking hand gestures with which he brushed aside opponents and orchestrated the world. The man of legend who had devoured nations and terrified the world. Yet that was someone else. The man in front of him was a physical wreck. Every inch told of a body and a spirit in decay. The once smoothly slicked hair was unkempt, the crystal blue eyes which had charmed so many German women were watery and bloodshot, the cheeks unnaturally puffed, the complexion sallow from lack of daylight, the chin badly shaved, the moustache greying and limp. There was a slight dribble from one corner of his mouth. The body was hunched, the shoulders slumped like those of a man many years older than one celebrating his fifty-sixth birthday. The once immaculate plain grey jacket he habitually wore was crumpled and marked by food stains and slops; his left leg was entwined around a chair as if to give support and balance. And the hand that clasped Hencke’s was like ice, flabby, with no strength; it was trembling.