THE CHANCELLERY, BERLIN
APRIL 13, 1945
Speer stood among the models, his models, the glorious buildings, one topped with a magnificent dome. They spread out across large tables, vast magnificence, a city of the future, and he moved between the tables, scanned the details, his sharp eye catching a flaw, one tiny window not quite square. He frowned. No reason to change it now, he thought. These are, after all, only models. And very likely, this is all it will ever be. He knew how much Hitler enjoyed this display, the grand plan that was to have transformed Berlin into the architectural showplace for the entire world. That was the seduction, he thought. That is why I am here. It is all I ever wanted, and he gave life to my dreams. Like Faust, I have sold my soul to the devil. The thought jarred him, and he felt a strange guilt. Hitler is not the devil, after all. He is our leader, and we have sworn … the thought drifted away, had been repeated too many times. So now look at you, young architect. You have been the chosen one. The Führer is impressed by you, because you understand what he wants. And so, you will build all of this magnificence, if we succeed in this war. Dream about that. Plan for that. It’s your duty.
He moved slowly past more of the miniature buildings, stopped at the imposing figure of the arch. It was Hitler’s idea, a dismissive slap at the famous arch in Paris, but the design was Speer’s, something much more grand than the Arc de Triomphe, much more elaborate, a design to thrill the Führer. Speer had used the same name, the Arch of Triumph, another slap that had delighted Hitler. But Speer’s arch would be more than three times as large as its French namesake, a massive monument to the destiny Hitler still believed in, still cherished above everything else.
He heard a voice, at the far end of the room.
“Marvelous display, Herr Speer.”
He turned, saw the familiar face of Kesselring, the white hat clamped under his arm, the genial face. Speer moved that way, Kesselring extending a hand, a far friendlier greeting than Speer was receiving from most of Hitler’s inner circle. He took the hand, felt Kesselring’s warmth, the man’s words genuine, something else that had disappeared long ago from any meetings in this building.
“It is a delight to see you, Herr Speer. Admiring your own work?”
“Admiring my dreams, Field Marshal.” He felt suddenly self-conscious, the spontaneous show of emotion he would reveal only rarely. “I am biding time, sir, awaiting the invitation to join the Führer. He requested a meeting.”
“Yes, I am a part of that as well. I thought I was late, so it is fortunate for me there is a delay. I have not enjoyed those times when the Führer’s foul temper is caused by something I could have avoided. Tardiness is not a virtue in this place.”
“He has been meeting with Dr. Goebbels, so that could last awhile longer. When I have to wait, I usually spend my time here, among the models. Vanity, I suppose.”
Kesselring lowered his voice, motioned to the model of Speer’s arch. “A perfect symbol, you know. Our Führer has raised himself up so high, he believes himself to be beyond the reach of fate. Perhaps he is correct. It is certainly not true for the rest of us. Guderian is gone, have you heard? Well, yes, of course you would know that. You are the Führer’s friend after all. Do I speak unwisely here, Herr Speer?”
“I know of Guderian, yes.”
Kesselring was studying him, said, “So, you did not approve either. Officially, the Führer ordered him to go on leave, to take a vacation. No one has illusions about the meaning of that, do they? Heinz Guderian nearly won the war, but that was five years ago. Memories are short in the High Command, and our Führer does need his villains, perhaps now more than ever. One wonders how long he will keep me in this lofty position.”
“Oh, please allow me to congratulate you, Field Marshal.”
The word had gone out a few days before that with so much change taking place on both fronts of the war, and with the German army contracting, Hitler had decided to place the entire military under two primary commanders, dividing their authority by geography. Kesselring would command all troops to the south, from Bavaria all the way to the outposts in Greece and Yugoslavia. The forces to the north would be commanded by Admiral Karl Dönitz. Dönitz had risen to command of the German navy primarily on the strength of his remarkably successful U-boats and the wolfpack tactic that had devastated Allied shipping in the Atlantic. But the Allies had adapted, and by 1944 Dönitz had to concede that the U-boat war had been lost. For the past few months, he had preserved most of the surviving U-boats by keeping them out of harm’s way. It was Speer who gave new importance to Dönitz, by providing the facilities to construct what might prove to be the next phase of the war at sea, a submarine that could remain submerged for days at a time, recharging batteries and air supply with a technology that even Hitler seemed to appreciate. Though Hitler never considered the German navy to be a priority, Dönitz’s successes had long ago earned the Führer’s admiration. Command of half of Germany’s remaining armed forces seemed to Hitler to be a fitting reward to a loyal and competent servant of the Reich. To some in the army, the selection of Dönitz made no sense at all. The field generals who still struggled to hold the enemy away considered Admiral Dönitz precisely what Speer knew him to be: a figurehead.
Kesselring seemed to purposely examine the models, leaning low, studying detail, and Speer felt suddenly self-conscious, thought, he is only being polite.
“Sir, would you prefer to wait in my office?”
“Only if you will join me. I should enjoy some brandy, if you have some. I prefer to imbibe behind closed doors, beyond the Führer’s reach, so to speak. One usually requires some fortification before a meeting.”
Speer had always liked Kesselring, appreciated the man’s frankness, so rare in Berlin. He pointed the way.
“I believe I can offer something useful. After you, Field Marshal.”
They moved along the hard stone of the corridor, Kesselring’s boots echoing past the open doors of other offices, eyes glancing their way, secretaries and men in uniform, the vast machine of Hitler’s government. Speer had other offices outside the Chancellery, most often preferred to keep his distance from the other machinery that surrounded Hitler, politics and backstabbing, those who continued to fight for favor at the expense of anyone who stood in their way. But gaining Hitler’s favor had come with the usual cost: enemies, something no one who lingered close to this much power could avoid. Today he had been invited to discuss Admiral Dönitz’s new submarines, a meeting Speer had thought would be with Hitler alone. But as was always the case, those plans were subject to change.
Speer followed Kesselring into his own office, closed the door, said, “Please, be comfortable. Take my chair, it is better.”
“Sit in your own chair, Herr Speer. I am the guest. And as far as I know, I hold no rank over you. Not one that matters anyway. Your deference is appreciated, however. Respect is a rare commodity around this place. About that brandy?”
Speer reached into a small cabinet, two glasses and a bottle that never sat long enough to gather dust. He poured both glasses, handed one to Kesselring, who sat across from him. The walls were a patchwork of drawings, some of Speer’s designs for other works that Hitler had encouraged him to pursue.
Kesselring scanned them, said, “Your love of architecture is admirable. But I see something more in your work. You are an artist, truly. I admire that. I admire that you still have … dreams. You did not expect to be running factories.”
“No.”
“Ah, but you are gaining one advantage. Every day, there are fewer of them for you to be concerned with. We have lost the Ruhr, and that, I’m afraid, is a process that will continue.”
Kesselring sipped from the glass, and Speer wondered if Kesselring would make such a direct observation to Hitler. It was part of the cloud of depression that hung over Speer every day. He had made too many arguments, too many speeches, and yet, despite his position so close to Hitler, Speer knew he had very little power, and almost
no discretion at all. He thought of Kesselring’s description, that Speer was the Führer’s friend. No, that will never be true. Hitler has no friends. There is no one he trusts enough to admit his failings, his fears. Perhaps he does not have them. Speer sipped from his own glass. If he does not fear, and does not believe in his own fallibility … he has no need for friends at all.
After a silent moment, Kesselring said, “I attempted to reach Berlin by using the autobahn. Last night, of course. No one attempts to drive anywhere on a major roadway during the daylight, unless you wish to provide the enemy with a convenient form of target practice. But the enemy has done to the autobahn what he has done to our railroads. And what he continues to do to your factories. The roadway is nearly useless, too many bomb craters, too many detours. I thought of you as I drove past the wreckage. Just how much concrete and steel was required to build those incredible roads? Have you ever wondered what sort of use we could have made of that, in other places? Have you given any thought to that?”
“I was not involved in the construction.”
Kesselring laughed, surprising him.
“It is not an accusation, Herr Speer! I know very well why the autobahn was built. The Führer told us many times! In war, it is essential to have rapid transport, from one zone of combat to the other. It is one of the rules of war prescribed by Clausewitz. Our Führer agrees with those rules, when it suits him. But Clausewitz knew nothing of the B-17, or the P-51. Apparently, Reichsmarschall Göring knows little of them either, since he seems blissfully unaware that we have any problems at all controlling the skies.”
“That is not true, sir. I was at a meeting when—”
“Yes, yes, I know all about Göring. Surely you know that in this place, the Reichsmarschall no longer has a voice. It saddens me, truly. If anyone else besides Göring had been given control of the Luftwaffe, or if Göring had used it properly, we would not be in our current predicament. Though he still considers himself my superior, I am no longer afraid of him. Hitler has taken away his claws. If you want to raise laughter in our meeting, just mention the fat man. Hitler takes great pleasure now in his boisterous dismissal of Göring. It took a while for those clouds to part, so to speak. The tragedy is that for years, Hitler did not see Göring for the drug-addicted fool that he is. Finally, he has come to realize that Göring might actually be a threat, that he is a man driven by his own ambitions, puts his personal desires before the interests of the Führer. For all I know, the man is planning to start his own country once this war is over. He has looted every museum outside of Switzerland, and probably has more gold than the German treasury. For too long, Hitler would hear none of that. Fortunately that has changed. As I said, the clouds have parted. Unfortunately, along the way, the magnificent Luftwaffe has dissolved into a courier service.”
Speer didn’t know what to say, would not argue any military point with someone like Kesselring. He was surprised by Kesselring’s openness, looked at the door, thought, well, of course. The door is closed.
Kesselring sipped again from the glass, examined the dark gold liquid, nodded in approval.
“Very nice. Tell me, Herr Speer, have you any sense of the morale of the people?”
Speer thought a moment, said, “The civilians? They are … accepting.”
Kesselring pointed at Speer, as though his point had been made.
“You’re right, of course. But think about that. No matter what has happened to their soldiers, to their borders, to their cities, they still follow the Führer. Does that not amaze you? What is it that holds their loyalty? His aura? You spend more of your time among civilians than I do, certainly. But you see it, don’t you? Look at your history. Where has there ever been so much destruction, so much oppression of a population, while at the same time, there is no hint of discontent.”
Speer frowned, shook his head.
“Wouldn’t you call an assassination attempt discontent?”
“Ah, but it failed! And so, what followed? The very tools that gave Hitler his power only grew stronger. Anyone who could have had the slightest tie to the conspiracy was eliminated, and the Gestapo pushed their tentacles even farther into the lives of the people. Who would dare a conspiracy now? And since last July, Dr. Goebbels has raised the volume of his speeches, pointing out that the assassination attempt only proved how strong, how invincible their Führer truly is. How have the people reacted to that? Your word, Herr Speer. Acceptance. Amazing, is it not?”
There was a knock at the door, sharp, rapid. Speer jumped, a stab of nervousness.
“Yes! Come in!”
The door opened, and he saw the fat face of Martin Bormann.
“Well, here you both are! We wondered where you might be hiding. The Führer cannot be kept waiting, you know.”
Bormann turned, was gone, heavy clicks of his boots in the corridor. Speer felt his heart racing, a child caught in some naughty game.
Kesselring was watching him. “He is not your best friend, is he?”
Speer rose slowly, staring at the open door. He said in a low voice, “I despise the man. If I was to suddenly disappear, Field Marshal, begin your inquiry with him.”
Kesselring laughed, another surprise.
“One day, Herr Speer, we shall all disappear. The rats will find us no matter where we hide. There is nothing to be gained by worrying about them now.”
The music blared, Hitler standing by the window, staring out, lost in a thunderous flood of Wagner pouring from a phonograph. To one side, Goebbels sat, patient, obedient, motioned silently for Kesselring and Speer to sit. The music was reaching a crescendo, and Hitler’s right arm rose, his fist curled tightly, a last stab in the air with the final note. He spun around, faced them with a broad smile.
“That’s what we’re doing here! That’s why we will win this war! Did you hear that? If Wagner were alive, he would be sitting right here, right by my side. That man understands all that I believe in. He is our greatest genius.” Hitler paused, seemed emotional, searched for words. “It is the failure of our educators that so often dooms us, takes away our lack of understanding, weakens our culture. Wagner understood the inevitability of history. Teachers do not. They teach the lessons of the past as though they are merely written in books for our amusement. And yet, history is all around us, a part of us. We make that history, and we shall continue to live out the design that has been evolving for thousands of years. There was a time when I felt ashamed of Germany’s distant past, but I have come to new conclusions. In the ancient world, the Romans and Greeks had their finest glories, while our people lived in mud huts and killed animals with sticks. It is one of those annoying traits that I must endure from Mussolini. He believes that because he is Italian, he is somehow superior, because his history is superior. He misses the point. Rome and Athens are gone, finished, obliterated into modernity. But over the centuries, Germany’s greatness has grown. It is a slow and deliberate process, men like Frederick the Great and Bismarck taking their lessons from those who came before. We embrace those things that made those empires great, while we avoid their mistakes. Teachers are mostly stupid. The instructors I had in Vienna had no grasp of history, of the arts, of the greatness of Wagner. I should like to reconstruct our school system, once we have completed our current task. I should write the lessons myself.”
Kesselring was listening with one hand propped under his chin.
“My Führer, may we turn our attention to that task?”
Hitler seemed annoyed by the interruption, moved to his chair, did not sit, paced again toward the window. Speer had seen this before, Hitler seeming to overcome the physical agonies he carried. His left arm was mostly limp, and he walked with a slouch, seemed always to be exhausted. But Speer had learned to notice the stimulating effects of the drugs, assumed that Hitler’s doctor had been there not long before. He glanced at Goebbels, who sat back with a stoic stare, infinite patience for whatever behavior Hitler would display.
After a long moment, Hitler tur
ned toward Kesselring, said, “If you have come here to complain, I will not hear it. I have given you complete control, all you could possibly ask for.” He paused. “You have not heard! You do not know the news, or you would have said something!”
Kesselring glanced at Speer, said, “What news, my Führer?”
Hitler slapped one hand against his chest.
“The American president has died!”
Speer said, “Roosevelt is dead?”
“That’s what I said! Is that not wonderful news?”
Speer rolled the thought over in his mind, the question looming up silently in his brain. Why is that wonderful?
Hitler seemed disappointed at their lack of celebration.
“One of the world’s great war criminals has met his fate! That is a sign, gentlemen! To all the doomsayers, those who speak only of defeat, those who spit out their bad news to me, as though I am an ignorant child … I say to them, to you, to the entire world … our enemies have become weaker. Leadership drives the machines!”
Goebbels was smiling, nodded, silent applause for Hitler’s revelation.
“You are certainly correct, my Führer. Field Marshal Kesselring will be quick to seize that advantage. Is that not true, Field Marshal?”
Kesselring knew the cue, said, “Most definitely, Doctor. I shall see that the army is informed immediately.”
Goebbels nodded approvingly, and Hitler seemed to move away from the thought, moved to the phonograph, eyed the record.
“I should play another one for you, Wagner’s next in the series.”
Kesselring said, “My Führer, I wonder if I might inquire. In Admiral Dönitz’s absence, I had wondered if you would inform me of your plans for the defense of Berlin? Surely I can be of assistance in moving troops to the most advantageous positions.”