The Berkut (6 page)

9 -
APRIL 30, 1945, 3:20 P.M.

When his valet had left, Hitler looked at his wife and motioned her to join him. They entered the concrete hall arm in arm. What remained of the inner circle stood there stiffly; they were lined up along the wall, waiting for this historic moment.

Martin Bormann, the secretary of the Nazi party, a virtual nonentity to most Germans, was at the head of the line, smiling his reptilian smile. Eva hated Bormann, and over the years had used every opportunity to undercut his influence. To no effect. He'd risen to stand beside her husband despite her efforts. He was an animal, whose mere presence made her skin crawl.

Goebbels was next. Sweat beaded his high, bony forehead, and his head bobbed back and forth. With his prominent, beaklike nose, he looked like a chicken pecking in the dust. She fought back a smile. How could anybody take the man seriously?

Otto Gü
nsche, Hitler's SS adjutant, stood near Goebbels, looking relaxed and in control of himself, true to form. Generals Krebs and Burgdorf stood at attention, trying to project proper military bearing, but the fumes emanating from Burgdorf made it clear that he was drunk again. Krebs, a rawboned man whose shaved skull seemed to shine in the artificial light, seemed the steadier of
the two. With his monocle firmly in place, he looked like a caricature of a Prussian officer, an effect he used to the utmost. One of the more learned and cultured of the group, Krebs was fluent in Russian, but he was also a schemer like all the rest. No doubt, Eva thought, at this very moment he's trying to figure out some way to make a deal with the Ivans after my husband is dead. She had no illusions about any of these people. She understood them and, unlike her husband, knew precisely what really motivated each of them. Such knowledge came naturally, because she was one of them.

Walter Hewel, the adjutant from the Foreign Office, rubbed his hands against the cloth of his finely tailored suit. Vice Admiral Voss, an intense man, looked attentive, but not outwardly concerned about what was about to happen. This might have been any other conference with the Fuhrer.

Werner Naumann stood several people away from his boss, Goebbels. This was unusual; normally Naumann was at arm's length, like an obedient hound. She had suspected for some time that Naumann had been conducting a discreet affair with Magda Goebbels-though that Magda could do anything discreet was astonishing. Perhaps his standing apart now was his way of registering his objection to his superior's decision to acquiesce to his wife's plan to kill their six children and themselves, rather than face capture. Of all the people there, Eva was sure that Naumann would escape unscathed; it was his nature to survive.

Johann Rattenhuber, the head of the Reich Security Police, stood rigidly, eyes ahead. He was a hard, fierce man. He would follow the orders given to him and send those who objected straight to hell. Hoegl, his aide, stood beside him, trying to emulate his commander, but he was not cut from the same cloth.

Dr. Werner Haase, the surgeon, leaned against the wall, not from disrespect but from exhaustion. He held a handkerchief against his mouth. Droplets of blood showed through, evidence that the tuberculosis that had already claimed one of his lungs was growing progressively worse. He could no longer stand for more than a few moments at a time. Even so, Eva knew he was performing surgery around the clock, under unhealthy conditions in the Chancellery basement. He is out of place among the rest of us, she thought.

Toward the end of the line were four women. Frau Junge and Frau Christian looked tired, and Else Kruger, Bormann's secretary, who hated and feared her employer, was visibly nervous. Poor thing, Eva thought, she's like a frightened doe. The fourth woman, Fraulein Manzialy, stood off to the side. At the very end of the line stood Linge, a solid and dependable, though diminutive, anchor.

After a pause, the kind of dramatic hesitation used by the powerful to attract attention, Hitler started down the line, shaking hands with each of them. His expression was cold, each handshake a firm and brief encounter. Eva followed, also offering her hand, but smiling radiantly to everyone except Bormann.

When Hitler reached Frau Junge he said in a soft voice, "Now it has gone so far, it is finished. Good-bye." The woman squeezed his hand tightly.

Eva embraced her. "Give my greetings to Munich, and take my fur coat as a memory," she whispered. "I always liked well-dressed people," she said as an afterthought. Then she added softly, "Tell my parents I love them."

Hitler motioned Gunsche aside. "I do not want to become an exhibit in a Russian carnival," he whispered. "When it is done, burn our bodies." Gunsche nodded without expression. "We're counting on you, Otto," the Fuhrer added.

The farewells completed, Hitler signaled with a nod of his head for Linge to escort Eva and him back to their rooms. There he motioned Eva inside. She did not look back.

Hitler turned to face Linge. "Old friend, I want you now to join the breakout group."

Linge looked surprised. "Why, my Fuhrer?"

"To serve the man who will come after me." Nobody had any idea what this meant.

The leader of the Third Reich took one final glance at the assemblage and went into the anteroom, closing the fireproof steel door behind him.

Eva had already entered the living room. "Can I have a moment?" she asked in a quiet voice. He dismissed her with a wave of his hand, and she went into the bathroom and turned on the tap.

Suddenly there was a noise at the door and it flew open. The shrew
like Magda Goebbels charged into the room and pleaded with him to change his mind. "You must escape," she shrieked. "Your people need you!"

Hitler looked past her to Gunsche, who had tried but failed to keep her out. "I don't wan
t to
spe
ak to her anymore," Hitler said.
softly. Gu
nsche grabbed the woman tightly by the arm and pulled her out of the room, slamming the heavy door behind them.

Hitler went into the living room and sat down stiffly on the blue couch. He picked up the pistols, checking to be sure that each was loaded and ready. Next he carefully opened the metal tubes and extracted thin glass ampules filled with cyanide. He heard the tap water shut off, and Eva entered the room, shaking her head slightly as women do to set their hair. She sat down to his left and pulled her legs up under her, as she did when she sat in front of the fire at the Berghof. She would miss the mountains of Bavaria.

Hitler held out one of the ampules to her and she took it delicately, holding it between polished fingernails. He pointed to the smaller pistol on the table, a Walther 7.35, but she shook her head. He understood; women preferred poison.

At this moment she expected him to step into his private character and say something soothing and endearing. In private he was always like a sensitive child seeking her approval. "Bite down," he said without emotion. "There's no pain."

She felt disappointment, but fought for control. She held the ampule in front of her mouth and watched her husband. He picked up the cyanide ampule with his left hand, manipulating it with ease. Eva's mouth dropped open. In recent months his left arm had become useless, often shaking and twitching beyond his control; now it seemed as healthy as the other. With his right hand he picked up the larger pistol, a Walther 7.65, and cocked the hammer. He held the ampule near his lips and nodded, not looking at her.

She
drew a deep breath, said "My Fü
hrer" in her soft voice and bit down sharply, crushing the ampule between her teeth. Immediately she pitched forward, her arm flying out to knock a small flower vase from the table in front of the couch.

Hitler stared for a moment, amazed at the speedy effect of the poison, then put down his pistol and the ampule, and pushed Eva back onto the couch. Untying his shoes, he stepped out of them and went quickly into the bedroom, to a spot underneath the ceiling light in the corner. Using his cane, he tapped the unit. A corner of the light lifted and a face stared down through the grillwork. "Hurry," Hitler said nervously to the face above as he moved out of the way.

The light disappeared up into the hole it created. Two thick legs in camouflage leggings swung down through the hole; then a body landed heavily but quietly beside him. Hitler clutched Brumm's arm
tightl
y, but the soldier twisted away and directed his attention back to the ceiling.

"All right," the colonel ordered. Two more legs appeared. Brumm caught them and guided them down to the floor.

Hider and the Alpha stared at each other. For each it was like standing in front of a full-leng
th mirror. "I am honored, my Fü
hrer," the man whispered. Hider did not reply. He reached for a chair, put it under the hole in the ceiling and began trying to climb out.

The colonel pushed the Alpha into the living room and guided him to the couch.

"Sit," he ordered as he picked up the larger pistol. "Put on the shoes." The man's hands shook too badly to tie the laces, so Brumm knelt and tied them for him. From where he stood, he could see that Hider was already into the hole, his legs dangling.

The Alpha stared at Eva Braun's lifeless body. "She's beautiful."

The colonel did not answer him as he put the cyanide ampule into the man's hand. "Bite down."

The man wavered, his eyes widening with fear. Suddenly the enormity of what was happening struck him and he hesitated. The colonel saw panic flood into the Alpha's eyes, but he had dealt with this sort of fear before. He put the barrel of the pistol against the man's forehead and repeated his order.

Tears formed in the Alpha's eyes, but he put the ampule between his teeth. "Bite, you bastard," the colonel said coldly.

The man closed his eyes tighdy and bit down, emitting a highpitched squeal at the same moment. As he bit into the ampule, the colonel lowered the barrel to the Alpha's mouth and fired. The bullet completely obliterated his front teeth, tore away the back of his head, and splattered the top of the couch and the wall behind with sticky clusters of brain tissue and blood. The body lurched heavily to the right, and the colonel dropped the pistol to the floor, just under the body's right hand. Brumm noticed that a piece of bullet or bone, he wasn't sure which, had exited at the right temple, leaving a small wound that trickled dark blood. Less than four minutes had passed since Magda Goebbels had been removed from the anteroom.

Quickly, Brumm ran back into the bedroom, moved the chair back to its place against the wall and leaped to catch the grille frame above. Stabilizing himself like a gymnast, he swung his legs back and forth to gain momentum, then thrust himself upward, driving himself higher as he gained purchase, finally pulling himself up into the narrow metal ventilation shaft with a single fluid motion. He backed up, reached forward and lowered the light unit into place. Satisfied that it was secure, he put his cheek on the metal and consciously began an effort to slow his breathing, to calm his racing heart and prevent hyperventilation.

For a few minutes it was quiet below; then Brumm could hear the

steel door opening. People entered the death room.

He heard Bormann grunt. "Get the doctor."

Moments later: "They are both dead. Get the certificates." Bormann again: "Get blankets. We need something to cover him." "Everything's ready in the garden," another voice reported. It

sounded like Gu
nsche.

There was no further conversation. In relative quiet the bodies were removed to the Chancellery garden above, to be bu
rned in accordance with the Fü
hrer's final instructions.

After there was silence for a while, Brumm looked across at Hitler for the first time. "It is done. Now we wait," he told his leader.

Suddenly Hitler's eyes widened and he began to thrash around, kicking gently at first, but progressively more wildly, making the metal walls of the shaft ring like a huge kettledrum. Brumm reached over and grabbed the Fiihrer by the arm, squeezing with such strength that the pain overrode the cause of the panic.

"Rats," Hitler whispered excitedly, looking behind him.

The col
onel tightened his grip. "My Fü
hrer," he said coldly, "we have lived the free life of the wolf, but for the moment our brother in arms
;s
the rat."

Hitler glared at the colonel, hatred filling his eyes. A pool of clear spittle formed at the corner of his mouth and fell slowly to the sheetmetal floor of the tunnel that hid them from the world.

10
- APRIL 30, 1945, 3:
3
0 P.M

There was a single shot, a muted pop that was barely audible through the thick steel doors that separated the cramped private quarters of Adolf Hitler and his new wife from the rest of the subterranean Führerbunker. The good-byes had been said; it was over. Hitler had given his Anton Graff portrait of Frederick the Great to his personal pilot, Gruppenfhrer Hans Baur, with the directive that the flier carry it to safety. Despite many pleas-the final one coming from the overwrought Magda Goebbels, wife of the minister of propaganda-the Führer had refused to attempt to escape. If Berlin could not hold against the invading Russians, he preferred death to life. He feared capture more than death, though he shared this fear with few. The Russians, he was certain, would display him in a cage, like a common animal. He would not risk it. Berlin was falling. He would go down with it. His decision was irrevocable.