Last Man to Die

by Michael Dobbs

  ‘Mein Fuehrer,’ Hencke whispered, lowering his head.

  ‘Speak up, Hencke!’ Goebbels commanded. ‘No need to let your voice get lost in the hubbub.’

  But Hencke noticed that the entire assembly had gone quiet, and Hitler was leaning forward, stiffly, as if better to catch what was said, while still attempting to keep his leg wrapped firmly around the chair support.

  ‘I am overwhelmed to be here, my Fuehrer!’ Hencke raised his voice, and Goebbels nodded in approval. ‘I bring you greetings from all your forces across the seas.’ He wondered whether he had said the right thing, since practically all of Hitler’s forces across the seas were stuck deep inside Allied prison camps, but Hitler responded with a nod of pleasure. Or was it merely an uncontrollable wobble of the head?

  ‘I … am delighted, Hencke. Thank you.’ The voice was weak, croaking. ‘You are a very brave man.’ He turned his head to signal and an aide was immediately at his side proffering something. Carefully Hitler took it in his right hand and reached towards Hencke. ‘The Iron Cross, First Class. Wear it with pride.’ The patter of applause began to rise, but Hitler was having problems pinning the medal on Hencke’s breast. His left hand came up to assist, but the co-ordination between the two hands seemed remote. The medal was in danger of being dropped to the floor and the diffident aide stretched forward to help while the applause died away in embarrassment.

  Hitler cleared his throat, and when he spoke again his voice had regained some of its powerful timbre. ‘My friends,’ he said, addressing the entire company, ‘you have done me great honour, coming from many parts of the Reich. But there are armies to command and battles to be fought.’ Goering raised a quizzical eyebrow; the Fuehrer seemed not to notice. ‘Continue with the celebration with my thanks. But I must return to my duties. So farewell to you all, until the next time.’

  There came the clicking of heels and a series of salutes from around the room as Hitler prepared to leave and the band struck up the national anthem, but no one sang. He had commanded people to risk their lives crossing from all parts of the Reich to be at this birthday celebration, yet no sooner had he appeared than he was preparing to leave. Goebbels was at his elbow once more, whispering in his ear, guiding him towards one corner in which a small group of dirty street urchins had been standing, looking miserable and bewildered. They wore a kaleidoscopic array of stained uniform jackets and military caps, all of which hung on them loosely. They reminded Hencke of the group he had found at the barricade; none of them was older than fourteen. An orderly pushed them hastily into line as the Fuehrer approached, accompanied by the retinue of cameras. Goebbels’ little play was not yet finished.

  ‘My Fuehrer, these brave soldiers are all orphans of the savage war inflicted on us by our enemies. They have lost everything, but still they are proud National Socialists. They have come from many different parts of the Reich to celebrate your birthday, and to volunteer to defend to the very end this great capital city of Berlin!’

  One of the boys began to pucker his brow and shake his head, either in disbelief or disapproval, but quickly decided it was not worth the effort and went back to looking sullen. Hitler shuffled along the line, accompanied by the cameras, taking each boy by the hand, not saying a word. One of the younger boys in the middle of the line had golden hair and a less weary expression than the rest. Hitler patted his cheek affectionately and turned to the next, but Goebbels intercepted him to whisper yet again in his ear. Again without a word, Hitler returned to pat the child’s cheek, this time right under the eye of the hastily repositioned cameras before moving silently on. Then it was all over and Hitler was walking past on his way out. As he did so he grasped Hencke’s arm, leaning on it heavily. ‘You must have tea with me, in a little while. An orderly will show you down.’ With that he departed, dragging his left leg behind him.

  No sooner had the hunched back of Hitler disappeared than the conversation started once again, much of it the formalities of goodbye as many made a scarcely disguised dash for the exit. The exodus brought Himmler and Goering together for the first time.

  ‘Must rush. Armies to command and battles to fight,’ Himmler explained, his reedy voice dripping in sarcasm as he mimicked the Fuehrer’s words.

  ‘See you in hell, Heinrich,’ Goering snapped, ignoring the proffered gloved hand.

  Within seconds both were gone, and within minutes at least half of the remaining guests had followed. The boys still stood in line; no one had told them they could move. Hencke wondered how many of them understood what this grim little ceremony had been about, or why they had been brought from what was left of their homes to this place. And how many of them would be alive in a week? Perhaps they would all be swinging from lamp posts, like candles on a birthday cake.

  ‘Bormann, I’m glad I caught you before you … disappeared for the evening.’

  Martin Bormann, Hitler’s personal secretary and deputy leader of the Party, looked less than pleased at the interruption. He was leaning close to one of the secretaries and chatting in a tendentiously informal fashion as they prepared to leave the Ehrenhof. He was notorious for his double life. Within the Bunker he was the soul of efficiency, the most loyal and devoted of all Hitler’s entourage who was a master at controlling the floods of paperwork and information that still cascaded towards the Fuehrer for his personal attention. As such, even those who disliked him intensely – and they constituted a large majority – were forced to admit his worth in the smooth running-of affairs, particularly when the city was falling apart. But once out of the Bunker he was a braggart, a drunk and a womanizer who spent long evenings lost in various corners of the vast Reich Chancellery cellar. By the way his hand was pawing the arm of the secretary, he had plans for this evening too, although as Goebbels advanced on him he was obliged to release her and with obvious reluctance wave her into a corner out of earshot.

  ‘Any news of Hencke?’ Goebbels enquired.

  ‘Christ, you only asked me at four o’clock this morning. D’you think everyone in the records offices is an insomniac like you? What’s the almighty hurry?’

  ‘I want a double-check on Hencke. I’m not going to announce his arrival to the whole world until I know everything there is to know about him. I don’t want to know if he scratches his ass, I want to know which hand he uses.’

  ‘Why so picky? Hasn’t just stopped you offering him to Der Chef like a tasty piece of birthday cake. Bit late to start having doubts, isn’t it?’

  ‘Some risks have to be taken to keep up the Fuehrer’s morale. But that’s no excuse to relax and forget what we’re here to do.’

  ‘Anyway, you’re out of luck. All the record departments are having the shit blasted out of them by the bombing. The Wehrmacht offices received a direct hit last week, all their paperwork’s in chaos. It’ll take days to find anything in that mess.’

  Goebbels sighed peevishly. ‘Then check the civilian records – birth, school, university. He’s a teacher, for heaven’s sake, there’s got to be some information on him. Get the Buergermeister of Eger out of his bug-ridden bed and looking for what we need. It’s called using your imagination, Bormann.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ he muttered, looking ruefully in the direction of the secretary. She would have to wait for a little while. ‘You really are the most suspicious bastard I know. Can’t you just trust in your good luck?’

  ‘I don’t trust to luck, Bormann, any more than I trust people. They have an unpleasant habit of letting you down. You make your own luck in this world, and your own mistakes. So I’m not going to launch him as the saviour of the German nation only to discover that he’s some stinking Jew-lover. or drowned his baby sister in her bath. I want him checked out. Now!’

  ‘The Fuehrer is ready for you, Captain.’

  Hencke started as an orderly plucked him by the sleeve. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Why, to the Bunker.’

  Hencke tried to compose himself as he was guided once more into the cellar and onwards
through a bewildering maze of tunnels and underground corridors, but he found the task difficult. A lethargy had settled over his wits and limbs as Goebbels had performed the introduction, the tension swamping his faculties. He needed fresh air and a moment to think, but he was to get the chance of neither. As they proceeded downward, into the bowels of Berlin, everywhere there seemed to be checkpoints, guards armed with machine pistols and hand grenades, studying the papers and identity of all who wished to pass. They walked through a dank, bare concrete tunnel more than a hundred metres long which dripped with water and reminded Hencke of a rabbit’s warren in autumn, while waiting at the end was another set of guards wanting to know who and why, double-checking everything. Every time his papers were scrutinized, his face examined, he felt another layer of determination and fortitude being stripped away, leaving him like a rabbit trapped in a beam of light. Except rabbits have somewhere to run and for Hencke, in the tunnels, there was no way out. Every step further underground seemed like another step into his own grave.

  Finally the orderly moved aside to allow him past a heavy steel door, and he was inside the Vorbunker, the staff quarters. He entered a narrow corridor which also served as the dining-room and rest area and, as he did so, he almost choked. The atmosphere was fetid from the body heat of people packed into the tight space. Twenty or so men and women, not all in uniform, seemed to be making strenuous efforts to recover from the general misery of the previous hour in the Ehrenhof by holding their own private celebration. Hitler was strictly teetotal and there had been no champagne served at the formal reception; down here the staff were making up for lost time. The clink of glasses and the music of a waltz being scratched out from a gramophone somewhere nearby mingled with a loud voice as one of the men related a story of the early days in Munich. The room had meagrely decorated walls and bare overhead lighting which blanched the faces of all colour. It resembled any of the low-life night clubs or dive bars Hencke had visited as a young man, particularly the unlicensed ones. But the memory served only to remind him how far he was from home, deep underground, in an unnatural world, surrounded by people with ghoulish faces, like goblins in a gruesome fairy tale. Suddenly he was overwhelmed with the realization that it was all impossible. It was madness, had always been madness, an aberration. He knew now that he could not possibly succeed. Did it really matter any more? Perhaps he was already beginning to catch the Kellerkrebs.

  With leaden spirit he continued behind the orderly. They were still descending, down a spiral metal staircase with yet more bulkheads and FBK guards at both ends, and they entered upon a short corridor. He didn’t need to be told, he knew this was it. The Fuehrerbunker. Several open doors ran off the corridor and through them Hencke could see how small and claustrophobic were most of the rooms, with low ceilings you could touch. Then another short corridor, another guard and yet more doors running off into tiny rooms. Shelves along the corridor were spilling over with a disorderly collection of papers, manuals, candles, bottles, uniform caps and other paraphernalia – but nothing that might be used as a weapon – and a twisted assortment of cables and hoses ran along the bare concrete floor, a sign of impromptu repair work to electricity and water supplies. From nearby, Hencke could hear the whine of a generator and could smell latrines. This was the Emperor’s palace.

  It was quiet down here, the atmosphere colder than the crowded Vorbunker, with no comfort of conversation or music to break the silence. It reminded him of a medieval castle near Asch where he had once taken a party of schoolchildren. They had descended into the catacombs, dank and oppressive, with a smell that brought a funny taste to the back of the throat and left even the bolder boys anxious to leave. The Fuehrerbunker gave the same sensation, parching his mouth, putting him on edge, filling his thoughts with dark memories. Suddenly Goebbels, always the stage manager, was there in front of him.

  ‘Remember, Hencke. Don’t tire him. And above all don’t irritate or contradict him. Not if you don’t want that Iron Cross shoved up your ass. Your job is to encourage, that’s all. Go in. He’s ready for you.’

  Hencke found himself in an office, scarcely ten feet square, decorated in simple fashion with blue Frisian tiles and a bare oak desk upon which stood two well-burnt candles as might be found on a chapel altar. Above the desk, dominating the room, hung a large oil portrait of Frederick the Great. A voice beckoned from the far door.

  ‘Is that you, Hencke? Come in, come in!’

  He entered another room no larger than the office, furnished as a sitting-room with carpet, coffee table, blue and white velvet sofa and chair. On the table stood a small, feminine Dresden vase filled with fresh tulips and in the chair, beckoning, sat Hitler. He seemed more at ease sitting down than he had been standing, and his smile of welcome was genuine. He was scratching the ear of an Alsatian puppy which sat contentedly in his lap. As Hencke advanced he saw an orderly hovering in the corner kitted out in military uniform. Even in his inner sanctum, Hitler was not alone. And the nearest thing resembling a weapon was a sugar spoon.

  ‘Sit. Have some tea. A most refreshing drink. Probably the best reason for conquering the British Empire there is.’ Hitler grimaced in self-mockery. ‘They tell me you are a man of few words, Hencke. Good for you. Suggests a man of action. Take Goebbels, now he’s a man of many words. But action? If I had to rely on shrivel-legged little runts like him to beat back the Russians I might as well shoot myself straight away. I only need one Goebbels but, oh, what would I give for a thousand Henckes!’

  Hencke was taken aback at the greeting and sat silently on the sofa.

  ‘You know, Hencke, you and I have so much in common,’ Hitler continued, lowering his head unsteadily to meet a piece of cake held in an equally unsteady hand. ‘We are both men of valour, holders of the Iron Cross,’ he said, wiping smudges of cream from his mouth with the back of his hand. He pointed proudly to the medal, the only decoration on his tunic apart from his tiny gold party button, which had been awarded for bravery under fire as a courier, a mere corporal in the First War before he was gassed and invalided out. That had been in the distant past, more than a generation ago, in another world.

  He was muttering away through mouthfuls of cake. ‘And me as an Austrian and you from the Sudetenland, we understand the need to build a Greater German Reich, to bring all Germans together – not like those feeble minds and faint hearts who nowadays flood out from every sewer to question why we ever needed to send soldiers across the blasted Rhine! They’re like a plague …’ His pale face coloured rapidly with indignation. ‘All about me there are men who think they know better, who disobey my orders, who betray the Reich. The generals are the worst. I, almost single-handed, gave them the continent of Europe.’ His voice rose, bits of cream cake spraying across the table. ‘Everything but England, that puny island governed by the son of a pox-ridden aristocrat. I gave it to the generals, Hencke, and what did they do? Prick-pullers every one. They’ve thrown it all away!’ His voice had gained a remarkable strength for someone so frail. There was still passion in those glassy eyes, a flickering glow like a candle trying desperately to revive itself on the last traces of wick. The willpower and determination were still there, struggling to find some remnants of physical energy on which to cling. The puppy discreetly jumped down from his now-exposed position and waddled out the door. ‘Not one of them knows what it is like to have been under fire, to have an enemy trying to shoot the balls off you, that feeling of exhilaration when you realize the bastard’s missed. They’ve never risked their lives in battle, like you and me. They have betrayed us both, those aristocrats from their military academies. Why else were you left to rot in a prison camp? Why – else – am – I – here?’ His hand beat down on the table, but the effort and animation were rapidly tiring him. His lips could no longer keep pace with his anger, and saliva dribbled down his chin, which he did not bother to wipe. He settled back once again in his chair, the flame subsiding.

  ‘And the German people … I wanted so much for the
m, expected so much of them. They have failed me. The Reich has turned into a great field of white flags for the Russians and Americans to harvest; and you won’t find a single German who can ever remember supporting the Party, let alone coming to one of my rallies to cheer until they were hoarse. Do you remember, Hencke? Berlin, Nuremberg, Munich – rallies of more than a million wonder-filled people. Where have they all gone?’

  His mood had become depressed and a look of anxiety crossed his face. His moustache and nose, swollen and pulpy in old age, twitched in agitation and he began biting one of his fingernails until it was red and ripped to the quick. ‘Tell me, what was it like waiting to die, in that submarine? On the bottom of the ocean?’

  Hencke couldn’t see the purpose of the question; he didn’t know how to react. He decided to be honest, answering slowly.

  ‘Terrifying.’

  Hitler nodded, as if he understood. ‘Different from facing death in the field, in the open air? Tell me, is there anything noble about … waiting to die. Stuck in an underwater tin can?’

  Or stuck in an underground box, thought Hencke. So that’s what is getting at him. Facing the Russians in his Bunker won’t be the same as facing the French in the trenches; he’s worried he may not be up to it. ‘No, nothing noble.’

  Hitler sighed, the breath rattling in his lungs. ‘Hencke, look at me. As you see I am not a well man. I am not physically strong. There are those who see this and believe that the war is over. They wish me to make an end of it, here in Berlin. Particularly some of the generals. The war is lost, they say, but we can still save Germany if we end it properly, nobly.’ His hand came up to tap his forehead and his bleary eyes stared directly at Hencke. ‘But I have not lost my mind yet, Hencke. What damned purpose is served by dying like rats in a cellar, tell me that? Where’s the nobility of a Russian bullet in your guts – or worse! Having your body dragged through the streets of Moscow behind some hairy-assed commissar?’ He leaned forward, his brow wrinkled with concern. ‘And then there are the women to consider; it’s not just me. They have served me so loyally, more faithfully than any man. They have stood by me when the men were trampling on babies in their rush for a seat on the plane to Switzerland. Would it be noble of me to leave them to their fates here, under the bellies of sub-human Russians who don’t give a damn whether it’s a dead woman or a dead sheep and will screw the lot? That’s how my noble Prussian generals would repay their loyalty.’ The flame in his eyes had found more fuel. ‘They underestimate me, those cretins. I may not be able to fight at the front any more, but I’m not yet finished. No, not by a long way! Those cowards in the High Command forget that Julius Caesar was an epileptic but it didn’t stop him conquering half the world. I don’t forget! I don’t forget that no enemy ever defeated Caesar, his stinking generals stabbed him in the back!’