by Jeff Shaara
Tonight’s request that he visit her private chamber had come to Speer through an invitation handed him by a young Gestapo officer. Speer had responded the only way he could. No matter how hesitant he might have been, he knew that incurring the wrath of Hitler’s mistress was a truly terrible idea, and given her aggressive approach to many of the men who swirled around Hitler, wrath from Eva Braun was not a challenge Speer wanted to accept.
Her mood had been amazingly buoyant, with an offering of food and champagne, which Speer had nervously accepted. But to his relief, Braun was more interested in talking than she was in Speer himself. As the champagne flowed, it had become obvious that she merely wanted someone to talk to. For the first time, Speer understood that even this flighty young woman grasped the inevitable and was resigned to ending her life alongside the Führer. She spoke openly of suicide, with none of the regret or sorrow that Speer could feel in every other corner of the bunker, a darkening mood he sensed even from Goebbels.
When word came that Hitler was at last alone and willing to see him, Speer was able to extricate himself from her one-woman party. Her farewell was breezy and positive, and he marveled at her cheerfulness, a gaiety he simply could not understand. As he made his way toward Hitler’s office, Speer rolled the thoughts over in his mind. Was her life so confining and miserable that suicide was something to be relished? And if somehow, Hitler’s army performed a miraculous recovery and tossed the Russians out of Germany, would she be disappointed? In front of Hitler’s door, he composed himself, thought of the champagne on his breath, something Hitler would not approve of. Speer scolded himself, thought, you know all about buildings. You don’t know a damn thing about people. He looked at his watch. Three o’clock. I suppose … it’s time.
It had been Hitler’s habit for many months that well after midnight, long after his generals had exhausted themselves and drifted away to their quarters, he would seek out someone to engage in conversation, a quiet time that would sometimes last past dawn. Speer had fulfilled that role many times, understood that he was there primarily to serve as the receptive audience to Hitler’s musings and pronouncements. The conversation was rarely two-sided, though the Führer still respected Speer for his knowledge of things so unfamiliar to Hitler himself. It had been a saving grace for Speer, and one reason why Bormann had been unable to supplant Speer as Hitler’s intimate. Bormann could be a listener as well, but he had very little to say that did not involve politics or his own ambition. Even Hitler had grown weary of that.
Speer glanced at the guard, standing rigidly to one side, gave a brief nod, the man expressionless, watching him, as the guard watched everyone who came close to Hitler’s private office. Speer felt a rumble, a sudden thump, and he froze, listened.
The guard said, “Russian artillery. It has come closer in the past two days.”
Speer saw the guard looking up, betraying his nervousness, and Speer said, “It’s all right. There are several meters of concrete above us. There is no danger here.”
“Thank you, sir. But we must be prepared to fight.”
Speer had no answer, knocked gently at the door, waited, heard Hitler’s usual greeting.
“You may enter.”
Speer pushed the door open, moved inside the room. The light in the office was dim, the walls spare and dull, a dismal stench to the stale air. It was always a problem throughout the bunker, something that could not be helped with the limited ventilation from the outside.
“Herr Speer, come. There is tea.”
Speer slapped his heels together, stood stiffly at attention, the habit.
“My Führer, it is good to see you again.”
Hitler said nothing, pulled himself up from the chair, a groaning effort, and Speer thought, you should help him. But no … he hates that, would rather believe we notice nothing of his ailments. Hitler retrieved a pot from a small stove, turned, moved back to the chair, and Speer saw the limp, more pronounced now, Hitler walking with increasing difficulty. His hair had grayed considerably, and Speer saw the twitch in Hitler’s left hand, always there. Speer wouldn’t sit until Hitler approved it, watched in silence as the hot water flowed into the cups. Hitler sat, pulled his left leg over his right with his hand, another strain. Speer knew Hitler might not even notice him standing at attention for some time, but he was very tired, the effects of the champagne.
“Are you feeling well, my Führer?”
“Do not concern yourself with my health. I have banished Dr. Morell from this place. I finally realized what that man was trying to do. He insisted on administering a hypodermic, claimed it would energize me, but I know it was morphine. He was attempting to drug me so that they could remove me from here by force. That’s what they want, you know. I hear that barking from every one of them. ‘Get out of Berlin!’ It is the most traitorous decision anyone could make, and I will not hear it.” He cocked his head, stared at Speer with black eyes. “Is that why you are here? Have you come to annoy me with all those good reasons why I should abandon the capital? Sit down. You are making me tired.”
Speer obeyed, sat across from Hitler, a small table to one side, the cup of hot water steaming. Speer reached for the tea, scooped a spoonful into the strainer, set it in the water, noticed that Hitler was watching every move with keen interest.
“No, my Führer. I have no such wish. I flew here this afternoon to offer you … support.”
“That is a lie, Herr Speer. You do not need to be here at all. You should not be here. My own staff are abandoning me, and with things as they are, I no longer require your loyalty, or your services. I am astounded to find how many cowards there are, all those men I trusted for so long. And if they are not cowards, they are traitors. General Jodl has been begging me to leave the city. He says that plans have been made for a safe passage to Berchtesgaden. Plans. They have thought this through, taken every precaution. For how long? Weeks, months? They have planned to abandon Berlin. I ordered them away, told them they could go anywhere they please, that I will give them no further orders. I will remain here for one reason, a reason no traitor can understand. The soldiers will fight if they know I am with them, that the fight is being directed from here, by my hand. I will die before I allow the Bolsheviks to take my city.”
Hitler seemed to slump in the chair, stared at the tea, raised the cup with his right hand.
“This does not taste good. Are they poisoning me again?”
Speer looked at the tea, hesitated, thought, no, don’t do that. Don’t hesitate. He drank, a long hot sip, said, “It is a little bitter. Perhaps the water is not good. But … I do not feel any effects of poison.”
Hitler looked at him, blinking hard, as though trying to focus.
“I am glad you are here, Herr Speer. Be assured, my faith in you is untarnished. Your plans, all those marvelous structures, all of that will come to pass in time. There is an inevitability to history, and our destiny is certain. History will vindicate us all, no matter what happens in the months to come.” He paused. “I used to enjoy Vienna, you know. In my younger days, it was a wonderful place. But there were too many Jews, and they controlled the arts. My talents were not appreciated because I was not one of them. I despise the place now. I despise …” He paused, seemed to lose the thought. Speer eyed the tea again, took a small sip, and Hitler said, “The English cannot be happy with our state of affairs. But even so, they have betrayed us. They know they should be fighting beside us, they should be helping us drive the Bolsheviks back to their caves. It was my mistake to believe that the West would understand what our real catastrophe will be. It is why our soldiers will die to save this city. They know they will become Russian slaves if they are captured. The German is too proud to ever accept such a fate. I have seen reports of mass desertions by some of our troops. It sickens me, but I understand that when there is hopelessness, when there is despair, men can do the wrong thing. The Russians are beasts, and they will not prevail, because they do not understand our will. The German people k
now that our lives will not be worth living if we fall into their grasp. The desertions are shameful, and I know it is the fault of our generals, that they do not know how to inspire my troops. I have the solution, though. I will order the execution of all prisoners of war, all the foreign soldiers we hold in our stalags. Our enemies will have to reciprocate by doing the same. That will end the desertions. Even our weakest soldiers will understand that it is far better to die fighting than to die a prisoner.”
Speer felt a cold stab in his stomach, the same feeling he had endured when Hitler ordered the destruction of Germany’s factories. Speer had been able to go about his business with some quiet discretion, the local officials and industrial managers understanding the careful tightrope he had to tread to ignore that order. It had been enormously helpful to him that Kesselring, and thus the army, had ignored it as well.
The thump of artillery came again, then more, close by, and Speer flinched, instinct, wondered if there had been an explosion in the Chancellery.
Hitler seemed to ignore the sounds, said, “It is not necessary for you to remain in Berlin.”
“Yes, my Führer. You have told me that. I am grateful. I should like to be with my family, to do what I can to keep them safe.”
There was a sharp rap at the door, and Hitler seemed annoyed. “I ask for a moment’s peace. What is it?”
The door opened slowly, and Speer saw Bormann, holding papers.
“My Führer, we have received a wire from Reichsmarschall Göring at Berchtesgaden. It is important that you see this.”
Hitler shrugged. “Yes, so what does the fat man want now? Has he exhausted his supply of prostitutes? Go on, read it. My eyes are tired.”
Bormann glanced at Speer, seemed uncomfortable sharing a high-level communication.
“If you wish it, my Führer.”
Bormann cleared his throat, read.
MY FÜHRER,
If you are in agreement after your decision to hold out in fortress Berlin, in accordance with the law of 29 June 1941, I now take over leadership of the Reich with all powers internally and externally. If I have received no reply by 2200 I will assume that you are no longer free to act and will therefore consider the conditions of your law as having been met and act on my own responsibility in the best interests of our country and our people. What I feel in this most difficult time of my life cannot be expressed. May God protect you and I hope that you will still come here from Berlin.
YOUR LOYAL, HERMANN GÖRING.
Hitler sniffed.
“So, what am I to do about my good friend Göring? He has made good his escape, and though he has much sorrow for our situation here, I should be comforted that he is safe and fat and happy.”
“My Führer, there is more. The Reichsmarschall also sent a wire to Foreign Minister Ribbentrop, informing him that Reichsmarschall Göring is presuming to be Germany’s new authority. It is apparent, my Führer, that the Reichsmarschall is inviting Herr Ribbentrop to join him in his new … government.”
Speer saw the eruption in Hitler’s eyes, the fury boiling over.
“Ribbentrop is a traitor, always has been! I knew that! I knew that he was making entreaties to our enemies, going behind my back to seek a cowardly armistice. Now the fat man will do the same! This is how my most trusted …”
Hitler’s words choked away, his right fist slowly pounding the table, a steady rhythm, the sounds blending into a new barrage of artillery above. Speer saw the satisfaction on Bormann’s face, the message delivered, the response exactly what Bormann had hoped for. Yes, Speer thought, he wants to be the last man standing, the last loyal servant to the Führer. If he could shoot me right now, as I sit here, he would do so.
The artillery barrage continued above, but Hitler seemed to calm, made a quick gesture with his hand, waving Bormann away.
“I have more important things to do than concern myself with the fat man’s dreams of glory. Leave us.”
Bormann looked at Speer with a hint of anger, and Speer tried to ignore it, thought, wonderful. He will certainly believe I am plotting against him. Bormann marched out of the office, closed the door with an efficient thump.
Speer said, “My Führer, is there something … anything you wish me to do?”
“Yes. Leave. You have been loyal, and I admire you for your skills and your artistry. But there is no place for you here.”
Speer couldn’t avoid the feeling of relief, tried to hide it. He stood, began to move toward the door, stopped. He looked back at Hitler, saw the sickliness, the weakness, remembered Eva Braun, all the talk of suicide. Speer realized, this is the last time. If I escape Berlin, I will never see him again.
“Good-bye, Speer.”
There was nothing more to say. Speer opened the door, stepped into the damp hallway, the air just as stale, the faint glow from the lightbulbs casting long shadows. He moved past a guard, past the open doors of the empty offices, a brief glance, no secretaries at work this late, no one at all. He climbed the steps, past more guards, one man holding open the door. The night was cool, and Speer felt a sharp breeze, saw a massive red glow to the east, a spreading fire. The thumps of artillery were much louder now, and he thought of the plane, his fragile escape, the wide avenue close by that had been transformed into a makeshift runway. He began to walk past the tall dense walls of the Chancellery, had a sudden urge to go inside, to pass through the hallways of the grand structure he had built. But there was no electricity aboveground there, the hallways impenetrable in the darkness, a darkness that drove through him, that drained away his energy. He thought of the models, the magnificence in miniature, his dream, his future. He knew now, as he had known all along, that it was the dream that had pushed him to ignore so much, to deny so much. He looked toward the glow, more artillery shells landing blocks away, thunder beneath his feet. There will be no miracle. No matter what Hitler claims to believe, the army cannot survive. We cannot survive.
The shelling slowed, stopped, a strange silence in the chill around him, the night seeming darker now. He knew it would be dawn soon, that if the sun rose, he could not escape by air, would be an easy target for enemy gunners or the swarms of fighter planes. He quickened his pace, thought of his pilot, Colonel Posen, the man more loyal to Speer than to the army he served. He will be waiting, just as he said. And we shall leave this place. The argument rose up in his brain, the guilt he had tried to avoid. Should I stay? Perhaps that is the right thing to do, the only thing to do. Pick up a rifle, and fight. But he saw his wife now, the image of his children. That is the only future. You have been arrogant, a fool. And those who stay here and believe we have something to fight for … they are all fools. Hitler will die … all of this will die. Perhaps if I survive, I can do something to preserve Germany, to help keep something alive. Or is that arrogance as well, another of my foolish dreams?
He pushed himself through the cold, his heart pounding, the click of his boots on broken concrete. He rounded a corner, saw the rows of faint red lights on the avenue, the manufactured runway, barely lit, just enough to allow a pilot to see. In the distance, Speer could see a glow from distant fires reflecting off the imposing monument, one of his favorites, a piece of Berlin’s history for nearly a century. The monument was a beloved symbol, a celebration of Germany’s successes in war, of conquerors and gallant soldiers and the crushing defeat of their enemies. It was called the Victory Column.
On April 25, the Russian ring around Berlin was sealed. Inside the ring, the German Ninth Army waged a last-gasp effort to defend the city, an effort that resulted in its virtual annihilation. Outside the ring, the German Twelfth Army made a valiant attempt to break through, but opposing them was an overwhelming number of Russian tanks, boosted by the increasing confidence of Russian troops. No matter how dedicated the German commanders were, there was a solid awareness that their cause was hopeless. Among those was Alfred Jodl. He and Wilhelm Keitel had been the senior officers in the German High Command. Now both men had made their escape
s from Berlin, and though they maintained whatever communications were possible with Hitler’s bunker, they did so from locations far removed from the disaster in Berlin. In the field, Kesselring and Admiral Dönitz gathered troops and fortified their defensive positions with what dwindling strength they could muster, but neither man expected the tide to be turned away.
To those few who remained in Hitler’s bunker, the military realities finally crushed the illusions that Hitler continued to foster. The stale air in the bunker was becoming more foul, polluted by the smoke from incoming Russian artillery. It was the first clear sign that the Chancellery itself had become a major target for Russian guns. The massive structure that had given Albert Speer so much pride was being demolished. Far beyond Berlin, there were political realities as well. Heinrich Himmler had served alongside Hitler since the Nazis’ first rise to power, and in the early 1930s, as Hitler’s government asserted itself, Himmler’s Gestapo had given Hitler an efficient machine for both terror and muscle. Despite what Hermann Göring had believed, Himmler was the second most powerful man in Germany, and was the man who carried out Hitler’s order for the construction of the concentration camps, which led to the execution of countless millions in the gas chambers and slave labor camps all across German occupied territory. But Himmler had escaped Berlin as well, and as he accepted the dire hopelessness of Hitler’s situation, Himmler did the unthinkable. Using the Swedes as intermediaries, Himmler made his own entreaties to the West, his own call for some kind of armistice. Hitler learned of Himmler’s efforts from Swedish radio reports, through broadcasts over shortwave that had become Hitler’s only means of communication with the outside world. Predictably outraged, Hitler now branded Himmler as yet another of Germany’s traitors, and issued a decree that the man be imprisoned and executed. But the order was only a fantasy in Hitler’s mind. There was no one left in the German command outside of Berlin who had the means or the will to carry it out.