Foo Fighters

by Daniel Wyatt

  Now Uncle Heiny’s motives were definite enough. He craved total power.

  Then Bormann thought of something else. The incriminating Berlin orders. The extermination papers! Would Himmler have...? No... he wouldn’t. Wait... he... Bormann’s knees began to buckle. No, Himmler would, if it meant saving his own ass. Why hadn’t Bormann thought of it before? He knew his dealings with the OSS were in question once Zeller was shot. Bormann had the trumped-up paperwork, accusing Himmler, and only Himmler, of millions of deaths. But Himmler had the real thing. The Berlin orders. Bormann cursed. The deal for high tech blueprints — the Foo Fighter — for his safety was in jeopardy. What he had on Dulles and the American big businessmen would be nothing compared to what Uncle Heiny had on him, providing Himmler had filed the paperwork, which he probably had.

  Himmler filed everything.

  * * * *

  From the steps of the Chancellery, Bormann watched Reitsch take off in her single-engine airplane. He winced when the undercarriage barely cleared the Brandenburg Gate. Several shots rang out, obviously from Russian snipers. The aircraft banked away, unscathed. He breathed a sigh. Bormann liked Reitsch, but what a blind fool she was to risk her life now. This was Bormann’s first time outside in days. From this vantage point he was shocked to see the city in ragged ruins. Although word had come through that Wenck had lost, for some strange reason the Russian shelling had ceased for the time being.

  Reitsch’s new orders were clear. She was to fly Ritter von Greim — the new Commander in Chief of the Luftwaffe, appointed by Hitler over Goering — to Plon, where the two would confer with Admiral Doenitz, and inform him that he was to arrest Heinrich Himmler on sight. “A traitor must never succeed me as Fuehrer!” Hitler had told Reitsch, minutes before, Bormann standing off to the side. “You must get out to insure that he will not.”

  Bormann quickly returned to the bunker below. He stopped at the guardhouse, and witnessed the next stage of Hitler’s revenge against Himmler, involving General Hermann Fegelein. Led out to the Chancellery garden, the general was accused of having been an accomplice with Himmler. Then Fegelein was shot. Being Eva’s brother-in-law had no bearing on whether he would live or die. Bormann turned away and descended again to the rancid Fuehrerbunker air.

  Berlin — April 29

  She started to sign her name “Eva Braun.” Then she realized her mistake, giggled lightly, and stroked out the “B” and wrote “Eva Hitler, born Braun.” Bormann looked down at Hitler’s wedding document, declaring that Hitler and Eva were of pure Aryan descent and free from hereditary disease. Stone-faced, Bormann signed as a witness inside the small conference room. An hour after midnight, the Fuehrer and Eva were now officially married, the conclusion of a decade-long affair. Too bad they only had hours or days at most to spend together as a new couple, Bormann thought. And too bad they couldn’t go anywhere on their honeymoon.

  Hitler thanked the man who married them, Walter Wagner, a municipal councillor who was fighting the Russians a few blocks away. Then the party began in Hitler’s private apartment, complete with champagne. Hitler even invited the cooks. Bormann sipped from his glass and watched the smiling Hitler tell the others of the better days with party comrades true to the cause. Everyone seemed in good spirits, until more than an hour into Hitler’s dialogue.

  “Now it has ended,” the Fuehrer said, his lips frowning. “And so has National Socialism. It will be a release for me to die, since I have been betrayed by old friends and businessmen abroad who once supported me.”

  Head down, Hitler walked away. This was Bormann’s signal to follow Hitler. Bormann glanced around the room before he left. Everyone was crying. Goebbels, the secretaries, the cooks. Everyone... except Bormann.

  By 4am, Hitler had drafted his Last Will. Bormann made the changes, and read it back to his dreary, tired leader one last time. “As executor of this will, I appoint my most faithful Party comrade, Martin Bormann. He is given full legal authority to make all decisions. He is permitted to take out for my brothers and sisters whatever has any value as a personal memento or is necessary to maintain a modest standard of living.”

  “Sign it, Bormann.”

  “I will be honoured to, mein Fuehrer. Thank you for your faith in—”

  “Yes, yes. Now, read me the Political Testament.”

  “Certainly, mein Fuehrer.”

  Bormann flipped a page in his file and began. “A number of men such as Martin Bormann, Dr. Goebbels, and others, including their wives, have voluntarily joined me. They do not wish to leave the capital of the Reich under any circumstances; they are willing to die with me. Nevertheless, I must ask them to obey my request, and in this case to put the interests of the nation above their own feelings. By their work and loyalty as associates they will be just as close to me as I hope my spirit will be to them; may it linger among them and accompany them always. Let them be hard but never unjust; above all let them never allow fear to influence their actions, and let them put the honour of the nation above all else on earth. Finally, let them be conscious of the fact that our task for the coming centuries is the continuing construction of the National Socialist state, and this places every single person under an obligation always to serve the common interest and to subordinate his own advantages to this end.”

  Finished, Bormann glanced over the sheet. He snickered. Hitler had fallen asleep in his chair.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Berlin — April 30

  It had been raining for two days in the capital. By afternoon, the mood in the Fuehrerbunker was as dreary as the wet streets and overcast skies on the surface. And to add to the misery, General Zhukov’s Red Army was only a block away from the Fuehrerbunker, and closing, yard by yard. No doubt the enemy would reach the Chancellery within a few hours. Forty-eight hours at most.

  When the news of the situation reached the Fuehrer, he summoned to his apartment his faithful confidant since Hess’s departure in 1941. The two were alone, door closed. Stooped over, Hitler appeared in a daze, an abrupt contrast to Bormann, who was bright, alert, and well dressed in his Reichsleiter uniform

  “Bormann, I want you to wire Hanna for me.”

  “May I ask why, mein Fuehrer?”

  “I want to live, Bormann.”

  Bormann stared, wide-eyed, at his leader. Why did the Fuehrer want to change his mind now? Who had put him up to this? Eva, probably, that hair-brained dimwit. And this now, after Hitler had given his tearful goodbyes to his bunker subordinates only hours before. Those present were all expecting their Third Reich leader to take his own life by nightfall.

  “What does Fraulein Reitsch have to do with you living, mein Fuehrer?” Bormann finally asked.

  “Because I want her to fly us out. Eva and I.”

  Bormann cleared his throat. “But, mein Fuehrer, even if I could locate her on such short notice, which I doubt, how would she fly in and out with the Russians so close? The situation has changed. Rubble is covering the streets. She’d need a street as long as a runway for any single-engine aircraft to land or take off. She’d never make it.”

  “She can do it!” Hitler was shouting now, his face flushed. “She can do anything!”

  Bormann stood his ground. “But will she want to do it, now?” he said, surprised that he had mustered up the courage to speak so boldly.

  Fire in his eyes, Hitler screamed, “She will do anything I tell her to do. Go, go find her! Now!”

  Bormann swallowed hard, bowed, and clicked his heels. “Yes, mein Fuehrer.”

  Hitler turned away, hands behind his back. End of discussion.

  No one was going to spoil Bormann’s plans now. He knew he would do no such thing as contact Hanna Reitsch. He avoided the communication room, at least for the moment. Instead, he went to his office, and pulled out the top drawer. His hand reached for his Luger pistol and a small vial of poison. He stuffed both inside his tunic and while Dr. Goebbels and some army officers were milling in the passageway, Bormann edged past them. He re-ent
ered the room and saw Hitler at the far end. Bormann locked the door behind him quietly and carefully, so that Hitler would not notice.

  “That was fast. Well?” Hitler asked. “Did you wire her?”

  Bormann chose to remain silent. He bent over the radio by the sofa, and turned it up. Then he walked up to Hitler, until they were toe to toe.

  “Well!” Hitler repeated, louder.

  Bormann withdrew his Luger and aimed it at Hitler’s face.

  They stared each other down.

  “What is this?” Hitler demanded.

  “They call it a gun, you fool. I should have done this a long time ago.”

  Hitler’s face grew flushed. “I could call the guards in and have you shot, Bormann.”

  “You do, and you’ll die on the spot. Everyone will take it as a suicide.”

  Hitler scowled, hands on his hips. “So what are you waiting for? Pull the trigger.”

  “Not until I speak my mind.”

  “So, speak it.”

  Bormann took a breath. He’d been waiting a long time for this opportunity. “You let the country down, mein Fuehrer. You blew it, as the Americans would say.”

  “I let the—”

  “Shut up! All you had to do was play along with the people who financed you. We all would have made money: our movement, the overseas banks, the oil companies, and we in Berlin would have remained in power. But no, you had to start a war that none of us wanted. The people, the military, the Party — none of us. Then you went ahead and had to start a two-front war by marching into Russia. You didn’t learn any lessons from Napoleon’s defeat, did you? You refused to retreat at any time. The British retreated at Dunkirk so that they could live to fight us another day. You didn’t listen to your generals, who know a lot more than you do about tactics. Your military strategy cost us the war. You’re a puffed-up imbecile.” Bormann paused to see Hitler’s face a beet red.

  “Are you done?”

  “No, I’m not done. You declared war on the United States when you didn’t have to. In case you didn’t figure it out, it was the Japanese that attacked the Americans. Not us. You did Roosevelt a favour. You had to liquidate millions, for which I and others will be blamed. Now the rest of us will all be on the run because of you. I detest you. I’m sick to death of you. You, and your damn chocolates. Too bad you didn’t do us a favour and choke on one of them. And now you tell me you want to live. You’re a monster. Any last words, Adolf?”

  Hitler’s nostrils flared. “I see it all now. You’re a coward, hiding behind me all these years. All these papers I’ve been signing — I don’t know what they are anymore. You’re a back-stabber, a night crawler, a controller of bank accounts. You’ve been drugging me. I’m sure you have. You’re the one who wants all the power, not Goering, or Himmler. It’s you. I believe Goering now. You... you... You are a kiss-ass. A boot-licker. A skirt—”

  Before Hitler could finish the word skirt-chaser, Bormann shot him in the temple. The blast propelled Hitler backwards into the chair behind him. “Rot in hell, you pig,” Bormann whispered. He heard knocks at the door. Off to his right, Eva suddenly appeared at the sound of the shots. She stood frozen, too shocked to speak.

  “As for you, you bitch,” Bormann grunted. He grabbed her, and in one deft motion shoved the vial down her throat. He held her jaw closed and crunched her teeth to break the poison. She tried to spit it out, but couldn’t. Bormann was too strong. In seconds, her eyes closed and she went limp in his arms. His wicked deed done, Bormann eased Hitler’s wife to a nearby chair. He left Hitler where he was, the Luger on the floor beside him. Then Bormann walked to the door and opened it. The first person Bormann saw was Propaganda Minister Goebbels.

  Bormann put on his best horrified face for him and the throng of military officers rushing up in the passageway. “They did it,” he said, “right in front of me. The Fuehrer shot himself and Eva took poison. Let me out. There, there they are. I need some air. I’ll be back to help.”

  The men pushed past Bormann to see for themselves.

  Bormann still had tasks to perform. At his office, he called Else Krueger over. “That gunshot you heard was the Fuehrer. He killed himself. Eva took poison.”

  Krueger began to cry, softly.

  Ignoring her, Bormann wrote out a message on a slip of paper.

  Grand Admiral Doenitz:

  In place of the former Reichmarshall Goering the Fuehrer appoints you as his successor. Written authority is on its way. You will immediately take all such measures as the situation requires.

  “Send this to Doenitz’s office,” Bormann advised Krueger, touching her wrist. “At once.”

  She wiped her tears. “Yes, Herr Reichsleiter.”

  He looked up at his secretary. “Don’t worry. Do your duty,” he encouraged her.

  She seemed to cheer up. “Yes, Herr Reichsleiter. But how can we go on without the Fuehrer?”

  “We’ll have to.”

  Bormann returned to Hitler’s apartment to help a guard carry Eva’s body into the pot-holed Chancellery courtyard. Behind the Reichsleiter, two guards had Hitler’s remains wrapped in a blanket. At 3:30 in the afternoon, Hitler and Eva were set down beside each other in a pre-dug trench. Two guards doused the corpses with gasoline. “Stand back,” Bormann said. He lit a newspaper and threw it on the bodies, while he and those handful present raised their right arms in a final and parting Nazi salute. In their last day on earth, Hitler was fifty-six, Eva was thirty-three. The man who had started the Second World War, the murderer of millions, had met his end.

  Shielding himself from the high, overpowering flames with his arm, Goebbels said, loud enough for the crowd to hear, “It’s every man... and woman, for himself now.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Outside Bern

  With the bodies still burning, a confirmed report of Hitler’s death reached the OSS over shortwave. Allen Dulles trusted the source. Tom McCreedy and Wesley Hollinger were packed and on a train to the Swiss-German border by seven o’clock that evening. Next stop, Wernher von Braun and his brilliant team of scientists in the Thuringia Mountains. If they were still alive.

  McCreedy drank from his glass of wine, seated inside their own compartment, the wheels clanking on the metal roadbed beneath them. “We haven’t heard anything about Goebbels or Bormann. You know, that Goebbels, the Propaganda Minister, now there’s someone people can learn from for the future. The OSS has conducted a study on him, how he uses media manipulation — radio, television, newspaper — to further his cause. Control the media, control the masses.”

  “You drink too much, Tom.” Hollinger was on his first glass of wine. McCreedy was already on his third. And they had only been on the train an hour.

  McCreedy laughed, cleaning his glasses with a handkerchief. “So you keep telling me, old buddy.” He paused, and said, “When are you going to wake up and smell the roses.”

  “What do you mean?” Hollinger asked, his eyes on the breath-taking mountain scenery beyond the glass.

  “We got lots of time, so you listen. You get both shotgun blasts this time.”

  Hollinger glanced at his sidekick. “More of this trading with the enemy stuff?”

  “Other things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Listen up. Hitler stepped out of line, and had to be brought down by the people — the international bankers — who had supported him financially. He was a risk. Many of those bankers, at least some, are Jews. Ironic, isn’t it. Jews. Jews supporting Hitler. It’s true. The Warburg family, for one. Filthy rich for hundreds of years, going back to Europe. Germany. The family is partners in Kuhn, Loeb, & Company, a New York banking house. They also represent the Rothschilds, who I’m sure you’ve heard of. “

  “Yeah, I have.”

  “Worth billions. Not millions. Billions!” McCreedy let the word roll off his tongue. “Also Jews,” McCreedy continued. “Nathan Rothschild once said, ‘Give me the right to issue a nation’s money, and then I do not care w
ho makes its laws.’ That’s why Roosevelt never really had any power, only what was handed down to him from the super rich who control the economy. Truman, no different. He’ll find out soon enough who wags his tail.”

  Hollinger thought back to February, Roosevelt at Yalta. The president admitted there were bigger forces at work than him. ‘Bigger than me, that’s what.’ Damn, maybe this McCreedy knew something after all.

  “Anyway, getting back to Paul Warburg, he was one of the founding members of the U.S. Federal Reserve System in 1913, the same system that controls the American money supply to this day. Let me tell you now that our money is in the hands of private businessmen who disguise the Federal Reserve as a government agency. There was only one reason why the Fed was started.”

  “I’ve heard some things about the Fed. What do you think?”

  “Wall Street bankers had to eliminate the competition. Or at least get them to knuckle under. The privately-owned banks across the country, that’s who. Did you know that sixty percent of American banks were privately-owned in 1911?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “At a secret meeting in 1911 on a Georgian island owned by the Morgans, representatives of several important Wall Street banks met to decide how they would get their hands on the U.S. Treasury. Seven men, who controlled one-quarter of the world’s wealth. Filthy rich pricks who sought, and accomplished their objective. A central bank to dominate the bank reserves of the country. Men working for the Rockefellers, the Morgans, the Rothschilds in Europe. The Federal Reserve is a banking cartel in private hands, made to appear it’s a government treasury. And it was some of these same seven — if not all — who lent money to the Nazi cause. Money out of our American treasury, technically. They also set up the Allies. You can’t lose in a war if you support both sides. You can’t beat these guys. They have all the marbles. You know,” McCreedy said, sighing, “people think I’m crazy when I tell them this stuff. Am I getting through to you?”