“Herr Reichsmarschall! If you can manage to get off that fat behind, I’ll see you outside!”
The SS officer and Waldheim had to leap aside to avoid being sent spinning by Hitler as he flung himself through the doorway. Bormann seemed uncertain whether to follow suit or rejoin the company by the fireside, but as Goering came clumping toward him, with extraordinary alacrity considering his bulk, the Fuehrer’s secretary turned back into the room, chewing hard on his lip.
Kurt had sprung to his feet with the rest of the group, who now remained stock still, in petrified silence, as the Fuehrer’s voice came at them in an uneven torrent of guttural bellows from the other side of the now-closed door. He was able to catch only a phrase here and there as the tirade raged on.
. . . Unforgivable slackness . . . reduced to a farce . . .laughingstock of my enemies . . . disastrous . . . heads will roll . . . utterly intolerable! . . .
Waldheim seemed at first reluctant to join either group, but as the guests at the fireside closed in on Bormann, obviously being given the news, the young Luftwaffe adjutant walked down the steps into the sunken area, shaking his head as Kurt and the others moved to meet him.
“Appalling! Quite appalling!”
“Well, for God’s sake, man, what’s happening?”
“Twenty-seven of our V-l launching sites on the Channel— all of them heavily camouflaged and supposedly protected by Luftwaffe fighters—bombed and destroyed in daylight by the R.A.F.”
CHAPTER SIX
I
"GOERING DID not show his face again at the Berghof that Christmas and was reported to be sulking in his country mansion of Karinhall, having sacked and disgraced three Luftwaffe generals along with their entire headquarters staffs. And within a few days Adolf Hitler, reassured by Bormann that the V-l program was not in serious jeopardy, had recovered his good humor sufficiently to make a seasonal gesture to the junior members of his entourage. He spoke of it to Kurt at the end of their second private session in the Fuehrer’s study.
“It is my intention, Armbrecht, to give a reception here at the Berghof for some of the younger people on my staff, the evening of December the twenty-third. It will extend to certain adjutants, the girls of the secretariat, some of the younger officers of the Leibstandarte and so on. Quite informal. And those with wives or girl friends not on the mountain will be permitted to invite them, subject to security clearance, of course.” He turned from the window to smile slyly across at Kurt. “There will be special transport provided for any young ladies flying in from Berlin.”
Kurt felt himself blushing at this first hint from the Fuehrer that he knew about himself and Helga Gruyten. He started to say, “A very great honor for us all, my Fuehrer, but there is no one in particular I myself—”
“Nonsense!” Hitler cut in. “A good-looking young fellow like you! Why, at your age . . .’’He broke off, frowning slightly, to snatch up a sheet of paper from his desk with a list of names scrawled on it in his own spiky handwriting. “There’s a shortage of suitable young girls in my headquarters here. I don’t want to see groups of men standing around that evening, twiddling their thumbs.”
“If the Fuehrer will permit me—”
“That’s better! Have a word with Rattenhuber, straightaway.”
“I was thinking of my young sister, who lives in Munich, my Fuehrer. She’s twenty-five, and remarkably pretty.”
“So? And what does this pretty young sister of yours do for the war effort?”
“She teaches Spanish, my Fuehrer—to overseers of the Todt Organization, among others.”
“You may invite her on my behalf. Make arrangements through Rattenhuber’s office.”
When Kurt telephoned Sophie next day with the news, she thought he was joking. “But of course I accept, dear brother of mine. Shall I wear my diamond tiara, or would the emerald necklace that matches my eyes be more in keeping?”
“I’m not joking, idiot. You’re to go to the Fuehrerhaus tomorrow morning with your identity documents and two extra photographs. Ask for Sturmbannfuehrer Schneider.”
There was a brief silence at the other end of the line. Then: “Kurt, you really do mean it! Caramba! Will the Fuehrer be there?”
“I just told you! He’s giving the party. And there’s a room booked for you in the Grand Hotel at Berchtesgaden. Leave your tiara in the safe and go out and buy yourself a new evening gown—on me. Nothing too daring, you understand?”
“Fantastic! Wait till Mother and Father come back from Mass! Is it all right to tell them?”
“Of course it is. And give them my love. Tell them I’ll probably be getting some leave in the New Year.”
During the next five days, while the main parking lot of the Berghof hummed with the arrival and departure of Gauleiter, Government ministers, Party Chiefs and ambassadors bringing their greetings and presents to the German Fuehrer, Kurt spent most of the time in the reference library of the secretariat, making copious notes from the files and memoranda put at his disposal by Martin Bormann. Hitler had informed him at their last session that the religious problem in the Greater Reich would be settled “one way or the other” by the end of 1944, and it might well be that Mein Sieg should actually start with a chapter devoted to a review of the role played by the Christian church in German society from the immediately pre-Bismarckian era up to the revision of the present concordat with Rome, which would certainly take place in the coming year. Accordingly, the existing plan of the book should be restructured by Kurt and a new arrangement of chapters submitted for the Fuehrer’s consideration early in the New Year. In the meantime, it was gratifying to learn that the priests and pastors had offered no protest, either individually or through their hierarchies, to the Diktat concerning Reichsleiter Bormann’s Christmas prayer.
On the morning of the twenty-second, as Kurt was preparing to leave for the secretariat, an SS man brought him a message politely requesting his presence “for a few minutes” in the office of Obersturmbannfuehrer Werner Voegler, over in the administration building of the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler.
Kurt was correct in assuming it had to do with his sister’s visit to the Berghof, for there on the officer’s desk, as he rose to greet Kurt with “the German salute,” was a photograph of Sophie, neatly pasted to one of a small batch of identical-sized pale-green filing cards spread out on the blotter. The austerely furnished office had the mandatory framed photograph of the Fuehrer on one wall and, on another, a picture of Reichsfuehrer SS Heinrich Himmler, exactly equal in size. The second portrait bore Himmler’s signature under what appeared to be a lengthy handwritten inscription.
This was Kurt’s first meeting with Voegler, though he had noticed the tall, barrel-chested officer a couple of times since his arrival on the mountain—once overseeing a physical-fitness display by near-naked SS troops on the parade ground behind the main barracks, and again when he had presented himself at Oberfuehrer Rattenhuber’s office, in this same building, for clearance of Sophie’s invitation. Like most of the Leibstandarte officers now on duty at the Berghof, Voegler had seen action with the Waffen SS on both western and eastern fronts, as the campaign ribbons over his breast pocket testified, and moreover had been decorated with the Iron Cross, both classes. But, like all of the staff officers liable to come into direct contact with the Fuehrer, he was now wearing the distinctive black-and-silver uniform of Hitler’s praetorian guard rather than the gray-green field service tunic and breeches still used by the steel-helmeted SS officers and men guarding the Obersalzberg mountainside. Kurt would have placed Yoegler’s age in the early thirties; with his close-cropped flaxen hair and lean, unlined face, it would be difficult to be more precise. A prominent vein snaked under the tight skin of his left brow, his jug ears stood out, and the large sharp nose was slightly askew as from bone damage. His small mouth, an almost fleshless slit, was unlocking itself now in an awkward attempt at a smile as Kurt settled into the chair facing the desk.
“A pleasure to meet you at
last, Armbrecht. My old comrade Sturmbannfuehrer Kremer spoke very well of you when I last met him in Berlin.” The voice was high-pitched and nasal, with a north-German—but not Berliner—accent.
Kurt said, “I’m indebted to the Sturmbannfuehrer. He has been very kind to me.”
“Good! Now, about this reception tomorrow evening—Alas, the Fuehrer has excluded everyone above the rank of Sturmbannfuehrer—or Major, as you Wehrmacht chaps have it—so there goes a rare chance for poor fellows like myself to enjoy the company of such attractive young ladies as—” he picked up the filing card bearing Sophie’s picture—“your sister, if you will permit me the comment?”
Kurt had started to say, “I’m sorry about that, Herr Obersturmbannfuehrer, but I suppose the Fuehrer—” when Voegler cut him short with a raised hand and a brittle little chuckle.
“A good SS man never admits defeat, Armbrecht. I have put myself in charge of the detachment from Oberfuehrer Rattenhuber’s staff that is to greet the young ladies at the Grand Hotel and escort them to the Berghof. And knowing how nervous they’ll be, I’m inviting them to take a glass of champagne in my mess before they meet the Fuehrer. Naturally, I should like your approval, as well as your own presence as my guest.”
“It’s a most thoughtful gesture, Herr Obersturmbannfuehrer. I’d be delighted.”
“Excellent!” Voegler pushed his chair back and sprang to his feet. “Shall we say seven-thirty tomorrow evening, then, in the officers’ mess?”
The Fuehrer hadn’t touched any of the delicacies spread out on the big circular table in the salon, but he had taken a sip of champagne before thrusting the glass back at his SS orderly, Bussman. This in itself was noteworthy for one who never drank anything stronger than Faschinger water and camomile tea; and whether it was the sip of wine or the nearness of so many adoring young females, a slight flush had appeared on his normally pallid cheeks and a festive sparkle lit up the ever-restless pale-blue eyes.
He had entered the salon, accompanied by his blond, fresh-faced mistress, Eva Braun, about a quarter of an hour after the guests were assembled, and he had stood for a moment inside the threshold, smiling and bowing to the vigorously handclapping company. Then, as the champagne corks began to pop and the SS men in their white monkey jackets started on their rounds, Hitler made his slow tour of the room, kissing the hands of secretaries and young wives, greeting the men with his damp firm handclasp, reserving his pleasantries and quips for the familiars among his staff, bending his ear attentively as his chief of protocol, Dr. Meissner, presented each new face—here the fiancee of one of his staff, there the wife of Leibstandarte Hauptsturmfuehrer. By the time he reached Kurt and his sister, awaiting their turn by the flower-decked grand piano, Sophie’s evening bag had almost fallen twice from her trembling hands.
“Oh my God, Kurt, he’s coming this way!”
“Calm yourself, Maedel. He’s not going to eat you!” And, catching Peter Waldheim’s rolling eyes, Kurt just had time to straighten his face after grimacing fiercely back at his friend. The young adjutant, with his expression, had spoken for every unattached male in the room: Sophie Armbrecht was in fact easily the most delectable of the Fuehrer’s female guests that night, with her red hair done up in a dense bouquet of loose curls and her wide eyes sparkling—it had seemed to Kurt earlier, as they embraced in the officers’ mess—like emeralds in the reflected light from her new green evening gown.
Hitler had spotted them and was leading Eva Braun in their direction. “My dear Armbrecht! And this is the beautiful sister you’ve told me so much about! You were not exaggerating.” As he bent over Sophie’s upraised hand, Kurt caught a quick glimpse of her face, frozen in an expression of fearful excitement. Then Hitler was introducing them to Eva Braun, first Kurt (“I believe you have already met Fräulein Braun”) then Sophie, whose first name he remembered and uttered without hesitation.
“. . . and the clever Fräulein Armbrecht.” he added teasingly, “teaches Spanish to my Todt overseers, so let’s not have any more of this nonsense about beauty and brains never going together!”
The petite, round-faced young woman by his side flushed slightly as she let go of Sophie’s hand. “There will always be exceptions, my Fuehrer,” she pouted. And, in a pathetic little bid to change the subject, “Your dress is lovely, Fräulein Armbrecht. You must tell me later where you shop.”
To escape the drift of ear-flapping guests in Hitler’s wake, as he moved on, Kurt led his sister up the steps to the higher level and signaled to the nearest SS orderly. Sophie drained her glass in a few deep, unladylike drafts and leaned heavily against her brother. She was still trembling.
“Ouff! I swear I actually felt his mustache on my hand! But it’s strange, I thought he’d be taller—about your height in fact!”
“You can credit Heinie Hoffman with that.” Waldheim was at Kurt’s elbow, effectively blocking a hovering SS Obersturmjuehrer. “He’s a wizard that chap, with his low angles.” He was holding his hand out for Sophie’s empty glass, but she shook her head, laughing. As she turned to put the glass on the sideboard behind her, her attention was caught by a large framed canvas on the wall. It was a portrait, almost full-length, of a fair-haired and lustrous-eyed girl of perhaps twenty. A china bowl heaped with flower petals stood on the sideboard, immediately below the portrait. Sophie looked inquiringly over her shoulder at the two men.
“Geli Raubal,” Waldheim supplied, keeping his voice down, “the Fuehrer’s niece. The painting was done by Adolf Ziegler from a photograph, after her death in 1931. And there’s also quite a good bust of her by Josef Thorak, in the Berlin Chancellery.”
“It’s a lovely face,” Sophie murmured. “Do you think it’s true she was the only real love in the F——” Stopped short by Kurt’s grimace, she added, in a quick whisper, “Well is it?”
Waldheim had turned away from the wall to bring the nearby guests into view. He said, softly, “It’s my own theory that it was the manner of her death, more than anything she meant to the Chief while she was alive, that has put her up on that pedestal. He used her as a kind of emotional safety valve, fawning over her one day, thrashing her the next with the rawhide whip he carried around at that time. But by blowing her silly brains out, after that last row with him, she achieved immortality. The Chief has enormous respect for suicides.”
“Ugh!” Sophie shivered, closing her eyes. Then with a rueful smile for Waldheim: “I think I’ll have that drink, after all.”
As the adjutant moved away, Sophie’s hand tightened around Kurt’s right arm. “I have to talk to you about Voegler before the party breaks up, if we can find a quiet corner.”
“Why, what’s the trouble?”
“Not now. That nice captain will be back in a minute.”
The opportunity arrived half an hour later, when the Fuehrer took leave of his guests to return to his upstairs rooms and the hungry young people began to crowd around the buffet table, laughing and jostling in a spontaneous release of tension. Kurt led Sophie toward the now-isolated fireside area.
“Now tell me, what’s the problem?”
“Voegler wants to get me into bed, that’s the problem.”
“Are you serious? Christ, he’s only just met you!”
“Lust at first sight, dear brother. You must have heard of it.”
Grimly, he said, “Sophie, dearest, tell me all.”
“Well, I could see what he wanted from practically the moment he introduced himself, down at the Grand Hotel. He drove me up here in his own car, just the two of us, and kept going on about what a smashing figure I had and how tough it was on the SS officers up here, starved of the feminine delights.”
“That’s a joke. They’ve even got their own private brothel.”
“Charming! Anyway, you saw the way he cornered me over at the mess. We weren’t talking politics. He wants to drive me back to the hotel later and spend the night up in my room. He said it as if he was presenting me with some kind of award!”
/> “What did you say?”
“The usual routine. I didn’t think it would be tactful to tell him to get lost—as I wanted to—so I gave him that coy line about having to know a man better before I slept with him. And, of course, I got the routine reply to that—‘So let’s start to get to know each other better, tonight.’ ”
“And how was it left?”
“It was about then you got my distress signals and came over. I don’t think I’m off the hook. He’ll be waiting for me, either here or down in Berchtesgaden.” She shuddered for the second time that evening. “He gives me the creeps, that one! What can we do about it?”
“I could ask for a pass,” Kurt frowned, “and go down with you. Trouble is, I’d have to go to Voegler himself for it at this time of night, and he’d probably fend me off with some kind of excuse.”
“I don’t want you to do anything that will make life difficult for you here. Maybe I should—” She was peering over his shoulder, into the throng around the buffet.
“What are you thinking, Sophie?”
“There’s that very sweet stenographer from the Fuehrer’s Chancellery in Berlin. We were having a nice little girl-to-girl chat at the hotel, before the SS arrived . . . That’s it!” She gave her brother a quick tight hug. “I’ll tell her my problem and we’ll work out an act together. Sick stenographer, solicitous girl friend. Pretty corny, but it’s worked in the past.” She was grinning at him for approval, and he gave it to her, nodding his head slowly.
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