The battle for Germany had begun.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE CORONATION of Pope Adolf lacked much of the splendor of such occasions, notably through a shortage of ecclesiastical bit players and the conspicuous absence of a general public. A handful of terrified Roman priests, known for their Fascist sympathies, had been rounded up by Rattenhuber, whisked to the Vatican Palace and promptly ordained cardinals by Pope Adolf; but the papal knights, so colorful a feature of the procession down the aisle of St. Peter’s, had disappeared into thin air, and the Swiss Guard remained confined to their barracks. However, a visible impact was made on the press by the black-and-silver-uniformed SS officers detailed to support the throne and the papal canopy, and to bear those symbols of royalty from the time of the Pharaohs, the great ostrich-feather fans. And Hitler had taken considerable pains over his costume. The new white silk slippers and the miter of golden wool had been made especially for him by Roman craftsmen under the cold eyes of Leibstandarte troopers. The papal falda and mantle draped him magnificently, and the pectoral cross, fashioned from his own design combining the swastika and the symbol of Christianity, had been declared by the new Pope to be “a masterpiece of the goldsmith’s art.”
He was not as complimentary about the new papal seals. These had been another rush job, done by a different Roman jeweler, to replace the seals taken from Pius XII and broken up. In his nervousness, the craftsman had cast the swastika the wrong way around. The unfortunate man was summarily executed in his workshop on the new pope’s orders; the Leibstandarte officer whose duty it had been to supervise the work was demoted to the ranks and given a penance of five decades of the rosary.
Pope Adolf had grudgingly accepted Donati’s advice to dispense with the full Coronation Mass in which he had been tutored. There was the fact that the superbly trained Vatican choir, like the papal knights and noblemen, had taken indefinite leave of absence before it had occurred to anyone in the entourage to round them up. And there was the even more inconvenient circumstance of the new Pope’s total inability—rare in an Austrian—to chant his part of the service in tune. But Adolf was not to be cheated of the other theatrical embellishments proper to a full coronation ceremony. Wearing the papal alb and stole, the mantle and the miter, he had mounted the canopied sedia in the Royal Hall from whence he was borne by his SS elite to the entrance of the Basilica and thence, with slow and solemn dignity and preceded by his newly appointed cardinals, down the wide central aisle of St. Peter’s, to the foot of the steps before the high altar. Here he was draped in the sixty pounds of gilded vestments reserved for a High Coronation Mass, and after making his bow toward the pews set up for the press and the hundred or so Leibstandarte troops assigned to “congregational duties” Adolf slowly mounted the altar steps and started to celebrate Mass.
Himmler had at least had the foresight to secure, in advance of the coronation, the services of one body of laymen indispensable to the full aural splendor of the occasion. The Vatican trumpeters, held under close SS surveillance since the “election,” were in their place high under the dome of St. Peter’s when Adolf raised the Host above his head for the Consecration, and the long fanfare that now resounded throughout the vast Basilica paid melodious tribute to the trumpeters’ instinct for self-survival.
The mass over, Hitler was reverently assisted by his acolyte cardinals back down the altar steps and up into the sedia for the act of coronation.
To the hollow-eyed Bormann and Ribbentrop, from their privileged places close to the Papal Altar, it appeared that Hitler winced with discomfort when Giovanni Donati, resplendent in his cardinal’s cappa magna, placed the weighty triple tiara on the Fuehrer’s head. If so, it hardly supported his earlier reassurance to Donati: “I’ve had to wear a steel-lined military cap for the past four years, remember. The triple tiara will give me no trouble.”
When the first distant crackle of gunfire interrupted the solemn ceremony, Ribbentrop and Bormann exchanged nervous glances and peered back over the empty reaches of the vast nave to where the armed Leibstandarte bodyguard had been posted at the five entrances to the Basilica. At the same moment, Oberfuehrer Rattenhuber left his place between Gestapo chief Herbert Kappler and Werner Voegler and strode swiftly down the central aisle, toward the nearest entrance. A few minutes later he was back and leaning over Ribbentrop to address Bormann.
“An advance column of Badoglio’s troops is engaging my men at the Victor Emmanuel Bridge. I don’t think they can hold out till the end of the ceremony.”
“Get word to Donati,” Bormann said, moistening his lips. And to Ribbentrop, whose face had turned ashen, he said, “Perhaps you and I should try to find out what the transport situation is at Ciampino.”
Hitler took the whispered news from Donati without a blink of the eye. “The Leibstandarte will take care of things,” he said, smiling. “They won’t permit those comic-opera soldiers to upset our ceremony.”
“Your men are outnumbered, Your Holiness. Rattenhuber advises postponing the rest of the ceremony.”
Hitler’s forefinger came up to flick gently at his clean-shaven upper lip. “They are Italian troops,” he murmured. “Good Catholics, all of them. They would never invade St. Peter’s at a time like this.” He rose slowly from the throne, carefully balancing the triple tiara on his head. “We shall walk out there, with Our troops behind Us, and accept the Italians’ surrender. They will never fire on their Pope. Afterward, we shall start the ceremony all over again for their benefit.” Halfway down the altar steps he paused and called back to Donati. “But with you, as always, at Our side, Your Eminence.”
The battle for the Via della Conciliazione was over by the time Hitler had completed his slow progress, shepherd’s staff in hand, from the Papal Altar to the Portico of St. Peter’s. Italian troops, infiltrating through the gardens of the palaces on both sides of the broad thoroughfare, had cut off the German line of retreat from the bridge and caught the remnants of the first-line Vatican defenders in a lethal crossfire. Those who had escaped encirclement were scurrying to new positions behind the colonnades of the piazza, which was now being swept by a hail of carbine and automatic fire from the Via della Conciliazione. Beneath the Portico, Hitler gave his instructions to Rattenhuber.
“We have changed Our mind about these desecrators of the Holy See. They shall not be invited to the ceremony, but shall be outmaneuvered as We have always outmaneuvered our enemies. Signal your men to cease firing and to spread out behind Us as We walk toward the Italians. They will lower their arms, you may count on it. When We are within close enough range of them, We shall raise this staff as a signal for Our troops to put them to rout.”
“But out there in the piazza, with no cover! We’ll all be slaughtered!”
“We are your cover, Rattenhuber. Did I tell you, by the way, I’m seriously thinking of promoting you to Brigadefuehrer?”
Kurt had been four days in the company of Colonel Ricardo Orlando, and if he had to listen to one more account of the dapper little commander’s amorous triumphs in Cairo, he was going to have to yawn right in his face.
It hadn’t been quite so bad back in Naples, where the colonel and his staff had installed themselves in a comfortable farmhouse north of the city while they awaited orders to move up to Rome; between mealtimes, at least, there had been a reprieve. But they had been on the road for more than three hours now, with Kurt a captive audience in the commander’s jeep, and apart from a break at Cassino for an intelligence briefing from divisional headquarters in Naples the saga of Orlando’s erotic exploits had been unremitting.
Kurt made one last effort to turn the conversation to the relatively trivial matter of what lay ahead of Orlando in the Italian capital.
“This report that there are only two companies of the Leibstandarte left in the Vatican City, Colonel—I find it almost unbelievable.”
Orlando gave a shrug. “Is all he needs, Hitler,” he said in his halting German, “to escort him to the airport and�
�pouff!—off to Berlin. Why the whole Leibstandarte regiment have to fight its way out of Rome? In Germany—ha!—is where he needs them right now!”
“I think you’re in for a bit of a surprise, Colonel. Hitler’s completely lost touch with reality. He’ll probably still be there, playing at Pope, when we arrive.”
“Then I accept his surrender.” Orlando’s chest swelled visibly beneath his custom-tailored combat jacket. “What an honor for my regiment! Maybe the real Pope gives me a title—no?”
You’re more likely to get a Leibstandarte bullet up your ass. Then, aloud: “Any change in the orders, I mean about Hitler and company?”
“No change. We find them in the Vatican—we take them prisoner. They fight—we fight back. We find them gone—so they are gone. The Maresciallo wants peace for Italy, not war over that madman, like you have in your country.”
Kurt was standing close to the colonel when one of his adjutants drove back across the Victor Emmanuel Bridge to report that the Via della Conciliazione was now cleared of SS troops but that a force of about a hundred Leibstandarte men had taken cover among the colonnades of the piazza and were apparently preparing a fanatical last-ditch defense of their Fuehrer. Grenades and mortars would have to be used to dislodge them.
“Out of the question!” Orlando snapped. “Bernini’s masterpiece must be preserved from damage at all costs.” He raised his binoculars and trained them on the distant facade of St. Peter’s. “We had better infiltrate the Second Battalion from the west, bringing them up behind the Basilica. When they are in position, I shall—” He broke off, his mouth falling open. “They’re not answering our fire any more!” He lowered the glasses and motioned to Kurt. “Let’s get over there, Major. They’ll be sending someone to talk terms and I shall want you with me.” In his excitement the little colonel was still using his native tongue, but Kurt caught the gist of what he was saying and sprang quickly after him into the rear of the command jeep.
By the time the driver had braked to a halt before the troop-carriers drawn up across the end of the Via della Conciliazione, the Italian troops had also ceased firing and were emerging from cover to gape across the vast square. The First battalion’s major had been killed directing the assault on the bridge, and the captain who leaped down from the nearest truck had a field dressing bound to his head.
“What’s going on, Captain?”
“I’m not sure, sir.” The officer pointed across the piazza. “Look over there!”
From where Kurt stood, the two figures walking side by side down the broad slope leading from the Portico were far too small for identification by the naked eye. But there was no mistaking, even at this distance, the papal triple crown and shepherd’s staff, or the cardinal’s cappa magna. Orlando was hastily refocusing his field glasses. “Dio mio,” he breathed, seconds later. Then, thrusting the binoculars at Kurt, “Take a look, Major.”
It wasn’t easy, keeping the glasses steady with his one hand. But he got a fix and managed to hold it.
“Well?” Orlando yelped impatiently. “Have you identified them?”
“I have, Colonel. Adolf Hitler and Monsignor Donati.”
They were making very slow progress, with Hitler’s left hand occasionally reaching up to steady the huge bulbous crown. As they reached the bottom of the slope and started to move over level ground toward the central obelisk, groups of Leibstandarte troopers came streaming out from the colonnades to form a thickening spreading line behind the two magnificently robed figures. The SS men held their carbines slack and pointed to the ground. Kurt panned the binoculars swiftly over their ranks. There was no sign of Werner Voegler.
“Would you believe it?” Orlando exulted, still speaking Italian. “The great Hitler in person, surrendering himself to me, Ricardo Orlando!” He leaped from the jeep and elbowed his way through the dense mass of his troops packing the eastern entrance to the piazza. “Hold your fire, men!” he shouted. “This is the greatest moment in the long and glorious history of our country!”
The order was unnecessary. His troops were as men transfixed, gazing in solemn silence at the advancing figures.
Kurt had shouldered through the troops to reach Orlando’s side. He was still holding the field glasses and he raised them again now and trained them on Giovanni Donati. The priest’s face seemed close enough to touch; Kurt could see the moving lips, the cast-down eyes, the broad peasant’s hand clasping the filigree cross tightly against the breast. He moved the glasses a fraction to the right and Hitler’s face leaped into close vision. It was a face he had studied in all its changing moods for so long now that, like Bormann, he believed he could read the workings of the mind behind it. The Fuehrer’s mouth was set hard, the chin tilted upward, the eyes blazing with— Quickly, Kurt swung the glasses back to Donati, to the priest’s ceaselessly moving lips, and then away to pan across the shoulder-to-shoulder line of SS troopers.
“Colonel Orlando,” he said quietly, in German, “Hitler is not coming to surrender.”
“What’s that? Why you say that?”
“It’s a trick. Soon as they’re close enough, they’re going to open fire.”
“They would not dare,” Orlando muttered. “It would be suicide for them.” But he had backed a pace or two and was chewing his lower lip vigorously. “Weapons at the ready, men!” he shouted suddenly. “All eyes on those Germans!” He might have been speaking Mandarin Chinese. The Italian soldiers’ eyes remained riveted on the man, now a bare two hundred and fifty paces away, wearing the triple tiara and grasping the tall shepherd’s staff.
Hitler had come to a halt and was transferring the staff to his left hand. His voice rang out over the square. “Pax Vobiscum!”
His right hand rose slowly, fingers shaped for the pontifical blessing. There was a stirring of bodies, a scraping of boots behind Kurt and, glancing quickly around, he saw individual soldiers, here and there, pushing forward and sinking to their knees. The eyes of the majority, still on their feet, were fixed unwaveringly on Hitler. Kurt looked back into the square, first toward Donati, who seemed to be gazing straight back at him, shaking his head slowly, and then at the SS men spread out be-- hind. It was possible that only he and the little colonel standing beside him noticed the stiffening of their limbs, the stillness of their down-pointed weapons.
“Benedictio dei omnipotentis—”
“Deploy!” Orlando screamed. “Rapid fire!” And again, as he whirled around and plunged into the midst of his bemused troops: “Fire, buffoni! We’ve been tricked!”
Still Hitler hadn’t raised the staff. It was as if he were savoring to the full this moment of combined military and spiritual authority and wanted to draw it out. Before him, an awe-stricken congregation of the faithful; simple Italian peasants in army uniforms who were no more capable of firing upon the wearer of the triple tiara than they would be of treading the consecrated Host under foot. Behind him, a company of men trained as no men had ever been trained before to obey without question their infallible Fuehrer’s orders and to die for him, in a mindless state of Nazi grace, any time he gave the word.
His lips were curling into a beatific smile as his right hand completed the blessing and started to come down—only to explode in splinters of bone as it met the long stream of lead directed by Kurt from the troop-carrier’s machine gun.
When the battle was over, Kurt made his way through the dead and dying Italians to the place, a few yards from Caligula’s obelisk, where Hitler and Donati lay. He had no eyes for the bloody corpse of the Fuehrer or for the shambles of black-clad bodies littering the piazza, only for the short stout figure lying on its side, one arm flung out as if reaching for the triple tiara that had rolled to within inches of the limp fingers.
Kurt knelt down and fumbled under the twisted cappa magna for the wrist of the priest’s other hand. It was wet and sticky and he could feel no pulse. As he let the hand go, Donati’s hooded eyes fluttered and then opened.
Kurt bent closer. “It’s me, Fat
her—Kurt Armbrecht.”
The tired brown eyes were trying to focus. After a little while they started to droop again, but now the lips were moving.
“My son . .
“Stay quiet, Father. There’s a doctor coming.”
“. . . and you must tell them how it . . .” A weak cough brought the blood bubbling from a corner of the wide mouth.
“I shall tell them, Father.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I
IT WAS now a race against time. The news of Hitler’s death would probably have been flashed already to Himmler in Berlin by the SS operators on duty at the Vatican switchboard. It was anyone’s guess how the Reichsfuehrer SS would react to the news, but if the intelligence briefing picked up at Cassino had been accurate, and the Luftwaffe was in fact giving support to the army in its operations against the Waffen SS, then Himmler and the rest of the Party Fuehrung must now be in a state bordering on panic. One thing was certain: Himmler had only to take his mind off other problems long enough to issue one order to the Totenkopfverbaende camp commanders and every political prisoner, including Walter Armbrecht, would be butchered within the hour.
Kurt had grappled with this fear all the way up from Naples, without devising a stratagem that offered even the slightest hope of success. Canaris was dead. The rebel Wehrmacht generals, totally involved in crushing the Waffen SS, would scarcely turn from that task to the freeing of concentration camp prisoners, even assuming that they favored such action. There was now only one person with any access to authority inside the Reich he could appeal to and trust, and that was Peter Waldheim; but what could Peter do for an imprisoned professor whose son was certainly by now right at the top of the Gestapo’s “Wanted” list?
Hitler Has Won Page 31