by David Bishop
The hair was still slicked across the head but it seemed thinner now. The face below was exhausted, wrinkled and sallow, with bloodshot eyes and slack lips. The clipped moustache was speckled by grey, and flecks of saliva moistened the thin, cruel lips. Hitler was gaunt, bent over, a quivering mass of tics and vibrations. His left hand shook as if he was suffering from palsy and Hans detected a weakness round the muscles on that same side of the Führer's face. Though Hitler's uniform was crisp and clean, it hung from his bent, twisted body like a blanket. Hans realised this pathetic figure was still waiting for an answer from him.
"Yes, my Führer. We met on August 4th, 1941, on the outskirts of Uman. Our forces had captured the airfield a few days before. You flew in to review troops and tour the captured city. I was fortunate enough to be among those chosen for the honour of receiving a medal from you."
Hitler smiled, not without some difficulty. "I can't say that I remember you, but I gave out so many medals during the early months of Operation Barbarossa. Ahh, those were glorious days, were they not? I would have given anything to be among those advancing against the Bolshevik scum, fighting alongside the vanguard of our mighty Blitzkrieg!"
He lowered himself slowly on to the sofa, his joints creaking audibly in the small room. "So, my secretary told me you had something to say to me, a personal request of some sort?"
Hans swallowed hard, thinking about the note Ralf had shown him. His brother was right: the sooner Hitler was dead, the sooner the madness of this war would be over. But Hans could not shake off a lifetime of indoctrination and propaganda in a few minutes. He had believed in this man for so long... To execute him, here and now, it was unthinkable. Hans knew Ralf would have no such hesitations, but that was only one of the ways in which they differed.
"When Operation Barbarossa began, we took the Rumanians as our allies in the war against Russia."
"Yes, for all the good it did us! No sooner had the tide turned than those cowardly curs swapped sides like rats leaving a sinking ship," Hitler raged. He curled his right hand into a fist and smashed it on the coffee table, upsetting a cup and saucer. "We should have crushed them when we had the chance. Their alliance was nothing but an anchor round the neck of our fine warriors!"
"Among the Rumanians was a particular group of soldiers; a mountain troop under the command of a Hauptmann Constanta," Hans ventured, watching carefully for a reaction. But the Führer remained blank-faced, showing no recognition of the name. "He and his men came from a particular region within Rumania, from the area known as Transylvania."
Hitler frowned. "I have no recollection of this Constanta, nor his troops, but many thousands of foreigners fought alongside our own brave men."
"These mountain troops were not like ordinary soldiers. They fought only at night, abhorring the daylight. There were," Hans paused, choosing his next words carefully, "rumours about them. Some believed the Transylvanians were not truly human."
"I know exactly what you mean," the old man snarled.
"You do?" Hans was heartened. Perhaps the Führer was not the broken man he looked.
Hitler nodded vigorously, his eyes widening. "The Rumanians, the Italians - subhuman, the lot of them. Little better than the Asiatic scum Moscow sent against my brave warriors!"
Hans fought the urge to scream in frustration. Was the Führer merely being obtuse, or did he genuinely not recall striking a deal to use vampyr as weapons of terror on the Ostfront? I have to keep trying, Hans told himself, for the sake of the German people.
"No, that's not the kind of creature I meant. On the battlefield, I heard tales that these Transylvanians drank human blood."
But Hitler was not listening. Instead he launched into a long tirade about the purity of the Aryan race and how its strength had been corrupted, polluted by association with other peoples, by races without the willpower to see the war through to its rightful conclusion. After a few minutes of this polemic, the Führer was shouting and banging his fist on the table, spittle flying from his mouth as he ranted and raved. Hans was almost relieved when Traudl returned, hurrying into the room to see what was upsetting her master.
"You must leave," she whispered to Hans, "now!"
But he refused to go, waiting until Hitler paused for breath before briskly saluting the Führer. "Thank you for seeing me again. It's been the greatest honour of my life to fight for the ideals of our Fatherland."
Hans marched from the room, suddenly aware that his hands were shaking and damp patches of perspiration had formed beneath his armpits. Hans kept going until he saw Ralf lurking outside the machine room. The younger man pushed his brother inside, hurriedly closing the door behind them. After ensuring they would not be overheard, Hans quickly related what had happened during his audience with the Führer.
"You were right. I'm sorry I couldn't see it before, but you were right. The man's insane, frothing at the mouth like some rabid dog. I tried to talk to him about Constanta and the vampyr, but he wouldn't listen, wouldn't hear what I had to say. It was as if he'd purged the pact with the Transylvanians from his memory, just like when the generals had any mention of the vampyr removed from official files."
Ralf listened silently, his face set in a grimace, his arms folded. He waited until Hans had run out of words before speaking. "You did what you could, little brother, but it's too late for talking." Ralf drew his pistol and checked that it was fully loaded. "Now's the time for action."
Hans gripped Ralf by the arm, stopping him from leaving the machine room.
"What are you going to do?"
"Put an end to this war. One bullet in that bastard's brain and the generals will surrender to the Russians within hours. If our glorious Führer won't see sense, maybe his underlings will."
"But if you kill him, you'll be tried and executed for treason," Hans protested.
"Every hour Hitler stays alive, thousands of German civilians are being murdered, raped and robbed. Do you want that on your conscience, knowing you could have saved them from that fate? The sooner the Führer dies, the better for everyone."
"I know, but-"
"Hans, I don't care if history remembers me as a murderer or as a hero. I don't care if history remembers me at all. God knows I've done nothing to be proud of. But this is something I can do, something that can only be for the good of everyone: German and Russian, soldier and civilian, men, women and children." Ralf smiled briefly at his brother. "You know I'm right."
"What about the vampyr? As soon as this conflict is finished, Constanta will launch his own war, and pit his army of the undead and all his thralls against mankind. And he won't be satisfied until all of humanity is at his feet."
"That's no reason to leave Hitler alive any longer. We can only fight one battle at a time. Let's finish this madness first, then we can figure out what to do about the vampyr." Ralf glared at his brother. "Now, are you going to let me go, or do I have to shoot you too?"
Hans couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You wouldn't... Not your own brother."
"Wouldn't I?" Ralf asked. "Look into my face and decide what I'm capable of doing."
The younger Vollmer stared into his brother's eyes and saw nothing there but ruthless determination. Reluctantly, Hans released his grip on Ralf's arm and stepped aside. As Ralf moved towards the machine room door, Hans called for him to slow down.
"Why?" Ralf demanded, a finger lingering on the trigger of his pistol, ready to put an end to any further argument.
Hans produced his own pistol and grimaced. "Because I'm coming to help you."
The Vollmer brothers emerged from the machine room and strode purposefully across to the workroom that led to Hitler's private quarters. But the outer door was firmly locked and nobody answered when Hans knocked on it.
"Traudl? It's Hans, Hans Vollmer. I think I left something in the Führer's living room. Could you let me in, I need to get it back..."
After a few moments the two brothers heard a key turning in the lock and quickly holstered
their weapons. But when the door opened, they found Günsche and Goebbels standing on the other side of it, not Traudl Junge. The Reichsminister glared at the two Panzergrenadiers suspiciously while Günsche appeared exasperated.
"She's in with the Führer at the moment," the flustered sentry explained, gesturing over his shoulder at the closed living room door. "He's had a... The Führer's not feeling at all well. Something seems to have upset him."
"Something, or someone," Goebbels snapped.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Ralf replied smoothly. "I certainly hope he feels better soon. Come, Hans, we should go." He stepped back from the door, gently tugging on Hans's left arm.
"What precisely did you leave in the Führer's living room?" Goebbels demanded.
"M-my, err, my..." the younger soldier stammered.
Ralf pointed at the sleeve of his brother's tunic. "A button. It's been hanging by a thread for days, threatening to fall off. I kept telling my brother to borrow a needle and thread off one of the secretaries or get it darned, but he never listens to me."
Goebbels grabbed Hans's arm and peered at the sleeve Ralf had indicated. There was a button missing, but this still didn't appear to satisfy the Reichsminister. "I was just in the Führer's living room," he whispered angrily. "I didn't see any buttons on the floor."
"It must have rolled under one of the chairs," Ralf replied quickly. "Hans, we should get back to the guardroom. Our next shift is due to start soon and you don't want to be late. You've caused enough trouble for one day, don't you think?"
"Y-Yes, y-you're right," Hans stammered, backing away from Goebbels. "If you'll excuse us, Reichsminister, we don't wish to waste any more of your time." The two brothers snapped to attention and saluted, turned on their heels and marched away towards the guardroom.
"Wait where you are!" Goebbels ordered after them. "I haven't dismissed you yet."
Ralf and Hans stopped, both of them facing away from their inquisitor. Goebbels whispered something to Günsche, engaging him in a hushed conversation the brothers could not hear.
"What should we do?" Hans quietly said out the side of his mouth. "He suspects us."
"Goebbels suspects everybody," Ralf replied in a mutter. "It's his job. He can't know what we were planning to do. Act natural and we'll be fine."
"But what about-"
"You two. Come here!" Günsche called out before Hans could finish his sentence.
The brothers returned to the doorway where Günsche stood with his arms folded, Goebbels lurking behind him. "The Reichsminister has decided that you should be reassigned. In these unstable times, it's best for the Führer to be guarded by more familiar faces. From now on you two will be located in the Vorbunker and shall remain there at all times. Is that clear?"
Ralf and Hans acknowledged their new assignment.
"Very well. You have your orders - carry them out. Dismissed!"
The Vollmers marched out through the Führerbunker's waiting area into the guardroom that linked the front and rear bunkers. Gunther and Karl were sat playing cards, whiling away the hours until their next stint on duty. Gunther saw the look on Ralf's face and hurried after the brothers as they continued their brief journey to the front bunker.
"What's wrong? What happened?" he demanded.
Ralf waited until he and Hans were in the Vorbunker before replying. He ushered Gunther to an empty side room and Hans followed them in, closing the door. Ralf quickly detailed Hans's attempt to reason with the Führer and their close encounter with Goebbels.
"We've failed, Gunther. You've got to assassinate Adolf Hitler before it's too late. Every hour, every minute he lives pushes Germany closer to the abyss. It's up to you and Karl now. We had our chance and failed." Ralf rested his hands on Gunther's shoulders. "Can you do it, old friend?"
"I can try."
Ralf nodded, sadness in his eyes. "Even if you and Karl don't succeed, I do not doubt that one of the other sentries will immediately gun you down for trying. You've seen what it's like inside the Führerbunker: a collection of bloody fanatics, all gathered around their lord and master, waiting for his next insane proclamation, every one of them cowering before his impotent wrath."
Gunther shrugged. "I always thought this war was a one-way ticket for me. I'm still surprised to have lasted this long." He put out a hand for Ralf to shake. "Goodbye, old friend. Hopefully I can finish what you and Hans started."
Ralf pushed the hand aside and embraced his friend, clapping Gunther on the back. "You were the best damned Panzer driver in the Wehrmacht, you know. Nobody else even got close."
"Shame I got stuck with such a useless commander, eh?" Gunther quipped. He released Ralf and gave Hans a hug. "You look after your big brother, okay? If he hasn't got me to keep him out of the scheisse, God only knows what kind of trouble he'll get into."
"I'll do my best," Hans promised, blinking back tears. He'd grown close to Gunther over the past eight months, enjoying the veteran's capacity to find humour in the bleakest of situations.
"Well, I'd better get back and share the good news to Karl," Gunther said cheerfully.
He opened the door and strode out, not looking back at the two brothers. Hans and Ralf listened to their friend's footsteps fading away, quickly getting swallowed up by the hubbub of chatter inside the Vorbunker and the distant pounding of explosions overhead. Both men knew they would never see Gunther alive again. Sadly for them, they were proved correct.
Gunther and Karl had to wait another nineteen hours before they got a chance to assassinate the Führer. The two men found themselves cleaning up after Blondi, Hitler's German shepherd bitch. For days the dog had been kept tied up in the toilets, barking at anyone who came in and pawing at its collar. Gunther took pity on the dog and sought permission to take it for a walk outside but was refused.
By now the Russians were penetrating the centre of Berlin. Officers came and went from the bunker, several of them bringing reports about Soviet commando units scouring the streets for an entrance to the bunker. The sound of artillery barrages was no longer distant or rare; it had become a constant background noise, like a permanent thunderstorm overhead.
At first Karl had been reluctant to join Gunther's conspiracy to murder the Führer. Like Hans before him, he argued in favour of trying to persuade Hitler about the impending threat of the vampyr. But Gunther rejected Karl's urgings.
"The other two tried that and failed. There's only one course of action left open to us. You have to help me, or at least promise not to tell the others what I'm planning. Will you do that much?" Gunther pleaded.
Karl nodded. "Of course. I'm with you, but..."
"I know," the former Panzer driver agreed. "You wish this poisoned chalice had passed to someone else. But fate or chance or some other force has put us in this position, here and now."
Karl rubbed a hand across his tired face. "Everyone believes the Führer will commit suicide rather than be captured by the Russians. They say it's only a matter of time."
"We can't wait that long. It's up to us. We have to stop this madness, or at least try."
On April 28th, the two sentries were summoned to the outer conference room, along with eight of their colleagues. It was one of the better-furnished places in the Führerbunker, with a long ochre rug on the floor, black leather armchairs lining the walls, and a selection of black-framed, monochrome photographs on the walls. But the ten guards remained at attention, knowing better than to sit in any of the plush, well-upholstered seats; such luxury was reserved for the generals and senior officers. Mere sentries were restricted to hard wooden benches and chairs, the better to keep them awake and alert through the long days and nights of guard duty.
After more than five minutes, a side door opened and three figures emerged into the outer conference room, one after another. Günsche was the first, walking back and forth along the line, ensuring each of the men was immaculately turned out. Goebbels came next, his gaunt features betraying no emotion or any hint of what was happ
ening. Finally the Führer shuffled out, almost stumbling on the edge of the rug. He steadied himself by grabbing at Goebbels's arm before straightening a little to regard the ten sentries facing him.
"I wanted to thank you, before the end," Hitler said, his words little more than a whisper. He cleared his throat and repeated himself, louder this time and with greater authority.
"We are facing our twilight, the Götterdämmerung as Wagner called it. No doubt you've heard rumours and speculation about what will happen in the coming days. I say to all of you, don't listen to idle gossip. I gave the order earlier today for our armies waiting outside Berlin to launch the counter-attack. The godless Bolsheviks believe us beaten, but the Wehrmacht is not vanquished yet! Our forces shall encircle those that would destroy the capital of the Fatherland and crush them mercilessly. When they have reclaimed this city for its citizens, we shall emerge stronger than ever before! Our enemies shall recognise their folly and flee before our might!"
The words sounded powerful, a hint of the Führer's once great oratorical skills still lingering within his withered body. But he crumpled into a coughing, feeble old man once more, his last reserves of energy spent. Goebbels and Günsche stepped between Hitler and the sentries, shielding him from the guards' gaze until he could recover.
Eventually the Führer was strong enough to approach the line of guards. Starting at the opposite end from Karl and Gunther, Hitler thanked each man individually, touching a hand lightly on their shoulder or gesturing at them appreciatively. Goebbels and Günsche followed Hitler along the line, reinforcing and affirming what their leader had said. At the other end of the line, Gunther undid the clasp holding his pistol in its holster. Karl noticed the tiny movement.