The Seventh Secret

by Irving Wallace

  It was Tovah who spoke. "Emily, you've been generous in giving Rex information and trying to assist Kirvov, but you're the centerpiece. You've hardly told us a thing about yourself."

  Emily was at once evasive. "You know why I'm here. To put the finishing touches on a biography my father and I had almost completed."

  "What finishing touches?" Tovah persisted.

  Foster offered Emily one of his incredible smiles, the one she found so melting. "I certainly would like to know more about what you're up to."

  For Emily, that did it. She wanted to tell Rex any-thing on earth he wanted to know about her.

  The smile still illuminated him. "What do you think?"

  Emily looked directly at the Israeli journalist. "But can I trust you? This is confidential stuff. Tovah, you promised that everything we discussed this evening would be off the record."

  "You had my word," said Tovah. "You have it again. I won't violate a confidence."

  "All right," said Emily. She was pressured by the secrecy she had imposed upon herself. She was eager to gain Rex Foster's confidence. She wanted Tovah's friendship.

  "I'll tell you what brought me to Berlin."

  She was ready to talk, and she talked. She spoke of the five years of work on Herr Hitler with her father. Toward the end of this recital, Foster interrupted sym pathetically, "It must be difficult, writing so complex a biography."

  "Actually, fascinating," Emily replied. "No, not difficult at all—except in one way." She contemplated something that had been on her mind a long time, and now she felt like giving voice to it. "Yes, I suppose in one way it has been difficult," she said, mainly addressing herself to Foster. "When one gets so involved in the minutiae of the life of another person, there's the danger of thinking of him as a human being like yourself. You know this man was an inhumane and terrible beast. You know what he really did to others in his lifetime. You try to reconcile the truth of his activities with the normal facts of a life you've uncovered. And you can't, because you're unable to reconcile the enormous contradictions in one being.

  "You know for a fact that Hitler's Vernichtungslager existed. The extermination camps. Auschwitz, Buchenwald, Dachau, Mauthausen, Treblinka, thirty Nazi death camps in all. You know about Auschwitz, the most efficient, with its four great death chambers, two thousand helpless, naked victims suffocating and writhing in their death throes in each chamber every day, then being dragged away to have their rings taken off and dental gold fillings pulled out for deposit in the Reichsbank, and then the crematoria burning the bodies, with their ashes sold for fertilizer. The six million Jews and others gassed to death and fed to flames, the twenty million—real people—he caused to be killed during World War II, his utter cold disregard for the sufferings of his own followers, like the thousands he allowed to be drowned when he flooded the Berlin subways, and the million troops he allowed to be maimed or shot dead in the absolutely hopeless sixteen-day defense of Berlin. All of that was Adolf Hitler's doing, and no one else's."

  Absently, she sliced off a piece of her steak, but then left the portion untouched to meet Foster's intent eyes once more.

  "Yet, writing such a detailed, close-up biography of a man, you get caught up in his normally human behavior and frailties. You get confounded by this lover of Alsatian dogs and other people's small children, this vegetarian and nonsmoker, this man who would not wear pajamas but only nightshirts, this man who adored his mother, and who ran and reran and enjoyed films like It Happened One Night. You get confused because this human beast also had human vulnerability, his trembling left arm and hand, his loss of sight in the right eye, his swallowing all those medicines for Parkinson's disease."

  Emily caught her breath, then went on.

  "You have difficulty resolving another contradiction—his attention to the feminine details surrounding Eva Braun. He enjoyed sex with her and made love to her whenever he wasn't too exhausted or ill. His sweet Eva, whom he would not permit to ski lest she break a leg nor to sunbathe lest she get skin cancer. His sweet Eva who liked to listen to 'Tea for Two,' and wear the platinum watch set with diamonds he gave her, and wear pure silk garter belts and Worth's Air Bleu perfume he had confiscated from conquered Paris."

  Emily shook her head, and went on again.

  "All those microscopic human facts on the one hand. Yet on the other, all those six million men, women, children he condemned to be stripped naked and gassed—each of them a mother, a father, a daughter, a son, a grandchild, wanting to grow older and enjoy life, yet each of them helpless and each of them murdered, until finally, finally, the bloodletting was stopped by millions of better, more decent people than Hitler, people who sacrificed years, even their own lives, to blot him off the face of the earth."

  Emily stared at Foster.

  "I'm sorry, Rex—Tovah---for carrying on like this. But you asked and I had to answer. That's been the difficulty in writing this book. Getting trapped in all the human minutiae that make one of the greatest demons in history resemble a half-human being. Yet, he wasn't human, in no way was he human. He was a heartless savage inside, wallowing in his own ego, caring not a bit for anyone else on earth outside his close ones. And now—now I must wonder if he fooled the entire world, if he pretended suicide but actually slipped away to avoid the punishment he so justly deserved, and has survived. It—it's worth finding out about, not only for a mere book but for the chance to bring him to justice, if indeed he's still alive. I think what I truly feel was best stated by your American prosecutor, Supreme Court Justice Robert Jackson, at the Nuremberg Trials. As he put it, 'The wrongs which we seek to condemn and punish have been so calculated, so malignant, and so devastating, that civilization cannot tolerate their being ignored, because it cannot survive their being repeated.'"

  Now Foster was staring at her. "Emily, are you telling us you think Hitler did not die in 1945? Do you think, in the end, he got away scot-free?"

  Emily looked up. "Yes, it's possible. I don't know for sure. Let me explain." She resumed by relating the unexpected interruption of the Herr Hitler biography. That was Dr. Thiel's letter, although she did not mention Dr. Thiel by name. She went on from there. Her father's death. The suspicions about his death. Her decision to pursue the possibility that Hitler and Eva Braun had not died in the Führerbunker as previous history had it. Her own meeting with Dr. Thiel, but again no mention of his name. His encouragement that she dig for two clues. One, Hitler's real dental plates. The other, Hitler's cameo bearing a likeness of Frederick the Great. And finally about her application to Professor Otto Blaubach for permission to dig around and inside the Führerbunker.

  "There you have it," Emily concluded, her voice reduced to a whisper. "That's why I am here."

  She could see that Rex Foster was truly entranced. "What a fantastic story," he said.

  Tovah was equally spellbound by Emily's account, but troubled by one point. "Hitler and Braun were seen dead on the sofa, and both were carried out and cremated before many witnesses. How can you explain that?"

  "A double died for each of them," answered Emily simply. "Two look-alikes who killed themselves or were liquidated and cremated, while the real Hitler and Eva survived and got away."

  "A double for Adolf Hitler," repeated Tovah, savoring it. "Wouldn't that be something to prove."

  "Well, I intend to try to prove it might have happened by digging at the Führerbunker, if I get permission."

  Tovah was half out of her seat. "And I want to dig, .too—dig elsewhere—try to find out more about Hitler's doubles." As if afraid that Emily would object, Tovah quickly went on. "I'm a journalist, an investigative reporter. I'm used to burrowing for the truth."

  Emily tightened her lips. "This is not a media story. Not yet. Remember what happened to my father."

  "I wouldn't endanger you in any way," Tovah promised. "I'd just like to help you get the truth, but I want to help my own country, too. You know that half of Israel has been hunting for all those missing Nazis—not Marti
n Bormann but the rest. But to find Adolf Hitler, the biggest monster, the one we Israelis would like brought to the gallows . . ."

  "If he survived," said Foster thoughtfully. "Emily—I'd like to help you, too."

  "Thank you, Rex," said Emily. "I'll need all the help I can get." She paused. "But I remind you. My father also came here for the truth. Now he's dead. So"—she stared at Foster and Tovah—"let's be very careful. Very."

  Chapter Five

  The following morning, early, just as the alarm on her travel clock went off, the telephone began ringing. Half awake, she snatched the receiver of the hook, and immediately she was fully awake.

  It was Professor Otto Blaubach on the other end. "Emily," he was saying, "about your permission to dig at the Führerbunker—"

  Her heart began to thump as she waited for the word.

  "—there appears to be one more step necessary. The council members wish to know to what extent you intend to excavate. I must report back to them fully. Then we should have their decision."

  Emily was bewildered. "How do I know how much I'll have to excavate until I can examine the site firsthand?"

  "Exactly," said Blaubach. "That is what I have arranged for you to do. If you will join me after lunch, we will enter the Security Zone together. You can examine the site, show me just where you plan to excavate, and I will pass on your request to the council."

  Sitting up in bed, she felt a flash of panic. She voiced her concern. "Of course, I'll be there at any time, but one thing worries me. I've never visited the site before. I recall photographs the Russians took of it when they first arrived in 1945. But today, I don't know what the dimensions of the bunker were underground nor exactly where the shallow trench and bomb crater were in the garden."

  "Then bring along a map or diagram to guide you," said Blaubach patiently. "Surely you have something to go by. Or I have a better idea. Do you know anyone in Berlin who might be more familiar than I am with the site and can show you where you should dig?"

  Immediately Rex Foster, with his knowledge of all Nazi architecture, came to mind.

  "Yes, I do," she said confidently.

  But Blaubach was already giving her instructions on where to join him in East Berlin, and she was jotting the directions on the pad beside her telephone.

  "Three o'clock this afternoon, I will be there," Blaubach promised. "Meet me at three o'clock and we will proceed to the site together."

  She tried to alleviate her excitement by moving forward in an orderly manner.

  First she needed a shower to clear her head.

  After that, dressing in her work clothes, a blue denim jumpsuit over her red cotton shirt with a red and white scarf tied at her neck, she considered her research. At once, she rummaged through the piles of folders for the diagram she had of the Führerbunker area. She found it, and studying it she realized that it might not be enough to locate the precise spots where she needed to dig. With Nitz, from the observation platform yesterday, she had seen the target site as it looked today. A mound of dirt surrounded by grass. She realized that the anonymity of the ground would offer her little guidance. Blaubach was right. She needed someone along who knew and could show her where everything had been in 1945 and where she must dig in 1985.

  Ordering breakfast from room service, she tried to calm down before waking Rex. He would certainly know exact details of the Führerbunker. But the thought of having him near her was exciting in itself. She rang his room. The phone rang and rang. No answer. He had gone out early. He might be out all day.

  Dammit. Was there anyone else? Whom to call?

  Then someone else came to mind, and without losing another second she was on the phone to Ernst Vogel. The onetime SS guard had been there, had been so graphic in describing the events and setting of Hitler's supposed death that he might be more useful than Rex or Blaubach.

  Luckily, Vogel was in and answering the phone.

  She began to introduce herself to him again, but it was hardly necessary. He remembered their recent Interview. She explained to him what she was scheduled to do this afternoon, although not giving him the real reason for her exploration. It was something, she told him, that she had to do for her book but that she could not do accurately alone. Her East Berlin contact had advised her to bring someone along, someone who bad known the bunker site in the past.

  "You mean me?" Vogel said. "You want me to come with you?"

  "I was hoping. You seemed to remember where everything happened around there in 1945, and I thought you'd—"

  "Remember it all still? You can depend on that. I will never forget. It will be a memorable moment to visit the old place after so long. Yes, I will be happy to accompany you."

  "I have a diagram of the Führerbunkerand the garden area. I can bring it."

  "No need," said Vogel. "I will bring my own. I know my own is accurate."

  "I'll have a car and driver. We'll pick you up no later than two-thirty."

  "I shall be ready."

  Finally, the car and driver. Again, no difficulty. Irwin Plamp and his Mercedes would be at the Kempinski at two o'clock.

  Irwin Plamp had drawn his Mercedes to a halt near a high fence on Niederkirchnerstrasse in East Berlin, and Emily saw Professor Otto Blaubach standing before a jeep in front of a sentry box at the electronic entry gate waiting for them. Emily waved to Blaubach, who waved back.

  Emily turned to Ernst Vogel. "Here's where we get out." She unlatched the rear door to let them out, but Plamp had hastened around the car to help her down.

  "Thanks, Herr Plamp," said Emily. "You wait right here until we're through. We shouldn't be more than an hour . . . Herr Vogel, come along with me."

  They walked toward the gate until they reached Professor Blaubach, who greeted Emily with warmth, then regarded Ernst Vogel questioningly. Emily quickly introduced them. As Blaubach led them to a jeep, where an East German uniformed soldier waited behind the wheel, Emily explained Vogel's credentials. "Herr Vogel was an SS honor guard both outside and inside the Führerbunker during the last ten days before the Russians came. He remembers the interior layout very well, and he witnessed Hitler's burial and cremation in the garden."

  Blaubach assisted Emily into the rear seat of the jeep, cast Vogel a cold look, and let him climb into the rear by himself. With surprising agility for a man of his age, Blaubach stepped up into the front of the jeep and sat beside the driver. "To the Führerbunker," he ordered in German.

  They wheeled slowly through the gate, past the sentry box, from which two German soldiers saluted Professor Blaubach.

  They drove inside the enclosed Security Zone, over a narrow dirt road running along a chain-link fence set in concrete posts and at intervals bearing ominous signs. CRENZGEBIET (Frontier Zone) was also spelled out in English, French, Russian. Below that, on the same sign, was PASSAGE IS FORBIDDEN printed in four languages.

  As they wended their way along the dirt road, passing spiked paths, tank obstacles, a manned watchtower, Emily could see that- were moving closer and closer to the large dirt mound rising above the field not far from the inner wall. Unaccountably, she shivered. Soon they were parallel to the mound, and the jeep turned sharply left, leaving the road and bumping slowly across thirty feet of grassy, rock-strewn, weed-covered meadow toward the looming mound. Emily was too spellbound by the sight to speak. The oblong hump of earth, mixed with rubble and pieces of rock, rose fifteen to twenty feet above the jeep.

  Abruptly, the jeep came to a halt. Blaubach beckoned for them to dismount, and they all stepped out and tramped in the sun to the base of the mound.

  "Here it is," announced Blaubach, "the grave of the Führer bunker." To which he added disdainfully, "Hitler's catacomb." He faced Vogel. "So, you recognize it?" he asked somewhat mockingly.

  Vogel stood uneasily, peering about the area as he adjusted his hearing aid.

  Emily watched Vogel with a worried expression. "Does it make any sense, Herr Vogel? I must know exactly where the Führerbunker is
under the heap of dirt, and I must know the location of the trench where Hitler and Eva were buried and cremated, and the bomb crater where they were reburied and where their remains were found by the Soviet investigators."

  Ernst Vogel had put on a pair of tinted glasses, and now he was tugging a folded sheet of paper out of his jacket pocket. He unfolded the sheet, which Emily could see was a meticulous diagram of the bunker and a map of the surrounding area. Vogel was studying it. He looked up, scrutinized the area once more, and stared fixedly straight ahead. Suddenly, his face brightened.

  He pointed away from the mound, toward the south.

  "I am sure that is where the New Reich Chancellery stretched for four-tenths of a kilometer—a fourth of a mile—along Voss Strasse," he said. He sought confirmation from Blaubach. "Am I not correct?"

  Blaubach gave a short nod. "Yes, that is where it was situated."

  "Then the rest is simple," said Vogel with growing confidence. "The Old Chancellery was right next door to us. Therefore—" He started around the dirt mound. "Come, follow me. I will show you exactly how the Führerbunker was situated underneath the mound. Please, follow."

  Beyond the mound, Vogel stopped, waited for the other two to reach him.

  For a moment, Vogel's good spirits vanished. He seemed transported in time. At last, he gestured. "You are now in the New Chancellery, in the ceremonial hall. You have an appointment to see Hitler, so you take a long tunnel to the Old Chancellery near us, walk into the Kannenberg Alley—the butler's pantry named after Hitler's fat butler Arthur Kannenberg—and you go down a circular staircase to the three steel-reinforced doors, the third one guarded by two SS soldiers. This leads into the top level of the Führerbunker—"

  Vogel brought himself back into the present and started away from a portion of street curb, pacing the distance to a point just before the dirt mound.

  "—right here," said Vogel, drawing a line in the grass with the toe of his shoe.

  Emily moved beside Vogel. "When was the Führerbunker ready for use?" she wanted to know.