The Seventh Secret

by Irving Wallace

  "The upper level or Vorbunker was excavated and built under the Old Reich Chancellery and its garden in 1936. At that time it was only thirty feet deep. After two years, Hitler decided that it was not large enough. In 1938, he ordered it made larger, which was done. Then in 1943, when things were starting to go badly in the war, Hitler had the bunker reinforced by the Hochtief Construction Company, and late in 1944 he ordered a much deeper second bunker built beneath the Vorbunker, the regular upper one. So, you see, there are two floors or levels to the Führerbunker. The lower level, used by Hitler and Eva Braun, was fifty-five feet below the ground."

  "Where was the bunker entrance?" Emily wanted to know.

  Vogel stepped over the line he had drawn with his shoe. "Right here down a short flight of concrete steps into the upper level of the bunker. There were thirteen small rooms on this top level, no decorations, unfinished plaster. Six rooms on one side, six on the other, and the general dining room in the rear. The rooms on this upper level were used for servants quarters, storage for lumber, storage space for food, a wine cellar, an office for the official Nazi news agency, Deutsches Nachrichtenbüro, a wireless that brought in BBC re-ports, a Diätküche or vegetarian kitchen, and the dining room or mess hall with an oak table for everyone to eat from. Once Hitler himself had moved into the Führerbunker, he lived below on the lower level, and rarely ever came up to the top floor."

  "How did one get down to see Hitler?" asked Emily.

  Vogel scrambled up the end of the dirt mound. "Here there was a concrete staircase with twelve steps that curved quite steeply down to the lower level. Then you were way down below ground where the main activity was."

  Emily had climbed up the dirt mound to join Vogel, while Professor Blaubach remained on the field.

  "Herr Vogel," Emily said, "can you explain to me the layout at the bottom level?"

  Vogel opened the diagram in his hand once more. He bobbed his head. "I'll try. Follow me." He started going slowly along the right side of the dirt mound, describing what had been far below. "There were around eighteen cramped rooms on the bottom level, most of them painted gray, with a corridor forty-five feet in length and maybe nine feet wide dividing the rooms. The corridor had wooden paneling and some small Italian paintings hung on the walls. Hitler chose them himself. So as we walk here on the right side of the mound try to make-believe what you would see far below."

  Progressing slowly, with Emily at his heels, Ernst Vogel said, "Here the boiler room. Next, Martin Bormann's office, and behind it the telephone exchange or switchboard. Next, Josef Goebbels's office, and be-hind this a cubicle for the duty officer. Next Goebbels's bedroom, and behind it the tiny surgery room and bedroom for Hitler's personal physicians. Now, the most important part, the left side of the corridor. I will show you."

  Vogel retraced his steps on the mound and paced over to the left. Emily caught up with him, and together they began moving ahead once more.

  "Beneath us are the general bathrooms and three toilets, and the dog-kennel room," said Vogel. "Next, Eva Braun's dressing room, bedroom, and a bathroom she shared with Hitler." A few more strides, and Vogel halted. "Also, far below, was Hitler's own private four-room suite. About here, his living room where he and Eva died, and then an anteroom or waiting room between it and the corridor. Beside Hitler's living room was his private bedroom. Next, a small map room, and across the corridor his conference room where he met with his generals to direct the last defense of Berlin."

  "What was in Hitler's living room?" Emily asked.

  Vogel reflected on this, then rattled off a description of the furnishings. "In the narrow room, a sofa for two, a desk holding a framed photograph of his mother, and above the desk in a circular gilt frame the painting of Frederick the Great done by Anton Graff. Also, there were three valuable chairs from the Chancellery. The walls were paneled, and the floor carpeted, but still a cold room I was told."

  "All right, Herr Vogel," said Emily, "you've stated that after Hitler and Eva committed suicide, the corpses were carried into the corridor and up some stairs to the garden. Do you want to point the stairwell out?"

  "I can try to do so," Vogel told her. He walked to the front of the mound and veered off to one side. "Here, across from the conference room, were four flights of concrete steps that led from the bottom of the bunker to the very top inside the bunker, to a special emergency exit. You had to pass through a kind of outdoor rectangular blockhouse or vestibule leading into the Chancellery garden. After they carried Hitler out the exit—come, I'll show you . . ."

  Vogel cautiously descended the dirt mound to a stretch of grassy field on one side. He waited for Emily to join him. Vogel consulted his diagram once more and carefully backed up a few steps.

  "The emergency exit was close to this spot," he said. "Almost exactly between the exit and a round watchtower—about a meter from where you stand—there was a small moat, actually a shallow trench. That is where the two corpses were put down and buried."

  "And when the bodies were reburied?"

  "Turn a bit to your right—now count off three meters." Emily pointed ahead. "There?" she asked.

  "Yes, there was the crater with the bodies."

  "Thank you, Herr Vogel." Emily realized that Professor Otto Blaubach was standing beside her. She met his eyes. "You heard all that? You'd know if it was reasonably accurate."

  "To my knowledge, your friend is totally accurate," said Blaubach. "Apparently, his memory is unimpaired."

  "It was an unforgettable experience for me," Vogel replied.

  "And a happy time for the rest of the world," Blaubach added wryly. He drew Emily aside. "So now you know where you wish to excavate?"

  Emily gave an assured nod. "Three exact spots. The trench and crater sites in this garden area. As for the Führer bunker, I don't need to uncover the whole thing, of course. Just one portion of the mound. I want to get down into Hitler's suite."

  Blaubach was pleased. "Limiting your excavation of the mound enhances your chances for permission from the council. How much time will you need?"

  "I have an experienced crew on call. I think three days should do it."

  "Considering the time you'll want for searching, I imagine five or six days would be more realistic. I'll ask the council to allow you and your crew a week. How's that?"

  "I'd be very grateful, Professor Blaubach."

  "If you get permission, accept one piece of advice."

  "Yes."

  "Keep the purpose of your activity secret, absolutely secret. I think that is best for your success and well-being."

  Werner Demke, the young pimpled junior reporter on BZ, the widely circulated Axel Springer tabloid, came routinely to his brief stopover at the Potsdamer Platz observation platform late every afternoon on his way back to the office. One of his assignments was to get a list of foreign celebrities who visited Berlin weekly. Usually the police department and a half dozen of the better hotels were his most productive sources. The observation platform at the Wall was a less productive source, but occasionally some politician or cinema star was brought here to clamber up to the platform and gaze over the Wall into the East German no-man's-land. As a cub reporter, Demke felt that he must ignore no possibility for an item or story.

  Parking his Volkswagen, he strode over to the novelty shop and ducked into the doorway. He called to the proprietress, "Any high and mighty ones in the vicinity this afternoon?"

  "None, Herr Demke. Sony. Just a small British tour group from Manchester. They're probably up on the platform right now."

  "Not exactly a hot story. Many thanks."

  Demke turned away from the shop and started for his car dejectedly. It had been a barren day. Ascher, the city editor, wouldn't be too happy.

  He heard a loud joyous squeal and glanced over his shoulder at the observation platform. There were two plump middle-aged women on top, at the platform railing, holding binoculars to their eyes angled down into the East German Security Zone. One of the women was
squealing excitedly again. Then Demke saw the third member of the group, an older man, rush to the railing beside them, focus his camera on something in the Frontier Zone and begin shooting.

  Werner Demke wondered what had drawn the attention of the tourists, and on a hunch he detoured from his car and strolled toward the platform steps.

  By the time Demke reached the foot of the wooden staircase, the three tourists on the platform had finished and were coming jubilantly down the steps. They were chattering in English, and Demke was sure that these were the British tourists the proprietress had spoken about.

  Demke stepped aside as the three completed their descent and now clustered within earshot.

  "You're sure it was Emily Ashcroft?" said the older man. "I shot a whole roll of her and the two men, right up to their getting into the jeep."

  The heavier woman spoke up. "James, I could recognize her the way I can recognize you. It was the woman on the telly, on the BBC, I'm positive."

  "Right," said the older man, patting his camera. "At least we got one celebrity on this trip. Well, sort of a celebrity."

  Listening, Werner Demke tried to recall the name of Emily Ashcroft. It rang a bell dimly. All at once, loudly. Of course, Ashcroft, the father, had been killed in a hit-and-run off the Ku'damm some days ago, and his daughter was here to finish the Hitler biography.

  Instantly, Demke saw the possibility of a story.

  He eased up to the British trio and politely interrupted them. "Forgive me. I couldn't help but overhear you—that something was going on down in the East German Security Zone. Just out of curiosity, I'd like to know what I missed."

  The heavier woman said proudly, "You missed one of our British television celebrities. There she was, down there in the middle of all those watchtowers and communist guards with two men."

  "That's strange," said Decoke. "No one has been allowed in there, except soldiers, in years."

  The older man had elbowed closer, patting his camera once more. "I'll tell you what she and her friend were doing. I saw them around that heap of dirt that everyone says is where Hitler and his lady hid before they killed themselves. The Ashcroft woman and one of the men were marching on the heap and talking steadily. Then they came down off it and started looking around on one side—"

  "The Chancellery garden," Decoke murmured in an undertone.

  "Whatever it was. They stood there talking, when another man joined them. After a while, they all walked to a jeep and were driven off." The older man brandished his camera. "I got it all. A nice souvenir."

  Werner Demke's mind was in high gear. "You got pictures of the three of them?"

  "A whole roll."

  Decoke swallowed. "How'd you like to sell that roll?" The older man was startled. "Sell it?"

  "Yes, I'd like to buy the roll."

  The older man shook his head vigorously. "I'm taking pictures of our trip for my photo album, and I don't want to lose them."

  "You wouldn't lose them," said Decoke with haste. "You'd still get a set of the prints. I guarantee it. It's just that I want a set, too." He wondered how much he had in his wallet. Maybe a hundred marks. It was a gamble. Ascher might reject the whole thing. On the other hand, Ascher might be impressed. "I'll give you a hundred marks for the negatives and first set of prints."

  The older man was shaking his head again. "No."

  The heavier woman had pushed herself in front of the older man, obviously her husband. "Wait a minute, James, hold on." She confronted Demke. "What's this about? Who are you?"

  "I'm a reporter on a German newspaper," Decoke said. "You may have stumbled on an incident that could be a minor bit of news. It has been a long, long time, so far as I can remember, since anyone was let into that East German Security Zone to look over the remains of Hitler's bunker. The fact that Miss Ashcroft was there gives the photographs a certain amount of curiosity value. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe my editor won't want to use any of the pictures. Nevertheless, it is worth all the money I have on me to at least let him see them. You'd gain a hundred marks and get a set of the pictures, besides."

  The heavier woman was considering the proposition. "How much is a hundred marks?" her husband was asking her.

  She whispered to him. The older man's eyes blinked. "For just this roll?" he said.

  The heavier woman grabbed the camera away. "All right, young man, you can have the roll. Let's see your money and a receipt first."

  Late the next morning, Evelyn Hoffmann was in their familiar rendezvous place, the private table in the rear of Mampes Cute Stube, and she had already ordered Bratwurst and beer for Chief Wolfgang Schmidt and a gemischter Salat and tea for herself.

  This meeting was unusual. For years they had met once a week, to enjoy each other's company, speak of the old times, exchange gossip. The routine was unvarying. Yet, early this morning, the message had come from Schmidt summoning her to a meeting an hour before noon, even though they had seen one another just a few days ago.

  Strange.

  Coming to the Ku'damm on the bus, she had speculated on the reason for the sudden meeting. Nothing of an urgent nature occurred to her. Yet, because it was unexpected, the message gave her some sense of urgency. As a result, she had found herself downtown almost an hour early. The choices were to go to the restaurant and wait, or to window-shop, or to drop in on Liesl and Klara to pass the extra time.

  She had turned off at Knesebeckstrasse and walked over to. the Fiebig apartment to look in on her close ones. Entering, she had realized a rare omission. In her confusion, Evelyn had forgotten to bring Klara a small gift of some kind. But then Klara was not there. Liesl was alone, and Evelyn was relieved. It was difficult to speak of the early days in front of Klara, and it was impossible to do so when Franz was present. He was a young radical who detested Germany's modern past, the Germany that had been Evelyn's glory. She and Lies' had learned quickly never to discuss those early days in front of Franz or even Klara.

  "This is a surprise," Lies! had said. "What brings you here today?"

  Waving off the Fiebigs' part-time housekeeper, Evelyn had rolled Liesl's wheelchair into the living room while telling her about Schmidt's message. Evelyn had been eager to talk to Liesl, and had barely begun to do so when she heard the scraping of a key in the front door.

  "Klara," Lies! had explained. "She had an appointment with the obstetrician this morning."

  Klara had come through the front door full of high spirits, but had also shown surprise at Evelyn's presence. "Aunt Evelyn! How good to see you." She had kissed Evelyn warmly. "What's the occasion?"

  "I have to meet someone shortly," Evelyn had said vaguely. "More important, what did the doctor say?"

  "Everything's perfect," she had said, her eyes glowing. Then she grimaced. "But I am to expect morning sickness." She had started out of the room. "I have to change, and go to the kitchen. Franz is coming home for lunch. He wants to hear the latest news. I hope you'll wait to see him, Aunt Evelyn."

  Evelyn had already come to her feet. "Thank you, dear. I wish I could, but I can't. I must keep my appointment." Above all, she had wanted to get away before Franz Fiebig appeared.

  She had succeeded in escaping.

  Now she was at the restaurant table awaiting Police Chief Wolfgang Schmidt's arrival.

  The salad and rolls and tea, which she had ordered for herself, and the beer for Schmidt, came first. She had finished sweetening her tea, and was about to reach for a roll, when she became aware that the burly Schmidt had arrived, was looming over her, taking her hand and kissing the back of it.

  "How are you, Effie?" he asked, settling his big bulk at the table across from her.

  "Fine, fine, Wolfgang," she replied. "Just wondering about your message."

  "Didn't want to give you a fright," he said. But there is something I felt I had to discuss." He tasted his beer, then gulped it down. "I'm a little pressed for time this morning, so I can't stay too long. Still, this is important."

  "What is?" Evelyn want
ed to know. "What's so important?"

  "This," Schimdt said. He yanked a folded tabloid from his jacket pocket and began to unfold it. "This morning's BZ. I didn't think you'd see it."

  "You know I rarely look at it."

  "Today you should," he said, turning back the first and second page, and handing the paper to her so that she could see the third page. "That photograph covering the top half. Have a look."

  Evelyn had the tabloid in hand, and she stared at the large photograph with curiosity.

  It was a clear picture taken from the Potsdamer Platz observation platform in West Berlin and it was focused on the dirt mound that covered the old Führerbunker. Three persons could plainly be seen in this blowup, a young woman and two elderly men having a conversation beside the mound of the bunker.

  The headline read: WILL THEY BE DIGGING FOR HITLER AGAIN? She heard Schmidt speak. "Read the caption, Effie."

  Her eyes went down to the caption. Swiftly, she read it. The three persons in the photograph were identified as Emily Ashcroft, the prominent British historian who was in Berlin to complete the definitive biography of Adolf Hitler; Herr Ernst Vogel, a onetime SS honor guard who had been a sentry at the Führerbunker in its final days; and Professor Otto Blaubach, an East Berlin authority on the Third Reich and a deputy prime minister in the East German government. The story went on to state that these were the first visitors to the site of the historic Führerbunker in at least a decade, and it speculated that there was every possibility that Miss Ashcroft was examining the site as a prelude to one more excavation of the area in search of a new clue to the Führer's end.

  Evelyn raised her head, momentarily bewildered. "This is the young lady you told me about the other day?"

  Schmidt crushed a cracker in his hand and downed the crumbs. "Emily Ashcroft, the British historian who checked into the Kempinski. I thought you should know she is going ahead."

  Evelyn did not hide her concern. "Do you think she'll get permission to dig?"

  "Her father did just before his fatal accident. So I'm guessing that she will. That fellow in the photograph, Blaubach, he's a big shot in the East German government. He could arrange it."