by Andy Marino
A dull, numbing ache spread from Stauffenberg’s shoulder into his chest and down his arm. He wasn’t afraid—the attack by the American fighter plane in North Africa had done much worse—but he knew the searing heat of the wound was yet to come.
He tried to run toward Fromm’s office at the other end of the hall, but found that he could only stagger. Olbricht grabbed his good arm and pulled him onward while Haeften returned fire to keep the SS men pinned behind the door.
They reached Fromm’s office and Olbricht kicked open the door. General Fromm had his ear to the telephone. When the two men burst in, he hung up and glared at Stauffenberg.
“I thought you would have put a bullet in your head an hour ago,” Fromm said.
“I have no intention of shooting myself, General,” Stauffenberg said. Each word sent little shock waves of pain into his chest and shoulder. Olbricht helped him into a chair.
Fromm shrugged. “It’s over for you, either way.”
“And you,” Olbricht said. “Do you think Hitler, in his wrath, will let the commander of the Reserve Army live, after this provocation?”
Fromm paled. “I will personally deliver the traitors to him.”
Suddenly, Haeften arrived in the room and leveled his pistol at Fromm. The general cringed and put up his hands.
“No, Werner,” Stauffenberg said. “It won’t accomplish anything.”
Haeften scowled. With great effort, Stauffenberg stood up, placed his hand on Haeften’s arm, and gently lowered it.
From the hallway came the sound of a dozen boots on the buffed marble floor.
Fromm smiled. “Gentlemen, welcome to your summary court-martial.”
The thin band of light at the bottom of the cellar’s single blackened window dimmed, then disappeared. Max had been bound to the chair for several hours, and his shoulders were stiff and sore. His arms felt like blocks of wood.
The smell of freshly baked bread was a taunt, a reminder of better times dangled just out of reach.
In the first hour after Heinrich left him alone, his heart pounded uncontrollably. All he could think about was that huge blade hovering just above his toes.
When he was six years old, Max had sliced his arm on a broken signpost at the end of their street in Neukölln. The cut had been so deep, the sight of the wound made his knees buckle and his stomach queasy. The pain had been severe, but his father had patched him up and he had healed in a few days.
Now there would be no one to patch him up. Just the Hitler Youth boys grinning and laughing as Heinrich took his toes—unless he gave up his sister and Kat. Which would also mean that he was giving up his parents.
The fate of his family rested on Max’s shoulders.
He knew that Stauffenberg would let Heinrich take all of his toes and fingers before he would betray his friends. But Max was more scared than he had ever been. He knew in his heart that the moment the blade sliced into his flesh he would be screaming the names of the Red Dragons.
He tried to move but only managed to make the chair hop slightly to the left. Anyway, the door was locked and there was nothing in this little room he could use as a tool to try and wedge it open.
Plodding footsteps came down the stairs. Someone heavier than Heinrich, Max thought. One of his henchmen, coming to deliver a quick beating before the real show began.
To calm his nerves he tried to breathe like his father had taught him. He vowed to withstand this, at least.
The door opened. Max blinked at the sight of a short, pudgy silhouette.
“Gerhard,” he said, croaking the name from his parched throat.
The boy stepped into the room. He placed a tray on the floor in front of Max’s chair. On the tray was a loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese. Then he turned to go.
“Wait!” Max said.
Gerhard hesitated. Then turned back. “What?”
“How am I supposed to reach the food?” He made the chair hop. “I can’t move.”
Gerhard shrugged. “Heinrich said I’m to put the tray down in front of you so you can see it. That’s all.”
“When is he coming back?”
“I don’t know. Something’s going on. The boys were mobilized.”
A faint flicker of hope ignited within him. “What’s happening out there?”
“Somebody set off a bomb in a meeting with the Führer. It’s all over the radio.”
Max wanted to shout. He controlled himself. “Is he dead?”
“No,” Gerhard said. “He lived.”
Just like that, hope was snuffed out. Despair, heavy as lead, crept into his chest. “Oh.”
“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” Gerhard said. But he didn’t walk away.
“You did a good job, catching me,” Max said, thinking quickly. “Heinrich must have been proud.”
“He said I was one of them now,” Gerhard said.
“Then imagine how happy he’s going to be when I tell him what he wants to know, and I also tell him that it was you who convinced me to talk.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Let me have some of that bread and cheese. I’m starving. I can’t think.”
Gerhard laughed. “I’m not an idiot.”
“Just bring me the tray and untie my hands. Look”—he wiggled his feet—“keep my legs tied. I can’t go anywhere. Then when I’m done you can tie me back up.”
Gerhard looked from the tray of food to Max. “You’ll tell Heinrich that it was me who got the names?”
“I’ll give you the names personally, and you can tell him yourself. Just as soon as I eat.”
Gerhard thought for a moment. “I’ll untie one of your hands. That’s it.”
“Fine,” Max said.
Cautiously, Gerhard went around behind the chair and fumbled with the rope that bound Max’s right hand. Gradually, the knot loosened. Max pulled his hand free. His arm dangled at his side. He made a fist and unclenched it, then wiggled his fingers. Feeling rushed back, and then the pain came.
As soon as Gerhard set the tray of food on Max’s lap, he moved as if to take the cheese, but grabbed the edge of the tray instead. Before Gerhard could back away, Max’s arm shot up. He thrust the corner of the tray into the boy’s neck, striking him just above the Adam’s apple where his throat met his jaw.
Gerhard’s eyes bulged. His hands clawed at his throat. Max lashed out with the tray a second time, catching the boy with a glancing blow to the side of his head.
Gerhard went to his knees.
Max dropped the tray, reached around behind the chair, and began working frantically at the knot that secured his left hand. He managed to loosen the rope, but not enough to free himself.
Gerhard caught his breath and lumbered to his feet. He stepped toward Max.
Finally, Max felt his left hand come loose. He picked up the fallen tray and flung it at Gerhard. The tray slammed into the boy’s mouth. Gerhard squealed as blood spurted from his bottom lip.
With his arms free, Max found that he could stand up. He couldn’t move very quickly with the chair attached to his legs. He had never punched somebody before, but he was fighting for his life. It wasn’t pretty. He pummeled Gerhard’s neck and mouth with backhanded blows, aiming for the places the tray had already struck.
Gerhard used his arms to shield his face and kicked out with his heavy boot. The blow caught Max on the shin. With the chair ruining his balance, it was enough to send him sprawling. Sideways on the floor, he managed to free his left leg. Gerhard came at him and he scuttled out of the way. As he moved along the wall, he untied his right leg.
Gerhard swung his fist and missed.
From the floor, Max grabbed a leg of the chair and hurled it as hard as he could. Gerhard brought his hands up, but part of the chair’s seat clipped his ear and went crashing into the wall behind him.
Gerhard’s spectacles went flying.
Max scrambled to his feet and ran for the door. Gerhard shouted and lunged for him. Max felt the boy’s han
d graze his shoulder as he darted through the door and slammed it shut behind him. He turned the bolt to lock it just as Gerhard tried to wrench it open. But all Gerhard could do was rattle the door on its hinges. Max collapsed against the steps, gasping for air.
He noticed for the first time that the door was made of steel. It muffled Gerhard’s cries. Max shuddered. The bakery cellar was designed to keep noise in. He doubted he was Heinrich’s first guest.
He took a moment to gather himself. He was exhausted and thirsty, and his head still throbbed from being pistol-whipped, but other than that he was unharmed. His left shoe was still inside the room. He took off his right shoe and left it in front of the door.
Cautiously, he crept up the stairs. At the top was a dim room full of metal racks where loaves of bread sat in neat rows.
He made his way through the bakery kitchen until he found what he was looking for: the back door. Outside, there was a small cement patio and a low fence that led to an alley. He trotted across the patio, hopped the fence, and headed out into the night.
It was strange being barefoot on the city streets, but he had never been so grateful to have all of his toes.
JULY 20, 1944
General Friedrich Fromm stood with his palms on his mahogany desk, regarding the conspirators seated before him.
Behind Stauffenberg, Olbricht, and Haeften stood five SS men with guns drawn.
“I assume responsibility for everything,” Stauffenberg said. “These men beside me conducted themselves as soldiers, following my orders.”
“Be that as it may,” Fromm said, “high treason is high treason, and there can be no quarter given for an attempt on our Führer’s life. Colonel Stauffenberg, General Olbricht, Lieutenant Haeften—you are hereby condemned to death.” He raised his eyes to the SS troopers.
“Escort these men to the courtyard immediately.”
The streets of Prenzlauer Berg were choked with SS checkpoints.
Thankfully, nobody paid any mind to a barefoot boy in filthy clothes. When one of the checkpoints proved to be unavoidable, Max cupped his hands, held them up to the officer, and asked if the man could spare a few Reichsmarks.
His family had been bombed out of their home, you see, and now it was up to him to scrounge up enough money to care for his mother and three sisters …
The SS guard waved him through.
It was almost midnight when Max walked in the door of the safe house. The radio was on. Gerta and Kat were on the sofa in the sitting room. Mutti paced the floor.
“Hello,” he said.
Three heads turned. Three sets of eyes blinked. Mutti stared at him as if he were the Kaiser’s ghost. Then she ran to embrace him.
“Maxi!” She smothered him with kisses, then studied his face. “My God!”
“It’s nothing,” he said. “I’m okay.” He went to the sofa, where his sister gave him a suffocating hug.
“I knew they’d never get you,” she said.
“They did get me,” Max said. “But they didn’t get my toes.”
Gerta looked at his bare feet. “Um … I’m glad.”
Kat approached him shyly. “I’m sorry, Max.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. From the very beginning of all this, I let myself get carried away, and I put us all in danger.”
“Without you, there’d be no Red Dragons,” Max said.
“I’m just glad you’re back.”
“Did you see your father?” Mutti asked hesitantly, as if she didn’t really want to know the answer.
“Papa?” Max said. “No, why, is he … ?”
Max looked around. His heart sank. “He went out, didn’t he?”
“He’s been gone for hours,” Mutti said. “And with all this going on …” She gestured toward the window and the city outside. “I’m afraid for him, Maxi. It’s no time to be out in the streets.”
“What are they saying on the radio?” Max said.
“They’re saying Hitler’s still alive,” Gerta said. “But we don’t believe it.”
“Well,” Mutti said, “I think it’s more that we don’t know what to believe.”
“He’s dead,” Max said firmly. “If Colonel Stauffenberg planted the bomb, then Hitler has to be dead. He wouldn’t screw it up.”
Kat tapped out slow waltz time on the arm of the sofa. They all watched the hands of the small clock on the wall behind the radio.
“Midnight,” Kat said gravely. Everyone looked at Mutti.
“What?” Max said.
“Your father told us to leave the safe house if he didn’t get back by midnight. If he has been caught, it’s too dangerous for us to stay.”
“Leave and go where?” Max said.
Mutti sighed. “There are people who will help get us out of Germany. And eventually to Switzerland.”
“Switzerland?” Gerta said.
Max thought of all the checkpoints in the streets—and that was just in Prenzlauer Berg. How would they ever reach the outskirts of Berlin, much less Switzerland?
“Mutti,” Gerta continued, “even if we get out of the city, there’s still all of Germany to cross!”
“Shh!” Kat said, turning up the volume on the radio.
Adolf Hitler’s voice came over the airwaves. Slowly, Max sat down on the couch. He couldn’t believe that Stauffenberg had failed, but there it was: the Führer’s voice. It was shakier than usual, a little hoarse, but unmistakable.
“A small clique of criminally stupid officers have formed a plot to eliminate me. The bomb was placed by Colonel Claus von Stauffenberg. I myself sustained only minor scratches. I regard this as confirmation of the task imposed on me by Providence to continue on the road of my life—”
Mutti switched off the radio. “The Nazi crackdown will only get worse in the days to come. We’re leaving Berlin tonight. Pack a bag. All of you.”
She headed up the stairs, followed by Gerta and Kat.
Max sat alone in the silence of the sitting room. He thought of Papa, out in streets that were crawling with SS and Gestapo. He thought of Claus von Stauffenberg placing the bomb that somehow failed to finish the job.
Then he thought of the ruins of the Hitler Youth’s clubhouse. It wasn’t much in the grand scheme of the war—or even among the events of the past day. But it was a victory for the Red Dragons, and he would never forget it.
“I love you, Papa,” he said, wishing the words out the window so that they might find him and bring some small comfort.
Then he closed his eyes and spoke to Stauffenberg.
“Good luck and God bless—wherever you are.”
JULY 21, 1944
JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT
The headlamps of a staff car lit up the inner courtyard of the Bendlerblock. They shone across the neatly trimmed grass to illuminate a huge pile of sand, long and sloped like an ocean wave.
The condemned were lined up before this barrier.
Twenty paces away, half a dozen SS men stood at attention. An Obersturmführer called out names one by one, so that his men would know where to aim.
“Olbricht!” he yelled.
The SS men raised their rifles.
“Fire!”
The courtyard resounded. Olbricht fell. Smoke drifted through the headlamps’ beams.
“Stauffenberg!”
The SS men aimed. Suddenly, Haeften lunged in front of Stauffenberg, just as the Obersturmführer gave the command to fire. The bullets found him instead, and Werner von Haeften crumpled in the dirt.
Stauffenberg stood alone.
The Obersturmführer, slightly flustered, hesitated. Then he yelled Stauffenberg’s name for the second time.
Stauffenberg took a step toward the rifles and shouted his last words—his allegiance to a country that had existed in his mind since he was a child roaming the forests of Lautlingen. A country with no place for men like Hitler. A country of freedom, justice, and honor.
“Long live sacred Germany!”
The matter of Claus von Stauffenberg’s last words is an interesting one. That he shouted something at his killers—some final defiant jab at the Nazis—has been confirmed by eyewitness accounts. Some say his last words were “Long live our sacred Germany.” (The movie Valkyrie, in which Tom Cruise portrays Stauffenberg, uses this line minus the “our,” which is what I’ve done.) Others claim his last words were actually “Long live our secret Germany,” in reference to a poem by his hero, Stefan George. I chose the former for several reasons, mainly because the Secret Germany concept, while an important element of Stauffenberg’s deep-rooted beliefs, is too complicated to unravel in this book and would have bogged down his point-of-view chapters.
Stauffenberg’s activities in the weeks leading up to the final assassination attempt and the doomed Valkyrie takeover are fairly well documented. Wherever possible, I tried to place him in locations along with other people—mainly members of the Nazi high command—who were actually there at those times. Of course, the conversations they had, along with the thoughts running through Stauffenberg’s head, have been entirely invented for this book.
Various aspects of the Valkyrie plot have been lightly fictionalized to fit the framework of this story, but the major details are rooted in fact. For example, the bombs really did rely on the broken glass/acid timer mechanism, which Stauffenberg had to arm via special pliers, and which made an already impossibly tense and complicated situation even more unpredictable. There actually was an aborted attempt that forced Stauffenberg to hurriedly disarm one of the bombs. Finally, none of the characters would have been aware of it at the time, but Hitler survived the blast at Wolf’s Lair because the man standing next to him nudged the briefcase a little too far underneath the solid oak table. This was enough to shield Hitler from the worst of the blast and save his life. Thus, the tide of history turned on a man’s shin.
As for the Hoffmanns, their adventures in this book are totally fictional, but not without historical precedent. The Red Dragons’ Hitler Youth–fighting escapades were inspired by the courageous actions of the White Rose and the Edelweiss Pirates, two anti-Nazi resistance groups made up of German teenagers and college students. They distributed pamphlets, listened to American jazz (gasp!), and sometimes (in the case of the Pirates) ambushed Hitler Youth patrols.