Five Past Midnight

by James Thayer

  It was nearing ten o'clock in the evening. Landscaping lights had once illuminated the cherry and linden trees, boxwood hedges, and azaleas, but the lights were subject to blackout regulations. A wind was picking up, pushing the rain sideways onto Patzer. The Führer had personally designed a yellow-and-white standard, and earlier in the war it had flapped on its pole above the New Chancellery whenever he was in Berlin. Now that enemy armies were near, the standard never flew.

  Patzer heard footsteps in the gravel. He straightened his back and brought his rifle to the ready. A conversation carried to him on the wind.

  "The Führer should go at once. There is no sense remaining."

  Patzer recognized the voice as that of the Führer's secretary, a stocky bulldog of a man named Bormann. The private knew nothing about the secretary, not even whether he held a rank in the military or the Party. He wore no insignia on his ill-fitting brown uniform. Patzer had been told by his captain to stay out of Bormann's way, but the captain had not clarified his warning. Bormann was walking with Dr. Morell, the Führer's physician. They made their way toward the blockhouse.

  Private Patzer shifted his hands, trying to keep his cold fingers away from the colder steel of his Mauser, gripping instead its wooden stock. He blew air into a hand. Christ, it was frigid in the watchtower, standing still, hour after hour. The Reich Chancellery was across the garden from Patzer. The facade on Vossstrasse was intact, but Patzer's view was of the back of the vast building, and it had been heavily damaged by bombs. From his watchtower perch most of Private Patzer's view was ruin. The greenhouses had been destroyed by a bomb blast, and glass splinters littered the garden. Uprooted trees and broken statuary seemed to have been tossed casually about. The wooden cistern containing water for fire fighting had been repeatedly repaired by the air-raid wardens, and was still on its stand. A wandering trench had recently been dug in the garden for the guards to jump into during the Allied bombings. A cement mixer had been abandoned near the shattered greenhouse, and had been there, forgotten, ever since Patzer was first assigned to the Chancellery. The largest structure in the garden was the blockhouse, a thirty- foot cube of concrete near the rear of the Old Chancellery. The blockhouse's steel door led to the Führer's bunker. The private had never been through that door.

  Patzer smiled to himself. Two LSSAH men—members of the Lieb- standarte-SS Adolf Hitler, an elite SS bodyguard unit—were stationed at the door, and even that pompous ass General Keitel was asked for his pass each time he entered the bunker.

  From his tower Patzer could also see the damaged Foreign Ministry's office across Wilhelmstrasse. The ministry's windows overlooked the garden and had been boarded up. The SS patrolled the vacant building, insuring that no one would be able to find a window looking into the garden. Silhouetted against the purple sky was an antiaircraft battery on top of the New Chancellery. The fifteen-man crew of No. 1 Flak Division were behind their weapons at the division's duty station.

  SS Private Patzer was one of fifteen guards on duty in the garden. Two SS patrols were responsible for the east and west sections. An additional guard, called the Hundführer, roamed the western portion near the blockhouse with a German shepherd.

  The private was proud of his service in the Liebstandarte-SS Adolf Hitler. LSSAH soldiers took a personal oath of obedience to the Führer, and on that day two years ago when Private Patzer had taken his oath, Hitler had walked down the line of soldiers, shaking each hand and looking into each pair of eyes. When the Führer reached him, it was the greatest moment of Patzer's life. Patzer and other soldiers had sworn they could see a halo around Hitler's head. Although the Führer had not spoken to him that day or any day since, Patzer was as close to the German savior as he was to his mother. He loved the man. And knowing where Hitler was—in the Chancellery or the bunker or the garden— when few in Berlin had any idea, fed the familiarity. The guards referred to Hitler as Grofaz, short for Grassier Feldherr allerZeiten (the greatest general of all time), and even with the Soviet barbarians on the Oder and their American, Canadian, and British dupes marching into central Germany, there was not a trace of irony or mockery in the guards' voices when they used the nickname.

  A guard at the blockhouse blew a bosun's whistle. Patzer's thoughts instantly returned to the garden. He quickly squared his helmet and his belt, and brought his Mauser in line in front of him. He cleared his throat, not that he would have occasion in the next few minutes to use his voice But, perhaps, someday.

  The blockhouse guards jerked themselves to a rigid attention, a snap that would have broken most backbones. From the black doorway, emerging slowly, his figure congealing out of the darkness, walked the Führer. Beside him was Blondi, his white Alsatian. The dog leaped to the end of his leash, eager for the trees and bushes of the garden. Hitler let the animal lead him along the gravel path. The Führer was wearing a gray greatcoat, a scarf, black gloves, and a field-gray peaked cap.

  He moved slowly, cautiously, as if testing each step. Patzer wanted to weep for the man. The private had seen Hitler walk up the long flight of steps to the podium at the 1938 Nuremberg SS rally. Now Hitler wobbled like a drunken sailor when walking, and lurched to the right with each step. He used his right hand to both grip the dog's leash and to hold his dead left arm close to his body. In better days Patzer had seen him guide Blondi over a two-meter wooden wall, then up a ladder where the dog would beg for a treat. Hitler kept the treats in his coat pocket. He shuffled along the gravel path In the darkness. Patzer could not see his face, only a small glint off the nickel-rimmed spectacles he always wore except when in front of cameras.

  Blondi danced in a circle, almost pulling the Führer off his feet. At the fork in the path the dog pulled Hitler south toward Patzer's tower. The private could see Hitler's breath in the cold air.

  Patzer removed his gaze from the man to stare precisely ahead, as ordered when the Führer passed. The private stiffly held his rifle at present arms.

  Hitler's awkward footsteps sounded in the gravel, yet closer. Then they stopped. At tense attention, Patzer braved a look down the side of the tower.

  The Führer's head was tilted back, and he was peering straight up the tower at Patzer. Even in the dim light Patzer could see the blue eyes. Astounded, the private swayed on his feet and let his mouth drop open. "It's cold up there," Hitler said. "Much too cold for April." Patzer tried to bark out his response as he had been trained Instead, his voice was tremulous. "Yes, my Führer."

  "Your hands are wet and are going to get blue."

  "Yes, my Führer." A little better. Almost the proper tone of absolute attention, utter subservience, and panting eagerness.

  "Here." Hitler peeled off his gloves, juggling the leash between his hands. "Can you catch these?"

  "Yes, my Führer." Patzer lowered his rifle.

  Hitler tossed the calf gloves skyward. Patzer could catch only one of them. The other fluttered back down to the snow. Blood rushed to the guard's face.

  Hitler stepped off the path into the mud to retrieve the glove. "We Germans don't play cricket like our enemies. So you can't blame me for a lame toss."

  "No, sir."

  Hitler reared back again and launched the glove. Patzer snatched it easily.

  "Put them on your hands," Hitler lectured lightly. "Don't stick them into your pocket to keep them for a museum somewhere."

  "Thank you, my Führer." Patzer shoved his fingers into the gloves. The rabbit-fur lining still radiated Hitler's warmth. Patzer was giddy with the intimacy.

  "And thank you, SS-Private." Hitler tottered off, following his dog, the gravel snapping under them.

  Patzer lifted his rifle up again. He breathed deeply of the sweet moment. He had taken his SS oath in the presence of his leader. Now he took another one, in silence, to the Führer's back as Hitler hobbled away. The end of the struggle was coming. If the Führer stayed in Berlin at the Chancellery, Patzer swore he would stay with him to the end, to the very end.

  8

&nb
sp; THE FARMHOUSE was fifty yards off the road, down a dirt drive. Cray walked toward the house, avoiding ruts and potholes. An apple orchard was to the north, the trees new in their spring leaves. Poles for supporting the apple-laden branches in autumn were stacked alongside the driveway. On the other side of the drive was a moss-covered stone wall that might have been two centuries old.

  Cray surveyed the farm as he approached. To one side of the house stood a goat shed and an open machine shed in which there were a two- bladed plow and stacks of apple boxes. Leather rigging hung on pegs behind the plow. Grass along the stone wall was long, wooden planks had fallen from the goat shed, shingles were missing from the farmhouse's roof, and ivy had grown up and over the porch. The farm was in decline.

  Cray neared the house. No automobile in the driveway. No one at a window looking at him. No farm animals. The house was made of clapboard, with a stone chimney. The porch creaked when he stepped onto it, then he leaned to his right to peer into a sitting room. Empty. He walked to the rear of the house, where a garden contained a row of bean stakes and a torn bird net that was hung over small pear trees. A potato patch had been turned over, perhaps again and again, though the potato harvest would have been last year. A shovel was still in the ground, planted rather feebly. He searched the goat and machine sheds.

  Cray moved to the back door. The knob turned easily. When he stepped into the kitchen, he was met by the smell of fresh baking, a fruit pastry of some sort. Tendrils of scent wrapped around Cray, making him feel lightheaded. Shrunken and ill used, his stomach loudly rolled over at the prospect of being filled. A Strudel and several old newspapers were on a sideboard near a woodstove.

  Cray gazed at the pastry. A flaky crust around apple halves. He wiped a corner of his mouth. A table and two chairs were in the kitchen. He looked into a pantry. Near it was an open cupboard containing pots and pans. A wooden box held a dozen small potatoes and two cabbages with brown leaves.

  Cray stepped into the sitting room. An overstuffed chair, a wall clock. He opened a closet near the front door. Empty but for two coats and an umbrella. Then he walked across a hooked rug past a fireplace to the bedroom. A poster bed, a hat on a wooden rack, a dresser and a mirror. Leather boots were on the floor in a corner. A farmer's Spartan home. Cray was satisfied no one was home. The house was cold. Cray could still see his breath.

  He rifled through the dresser. In one drawer he found a man's clothing. Cray peeled off his shirt and pants. He found a shirt with wooden buttons, too tight but wearable. Next were a pair of pants and a work coat.

  He returned to the kitchen and opened a drawer for a fork. He lifted the Strudel reverentially. He sniffed the pastry, but only slightly, lest smelling it might somehow diminish it prematurely. He lowered the plate to the table, sat on a sturdy chair, and squared himself to this grand task. He carefully cut off a small piece of the pastry, monitoring where all the crumbs fell so he could return to them, and lifted it to his mouth.

  The muzzle of a shotgun bit into the back of Cray's neck. His fork froze.

  "This is my house," a voice behind Cray said. An old woman's voice. "And that's my Strudel."

  Cray sat utterly still. His knife was under his belt.

  The shotgun barrels lifted from his neck. The woman came into his view. She was wearing a long green coat, a crocheted shawl, and a frown.

  The shotgun was held comfortably in her hands. She sidestepped to the end of the table opposite Cray, the barrel never wavering She sat on a chair, propping the bird gun on the table edge, its barrels pointed at Cray's throat.

  "You are an escapee from that awful castle over in Colditz." It was not a question.

  He answered in German. "Yes."

  "So you must be dangerous." The woman wore her silver hair in a bun on top of her head. Her face had deep lines like dried and broken mud. Her eyebrows had grown together above her nose. She was thin, with her coat hanging loosely from narrow shoulders, and with wrists the width of broom handles. Her dark eyes were far back in her head. They were alert. Cray suspected they missed nothing.

  "And you speak our language," she said. "I should shoot you now."

  "Will you wait until I eat this Strudel before you shoot me?"

  An eyebrow rose. Then a corner of her mouth lifted slightly. "If I wait until you eat the Strudel, then I'll have a dead body in my kitchen and no Strudel. But if I shoot you now, I'll have a dead body but I also have the Strudel. So it would be smarter to shoot you now."

  Cray suggested, "How about if I eat half, then you shoot me?"

  "All right," she said. "Cut the Strudel in half, then I'll choose which half you eat."

  Cray visually measured the pastry, then cut it precisely in half with his fork. The old lady nodded at the piece to Cray's left. He instantly dug into it with the fork. The Strudel seemed to burst inside his mouth, filling him with flavor down to his feet.

  He took three more bites, then said, "You are a good cook, ma'am. This would taste wonderful even if I weren't about to be killed."

  "I didn't have fresh fruit, so I used apples I canned last fall. And I had to stretch the flour by adding some sawdust."

  "I wondered about the piney taste."

  "How did you learn German?" the woman asked.

  He hesitated. "My parents came from Berlin."

  "I have an unerring ear for the truth," she said. "And I didn't hear it just then. Maybe I should shoot you now, just so I don't have to listen to lies."

  Cray chewed. "How's this then? After I received a degree in mechanical engineering in the United States, I did postgraduate work at Berlin Polytechnic. This was in 1936. I learned the language in Berlin." He lifted more Strudel on his fork. "And then in the army when I was training at a base in East Anglia, northeast of London, I often traveled to a POW camp near Stowmarket to practice German with Wehrmacht POWs."

  "Why would good German soldiers teach you their language, even if they were in a POW camp?"

  "I'd bring them candies and cakes, and I never asked them anything regarding the military. We just chatted." He looked down at his pastry. "I find that as I get near the end of my Strudel, I'm eating more slowly."

  "You aren't a regular soldier, are you?" she asked.

  "Why is it so cold in here?"

  "I don't have any firewood."

  Cray said, "But I saw a big stack of wood just outside your kitchen door."

  "I have bad arthritis in my fingers and hands and shoulders. I can't swing an ax at all. So I sit in here all day, cold. I made that Strudel using only wood chips for heat. Those I can carry in."

  Cray scratched his nose. "Why don't I cut some firewood for you. In exchange for the other half of the Strudel."

  "Then when do I shoot you?"

  "After I chop the wood, and after I eat the last half of the Strudel."

  "The ax is out by the woodpile."

  Cradling the shotgun in her arms, the old woman followed the American out the kitchen door. A maul, a wedge, and an ax were lined up against the house. She stayed by the door as he centered a log on a chopping block, then lifted the maul and the wedge. He tapped the wedge into the center of the log end, and then swung the maul in a large circle. It landed on the wedge with a flat crack. He swung again, then again, and the log split in half. He pushed the halves to one side and reached for another log.

  Cray said, "May I ask your name, ma'am?"

  "Helga Engelman."

  "I searched the house, Frau Engelman. Where were you?"

  "Outside. I saw you coming, and walked around the house in front of you, always keeping a corner between me and you."

  "You walk pretty quietly, sneaking up on me like that, Frau Engelman."

  She laughed sharply. "I'll bet it hasn't happened often to you, has it?"

  He glanced at her. "No, it hasn't."

  "I was in the kitchen when I heard the front-porch boards squeak. So I grabbed my dead husband's bird gun, which I keep in the kitchen to discourage refugees looking for food."
/>   "Well, I was just looking for food, too."

  "At least they knock," she chided. "You were concentrating on the Strudel and didn't hear me sneak up on you."

  "I'll profit from that lesson, then."

  "No point in profiting from a lesson you don't survive," she said. "What with me about to shoot you."

  "Are you running your farm alone, Frau Engelman?"

  "Two summers ago during the harvest my husband lay down between two apple trees and never got up again. A heart attack. You look better in his clothes than he did."

  Cray worked the maul, pushing the halved wood to one side.

  She added, "My husband used to split wood, just like you. I miss the firewood more than I miss him, I'm afraid."

  Cray split another log, then another.

  "You are a commando," Mrs. Engelman said. "Am I right?"

  "Well, not really.. .."

  "Remember." She wiggled the shotgun. "I have an ear for the lie."

  "I'm a commando." Cray put the maul and wedge to one side, then lifted the ax.

  "What is your group called?"

  "Rangers, ma'am." Cray placed one of the split logs on the block. The ax whistled and the wood split in two.

  "Have you done your commando work in Germany?"

  "Some." Cray swung the ax again. He was breathing quickly from his efforts.

  "What's the worst thing you've ever done to my homeland?"

  Cray turned to her, the ax hanging at his side. "Why in the world would I reveal that to a German woman holding a shotgun on me?"

  "Because I'm holding a shotgun on you."

  He lifted another piece of wood. Again he worked the ax. "I sank a submarine once."