by Sam Eastland
Fegelein nodded, impressed. ‘A tactic which might lose you some friends before this investigation is over.’
‘There are no friends,’ said Hunyadi, ‘only the enemies I have already and those who do not know enough to hate me yet. In my line of work, that is an occupational hazard.’
‘If only there were someone you could turn to for help.’
Hunyadi stared at him. ‘Meaning what?’
‘Such a person might be very valuable.’ Fegelein held out his arms and let them fall back to his sides. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘If you are implying that I can request assistance from the SS, I am already aware of that.’
‘The SS is a large organisation which does not take kindly to strangers snooping about in their business,’ Fegelein told him flatly. ‘What you need is someone who can get the job done while still maintaining absolute discretion.’
Hunyadi narrowed his eyes with suspicion. ‘And this person might be you? Is that what you’re suggesting?’
‘It might be.’
Now I know why they hate you so much, thought Hunyadi. ‘And why’, he asked, ‘would someone like you make me an offer like that?’
‘Because I know who you work for, and I have lately found myself on the wrong end of his sympathies. Any gesture I can make to remedy that situation is worth doing. So you see, if I help you, then I am also helping him. All I ask in return is that, when the time comes, you remember who your friends are.’
‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ Hunyadi answered cautiously.
Fegelein handed him a business card. On one side, in embossed letters, were his initials, HF, and on the other side was a Berlin telephone number. ‘This is how to reach me, day or night,’ said Fegelein.
After the man had departed, Hunyadi turned his thoughts to the things he had learned that day. The most useful information had come, not from what his visitors had said, but from what they did not say. Tomorrow, he would go to the bunker, and report his findings in person to Hitler. The news was unlikely to go down well, and Hunyadi wondered if the messenger would be the first to fall.
That evening, after a meal of quail braised in a mushroom and cognac sauce, delivered from the kitchens of Harting’s restaurant on Mühlenstrasse to the apartment of his mistress, Fegelein sat in a high-backed chair made of crushed yellow velvet, smoking a cigar. Lazily, he held the phone receiver to his ear while his master, Heinrich Himmler, grilled him about the meeting with Hunyadi.
‘What did he want?’ demanded Himmler. ‘What is he looking into?’
‘A leak,’ replied Fegelein. ‘A flow of information from the bunker which has been finding its way into the hands of the Allies. Apparently, you can hear it almost every day on that pirate radio station of theirs.’
‘Is there any truth to it?’
‘No idea,’ sighed Fegelein, ‘but even if there is, it’s nothing serious.’
‘Nothing serious!’ scoffed Himmler. ‘How the hell can you say that?’
‘Because the information is useless,’ explained Fegelein. ‘It’s just gossip. There’s nothing to indicate that military secrets are being passed on to the enemy, at least from the bunker.’
‘Then why did he have to bring in a detective?’
‘Not just any detective,’ said Fegelein. ‘It’s Leopold Hunyadi.’
‘Hunyadi!’ exclaimed Himmler. ‘The last I heard, he was going to be shot, or hanged or something.’
‘He appears to have dodged both the bullet and the noose,’ replied Fegelein. ‘I must say I am not at all surprised. I have looked at Hunyadi’s police record. It is very impressive. He has received all four grades of the Police Meritorious Service medal.’
‘Four?’ asked Himmler. ‘I thought that there were only three – gold, silver and bronze.’
‘They gave Hunyadi one with diamonds, created just for him. Hitler personally stuck the badge on him, back in 1939. Do you know he also speaks four languages, including Russian, Spanish and Hungarian?’
‘Yes, yes, Fegelein,’ Himmler replied angrily. ‘Anyone would think you were starting up a fan club for Hunyadi! And none of this explains why Hitler did not give the case to our own man, Rattenhuber. He’s in charge of security in the bunker and he’s the one who should be investigating this.’
‘And he would be,’ answered Fegelein, ‘if Hitler trusted anyone at all down there in that concrete labyrinth.’
‘Do you mean he suspects us? The SS?’
‘I mean he suspects everyone, Herr Reichsführer.’
There was a long pause, during which time Fegelein studied the whitening ash of his cigar as it slowly extinguished itself. Knowing Himmler’s distaste for tobacco, he did not dare to take a puff even when talking to the man on the phone, for fear that Himmler might hear the popping of his lips as he drew smoke.
‘We need to keep our eye on this,’ Himmler said at last. ‘If it does turn out that one of our own people is involved, it will destroy whatever faith Hitler has left in us.’
‘I have taken steps to see that does not happen.’
‘What steps, Fegelein? What have you been up to?’
‘Just extending the hand of friendship to a colleague,’ replied Fegelein. ‘I told Hunyadi to come to me if he ever needed help.’
‘And why would he go to you instead of anybody else?’
‘Because I let him know that I can be discreet, and I predict that he will soon accept my offer.’
‘As soon as he does that,’ said Himmler, laughing softly, ‘he will belong to us. But what makes you so sure he will call upon you?’
‘Everyone needs someone like me at one time or another,’ answered Fegelein, ‘and I sense that Hunyadi’s time is coming.’
‘Let us hope so,’ said Himmler. As usual, he hung up without saying goodbye.
For a moment, Fegelein listened to the rustles of static on the disconnected line. Then he put the phone down and set about puffing his cigar back to life.
As Kirov and Pekkala made their way along a muddy road, still 30 kilometres from Berlin, they did not see the roadblock until it was too late.
The windswept farmland had given way to shallow, rolling hills. Through this, the road twisted and turned, the way forward obscured by thick forests of poplars and sycamores, whose patchwork bark seemed to conjure up the shapes of faces, staring wall-eyed at the travellers as they passed by.
They were coasting down a hill, bicycle chains clattering over the spokes, banking to the right and then sharply to the left. It was all they could do just to stay in their seats. Just before the bottom of the hill, the road straightened out, and it was here that a squad of German Field Police had chosen to set up a barrier made from downed trees blocking first the left-hand side of the road and then the right, so that anyone hoping to pass would have to zigzag through the obstacles.
There was nothing that Pekkala or Kirov could do. They had no time to draw their guns or to retrace their steps. They barely had time to stop before they reached where the policemen were standing.
Two men, each wearing long rubberised canvas trench coats and carrying sub-machine guns, stood in front of the first blockade of trees. Hanging from forged metal links around their necks were the half-moon shields of the German Field Police, each one emblazoned with a large eagle and the word ‘Feldgendarmerie’, which had been daubed with a yellowish-green paint that glowed in the dark.
The police grinned, pleased with the success of their trap, as Kirov and Pekkala skidded to a halt in front of them.
At first, it seemed as if these two ‘Chained Dogs’ were the only ones manning the roadblock, but then the woods appeared to come to life, and half a dozen more police emerged from bunkers on either side of the road.
‘Papers!’ barked one of the policemen, holding out his hand.
Fumbling in their pockets, Pekkala and Kirov each produced their documents. As they undid the buttons of their coats, the policeman caught sight of Pekkala’s Webley, tucked away inside his shoulder h
olster. Immediately, the man swung his sub-machine gun up towards his chest. ‘Slowly now,’ he said.
Pekkala removed the revolver. Grasping it by the brass butt plates so that the barrel pointed at the ground, he handed it over. As he did so, he noticed for the first time how young these soldiers were.
They could not have been more than sixteen years old, gaunt and acne-spattered faces peering from beneath the iron hoods of their helmets. With underfed and spindly bodies tented beneath their raincoats, they looked like scarecrows come to life.
And yet Pekkala knew what casual brutality could come from those whose youth had shielded them from any frame of reference but the one they had been taught since birth. They were the children of the later war and when they crossed paths with the Red Army, these boys would be the last to surrender, if they were even given such a chance.
Now the two men were searched, and Kirov’s gun was also confiscated.
‘Herr Hauptmann!’ shouted the boy who had demanded their papers.
Another man emerged from the bunker on the left. He wore the rank insignia of a captain, and his silver-braided epaulettes were trimmed with the dull orange piping of the German Field Police. The captain was considerably older than the others, his unshaved chin flecked with a grey haze of stubble. He might have been their father, or even their grandfather. The man carried a short-stemmed pipe, which he paused to light as he made his way on to the road. Unlike his men, this officer did not wear a long coat. Nor did he carry the half-moon badge of his profession. Instead, he was bundled in a field grey tunic, so worn that it seemed to be moulded to his body. Across his back and down his forearms, the woollen fabric had faded almost white. Pinned to his left chest pocket was an Iron Cross 1st Class and tucked into a buttonhole were two medal ribbons, one for an Iron Cross 2nd Class and another to commemorate his service on the Russian front.
‘You were right, Herr Hauptmann!’ exclaimed the boy. ‘You said we might catch a few more of them if we stayed out after dark, and look what we have here!’ He shoved the two men forward.
‘Thank you, Andreas,’ said the captain, sounding more like a schoolmaster than a commanding officer.
The boy handed him the papers belonging to Pekkala and Kirov, saluted and stood back.
Puffing thoughtfully at his pipe, the captain flipped through the Hungarian identity books, unfolding the insert at the back which identified both Kirov and Pekkala as tradesmen for a company called Matra, located in the Hungarian city of Eger, which had a contract to make footwear for the German military.
Ever since they had first come in sight of the roadblock, neither Kirov nor Pekkala had spoken a word. Pekkala could feel his heart beating against a leather strap of his empty holster which he had strapped across his chest. He had designed the contraption himself, so that the gun could be carried at an angle that was easiest to reach, which put the Webley just beneath his solar plexus on the left side of his ribcage.
Both men realised that they were completely at the mercy of their captors. There was nowhere to run, no chance of fighting their way out and, unless this captain intervened, these boys would soon have them swinging from ropes.
‘They are Hungarians,’ said the officer, more to himself than to the others.
‘Shall we hang them?’ asked Andreas, unable to conceal the excitement in his voice.
Wearily, the officer glanced up at him. ‘These papers are in order and, in case you had forgotten, Hungary is one of the few allies we have left. Besides, according to these documents, these men work for a company that might well have made your boots.’
‘Then we should hang them just for that,’ piped up the other boy. He pointed at the muddy clumps of leather on his feet. ‘I’ve only had these things three weeks and they’re already falling apart.’
The officer just shook his head. ‘Indeed they are, Berthold, but perhaps they were not built to last.’
Berthold blinked at the officer in confusion, unable to grasp the meaning of his words.
‘And what about these guns, Herr Hauptmann?’ Andreas held them up for the officer to see.
‘Why shouldn’t they have guns?’ asked the captain. ‘Everyone else does.’
‘Well, what are they doing out here?’ demanded Berthold. ‘It looks pretty suspicious if you ask me.’
‘But nobody is asking you,’ replied the captain. ‘Put them in the truck tonight. Then, in the morning, you take them in to Major Rademacher. He can decide what to do.’
Growling under their breath, Berthold and Andreas turned and shoved their captives past the second barricade.
They left their bicycles propped against the felled trees of the roadblock and followed the policeman down the road.
‘And make sure they stay put!’ the officer called out before he climbed back into his bunker.
The truck which the captain had mentioned was hidden in the woods only a short walk down the road. It had been painted with a curious camouflage pattern, made from leafy branches which had been laid upon the metal bonnet and cowlings and then painted over with a lighter shade of green than the original colouring, leaving the silhouette of the branches behind when the second coat had dried.
Andreas climbed into the back, which was covered with a canvas roof. ‘In!’ he barked at the two men, motioning for them to climb aboard.
Sitting across from each on the hard wooden benches, Kirov and Pekkala were handcuffed to a metal rail which ran behind each bench.
Andreas patted Kirov gently on the face before climbing out of the truck. ‘Good night, gentlemen!’ he said, as he shuffled away through the leaves.
The sun was just rising over the shattered rooftops of Berlin when Leopold descended to Hitler’s private quarters on the fourth and deepest level of the bunker.
There, Hitler welcomed him into a small, cramped sitting room, whose space was largely taken up by a cream-white couch, a small coffee table and two chairs. Hitler was already dressed. He gave the impression of being a man who seldom slept at all, and Hunyadi suspected that this was not far from the truth.
Here, in the stark electric light, Hitler’s skin looked even paler and more bloodless than it had done in the Chancellery garden. He stooped as he moved about, as if, somehow, he felt the weight of the tons of earth between them and the ground above. He was dressed, as he had been before, in a pale green-grey double-breasted jacket, a white shirt and black trousers, neatly pressed.
‘So, Hunyadi!’ he growled, ‘have you caught our little songbird yet?’
Hunyadi was startled by the power in his voice. From his outward appearance, Hitler appeared as someone who could barely speak at all. ‘Not yet,’ he replied, ‘but I have learned a few things since we last spoke.’
Hitler held his arm out towards the couch and gestured at Hunyadi to sit. Hitler lowered himself down in one of the chairs, settled his elbows on to the wooden arms, and leaned forward expectantly.
Before Hunyadi could speak, a door on the far side of the sitting room opened and Hitler’s mistress, Eva Braun, appeared, wearing a blue dress flecked with tiny white polka dots and low-heeled black shoes. She had a round, guileless-looking face, with a softly shaped chin and narrow, arching eyebrows. These were darker than her brownish-blonde hair, which had been combed back to reveal her forehead.
To Hunyadi, who immediately rose to his feet, she looked like she was getting ready to go to a party.
Behind her, through the open door, Hunyadi could see an unmade bed. But it was a small bed, and he struggled to imagine how two people could have fitted in it comfortably. The furnishings in the room – everything from the lampshade to the pictures on the walls – showed nothing that would indicate the presence of a man. Hunyadi wondered if they slept in separate rooms, even though both of them were crammed together in this dungeon. It may have been a well-decorated dungeon, but it was a dungeon, nevertheless.
Hitler’s relationship with Eva Braun was not widely known outside the bunker. She rarely appeared with him in public
and it was only when her car was stopped for driving erratically across the Oberbauer Bridge, early in 1944, that Hunyadi had learned of her existence. The police officer who pulled her over, an old friend of Hunyadi’s named Rothbart, had been on the point of arresting the woman for being drunk behind the wheel, along with her loud and even more inebriated companions who occupied the back seat, when two carloads of SS security appeared to escort the woman away. Rothbart’s name, home address and service number were taken down by an irate SS officer, whose sleeve bore the black and silver cuff title of the Führer’s Headquarters. Then, after warning Rothbart to keep his mouth shut, the officer helped the woman out of the driver’s seat, opened the rear door of the sedan and waited until she climbed in beside her friends before getting in himself behind the wheel.
The last thing Rothbart heard as the car sped away into the dark was laughter and the popping of a champagne cork from the back seat of the car.
‘That was Hitler’s girl!’ Rothbart had confided to Hunyadi. It was the first time he had ever heard the name of Eva Braun.
‘And who is this?’ she asked, barely glancing at Hunyadi as she walked into the sitting room. Instead, she busied herself with attaching a small golden ring into her earlobe.
‘My name . . .’ began Hunyadi.
‘Is not important,’ Hitler said abruptly. ‘It’s a friend of mine from the old days. That’s all. He’s working on something for me.’
‘I see,’ said Eva Braun and, in an instant, it was as if Hunyadi had ceased to exist. ‘I am going up to the canteen to get some breakfast,’ she told Hitler. ‘Is there anything you want?’
‘A glass of milk,’ he replied, ‘but do not hurry back on my account.’
Then the two men were alone again.
With clawing fingers, Hitler beckoned at Hunyadi. ‘Tell me!’ he whispered urgently. ‘Tell me everything you know.’
‘Based on what you’ve told me,’ said Hunyadi, ‘I believe you are correct. There is a leak.’