by Jack Higgins
In the garden bunker was the Führer’s study, as well as a bedroom, two sitting rooms, bathroom facilities and a map room, close by and convenient for the constant conferences. Mohnke knocked on the door and went in. Von Berger waited. There was a murmur of voices, then Mohnke returned.
“The Führer will see you now.” He grabbed the young man’s hand. “Your comrades of the SS are proud of you. Your victory is ours.”
A slogan initiated by Goebbels in one of his inspired moments, and the subject of much ribaldry in the ranks of the SS. In any case, von Berger couldn’t imagine what he had done to cause such adulation.
“You’re too kind, General.”
“Not at all.” Mohnke was sweating and looked slightly dazed. He stood back and von Berger passed into the study.
The Führer sat at his desk, leaning over a map. He seemed shrunken, the uniform jacket too large for him; the face seemed wasted, the eyes dark holes, no life there at all, his cheeks hollow, a man at the end of things. The young woman beside him was an SS auxiliary in uniform. She held a sheaf of documents, which she passed one by one for Hitler to sign with a shaking hand. Her name was Sara Hesser. She was twenty-two years of age and had been pulled in by the Führer himself to act as a relief secretary.
He glanced up at her. “Deliver these. I’ll see the Baron in the sitting room. You can then bring the special file to me. Is it up to date?”
“As of last night, my Führer.”
“Good.” He stood up. “Follow me, Baron.”
He shuffled ahead, opened the door and led the way into the first sitting room. He sat in an armchair by a coffee table.
“Baron Max von Berger, Sturmbahnführer of the SS, you took a holy oath to protect your Führer. Repeat it now.”
Von Berger clicked his heels together. “I will render unconditional obedience to the Führer of the German Reich and People, Adolf Hitler, Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces, and will be ready, as a brave soldier, to stake my life at any time on this oath.”
Hitler nodded in satisfaction. “You have a magnificent record for one so young and yet you never joined the Nazi Party. Why not?”
“It didn’t seem appropriate, my Führer.”
“A typical response from the head of a great family. The aristocrat to the end – and yet you served me well. Why was that?”
“It’s a matter of honor, my Führer. I took the oath.”
“Just what I thought you’d say. You’re a remarkable young man. I sensed that when I decorated you with the Swords. That’s why I made you an aide. I was saving you. You’d be no use to me dead and that’s what would have happened if you’d returned to the front.”
Max von Berger took a deep breath. “What would you have me do, my Führer?”
“The most important task left to anyone in this Bunker. The Russians are coming. They want to cage me, and I can’t have that. My wife and I will commit suicide – no, no, don’t look like that, von Berger. The important thing is my work must continue, and you will play a part in that, the most important part.”
By his wife, he was, of course, referring to his mistress, Eva Braun, whom he had married around midnight on the 28th.
“We must see that National Socialism survives, that is essential. We have vast sums of money, not only in Switzerland, but in South American countries sympathetic to our cause. Many of my emissaries are already in the Argentine and Brazil. We must maintain the Kameradenwerk, the Action for Comrades.”
There was a knock at the door and Sara Hesser came in, a briefcase in one hand. Hitler waved her to one side. “I have no secrets from Sara, as you will see.”
“So where do I fit in, my Führer?”
Hitler raised a hand. “The Führer Directive.”
Sara Hesser opened the briefcase, extracted a sheet of paper and passed it to von Berger, who read it with some astonishment. It was explicit:
The Führer Bunker, April 30, 1945.
The bearer of this pass, an aide on my staff, is Sturmbahnführer Baron Max von Berger, on a personal assignment from me. All personnel, civil and military, will render him every assistance.
Adolf Hitler
“This may help you,” Hitler said.
For Max von Berger, the implications were breathtaking. “But in what way, my Führer?”
“To get through whatever happens to you in the next few days. To help you get home, to survive and prepare yourself for your inevitable capture by the Americans or British.”
Von Berger was bewildered. “But there are no Americans here, my Führer, only Russians.”
“You don’t understand. Listen. During the last few days, many planes have flown in from Gatow and Rechlin, using streets such as the East West Avenue near the Brandenburger Tor as runways. Field Marshal von Greim came in the other day in a Fieseler Storch.”
Max von Berger struggled to control himself. The only reason for von Greim to come to Berlin was to be promoted to head of the Luftwaffe. The Führer, of course, could have told him on the telephone. Instead, von Greim had flown in from Munich escorted by fifty fighters, and forty of them had been shot down.
He said patiently, “And how does this affect me?”
“I spoke to the commandant of the Luftwaffe base at Rechlin. A pilot has volunteered to fly you out in a Storch. It has already arrived and is waiting in that huge garage at Goebbels’s house. The heavy rain and steam from the fires will make it an ideal time to go.”
“But to do what, my Führer?”
Hitler put out a shaking hand and Sara Hesser put the briefcase on the desk. “When the war is over, industry will collapse and so will your family’s company, Berger Steel. Eventually, though, things will start to improve, and especially for you. In here, you will find details of deposits in Switzerland, code words, passwords, which will give you access to millions. You’ll build Berger back into a power.”
Von Berger was speechless.
“That is not all.” Hitler opened the briefcase and produced a book bound in dark blue. “I have kept a diary for the past six months, a time in which everyone has betrayed me. Goering, Himmler.” He shook his head. “And no one tried more than me to be reasonable. I even sent Walter Schellenberg to Sweden to meet Roosevelt ’s representative, did you know that? No, of course you didn’t. I offered a negotiated peace to combat the Red menace. Am I the enemy? No. It is that dog Stalin. Together, the U.S. and Germany, we could have smashed him, but, no, my offer was rejected. The Americans will reap the whirlwind, believe me. The Russians will not recognize what they have taken. The damage they will do to Berlin is beyond anyone’s comprehension. Yet Roosevelt and Eisenhower have decided to hold back after the Elbe crossing. Patton and his tanks could be here in twenty-four hours, but they’ve been told to stay where they are in obedience to Stalin’s wishes and allow the Reds to take Berlin.”
“My God,” von Berger said.
“Believe me, in the years to come, America and Britain will rue this as their greatest folly. And it is all in my diary. Every day, I have dictated it to Fraülein Hesser. You may notice the trembling in my hand – an unfortunate ailment that has plagued me for some time. But I have signed each entry.”
“So what do I do with the diary, my Führer?”
“There will come a time when it will be of use to advance our cause. I do not know when – but you will, Baron. You will be its keeper. It is a holy book, Baron. I want no copies, your oath on that? Protected at all times. You may read it, if you wish. You will find the account of my dealings with Roosevelt particularly interesting.” He shook his head. “I have every belief that you will achieve this for me.”
And Baron Max von Berger, a great soldier and a brave man, but who had always despised the Nazi Party, for some reason felt incredibly moved. The young woman put the diary and documents back into the briefcase and handed it to him.
Hitler said, “So, you will leave within the next hour because of the bad weather.”
“May I take my sergeant with me?
” von Berger asked.
“Of course. You can also take Fraülein Hesser.” He glanced up at her.
She said, “No, my Führer, my place, my duty, is with you.”
“So be it.” Hitler stood and held a shaking hand to von Berger. “Strange. Not even a Party member, and yet I chose you.”
Von Berger shook his hand strongly. “I accept the task. It is a matter of honor.”
“On your way. We shall not meet again.”
Sara Hesser went and opened the door. Max von Berger, the briefcase in his hand, paused and turned, and the sight of Hitler, hunched at his desk, was to haunt him for his entire life.
“My Führer.” He gave a military salute.
Hitler gave a thin smile. “Even now you cannot bring yourself to give me a Party salute. You touch your cap like a British Guards officer.”
“I’m sorry, my Führer.”
“Oh, go on. Just go.” Hitler waved his hand and Sara Hesser closed the door on the Baron.
He found his way back up the crowded passageways and through the garden bunker, where he found Hoffer and the young SS soldier sitting under a concrete awning in the entrance, drinking the rest of the vodka while it rained relentlessly.
Hoffer stood up. “Baron?”
“We’re getting out, Karl. Believe it or not, but we’re going to get out.”
“But how, sir?”
Von Berger took him to one side. “I’ve been given a special mission by the Führer. There’s a light plane waiting. I’m not saying more, but we’re going home, we’re going to Holstein.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“Well, it’s true. Give me my coat and get some weapons.”
He turned and the boy said, “You’re going, Sturmbahnführer?”
Von Berger smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Paul Schneider.”
“Then I’ll tell you what, Paul Schneider. Instead of waiting to face death at the hands of the Russians, you can come with us, fly to the West and surrender to the Americans.”
“I can’t believe it,” the boy gasped.
“Sergeant Hoffer just said that.” He turned to Hoffer. “Get moving.”
Within forty minutes, von Berger, Hoffer and young Schneider left the Bunker, exiting into Hermann Goering Strasse. They were well armed with military packs containing extra ammunition and grenades. Each one had a Schmeisser machine pistol slung across his chest.
There were people pouring along the Tiergarten in hordes now, a terrible panic having taken over, and the fog, made worse by the smoke, swirled across the city, not even the heavy rain managing to clear it. The rumble of artillery was constant, women with children screamed, terrified.
The three men moved along the Tiergarten on the edge of the crowd, cut across by the Brandenburg Gate to Goebbels’s house. It showed evidence of damage, obviously from shell splinters, but the very large garage was intact. There was a judas gate in the main door and Hoffer opened it gently.
“Hold it,” a voice called, and a light was switched on. A small Fieseler Storch spotter plane appeared, a young Luftwaffe captain standing beside it in uniform and flying jacket. He held a Schmeisser at the ready.
Von Berger moved past Hoffer. “I’m Sturmbahnführer von Berger. Who are you?”
“My name is Ritter – Hans Ritter – and thank God you’re here. This is the fourth time I’ve done this run and it wasn’t fun. Could I ask where we’re going?”
“To the West, to Holstein Heath in Schwarze Platz. There’s a castle, Schloss Adler, above Neustadt. Can we make it?”
“Yes. It’s a three-hundred-mile flight and we’ll have to refuel somewhere, but I’ll tell you what, Sturmbahnführer, I’d rather be there than here, so let’s get the hell out of this place. Get your lads to open the doors.”
“A sound idea.”
Hoffer and Schneider opened the sliding door and Ritter climbed into the Storch and started the engine. The three men clambered in and Hoffer closed the door.
Outside, the fleeing refugees turned in astonishment, then fled to either side as the Storch bumped over rubble and glass and turned toward the Victory Column. The rain was torrential.
Ritter boosted power and roared down the avenue toward the Victory Column. People scattered, the Storch lifted and, at that moment, Russian artillery opened up, shells exploding on each side. The plane banked to starboard, narrowly missing the Victory Column, and rose up through the fog.
At two thousand feet, Ritter leveled off. “We’ll stay low until we’re well away.”
When one looked down, there was only fire and artillery bursts and drifting smoke and fog. Hoffer said, “It looks like hell on earth. I can’t believe we’re out of it.”
Von Berger got two cigarettes from his silver case, lit them and passed one back to Hoffer.
“So, you were right after all, Karl. It’s Stalingrad all over again.”
Speaking above the roaring of the engine, Ritter cried, “As I said, it’s three hundred miles to Holstein Heath, and I’m very low on fuel. I’m going to make for the Luftwaffe base at Rechlin.”
“That’s fine by me,” von Berger told him, “if you think it wise.”
“It is. We have no idea what’s going to be available to us along the way. Mind you, it all depends on the weather at Rechlin. We’ll see.”
Some time later, he descended through the torrential rain and fog and called in. “ Rechlin Tower. This is Captain Ritter, out of Berlin. Must land to refuel.”
There was a crackle of static and a voice said, “I suggest you try elsewhere, Captain. The fog’s bad here. We’re down to four hundred meters.”
“I’m dangerously short of fuel.”
“The visibility’s getting worse all the time, believe me.”
Ritter turned to von Berger inquiringly. The Baron selected another cigarette and Hoffer lit it for him. Von Berger blew out smoke and said to Ritter, “We got out of Stalingrad and we’ve got out of Berlin. Everything else is a bonus. Let’s do it.”
“At your orders, Sturmbahnführer.”
The Storch descended very quickly, nothing but the fog surrounding them, and the driving rain, a gray, impenetrable world. Von Berger had no fear, too much had happened already – some strange destiny was surely at work. Even at four hundred meters, there was nothing.
He cried out to Ritter above the noise of the engine, “Go for it. What’ve we got to lose?”
Ritter nodded, a strange fixed smile on his face, took the Storch down, and suddenly at a suicidal level of three hundred meters the Luftwaffe base of Rechlin came into view: the buildings, the hangars, two runways. There was evidence of bombing and two aircraft burned at the side of the runway, an old Dornier and a JU885 night fighter. A fire crew was in the middle of dousing the flames.
Ritter made a perfect landing and taxied past the astonished fire crew to the hangars and switched off.
“Well, that was close.”
“You’re a genius, Ritter.”
“No, sir. It’s just that now and then one gets better, usually when it’s needed.”
As they got out, a field car drove up, a Luftwaffe colonel at the wheel. He got out. “Good God, it’s you, Ritter. Straight from Berlin? I can’t believe you got out. How are things?”
“You wouldn’t want to know. This is Sturmbahnführer Baron Max von Berger and his boys.” He turned to von Berger. “Colonel Strasser is an old friend.”
“May I inquire about your purpose, Baron?” Strasser asked.
Von Berger opened the briefcase and took out the Führer Directive, which he passed across. Strasser read it and noted the signature.
“Your credentials are impeccable, Baron. How may I assist?”
“We need refueling for an onward flight to Holstein Heath.”
“I can handle that, all right. We’ve still got plenty of fuel and you are welcome to our hospitality, but there’s no way you’re going anywhere for some time. Just look.�
� He waved toward the runway, the fog rolling in at ground level.
“I’ll see that you’re refueled and checked out, but there’s no guarantee of departure. You can use the officers’ mess, and in the unusual circumstances, your men may join you. I’ll drive you all there.”
“I’ll stay with the plane for the moment,” Ritter said. “Make sure everything is okay.”
Strasser got behind the wheel of the field car. Von Berger and his two men got in and they drove away.
The mess was strangely desolate, an orderly at the bar, another acting as a waiter. He brought Hoffer and Schneider stew and bread and beer, and they sat by the window and ate.
Schneider said, “I can’t believe I’m out of Berlin. It’s like a mad dream.”
“Where are you from?” Hoffer asked.
“ Hamburg.”
“Which isn’t looking too good these days. You’re better off with us.”
Behind them, in a corner by the bar, the waiter served von Berger with ham sandwiches and crusty bread and salad. Strasser came back from his office to join him.
“ Champagne,” he told the waiter and turned to von Berger with a smile. “We’re lucky. We’ve still got good booze and decent food. I don’t think that will last.”
“Well, at least it’s the Yanks and the Brits who are coming, not the Russians.”
“You can say that again.” They sampled the champagne when it came and started on the sandwiches, and Ritter joined them.
“Everything’s being taken care of, but I can’t see us getting off for a few hours. What’s going to happen to you, Strasser?”
The colonel poured him a glass of champagne.
“Gentlemen, I don’t know what your mission for the Führer is and I don’t want to know. Personally, I await the arrival of the Americans with every fiber of my being.” He toasted them. “To you, my friends. It’s been a hard war.”