Weapons of Peace

by Johnston, Peter D. ;

  Hitler’s remaining aide saw Emma trying to make sense of the situation. “Fräulein, just so you know, the führer is coming back. He is getting her.”

  “Who is he getting?” Emma asked. “I only need the owner of the painting, no one else.”

  Before the aide could respond, Emma saw the reason Hitler had walked away. In the distance, he had reappeared with a beautiful blond woman. Emma’s mind flashed back to her conversations with Paula. Suddenly, everything became clearer. This woman must be Eva Braun, and the führer wanted her with him for the photograph. Paula had told her that Hitler and his beloved mistress jointly collected their art. It was one of the things they did together, their mutual distraction.

  As the pair approached her area, Emma felt chagrin. She’d have only one chance at this, and it looked as though she was going to have to kill both Hitler and his lover. She could try asking for individual pictures of each of them, but since the führer had specifically gone to get Braun, trying to separate them probably wouldn’t work and might even raise suspicions. Emma decided that she had no choice: they’d have to die together.

  They were almost upon her, Hitler’s mistress floating by his side, her shimmering long red dress flowing behind her, her hands in the finest black silk gloves.

  Emma moved back behind her camera as she signaled the couple toward their painting. She knew what had to be done. She was a professional about to execute one of the greatest criminals ever known to mankind. If she were to die, Maria had already committed to meeting Paula on Christmas Day at 3:00 p.m., then finding and raising Axel. But Emma had no intention of dying. Their plan had played out perfectly.

  Hitler waved at her. “Apologies for the delay, Fräulein. I needed my painting’s fellow owner with me.” His smile was wide.

  “Yes, thank you for waiting. I’m sorry to be such an inconvenience!” said Braun, her eyes sparkling. Emma was thrown momentarily, though she couldn’t fathom why. She pointed to the painting and told them to pick it up, suggesting that they each hold a different side of the frame.

  Emma adjusted the camera as they moved into position, following her directions. She could no longer bury an uncomfortable feeling. Was it concern over killing again? No, it wasn’t. It was more like a feeling of something or someone she should know. Maybe because she’d seen so many photos of the man she was about to kill? No, that wasn’t it, either, she realized, as she switched over to focusing on the woman in her camera lens. It was her. Something about Eva Braun’s appearance seemed familiar. As Emma hesitated, angry at herself for delaying the inevitable, Hitler looked at his watch. Of course he would be pressed for time, she thought. He hadn’t planned for any of this. He had a country to run, a war to fight.

  Everything began moving in slow motion, just as it did when she was using a gun or saving a life in an operating room. She clutched the detonator in her left hand and looked up one last time to make sure everything was as it should be. She was about to kill a monster. He didn’t look like one, but neither did Dieter when she first met him. She smiled knowingly. The führer relaxed, his grimace melting away. Eva Braun smiled back.

  Oh, my God.

  Emma knew that smile. She knew those teeth, those lips. Her eyes moved back behind the lens. She recognized the nose and the high cheekbones. The voice came back to her. That’s what had thrown her at first. She knew the voice.

  Gone were the sunglasses, the scarf tight to the head, and the excessive makeup to hide her youth.

  Her name wasn’t Paula.

  Her name was Eva Braun.

  Emma stayed behind her camera, trying to gather her swirling thoughts. It all seemed impossible, yet in some ways it made sense. But why would Braun try to undermine the leader she loved—and his new weapon? That didn’t make any sense.

  She stepped out from behind her camera to buy time. Under her dress, she could feel beads of sweat rolling down her back. She walked toward them, keeping her head down so that she wouldn’t be easily recognized. Like Berg, Paula would not know that she’d cut her hair short and dyed it black.

  Nor would Paula ever expect to see her in this venue, and as a photographer. She still genuinely seemed to have no idea who Emma was. Braun and Hitler kept glancing at their new Dettman, discussing its grandeur and meaning. Emma glanced up long enough to adjust the führer’s bowtie. He smiled.

  “How very thorough, Fräulein. Just like you, Eva, when you’re behind the camera.”

  How the hell did Nash become friends with Hitler’s mistress?

  She’d learned so much from Paula, but, unfortunately, she hadn’t learned enough: she still needed to know where Axel was, and, realistically, had no other way of finding him at this point.

  She couldn’t kill Hitler, because she couldn’t kill Eva Braun. Braun held the key to seeing her son again. Yet Emma knew that Hitler had to die: for starting this disastrous war, for killing millions, for starving and slaughtering innocents, for brainwashing Dieter, for stealing her son. Her pent-up anger from years spent in her stone cage surged forward, her emotions yelling at her to exact revenge now, to end this man’s life on behalf of each and every one of his victims—and all those who’d fought against him.

  The Nazis’ heinous acts would continue even with his death, her thinking brain countered cooly, including the bomb they intended to launch. Hitler had provided the spark and much of the fuel, but the fire would carry on without him. The world wanted the weakened führer dead, but didn’t really need him dead, not anymore, her rational mind told her as it negotiated with her soul. The damage had been done, regardless of whether he lived or died. She should do what was best for Axel and her.

  Emma stepped away from the precipice.

  He could live.

  Emma couldn’t live—without her son. She needed Axel back in her arms and more photos of the two of them together to add to her collection of one.

  She returned behind her camera, grabbed the real flash, pushed the button to trigger it, and took a brilliant photograph of a man, his mistress, and their painting—what would later prove to be one of the few public images ever recorded of the couple.

  “Thank you, I have what I need,” Emma said. They moved away, Hitler pulling Braun by the hand, her laughing. The führer called one of his aides over to carry their new painting outside the museum’s main entrance to his waiting car.

  Emma threw her equipment and things together and rushed to leave the building, part of her still raging, demanding answers to what she had just done, or not done, and how she could put her son—no, her own needs—above all else, including the other resisters and everything they’d fought for—especially after they’d so willingly entrusted her with this assignment.

  She made her way to the museum’s discreet side entrance, where nearby she hoped to find her colleagues waiting in the Mercedes; no matter how hard she tried, she could think of no reasonable explanation to give them as to why she’d aborted the assassination, her stunned mind as blank as Hitler’s canvas had been just two weeks before.

  —

  “Halt!”

  Emma had crossed the snow-covered street outside the museum when she heard the command. She assumed it was Krupp’s guard, who’d watched her leave, or possibly one of Hitler’s men. She considered bolting around the corner and running for the car halfway down the block, but that would only risk getting her entire team into trouble. Instead, she turned slowly, predictably, not wanting to overreact.

  Through the falling snow, she could see a tall man, probably a few years younger than she. He held a gun, and it was pointed in her direction. There was a dusting of snow on his coat.

  “Do I know you?” she asked innocently, doing up the top button on her trench coat to keep out the cold.

  “My name is Criminal Assistant Horst Grandt. I’ll tell you shortly if we know each other,” he replied from where he stood across the street. He’d obviously been
hiding in the shadows of the museum, because she had walked right by without noticing him. He began to move toward her, unhurriedly. “But, first, I need to see your eyes.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” she said. She lowered her bags to the sidewalk, in case she needed to defend herself. She had no weapon.

  “Criminal Director Berg told me earlier this evening that you weren’t inside. He said I should go home.”

  “Then why are you still here?” she asked.

  “Just a hunch,” he answered. “I didn’t believe you’d miss such an important event run by your sister and her husband. And I know from all the detective movies I’ve seen that no good detective ignores a hunch. My boss was fixated on your hair, but I only remember your gorgeous eyes.”

  “I think you must have the wrong person.”

  “Maybe, but that’s what I’m about to find out,” he said, halfway across the street. “If I see your eyes close-up, I’ll know for sure whether you’re the demented nurse who hit me so hard that I still wake up in the middle of the night screaming because my damn head hurts so much.” He walked up to her, standing not more than a yard away, staring. “Yes, it’s you. I’ll never forget those blue eyes. Now please, put your hands up. You’re under arrest.”

  Manfred appeared, having run around the corner to look for her, and stopped abruptly as soon as he saw Grandt. The young officer’s eyes swung in Manfred’s direction.

  Emma saw her chance. Her fist flew toward his right hand, knocking his gun into the middle of the street. Manfred retrieved it. Before Grandt could prevent a second blow, her hand pummeled his groin. The criminal assistant keeled over, grimacing on the cold, snowy street.

  “I’ll meet you at the car. Just give me a few moments with Grandt,” she said to Manfred.

  “You sure?”

  She nodded. He disappeared. She looked around. No one was coming. Grandt groaned as she kneeled down by his side.

  “Never underestimate a woman—or a nurse—again, all right?” Emma said. He nodded vigorously. “Which town do your parents live in?” she asked. He hesitated. She grabbed one of his testicles through his woolen trousers and twisted. He screamed.

  “Munich,” he said, trying to catch his breath. He’d looked to her left, not her right. He was lying, she surmised. She twisted again. He shouted, “My parents are in Altena!” He cowered, raising his hands defensively.

  “That sounds much more likely, with your accent,” she said, her hand lingering but no longer applying pressure to his groin. “I’m sure your parents are happy there. So, this is what our agreement could be, Herr Grandt. If I ever see you snooping around the gallery with Berg again, or even hear that you’re looking for any of us, I will come and find you and your parents and kill all of you. Stay away, and make sure Berg finds something else to do with his time. I know he’s senior to you, but you’ll sort it out.” She paused, softening her voice. “I’m trying to be reasonable here, because I could just kill you right now, but, honestly, I’d prefer to let you go. You seem like a nice enough fellow, and, besides, I’d like you to manage Berg so I don’t have to. Do we have a deal?”

  He quivered, quite pathetically, she thought, as he lay looking up at her, his rosy cheeks and his previously immaculate coat now covered with smudges of dirt. “Yes,” he said, his face contorted. She reached out and shook his hand, a simple act of civility that he hadn’t expected from someone who’d been so uncivil to his lower half.

  “Good, we have a deal, then,” she said. She helped him up, which again surprised him. “I suggest that you apply snow to cool your testicles and avoid any uncomfortable swelling.” She began to walk away. “Oh, and Grandt?” she said, turning back toward him just before she rounded the corner.

  “Yes,” he said, still quivering.

  “Thank you for saying I have gorgeous eyes.”

  Chapter 38

  Monday, December 25, 1944

  3:10 p.m.—Berlin’s Tiergarten

  Emma paced back and forth, waiting for her contact at the lion statue, taking in the transformation of the Tiergarten and the city around it.

  After a week of daily snowfalls, Berlin looked like a wondrous place—its dead, its bomb craters, and its pockmarked buildings overlaid with a thick base of white. A noxious, smoky haze and a reassuring quiet hung over the city, the roar of Allied jets absent on this holiday.

  She had grown nervous, because Paula—or Eva, as she now knew her—had never been late. Emma wondered if something had happened to her, or if she’d had to travel with Hitler unexpectedly, though she’d checked the statue and no note had been left explaining her absence.

  Emma was completely dependent on her contact’s information regarding her son’s whereabouts. She had no idea what she would do next if Eva didn’t show up. She pushed the thought aside, watching her breath seep into the frostbitten air.

  For this outing, Emma wore an unflattering wool hat that tightly covered all of her black hair, taking a lesson from Eva on clothing that rendered one indistinguishable. She’d decided not to dye her hair back to its natural blond, since she seemed to attract less attention this way. Assuming Hitler’s mistress did come, Emma was now the one who didn’t want to be recognized from the gala—at least, not until after she knew exactly where she could find Axel. Once Eva realized her cover was blown, Emma feared that her source might cut off all communication.

  “Frohe Weihnachten!” Eva said loudly, approaching from an unexpected direction. Emma spun around, returning the Christmas salutation.

  The surprise was such a pleasant one that, once Eva drew near, Emma found herself moving toward her so that they could embrace. It was odd hugging Eva this time, knowing that she might recently have embraced Hitler.

  Eva had again covered herself up beyond recognition, and Emma still found it hard to believe that beneath those bulky clothes was a woman with such a lovely physique.

  Each woman held a large purse. As they moved to sit down on the bench, Emma kept reminding herself to say “Paula.” One slipup and Axel could be lost to her forever.

  “Who should give their gift first?” Eva asked, trying to get comfortable on the cold bench.

  “Why don’t you give me mine first,” Emma suggested, “because I expect we’ll have much to discuss after you receive yours.”

  “How intriguing,” Eva said, “because I’d guess that you’ll want to talk about my gift for you as well.” She flashed the same smile that had made such an impact on Emma only three days before.

  To Emma’s relief, Eva removed a white letter-sized envelope from her bag. “To my new friend, Emma. May this little gift bring you everything you’ve hoped for.” Emma breathed deeply, took off her gloves, and opened her gift, which was thinner than she’d expected. She pulled out a single page, her hands trembling slightly. She scanned the typed document, picking out the Hamburg address first and committing it to memory.

  Her eyes were drawn next to one particular sentence: The father seems to care for his son’s well-being. This line made Emma sick to her stomach.

  Dieter had changed his last name from von Schroeter to Hoffmaier; her son was now Axel Hoffmaier. She continued reading:

  Subject works at a fish factory in Hamburg. He tells people he was hurt fighting on the front. Fact is that his limp is probably from a self-inflicted gunshot wound—part of creating a new identity and avoiding military duty. He escaped Berlin in late 1941, when a warrant was issued for his arrest by high-ranking Nazi officials. The circumstances of his offense are unknown.

  She started sobbing. Eva moved in to hold her, causing Emma to cry harder. She felt like an idiot. The last time she’d let go like this was with Nash.

  She finally pulled away and looked at Eva. Eva’s face was lined with tears, grooves forming in her previously impenetrable makeup.

  Emma took a few slow breaths. She carefully placed the envelope
inside her coat pocket and put her gloves back on. “Thank you. Now it’s time for your gift,” she said, wiping away her tears as she pulled out a package.

  Eva appeared genuinely excited. She could be very girlish at times, Emma knew, and now she better understood why: Eva was indeed much younger than the contact she portrayed. But it was more than that, Emma thought, as she watched Eva pull the wrapping off her gift. Eva was feisty, smart, full of life, and in the prime of her beauty. Despite the fact that there was a war going on around her, she was strangely unaffected most of the time.

  No wonder the führer loves her.

  Eva had unwrapped her gift. It sat in her lap. She stared at it, her brows furrowed, a smile slowly stretching across her face. She looked at Emma, who also smiled.

  Emma spoke softly. “Merry Christmas, Eva.”

  Eva Braun did a double take at the sound of her real name. “How . . .”

  Emma pulled off her hat, revealing her dark hair. Eva’s mouth dropped in surprise.

  “I was hired by Herr Krupp and the art gallery to take pictures at the gala. For Christmas, I wanted you to have this framed photograph of the führer and you—my friend—to whom I owe so much. Of course, I had no idea you were Paula until I saw you with him. As much as you may value makeup, Eva, nothing can hide that shining light inside you. You looked radiant. I knew who you were immediately…well, almost, certainly when I saw you smile.”

  Eva laughed, but her face remained troubled. “Have you told anyone else?” she asked.

  “No, of course not. I know how important your anonymity is to you.”

  Her face relaxed. “Thank you, Emma. And thank you for this gift. I’ll always cherish it. We do look so happy as a couple, don’t we?” she said, glancing down at the picture.

  Emma couldn’t disagree, consciously burying her conflicted feelings about Eva, particularly when it came to Hitler—who didn’t deserve happiness.

  Eva continued, “Paula is my middle name, so it’s not like I completely made it up. I’d already decided to share my real identity with you, but I didn’t know when, exactly. Having been brought up as a good Catholic girl, I suppose Christmas Day is as good a time as any for the truth to shine down on us. Don’t you think?”