Last Man to Die by Michael Dobbs
He reached over to grasp Hencke’s hand but his fingers were so unsteady he had to use his other hand to quell the shaking. He was already breathless and wheezing painfully. ‘Hencke, I have a plan. The war will not end. We shall stay in Berlin a few days longer and give the Russians a bloody nose. Then we shall fly to the mountains! We can fight for months from there, up where the air is sweet and the sun will shine upon us. We shall leave this shit hole of Berlin for the Americans and Russians to fight over. Jewish capitalists marching from one side and Jewish Bolsheviks from the other. Imagine! The mightiest blood-letting history has ever seen. They can lob artillery shells at each other over the fucking Reichstag, for all I care. We are die von dem Berg, people of the mountain. We don’t need vast panzer divisions and to hell with all those miserable, whingeing, double-crossing generals. Just a few thousand of us, carefully chosen. People like you, Hencke. We can stay up in Berchtesgaden until the Americans get bored and limp back home after they’ve stuck their bayonets up the bums of half of Russia. We shall have new weapons, deadly new nerve gases, Tabun, Sarin, atomic weapons perhaps. Then – will – be – our – time – again!’
He collapsed back in his chair, exhausted, unable to continue.
Hencke, too, was incapable of speech. Deep inside, in the parts where men cry and rant about the injustices of life, he cursed whatever forces had brought him to this underground bedlam. They had brought him into the lair to inflict his mind with further madness, shown him an evil beyond comprehension, filled him with such horror that he knew he would burn in hell if he failed to wipe out this evil. And yet he had been left powerless, stripped of means or ideas to end it all. He could see no shadow of a chance.
‘It can work, can’t it, Hencke?’ Hitler asked, interrupting his thoughts.
The endless alpine war? Hencke had to admit to himself that, like so much madness, it just might. He nodded.
‘I knew it. You are my lucky mascot, Hencke, sent to let me know that with valour like yours we can still achieve anything we want.’ He shook his guest’s hands limply and he had started to mumble with exhaustion. ‘This is a happy day … very special one for us both … miserable bastards, to hell with the doctors and their suicide pills. They can shove them up their wives’…’
Suddenly Hitler halted his litany of abuse, and Hencke looked up to see that they had been joined by another figure, a woman, pretty, lithe, smiling, early thirties. It was one of the group of friends he had seen laughing in the cellar of the Reich Chancellery. Hencke expected outrage at this unannounced interruption but, instead, Hitler gathered his energies and rose unsteadily to his feet, straightening his jacket, kissing the woman tenderly on the hand. Gone was his rambling coarseness of a moment before.
‘Hencke, allow me to introduce you to Fraülein Braun, a dear and trusted friend of mine.’ Having effected the introduction, he sank down heavily in his chair.
‘I came in to make sure you weren’t tiring yourself,’ she said to him. ‘It seems I came not a moment too soon.’ There was a scolding tone in her voice and her blonde, shoulder-length hair fell about her diamond-shaped face as she leaned over Hitler. She turned to Hencke. ‘Captain, forgive me, but I think it’s time for the Fuehrer to rest. He has so much still to do …’
‘No, one last thing,’ objected Hitler. ‘Hencke, I have something for you.’ From beside his chair he produced a red leather case which he thrust at his guest. ‘Something special.’
Inside, Hencke found a solid silver photo frame. Inlaid into the metalwork was a small gold swastika. It carried a photograph of Hitler and there was writing, a dedication in practically illegible scrawl which he struggled to decipher.
Hitler hurried to cover the embarrassment of his growing inability to control a pen. ‘It says: “To Peter Hencke, A brave and devoted follower. From your Fuehrer, Adolf Hitler”. I don’t give those to everyone, you know.’
‘I find it difficult to know what to say.’
‘Well, that’s it. Time for a rest. Perhaps see you later, Hencke.’ With that he pulled himself awkwardly out of his chair. Having straightened himself, Hitler bowed courteously to the woman and shuffled off into a neighbouring room. The interview was at an end. Hencke never had a chance.
The office was dark, the only illumination coming from a candle on the desk. The power had failed again. Bormann was in foul mood. He loathed Goebbels, for the intellectual gifts which Bormann could never match, for the significant role he had played in the early days of the Movement, for the access to Hitler which this gave him, and for his role as Der Chef’s oldest – and nowadays seemingly only – trusted counsellor. Over the years Bormann as the archetypal bureaucrat had outmanoeuvred and outlasted most of the others, but he had never learned how to handle the Reichsminister for Propaganda. Goebbels always seemed one step ahead. And Bormann seethed when he remembered how Goebbels had spoken to him, in the presence of the secretary, too. No one else would get away with that … He was in no mood to tolerate the prevarication he was getting on the telephone.
‘Look, I don’t want a debate on logistics, I don’t want to hear how busy you are and I don’t give a damn if your pet dachshund keeps crapping on your best carpet because of the shelling. This is not an enquiry. Nor is it a request, you little jerk. This is a Fuehrerbefehl, an order direct from the man himself, and if it’s not obeyed I shall come down personally to the Ministry and string you up on a meat hook with my own hands. So if you want to live to see tomorrow night I suggest you drop whatever else you are doing and get me some answers. Can I make it any clearer than that?… That’s right. H-E-N-C-K-E. Peter. Check his birth certificate, his university records, his teaching diploma, his collar size, his taste in music, everything … I don’t know if he’s married, cretin. It’s your job to find out! By midday tomorrow. Understand?’
He was just about to throw another barrage of abuse down the receiver when the connection went dead. Bormann stared at the mouthpiece, unable to decide whether the phone had been put down on him or the land line had once again been cut. He was still looking at it when the secretary, kneeling directly at his feet, ran the tips of her fingers across her heavily rouged lips.
‘Shall I continue now, you big bear?’
‘Captain Hencke, I know your plan. I think you have come here to cause the most extreme havoc.’
Hencke froze and his brow creased in bewilderment as he saw the young woman’s green eyes staring directly at him.
‘Do you realize that four of my best friends are at this very moment threatening to murder each other in order to decide which of them is going to be the first to be seen with you in Berlin?’ Her face lit up in mischief and a peal of laughter echoed around the small Bunker sitting-room. As she laughed she swung her narrow hips, causing her silk dress to rustle.
‘Fraülein Braun, I’m not sure I understand …’
‘Come on, Captain. You surely don’t think it’s only the likes of Goebbels who take an interest in you.’
‘I fear I would be a miserable disappointment for one lady, but for four?’ He shook his head in self-condemnation.
‘Don’t fool yourself, Captain. You might have evaded the clutches of Churchill and the entire British Army, but I can assure you that you will not escape so lightly from my girlfriends. They have instructed me that if you refuse I am to get the Fuehrer to sign a personal order!’ She laughed gaily once more, and Hencke was still wondering who this extraordinary woman was who had walked in on Hitler and then propositioned him on behalf of her friends when her laughter suddenly died. Her face puckered and her hand came to her forehead.
‘Oh, this Bunker! The atmosphere is so oppressive, my head is ringing. It feels as if the entire roof has fallen in on me …’ She was in genuine distress.
‘Perhaps some fresh air,’ Hencke suggested. ‘I would offer to escort you, but I’m lost beyond the end of the corridor.’
She studied him carefully for a moment. ‘Would you mind, Captain? I’d be grateful. Let me show you t
Left with little choice, he followed her out into the corridor and past the guard, but not the way he had arrived. She guided him in the opposite direction, past a foul-smelling latrine and through yet another guarded steel door, but this time no one stopped to check him, the guard simply saluting him – or was it her? – and stepping back. Then on to a concrete stairway, which rose four flights until he could feel the soothing brush of fresh air on his face. They emerged into a garden from underneath the cover of a huge concrete blockhouse, twenty feet high, with an unfinished pill-box tower looming beside it. A broken cement mixer leaned drunkenly against its bare walls. In the fading light he could see the garden was mostly laid to grass with a few trees, but the lawn was badly churned from the impact of bombs and shells and most of the leaves had been stripped from the trees. Even the high walls of the Reich Chancellery surrounding the garden had been unable to provide much protection. A greenhouse nearby stood sagging and badly shattered; Hencke could smell the fragrance of jasmine wafting through the broken panes, made all the sweeter by the acrid smell of smoke which hung across the city.
They started walking along a narrow gravel path. She breathed deeply of the evening air, and the creases on her forehead vanished as quickly as they had come.
‘Where are we?’ Hencke enquired.
‘The Bunker garden. We’ve just come out of the emergency exit. You’re not supposed to use it, of course, except with the Fuehrer. Or me. You must be careful, Captain. Here less than a day and already taking tea with the Fuehrer and walks in his private garden. There are those who will grow jealous.’ Her mood was light and easy, but he had the impression that her words should not be dismissed as idle chatter.
‘Who?’
‘You’re very direct, Captain.’
‘I’ve only just arrived, remember. And I doubt whether I’ve got time to learn all the subtleties.’
‘Ah! Too direct, I fear, for this city. It’s not the habit here. People prefer to talk in code or riddles and you need an interpreter or an astrologist to find out what they really mean. Why, only an hour ago I heard that tub of lard Goering profess undying faith in the Fuehrer, yet already he is on his plane flying as far south as possible. With such faith, whole Reichs could be toppled, eh?’
Hencke’s brow puckered as he heard the bluntness of her comments aimed at one of the most powerful men in the land. Who was this woman of the Bunker? ‘I’m confused. Forgive me … Who are you?’
‘Me?’ She smiled, lowered her eyes, blushed a little? ‘Of course, you’ve never been in Berlin and Goebbels makes absolutely sure that nothing ever appears in the newspapers.’ She shrugged. ‘But you’ll know as soon as you ask any corporal in the Chancellery, and you seem to prefer directness … I am Eva Braun.’
His expression told her that the name meant nothing to him.
‘I am the Fuehrer’s companion. His mistress.’
‘Then it would seem that you, too, should beware in this city of jealousies, Fräulein Braun, for you certainly have far better access to the Fuehrer than me.’
She clapped her hands with delight, her green eyes sparkled and her voice fluttered with laughter. She moved gracefully, athletically; her body was slim, almost boyish, her teeth white and her lips naturally red, and she had a dimple in the middle of her chin. Although she could never be called a beauty there was an untainted naturalness about her which belied her age and her fashionable clothes. She seemed and sounded much younger than her thirty-odd years. ‘You are not like the others, Captain. I feel I can be honest with you. They all play games and intrigue against each other. I hope you won’t be long enough in Berlin to catch their disease.’
‘You don’t seem to like Berlin.’
‘I hate it. I’m a Bavarian, from the mountains.’
‘You must be looking forward to returning there.’
‘It … would be wonderful.’ Her words were wistful, as if she were describing a dream rather than the reality of a few days’ time.
‘I thought it was decided. Yet you sound uncertain, Fräulein Braun.’
‘We have made so many plans, over these past years …’ She trailed off, her gaiety gone.
Darkness had fallen and a chill was catching the air. There were goose-bumps on her bare arms but she seemed not to notice. She was wrapped in thought and her words came cautiously.
‘I’ve had fifteen wonderful years with him, Hencke. Every year has been like a lifetime and I have been so happy. I’m not afraid to die, if I have to. If that’s the price.’ She was twisting a ring on her little finger, the only jewellery she wore, and it had obviously come from him. ‘I know everything has to come to an end. Some time. I’m not complaining, really …’ She was biting her lip hard, losing her carefree composure.
‘You feel that much for him?’
‘He’s … been so kind to me. So considerate. I was only seventeen, an assistant in a photographer’s shop when we met. He’s older, of course, much older, and I’m such an empty-head where he’s so wise. Like a father. He trusts me because I don’t play games like the others. I don’t discuss politics or push new military strategies. And I never argue with him – I daren’t. We just relax together. He says that if he closes his eyes and reaches out he needs to know that someone will be there, not with a knife in their hand but with virtue and steadiness in their heart. And all the rest are liars, every one of them. Goebbels tries to manipulate him for his little propaganda games, Goering promises to defend the skies above Berlin with planes he hasn’t got, and as for that disgusting toad Bormann … He hates me because I’m the one woman he knows he can never have. He tells fearful lies, even pretends that he’s a non-smoker and vegetarian like the Fuehrer. Vegetarian! One night one of the girls found a salami hanging behind his pillow. And she says that’s the least of his revolting habits. But even with an oaf like him I have to share the Fuehrer.’ She sighed with resignation. ‘I have to share the Fuehrer, with the whole of Germany at times. I shouldn’t mind. I’ve been at his right hand all these years. That should be enough for any girl, shouldn’t it?’
Hencke was the schoolmaster once more, listening to a girl pour out her heart and her confusion, and in spite of her protestations of loyalty he knew there was something missing. ‘But it hasn’t been enough. Has it?’
‘All these years, at his right hand, but never properly by his side. Sharing him with so many. Worrying that the difference in our ages was so great he must take me for a silly chattering girl. Wondering what love was like for all the rest …’
Hencke tried to imagine the decrepit old man he had seen that afternoon lying beside this young, vibrant woman. But he couldn’t. No matter how hard he tried. He realized it couldn’t be, or couldn’t have been, not for a very long time. So that was the problem. A young woman. Facing death. Alone. She deserved it, of course, for the folly of a loyalty so blind. She could be condemned for a love which was twisted, unnatural, obscene many would call it. But even as he shared in the distaste he knew that he, of all people, could not join in the condemnation. Not condemn her for her love, for love could never be a crime. That he understood all too well. They sat down in a gazebo which had somehow remained untouched by the assault on the city, and he reached in the dark to touch her hand, as he would have comforted one of his pupils. He did it instinctively, without thinking, and she did not draw back. He could feel the warm splash of tears on his skin. But no sound, no complaint. Damn it, she was fighting hard.
‘You are such a good listener and I am nothing but a silly blabbermouth, but I have no one else to talk to.’ She squeezed his hand in gratitude and tried a brave laugh, to pretend she wasn’t hurting, but couldn’t sustain it. ‘Tell me. Is facing death … difficult?’
In the semi-light she was looking at him with the earnestness of a young woman, spoiled all her adult life and who had never grown up, never had to, but who had the honesty to realize it. Now she was having to catch up for those wasted years, to mature, to deal with pain, to face
‘Facing death difficult? I’ve found facing life much harder. Death is just another challenge, and not the most difficult. There is no pain in death, the pain is all in the waiting. You can spend every day of a whole lifetime fearing something which will come only once and, when it does, be gone in a moment. Why waste our lives fearing something over which we have no choice? You have only one really important choice, and that’s nothing to do with dying, it’s all about living. How long we have is of little consequence, what we do with it is everything. That’s what makes facing death difficult, the regrets. The things you’ve done or, even worse, the important things you’ve left undone.’
‘Will you die with regrets?’
He paused. ‘I hope not.’
The darkness had closed around them like a confessional. She had stopped crying, they were still holding hands.
‘Have you ever helped anyone to die?’