countries, though neutral Switzerland was the favorite.
Langer and his escort followed the Fuhrer outside. There Adolf Hitler disappeared for a while inside the entrance to his bunker. Langer and the officer smoked a cigaret during his absence.
There was no conversation. The officer had evidently been ordered to refrain from any familiarity, though he did give his companion a number of questioning looks. Why would the Fuhrer wish to see a common enlisted man from the army at this time? Steeling his mind he mentally disciplined himself for the unspoken infraction of his orders.
An hour passed and Wolff led Langer to the barren garden just outside the bunker, checked his watch, straightened his tunic and stood ready. He butted out his smoke and adjusted the visored cap with the Deathshead and Reich adler insignia.
Hitler made his appearance just as twenty members of the Hitler youth were led into the garden and placed into a single rank. They had come from the fighting in Berlin. The oldest was sixteen, the youngest was thirteen. All of them were children that the state had taken control of when their parents had died or been killed from either the bombings or the Russians. They were from Dresden and Breslau. Hitler wore an ordinary gray coat which looked too large for his stoop-shouldered frame. He moved from one to the other passing out the Order of the Iron Cross. He stopped at one youth and patted the child's cheek with a grandfatherly gesture, sighed deeply and moved on to the next. These were the last of his Thousand-Year Reich. Children called in to fight in the great battle, children who still believed the myth of their leader.
Two of the boys had knocked out Russian tanks with bazookas the day before in the street fighting. Others had manned the barricades and fought the Asiatics of Russia with the ferocity that only those who believe in fairy tales could muster. Killer children died on the streets of Berlin. If they died fast, they did so with the thought that they had served their leader well and died as did the heroes of the Nordic myth. If it took a little longer for them to expire, and the pain was great, they called for their mothers.
Finishing the awards, for the first time, Hitler looked at Langer. For a moment the dullness left his eyes. He motioned for them to follow and reentered the subterranean bunker that served him as his personal haven.
Wolff and Langer followed. The children were led off to return to the battle. All but two would die in the next three days. Eyes watched them as they followed. One of those pairs belonged to Hitler's personal aide, who looked with mistrust at anyone too near his god.
Langer counted the steps down—forty-four. Inside, he could smell the mustiness that all concrete seems to keep forever wet, damp. Passing gray or moldy orange-colored walls, they followed. The fetid mixed smells of urine from backed-up toilets and sweaty uniforms and boots went with them. The hum of a diesel generator droned constantly, stopping only for a second when it was switched over, coughed and restarted.
Normally to go into the bunker one would have to go through an elaborate system of security checks, but Himmler's presence and the assignment to Wolff evidently served as all the authorization Langer needed.
They followed Hitler down the corridors and corners of his labyrinth. They stopped at a small conference room two doors down from Hitler's rooms and obeyed his beckoning finger to enter.
Hitler sat at the far end, his back to the wall. He didn't like people to be behind him.
Hitler had removed his greatcoat and sat in the familiar gray plain coat with the Iron Cross he had won in the First World War on it. He was a definite contrast to the peacock dress of his general staff, in particular, Hermann Goring. By his plainness he understood that he stood out in a crowd of brilliant uniforms and bemedaled chests. He was, as always, a master showman.
But now the play was ending and he was a tired old man. He thanked Wolff and told him to wait down the hall in the guard and switchboard room until he was sent for.
Hitler indicated for Langer to sit at the far end of the conference table.
His eyes foggy, he looked at the man opposite him for some time. His vision had been failing and he had to strain to keep things in focus, particularly in the dim light of the conference room.
'So you are the one we have waited for so long.
'Casca Rufio Longinus, soldier of Imperial Rome, gladiator and mercenary. It's somewhat ironic that you have ended up fighting for the Brotherhood. That's why we lost you for so long. It never occurred to us that you might be on our side in this war.' Hitler laughed and coughed, his left hand holding his right to control the trembling in the arm.
'You know, I never really believed the story of you. But here you are. You really exist.' Wonder touched the edge of his voice.
'I have naturally read all the reports of your physical description—the scars on your face and wrist. Show me your hands.' The thin, ragged, circular scar encircling his left wrist brought a spark to dulled eyes. 'It's really true.' Hitler glanced at the clock on the wall. 'I don't have much time. Tell me what really happened at Golgotha when Jesus died.'
Langer spoke, trying to keep himself from strangling the madman. 'What do you care about Jesus? I don't understand. He was a Jew, yet you kill Jews as inferior beings. Why should you have any interest? ' He deliberately omitted the obligatory title of 'Mein Fuhrer' or even sir.
Hitler responded, 'You really don't know? It's quite simple. We have definite proof that Jesus was not Jewish. He was of an ancient Aryan stock, the same as the pure blood of the German tribes. Jesus was not a Jew.'
Langer laughed. 'Then he could have fooled me. He was as Jewish-looking as I ever saw. Not like the paintings of him with light-brown hair and blue eyes. He was a small man with a large Semitic hook nose and bad skin. He was a Jew, but he died well. Will you be able to claim the same'—sarcasm touched at his words—'Mein Fuhrer?'
Hitler refused to rise to the argument. 'That you will see for yourself, Herr Longinus. That you will most certainly see for yourself.
'You know, you could do something about all those scars. They have learned some remarkable things about plastic surgery lately. You could have most of them erased.' His mind wandered; then with a visible effort he drew himself back. Now he ordered him to tell him about the crucifixion. 'I have to know.'
