occupied Europe who had volunteered for the force. It was the final ghastly irony, that the last-ditch defenders of Germany should be foreigners fighting in the name of an Austrian psychopath because the army he had created to defend his adopted homeland was an army of ghosts. With daylight now, it could only be a matter of time before the Soviets realized that the SS would not surrender, and unleashed hell. As soon as that happened, any hope of surrendering the flak tower and saving the thousands of lives inside would surely be lost.
A drop of condensation splatted on the open diary in front of him. He quickly blotted it out with his sleeve, smearing the pencil writing of the final paragraph. He tore three blank sheets from the back of the book, folded them and put them with the pencil in his tunic pocket, then closed the book, resting his hand on the embossed gold swastika and eagle symbol on the front. He had written his diary in a foolscap army order book so that prying eyes might think he was drafting a plan of battle for his phantom division. Instead he had written down everything. Everything. It was an eyewitness account of the last weeks and days of the Reich, by one who had been close to the monsters who had created it. Hoffman had been a Luftwaffe ace, had chalked up enough missions to win the Knight’s Cross with oak leaves and swords, but after being wounded and grounded he had become one of Hitler’s strutting peacocks, a Nazi war hero. He had been promoted, showered with honours, feted. He had been inches from Hitler, from that chalk-like face, those eyes like a snake’s, the foul breath. He had played with Goebbels’ children, their names all beginning with H in honour of Hitler, their lives inextricably bound up with the fate of their Fuhrer; he remembered the oldest girl, Heine, with her sad eyes, last seen in the Fuhrerbunker when he had left it two days before. He had attended parties and celebrations, his face preserved for all time in the newsreels and propaganda photographs, waving and smiling as the Fuhrer bestowed yet another award, inspected yet another doomed Hitler Youth regiment. And as the final months had passed, as the Red Army had closed in, it had become even more grotesque. Only ten days before, he had attended the final concert of the Berlin Philharmonic to hear the last act of Wagner’s Ring Cycle so beloved of the Nazis, the Gotterdammerung. On the way out, uniformed boys of the Hitler Youth had offered them trays of cyanide tablets to keep ready for the last curtain in Hitler’s own opera. Then Hoffman had been obliged to join the inner circle on a trip to the circus, and had watched the performers on horses go round and round, swirling like some vortex in his mind, amongst SS officers with plump frouleins on their knees, laughing and crying, maudlin and self-pitying, the champagne flowing. And meanwhile the killing had gone on all round them: the Feldgendarmen stringing up deserters from lamp posts, summary executions of slave labourers in the streets, bodies left in pools of blood to join those killed by the Allied bombing and the relentless Soviet advance.
His own son. He steeled himself again. That was the only reason he had gone along with it all. The only reason. He knew what had happened to the families of those who had plotted against Hitler the year before. He had been on the Eastern Front then with his squadron, just trying to stay alive. But since being posted to Berlin and being sucked into the vipers’ nest, he knew that the eyes of the Gestapo and their informers had followed him everywhere, reporting his every move. Hitler the Fuhrer loved his war heroes, but Hitler the man loathed them because he could never be one himself. Himmler was even more mercurial, the slipperiest of them all. It was a terrible truth, but every day of suffering in Berlin, every day in which thousands more died, was another day of hope for Hoffman’s family. The longer the Soviets could be staved off, the more chance there was that his wife and son might escape. They lived near Elsholz, thirty kilometres south of Berlin. Hoffman could not go there because any attempt to leave the city would be met with instant retribution from the Feldgendarmerie. General Zhukov’s Third Army was sweeping in from the east, the Americans from the west. Terrible stories were reaching Berlin of mass rape by Red Army soldiers. He remembered, on his way back from that awful night at the circus, helping a limbless veteran of Stalingrad back into his wheelchair in a bombed-out S-Bahn station. The soldier had raised a stump in an ironic Heil Hitler salute. Don’t bother with me, he had said. If the Ivans do to us only half of what we did to them, then what you see of me now, this half of a man, this is nothing . There had been a chance, just a chance, that the Americans might get to Elsholz first, that the defence of Berlin might hold the Soviets off long enough for Hoffman’s family to fall into Western hands. But now there were reports of the Russians having passed west beyond the town and meeting the Americans on the Elbe. He could only pray that his wife Heidi and son Hans had escaped, and meanwhile try to save as many lives here as he could while there was still time.
He looked at his watch. Three minutes to ten. He stood up and placed the order book containing his diary on top of the left-hand crate, the embossed Nazi eagle and swastika on the cover facing up. He would tell the Feldgendarmen outside the door that the order books on his desk contained top-secret plans for a breakout from Berlin, that they were on no account to let anyone in, and that he would be returning shortly with the flak-battery commander to discuss tactics. In truth he had no intention of returning, but he needed to leave the diary where it might be found by a Red Army intelligence officer. He knew the savage punishment meted out by the NKVD to Russian soldiers who damaged anything of intelligence value, so any discovery like that would be likely to fall into the right hands. There was another book lying on the crate, an open copy of Schliemann’s Troy that had been there when he had arrived, evidently being read by the unpleasant Dr Unverzagt while he had guarded the crates. He moved the volume so that it partly concealed the diary. He noticed that the opened page showed drawings of ancient pottery with swastika decorations, and he remembered a tediously mystical lecture by Von Schoenberg, a student acquaintance of his at Heidelberg University and now one of Himmler’s Ahnenerbe, about the swastika, claiming that it had been the symbol of the first Aryans, even of Atlantis. Hoffman curled his lip in disdain. Atlantis. He shut the book. He hoped the Soviets would see these artefacts for what they were, as treasures for all mankind, and that their place in history would be shorn of all the twisted fiction that had been used to justify the appalling crimes committed by Himmler and the SS.
There was a sudden commotion at the door. It swung open, and one of the Feldgendarmen clicked his heels. ‘Herr Oberstleutnant. This man insists on seeing you. He tried earlier, but you were on the roof with the flak gunners. I’ve checked his papers. He’s a member of the Nazi party.’
Hoffman strode irritably over. ‘Who the devil is it?’ Then he saw the unsavoury form of Dr Unverzagt trying to squeeze in, being held back by the other Feldgendarm. Hoffman waved his arm dismissively. ‘I have no time for this man.’
The Feldgendarm nodded and pushed Unverzagt roughly back, but he shouted out: ‘Herr Oberstleutnant. Listen to me. I have news of your family.’
Hoffman stared at him. Saying that was the easiest way to gain entrance. Everyone wanted news of their families. But it might be true . He gestured at the guard to release him. ‘All right. Two minutes, no more.’
Unverzagt sprang forward, and then pushed the door nearly shut. He turned back and hurried over to Hoffman, speaking urgently. ‘Herr Oberstleutnant. When was the last time you saw Reichsfuhrer Himmler?’
Hoffman stared at him in contempt. He grabbed the man by the lapels and dragged him further in, then marched over and slammed the door. He took the man again and forced him towards his desk. ‘You fool,’ he snarled. ‘Keep your voice down. Don’t you know that Himmler is discredited? He tried to negotiate with the Americans, and Hitler found out. He’s been branded a traitor. The Feldgendarmen will kill you just for mentioning his name.’
Unverzagt tried to push him away, and Hoffman held him tight for a moment before relenting. The man straightened his lapels, then pulled something out of his coat pocket, keeping his fist closed around it. ‘The Reichsfuhrer has always had your best interests at heart, Hoffman. Do you remember as a boy it was he who directed you to join the Luftwaffe? And he has always looked after your family. I am to tell you they are safe from the Russians, in Plon on the Baltic Sea. They are being guarded by the SS. If all goes to plan, you will be joining them soon.’
Hoffman stared at the man. ‘What the devil are you talking about? How do you know this?’
‘Five months ago, Himmler took you to visit SS headquarters at Wewelsburg Castle. He took you to the vault below the SS Generals’ Room, and showed you something. Do you remember what it was?’
Hoffman kept staring. This was absurd, to dwell on Himmler’s nonsense at a time like this. He remembered the visit well enough, a tedious tour through all the rooms named after mythical Aryan heroes, before the lecture about the swastika by the Ahnenerbe man. But he especially remembered what Himmler had shown him, in a secret vault deep inside the castle. He had been sworn to utter secrecy.
Unverzagt peered at him. ‘Good. Your face betrays nothing. That is what the Reichsfuhrer saw in you as a boy. Utter reliability. You have kept your word. Your loyalty will be rewarded.’ He opened his hand, took Hoffman’s and put something in it, a folded piece of paper. Hoffman opened it and looked, then closed his hand over it. It was the same symbol he had seen in the vault in the castle. The reverse swastika. He stared at Unverzagt.
‘What do you want with me? Now of all times, for Christ’s sake? Haven’t you seen what’s going on
