above the starboard waist-gun. Frantically his hand felt along the metal, seeking the edge of the porthole, as he felt his body urgently commanding him to take another breath.
He found the top rim of the porthole and with one frantic exertion he pulled himself down deeper into the flooded waist section, down and through the porthole. His legs now kicked desperately as he struggled to rise to the surface, but his flying jacket was weighing him down, and he had precious little energy left to fight the drag.
Life-vest, you idiot! Life-vest.
He felt for the pull-cord, patting his chest to find it, all the while feeling himself sinking slowly. He heard the painful groan of metal under stress below him. The plane was going down. The noise began to diminish as it pulled away from him, sinking at a greater speed than he was. He saw the bomber’s tailfin pass by closely. As it descended and faded from view he felt a rush of bubbles rising swiftly past him and the tug of the backwash from the plane plummeting below.
He felt the tickle of string against the back of his hand — the cord — and frantically waved his hand to find it again. He made contact, grasped the cord in his hand and pulled.
The vest inflated violently with a roar of bubbles and Max felt himself pulled rapidly up through little more than twenty feet of water.
He broke the surface with a roar of expelled air and gasped for a fresh lungful.
The plane was gone, marked now only by a handful of floating items of debris. The sea was kind this evening, only small swells, but it was painfully cold. The sun shone weakly; a few hours more and it would be gone. Max turned towards it.
Rises in the east, sets in the west.
West was where he was headed. He started to swim, in his heart knowing the cold would get him before long.
Chapter 59
5 a.m., 30 April, Berlin
It was easy to lose track of the time, down there, down in that dimly lit warren of concrete rooms. For some inexplicable reason he had thought it was five o’clock in the evening, not five o’clock in the morning.
He looked up at the early-morning sky. It was a pale grey, and, for once, it was silent in Berlin. The Russian artillery was sleeping. The featureless clouds above were letting go of a light drizzle of rain, and delicate drops, like cold pinpricks, touched his cheeks. He closed his eyes and felt the raindrops on his eyelids and tasted the still, cold, morning air. It felt good, to drift away from this messy end to things, if only for a few moments, to savour something as simple as the coolness of rain on his face.
He heard the sound of boots scraping on wet concrete. Someone coughed awkwardly, dispelling the quiet, and he was immediately back where he would rather not be.
Hauser opened his eyes.
He stood in the small courtyard beyond the western emergency exit. Goebbels, Frau Jung and a few of the remaining staff officers looked on as four of Hitler’s personal guards brought the bodies outside. They carried them out on white, linen bed-sheets — improvised stretchers. He watched in silence as they carried both bodies across the courtyard to a corner where the brick walls were at their highest. The bodyguards placed both of them on the ground with surprisingly little ceremony or deference; almost dropped them, like two sacks of grain.
There were no words spoken, and Hauser noticed very little grief displayed on the grim line of faces watching both Adolf and Eva Hitler being doused with petrol.
The sheets had fallen aside as the bodies had settled and both Hitler’s and Eva’s heads had emerged. Eva looked asleep. Her face looked peaceful, as if the cyanide had been mercifully quick. By contrast, Hitler’s face looked like that of a man who had died badly, violently. Blood coated the right side of it, from a bullet wound to his temple, and his mouth was pulled back in a vicious snarl of agony.
Otto Gunsch, Hitler’s adjutant, brought out the body of the German Shepherd, Blondi, and placed it carefully beside them with a tenderness than had not been afforded to the two bodies. Gunsch, who had the impassive face of a brutal and ruthless killer, kneeled down and stroked the dog’s head gently. He muttered a few words too, before stepping back as the last of the fuel was emptied over the three bodies.
Hauser rubbed his eyes tiredly.
The communication from the Americans had arrived only three hours ago, at two in the morning. That was when everything had come tumbling down for Hitler and, Hauser reflected, for himself too. The preceding hours, however, since the telegram from President Truman had arrived and confirmed that he agreed to the terms… they had been the happiest of Hauser’s life.
He had shared several glasses of brandy with Hitler and Eva and his three personal secretaries. Only two or three of the officers in the bunker had joined in; the others had stayed warily away from the sudden and unplanned eruption of joy and celebrations.
It had been an impromptu party, of sorts, in the map room.
Hitler had announced to the few present that the war was over, and that the Americans had announced they were to step in to help what was left of their army expel the Russians from Berlin. The ladies, although bemused by this announcement, had cheered gleefully and raised their glasses, and Hitler had sought out Hauser with his eyes.
He had winked at him, like a friendly uncle.
They had sung along to some records, and Hitler had talked to Eva about urgent things that would need to be done first thing in the morning. He had cornered Hauser before he prepared to turn in for the night, as the party was winding down, and embraced him without warning.
He had let Hauser go and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder, as if embarrassed by the emotional gesture. He had said one last thing to Hauser as he held the door of the map room open and Eva brushed past him into the passage, heading for their quarters.
‘There’s a lot both you and I will need to do tomorrow. We have a busy time ahead. Get some sleep, Karl.’
Bormann stepped forward and produced a cigarette lighter. He lit one end of a rolled-up cone of paper. He waited until the flames had firmly taken hold of it before stepping back and tossing it onto the bodies. The flames engulfed Hitler, his wife and his dog, with a dull thump, and Hauser felt the warmth on his face from the other side of the courtyard.
The second communication from President Truman had been a simple statement that Hitler should surrender now, or suffer dire consequences. There had been no mention at all of the previous communication. And twenty minutes after Hitler had been handed the telegram, he had bid farewell to his staff and retired to his personal rooms with Eva. As Gunsch had stood guard outside, it was clear to all that the final moment had arrived. Hauser had heard many of them muttering that they were surprised that Hitler had left it so long, wondering what miracle it was that the Fuhrer had been doggedly hanging on for. And then the muted conversations amongst the officers had swiftly moved on to the subject of the breakout that they were planning.
They all heard the single shot fired inside Eva’s bedroom.
Hauser had felt strangely immobilised by events, unable to think or do anything, other than follow the others outside shortly after the deaths had been confirmed, as they prepared to have the bodies promptly destroyed.
He watched as the flames caught the dog’s fur, and the animal seemed to shrink before his eyes.
Hauser wondered what happened next for him.
Some of those here planned on leaving; others, fearful of the fighting around the Chancellery, were for staying. Most of them appeared locked into a state of indecision. Perhaps they were to just wait until someone from the outside world knocked on the door of the bunker and told them the war was finally over.
To Hauser they looked pitiful. Goebbels, Bormann, the staff officers, even Hitler’s bodyguards. They looked like a group of children left unattended, unsupervised for too long — lost, confused, and those in uniform like little boys playing at being soldiers.
