The boy flushed. “Well, I did put one in my pocket,
The Baron turned to Hoffer. “See how well we train them?” He took the bottle, jerked off the cork, then poured liberally into one of the glasses and tossed it down. He gasped, “God, that hit the spot. The Russians made this one in the backyard.” He poured another, which went the same way. “Great. Take that for a moment, Karl.”
“Baron.”
Von Berger removed his leather greatcoat and handed it to Hoffer. “Suddenly my hip feels fine.” He poured a third vodka and gave the boy the bottle back. “Now you too.”
He got a cigarette out of his case one-handed, the glass of vodka in the other. Hoffer gave him a light and the Baron walked away, enjoying his smoke and sipping the vodka.
Hoffer and the boy had a quick one and poured another. The boy was fascinated by von Berger. “My God, his uniform. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Hoffer was wearing combat camouflage gear. He shrugged. “I’ve got the same thing under this lot. Except for the medals.” He grinned. “The medals are all his.”
In spite of his youth, Baron Max von Berger had seen action in Poland, France and Holland with the Waffen SS. Afterward, he’d transferred to the 21st SS Paratroop Battalion and been wounded at Malame in Crete. Then had come Rommel’s Afrika Korps and the Winter War in Russia. He wore a gold badge, which meant he had been wounded five times.
In spite of the silver Death’s Head badge on his service cap and the SS runes and rank badges on his collar, he was all
The gold-and-silver eagle of the paratroopers’ qualification was pinned to his left breast above the Iron Cross. The Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords hung from his throat.
Karl Hoffer said, “He’s special people, the Baron. We’ve been through four years of hell together and we’re still here.”
“Maybe not for much longer,” the boy said.
“Who knows? In Stalingrad, we thought we’d had it, and then right at the end we both got wounded and they put us on one of the last planes out. Three hundred and fifty thousand men went down the drain, and we made it out.”
At that moment, General Mohnke appeared from the garden entrance of the Bunker. He ignored them and moved toward von Berger.
“Baron, the Fuhrer wants to see you.”
Max von Berger turned, puzzlement on his face. “The Fuhrer?”
“Yes, at once.”
Von Berger paused beside Karl and held out his glass. Karl filled it and von Berger toasted him. “To us, my friend, and the three hundred and sixty-five men of the battalion who died for whatever.” He tossed the drink back and threw the glass away. “So, General,” he said to Mohnke, “let’s not keep the Fuhrer waiting.”
He followed the general down a flight of steps, the concrete walls damp with moisture. Soldiers, mainly SS, were crammed in every nook and cranny of the apparently endless corridors and passageways. There was a general air of despair – more than that, resignation. When people talked, it was in subdued tones against the background of the whirring electric fans that controlled the ventilation system. The soldiers only stopped talking at the surprising sight of Max von Berger in his immaculately tailored uniform, medals aglow.
They passed through the lower levels that housed most of the Fuhrer’s personal staff, Goebbels and his family, Martin Bormann, and many generals. Mohnke still led the way, but von Berger knew exactly where he was going, for he had been there before.
In the garden bunker was the Fuhrer’s study, as well as a bedroom, two sitting rooms, bathroom facilities and a map room, close by and convenient for the constant conferences. Mohnke knocked on the door and went in. Von Berger waited. There was a murmur of voices, then Mohnke returned.
“The Fuhrer will see you now.” He grabbed the young man’s hand. “Your comrades of the SS are proud of you. Your victory is ours.”
A slogan initiated by Goebbels in one of his inspired moments, and the subject of much ribaldry in the ranks of the SS. In any case, von Berger couldn’t imagine what he had done to cause such adulation.
“You’re too kind, General.”
“Not at all.” Mohnke was sweating and looked slightly dazed. He stood back and von Berger passed into the study.
The Fuhrer sat at his desk, leaning over a map. He seemed shrunken, the uniform jacket too large for him; the face seemed wasted, the eyes dark holes, no life there at all, his cheeks hollow, a man at the end of things. The young woman beside him was an SS auxiliary in uniform. She held a sheaf of documents, which she passed one by one for Hitler to sign with a shaking hand. Her name was Sara Hesser. She was twenty-two years of age and had been pulled in by the Fuhrer himself to act as a relief secretary.
He glanced up at her. “Deliver these. I’ll see the Baron in the sitting room. You can then bring the special file to me. Is it up to date?”
“As of last night, my Fuhrer.”
“Good.” He stood up. “Follow me, Baron.”
He shuffled ahead, opened the door and led the way into the first sitting room. He sat in an armchair by a coffee table.
“Baron Max von Berger,
Von Berger clicked his heels together. “I will render unconditional obedience to the Fuhrer of the German Reich and People, Adolf Hitler, Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces, and will be ready, as a brave soldier, to stake my life at any time on this oath.”
Hitler nodded in satisfaction. “You have a magnificent record for one so young and yet you never joined the Nazi Party. Why not?”
“It didn’t seem appropriate, my Fuhrer.”
“A typical response from the head of a great family. The aristocrat to the end – and yet you served me well. Why was that?”
“It’s a matter of honor, my Fuhrer. I took the oath.”
“Just what I thought you’d say. You’re a remarkable young man. I sensed that when I decorated you with the Swords. That’s why I made you an aide. I was saving you. You’d be no use to me dead and that’s what would have happened if you’d returned to the front.”
Max von Berger took a deep breath. “What would you have me do, my Fuhrer?”
“The most important task left to anyone in this Bunker. The Russians are coming. They want to cage me, and I can’t have that. My wife and I will commit suicide – no, no, don’t look like that, von Berger. The important thing is my work must continue, and you will play a part in that, the most important part.”
By his wife, he was, of course, referring to his mistress, Eva Braun, whom he had married around midnight on the 28th.
“We must see that National Socialism survives, that is essential. We have vast sums of money, not only in Switzerland, but in South American countries sympathetic to our cause. Many of my emissaries are already in the Argentine and Brazil. We must maintain the Kameradenwerk, the Action for Comrades.”
There was a knock at the door and Sara Hesser came in, a briefcase in one hand. Hitler waved her to one side. “I have no secrets from Sara, as you will see.”
“So where do I fit in, my Fuhrer?”
Hitler raised a hand. “The Fuhrer Directive.”
Sara Hesser opened the briefcase, extracted a sheet of paper and passed it to von Berger, who read it with some astonishment. It was explicit:
