Himmler walked through his palatial castle. This was to be the center of the world. He walked around a shallow basin with a fountain splashing water in the center. The entry to an outside courtyard was dominated by the water feature. Yet another massive banner bearing the Nazi swastika hung on the wall above the fountain.
He paused and stared down at the water basin. Himmler had envisioned the Death’s Head honor rings of every SS officer who fell in battle would be reverently cast into the basin. The rings were a personal gift from Himmler to each of his top SS officers.
Himmler sighed and struggled to contain his emotions. He’d sent away his beloved Norwegian mistresses and his children by each. He’d finally made arrangements for his wife, Margarete, and daughter to be protected at his secretive home in Bavaria. His former secretary was also cared for and provided an element of safety from the advancing Allied forces.
He was left alone in Wewelsburg except for his aides and security detail. There were no young SS officers to train. No visiting dignitaries or military leaders. But fortunately, there were no British Spitfires buzzing over his head either.
He made his way into the north tower of the castle. He entered the vast room designed to his specifications years ago. He sighed as he took in the soaring ceiling and ornate interior. It was to be the meeting hall of the twelve generals, the Obergruppenführer. The twelve military leaders, including himself, were akin to the twelve Knights of the Round Table in his mind. Himmler closed his eyes and tried to imagine the table filled with these brave leaders. And beneath their feet, the symbol of the Black Sun.
The Black Sun was symbolic to the Nazis, and Himmler, in particular, found it to have occult-like properties. He had the contractors create a marble mosaic of the Black Sun in the floor and placed the round table on top of it. He saw the mosaic as twelve spokes rotating around the sun. Symbolically, the sun was Germany and the twelve spokes represented the twelve men who ruled the Reich.
Himmler stopped pacing the floor. He rested his hands on the most adorned chair around the table. His chair. The proverbial head of the table. It would not belong to der Führer. It would belong to Heinrich Himmler, the true mastermind behind the Third Reich.
For the first time, he pulled the chair out and sat in it. He closed his eyes and allowed the mystical powers of the table and the Black Sun to engulf his psyche. He tried to visualize the future of the Reich—if not this one, the next one.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Christmas Eve 1944
Berlin, Germany
Waltraud Irmgard Splinter hustled through the deserted streets of Berlin, careful not to lose her footing on the ice and snow in the dark. She had to hurry, as the bombing raids would begin soon, and the Soviet Red Army soldiers would emerge out of the shadows in search of young girls to prey upon.
Traudl-Maus, a nickname bestowed upon her by her father before he left for war, was appropriate for the wily eleven-year-old girl with pigtails. She was sneaky and quiet as a mouse, spending her nights avoiding detection of soldiers and racing through the dense forests surrounding Berlin.
The continuous bombings had resulted in a food shortage in the Reich’s capital. As the war dragged on, the soldiers were given priority for any food products found in the city. For that reason, the children of Berlin were sent out in the dark of night to forage or, for the bravest of them, a perilous journey through the woods of the Soviet-occupied areas surrounding the city.
When she wasn’t searching for food, she lay awake at night, listening for the airplanes approaching from a distance. The powerful anti-aircraft guns of the German infantry defenses would be heard next and then the sirens. The continuous wail of sirens warned all the remaining residents of Berlin to run for the nearest bomb shelter.
Traudl-Maus had grown accustomed to the threat of Allied bombers. She kept a small bag packed with her favorite clothes and most beloved dolls. Each time her mother and four young siblings left their apartment, they were never sure if their home would still be standing when they returned.
Her father was already lost to the war. Her two oldest brothers, barely teenagers, had been sent to the front to fight the approaching Red Army in Poland. Neither of them returned. Her older sister, Ursula, did not have the survival instinct that Traudl-Maus had. Her three younger siblings were too young. Feeding the family was her burden to carry.
That Christmas Eve of 1944, Traudl-Maus was intent on bringing home a hen for her mother to cook Christmas Day. The rumor had swirled throughout the city that the Allied bombers would respect Christmas and not bomb the residents of Berlin. As a child, it was hard for her to understand the purpose of war. It was certainly beyond her comprehension as to why the children of Germany like herself were made to suffer because of the foolish acts of adults. Be that as it may, she did what she had to do for her family’s survival.
She hustled out into the snowy night, bundled in a hand-me-down wool coat and one of her mother’s scarfs. She donned her younger brother’s wool beanie cap to hide her blonde locks from any hungry soldiers as she snuck through the dark streets.
She had one job to do that evening, and that was to make her way to Frau Mohr’s tiny farm in the woods. Frau Mohr supplied the Splinter family with
