Indicating the first doorway on the left, Sverlov quipped, “Toilets if you need to go—alternatively you can piss on the floor, no one will object!”
He’s in a good mood today, thought Kelly.
There was something about Sverlov’s manner as he stepped through the next door. As Kelly followed, the Russian spoke quietly.
“The antechamber,” he breathed, then paused and, as if in correction, continued, “Hitler’s antechamber!”
The room was bare, as was everywhere in the bunker as far as Kelly could tell, plundered no doubt by the Soviet liberators. They appear to have liberated every stick of furniture.
The Russian indicated the door immediately ahead of them. “Go in there first; it’s the Führer’s living room. That’s where they killed themselves. On the right, you will see the door to the Führer’s bedroom.”
Kelly knew the ‘they’ referred to were Hitler and Eva Braun, Frau Hitler by that stage. “Are you not coming in?” asked Kelly as he started to the door.
The Russian half smiled and shook his head, his eyes refusing to meet Kelly’s gaze.
Surprised at what he assumed was superstition, Kelly entered the room. Immediately, an unmistakable feeling of dread assailed his senses. The atmosphere was heavy, the room darker and more forbidding than any of the others.
This is nonsense, he told himself. It’s darker because there is only one torch now. The rest is due to the sense of history I’m feeling.
In the open air in broad daylight the logic was undeniable, but in the dank, brooding darkness of that charnel room, he couldn’t quite convince himself. Moving to his right he entered what had been the bedroom. Nothing left to indicate that now, of course, so he moved back into the living room and paused for a few moments, trying hard to calm his jangling senses, before returning to the antechamber.
Sverlov was smiling broadly. “Nice place, eh?”
“Different,” said Kelly.
“The writing is in Eva Braun’s room, through there.”
Kelly moved through the door indicated. It was the same as all of the other rooms, small and bare but with one exception … in one corner, just above where the bed had been, someone had written some names in ink on the wall.
Kelly moved in closer, leaning over to get a better view. Sverlov helpfully brought his torch to bear on the names. Ignoring the cold and discomfort of the fetid water, Kelly knelt down, oblivious to the inundation of his boots. This was important. The saturated plaster was just beginning to cause the ink to spread, but it was still readable. In a few years, possibly less, it would be illegible—and a little while after that, the plaster would fall from the walls and disintegrate and this, probably the final act of Frau Hitler, would be lost forever.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a notebook and pencil, then carefully copied down each of the names, ensuring that his record accurately reflected what was written on the wall. He took care to ensure that even the spacing was correct. The writing consisted of a list of forenames in alphabetical order; to the right were two additional names, written at a slant as if added later:
Alois
BerntManfred
Frida
Georgina
HelmutRichard
Klaus
Sybille
Wilhelm
The first and last name had been crossed through.
Kelly checked and double-checked to see if he had everything exactly as per the original. There would never be a second chance. Then, standing up, he thanked Sverlov for his patience and indicated he was ready to leave.
After leaving the Soviet sector, Kelly drove west along Bismarck Strasse, wondering about the connection between the names on the wall and the Nazi-plundered treasure he was trying to find. That, of course, was his real mission, but his cover was only partially spurious. According to Manteufel, he would need to find the people listed if he was to find the plunder.
With only first names to go by, it was not going to be easy. Kelly needed to return to Plötzensee Prison to interview Stabsfeldwebel Horst Manteufel, former guard commander in the bunker. It was he who, in a previous interview, had linked the names to the treasure—perhaps he knew more than he was saying. First, however, a visit to the British HQ. He needed to arrange an urgent meeting with the British Commandant, General Geoffrey Bourne.
The Thule Maiden and the Gruppenführer
Maria Orsic poured herself another cup of coffee from the little table by the window. She raised the coffee pot inquiringly to her house guest who grunted and shook his head.
Maria was dressed in a long black ankle-length dress and wore a white crocheted shawl draped around her shoulders. She was slim, but not thin. Her blonde hair, which had once rested on her hips, was now shoulder length and worn plaited and wrapped around the back of the head, Tyrolean style. Her once flawless skin was only now beginning to show the first signs of ageing, with a few lines appearing at the corners of her beautiful, clear light blue eyes. Although Maria Orsic was nearly sixty, she could have passed for a woman half her age. On her falsified documents, which carried the name Helga Maria von Sindelsdorf, her age was shown as forty-five—to have had her real age inserted would have invited suspicion from anyone inspecting them. The years had been kind to Maria.
Maria placed her cup down on the side table and sank into the luxurious upholstery of the tan, leather armchair. The room wasn’t large but appeared spacious due to the sparsity of furnishings. The ceiling was oak beamed, and the walls covered with a light wallpaper bearing a pattern of intertwined leaves in pastel green. The windows were hung with rich brocade, designed to keep the cold out and the heat in. On the highly polished oak floor were spread two rugs, one in front of the fire and the other in the centre of the room. A simple oblong table bearing a candelabrum with four lit candles stood on the latter. Opposite Maria was her house guest in
