‘Was he dead?’
‘Who knows? If we stopped for every body, we’d never bloody get there.’
Since Hencke had returned alone to the car, the driver had dropped any vestige of military discipline and respect. He had a job to do and he’d do it, but he didn’t have to pretend to enjoy it. When Hencke explained that Misch ‘hadn’t made it’ back from the growing chaos on the other side of the barricade, the driver didn’t bother to ask why. It was too frequent an occurrence to arouse even his slightest interest; his only regret was that Hencke hadn’t suggested they turn round and head westward with all the others.
They passed beside the Brandenburg Gate in the very heart of Berlin. It stood largely intact and shining in the glare of nearby fires, an awesome reminder of sights which seemed buried deep in a time when it had been illuminated by the torches of victory parades and the Fuehrer had taken the salute of adoring millions. But the military bands and the tramp of marching feet had gone; there was only the explosion of time-delay bombs and the shudder of collapsing buildings to interrupt the complaints of his driver and the low growl of the Mercedes engine.
They drove directly into the underground garage off Hermann Goering Strasse. Even by night and with many of its windows blown out or boarded up, the looming edifice of the Reich Chancellery was clearly recognizable. Teams were at work dealing with the rubble from the most recent aerial onslaught but it was no longer being taken away and hidden, merely pushed aside to allow access. Inside the building the upper storeys had been vacated, parts of the roof and most of the windows having gone, but on lower floors and in the cellar there were still hundreds of people scurrying about their business. Indeed, as Hencke emerged from the garage into the heart of Berlin’s main government complex, he entered a different world. While outside the great capital city lay in ruins, inside there remained at least a semblance of discipline and control. Even the driver had started saluting senior officers again. Telephones still jangled, commands were barked, soldiers scampered to obey. Yet as Hencke was led by an orderly through a maze of underground cellars and tunnels, he couldn’t help but notice how fragile seemed this veneer of order. There was no hiding the weariness in the limbs, the ashen signs of exhaustion in the faces of men who had survived too long on too little sleep, the soiled uniforms which bore the dust and filth of excursions into the outside world and which no one bothered any longer to clean or replace. In many places the refuse of meals and drinking sessions lay uncleared, and Hencke passed two generals who were obviously drunk. Strangely their uniforms bore the least sign of battle grime, the only stains seeming to have come from spilt wine and soup.
Soon they were out of the cellar and up to the ground floor, where spartan utility gave way to the splendour of marble floors, rich carpets and still finer tapestries, all of which were spotted with the marks of fallen plasterwork. The lights burned brightly for the windows were heavily boarded and, as the orderly led the way down corridors and through rooms which echoed to their footsteps, Hencke was conscious of the soiled splendour of a once magnificent showpiece. Drawing-rooms had been transformed into sleeping quarters bursting with metal cots; where great receptions had once been held were piled man-made mountains of provisions and wooden crates; a burnished Steinway in the music room had been pushed aside to make way for an array of maps surrounding a briefing table, and everywhere there was a sense of desperate struggle to avoid the short descent into chaos. But still the heart of government was beating, even if the effort involved was proving colossal.
The orderly, a lieutenant, stopped outside a towering pair of carved doors and instructed him to wait. He knocked sharply and from deep within there came a muffled order to enter. He disappeared for a second and exchanged a few brief words before reappearing. ‘He’s ready for you,’ was all he said before ushering Hencke through the doors.
The room behind the doors had once been a small reception-room – small, that is, only by comparison with the great halls through which they had passed. It was a good thirty metres long and decorated with gilded mirrors, oil paintings of traditional hunting scenes and a vast crystal chandelier which cast a delicate light across the inlaid oaken floor. Whatever furniture had once adorned the room had gone. In the middle now stood a large baize-covered table surrounded by chairs, sufficient for a briefing meeting of thirty, with a huge map of Berlin and its approaches pinned up at one end of the room. At the other end, beside an ornate fireplace whose mantel was covered in fine pieces of blue and white porcelain, was a vast pillared desk with a marble top which was all but hidden beneath neat piles of paper. And beside the desk stood the unmistakable, reed-like figure of Josef Goebbels.
‘Hencke! Is it really you inside those rags? What a spectacle you make! But you are most welcome!’ Goebbels paced stiffly across the room, his right foot pointing awkwardly inwards, extending his hand in greeting. A smile of amusement played on his lips as he studied his unkempt prize. While the undersized Reichsminister was dressed immaculately in a conservative double-breasted suit with a pearl-white shirt, his dark hair brushed back and glossy with brilliantine, Hencke made a miserable sight. The change of clothes provided by the local police after his rescue on the beach had never fitted properly; now they were stained with the mud and dust from shifting obstructions and rubble. His boots and trousers had become soaked from the flooding of broken water pipes, a dark brown stain of dried blood clung to his left sleeve and around his neck still hung the grimy handkerchief he had used to protect his mouth from the burning air.
‘Ha! I see you come well gift-wrapped,’ Goebbels chuckled, clapping his hands in delight. He was clearly exultant. ‘I am not a superstitious man, Hencke, but to have you delivered back to us, on such an auspicious day, is more than even my scepticism can take.’ He saw the bewildered look on Hencke’s face and led him towards two comfortable chairs which stood on either side of a low occasional table. ‘Sit down, my dear Hencke. We have much to talk about.’ He poured coffee from a silver pot and began.
‘Do you know what day it is?’
‘Herr Reichsminister, I scarcely know what year it is. I have been in a prison camp, on the run, in fishing smacks on the Irish Sea and in a submarine at the bottom of the North Sea …’
Goebbels stretched over to grasp his hand and still him. ‘The twentieth of April, my dear Hencke. The Fuehrer’s birthday. I have organized a very special celebration for him. And a very special prize. Hencke, you are that prize!’
‘I … am to be presented to the Fuehrer?’
Goebbels’ saturnine face was unusually animated. ‘Yes. Oh, yes. The arrival of perhaps the bravest man in Germany represents the return of hope and good fortune. My God, it will be better medicine than anything those quacks have poured into him in months.’ The long creases about his face became suddenly harder and his voice lost its celebratory edge, becoming quiet, almost conspiratorial. He leaned close to Hencke as if afraid his words might be overheard, the blood vessels at his temples swelling as he strained forward. ‘You must realize, Hencke, the Fuehrer may not be the man you remember. The assassination attempt at Rastenburg last year … it caused him grave damage. He was so close to the bomb it was a miracle he survived. His ear drums shattered, his hearing damaged, his sense of balance gone …’ Goebbels was talking slowly, choosing his words with care. ‘The worries he has borne over so many years on our behalf have taken their inevitable toll. He has given so much of his own strength to our cause, it is vital for us in turn to replenish it with our full support and encouragement. He is tired, unwell. He needs reassurance. While he has the will to carry on, so does Germany. Later today all of the party’s leaders are arriving from their posts around the country to honour and strengthen him, to reinforce his desire to carry on in his great task. And that is why your arrival is so timely and so important. You are the embodiment of the German spirit to continue the fight; he will regard your presence as an omen of good fortune, a harbinger of victories yet to come.’