ELEVEN
Hencke awoke to the sound of bombing overhead. It was shortly before noon; the American air force had returned for their daily visit. Down in the cellar of the Reich Chancellery where Hencke had been billeted in one of the crowded sleeping quarters, the noise was like the rumble of distant artillery fire, the thick alluvial sand on which Berlin was built cushioning and deadening the effects of all but the most direct of hits. Yet after months of saturation bombing, almost everything had been directly hit, several times. The lamps overhead swung as if agitated by an imperceptible subterranean wind, fine plaster and cement dust settled on every surface and nobody seemed willing to talk as they listened for the one that had their name on its nose cone.
Underground the routine of bombing seemed the only way of distinguishing between night and day. People ate when they felt hungry, drank when they wished to forget, slept when they were too exhausted to stay awake any longer or, if they had the energy and desire, went in search of a signalwoman. Many, particularly those with no front line duties, had found reason to be there a very long time. The longer they accepted the shelter of the cellar and the less contact they had with the outside world, the more unreal it became. And Hencke was told that the Fuehrer had been in the cellar almost constantly since mid-January.
Before Hencke had managed to scratch the sleep from his eyes the lieutenant was at the foot of his bed. ‘Knew you wouldn’t sleep through this lot, not yet. Takes a couple of days before you no longer give a damn …’ He held some clothes and boots. ‘Try these. The boots are waterproof. Might come in handy, just in case you get caught short while you’re busy saving Berlin.’ As he mocked he threw the items on the end of the bed. They were the black dress uniform of the Waffen SS, complete with silver piping, distinctive collar markings, armband of the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler division, and captain’s shoulder flashes. Hencke looked at the officer’s pips incredulously, rubbing them with his thumb to make sure they were real.
‘Why, didn’t they tell you, Captain?’ the lieutenant goaded. ‘Way things are going you’ll be a bloody general by the end of the week. Or dead. Sir.’
Hencke decided not to argue the point – he wasn’t here to argue, and he was too confused as to what was going on. The lieutenant enlightened him.
‘Lunch – or, in your case, breakfast. Then you’ll be taken to the birthday knees-up. Your big moment.’
‘Where is the Fuehrer?’ He hoped it seemed a perfectly natural question, but Hencke held his breath, waiting for the response. He couldn’t afford to arouse suspicion.
‘Where he always is. In the bloody Bunker, of course.’
‘The Bunker? It’s separate from the cellar?’
‘The whole of this part of Berlin’s been tunnelled out into several cellars and shelters. Under the Chancellery, Propaganda Ministry, Air Ministry. There’s a little world of underground empires down here, all crisscrossed and interconnected; half the time you expect the bloody Minotaur to pop his head round the corner. But there’s only one Bunker. No, I lie. Two. A Vorbunker where most of his personal staff bury themselves, and then down to the Fuehrerbunker proper. Twenty feet below sewer level, the underworld of Berlin. They say even the rats come out with a headache. Although the fact that the air conditioning doesn’t work properly is supposed to be a state secret. Hey, they might even shoot me for telling you.’ His face brightened for the first time that day.
‘And the birthday celebration is there?’
‘Good God, no. Too damned small. Get Goering and two fat Hausfrauen down there and the rest would suffocate. No, the Fuehrer’s going to honour us by coming up to face the daylight for once, and look Berlin in the eye for the first time in months.’
So maybe that would be it. His one chance of success. He wouldn’t get more than one chance, and perhaps not even that. He washed and changed into his uniform, the uniform. He felt like an ancient knight donning armour invested with evil powers. The fit was immaculate, yet the collar felt unbearably tight around the throat as if it were trying to grip and strangle him. As he fastened the last button on the tunic his chest heaved and he had trouble breathing – somehow the uniform seemed to be trying to take him over, to make him one of them. Only when he checked the leather holster and found the Walther 7.65, cleaned and with a fully loaded clip, could he begin to fight back against his anxieties and convince himself that he, not the uniform, was in control. Like everyone else he was sweating in the accumulating heat of the cellar, yet every few minutes a cold river of apprehension would flood down his backbone. They were going to take him to Hitler. Just like that. Could it really be that easy? Or had he already been sucked into this underworld of madness and illusion where nothing was as it seemed? He waited for over three hours, trying to control the writhing knot in his stomach, wondering if he would be forced to take the lieutenant’s advice and use his boots.
He quickly discovered that nothing was going to be as easy as it might have seemed. When the lieutenant returned they walked several hundred yards without once leaving the Reich Chancellery. It was vast and very crowded, bustling like a railway station. The remnants of an entire city and several Wehrmacht armies had been poured into its cellar and lower floors until the building had filled and overflowed. Growing piles of suitcases and kitbags were tucked away in corners and there was the constant clatter of people arriving; those departing did so less obviously. Armed soldiers were everywhere and he thought it could be only moments before one of them spotted the unmistakable blush of treachery which he felt certain marked his face, but they all seemed too busy with their own affairs to pay attention to him.
It changed when they ran into the checkpoint. They had arrived in the antechamber of the so-called Court of Honour and armed guards were everywhere, relieving guests not only of coats and bags but anything that might conceivably resemble or contain a weapon. No one was exempt, not even high-ranking staff officers. All had to give up side arms and briefcases, the women their handbags. The Walther on which Hencke had focused so many ill-formed hopes in the last few hours was taken and a record entered in a huge ledger which had once been used to keep the accounts of the Chancellery kitchen. Even ceremonial dress daggers were confiscated. No chances were being taken; nothing, it seemed, could get past.
Yet even that was not enough. Four more FBK guards were waiting as they proceeded from the antechamber, two to watch with machine pistols poised while the other pair saluted each guest before submitting them to a careful body search. Women were dealt with in a separate corner by two female adjutants who looked as if they could take on a whole parachute platoon and still be through by breakfast. Passes and identity cards were inspected and checked against a master list; at Hencke’s turn the lieutenant produced a sheet of paper, flourishing it at the guard and nodding towards Hencke. The guard seemed impressed.
‘Here you are.’ The lieutenant handed the paper to Hencke. ‘Your pass. Signed by Goebbels himself. For Chrissake don’t lose it or they won’t let you out this side of World War Three.’
Only then were they permitted to pass into the magnificent Court of Honour, the Ehrenhof, the traditional place of celebration. Never had it looked more incongruous. The chamber glittered with its finery of medals, bejewelled batons, party insignia and gaily bedecked womenfolk, but the pride of Nazi society milled around like cattle at pasture, penned into one section of the room behind a cordon of guards while those still waiting to join the festivities formed an obedient, shuffling line leading through a final security check. The absence of people from much of the hall gave the proceedings an eerie, echoing quality. Only when he looked up beyond the lofty marble columns did Hencke understand why. Although the polished stone floor had been swept of debris since the last bombing run, full across the gilded ceiling ran two cracks wide enough to take a man’s arm to the shoulder. The ornate chandelier of a thousand pieces of crystal was lit, but lurching at a sickening angle from broken supports. No one could be sure when it would come smashing down, only that it must, and probably before the coming night’s air raid was over.