His pass was inspected once more, his face examined, but still no one detected any mark of guilt. At last he was amongst the guests and, as he looked round, the knot in his stomach gave another savage wrench. Almost beside him, sweat pouring down his face, was the huge, bursting figure of Goering in full Reichsmarschall’s regalia, beaming broadly, sipping his drink and taking a regular, nervous look at his watch. He seemed like a man who had an urgent appointment somewhere else, his agitated eyes suggesting that he didn’t mind it being anywhere else, so long as it was outside Berlin. Nearby stood the diminutive figure of Himmler, oddly shaped forehead, thick glasses, no chin, no trace of humour in his face, also looking distracted, unable to concentrate on the conversation of his companions, his eyes moving restlessly around the room. There was Bormann, and Speer, Ribbentrop, Axmann … The whole damnable hierarchy of the Nazi Party seemed to have gathered, yet Hencke could sense something amiss. There were bursts of jocularity and laughter, but the appreciation of a neighbour’s attempt to raise spirits was perfunctory. A laugh, an edgy smile, and the faces returned to grimness. A five-piece military band struggled to provide entertainment but their scratchy performance suggested they had been hastily gathered and never played together before. There were also cameras and a film crew, moving round the gathering to capture the scene for the instruction and admiration of future generations in the Thousand-Year Reich. All the formalities and substance of an historic celebration had been brought together, yet the spirit was missing. There was little attempt to circulate, few of the leaders showed even the slightest interest in talking to their senior colleagues, preferring to bury themselves in small talk and joking with more junior personnel or the women. It was difficult to escape the atmosphere of unease and mistrust. Only Goebbels, dressed in the freshly-pressed brown jacket of his party uniform, seemed intent on circulating, shaking hands, talking, encouraging, listening, nodding his head in approval or wagging his finger to emphasize a point. He appeared to be the only common factor, the only remaining link amongst the remnants of what had once been the most formidable political organization Europe had ever seen.
‘Ah, Hencke. You’re here. Come forward, don’t be shy.’ Goebbels had spied him, hovering uncertainly, and the Reichsminister raised his hands above his head and clapped for attention.
Hencke stepped forward, feeling like the pig being paraded in front of the revellers at Schuetzenfest before they fell on the creature and tore it apart. Their eyes devoured him, stripping him, probing, questioning, wondering what sort of man was this. The sea of bodies parted and he was drawn onward, his legs leaden with trepidation, his bladder screaming for his boots, certain that at any moment some accuser would step forward to denounce him as he followed the diminutive figure of Goebbels towards the far side of the gathering. The band’s leader, nervous of his responsibilities and with no one to guide him, struck up the Horst Wessel Song.
Zum letzen Mal wird nun Appell geblasen!…
The signal sounds for one last charge!
We stand ready for the struggle.
Soon Hitler’s flag will fly above all,
The days of slavery will be shortlived!
The words seemed apt, but the Nazi carol was a marching song intended for raised voices and the crashing of boot leather, and its strains played at slow tempo on clarinet and violin seemed ludicrously out of place.
Then he was there. In front of him. Face to face with Adolf Hitler.
The band trailed off in relief as Goebbels started to speak. ‘My Fuehrer,’ he began. His voice was gratingly loud, although he was standing close beside his leader. ‘I have the pleasure to introduce the man who has scorched the feathers of Churchill’s tail, who took on the English war machine and won. A proud German who knows his duty both to you and to the Fatherland, a symbol of Germany’s indefatigable desire to continue resistance until final victory.’ It all sounded like cheap theatre, but the entire birthday party was nothing more.
‘I present to you Captain Peter Hencke!’
Slowly a hand extended towards him, and Hencke reached out to grasp it, raising his eyes to those of the German leader. As their hands touched and eyes met, Hencke felt paralysis grip his wits as confusion flooded through his senses. He remembered the Hitler of the newsreels and the great victory parades, the strut, the confidence and arrogance, the raised chin, the flicking hand gestures with which he brushed aside opponents and orchestrated the world. The man of legend who had devoured nations and terrified the world. Yet that was someone else. The man in front of him was a physical wreck. Every inch told of a body and a spirit in decay. The once smoothly slicked hair was unkempt, the crystal blue eyes which had charmed so many German women were watery and bloodshot, the cheeks unnaturally puffed, the complexion sallow from lack of daylight, the chin badly shaved, the moustache greying and limp. There was a slight dribble from one corner of his mouth. The body was hunched, the shoulders slumped like those of a man many years older than one celebrating his fifty-sixth birthday. The once immaculate plain grey jacket he habitually wore was crumpled and marked by food stains and slops; his left leg was entwined around a chair as if to give support and balance. And the hand that clasped Hencke’s was like ice, flabby, with no strength; it was trembling.
‘Mein Fuehrer,’ Hencke whispered, lowering his head.
‘Speak up, Hencke!’ Goebbels commanded. ‘No need to let your voice get lost in the hubbub.’
But Hencke noticed that the entire assembly had gone quiet, and Hitler was leaning forward, stiffly, as if better to catch what was said, while still attempting to keep his leg wrapped firmly around the chair support.
‘I am overwhelmed to be here, my Fuehrer!’ Hencke raised his voice, and Goebbels nodded in approval. ‘I bring you greetings from all your forces across the seas.’ He wondered whether he had said the right thing, since practically all of Hitler’s forces across the seas were stuck deep inside Allied prison camps, but Hitler responded with a nod of pleasure. Or was it merely an uncontrollable wobble of the head?
‘I … am delighted, Hencke. Thank you.’ The voice was weak, croaking. ‘You are a very brave man.’ He turned his head to signal and an aide was immediately at his side proffering something. Carefully Hitler took it in his right hand and reached towards Hencke. ‘The Iron Cross, First Class. Wear it with pride.’ The patter of applause began to rise, but Hitler was having problems pinning the medal on Hencke’s breast. His left hand came up to assist, but the co-ordination between the two hands seemed remote. The medal was in danger of being dropped to the floor and the diffident aide stretched forward to help while the applause died away in embarrassment.
Hitler cleared his throat, and when he spoke again his voice had regained some of its powerful timbre. ‘My friends,’ he said, addressing the entire company, ‘you have done me great honour, coming from many parts of the Reich. But there are armies to command and battles to be fought.’ Goering raised a quizzical eyebrow; the Fuehrer seemed not to notice. ‘Continue with the celebration with my thanks. But I must return to my duties. So farewell to you all, until the next time.’
There came the clicking of heels and a series of salutes from around the room as Hitler prepared to leave and the band struck up the national anthem, but no one sang. He had commanded people to risk their lives crossing from all parts of the Reich to be at this birthday celebration, yet no sooner had he appeared than he was preparing to leave. Goebbels was at his elbow once more, whispering in his ear, guiding him towards one corner in which a small group of dirty street urchins had been standing, looking miserable and bewildered. They wore a kaleidoscopic array of stained uniform jackets and military caps, all of which hung on them loosely. They reminded Hencke of the group he had found at the barricade; none of them was older than fourteen. An orderly pushed them hastily into line as the Fuehrer approached, accompanied by the retinue of cameras. Goebbels’ little play was not yet finished.