With leaden spirit he continued behind the orderly. They were still descending, down a spiral metal staircase with yet more bulkheads and FBK guards at both ends, and they entered upon a short corridor. He didn’t need to be told, he knew this was it. The Fuehrerbunker. Several open doors ran off the corridor and through them Hencke could see how small and claustrophobic were most of the rooms, with low ceilings you could touch. Then another short corridor, another guard and yet more doors running off into tiny rooms. Shelves along the corridor were spilling over with a disorderly collection of papers, manuals, candles, bottles, uniform caps and other paraphernalia – but nothing that might be used as a weapon – and a twisted assortment of cables and hoses ran along the bare concrete floor, a sign of impromptu repair work to electricity and water supplies. From nearby, Hencke could hear the whine of a generator and could smell latrines. This was the Emperor’s palace.
It was quiet down here, the atmosphere colder than the crowded Vorbunker, with no comfort of conversation or music to break the silence. It reminded him of a medieval castle near Asch where he had once taken a party of schoolchildren. They had descended into the catacombs, dank and oppressive, with a smell that brought a funny taste to the back of the throat and left even the bolder boys anxious to leave. The Fuehrerbunker gave the same sensation, parching his mouth, putting him on edge, filling his thoughts with dark memories. Suddenly Goebbels, always the stage manager, was there in front of him.
‘Remember, Hencke. Don’t tire him. And above all don’t irritate or contradict him. Not if you don’t want that Iron Cross shoved up your ass. Your job is to encourage, that’s all. Go in. He’s ready for you.’
Hencke found himself in an office, scarcely ten feet square, decorated in simple fashion with blue Frisian tiles and a bare oak desk upon which stood two well-burnt candles as might be found on a chapel altar. Above the desk, dominating the room, hung a large oil portrait of Frederick the Great. A voice beckoned from the far door.
‘Is that you, Hencke? Come in, come in!’
He entered another room no larger than the office, furnished as a sitting-room with carpet, coffee table, blue and white velvet sofa and chair. On the table stood a small, feminine Dresden vase filled with fresh tulips and in the chair, beckoning, sat Hitler. He seemed more at ease sitting down than he had been standing, and his smile of welcome was genuine. He was scratching the ear of an Alsatian puppy which sat contentedly in his lap. As Hencke advanced he saw an orderly hovering in the corner kitted out in military uniform. Even in his inner sanctum, Hitler was not alone. And the nearest thing resembling a weapon was a sugar spoon.
‘Sit. Have some tea. A most refreshing drink. Probably the best reason for conquering the British Empire there is.’ Hitler grimaced in self-mockery. ‘They tell me you are a man of few words, Hencke. Good for you. Suggests a man of action. Take Goebbels, now he’s a man of many words. But action? If I had to rely on shrivel-legged little runts like him to beat back the Russians I might as well shoot myself straight away. I only need one Goebbels but, oh, what would I give for a thousand Henckes!’
Hencke was taken aback at the greeting and sat silently on the sofa.
‘You know, Hencke, you and I have so much in common,’ Hitler continued, lowering his head unsteadily to meet a piece of cake held in an equally unsteady hand. ‘We are both men of valour, holders of the Iron Cross,’ he said, wiping smudges of cream from his mouth with the back of his hand. He pointed proudly to the medal, the only decoration on his tunic apart from his tiny gold party button, which had been awarded for bravery under fire as a courier, a mere corporal in the First War before he was gassed and invalided out. That had been in the distant past, more than a generation ago, in another world.
He was muttering away through mouthfuls of cake. ‘And me as an Austrian and you from the Sudetenland, we understand the need to build a Greater German Reich, to bring all Germans together – not like those feeble minds and faint hearts who nowadays flood out from every sewer to question why we ever needed to send soldiers across the blasted Rhine! They’re like a plague …’ His pale face coloured rapidly with indignation. ‘All about me there are men who think they know better, who disobey my orders, who betray the Reich. The generals are the worst. I, almost single-handed, gave them the continent of Europe.’ His voice rose, bits of cream cake spraying across the table. ‘Everything but England, that puny island governed by the son of a pox-ridden aristocrat. I gave it to the generals, Hencke, and what did they do? Prick-pullers every one. They’ve thrown it all away!’ His voice had gained a remarkable strength for someone so frail. There was still passion in those glassy eyes, a flickering glow like a candle trying desperately to revive itself on the last traces of wick. The willpower and determination were still there, struggling to find some remnants of physical energy on which to cling. The puppy discreetly jumped down from his now-exposed position and waddled out the door. ‘Not one of them knows what it is like to have been under fire, to have an enemy trying to shoot the balls off you, that feeling of exhilaration when you realize the bastard’s missed. They’ve never risked their lives in battle, like you and me. They have betrayed us both, those aristocrats from their military academies. Why else were you left to rot in a prison camp? Why – else – am – I – here?’ His hand beat down on the table, but the effort and animation were rapidly tiring him. His lips could no longer keep pace with his anger, and saliva dribbled down his chin, which he did not bother to wipe. He settled back once again in his chair, the flame subsiding.
‘And the German people … I wanted so much for them, expected so much of them. They have failed me. The Reich has turned into a great field of white flags for the Russians and Americans to harvest; and you won’t find a single German who can ever remember supporting the Party, let alone coming to one of my rallies to cheer until they were hoarse. Do you remember, Hencke? Berlin, Nuremberg, Munich – rallies of more than a million wonder-filled people. Where have they all gone?’
His mood had become depressed and a look of anxiety crossed his face. His moustache and nose, swollen and pulpy in old age, twitched in agitation and he began biting one of his fingernails until it was red and ripped to the quick. ‘Tell me, what was it like waiting to die, in that submarine? On the bottom of the ocean?’
Hencke couldn’t see the purpose of the question; he didn’t know how to react. He decided to be honest, answering slowly.
‘Terrifying.’
Hitler nodded, as if he understood. ‘Different from facing death in the field, in the open air? Tell me, is there anything noble about … waiting to die. Stuck in an underwater tin can?’
Or stuck in an underground box, thought Hencke. So that’s what is getting at him. Facing the Russians in his Bunker won’t be the same as facing the French in the trenches; he’s worried he may not be up to it. ‘No, nothing noble.’
Hitler sighed, the breath rattling in his lungs. ‘Hencke, look at me. As you see I am not a well man. I am not physically strong. There are those who see this and believe that the war is over. They wish me to make an end of it, here in Berlin. Particularly some of the generals. The war is lost, they say, but we can still save Germany if we end it properly, nobly.’ His hand came up to tap his forehead and his bleary eyes stared directly at Hencke. ‘But I have not lost my mind yet, Hencke. What damned purpose is served by dying like rats in a cellar, tell me that? Where’s the nobility of a Russian bullet in your guts – or worse! Having your body dragged through the streets of Moscow behind some hairy-assed commissar?’ He leaned forward, his brow wrinkled with concern. ‘And then there are the women to consider; it’s not just me. They have served me so loyally, more faithfully than any man. They have stood by me when the men were trampling on babies in their rush for a seat on the plane to Switzerland. Would it be noble of me to leave them to their fates here, under the bellies of sub-human Russians who don’t give a damn whether it’s a dead woman or a dead sheep and will screw the lot? That’s how my noble Prussian generals would repay their loyalty.’ The flame in his eyes had found more fuel. ‘They underestimate me, those cretins. I may not be able to fight at the front any more, but I’m not yet finished. No, not by a long way! Those cowards in the High Command forget that Julius Caesar was an epileptic but it didn’t stop him conquering half the world. I don’t forget! I don’t forget that no enemy ever defeated Caesar, his stinking generals stabbed him in the back!’