Two of Goebbels’ children were playing at his feet, a little girl with a doll and a boy with straight blond hair who was bouncing a ball. It ran loose towards Hencke and he stooped to retrieve it.
‘To think they will be playing in fresh alpine air in two days’ time.’ Goebbels smiled as he took possession of the ball, looking directly at Hencke. He arched an eyebrow. ‘And the Fuehrer has instructed that you will join us.’
Hencke remained expressionless as he tried to figure out the import of what Goebbels was saying. The little girl started crying and the Reichsminister stooped to gather her in his arms; only when he had finished comforting her did he return his attention to Hencke. He took from his pocket a dog-eared petrol-station map of Berlin and its suburbs, smoothing out the creases on the table.
‘The Russians are rapidly encircling the city. Their advance troops are already in Koepenick and Spandau; in a few days there will be no way out. So we start. There’s an emergency airstrip in Kladow – here. We use small planes to ferry us out to the Rechlin airbase’ – he stabbed again with his fore-finger – ‘where they’ve assembled an entire fleet of Condors and Junkers 390s, enough to fly us to China if we wanted, more than enough to get several hundred of us to Berchtesgaden in a few hours. With luck they may be able to make two, even three trips. For everyone else it’s the autobahn routes to the south and west, for as long as they stay open.’ His carefully-manicured finger ran across the map, indicating the way. ‘So we leave tonight! Hencke, the fight back begins!’
‘Why are you telling me all this, Herr Reichsminister?’
Good question, thought Goebbels. Was it because Bormann had received fresh information from Karlsbad confirming that Hencke had studied at the university there, had no record of political agitation or other trouble, had kept his nose clean and graduated into a respectable teaching post in the small town of Asch? His story was checking out, but still Goebbels was not content. Something about the whole situation gave him the feeling of needles being stuck into the nape of his neck. And there was still no trace of Hencke in the records since 1938, since the annexation of the Sudetenland. Perhaps, as Bormann had suggested, it was because all the record-keeping systems had changed and the new records were kept separately. He was still checking, he was sure they would come through with the full story. But Goebbels remembered there had been trouble in Asch and other towns which had been ‘liberated’ by the Sudeten Freikorps, who had left a trail of blood and broken bones in their wake. It made him uneasy.
Was it because he wanted to see how Hencke reacted to the news, to see if there were any clues in his response? If so, the Reichsminister was disappointed. Hencke’s eyes remained unmoved and impenetrable. Or perhaps it was because Goebbels, his faculties sensitized by his twisted frame and a lifetime of physical inferiority, knew that his own fate and the fates of all of them were inextricably linked with Hencke. Salvation or annihilation. Somehow Hencke would decide.
‘I tell you, Hencke, because you will soon hear about it anyway. I shall broadcast news of the break-out to the world as we leave tonight. In six hours. It will be too late then for the Allies to react and stop us. The whole of Germany will know that the fight is not yet over, that resistance must still continue. A new chapter in our history, Hencke, one which you have helped to write. Because I shall also announce that you are with us, by the Fuehrer’s side, showing the world that Germany still has the will to resist. And I want you to say a few words of encouragement, too. What do you think of that, eh?’
‘It goes far beyond my wildest dreams, Herr Reichsminister.’
‘You are of great importance to us, Hencke. Next to the Fuehrer you may be the most important symbol in the Reich.’
Hencke swallowed hard, scarcely able to believe what he heard.
‘Oh, yes. That is why I have to give you new instructions. These are dangerous times, crucial times for our survival. We can afford to take no unnecessary risks. So I am giving you an armed guard, Hencke, to ensure as best we can that nothing befalls you. They will be with you day and night. Doesn’t that make you feel better?’
Hencke felt a sharp edge of pain as the final window of opportunity slammed shut across his fingers.
Goebbels nodded to someone behind Hencke and immediately there was a crashing of boot leather as a guard snapped smartly to attention. ‘Sergeant Greim here will look after you. He’s one of our finest commandos, utterly trustworthy. You’ll like him, I’m sure.’
‘I don’t know how to express my thanks, Herr Reichsminister.’ As Hencke looked into Goebbels’ dark eyes there was a flicker of contact and understanding between them. Goebbels knew. Not for certain and not the details, and not enough to order any immediate action against him, but he knew. It was written all over his crooked smile. Hencke was trapped, and any time after the evening broadcast he would become dispensable. Goebbels could indulge his instincts and drop him down the nearest crevasse. He might not even make it to the Alps. That’s what Greim was there for.
‘You will excuse me, Hencke.’ Goebbels gave a condescending nod. ‘I have a radio broadcast to write. I shall see you in six hours.’
Regrets. He had regrets, plenty of them. To have come so far and to have got so close made the regrets which flooded in on him all the more difficult to bear. He knew he couldn’t make a good death of it, not now. He didn’t have to die, of course. He could slip the guard and lose himself in the ruins of Berlin, taking his chance with the rest. But as difficult as he found the prospect of dying with his regrets, it was nothing to the prospect of having to live with them. The memories of the school and its burning books and broken bodies came back. He had sworn revenge, it was the only way he had been able to live with those nightmares. Yet he had failed, and he knew the pain of the memories would suffocate and destroy whatever life was left to him. There was no way out.
Almost blindly he wandered back into the Chancellery, pursued by the dogged Greim. They didn’t’ talk – what was the point? The signs of growing chaos and collapse were everywhere, yet he could take no comfort from them. In a makeshift command post a general was conducting a furious argument with an engineer about the flooding of the subway tunnels. The Russians will use them to infiltrate right to the heart of Berlin, screamed the general. They are the only shelter for hundreds of thousands of Berliners who will drown if the tunnels are flooded, argued the stubborn engineer, and would not obey. The exasperated general stormed off in search of another engineer. The veneer of military discipline which had hung over the Chancellery in previous days was finally blowing away. The apple had been cut open, only to reveal a writhing mass of maggots.
He felt an overwhelming need to have something other than solid concrete above his head. Walking slowly down the steep steps leading from the Chancellery entrance, he saw makeshift barricades being erected out of tree trunks, wrecked vehicles, sandbags, anything which was heavy yet could still be moved. Waffen SS troops were being stationed at every point around the Chancellery as if a direct attack were expected at any moment. The troops were speaking not German but a mixture of foreign tongues – French, Norwegian, Latvian, even Russian. These were the foreign volunteers, skimmed from the occupied countries, renowned for their ferocity and total indifference to casualties. They had little to lose, since dying in battle offered a far better fate than any they could expect if returned as prisoners to their native countries. Hencke wondered if anyone else saw the irony, the heart of the most racially pure Reich in history being defended by foreign mercenaries.