114
Reich chancellery
Vorbunker
Berlin
EVERYONE IN THE BUNKERS beneath the chancellery knew their days were numbered.
The Führerbunker had been built in 1944 below the original bunker, now known as the upper bunker or Vorbunker, which was built in 1936 as a temporary air shelter beneath the Reich chancellery.
The self-sufficient Vorbunker contained bedrooms and dormitories, a dining room and kitchen, bathrooms and storage areas.
Joseph Goebbels and his family stayed there often.
Martin Bormann had a bedroom, as well. Nearly twenty others, support staff for the Führer, lived in the upper level, too.
The Führerbunker beneath it was smaller, designed just for Hitler and his mistress, Eva Braun.
The general mood of the bunker’s inhabitants was mixed.
On the one hand, there was obvious apprehension.
But interwoven with the fear, particularly among the staff and low-level soldiers, was a decided air of resignation.
There was almost no hope of escape, they reasoned, and hopefully as staff or soldiers and not policymakers, they would be treated more humanely when captured.
Many drowned their sorrows with liquor, drunken soldiers and staffers choosing to ignore the looming approach of the Russians.
There was nothing else to do—no war they were capable of winning, no means of escape—so let us drink!
But now liquor, like food, was at a premium.
Shopkeepers could not keep food on their shelves; either by purchase or pillage, people were desperately stocking up.
These shortages were not limited to civilians. Those in the bunkers beneath the chancellery grounds had difficulty receiving food, as well. The staff in the Vorbunker began a system of rationing food, just as was done for the infantry.
Which was why Henrik Becker and Alfred Otto, two corporals from the Administration Office of the Army High Command, or OKH, were so popular when they arrived at the bunker one evening in early April with supplies of meat, vegetables, milk, and liquor.
They were greeted by armed SS guards who celebrated when they saw the wagon of food and produce the corporals pulled behind them. “Go in, you may pass,” they said eagerly. “There is refrigeration.”
Once inside the bunker, another set of guards greeted them, but they were far more interested in the booze the corporals brought than in their credentials.
Besides, the credentials were real—Thomas Bauer and Erich von der Haas had easily assumed the identities of Corporals Henrik Becker and Alfred Otto, who’d both recently deserted OKH headquarters in Berlin.
In the kitchen, complete with a massive wine storage area and large refrigerators, a pleasant, dark-haired young cook named Constanze was busy at the stove. Bauer and von der Haas started unloading the supplies, but she objected. “I will decide what is refrigerated and what is not,” she told them.
Just then, a man in a soiled white shirt and dark pants entered the kitchen.
Bauer did a double take and instinctively swept his hand against the Walther pistol in his holster.
The height, the build, the facial shape, the coloring, the mustache, even the part of his hair—for the blink of an eye, Bauer was sure that he was looking into the eyes of the Führer.
But no. Just a man who bore a striking resemblance to him.
“Rolf,” said the cook, “I need three large carrots chopped.”
“Right away,” said the man. Rolf, apparently.
After Bauer and von der Haas finished unloading the food and drinks, Bauer snuck a bottle of brandy, and von der Haas a bottle of champagne, on their way out.
“For a minute there,” Bauer whispered, “when that guy walked in—”
“I know. Me, too,” said von der Haas, keeping a straight face. “Poor Rolf almost got a bullet between the eyes.”
Technically, now that their business was completed, Bauer and von der Haas would be expected to be on their way. But it was clear to them that the Vorbunker was not the tightest-run ship these days. The staff was despondent, worried, distracted. Nobody was paying them any attention.
And nobody was more popular than the guys with the booze.
So instead of turning right toward the exit, they turned left, moving into a room that had become the site of an impromptu cocktail hour. Uniformed men and a number of female staffers were sharing beers and smoking cigarettes.
They had no trouble blending in. They kept their cover stories straight.
Henrik Becker (Bauer) had been shot twice in the back in Stalingrad while serving in the Panzergruppe 4—the 4th Panzer Group—earning him the Knight’s Cross for valor and a transfer to administrative duties back in Berlin.
Alfred Otto (von der Haas) claimed he’d worked for Nazi intelligence, first in the Sicherheitsdienst and then in its successor, the Reich Security Main Office, or RSHA.
The nature of the work was such that he couldn’t discuss it in public.
One hour turned into two turned into three, the party spilling over into the dining room as well, smoky rooms filled with music, boozy laughter, even dancing.
Nobody talked about the war. Nobody mentioned victory or defeat.
This was their escape, the alcohol numbing their fear.
They wanted to forget their lives for a few hours.
Bauer and von der Haas were in the dining room, chatting with an SS guard and a typist for Joseph Goebbels, when they heard a roar go up in the conference room. They leaned in to have a look at the commotion, the source of the cheering.
They weren’t surprised at whom they saw. She was, after all, the reason they were here.
With a glass of champagne in one hand and a cigarette in the other, her eyes lively and her smile wide, Eva Braun had just entered the room.