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THE RUSSIAN ARMY HAD now encircled Berlin.
Allied bombings and artillery shelling intensified, causing not only thundering quakes within the Führerbunker but the intermittent loss of electricity, as well.
The Russians had cut the telephone lines to the Führerbunker, leaving the inhabitants of the claustrophobic concrete prison without contact with the outside world.
Adolf Hitler’s suite in the southwest corner included a bedroom, sitting room, and private office, and shared a bathroom and dressing room with Eva Braun’s bedroom.
Though it was lacking natural light and built of concrete walls two meters thick, he’d had the floors lined with expensive Persian carpets and the walls and tables decorated with valuable works of art.
He’d even hung his beloved portrait of Frederick the Great over the desk in his office.
But now the bunkers stank of body odor. The air was dusty, thanks to bits of concrete crumbling from the ceiling every time the walls shook from a bomb. Overhanging lights flickered and swung side to side.
“Everything is lost.” These words came from Hitler, exhausted after a raging tantrum, leaning over the map table.
“Whoever wishes to leave the bunker may do so,” he said to the room of generals and field marshals. “I release each and every one of you from your oaths.”
Just past midnight, Hitler was alone in the map room, imagining nonexistent scenarios, the movement of nonexistent battalions to save Berlin and turn around the war, his eyes half closing from sleep deprivation, when Martin Bormann knocked and entered the room. He held a piece of paper.
“A radiogram,” said Bormann. “From Goring. From the Obersalzburg.”
“Hermann? What does he want? To tell me how much he’s enjoying his time at the mountainside retreat that I built? While those of us who are loyal to the cause are staying here until the bitter end?”
“I’m afraid this will be unpleasant, mein Führer.” Bormann handed Hitler the document. “It looks like a coup to me.”
Hitler read it. Goring was referencing a decree Hitler issued in June 1941, providing that, if the Führer ever lost his freedom of action, by incapacity or otherwise, Goring would be appointed to assume all his powers.
In the radiogram, Goring wrote that he “felt obligated to assume, in case by 2200 o’clock no answer is forthcoming, that you have lost your freedom of action.
I shall then view the conditions of your decree as fulfilled and take action for the well-being of Nation and Fatherland. ”
“That—that traitorous bastard!” Hitler cast aside the document, which dithered lifelessly to the floor. “He dares to assume my powers? He dares to give me a deadline to assure him I remain capable?”
“Treason, as you say, mein Führer,” said Bormann, who considered Goring—and any other close aide—a rival for Hitler’s affections.
“He wants an answer?” Hitler broke into his familiar nervous, halting pace back and forth across the war room. “Here is my answer, Martin. I want that man stripped of all powers! I want that man arrested!”
“It will be ordered at once, mein Führer,” said Bormann. “I shall arrange for a communication—”
“No. No.” Hitler shook his head. “I want to issue the directive face-to-face. Bring me von Greim. Bring him to me. I am appointing him the new chief of the Luftwaffe. And I will directly order him to arrest that fat traitorous drug-addicted guttersnipe.”
“A brilliant decision in every way, mein Führer.” Bormann cleared his throat. “May I make one observation?”
Hitler, now spent, out of breath, dark circles under his red-rimmed eyes, collapsed into a chair. “What is it, Martin?”
“The airstrip on the Tiergarten is no longer secure to land those little Storch planes, mein Führer. The Red Army is within blocks. Their artillery shelling is nearly constant. Do we want to risk General von Greim’s safety at such a precarious—”
“I don’t care, Martin. Bring him to me. Your Führer has spoken.”
Hitler met with Bormann and Goebbels in his private office on April 24. They had both professed their plan to stay in the Führerbunker until the bitter end.
“Many of our people have fled the bunkers, as you permitted them to do, mein Führer,” Bormann reported. “But a number of officers have stayed, as have your personal secretaries. And of course we asked… certain staff to remain.”
Hitler nodded with appreciation. “How are people leaving from the bunker, Martin? It can’t be easy. Tell me.”
“Ideally to the west,” said Bormann. “If one is caught, one would deal with the Americans and British, not the Soviets. A much preferable outcome, if one is caught.”
“Much preferable.”
“But the only credible means of escape is to the north,” said Bormann.
“Through the U-Bahn tunnels. The Kaiserhof U-Bahn station is near the chancellery. It winds northbound toward another station, on Friedrich Stra?e, just short of the River Spree. One could walk underground along the subway tracks to Friedrich Stra?e, come up to the surface at that station, and attempt to cross the Weidendammer Bridge over the River Spree.”
“But aren’t the bridges over the Spree under Soviet control?”
“The Weidendammer remains a contested bridge, mein Führer. My understanding is that one of our last remaining Panzer tanks is there, continuing to do battle. It’s only a matter of time, of course, but they are fighting valiantly.”
“At least some people still have courage,” said Hitler. “Would that they were among my generals.” He looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes, remaining in that position for so long that Bormann and Goebbels wondered if he’d fallen asleep.
Finally, he spoke. “All right, Martin. All right. Bring in Heinz. I am ready.”
Heinz Linge was an SS major who had served as the Führer’s personal valet for the last decade. He was as loyal as any to the Führer though he was not involved in policymaking and was reluctant to even voice his opinion.
“Come in, Heinz.” Hitler opened his hand. “Sit.”
“Yes, mein Führer.” Ever disciplined and formal, Linge sat ramrod straight in the chair. “How can I be of service?”
“I wanted the three of you to know,” he said. “I’ve made a decision. It’s critical that Germany knows that her Führer fought until the end. That is why I intend to stay in the bunker. But it is also important, Heinz, that our pride remain preserved, even in defeat.”
“Quite so, mein Führer.”
“Why, just imagine,” said Hitler, “how the Russians would love to parade me before the international Jewry. Or my corpse. My corpse! They would make a spectacle in Moscow out of my body and put it in waxworks.”
His valet cast his eyes downward.
“It is for this reason, Heinz, that I have decided to announce that, before the Russians enter the bunker, I will take my life. As will Eva.”
“No, mein Führer—”
Hitler raised his hand. “It is best, Heinz. It is best for Germany. And I need your help.”
His valet took a moment to compose himself, wiping away a tear with embarrassment. “How,” he began in a shaky voice. “How… may I be of—”
“After my death, I want my body to be burned in the chancellery garden. Mine and Fr?ulein Braun’s.
I want our bodies to be wrapped in wool blankets, doused with petrol, and burned.
I want nothing to remain when the Russian swine reach me.
Nothing but dust and rubble and bone. Nothing for them to parade around. ”
“Yes, mein Führer,” Linge whispered.
“Heinz,” Hitler said. “You’re much closer to the staff than any of us here. So tell me, how do you think they will react to my plan as I’ve laid it out?”
Linge thought about it for a moment. “Mein Führer, I can only imagine there would be initial shock and great disappointment. But upon careful consideration, I believe they would come to see that your decision is best for Germany.”
“Thank you, Heinz. I was hoping that was the case.”
The valet got to his feet. “Will there be anything else, mein Führer?”
“Oh, yes. Sit down, Heinz,” said Hitler. “We have much more to discuss.”