Bad Company (2 page)

“So, my friend, we’re in a fine fix, aren’t we?”

“We were in Stalingrad, too, but we made it out, Baron.”

“Not this time, Karl. I’m afraid we might have to take up permanent residence. I wonder what it’s like at home.”

He was thinking of Schloss Adler above the village of Neustadt. It had been his family home for seven hundred years, a huge expanse of forest, dark and mysterious, dotted with villages, every inhabitant a member of the extended family of which he was the head.

“Have you heard from the Baroness?” Hoffer asked.

“I had that letter four months ago, but nothing since. And you?”

“Just that one from my Lotte in February. She mentioned the Baroness, of course.” Lotte worked as her maid at the Schloss.

Von Berger’s father, a major general, had been killed during the Polish campaign in ’thirty-nine, elevating Max suddenly to the title of Baron. His mother had died at his birth. The only woman in his life was his beloved Elsa, and they had married early because of the war. Like von Berger, she was twenty-three, and the boy, little Otto, was three years of age.

The young SS guard appeared clutching a bottle and two glasses. “I’m sorry, Herr Baron, it’s vodka, I’m afraid.”

Max von Berger laughed. “I’d say that’s rather appropriate, but you’ve only brought two glasses.”

The boy flushed. “Well, I did put one in my pocket,
Sturmbahnführer.
”

The Baron turned to Hoffer. “See how well we train them?” He took the bottle, jerked off the cork, then poured liberally into one of the glasses and tossed it down. He gasped, “God, that hit the spot. The Russians made this one in the backyard.” He poured another, which went the same way. “Great. Take that for a moment, Karl.”

“Baron.”

Von Berger removed his leather greatcoat and handed it to Hoffer. “Suddenly my hip feels fine.” He poured a third vodka and gave the boy the bottle back. “Now you too.”

He got a cigarette out of his case one-handed, the glass of vodka in the other. Hoffer gave him a light and the Baron walked away, enjoying his smoke and sipping the vodka.

Hoffer and the boy had a quick one and poured another. The boy was fascinated by von Berger. “My God, his uniform. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Hoffer was wearing combat camouflage gear. He shrugged. “I’ve got the same thing under this lot. Except for the medals.” He grinned. “The medals are all his.”

In spite of his youth, Baron Max von Berger had seen action in Poland, France and Holland with the Waffen SS. Afterward, he’d transferred to the 21st SS Paratroop Battalion and been wounded at Malame in Crete. Then had come Rommel’s Afrika Korps and the Winter War in Russia. He wore a gold badge, which meant he had been wounded five times.

In spite of the silver Death’s Head badge on his service cap and the SS runes and rank badges on his collar, he was all
Fallschirmjäger,
in flying blouse and jump trousers tucked into paratroop boots Luftwaffe-style, though in field gray.

The gold-and-silver eagle of the paratroopers’ qualification was pinned to his left breast above the Iron Cross. The Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords hung from his throat.

Karl Hoffer said, “He’s special people, the Baron. We’ve been through four years of hell together and we’re still here.”

“Maybe not for much longer,” the boy said.

“Who knows? In Stalingrad, we thought we’d had it, and then right at the end we both got wounded and they put us on one of the last planes out. Three hundred and fifty thousand men went down the drain, and we made it out.”

At that moment, General Mohnke appeared from the garden entrance of the Bunker. He ignored them and moved toward von Berger.

“Baron, the Führer wants to see you.”

Max von Berger turned, puzzlement on his face. “The Führer?”

“Yes, at once.”

Von Berger paused beside Karl and held out his glass. Karl filled it and von Berger toasted him. “To us, my friend, and the three hundred and sixty-five men of the battalion who died for whatever.” He tossed the drink back and threw the glass away. “So, General,” he said to Mohnke, “let’s not keep the Führer waiting.”

He followed the general down a flight of steps, the concrete walls damp with moisture. Soldiers, mainly SS, were crammed in every nook and cranny of the apparently endless corridors and passageways. There was a general air of despair – more than that, resignation. When people talked, it was in subdued tones against the background of the whirring electric fans that controlled the ventilation system. The soldiers only stopped talking at the surprising sight of Max von Berger in his immaculately tailored uniform, medals aglow.

They passed through the lower levels that housed most of the Führer’s personal staff, Goebbels and his family, Martin Bormann, and many generals. Mohnke still led the way, but von Berger knew exactly where he was going, for he had been there before.

In the garden bunker was the Führer’s study, as well as a bedroom, two sitting rooms, bathroom facilities and a map room, close by and convenient for the constant conferences. Mohnke knocked on the door and went in. Von Berger waited. There was a murmur of voices, then Mohnke returned.

“The Führer will see you now.” He grabbed the young man’s hand. “Your comrades of the SS are proud of you. Your victory is ours.”

A slogan initiated by Goebbels in one of his inspired moments, and the subject of much ribaldry in the ranks of the SS. In any case, von Berger couldn’t imagine what he had done to cause such adulation.

“You’re too kind, General.”

“Not at all.” Mohnke was sweating and looked slightly dazed. He stood back and von Berger passed into the study.

The Führer sat at his desk, leaning over a map. He seemed shrunken, the uniform jacket too large for him; the face seemed wasted, the eyes dark holes, no life there at all, his cheeks hollow, a man at the end of things. The young woman beside him was an SS auxiliary in uniform. She held a sheaf of documents, which she passed one by one for Hitler to sign with a shaking hand. Her name was Sara Hesser. She was twenty-two years of age and had been pulled in by the Führer himself to act as a relief secretary.

He glanced up at her. “Deliver these. I’ll see the Baron in the sitting room. You can then bring the special file to me. Is it up to date?”

“As of last night, my Führer.”

“Good.” He stood up. “Follow me, Baron.”

He shuffled ahead, opened the door and led the way into the first sitting room. He sat in an armchair by a coffee table.

“Baron Max von Berger,
Sturmbahnführer
of the SS, you took a holy oath to protect your Führer. Repeat it now.”

Von Berger clicked his heels together. “I will render unconditional obedience to the Führer of the German Reich and People, Adolf Hitler, Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces, and will be ready, as a brave soldier, to stake my life at any time on this oath.”

Hitler nodded in satisfaction. “You have a magnificent record for one so young and yet you never joined the Nazi Party. Why not?”

“It didn’t seem appropriate, my Führer.”

“A typical response from the head of a great family. The aristocrat to the end – and yet you served me well. Why was that?”

“It’s a matter of honor, my Führer. I took the oath.”

“Just what I thought you’d say. You’re a remarkable young man. I sensed that when I decorated you with the Swords. That’s why I made you an aide. I was saving you. You’d be no use to me dead and that’s what would have happened if you’d returned to the front.”

Max von Berger took a deep breath. “What would you have me do, my Führer?”

“The most important task left to anyone in this Bunker. The Russians are coming. They want to cage me, and I can’t have that. My wife and I will commit suicide – no, no, don’t look like that, von Berger. The important thing is my work must continue, and you will play a part in that, the most important part.”

By his wife, he was, of course, referring to his mistress, Eva Braun, whom he had married around midnight on the 28th.

“We must see that National Socialism survives, that is essential. We have vast sums of money, not only in Switzerland, but in South American countries sympathetic to our cause. Many of my emissaries are already in the Argentine and Brazil. We must maintain the Kameradenwerk, the Action for Comrades.”

There was a knock at the door and Sara Hesser came in, a briefcase in one hand. Hitler waved her to one side. “I have no secrets from Sara, as you will see.”

“So where do I fit in, my Führer?”

Hitler raised a hand. “The Führer Directive.”

Sara Hesser opened the briefcase, extracted a sheet of paper and passed it to von Berger, who read it with some astonishment. It was explicit:

“This may help you,” Hitler said.

For Max von Berger, the implications were breathtaking. “But in what way, my Führer?”

“To get through whatever happens to you in the next few days. To help you get home, to survive and prepare yourself for your inevitable capture by the Americans or British.”

Von Berger was bewildered. “But there are no Americans here, my Führer, only Russians.”

“You don’t understand. Listen. During the last few days, many planes have flown in from Gatow and Rechlin, using streets such as the East West Avenue near the Brandenburger Tor as runways. Field Marshal von Greim came in the other day in a Fieseler Storch.”

Max von Berger struggled to control himself. The only reason for von Greim to come to Berlin was to be promoted to head of the Luftwaffe. The Führer, of course, could have told him on the telephone. Instead, von Greim had flown in from Munich escorted by fifty fighters, and forty of them had been shot down.

He said patiently, “And how does this affect me?”

“I spoke to the commandant of the Luftwaffe base at Rechlin. A pilot has volunteered to fly you out in a Storch. It has already arrived and is waiting in that huge garage at Goebbels’s house. The heavy rain and steam from the fires will make it an ideal time to go.”

“But to do what, my Führer?”

Hitler put out a shaking hand and Sara Hesser put the briefcase on the desk. “When the war is over, industry will collapse and so will your family’s company, Berger Steel. Eventually, though, things will start to improve, and especially for you. In here, you will find details of deposits in Switzerland, code words, passwords, which will give you access to millions. You’ll build Berger back into a power.”

Von Berger was speechless.

“That is not all.” Hitler opened the briefcase and produced a book bound in dark blue. “I have kept a diary for the past six months, a time in which everyone has betrayed me. Goering, Himmler.” He shook his head. “And no one tried more than me to be reasonable. I even sent Walter Schellenberg to Sweden to meet Roosevelt ’s representative, did you know that? No, of course you didn’t. I offered a negotiated peace to combat the Red menace. Am I the enemy? No. It is that dog Stalin. Together, the U.S. and Germany, we could have smashed him, but, no, my offer was rejected. The Americans will reap the whirlwind, believe me. The Russians will not recognize what they have taken. The damage they will do to Berlin is beyond anyone’s comprehension. Yet Roosevelt and Eisenhower have decided to hold back after the Elbe crossing. Patton and his tanks could be here in twenty-four hours, but they’ve been told to stay where they are in obedience to Stalin’s wishes and allow the Reds to take Berlin.”

“My God,” von Berger said.

“Believe me, in the years to come, America and Britain will rue this as their greatest folly. And it is all in my diary. Every day, I have dictated it to Fraülein Hesser. You may notice the trembling in my hand – an unfortunate ailment that has plagued me for some time. But I have signed each entry.”

“So what do I do with the diary, my Führer?”

“There will come a time when it will be of use to advance our cause. I do not know when – but you will, Baron. You will be its keeper. It is a holy book, Baron. I want no copies, your oath on that? Protected at all times. You may read it, if you wish. You will find the account of my dealings with Roosevelt particularly interesting.” He shook his head. “I have every belief that you will achieve this for me.”

And Baron Max von Berger, a great soldier and a brave man, but who had always despised the Nazi Party, for some reason felt incredibly moved. The young woman put the diary and documents back into the briefcase and handed it to him.

Hitler said, “So, you will leave within the next hour because of the bad weather.”

“May I take my sergeant with me?” von Berger asked.

“Of course. You can also take Fraülein Hesser.” He glanced up at her.

She said, “No, my Führer, my place, my duty, is with you.”

“So be it.” Hitler stood and held a shaking hand to von Berger. “Strange. Not even a Party member, and yet I chose you.”

Von Berger shook his hand strongly. “I accept the task. It is a matter of honor.”

“On your way. We shall not meet again.”

Sara Hesser went and opened the door. Max von Berger, the briefcase in his hand, paused and turned, and the sight of Hitler, hunched at his desk, was to haunt him for his entire life.

“My Führer.” He gave a military salute.

Hitler gave a thin smile. “Even now you cannot bring yourself to give me a Party salute. You touch your cap like a British Guards officer.”

“I’m sorry, my Führer.”

“Oh, go on. Just go.” Hitler waved his hand and Sara Hesser closed the door on the Baron.