Linge, did he speak. In a barely audible voice he said: “ Linge, mein alter Freund, you must escape Berlin—and live.”
Startled, Linge said: “Yes, mein Führer. Why?”
“To serve him who will come after me,” Hitler whispered, his voice strangely constricted. “As faithfully as you served me.”
The last one was Otto Günsche. The officer had his orders. He would guard the door. No one was to enter the Führer’s study for ten minutes.
And Hitler and Eva went into the study.
With an ominous clang of finality the vault-like steel door swung shut behind them, and Günsche, his Schmeisser machine pistol at port arms, took up his position at the door.
Hitler took Eva by the hand. For a brief moment he stood gazing at the empty spot on the wall where the portrait of Frederick the Great, his favorite possession, had hung until a few hours ago. He had given it to his loyal pilot, Hans Baur. He looked at Eva.
“My little Tschapperl,” he said softly, calling her by the banal Bavarian term of affection he so often used. “My little ‘honey pie,’ now I have nothing but you.”
She squeezed his hand.
He looked at the table standing before the blue-and-white velvet-covered couch. On it his Walther 7.65 and a smaller caliber handgun, a Walther 6.35, had been placed—and two glass phials. He turned to Eva.
“Now,” he said.
Quickly Eva removed her scarf. She threw it on the table next to the little gun. She began to unbutton her dress.
Suddenly the door to the corridor opened.
Startled, Hitler whirled toward it.
Otto Günsche stood in the open doorway. “ Mein Führer,” he said apologetically, “ Frau Goebbels insists on speaking with you. She says it is of vital importance.”
Behind the officer Hitler glimpsed the woman, Magda Goebbels. She seemed hysterical. She was shouting: “There is still hope, mein Führer! You can still reach Berchtesgaden! There is still hope! You must not die! You cannot die! . . .”
He was furious. It had been close. Another few seconds. He glared angrily at Günsche. “You have your orders,” he growled. “I will not see her. I will not see anyone! You will keep that door closed. For ten minutes. Whatever happens. Is that understood?”
“ Jawohl, mein Führer!”
Hastily Günsche closed the door.
Shaken, but still under control, Eva began to remove her dress. It had been close.
Hitler quickly strode to the door leading to his private room.
“Strelitz,” he called hoarsely. “Bring her out.”
SS Sturmbannführer Oskar Strelitz walked into the study. The unconscious woman in his arms bore a striking likeness to Eva.
She was without a dress. Hitler merely glanced at her. She was of no importance, a necessary sacrifice to serve his purpose. And the future. He did not know her name. Strelitz had found her. Working as a volunteer in the Bunker Lazaret. No one knew her. No one would miss her.
But she was vital to the success of the operation.
Eva Braun had to die. An Eva Braun. Her body had to be found with his. There could be no doubt. No one must have a reason to hunt for her once the Reich had been struck down.
When the time came she knew what to do.
Eva helped Strelitz to put her black dress on the unconscious woman. And her Italian-made shoes. She said not a word, but the tears were streaming down her cheeks.
Strelitz placed the woman on the sofa. He picked up one of the glass phials from the table and put it in her mouth.
Eva looked away as, with a quick motion, Strelitz clamped the woman’s jaws together, crushing the phial. Part of the broken glass fell to the floor. A violent spasm racked the unconscious body and left it still in death.
A fleet, almost impersonal embrace—as if both Eva and Adolf found it difficult to express affection in the presence of death— and they stood in awkward silence. Strelitz glanced at his watch.
“ Frau Hitler. Bitte,” he said urgently. “The bandages!”
Quickly Eva walked to her own room, followed by
Startled, Linge said: “Yes, mein Führer. Why?”
“To serve him who will come after me,” Hitler whispered, his voice strangely constricted. “As faithfully as you served me.”
The last one was Otto Günsche. The officer had his orders. He would guard the door. No one was to enter the Führer’s study for ten minutes.
And Hitler and Eva went into the study.
With an ominous clang of finality the vault-like steel door swung shut behind them, and Günsche, his Schmeisser machine pistol at port arms, took up his position at the door.
Hitler took Eva by the hand. For a brief moment he stood gazing at the empty spot on the wall where the portrait of Frederick the Great, his favorite possession, had hung until a few hours ago. He had given it to his loyal pilot, Hans Baur. He looked at Eva.
“My little Tschapperl,” he said softly, calling her by the banal Bavarian term of affection he so often used. “My little ‘honey pie,’ now I have nothing but you.”
She squeezed his hand.
He looked at the table standing before the blue-and-white velvet-covered couch. On it his Walther 7.65 and a smaller caliber handgun, a Walther 6.35, had been placed—and two glass phials. He turned to Eva.
“Now,” he said.
Quickly Eva removed her scarf. She threw it on the table next to the little gun. She began to unbutton her dress.
Suddenly the door to the corridor opened.
Startled, Hitler whirled toward it.
Otto Günsche stood in the open doorway. “ Mein Führer,” he said apologetically, “ Frau Goebbels insists on speaking with you. She says it is of vital importance.”
Behind the officer Hitler glimpsed the woman, Magda Goebbels. She seemed hysterical. She was shouting: “There is still hope, mein Führer! You can still reach Berchtesgaden! There is still hope! You must not die! You cannot die! . . .”
He was furious. It had been close. Another few seconds. He glared angrily at Günsche. “You have your orders,” he growled. “I will not see her. I will not see anyone! You will keep that door closed. For ten minutes. Whatever happens. Is that understood?”
“ Jawohl, mein Führer!”
Hastily Günsche closed the door.
Shaken, but still under control, Eva began to remove her dress. It had been close.
Hitler quickly strode to the door leading to his private room.
“Strelitz,” he called hoarsely. “Bring her out.”
SS Sturmbannführer Oskar Strelitz walked into the study. The unconscious woman in his arms bore a striking likeness to Eva.
She was without a dress. Hitler merely glanced at her. She was of no importance, a necessary sacrifice to serve his purpose. And the future. He did not know her name. Strelitz had found her. Working as a volunteer in the Bunker Lazaret. No one knew her. No one would miss her.
But she was vital to the success of the operation.
Eva Braun had to die. An Eva Braun. Her body had to be found with his. There could be no doubt. No one must have a reason to hunt for her once the Reich had been struck down.
When the time came she knew what to do.
Eva helped Strelitz to put her black dress on the unconscious woman. And her Italian-made shoes. She said not a word, but the tears were streaming down her cheeks.
Strelitz placed the woman on the sofa. He picked up one of the glass phials from the table and put it in her mouth.
Eva looked away as, with a quick motion, Strelitz clamped the woman’s jaws together, crushing the phial. Part of the broken glass fell to the floor. A violent spasm racked the unconscious body and left it still in death.
A fleet, almost impersonal embrace—as if both Eva and Adolf found it difficult to express affection in the presence of death— and they stood in awkward silence. Strelitz glanced at his watch.
“ Frau Hitler. Bitte,” he said urgently. “The bandages!”
Quickly Eva walked to her own room, followed by
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