Strelitz, who closed the door behind them.
For a moment Hitler stood alone, staring after them. Then he shuffled to the sofa. One last time. Heavily he sat down. Without a glance at the dead substitute Eva at his side he picked up the remaining phial and placed it in his mouth. He reached for his gun and raised it to his temple.
To those waiting in the corridor outside each second was an eternity. The silence was tangible—taut and heavy. The nerves of everyone were tensed to the ultimate. All eyes were on the massive, closed steel door, all ears were straining for the sound of the shot they expected to come. The shot that would take the life of the Führer. The shot they all knew would be impossible to hear through the thick, fireproof, gasproof, and soundproof double door. But still they listened. And the eternal seconds ticked by . . .
Finally Günsche spoke. “Ten minutes,” he said. “The Führer’s ten minutes have gone by . . .” He spoke to no one. Everyone.
At once Bormann strode to the door. He flung it open. Over his shoulder Günsche, Linge, and the others took in the sight that met them—every detail searing itself on their minds.
Sitting on the blue-and-white sofa were Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun. From a small hole in the Führer’s right temple the blood slowly oozed down his cheek. His right hand hung limply over the arm of the sofa and below it on the floor lay his Walther 7.65. His left hand clutched a picture of a woman to his uniformed chest. His mother. A few glass splinters fallen on it from his open mouth glinted in the light. Eva Braun was leaning into the corner of the sofa, her face partly hidden. Her little 6.35 pistol still lay next to her gay pink scarf on the table. It had not been fired. On the floor near her left foot was part of a broken glass phial. Mixed with the acrid smell of gunpowder there was a strong odor of bitter almonds in the room. The cyanamide had done its job.
Hurriedly Bormann walked into the room. Two heavy woolen military blankets had been thrown over a chair. He took one of them and quickly covered Eva’s body. Following his lead, Linge took the other and spread it over the Führer.
Bormann motioned to two SS officers. Between them they picked up the blanket-covered body of Hitler. Bormann himself carefully wrapped the blanket around the body of Eva Braun. Only her feet were visible. And on them her favorite Italian-made shoes. He lifted her up—she was heavier than he had expected—and started toward the stairs that led to the garden above.
At the foot of the stairs the six-feet, two-inches-tall Günsche stopped him. For a moment Bormann thought the man was going to pull the blanket aside and look at the body, but he merely took her in his arms and gently carried her up the fifty stone steps to the garden, followed by the grim mourners.
About ten meters from the Bunker exit, amidst the broken masonry, blackened timbers, uprooted trees, and jagged cement blocks scattered throughout the shell-cratered Chancellery garden, a shallow ditch had been dug in the rubble-strewn ground, and nearby a number of gasoline cans had been stacked. Side by side the two bodies were laid in the trench.
As the corpses were being doused with gasoline, a Russian artillery bombardment suddenly exploded around the garden. Quickly the mourners sought refuge in the shelter of the Bunker entrance. Here Günsche dipped a rag in gasoline, set it afire, and hurled it out onto the gasoline-soaked bodies in the pit. At once they were enveloped in a roar of flames—an eerie obbligato to the thundering Russian barrage. And sooty smoke billowed up toward the red haze that lay over the city. Suddenly one of the SS officers snapped to rigid attention and gave the Hitler salute. Awkwardly the others followed his lead.
For a while Bormann stood with the silent group watching the blue flames eat at the shrouded bodies. Startled, he saw their limbs twitch spasmodically as the heat contracted the
For a moment Hitler stood alone, staring after them. Then he shuffled to the sofa. One last time. Heavily he sat down. Without a glance at the dead substitute Eva at his side he picked up the remaining phial and placed it in his mouth. He reached for his gun and raised it to his temple.
To those waiting in the corridor outside each second was an eternity. The silence was tangible—taut and heavy. The nerves of everyone were tensed to the ultimate. All eyes were on the massive, closed steel door, all ears were straining for the sound of the shot they expected to come. The shot that would take the life of the Führer. The shot they all knew would be impossible to hear through the thick, fireproof, gasproof, and soundproof double door. But still they listened. And the eternal seconds ticked by . . .
Finally Günsche spoke. “Ten minutes,” he said. “The Führer’s ten minutes have gone by . . .” He spoke to no one. Everyone.
At once Bormann strode to the door. He flung it open. Over his shoulder Günsche, Linge, and the others took in the sight that met them—every detail searing itself on their minds.
Sitting on the blue-and-white sofa were Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun. From a small hole in the Führer’s right temple the blood slowly oozed down his cheek. His right hand hung limply over the arm of the sofa and below it on the floor lay his Walther 7.65. His left hand clutched a picture of a woman to his uniformed chest. His mother. A few glass splinters fallen on it from his open mouth glinted in the light. Eva Braun was leaning into the corner of the sofa, her face partly hidden. Her little 6.35 pistol still lay next to her gay pink scarf on the table. It had not been fired. On the floor near her left foot was part of a broken glass phial. Mixed with the acrid smell of gunpowder there was a strong odor of bitter almonds in the room. The cyanamide had done its job.
Hurriedly Bormann walked into the room. Two heavy woolen military blankets had been thrown over a chair. He took one of them and quickly covered Eva’s body. Following his lead, Linge took the other and spread it over the Führer.
Bormann motioned to two SS officers. Between them they picked up the blanket-covered body of Hitler. Bormann himself carefully wrapped the blanket around the body of Eva Braun. Only her feet were visible. And on them her favorite Italian-made shoes. He lifted her up—she was heavier than he had expected—and started toward the stairs that led to the garden above.
At the foot of the stairs the six-feet, two-inches-tall Günsche stopped him. For a moment Bormann thought the man was going to pull the blanket aside and look at the body, but he merely took her in his arms and gently carried her up the fifty stone steps to the garden, followed by the grim mourners.
About ten meters from the Bunker exit, amidst the broken masonry, blackened timbers, uprooted trees, and jagged cement blocks scattered throughout the shell-cratered Chancellery garden, a shallow ditch had been dug in the rubble-strewn ground, and nearby a number of gasoline cans had been stacked. Side by side the two bodies were laid in the trench.
As the corpses were being doused with gasoline, a Russian artillery bombardment suddenly exploded around the garden. Quickly the mourners sought refuge in the shelter of the Bunker entrance. Here Günsche dipped a rag in gasoline, set it afire, and hurled it out onto the gasoline-soaked bodies in the pit. At once they were enveloped in a roar of flames—an eerie obbligato to the thundering Russian barrage. And sooty smoke billowed up toward the red haze that lay over the city. Suddenly one of the SS officers snapped to rigid attention and gave the Hitler salute. Awkwardly the others followed his lead.
For a while Bormann stood with the silent group watching the blue flames eat at the shrouded bodies. Startled, he saw their limbs twitch spasmodically as the heat contracted the
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