muscles and boiled away the tissue. The sickening sweet stench of burning flesh soon engulfed him and he quietly slipped away, disappearing into the Bunker.
It was 1853 hours. The Führer, Adolf Hitler, had been dead less than three hours. In the desecrated garden above, the flames had not yet consumed his body, but his Bunker world below had already disintegrated into a wild, profane bacchanalia.
The Bunker complex teemed with people. Soldiers and civilians seeking refuge from the hell above mingled with the milling Bunker denizens, imprisoned in a different, ungodly hell deep in the earth. The impending doom had severed every normal restraint of reason and decency. Liquor and lust, fear and despair in hellish fusion permeated everything and everybody and reigned unfettered.
No one paid attention to the three people who made their way through the crowded corridors and chambers of the Bunker system. Two men and a woman. The woman’s head was swathed in bandages and her left arm was cushioned against her body in a sling. The older of the two men wore a large, makeshift patch over one eye; he kept his head pulled down into the upturned collar of an army greatcoat. The younger man, clad in a tight-fitting black uniform, assisted the wounded woman as they hurried through the Bunker labyrinth.
Led by Bormann, Eva and Willibald Lüttjohann were headed for the underground garages on Hermann Goering Strasse directly opposite the Tiergarten. It was a long way from the Führer Bunker itself. They had to travel in a wide, semicircular arch of corridors and shelters under the entire length of the New Chancellery building. Through the officers’ quarters and the huge civilian bunker; through the Lazaret, the hospital rooms, and dental offices; through the mess hall and the SS guards’ bunker.
Bright lights were everywhere; if not, they had been turned off for reasons known only to those who lurked in the gloom. Loud, strident music, screams, and laughter combined in a shrill cacophony filled the air. The stink of cigarette smoke and sour human sweat stung their nostrils.
Eva was appalled. In her entire, ordered existence she had never experienced anything to prepare her for the depraved sights and sounds that now assailed her senses. It filled her with loathing. And fear.
The bunker maze was a bedlam—a Dante’s Inferno with the souls of the damned adorned with blood-red swastika armbands and silver death heads.
As they made their way through the officers’ quarters the atmosphere of sexual saturnalia threatened to overwhelm her. Women and girls who only hours before had fled from basements and shelters in terror of being raped by the Russian barbarians now gave themselves openly and willingly to any German at hand.
One SS officer was shamelessly copulating on the floor amidst a jumble of empty beer and wine bottles and half-smoked cigarettes, drunkenly cheered on by his fellow officers.
A Wehrmacht general, naked from the waist down but with a row of gleaming medals on his immaculate uniform tunic, was tearing at the pants of a buxom, giggling teen-aged girl. And next to a gramophone oozing a Viennese waltz, two SS officers, their uniform pants bunched around their feet, were swaying drunkenly to the music in a clutching, orgasmic embrace.
Eva averted her face. She was profoundly shaken. She felt a sourness rise in her throat. She had a fleeting vision of a girl on a blue-and-white sofa. She had been shocked. Then. But nothing, nothing could be more terrible than the horrifying carnality she was now witnessing.
And on through the hellish network of passageways and compartments their obscene odyssey went.
In the Lazaret a half-naked nurse was masturbating a soldier whose legs were lifted in traction—both feet amputated. Madness shone in her eyes as she stared, transfixed, at the swollen penis in her rapidly moving hand, while she sensuously rubbed her own thighs together.
On the adjoining bed an orderly was changing
It was 1853 hours. The Führer, Adolf Hitler, had been dead less than three hours. In the desecrated garden above, the flames had not yet consumed his body, but his Bunker world below had already disintegrated into a wild, profane bacchanalia.
The Bunker complex teemed with people. Soldiers and civilians seeking refuge from the hell above mingled with the milling Bunker denizens, imprisoned in a different, ungodly hell deep in the earth. The impending doom had severed every normal restraint of reason and decency. Liquor and lust, fear and despair in hellish fusion permeated everything and everybody and reigned unfettered.
No one paid attention to the three people who made their way through the crowded corridors and chambers of the Bunker system. Two men and a woman. The woman’s head was swathed in bandages and her left arm was cushioned against her body in a sling. The older of the two men wore a large, makeshift patch over one eye; he kept his head pulled down into the upturned collar of an army greatcoat. The younger man, clad in a tight-fitting black uniform, assisted the wounded woman as they hurried through the Bunker labyrinth.
Led by Bormann, Eva and Willibald Lüttjohann were headed for the underground garages on Hermann Goering Strasse directly opposite the Tiergarten. It was a long way from the Führer Bunker itself. They had to travel in a wide, semicircular arch of corridors and shelters under the entire length of the New Chancellery building. Through the officers’ quarters and the huge civilian bunker; through the Lazaret, the hospital rooms, and dental offices; through the mess hall and the SS guards’ bunker.
Bright lights were everywhere; if not, they had been turned off for reasons known only to those who lurked in the gloom. Loud, strident music, screams, and laughter combined in a shrill cacophony filled the air. The stink of cigarette smoke and sour human sweat stung their nostrils.
Eva was appalled. In her entire, ordered existence she had never experienced anything to prepare her for the depraved sights and sounds that now assailed her senses. It filled her with loathing. And fear.
The bunker maze was a bedlam—a Dante’s Inferno with the souls of the damned adorned with blood-red swastika armbands and silver death heads.
As they made their way through the officers’ quarters the atmosphere of sexual saturnalia threatened to overwhelm her. Women and girls who only hours before had fled from basements and shelters in terror of being raped by the Russian barbarians now gave themselves openly and willingly to any German at hand.
One SS officer was shamelessly copulating on the floor amidst a jumble of empty beer and wine bottles and half-smoked cigarettes, drunkenly cheered on by his fellow officers.
A Wehrmacht general, naked from the waist down but with a row of gleaming medals on his immaculate uniform tunic, was tearing at the pants of a buxom, giggling teen-aged girl. And next to a gramophone oozing a Viennese waltz, two SS officers, their uniform pants bunched around their feet, were swaying drunkenly to the music in a clutching, orgasmic embrace.
Eva averted her face. She was profoundly shaken. She felt a sourness rise in her throat. She had a fleeting vision of a girl on a blue-and-white sofa. She had been shocked. Then. But nothing, nothing could be more terrible than the horrifying carnality she was now witnessing.
And on through the hellish network of passageways and compartments their obscene odyssey went.
In the Lazaret a half-naked nurse was masturbating a soldier whose legs were lifted in traction—both feet amputated. Madness shone in her eyes as she stared, transfixed, at the swollen penis in her rapidly moving hand, while she sensuously rubbed her own thighs together.
On the adjoining bed an orderly was changing
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