The Seventh Secret by Irving Wallace Page A

begun to thank him, when the reporter interrupted her. "Before speaking to Vogel, I think you should know something about the man," Nitz had said. "I pulled out my interview notes from two years ago, just to refresh my memory. Ernst Vogel was twenty-four on the day he claims Hitler died. That would make him sixty-four today. Vogel was an SS sergeant and honor guard on a twelve-hour shift. Very proud of the black sleeve band with 'Adolf Hitler' stitched in silver on it. On duty, he was armed with a machine gun and hand grenade. He was at the entrance to the Führerbunker during the last ten days Hitler was down there, the ten days between Hitler's fifty-sixth birthday and his announced suicide. Vogel must have been well trusted, because he got down into the bunker at several crucial moments toward the end. On the final day he was one of those who witnessed the cremation of Hitler and Braun. He'll tell you the whole story. He's a garrulous fellow with a good memory. Those ten days were the high spot in his life. If he's still around, you should find him at home. He's always worked out of his apartment."
    "Doing what?"
    "He runs a mail-order business. Rare books. German, of course. Oh, one more thing. You'll have to speak up when you're with him. He has a hearing defect. Both ears. From an injury suffered when he was at the Führerbunker due to the constant Russian bombardment of the Chancellery area. Anyway, try him. If he's there, I'm sure he'll see you. You can mention my name."
    "I don't know how to thank you enough, Mr. Nitz."
    "Never mind. Call Vogel for the standard version."
    She had hung up, then dialed Ernst Vogel's number. After a few rings, a loud male voice had answered. With his impediment in mind, Emily had raised her own voice. Was this Ernst Vogel? It was. Emily had introduced herself and said that Peter Nitz, a reporter on the Berliner Morgenpost , had once interviewed him about Adolf Hitler's death and had thought he might be a reliable witness for her to contact. She hastily added that she had come to Berlin to wind up research on a definitive history of Hitler. She then had given Vogel her academic credentials.
    "A book?" Vogel had shouted. "You are writing a book about Hitler's death?"
    "Actually about his entire life, but it will include his death. I want it to be accurate. I hope you can help me."
    There had been a pause. "Yes, I can help you. You've come to the right person." Another pause. "I suppose I owe it to posterity. Very well, I will see you. Do you have my address?"
    Emily had read it to him.
    "Exact," he had said. "Be here at-four o'clock."
    After that, with time to spare, she had considered also calling Dr. Max Thiel, the dentist whose doubts about Hitler's death had brought first her father and then Emily herself to Berlin. Eager to do so, she had hesitated, recalling Nitz's advice that she use whatever Vogel told her as bait to gain a meeting with Dr. Thiel.
    Instead of calling, she had gone to the suitcase filled with her research files, taken out the files, sorted them. Finally, she had reviewed lists of Germans who had known Hitler or been in the Führer bunker during Hitler's final days, those people her father had already interviewed during his visits to Berlin. Ernst Vogel had not been among them. Curious, Emily had thought. Anyway, she would soon make up for the oversight.
    She had taken a taxi for an eight-minute ride to what proved to be a five-story apartment building on Dahlmannstrasse, about a block and a half north off the Ku'damm. A mailbox in the small lobby had told her Ernst Vogel could be found on the floor above the street floor. Climbing the flight of stairs between scarred mahogany banisters and sickly green walls in need of fresh paint, she had arrived at Vogel's apartment.
    To her surprise, the person who greeted her turned out to be a small man with sparse gray hair, a hearing aid set into one ear, an emaciated Goebbels-like face. She had imagined that all the