Hitler's peace

She leaned forward to kiss me and for a moment I thought that everything was going to be all right. But then the kiss landed, chastely on my cheek, and it was as if she were saying good-bye. The next moment she was back in the hall, collecting her umbrella, and her pins, and her hat. That was the first time, when she walked out the door, leaving the key on the hall table, that I realized I loved her.

VIII

MONDAY, OCTOBER 18, 1943,

RASTENBURG, EAST PRUSSIA

The road took them through an area of small lakes and thick forest. It was here, in 1915, that Hindenburg had dealt the Russian army a crushing blow, killing 56,000 men and capturing 100,000 in a winter battle from which the tsar’s army never recovered. Before 1939, the area had been a favorite destination for boating enthusiasts; by 1943 there was no sign of any activity on the lakes.

Walter Schellenberg leaned back in the rear seat of the speeding open-topped, armor-plated Mercedes and shifted his gaze from the back of Oberleutnant Ulrich Wagner’s head to the tightly woven canopy of trees overhead. Even on a bright October’s afternoon like this one the forest made the road as dark as something out of the Brothers Grimm; and that protected the Wolfschanze from being seen from the air. Which was the reason the Fuhrer had chosen to locate his Wolf’s Lair headquarters in this godforsaken place. And yet, despite the continued pretense that the area concealed nothing more important than a chemical plant, it seemed not only certain that the Allies knew of the Lair’s existence but also that their bombers had the range to attack it. As recently as October 9, 352 heavy bombers of the USAAF had struck at targets just 150 kilometers away that included the Arado plants at Anklam, the Focke Wulf airframe plant at Marienburg, and the U-boat yards at Danzig. Was it actually possible, Schellenberg asked himself, that the Allies could no more contemplate killing Hitler than Himmler could?

The Reichsfuhrer-SS, sitting next to Schellenberg, removed his glasses and, cleaning them with a monogrammed cloth, took a deep and lusty breath of the forest air. “You can’t beat this East Prussian air,” he said.

Schellenberg smiled thinly. After a three-hour flight from Berlin, during which they had been buzzed by an RAF Mosquito and bounced around like a shuttlecock by some turbulence over Landsberg, his appreciation of East Prussian air was less than wholehearted. Thinking that he might improve the hollow feeling in his stomach if he ate something-so close to a meeting with the Fuhrer, he didn’t dare to touch the flask of schnapps he had in his briefcase-Schellenberg removed a packet of cheese sandwiches from his coat pocket and offered one to Himmler, who seemed on the verge of taking it, then thought better of it. Schellenberg had to look away for a moment for fear the Reichsfuhrer would see him smiling and know that he was recalling an occasion, years before, during the invasion of Poland, when Himmler and Wolff, having helped themselves to several of Schellenberg’s sandwiches, had discovered, too late, that they were moldy. His fledgling career in the SD had almost ended right then and there as, between roadside retches, Himmler and his aide had accused the junior officer of trying to poison them.

Himmler’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know why you’re eating those now,” he said. “There will be lunch at the Wolfschanze.”

“Perhaps, but I’m always too nervous to eat when I’m with the Fuhrer.”

“I can understand that,” conceded Himmler. “It’s quite a thing to sit beside the most remarkable man in the world. It’s easy to forget something as mundane as food when you’re listening to the Fuhrer.”

Schellenberg might have added that his own appetite was also curbed by the Fuhrer’s revolting table manners, for unlike most people, who lifted their cutlery to their mouths, the Fuhrer kept the arm which held his spoon or fork flat on the table and brought his mouth down to his plate. He even drank tea from a saucer, like a dog.

“I need to pee,” said Himmler. “Stop the car.”

The big Mercedes drew to the side of the road, and the car following behind, carrying Himmler’s secretary, Dr. Brandt, and his adjutant, von Dem Bach, drew up alongside.

“Is anything the matter, Herr Reichsfuhrer?” Brandt enquired of his boss, who was already marching through the trees and fiddling with the fly buttons of his riding breeches.

“Nothing’s the matter,” said Himmler. “I need to pee, that’s all.”

Schellenberg stepped out of the car, lit a cigarette, and then offered one to von Dem Bach’s aide.

“Where are you from, Oberleutnant?” he asked, walking in vaguely the same direction as Himmler.

“From Bonn, sir,” said Wagner.

“Oh? I was at Bonn University.”

“Really, sir? I didn’t know.” Von Dem Bach’s aide took a long drag on his cigarette. “I was at Ludwig-Maximilians University, in Munich.”

“And you studied law, I suppose.”

“Yes, sir, how did you know?”