The Berkut by Joseph Heywood Page A

door, Sturmbannführer Heinz Linge and Otto Gunsche stood guard silently, their faces impassive. They had their orders from their chief and they knew their duty. Nobody was to be admitted for ten minutes-what the Führer had described as a "decent interval." Joseph Goebbels hovered nearby, a deformed gnome who had masterminded the Nazi propaganda machine and helped perpetuate the Aryan myth, the apotheosis of himself. He smoked nervously, his birdlike head twitching with every inhalation. Martin Bormann, the Reichsleiter who served as secretary of the party, stood steadfast, his arms crossed, a sinister scowl on his face.
    Linge checked his watch and nodded to his fellow servant. Gunsche opened the steel door, and Goebbels immediately pushed by them into Hitler's anteroom, where he stopped dead in his tracks. Bormann, Linge and Giinsche passed by him into the tiny living room beyond. Reichsjugendführer Artur Axmann had arrived too late for the farewells, but now he rushed into the scene with the others, his face flushed from having been above ground amid the Russian artillery barrage. His arm stump waved in small circles as he tried to comprehend what had happened.
    The two bodies were on the sofa near the back wall. A vase of flowers was on the floor, its water seeping into the carpet. Hitler was at one end of the couch, his body tilted slightly forward, his right hand hanging down over the armrest. His Walther 7.65 was on the floor near his hand. Eva Braun was at the opposite end of the love seat, reclining peacefully, her legs tucked underneath her as she did when ever she napped in front of the fireplace at the Berghof. There was blood streaming from Hitler's mouth, and a smaller wound in the right temple. The couch was soaking up his blood, and none of the survivors cared to look too closely. Eva's black dress was wet, her eyes wide open. There was no apparent wound, but they could smell the odor of almonds, and there was a slight bluish-gray discoloration around her lips. Cyanide. Her soft brown leather pumps had been placed together under the couch.
    Bormann and Goebbels gagged from the fumes left by the cyanide capsules, and covered the ir faces with handkerchiefs. Gü nsche stared at the bodies, then wheeled and strode away. He met Erich Kempka, Hitler's tiny chauffeur, in the conference area. Earlier Gü nsche had ordered Kempka to collect two hundred liters of petrol in jerricans and bring them to the bunker entrance in the Chancellery garden. Kempka had argued with him over the phone. He wasn't going to risk his life trying to get to their fuel cache; it was too dangerous. They'd have to wait until later in the day, when the Russian gunners paused to eat or piss or do whatever it was they did in the late afternoon when the firing stopped. As an alternative, Gü nsche suggested to Kempka that he try siphoning what he could from the vehicles in their underground garage. The streets were so clogged that staff cars couldn't get through any longer, and there was no need for the petrol in them.
    "What the hell is going on?" Kempka demanded when he saw the SS man.
    "Der Fü hrer ist tot," Gü nsche said solemnly.
    Kempka went immediately to see for himself, but met Linge, who demanded to know where the petrol was.
    "In the garden. One hundred and seventy liters . All we could find." Brigadefü hrer Johann Rattenhuber, head of the Reich Security Police detachment for the bunker, arrived after Kempka. Others filtered in and out of the death room, taking quick looks at the bodies, too disconcerted or too frightened to look closely or for long. It was the end.
    After some time, Rattenhuber, a practical man with a flair for decision-making, took over. He instructed the others to take the bodies up to the garden. Hitler's body was wrapped in a gray army blanket, leaving the top part of his head visible, but not his face. T he Fü hrer's left arm and legs hung down; his black trousers were the ones he normally wore with his