“Where are your planes?”
(Hitler to his personal pilot, Hans Baur)
“Wenck? Where is he?” It was one o’clock in the morning and the same question was still being asked in both bunkers. When would Wenck’s attack save him? The Führer couldn’t hold out for much longer. For several weeks he had spent his nights pacing the corridor of his lair, seeking sleep that he couldn’t find. Besides, by night, by day, all of these notions had become abstract by virtue of living underground, far from any natural light. The damp air of the shelters attacked the skin and the respiratory tracts. Was that also what disturbed everyone’s minds, making even the toughest people so fragile? Or the certainty that these wrecks of the Third Reich were destined for absolute hell?
Their few contacts with the outside world were shrinking the range of possibilities still further. Soldiers covered with dust, their eyes filled with alarm concerning their own survival, came regularly to deliver their reports. The battle was lost: that was the essence of what they said. The Russians were crushing everything in their path. They were advancing towards the Reichstag building (the Reich assembly), and were no more than three hundred tiny metres away from the New Chancellery. Or, to put it another way, a rifle shot away.
At about two o’clock the answer that everyone was waiting for arrived by cable: Wenck’s army was still fighting valiantly, but couldn’t get through to Berlin, let alone rescue Hitler.
“How long can we hold out?” The Führer’s question no longer concerned Germany as a whole, nor even Berlin, but just the bunker. How many days, how many hours, before the final assault? The officer standing in front of him stood to attention and answered without a moment’s hesitation: “Two days at the maximum.”
It was now 2:30. All the women who were still in the area around the New Chancellery, principally servants, were assembled in a dining room. There were about ten of them, standing very straight. None of them knew why they had been woken up in the middle of the night. All of a sudden Hitler entered the room. He was followed by Bormann. The scene was set out in a report by the British secret services drawn up on 1 November 1945 from the stories of eyewitnesses. The dictator appeared abstracted, his eyes glazed, as if he were under the influence of medication, of drugs. He greeted them one by one with a handshake, then muttered a few barely intelligible words about the traitor Himmler, the gravity of the situation, and, particularly, of his decision to evacuate the zone. He thus freed them of their oath of loyalty to him. His only advice: flee to the west, because the east is totally controlled by the Soviets. Fall into their hands, he reminded them, and you are certain of being raped and ending up as a soldiers’ whore. He finished speaking, then suddenly exited the room with Bormann. The participants were left on their own. For a few seconds they stood there petrified. Their Führer had just abandoned them to their miserable fate.
It was now the turn of the generals and the inner circle to receive the same orders. Meanwhile, Eva Hitler tidied her things away in her little bedroom. She called in Traudl Junge, who picked up her notebook, imagining that she too wanted to dictate her testament. Far from it. Deep in a wardrobe filled with dresses and fur coats, she beckoned the young secretary over. “Frau Junge, I would like to offer you this coat as a farewell gift,” she said. “I’ve always liked to have well-dressed women around me, and now it’s your turn to have them and enjoy them.”* The silver fox fur cape was the one in which she had been married.
At eight o’clock in the morning, the order to evacuate the government building was finally made official. Hitler had just dictated it to Bormann. Immediately, small groups organised themselves. Each one wanted to try their chance. Some opted for the south-west, others for the north. The Russians could patrol the city, but they didn’t know Berlin, let alone its network of underground channels or the twists and turns of the Berlin underground. Escape was still possible. The pilot Hans Baur was bursting with enthusiasm. At last he was going to have a purpose. He ran to see the Führer and tell him he was ready to get him out of Berlin. He knew where to dig up some planes in the capital. Baur had thought of everything. He would then take Hitler to refuge far away. There were still some friendly countries like Japan, Argentina, and Spain… “Or, if not, with one of those Arab sheikhs who have always been friendly towards you in relation to your attitude towards the Jews.”†
To thank his excited pilot, Hitler left him the big painting that hung on the wall of his office. It showed Frederick the Great, the famous King of Prussia, the typical incarnation of the so-called “enlightened” despot. A political and military point of reference for the Führer. Baur was mad with joy. Many people in the bunker thought it was a Rembrandt, and that it was utterly priceless. In fact, according to Heinz Linge, it was a work by Adolph von Menzel, a German painter who died in 1905 and was very popular in his own country. “It cost me 34,000 marks in 1934,” the Führer added with the precision of an accountant. A sum equivalent to almost 400,000 euros today. “It’s yours.” Then, in a low voice, he added: “Where are your planes?”
Heinz Linge, the Führer’s personal valet, was also making himself busy. At dawn, his master confided to him that the “hour of truth” had sounded. He advised him to escape towards the west, and even to surrender to the British and the Americans. He confirmed his decision concerning giving the portrait of Frederick the Great to Linge, and absolutely maintained that, even in these moments of chaos, his will was to be respected. The painting became an obsession for the Führer. He wanted to protect it from the looting that would follow the fall of the bunker. Linge assured him that he would take care of it in person.
Reassured, Hitler went to take a rest in his room for a few hours. He lay down fully dressed and ordered his SS guards to stand outside his door.
At about one o’clock he came out to have lunch with his wife, his two secretaries, and his nutritionist. For several days he had refused to share his meals with men. Around the little table, everyone tried to maintain a dignified attitude. But the conversation was stilted. No one had the heart to chat as they had done even the previous day.
Once the meal was over, Eva Hitler left the table first. The secretaries also disappeared to smoke a cigarette. They were joined by Günsche, the Führer’s austere aide-de-camp. He told them that the master wanted to say his goodbyes to them. The two young women stubbed out their cigarettes and followed the impressive SS officer–he was 1.93 metres tall, six foot four–to join a small group. The last loyalists waited there, in the corridor: Martin Bormann, Joseph and Magda Goebbels, Generals Burgdorf and Krebs, and Linge. It was almost three o’clock when the door of the antechamber opened. Hitler came out slowly and walked towards them. The same ceremony was repeated. His soft, warm hand gripped the hands that were extended towards him. He murmured a few words and left immediately. Eva Hitler appeared more alive than ever. Her hair, which she had just had done, shone brilliantly. She had changed her dress, and was wearing one that her husband was particularly fond of, a black dress with an edging of roses printed around the neck. She kissed the secretaries one last time, asked them to escape as quickly as possible, and joined Hitler. Linge closed the door and took up position outside the Führer’s apartments. Everyone was now free to pursue their own fate.
* Traudl Junge, Until the Final Hour, p. 172.
† Hans Baur, I was Hitler’s Pilot, op. cit., p. 188.