Kurt pulled open the door and stepped in expecting almost anything except disappointment. Hitler’s office was very small, barely room enough for the desk and the chairs behind and in front of it. To Kurt’s left on the wall was a map of Berlin. On the wall behind Hitler’s chair was a reproduction of someone’s painting of Frederick the Great. He saw the painting itself in the next room hanging on the wall above a couch upholstered with a flowered pattern.
As he turned through a doorway to his left, entering a tiny vestibule, Kurt speculated as to why the image of Germany’s founder of religious tolerance bore such a prominent place in the Fuhrer’s apartments. Frederick II also fought a lot of wars and considered himself an artist. “Two out of three,” Kurt whispered to himself as he leaned through the doorway to his right and looked into the bathroom the Fuhrer shared with his wife. There was a tub and shower in the back against a wall on the other side of which Gen. Fegelein still stood watch over the electrical panels. There were two pairs of nylon stockings hanging from the rod supporting the shower curtain and a faint touch of scent in the air.
He looked up at the ceiling. It was painted and featureless. No access. Across from the bathroom was a bedroom, Frau Hitler’s judging by the clothing on the bed and chair. No access through the ceiling. Straight ahead, between the narrow walls of the vestibule, was a closet with its deep red curtain only half drawn across the opening. Kurt swept it aside and turned on the lone overhead light. The shelves along the right side held linens, towels, and sealed pasteboard boxes and crates. Opposite the shelves was a pipe suspended from the ceiling from which dozens of coats and dresses were hung on wooden hangers, again Frau Hitler’s. Kurt looked up. Set in the center of the closet ceiling was an airtight access hatch, its handles dogged down tightly.
It was short work piling up enough wooden crates to reach the access hatch, and several smacks with the hammer from his bag to loosen the handles. He pulled down the door, shined the light up, and could see a chimney with hand and step holes extending up for perhaps a meter. Above the concrete, toward the bathroom side, was what looked like the gray painted housing for the ventilator fan. He could smell the odor of burned insulation. Another crate placed on top of the stack and Kurt climbed up into the chimney, put his tool bag up, and pulled himself into the cramped space above.
He could hear the tunes being played in the canteen quite clearly, which meant the ventilating systems were connected. Unless this particular fan was operating, however, the vents connecting the systems were closed. It was likely that the air in the front bunker was mostly recirculated unless it got fresh air from this system. Getting this fan working would improve both bunkers.
He found the loose connection quickly enough. Where the power line had been wired into the fan motor there was a wiring box. Once the cover was removed the story was clear. One of the lines, properly stripped and bent into a hook, had been placed around the proper screw and the screw tightened. Instead of placing the open side of the hook to the right, however, so that the end of the wire would tighten along with the screw, the mystery installer had placed the hook’s opening to the left, loosening the hook as the screw tightened. Over the subsequent months or years of vibration from fan operation, construction, and exploding bombs and artillery shells, the connection had loosened entirely.
The loose connection had welded and burned itself through, cracked and re-welded itself a number of times from the look of it. A new end was needed on the wire. Easy enough. There looked to be enough slack to trim and strip a new connection. The screw, however, was shot. Its head was loose in the wiring box and the threaded end was where it belonged: still blocking the threads. Another thing: No switch. It was wired in directly from Gen. Fegelein’s electrical panel.
He closed his eyes for a second. It had been a long time since Kurt had slept and the heat in the crawlspace was tempting him. He felt his head nod and nod more deeply.
Faces—the faces of each boy, so many faces, he had seen through his scope before squeezing off a round, watching it slam through another head.
Smoking. So many of them he killed when they were lighting cigarettes. No one in the regiment understood why he used to get angry with his victims. Every army has sergeants, don’t they? They tell you to stay down, don’t bunch up, leave that wounded guy out there until dark, and shield those matches before you light them.
But they never listen. Rules are meant to be broken, aren’t they? What a bunch of old women those sergeants are. Down in the dirt, down in the dirt, down in the dirt! What rubbish. You’ve got to relax once in a whi—
And Kurt watched as another bullet slammed through another young rebellious head. “Die, know-it-all. Explain to St. Peter how you needed another smoke.”
Kurt often wondered if the snipers on the other side got angry at the young German boys they had to kill—
He snapped awake, uncertain how long he had been asleep in the crawlspace. Dust in the air. Must have been an exploding shell up above that awakened him. Taking a deep breath and letting it out, he shined the light in the wiring box. There. An unused screw and post in the box. He took the pliers from his bag, the handles wrapped with friction tape, and changed the wire from the screw panel to the motor from the useless connector to the unused one. With his screwdriver he backed off the new screw until he could get a wire behind the head, then unscrewed the clamp holding the end of the power cable in place. Pulling more cable through, he clipped off the burned end with its charred insulation. He touched the wire end against grounded metal to make certain it was hot. After wrapping the handle of his pocket knife with friction tape, he stripped the insulation off the end of the wire. Holding the insulated part of the wire in his left hand, with his right he used his pliers to bend a hook in the bare copper. Open to the right, he hooked the wire onto the screw; there was a great spark, but he held down on the wire, keeping a good contact. The fan motor began with a shudder then settled down to running quite smoothly. Still holding onto the wire, he tightened the screw. Once that was done, he retightened the clamp holding the power cable, replaced the cover, and put his tools back in his bag.
“Now to get the hell out of here,” he whispered.
As he turned out the light and drew the curtain across the closet entrance, Kurt thought he heard voices. He turned and stopped in the entrance to the study. Seated on one end of the flowered couch was a young woman. She was blond and wearing a pale blue dress. She was sitting with her knees pulled up beneath her chin, her skirt wrapped about her thighs, her heels on the couch, hands at her sides, eyes closed, her lips blue and pressed tightly together. Kurt had seen death in a great many forms and that young woman was as dead as Bonaparte.
There was a pistol on the tan cloth-covered table in front of her, what looked like a .25 semiautomatic. Next to the pistol was a small black pill box. It was open and inside it were three glass capsules. Judging from the new aroma in the room, the capsules contained cyanide.
“No more faces, Gunsche. No more pleas,” Kurt heard Hitler say from his office. “Do you understand me, Gunsche?” A brief pause. “Tell me you understand me.”
“Absolutely no one else, my Fuhrer. You have my word.”
“Very well. Give us a few minutes. Then you know what to do.”
“Yes, my Fuhrer.”
The door to the conference room closed. Kurt looked fatalistically toward the right and the door Hitler would enter. When the Fuhrer did enter the man’s face was haggard. He was stooped, frail, his right hand against the doorjamb, his left hand shaking uncontrollably at his side. He had changed his clothes. He was wearing a simple uniform coat over black trousers. Instead of the gold Nazi Party pin on his coat, familiar from countless newsreels, he was wearing his WWI decorations: Iron Cross First Class, Bavarian Military Medal Third Class with Bar, and the Cross of Military Merit for wounds received in action. He glanced at Kurt, nodded uncomprehendingly, then shifted his gaze to the body of his wife of only a few hours. His mouth opened as if to say something, then it closed. He raised his shaking right hand, gestured toward her as if to say, “So there,” and let his hand fall to his side.