The Valhalla Exchange

Claire turned, gardening fork in one hand, and smiled. 'There you are. What happened?'

'Oh, we have to wait another twenty-four hours. Max wants to make one last attempt to get in touch with Prisoner of War Administration Headquarters in Berlin. The correct Junker officer, right to the bitter end.'

'And you, Hamilton, what do you want?'

'To be free now,' he said, his voice suddenly urgent. 'It's been too long, Claire, don't you see?'

'And you've missed too much, isn't that it?' He frowned and she carried on. 'The war, Hamilton. Your precious war. Bugles faintly on the wind, the smoke of battle. Meat and drink to you; what your soul craves. And who knows, if you were free now, there might still be the chance to get involved. Have one last glorious fling.'

'That's a hell of a thing to say.'

'But true. And what can I offer as a substitute? Only winter roses.'

She smiled slightly. He caught her then, pulling her into his arms, his mouth fastening hungrily on hers.

* * *

Ritter, seated at the piano in the canteen, was playing a Chopin etude, a particular favourite of his. It was a piece which comforted him, in spite of the fact that this present instrument was distinctly out of tune. It reminded him of other days. Of his father and mother and the small country estate in Prussia where he had been raised.

The Russians were shelling constantly now, the sound of the explosions audible even at that depth, the concrete walls trembling. There was that all-pervading smell of sulphur, dust everywhere.

A drunken SS lieutenant lurched against the piano, slopping beer over the keys. 'We've had enough of that rubbish. What about something rousing? Something to lift the heart. A chorus of "Horst Wessel", perhaps?'

Ritter stopped playing and looked up at him. 'You're speaking to me, I presume?' His voice was very quiet, yet infinitely dangerous, the white face burning, the eyes dark.

The lieutenant took in the Knight's Cross, the Oak Leaves, the Swords, the rank insignia and tried to draw himself together. 'I'm sorry, Sturmbannfuhrer. My mistake.'

'So it would appear. Go away.'

The lieutenant moved off to join a noisy jostling throng as drunk as himself. A young nurse in service uniform was passing by. One of them pulled her across his knee. Another slipped a hand up her skirt. She laughed and reached up to kiss a third hungrily.

Ritter, totally disgusted, helped himself to a bottle of Steinhager at the bar, filled a glass and sat at an empty table. After a while, Hoffer entered. He looked around the canteen, then came across quickly, his face pale with excitement.

'I saw a hell of a thing a little while ago, Major.'

'And what would that be?'

'General Fegelein being marched along the corridor by two of the escort guard, minus his epaulettes and shoulder flashes. He looked frightened to death.'

'The fortunes of war, Erich. Get yourself a glass.'

'Good God, Major, a general of the SS. A Knight's Cross holder.'

'And like all of us in the end, clay of the most common variety, my friend — or at least his feet were.'

'We shouldn't have come here to this place.' Hoffer glanced about him, his face working. 'We're never going to get out. We're going to die here like rats and in bad company.'

'I don't think so.'

There was an immediate expression of hope on Hoffer's face. 'You've heard something?'

'No, but all my instincts tell me that I shall. Now get yourself a glass and bring that chessboard over here.'

* * *

Bormann and Rattenhuber, watching from a doorway at the rear of the room, had observed the entire scene. Rattenhuber said, 'His mother was a really big aristocrat. One of those families that goes all the way back to Frederick.'

'Look at him,' Bormann said. 'Did you see the way he handled that drunken swine?

And I'll tell you something, Willi. A hundred marks says he hasn't raised his arm and said Heil Hitler for at least two years. I know his kind. They salute like a British Guards officer — a finger to the peak of the cap. And the men, Willi. Shall I tell you what they think, even the men of the SS? Would you imagine they'd still follow old peasants like you and me?'

'They follow.' Rattenhuber hesitated. 'They follow their officers, Reichsleiter. They have discipline, the Waffen-SS. The finest in the world.'

'But Ritter, Willi. A man like him, they'll follow into the jaws of hell, and you know why? Because men like him don't give a damn. They're what they are. Themselves alone.'

'And what would that be, Reichsleiter?'

'In his case, a very gentle perfect knight. You see, Willi? All that reading I do — even English literature. They think me Bormann the boor, Goebbels and company, but I know more than they do — about everything. Don't you agree?'

'But of course, Reichsleiter.'

'And Ritter — fine Aryan stock, like one of those idealized paintings the Fuhrer loves so much. A standard impossible for the rest of us to attain. Forget the nasty things, Willi. The rapes, the burnings, the camps, the executions. Just think of the ideal. The finest soldier you've ever known. Decent, honourable, chivalrous and totally without fear. What every soldier in the Waffen-SS would like to imagine himself to be, that's what Ritter is.'

'And you think these Finnish barbarians we discussed earlier would concur?'

'The Knight's Cross, Willi, with Oak Leaves and Swords? What do you think?'

Rattenhuber nodded. 'I think that perhaps the Reichsleiter would like me to bring him to the office now.'

'Later, Willi. Now I must go to the Fuhrer. The news of Himmler's defection and Fegelein's cowardice have considerably angered him. He needs me. You speak to Ritter, Willi, when he's had a drink or two. Judge if it's changed him. I'll see him later. After midnight.'

* * *

The shelling increased in intensity, the thunder overhead continuous now, so that the walls shook constantly and in the canteen behaviour deteriorated considerably. The place was crowded with a noisy, jostling throng, here and there a drunk lying under the table.

When Rattenhuber returned a couple of hours later, Ritter and Hoffer were still at the table at the rear of the room, playing chess.

Rattenhuber said, 'May I join you?'

Ritter glanced up. 'Why not?'

Rattenhuber winced as a particularly thunderous explosion shook the entire room. 'I didn't like the sound of that. Do you think we're safe here, Major?'

Ritter looked at Hoffer. 'Erich?'

Hoffer shrugged. 'Seventeen point five calibre is the heaviest they've got. Nothing that could get down this far.'

'A comforting thought.' Rattenhuber offered them both cigarettes.

Ritter said, 'Hoffer saw a strange sight some hours ago. General Fegelein being led along the corridor under escort, minus epaulettes and insignia.'

'Yes, very sad. A disgrace to all of us,' Rattenhuber said. 'He cleared off yesterday. When the Fuhrer found he was missing, he sent a detachment out looking for him. The fool was actually at his own house in Charlottenburg in civilian clothes and with a woman. They took him outside and shot him half an hour ago.'

Ritter showed no emotion whatsoever. 'If what you say is so, then there could be no other penalty.'

'No, we can't just leave the war by taking off our uniform and putting on a raincoat, not at this stage,' Rattenhuber said. 'Not any of us.' He lit another cigarette. 'By the way, Major, the Reichsleiter would like to see you a little later on. I'd be obliged if you'd hold yourself in readiness.'