“Yes sir.”
“Don’t let me keep you, then—”
The door to the canteen opened and everyone came to attention as an SS brigadier came in, a tall man with a mournful expression wearing his hat as though it were being held up by his ears. The general turned and held the door as a shorter man entered, carrying the most recognizable face on Earth. Kurt stood as if paralyzed. The last time he had seen the lance corporal was in 1918 at the hospital in Beelitz.
The two sergeants saluted, boot heels snapping together. Adolf Hitler merely nodded in response, his hands clasped together tightly behind him. He glanced briefly at Kurt as he walked between Kurt and the desk sergeant toward the stairs, followed by the general. The Fuhrer paused at the head of the stairs, turned, and looked back at Kurt.
“Wolff ? Can it be? Wolff? My old comrade? Is it you? I thought you died in hospital. They took you away. Is it possible you are still alive?”
Kurt nodded. “It is possible,” he said with an effort at a smile.
“God in Heaven, Wolff!” The Fuhrer smiled, his sad eyes crinkling at the corners. “Come here. Come here and let me have a look at you.”
Kurt walked over to Hitler. “Look at you.” He raised a hand to grasp Kurt’s arm, but it shook almost uncontrollably and he lowered it, clasping his hands in front of him. “We’re a fine pair, aren’t we, Wolff ? My hands shake and look how gray you’ve gotten.” Hitler faced the general. “Mohnke, you should have seen this one back in the war. What an eye. Barely twenty-one and he could part the hair on a fly’s head with that Mauser.” Hitler seemed to chuckle at a secret joke as he glanced down, shook his head once, then looked back at Kurt. “But no one saw you back in ‘17, did they, Wolff? You were the shadow. No one saw him but me. If you had a battalion of men like Wolff, Mohnke, you could hold off the Russians forever.” He frowned. “Is there a problem, Kurt? Why are you here? Tell me.”
“Johannes Hentschel sent for me to help him fix the ventilators.”
“The ventilators?” Hitler frowned a moment almost as though Kurt’s answer hadn’t fit the question. “Good,” said Hitler at last, a touch of disappointment in his voice. He nodded. “Good. Very good to see you again. Come and say goodbye before you leave, Kurt.”
“Yes sir.”
“I insist. I have so few comrades left from the first war. Come and say goodbye. It is so good to see you again.”
Hitler glanced at the general, then turned and walked down the stairs, the general following closely behind. Kurt breathed and looked toward Balter and Brinkmann. Both sergeants stood there with their mouths hanging open. “We both got our decorations—Iron Cross First Class—at the same ceremony,” Kurt explained. “And we were both gassed in the same attack.”
“No one saw you,” said Balter. “What did he mean?”
“I was on the other side of a wall when I got my award. I received mine in private.”
“You were a sniper,” said Sgt. Brinkmann quietly. “Of course; Kurt Wolff. Every recruit hears about the man with over two hundred kills.” He looked at Balter. “Herr Wolff was given his Iron Cross in private to protect his identity. In the last war the Frenchies and Tommys used captured German snipers for target practice.”
“I should go,” he said to Balter.
“Off you go, then,” Sgt. Brinkmann said to Kurt, “and may all the gods of Asgard grant you wisdom, luck, and speed.”
Kurt smiled. “Thank you, Sergeant. And may the quartermaster sergeant grant you aspirin and ear plugs.”
Brinkmann laughed sufficiently to reinvigorate his headache. Holding one hand over his left eye he waved Kurt and Balter on to the stairs.
As they exited from the bottom of the staircase and entered a narrow anteroom through another thick gas door, the odor was stunningly oppressive, the stench of diesel fuel overpowering everything else. It was much deeper, the sounds achieved by Russian artillery much duller in the lower bunker. The music playing over the loudspeaker system persisted with a Louis Armstrong song. Hitler was nowhere to be seen.
Another impact above vibrated the walls and for a moment Kurt could feel the air move as the ventilation system slammed on for a few seconds, then the lights dimmed, the air stopped, and the lights came up once more. “Kurt!” cried a voice from behind. “And not a moment too soon!” A man in his late thirties wearing greasy ochre coveralls came out of the room off the anteroom to the right. He had a great shock of light-colored hair, hazel eyes, and a weary smile. Behind him was a generator making noise, fumes, and barely enough kilowatts. Hentschel reached out a hand, noted how greasy it was, then how dirty Kurt’s hands were. “I suppose it will be awhile before clean hands become normal again.”
“For some of us,” Sgt. Balter cryptically commented beneath his breath.
Hentschel made as if to wipe his hands on Balter’s dove gray uniform coat and the sergeant backed away. “Be nice, Herr Hentschel. I’ve brought you your man. Quite a darling of the Fuhrer’s, too.”
Hentschel nodded. “Thank you, Balter. Now you can go and swill champagne with the rest of the celebrants.”
Balter snorted out a laugh, handed Kurt his bag of tools and parts, and said to him, “When you’re finished, Herr Wolff, always supposing the Russians don’t get you first, I’ll take you wherever you want to go. I’ll either be in the guard quarters or at the front post where Lt. Senger was.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
“So,” said Hentschel as Balter left, “the Fuhrer remembers you.”
“It would seem so.” Kurt gestured with his hand toward the generator room. “You’ve come down in the world, my friend. This place stinks.”
“My empire may be small, Wolff, but at least it’s unhealthy and ill-designed.”
“What would you like me to do?”
“The ventilation system in the lower bunker here is down, Kurt. It sparks on for a second or two, then cuts off. It just happened.”
“I noticed.”
“An open circuit, of course. I think it interferes with the front bunker’s ventilation somehow, but the Vorbunker’s fan motor is working. It just doesn’t seem to be pushing any air down here.”
“May I see the wiring schematics?”
Hentschel shook his head. “There are none.”
“No schematics,” Kurt said incredulously.
“You want everything handed to you on a platter? No schematics, no plans, not even anyone who ever worked on the system.” He nodded in response to the look on Kurt’s face. “Stupid would be too kind a term for this state of affairs. But, as it was explained to me, my friend, if there are no plans they cannot possibly fall into the wrong hands.”
“Shrewd,” said Kurt disdainfully.
Hentschel pulled a folded piece of paper from his hip pocket. “I’ve made a rough diagram of the bunker and what vent wiring I know and some I can guess at. It’s a pitiful effort. I’m not even certain I’ve got the floor plan correct, but it’s all I could manage given the circumstances. You can see the fan motor for the Vorbunker is located close to the entrance near the air filters. The bunker down here may or may not have a separate duct system. It does seem to take its power, though, from the other bunker—” The lights began to dim as the motor on the generator slowed. Hentschel cursed, turned, and ran into the generator room, worked a throttle back and forth, then flicked the glass ball of a fuel filter with the tip of his finger and pressed a spring-loaded valve atop the filter. “Air in the line,” he shouted to Kurt over the roar of the engine. “I’m bleeding it out, but I don’t know where it’s coming in.”