“But your grandfather was a Jew.”
“Grandpa Mathe was more Jewish than Moses. He was a rabbi. We always suspected he had his own autographed copy of the Ten Commandments.” Kurt glanced at his host. “There are rumors that your grandfather was Jewish.”
“They’re all lies.”
“Is that why you had your father’s village turned into an artillery range?”
The Fuhrer stared at the chocolate cake, blinked, and said, “Each of us has had to make sacrifices for the Fatherland.”
Kurt held out his hand toward the cake and Hitler nodded. Although his throat was partially blocked by his heart, the cake, after filling his mouth with heavenly moist fragrance, slid effortlessly down Kurt’s throat. “My God, this is incredible cake.”
“Better than those wormy biscuits we used to get in the trenches, eh, Wolff ?” Hitler nodded as he took a bite of his and talked around it. “Constanze Manziarly baked this. She does excellent baking,” he said, “and German chocolate is the world’s best.” Hitler placed his fork on the side of his plate, took his napkin, wiped his mouth, dropped the napkin next to his cake, and stared at it. “About this favor I must ask, Wolff.”
Kurt took another bite of his cake. “You let me live and what do I do?”
“Very simple. You shoot me.” He tapped the right side of his head. “Right here, in the temple.” He faced Kurt. “Not too much to ask of an old comrade, is it?”
Slowly Kurt placed his fork on the plate, waiting for more. There had to be more.
“You look puzzled, Wolff. You were always very smart. You didn’t kill that sniper whose bullet had my name all over it by being slow.” Hitler moved his chair around until he was facing the couch. He nodded toward his new bride. “She was supposed to be sitting at the opposite end of that couch. I was to be sitting where she is. I’m right-handed, you see.”
Kurt studied the scene and returned his gaze to the Fuhrer’s face. “She was going to shoot you with—not with that little .25.”
“No,” said Hitler as he pulled open the desk’s center drawer and withdrew a Walther 7.62. “With this one.” His hand shook as he placed the gun on the napkin next to his cake. “A present from Bormann.”
“She shoots you with the Walther, drops the gun where you might have dropped it had you done the deed yourself, then she crunches down on the cyanide capsule and maybe shoots herself with the .25 in the bargain. It’s got to look like Gotterdammerung, doesn’t it? Twilight of the gods, going out like a hero. But your hand shakes too badly to aim properly and the Valkyries don’t come and collect up heroes who accidentally shoot off their own noses.”
“Said rather mockingly, Wolff, but you have the essence of the predicament.” Hitler nodded, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. “Yes. Bormann, Linge, Gunsche: they’ll be the first ones in here. If any of them out there live past the end of the war, they’ll be in the history books telling stories about this day.” He waved a hand expansively. “The last days of the Third Reich—’What did you see, Herr Linge?’ “ He looked at Kurt. “What would they answer if all I did was blow off my own nose; shoot off my mustache.” He studied the 7.62 for a moment. Nodding, he pulled the drawer open even further lifting a 9mm Pistole ‘08 from it. He checked the magazine, jacked a round into the chamber, and held out the handle to Kurt. “Perhaps this one is more to your liking. You ought to know how to operate it. You had one back in our war.”
“I’m not a murderer.”
Hitler put the Luger down next to Kurt’s cake. “A Jew giving up a chance to kill Adolf Hitler? It can’t be because you are a coward, Wolff. I saw you in the war. That one assault when the French were coming, our wire all blasted to pieces, and if they caught you with that rifle and scope it would have been all over for you, but you kept at it, shot after shot, taking out officers and noncoms. Twice you sent someone back for ammunition. You aren’t a coward, Wolff. It cannot be because you’re squeamish. A sniper with two hundred ghosts in his pockets? How many heads have you shattered?” He stood, picked up the Walther 7.62 from his desk, and said, “You are ridiculous, Wolff.”
“I’m not a murderer.”
“If the French had taken you that day they would have executed you for what you did. We all knew they did that to our snipers.”
“That made them murderers.” Kurt watched as Hitler walked over to the couch and sat next to his wife’s corpse.
“What is the difference?”
“The law,” answered Kurt. “That’s the difference.”
“Policemen and rules, rules and policemen,” Hitler said mockingly. He looked up at Kurt. “Am I a murderer?”
“One of the biggest the world has ever seen.”
“Not by German law, Wolff. Not by German rules. Every death you and the other Jews of the world would charge against me was either legal or not of my doing.” He checked the load on the 7.62 and snapped the clip back into the grip. Resting the hand holding the pistol on his right thigh, he said, “There is one more thing you should consider, Wolff. At this very moment in the main conference room are a dozen or more generals and other advisors of mine who have been begging me for weeks to go to Berchtesgarden and continue fighting the war from the mountains. It makes sense. I could be there in hours and Berlin is militarily indefensible. Even so, look how long we’ve held out. Fifty thousand lives a mile, Wolff. That’s what we’re costing the Bolshies and they hold all the cards. What do you think the price will be in the mountains, eh? I’d have fresh troops, abundant supplies, enough ammunition to keep us for two years, good defensive positions. Consider the price.” He nodded to himself, then fixed Kurt with his gaze. “I tell you this, Wolff: Either do this favor for me or bear the responsibility when I tell my generals to break out for Berchtesgarden.” He tossed the Walther on the carpet by his feet. “You once saved my life, Wolff. The responsibility for it is yours.”
Once again the world’s dead crowded the edges of their graves, reached out their wasted arms, fixed Kurt with their sunken stares, and beckoned.
Hitler turned to his left and let his gaze fall upon his dead wife. Kurt’s mouth was as dry as leather, his hands almost without feeling but with lives of their own. He watched as his hand picked up the 9mm from the desk, the second hand joining the first to steady his aim, and fired, the round striking Hitler exactly in his right temple. The man’s head jerked toward the wall, he slumped forward, and came to rest leaning slightly toward the woman. The sound of the shot still seemed to be rebounding from the concrete walls.
Kurt looked at the smoking gun in his hand, stunned that he had done it. He couldn’t sort it out. The effort made him lightheaded. The portrait of Frederick the Great had Hitler’s blood and brain tissue on it. The entrance wound was clean.
“My god,” he mumbled to himself, the ineptness of his actions glaring at him. He was standing there over a fresh corpse with a smoking gun in his hand.
There was a noise from the office. Kurt turned and rushed back into the vestibule closet, silently pulling the curtain across the opening. So many different thoughts—a panicky craving to breathe hard—a vital need for complete silence—his mind rushing to prepare a defense he couldn’t possibly survive: It wasn’t murder. Assisted suicide; euthanasia, perhaps. Complicity in perpetrating a fraud, certainly. Ending a nightmare in the first degree. And how could he convince an angry drumhead Nazi court that, out of all the devoted followers there in the bunker, shaky old Adolph had picked a Jew to send him to Valhalla?
It seemed to take forever for someone to come. First Kurt heard Heinz Linge call out to someone, “It’s done.”