Goebbels had the unenviable job of telling the people of Berlin and the rest of Germany that all was well and that victory was just around the corner. He considered himself the most loyal servant Adolf Hitler had, but even he no longer believed that they could hold out against the Red Army’s hordes pressing them from the east. Nor were there any more super weapons to launch at the enemy, unless, of course, Heisenberg’s bomb worked. All had been used and the results had been negligible. Defeat was inevitable.
The two had discussed their options and, until recently, had seen death as the only viable option. It was inevitable that the Russians would take Berlin and the fate of the Goebbels family at the hands of the Red Army was almost too terrible to contemplate. Although in her early forties, the blond Joanna Magdalena Maria Goebbels was still an extremely attractive woman and, since Hitler was a bachelor, she was considered the First Lady of the Reich. She had served as a hostess at a number of events and was a celebrity in her own right. She would be a prized prisoner, ripe for humiliation and degradation.
If she were captured by the Reds, it was presumed that many vengeful Red Army soldiers would stand in line and take turns raping her and her children before killing them. Perhaps their ordeal would be filmed and viewed by posterity. Or worse, after being abused by the Slavic subhumans, they would be shipped to the Kremlin and put on display in cages where they would exist as starving naked animals living in their own filth and driven mad by the abuse. Their oldest, Helga, was only twelve and that fate for her and the others was too terrible to contemplate. No, they already had the cyanide tablets needed to bring all to a quick death. Death by poison would not be painless but they had seen it as their only option. As captors, the Americans might treat them more decently, but the Americans were far away.
But now there was a glimmer of hope. Both were torn. Their adoration of Hitler knew no bounds. But they were human and they wanted the two of them and their children to have a chance at survival. They would obey orders and go to the Redoubt. The cyanide pills were always there, always present. Death was inevitable, but now it could be deferred.
* * *
Ernie Janek, late of Chicago, swung his muscular legs out of his bed and thought that war was not always hell. He was twenty-three and a captain in the U.S. Army Air Force, and the mighty Eighth Air Force to boot.
So what the hell was he doing in a cheap hotel in Bern, the capital of Switzerland? Well, he reminded himself, it was because his P51 fighter had a little engine trouble while escorting a flight of B17 bombers. This caused him to drop out of the formation and become easy prey for a pair of German ME109 fighters. He’d fought and danced in the skies and managed to shoot one of them down, but then his engine seized up and the surviving Kraut had poured bullets into Ernie’s plane. Almost miraculously, he hadn’t been scratched while he cowered and whimpered helplessly and waited for the end. He’d been praying for the first time in years when he realized that the remaining German plane had pulled back and was flying away. Ernie had no firm idea where he was, but he decided that south was best since the German plane was headed to the north.
Ernie had nursed the plane along until the engine started to smoke and flames erupted. He’d then climbed out of his cockpit and launched himself down to the mist-covered ground. He first hoped for a clean landing with no broken bones, and then that the Germans wouldn’t kill him. German civilians had begun taking bloody vengeance on the downed airmen who’d rained death on their homes. He’d been told in lectures that the hardest part of surrendering was getting somebody to accept it instead of shooting you first.
He’d landed safely after only a couple of bumps and bruises resulting from being scraped along the ground and was getting out of his parachute harness when a truckload of soldiers arrived. He immediately held up his hands and hoped they would take his surrender. One took his pistol and pushed him into the back of the truck.
“Where am I?” he asked, hoping that someone understood him.
One of them laughed. “You are afraid that you are in Germany, aren’t you? Well congratulations, you’ve had the good luck to land in Switzerland.”
And good luck it was, he thought. Switzerland was neutral and felt compelled to treat combatants from both sides as internees and not prisoners. American internees were treated more as unexpected and somewhat unwelcome guests and their confinement was extremely light. Ernie had been put up at an unused ski lodge for a couple of weeks until being moved to his current abode, an inexpensive but clean hotel in Bern. Of course it would be clean. The Swiss were always clean. Here he would be safe until the war ended. He was encouraged to wear civilian clothes, which was fine since his one and only uniform had been shredded by his parachute landing. The American embassy in Bern even made sure he was paid and that he got his mail.
Problem was, he didn’t want to spend the war sitting on his ass in Bern. Not only was he supposed to be fighting Nazis, but Bern had to be one of the dullest places in the world. Admittedly, it was a pretty little town of about a hundred and twenty thousand souls, and the medieval city center was a joy to look at. Like his hotel, the place was also immaculately clean, making him think that hordes of cleaning ladies emerged each night and scrubbed down the entire town. It was nice, but it wasn’t the U.S. Army Air Force and he wasn’t fighting the Nazis. Someday, when the war was over, his grandchildren would ask him what he did in the war. He didn’t want to say he spent some or most of it sitting on his ass in a hotel in Switzerland.
He’d had an idea and today he would try it out. On many days, a middle-aged man would come to a nearby park that overlooked the Aare River that snaked through Bern. He would sit and smoke his pipe, apparently pontificating. Ernie sensed that the man was an American, doubtless a diplomat, although he might be from the Red Cross, which had its headquarters in Bern. It didn’t matter. Maybe the man could get him out of the boring hole that was Bern and back to the war.
After having watched him for a while, Ernie realized that men and women would occasionally come up to the man, shake hands, and depart. Sometimes they would sit and talk softly. Ernie quickly realized that that some of them were surreptitiously giving him information and documents. Whoever the old guy was, he was likely a spy. Now he really had to meet the guy.
Ernie walked across the park and sat by the man at the far end of the bench. He lit a cigarette and tried to look casual. The man had been reading a newspaper. He folded it and laid it down. “Good afternoon, Captain Janek. My name is Allen Dulles. How may I be of service to you?”
CHAPTER 3
Whenever there was thunder and lightning, Lena would wonder if these were the sights and sounds of battles that would set her free. Always her hopes were dashed when nothing more than wind and rain pelted down. She swore that she would not feel sorry for herself. As her grandmother used to say, each day of life was a blessing. The fact that she was alive and not being brutalized in a factory or work camp was another blessing. The fact that she did not have to spread her legs for Gustav Schneider or take his manhood in her mouth was one more blessing. The fact that Gustav’s son Anton and his sister Astrid could still be controlled was another.
Like servants or slaves everywhere, the Schneiders sometimes forgot she was present. Or that she could hear them easily if she simply moved to another room. They had loud raucous voices. Her grandmother would have considered them vulgar and Lena concurred.
She had a lot of freedom. She often went shopping with Frau Schneider and carried her packages like a good and dutiful servant. This gave her an opportunity to see the world around her and gauge what was happening. She was heartened by the growing sense of despair in the faces of those Germans she saw. Wounded German soldiers, many missing limbs or with mutilated faces, sat on benches and stared vacantly at their terribly changed world. She could pity them as individuals, but not the regime they fought for. She felt the same with the growing columns of civilian refugees that were now streaming west. It pleased her to see the men, women, and children of the master race pushing handcarts with all their remaining possessions piled on them. She thought she could tell by the haunted faces of some of the women that they had suffered at the hands of the Soviets before escaping to Germany. Even though she had shared their fate, she felt no sympathy.