‘Now wait a moment, Franz.’ She laid a hand on his arm. ‘Are you the best judge….’
‘I tell you, Hanna,’ Bethwig interrupted, knowing what she was going to say, ‘we must stand up to these thugs before they take over all of Germany.’
‘Franz, you are a fool!’ Hanna blazed. ‘You don’t realise it, but if your father had not heard in time, you would have been arrested and shot. Himmler ordered your arrest within hours, but your father went directly to the Führer who was not only furious over your actions but even more furious with your father for forcing him to oppose Himmler. You may not know it, Franz, but the Führer detests Himmler and tries to have as little to do with him as possible. Now he is indebted to the Reichsführer. I do not believe your father can ever call upon the Führer for assistance again.’ Franz listened to her with mounting shock. It could not be; how else could Himmler’s pet project move forward… The man would not dare… His thoughts were a jumble.
‘Do not make the mistake of thinking you are indispensable to Himmler, Franz. No one is.’ She lowered her voice and leaned towards him. ‘There is strong evidence that Himmler may have conspired with British intelligence in the murder of Reinhard Heydrich. At the very least, it is almost certain that he knew of the attempt and did nothing to stop it. If he could throw Heydrich away, he would not think twice about disposing of you.’
Bethwig realised then that she was speaking the truth; it was something he had suspected for a long time. Even Ullman had hinted that Himmler was responsible for Heydrich’s murder. And he was dead now himself. He decided then to tell Hanna about Inge; at least Hanna, as a personal friend of Hitler’s and Goering’s as well as a public hero, would be immune to Himmler’s manipulations. And if he were murdered by Himmler, there would be someone else who knew about her. Hanna might even be able to help him find her….
He plucked the packet from his pocket and took another cigarette. Hanna noticed that his hands were shaking as he fumbled with his lighter. ‘There is a girl,’ he began abruptly. ‘I have never told anyone about her before. I met her in Prague. She… she was an SS hostess.’ He darted a quick glance at Hanna, but her expression did not change even though he realised she knew what the term implied. Everyone did. ‘Heydrich found out and used her to keep me in line.’
He went on to tell her about the girl, how Heydrich had ordered her beaten to show him that he could not disobey an order, how an SS officer on Heydrich’s staff had managed to get her out of the castle in the confusion surrounding Heydrich’s assassination, and finally how she had been incarcerated in a mental hospital. ‘Himmler probably found out about her shortly after Wernher and I offered to continue the A-Ten project under his direction. When I refused to support his idiotic charges against von Braun, he had her taken away. Since then, I know only what Himmler allows me to know about her. Even Ullman is dead now, killed on the eastern front. Himmler is using Inge to force me to accept the position of A-Ten project director so that he can fire Wernher. I suppose he thinks I will be more amenable to his stupid whims.’
Hanna took a deep breath. As far-fetched as Franz’s story sounded, it was not beyond the realm of possibility; anything was possible today. The question was, would it do any good to tell General Dornberger?
Bethwig was staring at the silvered beaches half a kilometre away. The Baltic was calm, and he could see a patrol boat idling along the coast. He thought of his sailboat, unused since the previous summer.
Air-raid sirens sprang to life, destroying the stillness. In the distance, between wavering notes, they could hear the dull, nearly inaudible drone of heavy bombers.
‘The RAF again,’ Hanna murmured. ‘Forming up south of Rugen for another run on Berlin. God help them there,’ she added.
Lights were going off all across the island. The drone of approaching aircraft was louder now. Flashes appeared to the north where the Luftwaffe anti-aircraft defences had opened up on the approaching bomber stream; something they were forbidden to do… unless the Centre were under attack. The crash of the exploding bombs rumbled towards them, and the sky above the trees began to glow red.
‘My God,’ Bethwig exclaimed in amazement, ‘they’re after the Centre.’
Peenemunde had never been bombed before, and it took him a few moments to absorb the idea; then he grabbed Hanna’s arm and ran back into the dining-room and across the floor to join the last of the crowd jostling through the doors. They raced down the stairs and out across the square to where air-raid wardens were waving blue lights and urging people into shelters. The explosions were continuous now, and pillars of flame and debris could be seen as the aeroplanes laid a carpet of bombs across the island.
Inside the shelter Bethwig found a spot against the wall and dragged Hanna down beside him, but she pulled him away. ‘Not against the wall. The concussion of a near miss will kill…’
Her voice disappeared in the devastating roar of bursting bombs. People screamed and struggled, and a blast of furnace-hot air whipped inside as the door splintered. Dust exploded, choking them into fits of lung-tearing coughing and the temperature shot to unbearable levels. The floor shuddered and more dust was shaken loose as the walls vibrated. The red emergency lamp burst, and Bethwig’s head felt as if it might implode as the concussion squeezed. His lips were covered with something hot and sticky, and he experienced the nightmare sensation of quaking earth and vibrating air.
The bombing stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and Bethwig lifted his head, trying to penetrate the absolute darkness. A flashlight went on, and its beam swung around the interior to reveal a fog-thick haze of dust and plaster. Figures appeared in the beam as it swept past – ghostly, staring beings, many with mouths open in soundless screams. He had a glimpse of Hanna wiping a dark stain from her lips and realised that the hot gush he had felt when the bomb exploded was blood from his nose. The concussion had ruptured blood vessels.
Twice more, bombs fell across the island, although none came as close as the first wave. The bombers seemed to be concentrating on the very northern tip and the south-eastern coast, midway along the island’s length, where staff housing was clustered. By design or luck? he wondered bitterly.
The shelter door was hammered open and lamps flashed into the interior. ‘All men outside now!’ The angry shout sounded far away. ‘Women and children to remain inside until the all clear.’ Bethwig had been holding Hanna’s hand, and she gave him a quick kiss as he stumbled to his feet. An SS squad was checking each man for injuries and forming them into work parties. Bethwig found himself in one composed entirely of Russian prisoners.
The SS officer flashed his light over Bethwig’s face and clothing. ‘You, are you German?’
Bethwig, still partly stunned by the violence and terror of the past few hours, could only stare at him. The officer shouted the question once more, and he nodded then, understanding.
‘You damned civilians,’ the officer stormed. ‘You should all serve on the Russian front for a month… Take this group to Building Fourteen. Put out any fires, rescue anyone caught inside, and save what you can. Go on now, damn you!’
He pushed Bethwig towards the building and raced off with his squad to the next shelter. Franz stumbled through the trees, the Russians following apathetically until they broke out on to a rubble-filled square in front of the two-storey building housing the measurement labs. The area was deserted, with not even a soldier in sight, and when Bethwig turned, struggling to shake off the effects of the bombing, he found that half or more of his prisoners had disappeared. It makes no real difference, he thought, and ran up to the front door to find it locked. A tall Russian in a filthy striped prisoner’s pullover and trousers shouldered him aside as he shook the door, and, with a delighted grin, smashed the glass with a stone. They pushed into the hall, coughing in the dense smoke. The fire seemed confined to the first floor, and they raced up the stairs to the corridor above just as the ceiling fell in. A jet of flame lashed the corridor, and the Russians ducked and beat a hasty retreat. They began to kick open doors and rush around gathering up armfuls of equipment. Bethwig, his wits returning with activity, pointed out the most important pieces to be saved. They had gone little more than half-way along the hall before the ceiling burst open with a crack like a cannon shot. As one man, they raced from the building only seconds before it collapsed.