Heroes Read online

  PART THREE PEACE April 1945

  The stench of his own fear rose into Canaris’ nostrils as he tried to concentrate on the code tapping from the next cell. He was hunched in the corner, on the floor of his cell, in what was called the Kommandantur Arrest—the bunker—at Flossenbiirg Concentration Camp near the old Czechoslovakian border. His wrists were handcuffed, and his ankles were shackled to the wall on longer chains.

  The Allies were attacking Mannheim, and the Russians were crossing the Oder. As unbelievable as the news seemed even now, it gave Canaris some hope.

  Their investigation of him had bogged down. He was sure of it. There wasn’t a way in which the Gestapo could prove that he had been a part of the conspiracy to overthrow the Fiihrer. At least not by simply questioning him. That fool Josef Stawitzky asked his stupid little questions. Around and around they went, the RSHA criminal prosecutor never even realizing when he was being outclassed, outgunned, and out thought.

  It was hard to concentrate on the tapping from cell 21 next to his, and for a minute or so he lost track of the message.

  For more than eight months he had endured imprisonment.

  First at the Frontier Police College in Fiirstenberg, then at Prinzalbrecht Strasse itself, and finally here, since the beginning of February, when the bombing had become too intense in Berlin.

  The Fuhrer had barricaded himself inside the Reichs Bunker in the Tiergarten. Fortress Germany, they were calling it.

  Such news filtered even here. Men like Mathiesen Lunding, a former Danish military intelligence officer being held in the next cell, had ways of getting such information.

  But would the war end before … Canaris glanced toward the tiny window in his cell. It was nearly morning. The sky had definitely gotten much lighter in the last few minutes.

  Unconsciously, his mouth began to water. Breakfast, like supper, consisted only of coffee with two pieces of bread and jam. But it was better than nothing. It was food. As long as it kept coming, it was survival.

  He turned back and put his ear against the wall. He could distinctly hear the muffled rapping of the chain against the other side of the partition. He listened for a few minutes, then nodded.

  Yes, it was Sunday. April first. He had not yet lost complete trace of time, although some days were more fuzzy than others.

  The Russians would be in Berlin within two weeks. The Americans would be here in less time than that. Lunding seemed so certain.

  The tapping seemed to fade out, then resumed for a few moments, and. finally it was gone again.

  Canaris tapped. “More news?”

  He listened, but there was no reply. He was about to repeat his interrogative when someone was in the corridor at his door, and he painfully hauled himself up onto his narrow cot.

  The door opened and the very large, rat-faced corporal who served the bunker came in bearing a tin bowl filled with steaming coffee and a small wooden tray that held two pieces of bread spread thinly with a watery blackberry jam.

  Canaris licked his lips, barely able to contain himself. His stomach kept turning over.

  The corporal grinned brutishly. He held up the tray. “Ah … out little sailor boy wants his breakfast?”

  Canaris started to nod vigorously, but then he remembered himself, and he sat erect, his eyes on the corporal’s.

  For a moment the callous young man was nonplussed, but then he grinned. “The sailor boy perhaps doesn’t want his breakfast?”

  He looked at the bread. “Perhaps it is not fit for his aristocratic tastes?” The corporal laughed. “Is that it, then? Didn’t you ever get a meal like this in the Navy mess?”

  Canaris wanted to cry. His mouth was filled with saliva, and bile rose up in his throat. God in heaven, he was so terribly weak and hungry.

  The corporal laughed again. Carefully he lifted the slices of bread from the tray and deliberately dropped them, jam-side down, on the dirty concrete floor. With a short harsh laugh, he set the tiny bowl down, slopping some of the coffee on the floor.

  “Five minutes,” he shouted, turning on his heel. He stomped out into the corridor.

  Canaris willed himself to wait until the metal door was slammed and locked. Then he waited a little longer, until he was certain that the corporal was not watching, before he crawled off his bunk, scraped the bread from the floor, and willing himself by supreme effort to act human, slowly began to eat.

  It was terrible, but it was food. It was life. He kept telling himself that.

  Incredibly, the meal was finished. He sat looking at the empty coffee bowl and at the stains on the concrete floor, realizing that he could not remember having just eaten. It was not enough. His stomach was still empty. His teeth ached. Every muscle in his body was stiff and sore.

  For a long time he sat where he was, but finally he willed himself to get up and clean himself at the tiny bucket of water in the corner.

  Someone would come for him this morning, as they did every morning. Sometimes it was a taciturn lieutenant; sometimes it was the prosecutor himself. The questions continued. In a way he almost looked forward to the interrogation sessions. He was never physically abused like some of the others here. And it was sometimes interesting to exercise his mind.

  He put on his reasonably clean white shirt and slowly managed to knot his tie. He was buttoning his suit coat when his door was opened. He turned as his interrogator, Stawitzky, came in.

  “Giiten Morgen, Herr Admiral,” the little man said. His official title was Kriminalrat—criminal consul—for the RSHA.

  He was considered to be one of the best Gestapo bloodhounds, but Canaris did not think much of him.

  “What little misunderstandings shall we clear up this morning?” Canaris asked, careful to keep his voice calm and nonchalant.

  “Oh, I think we shall explore again your relationship with the criminal Hans Oster. A fellow plotter,” Stawitzky said. The corporal returned, and the criminal consul motioned for him to release Canaris’ chains.

  Canaris enjoyed this moment most of all. The corporal had to get down on his hands and knees in front of Canaris to undo the ankle shackles. Canaris always outwardly ignored the man, as if he were not there, although he was aware of every movement.

  He knew it infuriated the young man who, after all, had been nothing more than a simple farmer’s son before he had been given a uniform. A farmer’s son on the Polish border.

  “You were fast friends, from what I understand,” Stawitzky was saying.

  “On the contrary. I had known from the very beginning that Oster was up to something. Up to his neck,” Canaris said.

  “But, then, why hadn’t you reported this … behavior?”

  Canaris smiled. “To whom, Heir Kriminalraf! It was an Abwehr matter.”

  “But you went along with it.”

  “Indeed. Merely to find out the true extent of Osier’s plans.”

  “I see,” Stawitzky said thoughtfully. Canaris’ shackles were undone, and the criminal consul took his arm and led him out of the cell.

  It felt good to be able to walk like this every morning, although it was depressing to see the rows of cells standing empty.

  It seemed that every second or third day there would be one or two more empty cells. He did not want to dwell too long on what had happened to those officers.

  “But there were discussions between you and Oster,” Stawitzky insisted. “Ongoing discussions, if my memory of the notes serves me well.”

  “There were many discussions between us. Oster was head of my Abteilung Z—Central Section—after all.”

  “I understand that, my dear Canaris. The discussions I refer to specifically are ones concerning the outcome of the war. You both held dismal outlooks.”

  Canaris stopped and looked directly into Stawitzky’s eyes. He knew damned well what the little bastard was trying to do this time. If the man could find the tiniest of cracks in the wall of self-defense Canaris had built around himself, he would work on it until the tiny fract
ure became a gaping fissure through which the hearse could be driven.

  “We definitely had talks along that line,” Canaris said.

  Stawitzky’s piggish eyes lit up.

  “We gave consideration to the difficulties in conducting the war. We tried to seek remedies.”

  “By plotting against the Fiihrer?”

  “Don’t be a fool! Oster was a dreamer, but what he had in mind, and I concurred, was changing the entire face of our efforts in the field. We felt that a Commander-in-Chief East should immediately be appointed. That is where our potential problems lay. His staff would be augmented, and any proposals for the conduct of the war on the eastern front could be immediately decided by the Cic-East. There would be no delays.”

  Stawitzky just shook his head. It wasn’t quite what he had expected. Inwardly, Canaris was laughing.

  “What about Osier’s desire to speak with our enemies … both to the east and to the west? To try to work something out?”

  Canaris smiled. “Yes, Oster spoke to me about such matters, but I attached absolutely no importance to those remarks. I never thought them to be a product of any serious deliberation. From my own point of view, Osier’s dreams were nothing more than lhal—impractical, and certainly unworthy of discussion.”

  “I see,” Slawilzky said. They conlinued down The corridor and entered The interrogation room at the far end. The place was furnished wilh a slurdy steel chair in The middle of a bare concrete floor that sloped slightly toward a drain at one side.

  There was a water tap and a hose in the corner. A worktable faced the chair. This morning there were only a few file folders on the table. Sometimes, much to Canaris’ horror, there were various kinds of apparatuses on the table. Although the equipment had never been used on him, he had heard the screams coming from this room and he could imagine what went on down here.

  Canaris sat down, eyes forward, without being told. This was becoming routine.

  Stawitzky went to the table and thumbed through the file folders.

  Canaris had warmed to his subject and did not want to let it go. Oster was one of the very strongest links between him and the conspiracy. By admitting a little of the truth, Canaris hoped to head off the stronger connection.

  “Oster had a lot of wild schemes.”

  “Oh? Plots, do you mean?” Stawitzky asked without turning around.

  “No, just dreams. I was never in any doubt that any change of government during the war would not only be construed as a stab in the back but would also disrupt the home front.”

  “I see.”

  “I was also convinced that neither our western enemies nor the Russians would accept an offer of peace. They would automatically regard any such gesture as a sign of weakness.”

  “You told this to Oster?”

  “Yes. And were they actually to accept one in the first instance, they would do so only for show, in order to submit a ruthless demand for unconditional surrender thereafter.”

  Stawitzky turned around, a pinched look on his face.

  “Don’t you see, it would be 1918 all over again, but in a far worse form.”

  “How about General Pfuhlstein’s allegations …”

  Canaris sat forward. “Pfuhlstein was commander of the Brandenburg Division, so naturally he took certain dim views. He was trying to protect his own territory.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  A warning bell began ringing at the back of Canaris’ head.

  Had Stawitzky actually come up with something new? “The rumor went around that I would not place the Division on the front line. That I was keeping it as my own personal bodyguard.

  Sheer nonsense.”

  “I understand that, Herr Admiral,” Stawitzky said. He referred to a document in one of the files. “There is a statement by Major General Alexander von Pfuhlstein that:’… Admiral Canaris predicted Germany’s certain collapse no later than Christmas.

  This was in 1943.’ “

  “That is a lie,” Canaris said.

  “The general calls you a disseminator of pessimism.”

  ” Pfuhlstein misunderstood me. It can be the only explanation.”

  “You did speak with him about the war?”

  “Of course. Often, as a matter of fact. And my comments to him were colored by the grave responsibilities we all carried on our shoulders. But there certainly was nothing defeatist in my comments.”

  “And the Brandenburg Division? Let’s return to that. You did not want them sent to the front lines?”

  “Of course not.”

  “When we needed the Division the most?”

  Canaris dismissed the objection. “The Brandenburg Division’s real task was operations behind enemy lines, not at them.”

  Stawitzky looked at Canaris for a very long time. Slowly he put the file back on the , worktable. He made a motion to someone behind Canaris, and suddenly the rat-faced corporal was there.

  Canaris was startled. He had thought he was alone in the room with the interrogator. The corporal was grinning.

  “Oster and Pfuhlstein … two totally unreliable witnesses,” Stawitzky said.

  The corporal bent down and tied Canaris’ legs to the chair legs and then handcuffed his wrists to the chair back.

  “Thank you,” the Krimiaairat said. “If you will just stand by here.” He motioned to his side.

  Canaris’ heart was pounding. This was different than the other times. He did not like this. It worried him.

  “They misunderstood me, that is all,” he said.

  “You have never been involved in any sort of a plot against National Socialism?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Pfuhlstein and Oster—both men your friends—tell us that you are lying.”

  “I have stated to both of those men that we would eventually emerge successfully from the war, despite our steadily mounting difficulties.”

  “Our mounting difficulties?”

  “We have to realize, however, that such a war, in which our entire nation is giving its all and the people at home are being called on for achievements very different from the first war, will not immediately be succeeded by a golden age. All our resources will be required to rebuild Germany and create fresh openings for her continued development.”

  The corporal was grinning mindlessly, but the criminal consul was hanging on Canaris’ rapid-fire words. Or at least he seemed to be.

  “You have to bear in mind—and I told this to Oster and Pfuhlstein—that even after the war we will initially encounter a great internal foreign resistance which will inevitably make it hard for us to rebuild at speed and regain our footing abroad.”

  “But this we will overcome?”

  “Yes, of course. But we will have to attune ourselves to the idea that everyone would have to continue making sacrifices and place himself exclusively at the service of the Fatherland. Everyone would have to accept the need to lead a simple life in order

  ‘, to lay the fundamentals of better living conditions for the rising generation.”

  “What is this pigshit coming from the sailor boy’s mouth, [ Herr Stawitzky?” the corporal asked disgustedly.

  I “No, no, he is being consistent. You must give him that,” the criminal consul said. He turned and picked another file from the table. He thumbed through some of the documents it contained, finding the one he was looking for. “Here it is. On September 13th of last year, and again on September 21st, you made essentially the very same statements.”

  God help him, he could not remember. Had he said those things?

  “What does this mean?” Stawitzky asked pleasantly.

  “I am telling the truth,” Canaris said, still racking his memory.

  He had been taken to Prinz-Albrecht Strasse by then. Oster and | Pfuhlstein had been there. Or had they?

  “No! You lie!” Stawitzky screamed. “It is all lies!”

  The rat-faced corporal went to the hose in the corner and turned on the water. He unc
oiled it and began running water beneath and around Canaris’ chair. Whatever it meant, it terrified ; him.

  I “You still have a chance, Herr Admiral, to save your soul, to confess your sins. Our Fuhrer is a compassionate man. He will certainly forgive you.”

  Love for his Fuhrer rose in Canaris’ breast. “I never plotted against him …”

  “Lies!” the corporal bellowed, dropping the hose.

  Canaris turned toward him as a huge fist seemed to rocket out | of nowhere, connecting with a sickening crunch with his nose.

  Canaris’ head snapped back, and the chair crashed backwards, his head bouncing off the wet concrete floor and the ceiling bursting into a billion tiny shards of light.

  Berlin was a wasteland. It was Sunday afternoon, April the first. Dieter Schey strolled through the Tiergarten arm-in-arm with Marlene Hetbronn. There were a lot of other Germans out and about today. There had been a twelve-hour lull in the bombing. Like gophers coming out of

  ” *

  their holes to sniff the air, the people had come from their hovels ;

  to enjoy the brief respite. {

  Marlene had been a rising young actress before the film indus try had been ruined by the war. Now she was a regular at OKW [

  headquarters here and out at Zossen. She clung to Schey’s arm as if she were afraid he would suddenly disappear.

  Like most Germans these days, her skin had a pallor which I resulted from her mostly underground existence. Although the |

  Fiihrer would not have her and the other “sluts” in the Fiihrer ‘

  Bunker, Schey had found her a reasonably secure basement apartment in Charlottenburg which was safe from all but a direct I

  hit by a large bomb. ,

  “All this madness will stop very soon, will it not, Dieter?” she asked. Schey looked at her and nodded absently. He had been looking I

  at the animal cages in the zoo. They were empty. Most of the ;

  animals were gone. Someone at headquarters had whispered that the people had eaten the creatures. Everyone was afraid to tell the | Fiihrer.

  “It’s very sad,” he said. “The whole thing is sad, you know. What happened to our ;