On Desperate Ground (22 page)

“Yes,” Stieff replied as if he were explaining things to a slow child, which is how he viewed most officers. “We have frequencies assigned to each section, and they can communicate with each other and both headquarters units. If the field HQ is knocked out, the radio team here can coordinate and report to OKH and Berlin. We are linked in from our headquarters in this building to Exchange 500. We will have priority access to communicate anywhere within the Reich.”
 

Exchange 500 was the central nervous system of the German high command. Buried seventy feet below ground, it housed a vast radio, telephone and teleprinter network that connected military units with all government departments. In the early years of the war, it was said a U-Boat commander off New York City could talk to Luftwaffe pilot over Moscow by connecting through Exchange 500. With the diminishing borders of the Reich, the boast was no longer quite so impressive.

“Good work, Stieff. My apologies for making you an officer, but you’ve done well anyway!” Stieff grunted at the compliment, and looked around the table sheepishly, glad his part was done.

One man remained silent at the conference table. At the very end,
Sturmbannführer
Otto Hettstedt sat quietly, taking notes as the meeting progressed. He had offered no comment and remained passive as the details of the plan were discussed.

“
Sturmbannführer
Hettstedt,” Faust addressed the SS officer, “you have done well at least in supplying us with
Obersturmführer
Strauch and some of his men. Now I have one last duty for you to perform. You are to remain here at Zossen after we depart and oversee the radio team. We need a senior officer here to report to OKH and the
Führer
on the outcome if the field HQ is not operational.”

Hettstedt looked up at Faust, showing no trace of the hatred he felt for him.

“Of course, Colonel. I would be honored. I have some duties in Berlin to complete, but I will be here at a moment’s notice as soon as you depart.” He even smiled.

“We leave here for Wittenberg on the Elbe River no later than 10 April, unless the tactical situation changes dramatically before then. Stay in touch with this headquarters.” He turned to the rest of the officers.

“Prepare your men. Draw all the supplies you can carry. Once we reach Wittenberg, we will wait to deploy the Sections as the tactical situation develops.”

“Colonel,” Dieter asked, “what other German forces will be in the area?”

“As part of this plan, Twelfth Army is drawing its formations north, away from the American line. They will attack towards Berlin, serving to block Russian forces to our north, which will protect our flank. They are leaving light screening forces and some FLAK units in place. They do not know of Operation Gambit and will not be told. The security risk is too great.”

“What shall we do it we meet up with them?” Dieter asked, hoping the answer would not be what he expected.
 

“If you can talk with them, fine. Have them pull out of the immediate area. If not, if they fire upon you, eliminate them. Do not be squeamish. We cannot let a few
Volkstrum
or Hitler Youth interfere with the success of this operation.”

“Old men and boys?” Dieter said, startled at his own frank response.
 

“Yes, a few old men and boys now to save many more later. Dismissed.”

Otto Hettstedt left immediately and headed for Berlin. Dieter and Benedikt walked out with Jost Brunner. Once outside, the three men stopped to breathe in the cold air. They stood in silence as the feeble warmth of the sun fell on their faces. Icicles dripped from the roof of the concrete building behind them. They looked at one another, each knowing what the other was feeling and reluctant to voice it out loud. As if the question had been spoken, Benedikt asked, “What choice do we have?”

“Yes,” said Dieter. “What could one man do anyway? What difference can one man make in this insane world?” Jost looked at him, surprised and hopeful.

Back in his office, Johann Faust fell onto the ancient leather couch and watched the flames dance in the fireplace. He felt glad for the warmth, and relaxed, feeling there was nothing else that he could do, that everything he’d planned for was now set in motion. His eyelids were heavy with sleep, and as he drifted off he saw faces, happy faces that would always be with him only in the twilight of sleep. His mother and father, great-aunt Zilla, and…Anna. Anna smiled wistfully, and in his dream they walked through the gardens of her family’s neighboring home in East Prussia. He saw himself, younger and idealistic, before the war and all the killing. Anna telling him she would wait for him until it was over. Anna smiling and weeping at the same time, telling him to keep himself safe for her. The letters between them, at first full of love and dreams. They’d written about names for their children, plans for crops, horses to buy, domestic details of everyday life. Slowly, her letters began to hint at fear and danger. News of Russian bombers over East Prussia. Her parents sick and unable to be moved. Lack of fuel and food. The cold. His letters to her, pleading with her to leave before it was too late.
 

Then the dream turned dark. He could imagine the Russians pouring over the estate. They had broadcast to the world their victorious crossing of the easternmost German border, land that included their family estates. In his dream he searched for his parents, but couldn’t find them in their empty house. Then the dream took him to Anna’s home, as he looked for her amidst the Russian soldiers pouring through the house yelling “
Komm, Frau
”. He could not stop them as they swarmed about him, and they ignored him as if he were a ghost. He never could find Anna. He could only hear her screams, hear her calling his name as the Russians took turns with her. And as they always did, her screams finally grew loud enough to wake him.

Faust awoke with a shudder ripping through his body and sweat soaked into his clothes. He’d done this. When he followed orders, waged a war of brutality, he’d brought this on. He knew the truth. He knew that he’d made the demons what they were. They came to him to help him forget he was the cause of it all. They tormented him until he satisfied them with blood, but it was nothing compared to the truth.

He was the demon.

He buried his head in his hands and wept.
 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

30 March 1945

SS Headquarters

Berlin, Germany

Brigadeführer
Hermann Fegelin let out a breath as he looked over the list of names on the single sheet of paper lying on top of his immaculately neat desk. He moved the paper slightly so it was aligned exactly in the center of his desk blotter. He shook his head slightly, as if amused, and looked up at
Sturmbannführer
Otto Hettstedt. Hettstedt squirmed in his seat, nervous at being called into the presence of the SS personal liaison to the
Führer.
 

“My dear Hettstedt,” Fegelin began, “what can you have been thinking?”

“I am only thinking about doing my duty…”

“Duty? These names you are investigating, they are all part of a special operation ordered by the
Führer,
an operation you yourself are part of! I don’t understand why you are investigating your own comrades.”

Fegelin picked up the sheet and read down the list. “Johann Faust, Dieter Neukirk, Herbert Benedikt, Hans Schierke, Jost Brunner, and several others.”
 

“
Brigadeführer
Fegelin, these men are not proper National Socialists. They disparage the SS constantly, and I’ve heard them make countless defeatist remarks. Colonel Faust has convinced the
Führer
of his plan, but I am not sure of his loyalty, or that of all his men.”

“First, Hettstedt, you must understand that you do not possess the authority to have ordered this investigation. This is a highly sensitive and delicate matter. What if you do find one of these men to be disloyal, or to have a questionable racial background? What then?”

“Why arrest them, of course!”
 

“And you will tell the
Führer
that his personal operation will never be carried out? The last ditch effort to save the Reich?”
 

“I would think the
Führer
would be glad that the SS uncovered a plot against his plan, and would reward us with the command of the operation.” With this said, Hettstedt leaned back in his chair, more at ease than he had been since he came into the office.
 

“Well, well,
Sturmbannführer
. Perhaps I have underestimated you. Indeed.” Fegelin considered the situation carefully, weighing the benefit to his own position. He really had nothing to lose. “Continue the investigation, but take no action against any of these men. Report anything you find to me. And to
Reichsführer
Himmler, of course.”

“Yes,
Brigadeführer!
”

“Be sure to keep this investigation quiet, Hettstedt. We can’t afford to anger the
Führer
before we have solid evidence. Now, you say Faust has actually put together a decent operation. Is he ready, and is it feasible?”

“Yes, everything is in place. They plan on leaving Zossen for Wittenberg near the Elbe River in two days. As to feasibility, there is a chance it could all work. Faust has ordered me to remain at the communications center at Zossen after they take to the field.”

“Very well. Proceed, and report back here with any results before they depart. If nothing develops, then go to Zossen as planned and keep us updated from there. Dismissed.”

Hettstedt walked out of Fegelin’s office, feeling exhilarated at the turn of events and having been taken in the confidence of an intimate of the
Führer.
He also felt intense relief at the thought of getting out of Berlin. Faust’s order posting him to Zossen was now confirmed by the SS command. It was only twenty kilometers south of the city, but it was well away from his superiors. If things went badly, it would be easy to slip out under the pretext of bringing a message to Faust, or Neukirk, who would be closer to the American lines.

Hettstedt returned to his own office, flushed with self-importance and a vision of his own possible survival. He looked at the aides and clerks scurrying around the outer office, frantic with activity. Telephones, teletypes, and radios all emitted their own noises, the ringing, clacking, and static rising above the hum of voices engaged in the daily bureaucratic business of the SS. Hettstedt laughed inwardly
. Soon you all will be dead men, and I will be gone from here.
 

“Heinz,” Hettstedt barked at one of the clerks. “Get me the Gestapo reports I asked for!”
 

“They are being typed up now,
Sturmbannführer.
We went through all Gestapo, SS and Wehrmacht files and pulled together everything we could find. That initial report is being prepared, and two Gestapo agents are conducting field interviews now.”

“I want that report as soon as it’s done, and I want a dozen Gestapo men out tracking down anyone connected with these men! Now!”

“But
Sturmbannführer—
”

“Do not contradict me!” By now all eyes in the office were on Hettstedt. The SS staff went about their business, but conversations stopped and glances were exchanged, everyone intrigued by the outburst. Otto Hettstedt had never been known as one to work long hours or demand reports ahead of time. “Obey this order instantly! If you or anyone else has any questions, they may be addressed to
Brigadeführer
Fegelin. By his order, this is a top priority investigation!”

“Yes sir!” The clerk jumped to his feet and stood at attention.

Better
, thought Hettstedt,
much better
.

Not far from SS headquarters, across the Spree River which ran through the city, a bored Gestapo agent ground out one of a countless number of cigarettes on the wet pavement. He was watching a building across the street from where he stood, in the doorway of a recently bombed out building. Behind him, wisps of smoke curled upwards from charred timbers. Rubble spilled out onto the street almost shoulder high, hiding him even further from pedestrians. He silently cursed the Allied bomber that dropped its load on this side of the street instead of the other. If only that building had been destroyed, he wouldn’t be standing here now freezing and watching who went in and out.

On the ground floor there were several small shops, all closed now, repairing bomb damage to their fronts. In the center of the structure, a stairway led to the upper floors where there were offices and a few apartments. The top floors housed the offices of some of the few remaining neutral diplomatic staff left in Berlin. The Gestapo regularly watched these offices, noting German citizens who went in and investigating their backgrounds. The Gestapo knew the diplomatic staff by sight, and noted their movements as well, reporting any suspicious contacts outside of their offices.
 

Senor Antonio Joaquim Gonsaldes, Portuguese Consul, walked out of the building and stood for a moment, looking at the damage across the street as he pulled on his gloves. He adjusted his scarf against the cold, and walked off. The agent noted his time of departure, sighed wearily, and lit another cigarette. He waved his hand forward, signaling another agent who had been seated in the hallway behind him.