The Berkut (12 page)

"Ah," the woman cooed. "Look at it, German. Have yourself a good look. In a moment you'll never care again about a woman's organs." Rudolf began to shake as she squatted slowly beside him. Suddenly she jumped on him, laughing wildly as she wrapped her legs around him. He could hear her squealing with laughter, pushing down hard, jamming his head against the ground. As quickly as she had jumped on him, she cast him off, and a searing pain shot through his groin; then kicks struck him in the ribs. He was already groggy when the woman stood, lifted her boot and drove it into his face. For the second time in a few hours, he felt himself losing consciousness, but this time he did not go all the way under. The pain seemed to be all through his body, and he felt blood pouring from his nose and upper lip. As they pulled him across the rocks like a dead animal, their voices seemed far away. They tried to stand him up, but he fell over. In front of him, the woman officer stood buttoning her tunic. "Rank and unit," she demanded in her bad German.

When he told her, she raised her eyebrows and shouted to her companion. Then she leaned close to Rudolf and smiled. "Nazi bastard," she said in German, "you're a lucky man." Then she kicked him in the groin again, and he vomited as they shoved him up an embankment toward the street.

17 – May 3, 1945, 11:15 A.M.

Within twenty-four hours of reaching the Reich Chancellery, the Special Operations Group was comfortably installed in a squat gray building, which Rivitsky had commandeered. It had once served as an auxiliary facility of the Reich Health Ministry, and because of its unique architecture had been relatively undamaged during the Soviet assault. The building had two floors above ground and four below, but unlike other Nazi offices in central Berlin, it was not connected by underground tunnels to anything else. It stood as its own island and had been shunned by the Nazis during their last stand.

Rivitsky liked the layout immediately. The ground floor had once housed what appeared to have been some kind of clerical operation. The top floor contained private offices with ample space, and these Rivitsky staked out for the group's private living quarters. Below ground three floors were subdivided into small offices and rooms that could easily be transformed into holding cells. The fourth and lowest underground level, forty meters below the surface, housed a large kitchen and dining area.

By the time Petrov arrived to inspect their new headquarters, Rivitsky had crews of German women cleaning the floors; others were bricking in doorways and modifying the structure to create an escape-proof maze for the prisoners who would soon be housed there. All office furnishings had been removed from the lower floors and replaced by thin Soviet army bedrolls and mess kits. The holding cells were stark, with no windows, and the external security was being installed. "It's an entry and exit maze," Rivitsky explained to his leader. "To be changed at randomly selected times, without predictability. Concertina wire. Some mines linked to ribbons of
plastit
charges. Automatic weapons on all four corners of the building and on towers outside the fence. The guards will be Asiatics who don't speak German. We'll be secure here."

Petrov moved inside. The internal security checkpoint was a narrow room between two sets of steel doors several inches thick that could be opened only from the inside. When new arrivals were ushered into the room, the second set of doors would open only after the first had closed. It was a system Petrov had taught his people, one favored first by the Cheka and later by the NKVD.

The ground floor of the building had two long rows of wooden desks, and pale German women with their hair tied back in buns worked feverishly over typewriters. Wire baskets were already filling with neat stacks of typed pages.

"Our quarters are upstairs," Rivitsky said. "Papers will come up by pneumatic tube. We'll handle our own paper flow."

"The personnel?"

"Germans, as you instructed. We've taken only those without dependents. They are billeted in tents near here. They come and go under armed escort, and are restricted to the camp when they are not working."

"They accept this?"

"They accept any proposition that ensures they will be fed."

He led Petrov through the corridor and stopped at a bank of elevators. "All the stairwells have been sealed. One elevator goes down to the kitchen in the basement. One goes down one floor to a security entry and processing area. All prisoners will come in this way. The third elevator goes up to our area. It works only by key." He handed a large brass key to Petrov, who pocketed it without examination.

"What about fires?"

"Very little of the building is flammable. We can get people out through the top floor if we have to; there's a steel trap on the roof. There's some risk, but I judged our security need to be greater."

Petrov made no comment.

Rivitsky inserted his own key in the elevator lock; when the door slid open they went down to the second level. There he showed Petrov another double-security setup. His leader saw that some of the mortar along the stairwell was still wet, and questioned its strength. Rivitsky gave him a tour of some of the cells, and when Petrov had seen enough, they ascended to the top floor to survey the furnishings of their quarters. A sophisticated communications center was being installed by Ezdovo, who grunted an obscure song as he worked. Along the walls were several small wooden desks; sheets of cork had been installed on the walls and rows of photographs were already tacked in place.

Rivitsky led Petrov to his room and motioned him to enter. The room was sparsely furnished except for an ornate brass bed with a double thick mattress. "No bedrolls?" Petrov asked.

"A brief chance for creature comfort," Rivitsky replied, smiling.

The question was his leader's way of registering his satisfaction.

By midday the rest of the team had arrived, stowed their gear and gone to work.

The first prisoners began to arrive from various internment centers around Berlin and its suburbs later in the afternoon. Professor Werner Haase, the Nazi physician who had showed them the way to Hitler's bunker, was the first to be installed in the new prison. Gnedin gave him a thorough medical examination and reported immediately to Petrov. "Tubercular, advanced, both lungs involved. We'd better get from him what we can now. He's not going to last long."

"How long?"

"With care, in the right setting and with some luck, several months. Here, only weeks or days. Hard to say. He looks malnourished and near exhaustion."

Haase was brought to an interrogation room. It was Petrov's practice never to interrogate a man in the same room in which he was housed. No matter how isolated you kept a prisoner, the place where he spent most of his time was, in his own mind, "home," and therefore potentially a place that might provide him with some psychological comfort. Through long experience Petrov had learned that inmates
kept in dark, unfurnished rooms were easier to interrogate. He had also found that naked prisoners talked more readily than those who retained their clothes.

For the interviews of Hitler's Reich Chancellery group, Petrov had decided that further preparations would be unnecessary. Most of the captured Nazis, he was certain, would suffer depression from losing the war and from their capture. In such situations, information often flowed freely; he was determined to take advantage of this by having newly caught prisoners brought immediately under his control.

Dr. Haase glared at Petrov. "You're the one who shot the men.
" Petrov spoke slowly. "Tell me
what happened during your final time in the bunker with the other war criminals."

Haase stiffened. "I am first a physician and second a soldier. In
no case am I a criminal."
"You are all war criminals," Petrov said.

Haase resisted. "I've already made a statement. A stenographer was present. I can add nothing to what I've already said."

Petrov's voice was soft, his tone almost enticing. "Nevertheless, I would like you to repeat it again."

Haase went into a coughing spasm, and Rivitsky gave him a tin filled with cold water. When he regained control, he repeated his story. Petrov made no notes, and after Haase finished, he began his questioning. Haase's story did not satisfy Petrov's expectations; the man seemed to be holding something back.

"Are you sure that Hitler is dead?" Petrov began.
"Yes," Haase said.

"Was it out of character for your Fuhrer to take his own life?" "I do not wish to reply to that. I was not an intimate of Hitler and therefore could only speculate."

"But you've met with Hitler?" "Of course."

"You were his physician?"

"Acting. A matter of record, not real
ity."

"You talked about medical m
atters?"
"Yes."

"Nothing else?"

"Sometimes," Haase said hesitantly.

"We are told that Hitler is a knowledgeable man, an able and willing conversationalist."

"Was,"
Haase corrected.

"Did he ever discuss suicide in your presence?"

"Theoretically. He asked me about the--efficiencies of various methods of self-liquidation."

"Efficiencies?"

"Yes. How quickly would death ensue? What kind of pain would
there be? What chance
would there be for error? Things of this nature."

"He was afraid of pain?" "He was ill."

"The nature of the illness?"

"I had no opportunity to make a specific diagnosis. It appeared to be a nervous disorder. His face was bloated and swollen. He exhibited some slurring of speech. His left hand shook from some form of palsy. He had to pull his right leg along like a stump. He could hardly walk, certainly not for any distance."

Petrov interrupted: "Left arm and right leg?"

"Correct. That's all I know," Haase said curtly. He was breathing heavily, a cough building from his lungs in small pops.

Petrov had no intention of stopping. Again he circled back. "Hitler asked you about suicide. It was a theoretical discussion, and you advised him theoretically."

"Yes, yes," the doctor said wearily. "
But why you? This still puzzles
me."

"I told you that I was his acting personal physician," Haase snapped. "As a physician-presumably one sworn to preserve life-weren't you alarmed by such an inquiry?"

"The Fü
hrer had eclectic interests."

"Has," Petrov corrected. "What was your theoretical
recommen
dation?"

"A simultaneous application of gunshot and poison."
"Simultaneous
?"

"Yes."

"Please explain. I don't see how this would be possible-or, more important, what practical value it would offer."

"He wanted to know a method that would ensure death. A cyanide ampule could be placed between the teeth while a pistol rested against the temple. The ampule would be bitten an instant before the trigger was pulled, the effect being instantaneous death by one method or the other. It didn't really matter; by using both, one could be sure that death would occur."

"But this was only theoretical?"

"Yes."

"Has this method been tested in your death camps?"

Haase's mouth dropped open and his face reddened. "I had nothing to do with such things."

"But you knew they existed." "There were rumors."

"Why would Hider seek your advice in such matters? I
would ask an executioner, not a
doctor."

"I was his physician. He considered it a medical subject and wanted an expert opinion."

"You are an expert on suicide?"

"On death," Haase stammered. "A doctor deals with death." Petrov gave the man a hard look. "In the Soviet Union our doctors deal with life; undertakers deal with death."

Haase struggled to stand. "I've had enough of this."

"Doctor," Petrov said quiedy, "if you do not sit down and answer my questions fully, I will have you taken outside and shot immediately." Haase slumped back on his stool, his chin on his chest.

"The Fü
hrer feared that poison alone would be ineffective. He asked me to test the poison," the doctor blurted out suddenly after a pause.

"Before or after your consultation on theory?"

"Before. T
he dog keeper and I took the Fü
hrer's favorite bitch and gave her the poison."