and the sight of Hitler, hunched at his desk, was to haunt him for his entire life.
“My Führer.” He gave a military salute.
Hitler gave a thin smile. “Even now you cannot bring yourself to give me a Party salute. You touch your cap like a British Guards officer.”
“I’m sorry, my Führer.”
“Oh, go on. Just go.” Hitler waved his hand and Sara Hesser closed the door on the Baron.
He found his way back up the crowded passageways and through the garden bunker, where he found Hoffer and the young SS soldier sitting under a concrete awning in the entrance, drinking the rest of the vodka while it rained relentlessly.
Hoffer stood up. “Baron?”
“We’re getting out, Karl. Believe it or not, but we’re going to get out.”
“But how, sir?”
Von Berger took him to one side. “I’ve been given a special mission by the Führer. There’s a light plane waiting. I’m not saying more, but we’re going home, we’re going to Holstein.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“Well, it’s true. Give me my coat and get some weapons.”
He turned and the boy said, “You’re going,
Sturmbahnführer?
”
Von Berger smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Paul Schneider.”
“Then I’ll tell you what, Paul Schneider. Instead of waiting to face death at the hands of the Russians, you can come with us, fly to the West and surrender to the Americans.”
“I can’t believe it,” the boy gasped.
“Sergeant Hoffer just said that.” He turned to Hoffer. “Get moving.”
Within forty minutes, von Berger, Hoffer and young Schneider left the Bunker, exiting into Hermann Goering Strasse. They were well armed with military packs containing extra ammunition and grenades. Each one had a Schmeisser machine pistol slung across his chest.
There were people pouring along the Tiergarten in hordes now, a terrible panic having taken over, and the fog, made worse by the smoke, swirled across the city, not even the heavy rain managing to clear it. The rumble of artillery was constant, women with children screamed, terrified.
The three men moved along the Tiergarten on the edge of the crowd, cut across by the Brandenburg Gate to Goebbels’s house. It showed evidence of damage, obviously from shell splinters, but the very large garage was intact. There was a judas gate in the main door and Hoffer opened it gently.
“Hold it,” a voice called, and a light was switched on. A small Fieseler Storch spotter plane appeared, a young Luftwaffe captain standing beside it in uniform and flying jacket. He held a Schmeisser at the ready.
Von Berger moved past Hoffer. “I’m
Sturmbahnführer
von Berger. Who are you?”
“My name is Ritter – Hans Ritter – and thank God you’re here. This is the fourth time I’ve done this run and it wasn’t fun. Could I ask where we’re going?”
“To the West, to Holstein Heath in Schwarze Platz. There’s a castle, Schloss Adler, above Neustadt. Can we make it?”
“Yes. It’s a three-hundred-mile flight and we’ll have to refuel somewhere, but I’ll tell you what,
Sturmbahnführer,
I’d rather be there than here, so let’s get the hell out of this place. Get your lads to open the doors.”
“A sound idea.”
Hoffer and Schneider opened the sliding door and Ritter climbed into the Storch and started the engine. The three men clambered in and Hoffer closed the door.
Outside, the fleeing refugees turned in astonishment, then fled to either side as the Storch bumped over rubble and glass and turned toward the Victory Column. The rain was torrential.
Ritter boosted power and roared down the avenue toward the Victory Column. People scattered, the Storch lifted and, at that moment, Russian artillery opened up, shells exploding on each side. The plane banked to starboard, narrowly missing the Victory Column, and rose up through the fog.
At two thousand feet, Ritter leveled off. “We’ll stay low until we’re well away.”
When one