Heroes, David Hagberg [me reader .txt] 📗

A couple of months ago such things would have been unthinkable to him. But lately he too had wondered about desertion. He wouldn’t go to the Russians, of course. Stalin, from what he understood, was just as bad as Hitler. But he couldn’t head to the west, either. He had been a spy. A hero of the Reich. He had killed civilians back in the States. The coastal watcher in Maine.

The FBI agent in Washington, D.C. The cop in Texas, and the two agents in New Mexico, as well as those in the train station in New York City. Back in the States he would certainly be hanged as a murderer.

Suddenly he reached up and unclasped the Iron Cross from around his neck and tossed it aside on the seat. He couldn’t even look at it.

In school this business seemed so romantic. Dropped on enemy soil. Working with danger constantly around you. Never safe. On your guard always.

But God, the reality of it. The grinding, crushing, day-to-day business of it. And then, even when you found a safe warm hole where you could hide, at least temporarily, you still had yourself to deal with.

The nearer he came to the Reichs Bunker, the more complete the destruction was, and the more soldiers were in evidence.

He was stopped on Prinz-Albrecht Strasse, as he turned onto Wilhelm Strasse, by four SS-guards. A sandbagged machine-gun emplacement had been set up.

“Guten Morgen, Herr Standartenfiihrer,” one of the guards said respectfully. He saluted. “Your papers, bitte.”

Schey handed across his papers, including the special Fuhrer Bunker pass he had been issued several days ago.

When the guard spotted the distinctive seal, he came to ramrod attention. He handed the papers back and saluted again.

“Alles 1st in ordnung"

“What is happening here, Sergeant?” Schey demanded, pocketing his papers.

“Why … the defense of Berlin, sir.”

“Here, on this street corner?”

The SS sergeant seemed surprised. “On every street corner, sir.”

Schey looked at the man. He was young, probably in his early twenties. His eyes were clear, and although he was nervous, it was obvious he knew that what he was doing was the correct thing. His superiors had ordered him to do it, and if they didn’t know, who would?

-“Vielen dank” Schey said, saluting, and he headed up Wilhelm Strasse, Gestapo Headquarters behind him.

There was another checkpoint in the next block, but he was not stopped, nor was he stopped around the corner from the Kaiserhof Subway Station on Voss Strasse.

The Fuhrer had puffed up in rage when Schey had relayed the scientists’ request that their research apparatus be dismantled.

He had railed for nearly ten minutes about how all of Germany was deserting him at this hour. A man did not have to sell secrets to an enemy to be a traitor to Germany. A man could easily be a traitor by merely turning a blind eye to the traitorous acts of others. Or he could be a traitor by not giving his all to the effort.

Hitler had screamed: “I will not give my permission for the scientists, or for any other man, to turn and run. They will remain in their laboratories. They will redouble their efforts. The tools for the destruction of our enemies are at hand! Nothing must impede progress toward their development!”

Schey had remained in the bunker that afternoon. The Fiihrer had sent a messenger across to the subway station, and Schey had put it out of his mind until now.

The gaunt ruins of the Reich Chancellery were just up the block. There was a lot of activity there this morning. At least a half-dozen troop trucks were parked in front, and it looked as if the engineers had come in to do some repairs.

There was rubble everywhere. The streets here were much worse than elsewhere in Berlin, nearly impassable. Smoke hung thick in the air. It looked like defeat. Everyone acted like defeat.

A large group of women loaded wheelbarrows with brick and pieces of concrete from the street and dumped their loads off to the side. But at the rate they were going, Schey figured it would take them months to clear the road.

He parked in front of the subway station and picked his way on foot over what once had been the broad sidewalk, but now was a hillock of broken brick.

The main entry door had been blown half off its hinges. Schey hesitated a moment at the top.

It was unreal. No one considered this to be an emergency. Not actually. This was business as usual. Almost routine. The destroyers came in the night, and in the morning Germany awoke and picked up the mess. They were like punch-drunk fighters, reeling from the blows raining down on their heads but too numb and senseless to simply lie down. If they did, it would stop. That was the pity of it.

He shoved the door off to the side and stepped down into the front entry hall. It was dark. There were no lights burning, and the windows had been mostly covered by debris. Evidently the power had failed again. It was no wonder.

Schey went downstairs to where the one-armed lieutenant should have been stationed at his desk. But there was no one there this morning.

At first Schey thought the building had been deserted. Perhaps the Fuhrer’s message had gone unheeded and the scientists had dismantled their equipment and had left in the middle of the night.

He stepped a little closer, when he spotted a pair of boots jutting out from behind the desk.

“Verdammt,” he swore under his breath. He knew what had happened.

He opened his holster flap and withdrew his Luger. As he stepped around to the side of the desk, he levered a round into the firing chamber and clicked the safety off.

The one-armed lieutenant lay on his back, his head in a puddle of blood. A single shot had been fired into his face at pointblank range, entering just below his right eye and blowing off a large portion of the back of his skull.

He