HITLERS LAST STAND

There are two ways in this world to judge a mans character the

kind of woman he marries, and the way he dies.

Adolf Hitler, 1927

On April 26, 1945, the German capital woke to the sound of

sirens and explosions of artillery shells from one thousand

Russian cannons positioned south of the city.

Squadrons of Soviet rippers aircrafts carrying weighted

cables designed to cut telephone lines - flew out over the city,

isolating Berlin from the outside world. The Germans could no

longer resist the momentum of the Allied forces and Russian

armies advancing towards the heart of the Third Reich.

After liberating Western Europe American troops crossed the

Rhine and entered Munich -- while Red Army tanks rolled through

East Prussia and Pomerania to begin their assault against the

German capital. Two and a half million men, 22,000 pieces of

artillery and hundreds of Katyusha multiple-rocket launchers

punched their way towards Berlin, where the Fhrer had retreated

into his bunker.

The remnants of the German LVI Panzer Corps and 90,000

German defenders old men and members of the Hitler Youth -

stood no chance against the weight of seven Soviet Armies.

 Ilyushin attack aircrafts roared over the city at rooftop

level, and a hail of bombs battered the bunkers under the Reich

Chancellery. Soon after, British Spitfires swooped over the

burning ruins.

On Hitlers orders SS officers evacuated gold, currency and

jewels from the Berlin Reichsbank and loaded them onto trains,

cars, and trucks headed for caves in the Austrian Alps.

Inside the Fhrerbunker, a neon-lit underground compound of

eighteen rooms below the Chancellery gardens, Hitler and his

inner circle huddled in silence, squirming and holding their

breath. Trapped in a cage fifty feet below the Reich Chancellery,

the Grter Feldherr aller Zeiten(greatest commander of all

time) and his staff contemplated the twilight of their dreams.

Hitlers Reich, which once extended all over Europe, was now one

hectare large.

On April 30th, at seven in the morning, Hans Linge, Hitlers

chauffeur, unlocked the bunker exit door. He turned back and

waved at a thirty-three-year old blond-haired woman standing on

the steps below him. You can come out now.

 She ran up from the darkness into daylight, her hands

clasped under her chin. Grief and agony wrenched her heart. She

stood silent by the door, gazing at bomb craters pitting the

gardens of the Chancellery. Minutes passed like seconds. It had

been ten days since British and American air forces executed

their last air raid on the center of Berlin.

Exhausted after sleepless nights, she wanted to see the sun

once more. Less than forty hours after becoming the first lady

of Third Reich, Eva Anna Paula Hitler knew it was the last day of

her life. She put up a hand to shield her eyes, squinting from

bursts of brilliance piercing through clouds of smoke over the

Berlin sky.

A middle-class Catholic woman from Munich, she had spent

most of her days waiting for Hitler, after she first met him

fresh out of convent school at age seventeen. She had joined the

Fhrer in his bunker in April, 1945, after years of seclusion in

a room at the Chancellery. After she announced her decision to

stay at his side until the end, he cheered with delight - Ah, if

only my generals were as brave as my women.

 Out in the open, alone and helpless, her mind wandered,

vacillating between the ruins of a lost past and a future that

would never come.

She strained her ears for the drone of Soviet bombers and

the whistle of bombs in the distance. Minutes later, she

sauntered back to the bunker door clutching a branch of spring

blossoms that survived the raids. She looked down into the

staircase, contemplating the darkness below her. She saw a shadow

climbing the steps. Two eyes stared at her, blinking with

hesitation. She gasped, watching Hitler himself emerge at the top

of the stairs, his face gray and thin. His gaze faltered under

the vibrations of Soviet artillery. He hesitated then turned

back, stumbling down the steps.

Hanz followed Hitler to his private study, where he found

the Fhrer lying on his bed, under an oil painting of King

Frederick the Great, of Prussia. Below the picture was Hitlers

personal tribute to Prussias Soldier King Friedrich Wilhem,

der Soldaten Konig. His breathing was shallow, his jacket

unbuttoned. Hanz saw tremor in his hands and fear in his eyes.
 I have been thinking, Hitler said in a frail voice, down

to a whisper. If Berlin is fated to fall, before it happens,

Ill shoot myself. I shall not shoot myself and Fraulein Braun in

the garden, but here in the bunker. Have two blankets ready to

wrap our bodies, so you can carry us to the garden and burn us

there.

Hanz left and returned with two gray army blankets and

placed them on Hitlers bed.

On that afternoon Adolf Hitler walked into a conference room

with Eva for his twice-daily situation conference with his

associates and members of his elite guard. He had spent the

morning dictating his last will and testament to Fraulein

Gertrude Junge, his secretary, reading from notes he scribbled

hours earlier.

Their farewell was brief and silent. Hitler and Eva shook

hands with Bormann, Goebbels, and twelve members of his military

and household staff. Goebbels wife fell on her knees, begging

him to reconsider his decision. Hitler patted her on the head.

There is no way out.

 There he learned that Smersh Counter-Espionage groups of the

1st Byelorussian Front had crashed through the Wehrmacht

defenses. Their tanks were now yards away, at Potzdamerplatz,

ready to storm into the bunker. First Lieutenant Ivan Klimenko

led Soviet advance units into the tunnel system, searching for

the Nazi leaders, holding German prisoners who would identify

them.

Hitler glanced at his dog, a German shepherd lying at his

feet. Blondi, sing! He touched the gray coat of her neck,

howling like a wolf, a ritual he performed to coax her to perform

her solo.

A German officer in Wehrmacht uniform swarmed into the room

and raised his arm in a Nazi salute. Blondi let out a bark. He

walked up to Hitler and handed him a teleprint from the Reich

Main Security Office, with a Geheime Reichssache (Top Secret)

heading.
 They watched the Fhrer staring at the piece of paper,

reading it in a whisper, as if he could not trust his eyes. His

face grew white and his hands trembled. He leaned on his desk and

read it out loud. A trustworthy source informed us that the

Italian Partisans executed Mussolini and his mistress, Clara

Petacci. Their bodies hung by their feet at an Esso gas station,

in a gruesome public spectacle, at Piazzale Loreto, in Milan.

Hitlers reaction was prompt. His expression darkened, his

face wrinkled with surprise. He stared at the officer with

contempt, and, on an impulse, he rose from his seat and paced

across the room.

Hands clasped behind his back, he wore black trousers over

high boots and a gray-green uniform jacket. Silence fell over the

room. Eyes riveted on him, fixed on the Iron Cross pinned to the

left side of his chest, a decoration for wounds he sustained

during the First World War. Pensive and downcast, he no longer

radiated the air of authority of his glory days.

 He stopped and raised his clenched fists to his chin, in a

voice that chilled the room: The Duce (Mussolini) did not

concern himself with the military or politics anymore. In a fit

of rage he stomped his feet. He was interested in his harem of

young Italian women. They occupied all his attention.

Mussolinis death reawakened Hitlers fear. The words of

Marshal Zhukov, Stalins top commander, echoed in his mind I

will lock up that slimy beast, Hitler, in a cage, and parade him

through the streets of Moscow.

Hitler rolled up the piece of paper and waved it at the

faces staring at him. Our time has come. No one is faithful. No

honesty left. The forces of evil are destroying us. We will go

down, but we will drag the whole world down with us, he muttered

in his Bavarian dialect. His voice rose in anger, his face rigid.

I have ordered that I am to be burned after my death. Make sure

my order is carried out to the letter. I will not allow them to

take my body back to Moscow for exhibit in a museum of

curiosities, or do the same mischief as they did to Mussolini.

 After a pause he struck the table with his fist and cried

out: I did not want this war. Foreign leaders of Jewish origin

and working for Jewish interests they are the ones who brought

it to us. He returned to his seat, clasped his hands behind his

head and sighed in frustration. Die Juden haben schuld.

(The Jews are to blame) He leaned back and closed his eyes. The

silence in the room seemed to last forever.

He had not yet finished his remarks. His arrogance had

melted into resignation and self-pity. He rubbed his eyes and

spoke in a monotone, running his fingers along the edge of his

desk. It fills me with horror to think of our Reich hacked to

pieces by the victors, our peoples exposed to the savage excesses

of the Bolsheviks and the American gangsters.

He slapped his knees and leaned forward, meeting Blondis

startled gaze. Look me in the eyes, Blondi. No more songs. It is

time to say goodbye.

He held Blondi by the collar and walked her down to the

lower floor of the bunker. Officer Turnow, the keeper of the

kennel, accompanied him, carrying a basket. Inside were Blondis

four puppies, born in the bunker in March.

 They walked into a room where Professor Werner Haase, a

physician from the University of Berlin sat in his chair waiting.

Hitler had summoned him hours before.

The air was musty and damp, reeking of bunker fuel and stale

beer. Hitler showed no emotion. His face was haggard and his

voice wavered. Show me the power of cyanide.

Sargeant Turnow took Blondi to the toilet and forced her

mouth open. Dr. Haase reached into her throat and crushed a vial

of cyanide with a pair of pliers. Hitler could not watch. Her

breathing became labored and she collapsed.

With tears in his eyes Turrow walked toward the basket of

puppies and stopped. He hesitated, and then looked at Hitler.

Lets not waste time, Hitler groaned, crossing his arms.

Turow reached for his pistol and glanced once more at his boss.

Hitler nodded and closed his eyes. So be it.

Hitler turned his face away and Turnow aimed and shot the

four puppies. Hitler sighed, shook his head and turned to Dr.

Haase. Doctor, what is your recommended method of suicide?

 The surgeon answered without hesitation. Bite on a cyanide

capsule and aim for your temple. Cyanide is painless. It will

kill within seconds. Haase reached for his valise and eased out

the door.

Hitler ate his last meal with his secretaries and cook.

Later, he strolled along the hall with Eva on his side, shuffling

his legs, stooped like an old man. He greeted his associates

with both hands, whispering his farewell.

The Fhrer looked old and tired. Dark circles rimmed his

eyes, which once glowed with fire, now cloaked in the shroud of

defeat. His hair had turned gray.

He took Eva to their private room to carry out their pact.

She sat in the sofa wearing a black dress with pink flowers in

her breast. After the door closed behind them, Hitler nodded his

head. Our time has come. She looked up at him, eyes wide, her

body trembling.

Irony marked the final moments her life - Eva felt closer to

her husband than ever before. Her body shook with fear, her

right hand closed over a flower.

 Under his gaze she removed from her pocket a gift she

received from her newlywed husband a copper cartridge

containing a glass vial of cyanide.

It was not the way she expected to end her life, simple and

unpretentious, and sixteen years of loyalty to a man who never

showed his love for her.

On that Monday afternoon, amid the roar of a thousand

cannons and bombing raids, a single shot from a Walter PPK pistol

brought WWII in Europe to an end.

At 3:30 in the afternoon, the Fhrer and Chancellor of the

Thousand Year Reich, shot himself in the right temple, after

biting into a cyanide capsule. Eva planned to shoot herself, but

the effect of cyanide was immediate. Her revolver dropped from

her hand.

Heinz Linge, Hitlers valet, stood guard outside the door,

waiting. Under the field artillery barrage, he did not hear the

two shots. The odor of gun powder drifted under the door and

alerted him that his boss had carried out his mission. His voice

echoed through the bunker: The Fhrer is dead, every man for

himself.
 Linge hesitated to venture into the room. Instead, he ran

next door, where he found Martin Bormann sitting among a group of

associates. The Fuehrer is dead, he shouted, waving his hand

with a sense of urgency. They rushed to Hitlers quarters and

found the Fuerhers lifeless body slumped over one side of the

blue and white sofa. His head rested on his arm hung down over

the armrest, blood oozing from his temple. Next to his right foot

was his Walther pistol. The smell of burnt almonds the

harbinger of cyanide wafted through the room.

Eva lay on her back, eyes open, her legs drawn up and her

high-heeled shoes lying on the floor, her lips pressed together

after biting a cyanide capsule. Next to her, a vase with cut

flowers, now wilting and dying.

Bormann went outside to get help to remove their bodies.

Linge covered his boss bleeding head with a bed sheet and

wrapped the bodies in blankets, binding them with strips cut from

tapestry on the wall. Bormann first lifted Evas body from the

sofa and carried it through a maze of corridors, her blond hair

hanging down loose.

 The irony was more than her friend Otto Gnsche could stand

- Evas body was in Bormanns arms, the man she most hated.

Ill carry Eva, he yelled. He took her away from Borrman

and carried her up four flights of stairs into the Chancellery

garden.

Moments later Linge and Otto Gnsche took Hitlers body out

of the bunker and placed it in the sand, next to Eva, three

meters from the bunker door.

Next to the bodies were eight 20 liter cans of petroleum,

which Linge and Gnsche poured over them. Soon, sparks of blow-

torches ignited the fire.

The thunder of bombs and guns in the background contrasted

with the crackling of flames at the bunker entrance. Hitler and

Evas witnesses - Linge, Gunsche, Bormann, Goebbels, Kempka and

Dietrich, stood at the bunker entrance with their hands raised in

a final salute.

Next day, Russian bombardment reduced the corpses to black

fragments amidst empty petroleum cans.

 THE LAST DAYS OF BERLIN
On May 1st, Dr. Helmut Kunz, an SS dentist at the Reich

Chancellery, received a call from the Vorbunker, Hitlers air

raid shelter. The caller was Magda Goebbels, the wife of Joseph

Goebbels, the Propaganda Minister of the Nazi regime and Hitlers

choice to inherit the title of Reich Chancellor.

Now the situation is such that we must die, she pleaded,

her voice frantic. There is no other way. We ask you to come

now.

Kunz hesitated, reminding Magda that he had lost his own

two children two months earlier during an American air raid.

Magda shouted back: You must come or you will be a dead man.

Valise in hand, Kunz dashed for the stairs leading to the

Fuehrerbunker and reached Goebbels apartment. Magda greeted him

at the door, wearing a long-skirted navy blue dress with white

collar. She invited him to the studio where he met her husband

sitting hunched in his chair, pensive and quiet.

Goebbels remained in his seat. A man of short stature, he

wore custom-made boots due to a deformity in right leg from

childhood polio.
 Kunz glanced at Goebbels from the door, his dark hair

slicked back, heightening the whiteness of his face and a gleam

of uncertainty in his eyes. He wore the party uniform a brown

jacket with a red Nazi armband, black trousers, white shirt and

black tie.

Magda turned to Dr. Kunz, hands covering her cheeks. The

Fhrer is dead. We made our decision. The Russians will soon

smash into the bunker.

Goebbels raised his brow and glared at Dr. Kunz. It is a

pity that such a man is no longer with us. We can do nothing. We

lost everything. Our decision is the one Hitler chose and we

shall follow his example.

In a gesture of impatience, he rubbed his chin, turning his

head away. He glanced at Hitlers watch, now on his wrist, the

Fuehrers last gift to him. Doctor, I will be grateful to you if

you can help my wife kill the children.

Kunzface froze in disbelief. I suggest you send the

children to the Red Cross hospital, he said, cupping his chin in

his hand.
 Goebbels struggled to rise from his chair and headed to the

door. It is impossible because they are still the children of

Goebbels, he said with a shrug.

Magda shook her head, her eyes panic-stricken. Our troops

are leaving the bunker now. The Russians are close. They can

interfere with our plans at any moment. We should hurry and

finish our job. God will forgive me as a mother and give me the

courage to carry out this deed myself and not leave it to

others.

She held Kunz by the arm and led him up the staircase to the

childrens bedroom.

Dr. Kunz stared in shock, watching six children in their

nightgowns, ready to go to bed. The five girls wore bows in their

heads - Helga, 12, Hildegard, 11, Helmut, nine, Holdine, eight,

Hedwig, six and Heidrun, four the H initials in honor of

Hitler.

Magda picked up a syringe from a shelf, containing morphine.

Children, go to bed. Dr. Kunz will give you a vaccine. Everyone

has to take it. We will soon leave for Berchstergaden with Uncle

Fhrer. Magda left the room.

 Kunz grabbed each child by the arm and injected them with

morphine. Moments later, weeping tears of despair, Magda came

back into the room, with cyanide capsules in her hand, and hugged

each one of them in their morphine-induced sleep. She seemed

lost, dazed.

She stayed there for several minutes then stepped out,

crying. 'Doctor, I cannot do it. You must'.

No, I cannot, Kunz shook his head. Magda pointed a finger

at him. 'If you cannot do it, get Stumpfegger'."

Dr. Ludwig Stumpfegger, one of Hitler's doctors, came to the

room, broke the cyanide capsules into the childrens mouths and

left.

Shaken to the core, Kunz walked out and stood by in a room

next door.

Magda knelt by their dead bodies, kissed each child and came

to Kunz, pressing her hands together as if in prayer.

They belong to the Third Reich and to the Fhrer. Without

us no one will help them.

They returned to the lower bunker where Magda found her

husband pacing the floor. He stopped when he saw them. The room

became silent.
 Magda reached into her pocket and brought out a gold

cigarette case, a present she received from Hitler at their

wedding. She gasped and glanced at it, whispering to herself.

Inside was Hitlers signature, dated 29.X.1934. She pulled out a

cigarette and lit it up, her hands trembling. With a mixture of

apprehension and impatience she wrapped her arms around her

husband and kissed his head. Everything is finished with the

children; we have to think about ourselves, she whispered.

We dont have time, Goebbels said.

Dr. Kunz eased out the door with a sigh of consternation and

shock. Within minutes Goebbels and Magda came out, arm-in-arm and

met their three servants at the door. He thanked them for their

friendship and loyalty and then pointed to the end of the

corridor. We are climbing the stairs. You wont have to carry us

out.

Magda extended her arm toward them. One by one, they bowed

and kissed her hand. Bound by a suicide pact, they proceeded

hand-in-hand and stopped by a metal door. Goebbels turned back

and glanced up at his associates, his face pale and inexpressive.

We wont meet again.

 The officers observed the two shadows climb the forty-four

steps, striding into the darkness. The exit door squeaked open,

and they stepped out. Goebbels slammed it closed behind him.

An SS captain waited outside to deliver the coup de grace,

if needed. After a moment of silence a shot rang out, then a

second. It was 8:30 pm.

The three stormed up the stairs in a fury and opened the

door, stumbling upon the Goebbels lying on the ground, blood

oozing from their heads.

A silhouette in boots and baggy pants stood next to them,

his eyes downcast, a pistol hanging in his hand and a swastika

band on his left arm. They didnt need me.

 THE LAST MAN
Berlin was in flames. Low-flying Russian biplanes buzzed

overhead, machine gunning people gathered in the streets, tearing

them to pieces. T52 tanks rolled into the city and thousands of

Russian troops encircled the Chancellery gardens. Panicked SS

officers changed out of their uniforms into civilian clothes and

fled west through the underground tracks of the U-Bahn where the

Soviets waited with flame throwers.

On May 2nd, the Russian secret service moved in. A cadre of

young men wearing wool overcoats, pilotka side caps and leather

boots stood guard around Hitlers Fhrerbunker. They were the

NKVD riflemen, the USSR Ministry of State Security, equipped with

sniper rifles, mortars, and sniffer dogs.

 On that morning the last occupant of the Fhrerbunker was

Johannes Hentschel, the chief engineer, responsible for the

sixty-kilowatt bunker generator.

He stayed behind after everyone else had either committed

suicide or fled through the underground tracks.

While Hentschel set the Diesel generator and pumps on

automatic mode a babble of womens voices grew louder and more

excited. He watched in silence a group of twelve women in Russian

uniforms walking by, carrying semi-automatic pistols and empty

bags. They were members of the Red Army medical corps unit. He

raised his arms to show he carried no weapon. The leader of the

group stepped up to him waving her pistol. Where is Hitler?

Hentschel shrugged in confusion, unable to give them an

answer. And his wife? she insisted. Her German was flawless.

Afraid of a reprisal, Hentschel led them to Evas dressing

room. They opened the closet, removed Evas clothes and stuffed

them in their bags.

Moments later, back in his room, Hentschel saw them coming

back, waving a dozen of Evas brassieres and pink lace lingerie

at him, amid giggles and laughter.

 On that day, half a million German prisoners in gray army

uniforms marched through the ruins of Berlin, through a corridor

of cheering Russian soldiers. Guns already silent, two hundred

Russian troops sat on the ground in front of the Brandenburg

gate, holding their late May Day celebration.

War correspondent major Yevgeny Dolmatolvsky, a song

lyricist, stood on a T34 tank, posing with a plaster head of the

Fuehrer. Hitler is dead! he announced to the troops.

They whistled and sang around a balalaika player strumming

Russian folk songs.

Less than four years after his attack on the Soviet Union,

Hitler's self-proclaimed thousand-year Reich had ceased to exist.

On March 3rd, the Spanish press released an official statement:

Adolf Hitler, son of the Catholic Church, died while

defending Christianity. Over his mortal remains stands his

victorious moral figure. With the palm of the martyr, God gives

Hitler the laurels of Victory.

 In London, Churchill heard a German broadcast announce that

Hitler had died fighting with his last breath against

Bolshevism.

Well, he said, I must say he was perfectly right to die

like that.

In Moscow, Stalin growled. So, the bastard threw in the

towel.

We shall go down in history as the greatest statesmen of all

time or as the greatest criminals"

Joseph Goebbels
Eva Braun and Hitler, holding Blondi.

Heinz Linge, Hitlers chauffer.

Werner Haase, Hitlers physician, in Russian captivity

Helmut Kuntz, a dentist at the Chancellery

The Goebbels family