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“Treason, as you say, mein Führer,” said Bormann, who considered Göring—and any other close aide—a rival for Hitler’s affections.

“He wants an answer?” Hitler broke into his familiar nervous, halting pace back and forth across the war room. “Here is my answer, Martin. I want that man stripped of all powers! I want that man arrested!”

“It will be ordered at once, mein Führer,” said Bormann. “I shall arrange for a communication—”

“No. No.” Hitler shook his head. “I want to issue the directive face-to-face. Bring me von Greim. Bring him to me. I am appointing him the new chief of the Luftwaffe. And I will directly order him to arrest that fat traitorous drug-addicted guttersnipe.”

“A brilliant decision in every way, mein Führer.” Bormann cleared his throat. “May I make one observation?”

Hitler, now spent, out of breath, dark circles under his red-rimmed eyes, collapsed into a chair. “What is it, Martin?”

“The airstrip on the Tiergarten is no longer secure to land those little Storch planes, mein Führer. The Red Army is within blocks. Their artillery shelling is nearly constant. Do we want to risk General von Greim’s safety at such a precarious—”

“I don’t care, Martin. Bring him to me. Your Führer has spoken.”

Hitler met with Bormann and Goebbels in his private office on April 24. They had both professed their plan to stay in the Führerbunker until the bitter end.

“Many of our people have fled the bunkers, as you permitted them to do, mein Führer,” Bormann reported. “But a number of officers have stayed, as have your personal secretaries. And of course we asked… certain staff to remain.”

Hitler nodded with appreciation. “How are people leaving from the bunker, Martin? It can’t be easy. Tell me.”

“Ideally to the west,” said Bormann. “If one is caught, one would deal with the Americans and British, not the Soviets. A much preferable outcome, if one is caught.”

“Much preferable.”

“But the only credible means of escape is to the north,” said Bormann. “Through the U-Bahn tunnels. The Kaiserhof U-Bahn station is near the chancellery. It winds northbound toward another station, on Friedrich Straße, just short of the River Spree. One could walk underground along the subway tracks to Friedrich Straße, come up to the surface at that station, and attempt to cross the Weidendammer Bridge over the River Spree.”

“But aren’t the bridges over the Spree under Soviet control?”

“The Weidendammer remains a contested bridge, mein Führer. My understanding is that one of our last remaining Panzer tanks is there, continuing to do battle. It’s only a matter of time, of course, but they are fighting valiantly.”

“At least some people still have courage,” said Hitler. “Would that they were among my generals.” He looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes, remaining in that position for so long that Bormann and Goebbels wondered if he’d fallen asleep.

Finally, he spoke. “All right, Martin. All right. Bring in Heinz. I am ready.”

Heinz Linge was an SS major who had served as the Führer’s personal valet for the last decade. He was as loyal as any to the Führer though he was not involved in policymaking and was reluctant to even voice his opinion.

“Come in, Heinz.” Hitler opened his hand. “Sit.”

“Yes, mein Führer.” Ever disciplined and formal, Linge sat ramrod straight in the chair. “How can I be of service?”

“I wanted the three of you to know,” he said. “I’ve made a decision. It’s critical that Germany knows that her Führer fought until the end. That is why I intend to stay in the bunker. But it is also important, Heinz, that our pride remain preserved, even in defeat.”

“Quite so, mein Führer.”

“Why, just imagine,” said Hitler, “how the Russians would love to parade me before the international Jewry. Or my corpse. My corpse! They would make a spectacle in Moscow out of my body and put it in waxworks.”

His valet cast his eyes downward.

“It is for this reason, Heinz, that I have decided to announce that, before the Russians enter the bunker, I will take my life. As will Eva.”

“No, mein Führer—”

Hitler raised his hand. “It is best, Heinz. It is best for Germany. And I need your help.”

His valet took a moment to compose himself, wiping away a tear with embarrassment. “How,” he began in a shaky voice. “How… may I be of—”

“After my death, I want my body to be burned in the chancellery garden. Mine and Fräulein Braun’s. I want our bodies to be wrapped in wool blankets, doused with petrol, and burned. I want nothing to remain when the Russian swine reach me. Nothing but dust and rubble and bone. Nothing for them to parade around.”