Free Hitler's Last Witness by Rochus Misch

constantly as if trying to inebriate him one last time using all the tricks of the propaganda trade, something of which even the Führer himself now seemed to be in dire need. It no longer cut any ice with us.
    The last months had not passed Hitler by without leaving their mark. Every defeat, every setback, every act of treason – real or imagined – from within his closest circle contributed to his clearly recognisable physical decay. Now his gait was sluggish, and he dragged a leg. The eyes often seemed to have no fixed point, while his sense of balance seemed disturbed. Above all, in his every movement he had slowed, and all in all he looked to me like an old man. His left hand trembled distinctly, something I had not noticed before, and though he did not fumble when accepting despatches, now he always used his right hand. Just as in better times, when he attempted to hide his need for reading glasses, in this case too he tried to conceal the visible signs of weakness by keeping the trembling hand out of sight as much as possible.
    As for his physical and mental state, he continued to make a good show of it. Even we, those closest to him, could only assess his general level of morale and mood from the reactions and expressions of the other participants at the situation conferences – it was very rare that we noted anything. He wanted to keep up this discipline which he showed by day, but the rapidly increasing physical burden made it visibly ever more difficult. Morell was no longer able to control the wear and tear and was released after nine years’ service: he trudged past me, carrying his packed bags and breathing heavily, on the evening of 21 April. Dr Ludwig Stumpfegger, one of Hitler’s travelling physicians, took over his care.
    My concern for my wife and daughter grew unceasingly. For some time much of the population of Berlin had taken up residence in the overflowing bunkers. Formerly, I had always been able to ring Gerda at her parents’ house. Our private early warning system continued to function there. Some time beforehand, telephone technician Gretz had had some lines laid in the neighbouring houses. When I warned my wife of an alarm, she pressed a button and the neighbouring families knew of an imminent air raid and reacted at once. That was a great advantage in the competition for a place in the bunker. In this way, most still had enough time to reach the bunker before the deadly bombs rained down.
    On this 21 April, my attempts to telephone Gerda met with failure. I kept trying until midnight. Around the corner I could hear the sentry at the garden exit snoring. I discovered that something was wrong with the distributor box in the Berlin-Britz telephone exchange, through which calls went to Rudow and Buckow. Gerda’s line remained intact but I could not dial it. I had an idea. I rang a colleague I knew well in the Reichspost distributor exchange in Munich. From Munich one could use a broadband cable to Berlin. This cable could handle 280 conversations at the same time. ‘Can you ring a number for me in Berlin?’ I asked. At that moment, a female telephone operator who handled trunk calls switched into our conversation: ‘That is no problem. I can connect you at once if you like.’ I gave the lady the number and less than a minute later I heard Gerda’s voice. She had not slept and was crying softly.
    22 April 1945
    The date that for me marks the end of the Third Reich was 22 April 1945. It was eight days before Hitler’s death, and some time before the unconditional surrender. The German Wehrmacht capitulated on 8 May 1945 – but on 22 April, a Sunday, Hitler capitulated. This day scarred itself into my memory no less than the day in which Hitler took his own life.
    Like all days since we began our bunker existence, 22 April 1945 had no beginning. At some time or other, the long sleepless night ended in morning. I had nodded off again and was