Free Eva by Ib Melchior

it.”
    Bormann clenched his jaws. He stared at Hitler sitting quietly, contemplating him. He was right. The time was past for being evasive. For lies. He looked steadily at Hitler.
    “How?” he asked.
    Hitler waved a trembling hand at him. “Unimportant,” he said. He stood up. For a moment he paced in a laborious shuffle before the painting of Frederick the Great. He turned to Bormann. “Important is,” he said, unsuspected authority in his voice, “important is that your plan fits in exactly with my own!”
    Bormann was thunderstruck. The Führer! Had he decided to leave the Bunker after all, now that it was too late to fly him out? In the last possible moment.
    “ Mein Führer!” he exclaimed. “Are you—are you planning to— break out?”
    Hitler turned to look at his deputy with disdain. “ Sei nicht dumm,” he chided. “Don’t be foolish.” He stopped his shuffling gait. He looked at his trembling, withered arm. “You know my decision. It is unalterable. I shall die here. In the heart of my city. My Fatherland.” Angrily he grabbed his shaking arm. “I am half dead already!”
    He fixed Bormann with baleful eyes. “No,” he said firmly, “I shall not attempt to leave here. I will not take the chance of suffering the disgrace of being captured. The Bolsheviks shall not parade me in a cage through the streets of Moscow!”
    Bormann had a twinge of self-disgust. He should have known. Hitler would simply have taken over the operation now that he had the facts. Not have asked to go along. Anyway it was obvious the Führer was not physically able. And every man, woman, and child in Germany would recognize him. It was not the same as with him. Very few people were familiar with the appearance of Reichsleiter Martin Bormann. Certainly not the enemy. Then what did the Führer mean?
    Hitler stared at his deputy sitting in shocked silence before him. “No, Bormann,” he said, “I shall not go with you. And I will not stop you. In fact, I have already made certain arrangements to help you. To ensure the success of your escape.”
    Bormann was stunned. For once in his life he was totally unprepared for what was happening. He was at once leery. He had long since learned that in the inner circle around Hitler nothing ever was what it seemed to be. The first question he always had to ask himself in any situation was: Where is the trap?
    “I—I do not understand,” he said, playing for time to think. “How . . . ?”
    Hitler gave a crooked little smile. He knew exactly what his deputy was thinking—and doing. So be it.
    “I shall be perfectly frank with you, Bormann,” he said soberly. “I expect the same from you. I know of your plan to escape from the Bunker—and from Berlin—and to head for what I have been told is so colorfully called the Flensburg escape hatch. That you hope to take refuge in Denmark—at a certain hospital, I understand—and there wait until you can safely make your way to South America.” He sat down at the desk again.
    He gazed at the silent deputy. He shook his head. “I have made better plans for you, mein lieber Bormann,” he said. “In a few hours Feldmarschall Greim will leave the Bunker. He will fly to Admiral Doenitz’s headquarters. He will hand him sealed orders from me, personally, instructing the Admiral to place at your disposal when you arrive in Flensburg—a submarine. Type XXI, ocean going, Scbnorchel-equipped. Its very existence there has been kept secret. It will take you to South America. Argentina.”
    Bormann stared at the Führer. If it was true, if such arrangements had in fact been made, his successful escape to South America was virtually assured.
    “Now,” Hitler said firmly, “I want you to tell me, in detail, how you expect to leave Berlin.”
    Bormann thought quickly. He decided. It might all be a trap to make him divulge his plans. But he had to take that chance. He had a gut feeling that Hitler was being honest with him. Had the Führer