Exchange 500, the huge telephone complex, had been seized undamaged. Men stood on the threshold and gaped at the flickering lights on the consoles, all now unmanned. Large signs, attached to the telephone boards, warned in Schoolbook Russian: “Soldiers! Do not damage this apparatus. It will be valuable to the Red Army.” Polevoi and the other officers speculated that fleeing German workers “had put up the signs in order to save their own necks.”
Among the men captured in the command center had been Hans Beltow, the chief engineer of the complex electrical systems, and now he showed the Russians around Exchange 500. One operator, Beltow explained through Russian women interpreters, had stayed until just before the headquarters was overrun. As wire recorders played out his last conversations, the Russians stood listening in the great immaculate room. During Zossen’s final minutes in German hands, calls had continued to come in from all over the swiftly contracting Reich, and they were all there on the recorders.
“I have an urgent message for Oslo,” a voice said in German.
“Sorry,” said the Zossen operator, “but we’re not transmitting. I’m the last man here.”
“My God, what’s happening … ?”
Another voice: “Attention, attention. I have an urgent message …”
“We aren’t accepting any messages.”
“Is there any contact with Prague? How are they feeling in Berlin?”
“Ivan is almost at the door. I’m closing down now.”
Zossen had fallen. Except for this brief inspection, Koniev’s armies had hardly paused there. One tentacle of tanks was heading for Potsdam; another had already crossed the Nuthe Canal and reached Lichtenrade, south of the Berlin district of Tempelhof. Other tankers pushed on to Teltow and were now crashing through the defenses south of the Teltow Canal. Beyond lay the districts of Zehlendorf and Steglitz.
By nightfall of April 22, Koniev’s armies had cracked Berlin’s southern defenses and had beaten Zhukov into Berlin by more than a full day.
In the Führerbunker the customary military conference began at 3 P.M. In the twelve-year history of the Third Reich, there had never been a day like this. The usual outpourings of optimism were missing. The Oder front had all but crumpled. The Ninth Army was virtually encircled. Its strongest unit, the 56th Panzer Corps, was lost for the moment and could not be found.* Steiner had been unable to attack. Berlin was almost encircled. Commanders were being replaced almost hourly. The Reich was in its death agonies, and the man who had brought it all about now gave up.
Hitler’s announcement climaxed a wild, uncontrolled torrent of abuse in which he denounced his generals, his advisors, his armies and the people of Germany whom he had led to disaster. The end had come, Hitler sputtered; everything was falling apart; he was no longer able to continue; he had decided to remain in Berlin; he intended to take over the defense of the city personally—and at the last moment he meant to shoot himself. General Krebs and the Luftwaffe representative, General Eckhardt Christian, were horror-stricken. To both, Hitler seemed to have suffered a complete breakdown. Jodl alone remained calm, for Hitler had told the Operations chief all of this forty-eight hours before.
Everyone present tried to persuade the almost deranged Führer that all was not lost. He must remain in charge of the Reich, they said, and he must leave Berlin, for it was impossible to control matters from the capital any longer. The man who had held their world together now brutally rejected them. He was remaining in Berlin, Hitler said. The others could go where they pleased. Everyone was thunderstruck. To emphasize that he meant what he said, Hitler stated that he intended to make a public announcement of his presence in Berlin. There and then he dictated a statement to be broadcast immediately. The others managed to persuade him not to release it right away. The announcement would not be made until the next day. Meanwhile, the officers and aides in the bunker called on their colleagues outside the city to bring additional pressure on the Führer. Himmler, Doenitz and even Goering telephoned, pleading, like their comrades, for a change of mind. Hitler would not be dissuaded.
Jodl was called away to the phone. While he was gone Keitel, trying to reason with Hitler, asked to speak to him privately. The conference room was cleared. According to Keitel’s account, he told Hitler that he saw two courses of action still open: to “make an offer of capitulation before Berlin became a battlefield,” or to arrange “for Hitler to fly to Berchtesgaden and from there instantly begin negotiations.” Hitler, according to Keitel, “did not let me get beyond these words. He interrupted and said, ‘I have made this decision already. I shall not leave Berlin. I shall defend the city to the end. Either I win this battle for the Reich’s capital or I shall fall as a symbol of the Reich.’”
Keitel thought this decision was madness. “I must insist,” he told Hitler, “that you leave for Berchtesgaden this very night.” Hitler refused to hear any more. He called back Jodl and, in a private conference with the two officers, “gave us his order that we were to fly to Berchtesgaden and from there take over the reins together with Goering, who was Hitler’s deputy.”
“In seven years,” Keitel protested, “I have never refused to carry out an order from you, but this one I shall not carry out. You can’t leave the Wehrmacht in the lurch.” Hitler replied, “I am staying here. That is certain.” Then Jodl suggested that Wenck’s army could drive toward Berlin from its positions on the Elbe.* Keitel declared that he would immediately travel to the western front, see General Wenck, “relieve him of all previous commands and order him to march toward Berlin and link up with the Ninth Army.”
At last Hitler had heard a suggestion he could approve. It seemed to Keitel that the proposal brought a “certain relief to Hitler in this absolutely dreadful situation.” Soon after, Keitel left for Wenck’s headquarters.
Some officers who were not at the conference, such as the Luftwaffe’s Chief of Staff, General Karl Koller, were so astonished by the news of the Führer’s collapse that they refused to believe the reports of their own representatives on the scene. Koller rushed to Jodl’s latest headquarters at Krampnitz, five miles northeast of Potsdam, and got a verbatim report. “What you’ve heard is correct,” Jodl told Koller. He also told the Luftwaffe Chief of Staff that Hitler had given up and intended to commit suicide at the last minute. “Hitler said that he could not take part in the fighting for physical reasons and that he would not do so because of the danger of falling into the enemy’s hands, perhaps when he was only wounded. We all tried to dissuade him. Hitler,” Jodl went on, “said he was no longer able to continue and that now it was up to the Reichsmarschall. In answer to a remark that troops would not fight for Goering, the Führer said: ‘What do you mean, fight? There’s not much fighting to be done and when it comes to negotiating, the Reichsmarschall can do that better than I.’” Jodl added that “Hitler said the troops are no longer fighting, the tank barricades in Berlin are open and are no longer being defended.”
In the Führerbunker it was clear by now that Hitler had meant every word he had said. He spent hours selecting documents and papers which were then taken out into the courtyard and burned. Then he sent for Goebbels, Frau Goebbels and their children. They were to stay with him in the bunker until the end. Dr. Werner Naumann, Goebbels’ assistant, had known for some time that “Goebbels felt that the only decent course of conduct in the event of collapse was to fall in battle or commit suicide.” Magda Goebbels, the Reichsminister’s wife, felt the same way. When he heard of the Goebbels’ impending move to the Chancellery, Naumann knew that “they would all die there together.”
Goebbels’ contempt for the “traitorous and unworthy” was almost equal to Hitler’s. The day before the Führer’s outburst, he called his propaganda staff together and said, “The German people have failed. In the east they are running away, in the west they are receiving the enemy with white flags. The German people themselves chose their destiny. I forced no one to be my coworker. Why did you work with me? Now your little throats are going
to be cut! But believe me, when we take our leave, earth will tremble.”
By Hitler’s standards it almost seemed that the only loyal Germans were those who now planned suicide and buried themselves in their own tombs. On this very evening, gangs of SS men were searching houses looking for deserters. Punishment was swift. On nearby Alexanderplatz, 16-year-old Eva Knoblauch, a refugee recently arrived in Berlin, saw the body of a young Wehrmacht private hanging from a lamp post. There was a large white card tied to the dead man’s legs. It read: “Traitor. I deserted my people.”
All through this decisive day Heinrici had waited for the news that he felt must come, that Hitler had given permission for the Ninth Army to withdraw. Busse’s force, almost encircled, cut off from the armies on its flanks, was close to annihilation. Yet Krebs had continued to insist that it hold its positions. He had gone even further: he had suggested that some of the Ninth’s forces attempt to fight their way south and link up with Field Marshal Schörner. Busse himself was complicating matters. Heinrici had tried to get him to pull back without orders; Busse refused even to consider withdrawal unless a specific command arrived from the Führer.
At 11 A.M. on April 22, Heinrici warned Krebs that the Ninth would be split into several parts by nightfall. Krebs confidently predicted that Field Marshal Schörner would right the situation by driving north to link up with Busse. Heinrici knew better. “It will take Schörner several days to mount an attack,” he told Krebs. “By then the Ninth will no longer exist.”
Hour by hour the situation grew more desperate, and Heinrici repeatedly urged Krebs to do something. “You nail my forces down,” he stormed, “while you tell me that I must do all I can to avoid the shame of the Führer being encircled in Berlin. Against my will, in spite of my request to be relieved of my duties, I am being prevented from pulling out the only forces that can be used for the protection of the Führer and Berlin.” The Führer’s headquarters was not only making difficulties over Busse; now it was demanding that Von Manteuffel’s Third Army throw Rokossovskii’s forces back across the Oder—an order so impossible to carry out that Heinrici could only gasp when he received it.
At 12:10 P.M. Heinrici warned Krebs: “It is my conviction that this is the last moment to withdraw the Ninth Army.” Two hours later he called again but Krebs had already left for the Führer’s conference. To General Dethleffsen, Heinrici said, “We must have a decision.” At 2:50 Krebs called Heinrici. The Führer had agreed that some of the Ninth Army’s forces could be moved back along the outer northern wing, giving up Frankfurt. Heinrici snorted. It was a half-measure that would do little to improve the situation. He did not point out to Krebs that the city had been held steadily by Colonel Bieler, the man Hitler had decided was “no Gneisenau.” Now Bieler would find it difficult to disengage. In any event, the approval had come too late. The Ninth was encircled.
Nearly two hours later, Krebs again came on the phone. This time he informed Heinrici that at the Führer’s conference it had been decided to turn General Wenck’s Twelfth Army away from its positions on the western front. Wenck would launch an attack toward the east and Berlin, relieving the pressure. It was a surprising announcement; Heinrici commented dryly: “They will be most welcome.” But still no order of complete withdrawal had come for the Ninth. Although they were encircled, Heinrici believed Busse’s troops were still strong enough to begin moving toward the west. Now Krebs’s news of Wenck—whom Heinrici had never even heard of before this moment—offered a new possibility. “The news gave rise to the hope,” Heinrici said later, “that the Ninth could still be rescued from its precarious situation after all.” Heinrici called Busse. “Krebs just told me that the Army Wenck is to turn about and march in your direction,” he said. He instructed Busse to pull out his strongest division, break through the Russians, and head west to meet Wenck. Busse protested that this would lose him the bulk of his strength. Heinrici had had enough. “This is the order for the Ninth Army,” he interrupted in a steely voice. “Pull out one division and get it under way to join with Wenck.” He was finished arguing.
All around the rim of the city a red glow tinged the night sky. Fires pockmarked nearly every district, and the shelling was ceaseless. But in the cellar of the Lehrterstrasse Prison a feeling of jubilance and excitement had been mounting steadily. During the afternoon twenty-one men had been freed. Later, some of the remaining prisoners’ valuables had been returned. According to the guards, the action had been authorized to speed up the processing of releases. At any moment now the prisoners expected to be freed. Some thought they might be home before morning. Even Herbert Kosney now felt that he had beaten the executioner.
A guard came into the cellar. From a list in his hand, he quickly began to read off names. The men listened tensely as each name was called. There was a Communist, a Russian POW and several men whom Kosney recognized as suspects in the Hitler plot of 1944. The guard reeled off the names: “… Haushofer … Schleicher … Munzinger … Sosinow … Kosney … Moll….” Suddenly Herbert realized with a surge of hope that his name had been called
Altogether some sixteen prisoners had been singled out. When they had been counted, the guard led them to the security office. There they waited outside the door as, one after another, each man was called in. When Kosney’s turn came, he saw that there were six SS men in the room, all quite drunk. One of them looked up his name and gave him the personal belongings taken from him at the time of his arrest. They were pitifully few: his army paybook, a pencil and a cigarette lighter. Herbert signed a receipt for his effects and then a form stating that he had been released. One of the SS men told him, “Well, you’ll see your wife pretty soon.”
Back in the cellar the men were told to pack their belongings. Kosney could hardly believe his luck. He packed quickly, carefully folding the good suit his wife had given him on their fourth wedding anniversary. When he had finished, he began to help his fellow prisoner, Haushofer. Among Haushofer’s belongings was some food, including a bottle of wine and a loaf of pumpernickel. Haushofer could not get the bread into his rucksack, so he gave it to Kosney. There was a long wait. Then, after almost an hour and a half, the sixteen men were lined up in a double row and led up the cellar steps, through a door and into a dark hall. Suddenly a door slammed shut behind them and they were left standing in total darkness. Almost immediately a flashlight was switched on. As Herbert’s eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, he saw that the light was hanging from an SS officer’s belt. The man, a lieutenant colonel, was wearing a helmet and he carried a gun. “You are being transferred,” he told the men. “If there are any attempts at escape you will be shot down. Load your things onto the truck outside. We’ll march to the Potsdam railroad station.”
Kosney’s hopes were dashed. For a moment he thought of darting into one of the nearby cells. He was now certain that the Russians would be in the area within a few hours. But even as he considered hiding, he realized that other SS men, carrying machine pistols, were standing all about the room.
The prisoners were herded out into the Lehrterstrasse and marched off in the direction of Invalidenstrasse. It was raining; Herbert turned up his jacket collar and tied a towel he was using as a scarf tighter around his throat. Halfway down the street the men were stopped and searched, and their personal effects, which had been returned to them only a short while earlier, were taken again. The column set off once more, each prisoner flanked by an SS man with a machine pistol on his back and a gun in his hand. As they reached Invalidenstrasse an SS sergeant suggested taking a shortcut through the bombed-out Ulap exhibition hall. They marched through the rubble and entered the ruins of the massive building with its skeletal concrete pillars. Suddenly each prisoner was grabbed by the collar by his SS guard. One group of prisoners went to the left, the other to the right. They were marched right up to the wall of the building and positioned about six to seven feet apart. And then they all knew what was going to happen.
Some prisoners began to plead for their li
ves. The man next to Kosney began to scream, “Let me live! I haven’t done anything.” At that moment Herbert felt the cold barrel of a pistol touching the back of his neck. Just as the sergeant shouted “Fire,” Herbert turned his head. There was a ragged volley as each SS man fired. Kosney felt a sudden sharp blow. Then he was on the ground. He lay motionless.
Now the lieutenant colonel walked along the line of fallen men, firing an additional shot into the head of each prisoner. When he got to Herbert, he said: “This pig has had enough.” Then he said: “Come on, men. We must hurry. We have more work to do tonight.”
Kosney never knew how long he lay there. After a time, very cautiously, he put his hand up to his neck and cheek. He was bleeding profusely. But his life had been saved in that split second when he turned his head. He found that he could not use his right arm or leg. Crawling, he slowly made his way through the ruins until he reached Invalidenstrasse. Then he got up, found he could walk, tied the towel even more tightly about his wounded throat and slowly, painfully started in the direction of the Charité Hospital. He collapsed several times. Once he was stopped by a group of Hitler Youths; they first demanded his identity papers, but then, seeing that he was badly hurt, they allowed him to pass.
At some point in his journey he took his shoes off because “they felt too heavy.” At another time he encountered heavy artillery fire. How long the walk took he could never remember—the was never more than half conscious—but finally he reached his home off Franseckystrasse. Then, with his last ounce of strength, Herbert Kosney, the only living witness to the Lehrterstrasse Prison massacre, banged again and again on the door. His wife Hedwig opened the door. The man who stood there was unrecognizable. His face was a mass of blood, as was the front of his coat. Horrified, she said, “Who are you?” Just before he collapsed, Kosney managed to say, “I’m Herbert.”*