The woman wiped her nose with a small embroidered handkerchief she took from her sleeve, but the tears continued to flow. ‘What’s the use? Why run? Why resist any more? Haven’t we done enough already?’ The words were soft, scarcely audible, directed more to herself than the other woman.

‘Frau Deichsfischer,’ the other muttered, ‘you mustn’t give up hope.’

‘I’ve given up everything else … A husband. My sons. Two brothers. How much more do they want from me? What else do I have to give?’

They lapsed into silence as the crackling voice across the radio continued its address.

‘Peter Hencke has set the historic example demanded of us all by the Fuehrer. Resist! To the bitter end! Knowing that the National Socialist spirit will survive and outsmart our enemies. Even now our Fuehrer is working in Berlin on plans which will bring new victories to our German armies and exhaust the Allies’ will to continue the fight. Even in these dark hours we must not forget that victory can still be ours, so long as we remain determined to keep the faith and never to give in. Long live the German Volk. Long live our beloved Fuehrer, Adolf Hitler! Death to the Jewish conspirators! My friends, keep up the good fight!’

The strains of the national anthem blared out across the cellar and Frau Deichsfischer reached out to lower the volume. As she did so the bread, by now thoroughly soaked with her tears, crumbled in her hand and fell to the floor. She looked at the crumbs in despair. ‘In God’s name, why do they want us to go on? What can be worse than this?’

‘The Russians, Frau Deichsfischer,’ the other whispered. ‘The Russians.’

The transcript of Goebbels’ broadcast lay on Cazolet’s desk. As was the custom with Goebbels’ lengthy ramblings, the important sections had been highlighted in pen and he scanned them quickly. He arrived at the references to Hencke and rubbed his tired eyes in a futile attempt to persuade them they had made a mistake. How on earth had Goebbels discovered the identity of the one remaining escapee? Without a name, he was just a statistic, a single digit in the vast lists of war; with it he became human, could be touched and sensed, and Goebbels was transforming him into the torch carrier for the entire German war effort. ‘Bloody hell,’ was all Cazolet managed to say before placing the transcript on top of the Prime Minister’s despatch box. The Old Man wasn’t going to like this.

‘The Fuehrer will not permit it, Erich, because I will not permit it. I hope I make myself clear?’

There was no response, only a look of defiance on the other man’s face.

‘Erich, your son’s there, isn’t he?’ Dr Josef Goebbels, Reichsminister for Public Enlightenment and Propaganda, held up his hand to stifle the other man’s protests. ‘Look, I know you’re not arguing for a withdrawal on personal grounds, but since your son is there let me explain why it’s imperative we hang on to Prague as long as we can. No matter what the cost.’

From an immaculate silver case he offered a cigarette to Major Erich Hirschfeldt, one of the longest-serving members of the FBK – Fuehrerbegleit-kommando – the hand-picked SS detachment which acted as the Fuehrer’s personal bodyguard. The major’s hand trembled slightly as he took the cigarette. His hand hadn’t shaken, Goebbels reflected, at any other time during all the years in which Goebbels had known him, when Hirschfeldt had led the street gangs which had split so many heads in the early days and had suffered so many casualties themselves, when he had personally executed dozens of men at Hitler’s order after Stauffenberg’s failed assassination plot, or even a few weeks ago when he had clawed his way out from under the collapsed roof of the Reich Chancellery’s east wing after being buried for almost five hours. Yet that was all gone. He was no longer a fearless defender of the cause but a simple German father, scared about his son, needing a shoulder to cry on.

‘He’s … the only son I have left, Herr Reichsminister,’ Hirschfeldt stammered as he tried to light the cigarette.

‘I can understand how you feel, Erich. Remember, I have a son and five daughters myself.’ Goebbels smiled reassuringly. He hated playing agony aunt but he couldn’t afford to have Hirschfeldt falling to pieces. The impact on the others would be appalling. It was bad enough that day by day they were being forced to retreat out of the sunlight and magnificent edifices of the Reich’s Hauptstadt into the underground cellars with their bare concrete walls and atmosphere of catacomb decay; they couldn’t survive the collapse of discipline too. Goebbels had to hold on to them all, everyone in Berlin from the Fuehrer and Hirschfeldt all the way down to the telephone operators and drivers because, if they fell apart, everyone in what was left of the Third Reich would know about it within hours and it would all be finished within days. He must get them to hold on, for just a little longer.

‘I know things look grim but all is not lost. Think, Erich, think of what might still be salvaged. This coalition between capitalists and Stalinists – how long can it last? Every day as their armies draw closer across the battlefields it becomes more likely that this bastard alliance will break apart and they will fall upon each other. Churchill hates Stalin, Stalin loathes Churchill and that sick old man Roosevelt understands and trusts neither. We only have to hang on a little longer, Erich. Give the damned alliance time to disintegrate, that’s all we need.’ His voice was soft and encouraging, full of confidence; it was confidence not yet shared.

‘But do we have time? Will there be anything left to save?’ The agony was chiselled into Hirschfeldt’s face. Once he’d had a faith built of steel which could withstand any number of blows, but Hirschfeldt had watched incredulously as his own faith had rotted and rusted away beneath the tears he had shed for his son. He would have condemned other men for it – had condemned many for much lesser offences in the earlier years of glory, but now it had taken over his entire being and he felt unable to resist.

‘They will go for each other’s throats – believe me,’ Goebbels said with passion. ‘In months, maybe only weeks. That’s why your son and Schoerner’s army must hang on to defend Prague as long as possible; they cannot be allowed to withdraw or capitulate. Will your grandchildren forgive us, Erich, if we surrender our armies on foreign soil without a fight? Did we forgive our fathers’ generation for the humiliation of 1918? I have no intention of surrendering our armies intact so they can be dragged off to prison camps while our enemies march across our undefended frontiers to pillage their way through our womenfolk. Think of your wife, Erich, is that what you want for her? Schoerner must hold on in Czechoslovakia as long as possible. If it means more sacrifice, it is a price we must willingly bear.’

He studied the major closely – the drooping head, the hunched shoulders, the once-immaculate black uniform grown dusty and tarnished, the boots unpolished, the dark rings around the eyes supported by a two-day growth of stubble. Goebbels was a master with words, but he also realized that words alone were not always enough. They hadn’t worked with Hirschfeldt.

‘Look, Erich, perhaps you need a change. This scurrying around like troglodytes is enough to depress anyone. If you really feel it’s so important, I could get you transferred to Prague, to be with your son. How better to take care of him …?’ And how better to take care of you, you miserable bastard, whose long face and doubting eyes are in danger of infecting everyone around the Fuehrer? As if the Fuehrer didn’t have enough doubts himself. So off to the eastern front with you, Fritzi, and a chance to die usefully for your country instead of living miserable and contagious here in Berlin. And by your death allow Goebbels the chance to create another heroic myth, of a man at the right hand of the Fuehrer who insisted on defending the Reich to his last breath. Hirschfeldt had been a good servant, up till now. He deserved the opportunity to die a hero.