IF THERE WAS a hell on earth, it was Berlin. It seemed to be on fire, a charnel house, black smoke drifting everywhere. The city was doomed, everyone knew that, and the Russians were already in control of the eastern half.

The people were on the move, refugees from their own city, carrying what they could, a few pitiful belongings, with the desperate hope that they might somehow get to the West and reach the advancing American army.

Groups of SS were stopping anyone in uniform. Those without a pass or some sort of order were shot on the spot. Shells were dropping in, fired at random by Russian artillery. People cried out in alarm and scattered.

Sturmbahnführer Baron Max von Berger sat in the front passenger seat of a Kübelwagen, the German equivalent of a jeep. He had an SS corporal driving, a sergeant in the rear seat clutching an MP40 Schmeisser machine pistol. As they moved along the Wilhelm-strasse close to the Reich Chancellery, they saw three SS soldiers with two men in civilian clothes on their knees, about to be shot.

Von Berger told his driver to halt. “Stop!” he said. “What is your authority for this?”

The men paused. Their leader, a sergeant, had a brutal unshaven face. He took in von Berger’s black leather coat and the young face, and failed to notice the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords under the collar of the coat.

“And who the hell are you, sonny?”

“Sturmbahnführer von Berger.”

The smell of brandy was powerful. “At your age? You look about nineteen. I bet you stole the uniforms, you and your mates here.” He cocked his Schmeisser. “Let’s see your authority.”

“Oh, I can show you that.”

Max von Berger took a Luger from his right-hand coat pocket and shot him between the eyes. The sergeant in the rear of the Kübelwagen sprayed the other two as they turned to run.

The two men who had been faced with death got up in a daze and von Berger waved them away. “Clear off.” He turned to his driver. “Carry on.”

The Kübelwagen turned out of the Wilhelmplatz and into Vorsstrasse and approached the Reich Chancellery, which was, like everything else, a victim of the bombardment, defaced and crumbling. It had long since passed functioning as any kind of headquarters, but under thirty meters of concrete was Adolf Hitler’s last command post, the Führer Bunker. It was a self-supporting, subterranean world complete with electricity, fresh water and extensive kitchens; still in touch with the outside world by radio and telephone; and crowded with people like Bormann and Ribbentrop and numerous generals, all trying to avoid the harsh reality that, thirty meters over their heads, the Third Reich was coming to a disastrous end.

The vehicle ramp was ruined, but there was room to park the Kübelwagen to one side. The SS sergeant got out and opened the door for von Berger. “Quick thinking, Herr Baron.”

“A reflex, Karl – it’s been a long war. You didn’t do too badly yourself.” He got out, reached for a briefcase, turned and walked to the two SS sentries at the Bunker entrance.

They sprang to attention. “Sturmbahnführer.”

“One of you deliver this to Major General Mohnke’s aide. It’s the report the general wanted on the state of Number Two Brigade’s readiness for the final assault.” One of the men took it and went downstairs. Von Berger turned to the other and clapped him on the shoulder. “Find me a drink. I got shot in the left hip last year, and some mornings it hurts like the devil. I’ll be in the garden.”

The boy went off on the double and von Berger said, “Come on, Karl,” and went round to the once-lovely garden, now a wreck, with some trees uprooted, the occasional shell hole. There was a sadness to the place for what once had been and, for a moment, the artillery seemed like only the sound of distant thunder on the horizon. He took out a cigarette case, selected one, and Karl Hoffer gave him a light. A tough, hard young man of twenty-five, Hoffer was a forester from the Baron’s great estate in the forest of Holstein Heath, the Schwarze Platz, the dark place. They’d served together for four years.

“So, my friend, we’re in a fine fix, aren’t we?”

“We were in Stalingrad, too, but we made it out, Baron.”

“Not this time, Karl. I’m afraid we might have to take up permanent residence. I wonder what it’s like at home.”

He was thinking of Schloss Adler above the village of Neustadt. It had been his family home for seven hundred years, a huge expanse of forest, dark and mysterious, dotted with villages, every inhabitant a member of the extended family of which he was the head.

“Have you heard from the Baroness?” Hoffer asked.

“I had that letter four months ago, but nothing since. And you?”

“Just that one from my Lotte in February. She mentioned the Baroness, of course.” Lotte worked as her maid at the Schloss.

Von Berger’s father, a major general, had been killed during the Polish campaign in ’thirty-nine, elevating Max suddenly to the title of Baron. His mother had died at his birth. The only woman in his life was his beloved Elsa, and they had married early because of the war. Like von Berger, she was twenty-three, and the boy, little Otto, was three years of age.

The young SS guard appeared clutching a bottle and two glasses. “I’m sorry, Herr Baron, it’s vodka, I’m afraid.”

Max von Berger laughed. “I’d say that’s rather appropriate, but you’ve only brought two glasses.”

The boy flushed. “Well, I did put one in my pocket, Sturmbahnführer.”

The Baron turned to Hoffer. “See how well we train them?” He took the bottle, jerked off the cork, then poured liberally into one of the glasses and tossed it down. He gasped, “God, that hit the spot. The Russians made this one in the backyard.” He poured another, which went the same way. “Great. Take that for a moment, Karl.”

“Baron.”

Von Berger removed his leather greatcoat and handed it to Hoffer. “Suddenly my hip feels fine.” He poured a third vodka and gave the boy the bottle back. “Now you too.”

He got a cigarette out of his case one-handed, the glass of vodka in the other. Hoffer gave him a light and the Baron walked away, enjoying his smoke and sipping the vodka.

Hoffer and the boy had a quick one and poured another. The boy was fascinated by von Berger. “My God, his uniform. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Hoffer was wearing combat camouflage gear. He shrugged. “I’ve got the same thing under this lot. Except for the medals.” He grinned. “The medals are all his.”

In spite of his youth, Baron Max von Berger had seen action in Poland, France and Holland with the Waffen SS. Afterward, he’d transferred to the 21st SS Paratroop Battalion and been wounded at Malame in Crete. Then had come Rommel’s Afrika Korps and the Winter War in Russia. He wore a gold badge, which meant he had been wounded five times.

In spite of the silver Death’s Head badge on his service cap and the SS runes and rank badges on his collar, he was all Fallschirmjäger, in flying blouse and jump trousers tucked into paratroop boots Luftwaffe-style, though in field gray.

The gold-and-silver eagle of the paratroopers’ qualification was pinned to his left breast above the Iron Cross. The Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords hung from his throat.

Karl Hoffer said, “He’s special people, the Baron. We’ve been through four years of hell together and we’re still here.”

“Maybe not for much longer,” the boy said.

“Who knows? In Stalingrad, we thought we’d had it, and then right at the end we both got wounded and they put us on one of the last planes out. Three hundred and fifty thousand men went down the drain, and we made it out.”