V Alexander - The Taster

“You need a doctor,” he said, looking at my bloody leg.

“I’m looking for one,” I said. “Your men have raped me and two other women. One was very young.”

His eyes shifted from one of hostility to concern. He asked me to open my coat. I complied and he searched me. Satisfied that I wasn’t carrying a weapon, he said, “The men get carried away. They realize any hour may be their last on earth and they take advantage of the women.”

“Take advantage?” I asked incredulously. “They nearly killed us. The young woman was a virgin.”

He leaned against the battered side of the trolley. “War spawns hellish creatures. Go ahead, find your doctor. I wish you luck. There are German troops on the other side of these cars. If I were you, I’d walk with my hands up.”

“You’re letting me go?”

He nodded. “Of course. We’re not all rutting beasts. We’re looking for a particular monster and when we find him…” He took a white scarf from his coat and wrapped it around the cut on my leg. He started to speak, but his words died as if he had spotted a threat across the street. He slid around the corner of the trolley, dodged past a shattered doorway and disappeared.

Somehow, I trusted him. I lifted myself up on the trolley, my legs aching in pain, walked through the shattered car and climbed down the other side. I raised my hands over my head and walked down the littered street. In a few seconds, I was surrounded by a few old men, some boys from the Hitler Youth and an SS officer. The officer looked at me blankly and then searched me. He asked my name and wanted to know where I had come from.

I told him my name and said, “About a kilometer to the east.” I pointed in the direction. “I was raped by the Russians.”

“Pigs! Attacking our women.” He escorted me down the street to the relative safety of a crumbling building. The other men and boys dispersed back to their hiding places and barricades.

“I must get to the Chancellery. I work for the Führer.”

The officer laughed. “You?”

“Do you have a torch?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I have a cigarette lighter.”

“Strike it,” I said.

He did. I took off my ring and showed him the inscription on my wedding band.

“My God,” he said. “I’ll get you there as soon as I can.” He shouted orders to the men and then walked with me. We ducked at a street corner as a Russian shell flew over our heads and struck several blocks away. He pointed to a brown lump about a hundred meters to the east. When we arrived, the officer pulled the netting off what looked like a pile of dirt and revealed a small vehicle, a cross between a motorcycle and a small tank. He instructed me to get in the rear seat while he drove. My stomach turned over many times on the bumpy journey, but in twenty minutes we were at the garage bunkers of the Chancellery.

The two officers on duty at the bunker did not believe my story until I told them to get Cook. They knew immediately who she was. The soldier who had brought me left me with them. One was kind enough to offer me a seat in the cold hallway as the other went to deliver the message. The garage bunker was a vast complex on the west side of the New Chancellery on Hermann Göring Street.

I doubled over in pain at one point and the remaining officer rushed to my side. He asked if there was anything he could do.

“Get me to a doctor,” I said. Points of light swam before my eyes, and despite the cool, clammy air, heat rose from my skin. The blood from my cut had pooled reddish brown on the Russian soldier’s scarf. I shivered on my wooden chair.

It seemed hours before I heard Cook’s familiar voice. She rushed toward me, shouting my name. “Why didn’t you tend to this woman?” she yelled at the officers. “She works for the Führer.”

The men cringed and made their excuses. Cook waved them away with her hands and said, “I will take her to the Führer, no thanks to you.”

She lifted me from the chair and I leaned against her. “It’s a long walk, Magda, but you can do it. Think about pleasant things. Better yet, you can tell me what has happened since we last saw each other. Talking will keep your mind off your pain.”

Cook didn’t know I had been raped. As we walked through the long corridor of bunkers, I told her of my stay with Irmigard and her family and my efforts to find my father. Many soldiers milled about, and it seemed an equal number were laid out on gurneys awaiting operations. Moans filled the air along with the smell of antiseptic. “We can’t stop here,” Cook said, and shook her head. “These bunkers are only going to become more crowded as the wounded come. I’m taking you to the Führer’s personal physician. You remember him.”

I did remember a pudgy doctor. He was responsible for giving Hitler his daily doses of vitamin injections and morphine. I never liked the doctor’s obsequious attitude or his pandering to his boss. However, given the circumstances, I would be happy to see him. The pain grew worse as we drew closer to Hitler’s underground headquarters.

We continued through the seemingly endless tunnels of bunkers until we came to a connecting corridor. I huffed and held on to Cook tightly as we turned left down the narrow passageway. An SS officer rose from behind his desk as we approached the Vorbunker. This was the first air-raid shelter Hitler had built under the Old Chancellery. Cook nodded and the man let us through this security checkpoint.

“I saved a bed for you in the sleeping quarters,” Cook said. “You’ll feel right at home. It’s close to the kitchen.” She managed a smile. We turned again down a broader passage until we passed through a dining area. My room was off it. I collapsed on the bed, relieved to rest again. Nothing suited me better than to sleep, but Cook wouldn’t hear of it. Finally, I told her my story of the Russian soldiers and my rape. She listened with tears in her eyes.

When I finished, she said, “Stay here. I will get Dr. Haase.”

I didn’t know Dr. Haase. Hitler had dismissed Dr. Morell, the fat physician who had been with him for years. Drifting in and out of sleep, I lay on my cot until the rat-faced doctor snapped his fingers over my eyes. I jumped awake.

“Please leave us,” he said to Cook.

Cook stroked my hand. “Be well, my Magda. I’ll be outside the door.” She left the room.

The doctor pushed up my dress and pulled down my bloody underpants. He shook his head. “The cut on your leg is the least of your problems. You’re bleeding internally. I’m sending for a nurse.” He called out to Cook, who poked her head in and then ran to follow his instructions.

I focused on my surroundings. I didn’t want to look at the doctor or feel his fingers upon me. The room was small, crowded with iron bunk beds and devoid of color. A few bare bulbs lit the room. A constant hum filled my ears, like the low whirring of machinery. The bunkers at the Wolf’s Lair seemed like a palace compared to those in the Vorbunker.

In a few minutes, a nurse appeared with a syringe in her hand. My arm stung briefly and then I lost consciousness. I awakened several hours later dressed in a clinical gown. Cook sat by my side, but I wanted nothing but sleep. A few other women slept on beds nearby. I lifted my head to say a few words, but the anesthetic’s effects were too powerful. My head dropped back to the pillow and I fell asleep.

When I woke up, I had no idea whether it was day or night. The room was empty. I tried to move my legs, but they were unresponsive. My heart quickened in a panic. I drifted in and out of consciousness until Cook appeared at my side.

“You mustn’t move,” she said, and pointed to my legs. “They’re strapped to the bed. The doctor doesn’t want you to walk for a few days so the healing process can begin. Then you should be fine. I’ll get you some food later.” She smiled and reached over to hold my hand. Despite her allegiance to Hitler, Cook again displayed her worth as a friend. She sat and stared at me with sad brown eyes.