Götz Rupp helps Adi bypass not only theorists but also those stagnant diplomats who quibble over things like Auschwitz Protocols. Equally important, Götz Rupp plays the piano having learned from his grandmother in Wiesbaden. Götz’s night blessings on the piano—So legt euch denn ihr Bruder—to bed, then, brothers—eases Adi’s insomnia.

“What has Corporal Rupp said now?” I asked Keitel.

“You want a soldier to be fearless, give him whiskey.”

“And what did you answer, Herr Generalmajor?”

“So those are the two fronts you would have us fight—hangovers and war! Then I told that sawed-off runt with his trench complex that his notion of horizontal warfare is flawed. Head on collision with the enemy? That’s not valid any more. Rommel and Montgomery keep on the move in tanks and caravans. Götz never listens. All he does is mutter, ‘the trench in a soldier’s soul is what concerns Germany.’”

“Götz Rupp can be peculiar at times.”

“He says he has no real party ties, but he’s driven around in an official Daimler-Benz limousine with the battle-flag of the Reich flying from the front fender.”

“General, he has a civilian chauffeur.”

“Nevertheless, Fräulein, I don’t like him in Mein Reich.”

“But you have to respect him for being in Germany’s Wer Ist Wer?”

“Any feckless idiot can get in Who’s Who,” Keitel snapped showing two front gold teeth and giving a slight brush to his medal from King Carol of Romania. “Rupp signs orders with ‘G.R. im Auftrage’ that allows him the authority of decision. And he had an appliance made for his sleeve to support his arm so he can hold a salute for hours when the Führer speaks.”

But I’m grateful to Götz, especially for making my Easter in the Bunker a happy one. Easter isn’t popular as a holiday any more, not the religious part of it. But this time it was festive because of that sweet dolt, Götz, who came down the stairwell with a sack of hard-to-find fresh farm eggs. He didn’t carry them himself as he has two aides appointed to him by Adi—Private Schnederut and Private Klimke. Schnederut lost part of his nose and both his ears and four fingers on his left hand during the winter campaign in 1942 and is relegated to staff work. Klimke was hit by a grenade, and a beard will not grow on his right side. He insists on a half-beard anyway, and I tried to ignore the bushy side of his face.

So these two aides emptied the sack on a table in the dining area with Götz saying they looked like Russia’s white egg-shaped hand grenades and we could practice patriotism by turning them into Easter eggs. He also gave me a small cake from the Osterhase, Easter hare, and I instantly wondered what I could make with the paper doily under it. (I use it as a little round cloth for my dressing table.)

“Herr Private Schnederut, you are to reconnoiter the kitchen and bring back a big pan for boiling these eggs,” Götz ordered.

“Jawohl, Herr Corporal.” With the smell of cordite coming off his dusty uniform, Private Schnederut did an about-face, his half-nose half sniffing above a Close Combat Clasp in silver.

Götz acquired some food coloring from a little store still standing in the Nollendorfplatz. When Private Schnederut came back with a large stew pot, we put in water and all the eggs to boil. After they cooled, we dipped each egg in little bowls of red, green and yellow with as much care and delicacy as an icon painter.

Coming in briefly, Goebbels quickly colored a red egg for each of his children. He was pale, carried a large bottle of laxatives in his pocket, and occasionally rubbed his stomach. Taking more time with what he termed an “organ-ment,” he hastily drew shorts on one egg and pasted a small carrot to stick out in an appropriate spot. Waving the virile edifice at us, he left to put it on the officers’ Easter table.

“Poor Goebbels,” I offered. “He’s been struggling with a tapeworm for weeks. The worm’s chain has been extracted, but Dr. Morell is unable to find and evacuate the hidden resistant head.”

“No doubt it’s the head of actress Lida Baarová,” Götz declared.

Just then Adi came in holding map boards. “Herr Rupp, where is that suitcase of Luger pistols?”

“By executive order—under your bed, Mein Führer.”

“And cartridges?”

“Yes, Mein Führer. Along with one old 8 mm Mauser rifle.” Nervously touching the plugs of scar tissue on his forehead and both wrists, Götz looked as if he were making a sign of the cross.

Adi was quiet for a moment. His fingers were bleeding—as usual—from pressing down so hard on his colored map-pencils. Suddenly he became agitated. “What could they have talked about at the Hotel Ana in Casablanca?”

“Who, Mein Führer?”

“That cripple. And Churchill.”

“Sir. Unconditional surrender is what they talked about.”

Adi cleared his throat and modestly looked down at his polished shoes. “Unconditional” was an Anglo blunder that gave the German people a solid defiance.

I put a cool egg into Adi’s hand. “This one is not colored,” I said softly. “This is your pure celebration.”

“My work is my only festival.” He handed it back to me.

The Bunker heaved and trembled, and we all looked up.

“Enemy planes are getting more daring. Flying lower.” As Götz dropped two eggs in the bowl of red coloring, they hit the bottom with a slight cracking sound. “I tried to get you a cashmere bathrobe, Mein Führer, but the Jewish dealer was taken to the courtyard of his house and shot in front of his servants.”

“The important thing is… are you getting enough rest, gentlemen,” Adi asked Rupp and his aides. “I’ve seen to it that you’ll be permanently housed in the Bismarck estate. Bismarck’s grandson is on the front, and I assume his wife and two-year-old son are no trouble.”

“No trouble at all, Mein Führer. Frau von Bismarck is a lovely hostess making sure that Reveille is always at five in the morning. Who can sleep more than five hours these days? But there’s a picture of America’s General Grant in her hall.” Private Klimke was standing at attention.

“Grant was a good general, but I am the one who annihilated the Polish state in eighteen days.” Adi’s lips drew away from his brown stained teeth. Waking up each morning with this smelly war in his throat, his mouth gave his life away. “But be careful you don’t drink infected milk,” he advised as he looked at the map boards he carried which were covered with red and green question marks. “What are these, Corporal Rupp?”

“Harmless. Our trenches are to the rear of them. I checked myself.”

“We must not repeat what happened in 1918 when the German Army was not defeated but simply gave up. As you know, Corporal Rupp, a good trench gives the soldier proper defiance. Rommel dynamited trenches in rocky soil in the desert and lined them with concrete. The Russians have round one-man trenches two metres deep and larger ones leading right down to the banks of the Volga where they get continual reinforcements. A trench covers a soldier, protects him, makes him important, holds him in intimacy as he regards the monumental experience of war.”

“You and I know that, Mein Führer.” Götz lifted a dazzling yellow egg from a bowl, the egg cupped in a spoon and dripping golden streaks.

“Monet painted eggs,” Adi announced.

“Monet’s eggs can’t be more lovely than these,” I said. “And didn’t you say your mother made beautiful colored eggs?”

Adi took the spoon with the golden egg.

“My mother, too,” I said. “And I miss her. Now. More than ever.”

“Then speak to her.” I’m so happy that Adi is extremely sympathetic where mothers are concerned.

“But most connections are down for nonmilitary communications. I don’t want any special treatment,” I said softly.

“Herr Rupp, I believe the sentry upstairs has a pigeon.”

“Mein Führer, one carrier pigeon is part of his backup communications system.”

“What’s his name?”

“Director of communications, Sergeant Olff.”

“Not the sentry. The pigeon!”

“Oberfeldwebel Jupp. We rhyme.”

“So the little fellow is Oberfeldwebel Jupp, Herr Rupp?”

“Yes, Mein Führer.”

Adi cracked the yellow egg placing golden shell fragments neatly in a pile on the table. “Speed?”

“Oberfeldwebel Jupp can fly nearly 38 miles an hour and cover over 300 miles. Returning in three days.”

“Pick!” Adi stared at Götz.

Götz fumbled in the basket of silverware for a fork.

“In 1840, Baron Reuter used pigeons that went faster than horseback riders.” As he dropped the fork on the table, Adi shouted: “Porcelain!”

Opening the Führer’s special dinner service drawer in the corrugated table, Götz retrieved a white knife and delivered it pompously as if it were a Germanic sword. Adi stabbed the egg, sucked it in whole, his teeth scraping the delicate blade. Shredded yellow yolk crumbs caked the corner of his mouth. “See that he’s treated with the utmost respect.”

“Private Olff?”

“Our little flyer, Oberfeldwebel Jupp!”

When Adi returned to the map room, Götz and I finished decorating eggs. We gave a red one to Private Olff along with bread scraps for Jupp. Private Olff dutifully sent off an Easter greeting to my mother by way of his loyal pigeon. But conditions above are every bit as serious for pigeons as they are for people, and for a long time I didn’t learn what happened to Jupp. The little Oberfeldwebel, I thought, probably died peacefully from exhaustion after delivering my message. Or he could have been captured as Götz had seen pigeon POWs in wire cages that were surrounded by mine belts in tundra villages in Russia. Box mine belts, Götz told me, are loved by the Russians and are hard to detect. I didn’t dare tell Adi as he would be grumpy with me for endangering an innocent animal over a silly Easter greeting.