My Immortal The Vampires of Berlin - Chapter 16
The Führerbunker - Obedience and Oblivion
General Helmuth Weidling walked down the dim, narrow tunnel leading to the Führerbunker. The echo of his heavy boots striking the concrete floor bounced sharply off the walls, growing louder with each step until it seemed to consume the entire passage. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow that flickered like a warning.
As the newly appointed Commander of the Berlin Defense Area, he’d spent a sleepless night trying to solve an impossible problem: how to resupply troops who were surrounded, outgunned, and exhausted. With no heavy weapons and no reinforcements, he’d been ordered to transform the shattered remnants of Berlin’s civilian population into a fighting force. So far, the results had been dismal.
Truth be told, Weidling didn’t want to be in the Führerbunker at all. Getting there had nearly killed him—his staff car had come under a hail of machine gun fire on the way. But worse than the bullets was what awaited him below. Hitler would be waiting with his wild eyes and his shaking hand, barking orders at phantom divisions, then accusing his own commanders of betrayal. Maybe he’ll actually shoot one of us this time.
Reinhard Heydrich stood rigid at the entrance to the Führerbunker, a towering figure carved from ice and iron. Clad in a pristine black SS uniform, his death’s head cap sat low over his brow, and a long leather greatcoat draped his frame like a shadow. The silver insignia on his collar gleamed under the flickering overhead lights. His expression was void of emotion, and his pale blue eyes—sharp, unblinking—seemed to look straight through a man rather than at him, amplifying the quiet menace of his presence.
Heydrich pointed at Weidling’s pistol and extended his hand. “Your sidearm, general.”
“The account for our sins of past years has arrived,” Weidling muttered as he handed his weapon over.
Heydrich took the pistol and ushered the general inside the Führerbunker. Normally, Weidling wouldn’t have thought twice about turning in his firearm for a meeting with Hitler. But things had changed. A few days earlier, the Führer mistakenly thought that he ordered the LVI Panzer Corps to retreat. In response, Hitler ordered General Weidling to be “shot like a dog.”
A secretary discovered the typo and Hitler rescinded the death warrant. But Weidling’s relationship with the Führer had changed. As a result, he wasn’t fighting for Adolf Hitler anymore. I’m fighting for the German people. Or is it my own self-preservation? Or did I stay in Berlin because the Allies branded me a war criminal and there’s nowhere to run?
General Weidling chuckled when he realized that he had no idea why he stayed in Berlin as the Russians encircled the city.
In the situation room, a cluster of high-ranking Nazi officials stood gathered around a massive map table, the surface cluttered with markers and pins representing what remained of the Reich’s military. Generalfeldmarschall Wilhelm Keitel loomed near the edge of the table, his face taut and drawn. SS Brigadeführer Wilhelm Mohnke stood rigidly at attention, his uniform spotless, the double lightning bolts of the SS gleaming on his collar. Beside him, Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels, gaunt and sharp-eyed, leaned in close to the map, hands clasped behind his back. General Hans Krebs observed silently, his posture stiff, his expression unreadable.
Adolf Hitler moved a trembling finger across the map, pointing out the positions of phantom divisions and reinforcing imaginary front lines.
Despite the formality of the presentation, the map had long since lost any basis in reality. It was less a strategic document and more a reflection of Hitler’s unraveling mind. Of all the units marked in bright red and blue, only two retained any offensive capability. The rest were destroyed, disbanded, or in full retreat. The absurdity of the exercise underscored the desperation seeping through the walls of the bunker.
General Weidling entered the room, clicked his heels together, and saluted sharply. General Krebs acknowledged him with a brief nod. The others didn’t even glance up.
Then Hitler stepped forward into the light, and Weidling froze for a moment.
The Führer looked like a specter. Once upright and commanding, he was now hunched and skeletal, his pale skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. His thinning hair hung in limp, silvery strands across his forehead. But it was the left hand that disturbed Weidling most—it twitched uncontrollably at his side, betraying the illness he tried to hide.
Since the failed assassination at Wolfsschanze, Hitler had vanished from public view. Now, Weidling understood why. The briefcase bomb hadn’t killed the Führer—but it had shattered whatever vitality he had left.
Despite Hitler’s frail appearance and the oppressive atmosphere of the bunker, as Commander of the Berlin Defense Area, it remained General Weidling’s duty to deliver the truth—no matter how unwelcome. He stood straight and cleared his throat.
“Mein Führer, I have difficult news,” he began, his voice steady. “The Red Army has broken through in every sector. Our troops are dying at an incredible rate.”
A shadow passed over Hitler’s pale features. “Your men have fought bravely.”
“Thank you, Mein Führer.”
“Order them to hold their positions. At all costs.”
Weidling inhaled deeply, the air in the room suddenly thick. He had anticipated the order, but it still felt like a blow. “Mein Führer, according to the latest intelligence, the Russians will launch their final assault on the city center at dawn.”
“I understand,” Hitler said softly.
“But we have no heavy weaponry left to repel the Soviet tanks. Ammunition for small arms is nearly gone. When the Russians advance, my men will be forced to fight with bricks from the rubble.” His voice faltered slightly under the weight of what he was saying—the certain death of thousands.
Hitler remained composed, almost eerily so. “Get them ready to fight, General. We’ll counterattack and destroy the Soviet Red Army. Final Victory will soon be ours.”
Weidling was stunned. For a moment, he couldn’t find his voice.
“What’s wrong, General?”
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak. “Mein Führer… we don’t have the forces for a counterattack. The only reinforcements available are French SS—most of them are either wounded or too drunk to stand. Six shot themselves. Three died of alcohol poisoning overnight. They brawl constantly. They don’t even seem to understand why they’re here.”
“I’ve never trusted the bastards,” Keitel muttered under his breath.
Hitler’s gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowing like a coiled serpent preparing to strike. “Thank you for your report, General Weidling. Now return to your forces and get them ready to counterattack at 0700. That’s an order.”
Weidling fought to keep his composure. His mind reeled, trying to make sense of Hitler’s unwavering belief in a fantasy. Where did this delusion come from? Some last-ditch miracle? Or was it the drugs?
He thought of Dr. Morell’s syringes—those oily concoctions that seemed to fuel the Führer’s manic energy. Six months ago, after one of Morell’s so-called “vitamin injections,” Hitler had ordered the Luftwaffe to shoot down the Moon, claiming it would “confuse the Americans.” No one could understand the logic—except Goebbels, who executed two rocket scientists for refusing the order due to “technical impossibility.” Hitler withdrew the command only after a stern warning from his astrologer.
The Führer was unraveling. Everyone knew it. They just couldn’t say it aloud.
“Are my orders clear?” Hitler snapped, dragging Weidling back to the present.
The general drew a breath, steadying his nerves, and appealed once more—this time with quiet desperation. “Mein Führer, please understand. I’ve followed your orders to the letter. We’ve built tank traps on every street. We flooded the U-Bahn tunnels, even though it drowned hundreds of civilians. We’ve armed children and the elderly to fight for you, and the Russians have slaughtered them without mercy. We’re starving. We’re out of ammunition. There will be no reinforcements. There is no hope for a counterattack. We must save what lives we can.”
Hitler’s body stiffened, his face darkening with fury. To him, this wasn’t a report. It was betrayal.
But before the Führer could erupt, his SS shadow stepped forward.
“The only one who should lose hope,” Heydrich barked, “is sitting on his fat ass in the Kremlin!”
His voice cracked like a whip through the bunker.
“If you won’t carry out your orders, General Weidling, we’ll find someone who will!”
The room fell silent, the air heavy with dread. Weidling lowered his eyes, bracing for the shot that never came.
“Thank you,” Hitler said at last, his voice barely above a whisper.
Heydrich snapped to attention and gave a crisp salute. “Heil Hitler.”
My Immortal The Vampires of Berlin - Chapter 17
Wolf peered through his binoculars at the blasted stretch of grass surrounding the cathedral. The once-manicured Lustgarten was now a graveyard, littered with decaying bodies and the scorched, skelet…
