SS Charlemagne: The 33rd Waffen-Grenadier Division of the SS

Towards daybreak, our sentries report that we are again alone ahead of the lines. I check, it is true; there is no one to left or right of us. A little later a patrol reports that the front line is now back to the Air Ministry. We withdraw there during the course of the morning and make contact with the Luftwaffe troops occupying the building. We take up our new positions without any loss of time, but we have hardly done so when we see vehicles bearing white flags coming from the enemy lines. In them are German officers and Russians. There is talk of capitulation. Soon unarmed Russian soldiers come forward offering cigarettes, and some of the Luftwaffe soldiers start fraternising. Other Red soldiers arrive in detachments, but they come from within our lines.

The Luftwaffe commander tells me of his intention of surrendering when the Reds invite him to. ‘Its over,’ he adds, ‘the capitulation has been signed.’ But he is unable to provide me with any details. No, we cannot believe that it is all over, that’s impossible! In any case, we cannot remain here to be taken stupidly! What’s happening at the Reichs Chancellery? There at least we should learn something, and if there is a last square to be formed, we will be the ones to form it!

We quickly leave the ministry without responding to the Reds, men and women, that cordially invite us to hand over our arms. Avoiding the streets, we filter through the ruins as far as the U-Bahn and climb down through a ventilation shaft. There is no living soul at Stadtmitte Station, only two or three empty bags. We then come to the Kaiserhof Station, just behind the Reichs Chancellery. A ladder goes up to a ventilation grid at street level. I am the first to go up and look, my ears attuned to sounds of combat, but there is only the noise of klaxons and moving trucks. More bars, but at last I can see, with my hands clasping the ladder, my eyes take in the spectacle that my body rejects. As far as I can see are Russians, vehicle with the red star going in all directions, not a single shot, the Reichs Chancellery walls are dumb, there is no one around, it is all over!

I go back down again without saying a word. The men gather round me with wide eyes. ‘Nobody! The Russians are there, everywhere. The Führer is certainly dead.’ They lower their heads in silence.

‘Now, we have to get out of here. In my opinion the only solution is to try to get through to the west. We will use the U-Bahn tunnels as long as possible. Let’s go! We will get out of this situation this time too! Does everyone agree?’

With our ears pricked we continue on our way. The ceiling has collapsed in several places, in other places rubble blocks the way and we clear a path through with our hands and bayonets. But at Potsdammer Platz a cruel discovery awaits us; from here on the U-Bahn lines are in the open.

It would be best to remain hidden underground and wait for nightfall. One of the tunnels opens under a railway bridge and is blocked with debris, offering a wonderful hiding place. We quickly split up into small groups and vanish one after another. However, some Volkssturm arrive at the same time with the same intention as ourselves. These poor old chaps are slow and noisy, attracting the attention of a Red patrol that enters several seconds later. ‘Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!’ the first Volkssturm calls out in an anxious voice as they grab hold of him. The Reds carefully search the whole area and flush out our group one after another. We hold our breath as the Russians go past. Several times they stop right in front of us. Our hearts beat to breaking point. Pressed one against the other, we wait and cling stubbornly to our last hopes.

The end comes suddenly. Our protecting wall collapses under angry booting, the Russians surround us and comb through our pockets. The first things they take are our watches, and then our weapons. We are dragged outside, where we see drunken groups of the victors staggering around. A swaying Russian approaches us with angrily blinking eyes and threatening mouth. He grabs Roger Albert marching next to me and pushes him against a wall. A guard intervenes and pulls his prisoner back into the column. ‘I thought I had had it!’ whispers Roger Albert to me. At this moment the drunken Russian returns, seizing his victim again: ‘SS! SS!’ he cries, pulling out his pistol. A shot rings out and Roger Albert falls at my feet without a sound. Seeing that we are about to stop, our guards push us on shouting, and we continue on our way.

We come to the Reichs Chancellery, which is being ransacked, while hundreds and hundreds of tanks parade through the Tiergarten towards the Brandenburg Gate, which still raises its mutilated profile like a last hope, a last act of defiance.