“Ridiculous!” their mother had hooted. Then her voice had dropped to a throaty whisper. “Listen to me, daughters. Rasas have no time for such nonsense. Sharp thinking, logic, stealth, and planning—that is what we do. And that is why we’re the best spies in the world.”
So now Alice reviewed the plan and the further information that she had learned about the layout of the Wolf’s Lair. Her fios, Stauffenberg, would arrive on July 19. That was almost three days away. During that time, she must learn the lay of the land. She focused on the crude map that had been sketched for her on the sweet paper. Other sweet papers had followed, laying out additional details of the headquarters.
The Wolf’s Lair was the least accessible of all the Führer’s headquarters. It was deep within a forest. It had been laid out in three concentric circles. Each of these circles constituted a security zone. The innermost circle was zone one. This was where Hitler’s bunker and his highest-ranking ministers stayed. Zone two surrounded the inner zone and housed several of the Reich ministers and military personnel. Zone three, the outermost zone, was the most heavily fortified, with dozens of land mines. This was the realm of the Führer Brigade, a special armored security unit.
In all, there were thirty-two different buildings and sites. Alice had memorized them and knew each one’s function, from Hitler’s sleeping bunker to the barracks of the press secretary to radio and telex buildings, in addition to a tearoom and movie theater. After all, it was necessary to be entertained while destroying the world, Alice thought.
Alice herself was to be housed in a building called the Cottage, with others of the domestic staff.
She felt confident that she could find her way through the Wolf’s Lair at any time, even in the dead of night. That was not to say that if there were a crisis and she needed to leave quickly she could do so without being blown up. The intelligence she got was not “super granular,” a term used by Rasas for the highest and most complete level of information. So she still did not know the specific locations of the fifty land mines buried just outside the security zone.
Stauffenberg, or Wotan, would be arriving in a few days close to noon. He would almost immediately join Hitler in the presentation room for a conference. Beneath the shirt of his uniform, Wotan would have explosives taped to his chest. But it was not a suicide mission. In order for the bomb to be activated, he had to execute several small steps.
The first thing he had to do was remove himself from the X-Zone, in Rasa language—the place of the intended explosion. He would ask if he might freshen up. He would then excuse himself with his briefcase. In the restroom he would go into a stall, untape the explosives and insert the time pencil that would trigger the bomb, and then put the bomb in his briefcase. He would then return to the conference room and set the briefcase with the bomb under the conference table.
Someone would then enter the conference room and say an urgent call had just come in for Colonel Stauffenberg. It would not be Alice who delivered this message. There needed to be as much distance as possible between her and her fios, Wotan. There was obviously another operative inside who would do this final piece of work.
As dawn neared, the train began to slow. And it was perhaps when she caught that first glimmer of light that she remembered that, in fact, this day was her birthday! She had turned fourteen! Silently in her head she began to sing. . . . Happy birthday to me . . . happy birthday to me!
She spied the station platform ahead, and five minutes later, with the birthday song still scurrying through her mind, she disembarked.
A motorcade of cars met them. This time there were several men on motorcycles, all bearing the symbol of the wolf traps. Werewolf seemed appropriate for the Wolf’s Lair, Alice thought. One of the men on a motorcycle dismounted and walked ahead several yards, then returned. He tapped on the glass of the window. The young woman sitting beside Alice rolled the window down. He stuck his head in.
“Hello, lovely ladies.” He was extremely handsome and had deep blue eyes and nearly white-blond hair. She had never seen hair so blond. It was almost silver. “It appears that a herd of cows is crossing the road ahead, and we shall be detained a bit. Not long.” He sighed. “But as long as we’re here, we might introduce ourselves and get to know each other better. I’m Fritz, and who are you?”
“I’m Gerda.”
“I’m Margot.”
“Ute.”
“And what may I ask brings you to the Wolf’s Lair?”
There was an awkward pause. Gerda and Margot were tasters. It seemed that the Führer had an obsession with being poisoned, and ten young women had been employed by the Reich to taste all the food served to the Führer. They would eat; then, if twenty minutes had passed and they had not become ill or dropped dead, the food would be served. Alice couldn’t help but wonder, how would they answer the Werewolf’s question? How would they explain their tasks as tasters, ready to die for the Führer? Margot, a lovely looking young woman in her early twenties, said simply, “We’re part of the kitchen staff.”
Of course, Alice thought. Perfect answer. Sometimes she really overthought things.
Fritz’s eyes sparkled. “Well, my compliments to you. I hear the food served at the Führer’s table is the best. So I imagine you get some of the leftovers.” Leftovers! Hah! thought Alice. He then tipped his helmet as rakishly as one could tip a helmet and smiled broadly. “Bon appétit!” he exclaimed, and roared off on his motorcycle. It would be another forty-five minutes before they passed through the gates of the Wolf’s Lair.
Against a pinkening sky the watchtower of the compound rose. They came to the first checkpoint and were waved through unceremoniously. No stopping. It seemed casual, yet here they were among Hitler’s household staff. His private secretary, one of his many doctors, two new chefs, and oddly enough, Winifred Wagner! The show must go on!
And the show did go on. On Alice’s first morning at the Wolf’s Lair, Winifred Wagner, the opera director who had directed the performances at the Berghof, was now bustling into the kitchen. So even here the Führer needed his music.
“Actung!” she announced in a bellowing voice. “As you know, Il Duce, our dear compatriot in this war, Benito Mussolini, is a guest this evening, and the Führer wishes to have some entertainment. I’m here to recruit some actresses and actors for tonight’s performance. We shall be doing excerpts from the Ring cycle. Don’t worry, you do not have to do much—not sing, not dance. We have all the records. You just need to follow instructions. We did several performances a few weeks ago. But many of those people are not here now. The Görings’ daughter was in several, as were Herr Bormann’s many children. However, they are not available now, and there was one girl in particular who pleased the Führer very much, who was part of the staff. So I came to see if she might be here.” Her eyes cast over the ten or so girls, including some of the tasters in the kitchen. They slid right over Alice’s face, even though she was standing right in front of her. “Some thought she might have been an RP girl. Is that possible?”
“Yes, Frau Wagner.” Alice raised her hand slightly. “I am a Reich Praktikum student.”
“Ach! Right in front of me! However did I miss you?” She drew closer, until their noses were almost touching. Alice observed that one nostril had a slight scar. Childhood accident. She also had an unbecoming hair growing out of the corner of her mouth. Frau Wagner should pluck it. Maybe she couldn’t see it. She was now squinting quite hard at Alice, as if to take in every detail of her face. Then slowly she said, “It’s so odd. I can’t remember your face at all. You might be the girl.”