Prologue 10 November, 1918--The Eve of the Armistice N earing midnight, two officers of the Imperial German Army, both aides to high-ranking Generals and friends since their cadet days, trudged away from the hoarfrost-coated railway car they had been staring at. Neither spoke until they reached the frigid edge of the clearing in the bleak forest near Compiegne. Major Karl Heinz Eppinger offered a cigarette to his companion, Colonel Ernst von Hellenbach. "What will you do after this sad business tomorrow, old friend?" "Since we will be out of work, I suppose I will go home to Freiburg and try to help my wife raise the twins I have not seen in over a year." "How old are they now?" "Almost five. My sons need a father, Karl Heinz. I imagine one in disgrace is better than none at all. And you?" "Go to Berlin and do what I can to help the Fatherland climb off its knees. This isn't the end of it, you know. One day, we will have to do it all again." "I hope not, although I think you may be right. This war has been a disaster from the beginning. An insanity. And what we Germans have to look forward to after tomorrow will be worse." He turned and faced his colleague, not without sympathy. "But what can you do with only one arm?" "One arm and one brain, Ernst. Someone will have to salvage what is left of our Army and our country. I'm afraid it will be up to the old men and cripples like me. We're practically all that's left." Colonel von Hellenbach offered a wry chuckle. "Once a Prussian, always a Prussian, eh?" "You should talk! Yours has been a family of soldiers longer than mine. Besides, I don't have any family left. I envy you." "Do you have any more of those cigarettes?" With his one hand, Eppinger reached into his tunic pocket. "Are you chain-smoking now? You never smoked much." "I know, but it helps take away the smell of death. The Kaiser has made us pay a terrible price for his stupid pride." "True. And tomorrow, the French and English are going to make us pay with ours, too, along with everything else we have. You are quite correct, it will be worse than war. A defeated country has no heroes." Both men walked in the cold air for a while in silence. It seemed there was nothing else to say, at least not without choking on their emotions. Not even Eppinger, who had always been a big talker, had any words of either comfort or admonishment when he watched his friend rip the Iron Cross from his tunic, drop it on the ground, and then viciously step on it. And both men shed unashamed tears when they witnessed the humiliating truce signing the following morning in Field Marshall Foch's wagon lit. There were others, not present, who reacted in different ways once they heard the news of the Armistice: At a hospital north of Berlin, a decorated young corporal from a Bavarian regiment, recovering from a gas attack, flew into a characteristic rage at the back-stabbing politicians and Jews he was convinced had caused Germany's cowardly surrender, and on the spot made up his mind to go into politics. He had no way of knowing his warped ideas and yet to be developed charisma would eventually propel him to the top of a political regime and a military machine that would come close to ruling the entire civilized world. His name was Adolf Hitler. Elsewhere, an eighteen year-old artilleryman named Martin Bormann was glad not to be shot at any more, but wondered how he would now earn a living. He was not particularly worried, though, since he had long ago learned how to take care of the one person on earth that really mattered. Himself. Neither did he dream that not too many years would pass before he would design and execute the most brilliant double cross and greatest theft in modern history. Two young women, one in Stuttgart and one in Munich, were not in the least interested in what was happening in France. They were both in labor, and that night, would give birth to daughters. One little girl would be named Elisabeth Kroll, the other one would be named Edda Winter, and each would later become mothers themselves-- of boys who would grow up to play important parts in the drama of Germany's tragic future. And, thousands of miles west, on a sliver of sand north of Cape Hatteras, North Carolina called Pea Island, totally oblivious to war or anything else happening in Europe, a handsome Negro giant appeared at the door of the Pea Island Lifesaving Station, asking for a job as cook. None of these individuals had any knowledge of each other. Not yet. . . Excerpted from Hitler's Judas by Tom Lewis All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
