be dying in battle.
His face cleared; he found that the lump in his throat had
gone. “I had no idea you were so brave.”
“Listen closely,” she said, inclining toward the glass. “Do
you still have your comb?”
“Yes.”
“And brush?”
“Yes.”
Without changing her tone, she whispered, “Do you still
have what Ango gave you?”
“No,” he replied, then hesitated. “I would like to have said
yes, because that would make it easier for you. Do you have
yours?”
She shook her head.
“They won’t hang me,” he assured her, choosing his words
carefully. “Not that. It’s the bullet for me. They won’t hang a
Hermann Göring.”
She was feeling faint. “Shouldn’t I go now?” she asked. He
smiled. “I’m quite calm, Emmy.”*
He left, thinking most probably about that bullet. Since cam-
eramen were waiting out front to film her sorrowing departure,
the chaplain opened the back door and let her through behind
the partition. She stroked the chairback where Hermann had
been sitting, as they walked past it was still warm.
Hermann had returned to his cell, in mental turmoil. As
Dr. Pflücker came in with a sedative, the prisoner said, “I’ve just
seen my wife for the last time, my dear doctor. Now I am dead.
It was a difficult hour, but she wanted it. She bore up mag-
- After a period of internment, Emmy Göring was cleared by the denazifica-
tion courts in Bavaria and her remaining property was restored to her; she
died in . Edda married a dentist and lives in Munich.