It's April the 28th, 1945, just before midnight.

We're in Berlin at the Führerbunker.

A man called Walter Wagner sits before a battered wooden table.

These days Wagner is a war we remember of the Home Guard,

but in peacetime he was a lawyer, a notary.

On that basis, he's been summoned here to officiate

at an intimate private ceremony.

In the stale air in dim lighting, Wagner quizzes the man

and woman sitting opposite.

He fills out the paperwork and checks credentials.

Are the couple who they say they are?

Are their dates of birth correct?

And of course, are they of Aryan Blight?

With formalities over and rings exchanged,

he declares them husband and wife.

The bride looks splendid in her black silk dress,

but there will be no photographs, no confetti,

nor for that matter, any smiles.

When she signs the register the enormity of what has happened

hasn't quite sunk in.

She writes her name, Eva Brown,

crosses it out and corrects it.

...