Reich Government Finally Meets to Discuss Minister Appointments

Doenitz sat at the head of the table, correct and steely-eyed as always. Schwerin von Krosikg, the chancellor and foreign minister, sat to his left, while Speer, in charge of the economic portfolio, at at his right. The other ministers and advisors sat around the table, all of them looking very serious. Doenitz's government was now ten days old. At its inception, it had consisted of Doenitz, Speer, and von Krosigk, and a geographical realm that, besides northern Germany, included all of Denmark, Norway, Bohemia, and Crete, plus fragments of Russia, Latvia, Belgium, France, Greece, Italy and even the British Channel Islands. Now there were more than a dozen ministries, several special departments, and more than sixty typists, clerks, and other staff members. The government's territorial jurisdiction, on the other hand, barely extended beyond the gates of the Marineschule.

They convened each day to have meetings, explore problems, issue orders, and attempt to establish some coherence amid the chaos. But what effect any of it had was hard to say. Whether their orders would be carried out, or, for that matter, even delivered, was largely beyond their control. The all-powerful Allied Control Commission was a bureaucratic hydra that stood in their way, without having any clear plan of its own. From time to time, its members would show up and nose around and issue orders and directives, whose meaning they usually seemed at a loss to explain. 

The discussion on fertilizers went on for another twenty minutes and then they moved to the next topic on the agenda: churches. The question was whether a portfolio should be added for religious affairs. Dorpmuller, the transportation minister, suggested it might be a good idea, given everything the German people had just gone through, indeed it was necessary, that a Christian moral culture be reinstituted in the state.

People bristled at the idea. "Are you suggesting that just because National Socialists weren't Christian, they weren't moral?" one of the ministers countered.

"All I'm saying is we need to go back to old, traditional values. For more than a thousand years the Germans have been a Christian people. We need to emphasize that point both to ourselves and to the world. I think it would also be a good idea to embrace the contemporary Christian theology of human dignity."

"Do you have anyone in mind?" asked Doenitz.

"Yes, I do, Grand Admiral. I think Dietrich Bonhoeffer would be a perfect candidate. Last I heard he was still alive. We should see if we can locate him."

While an aide was dispatched to make some calls, the topic changed to banking issues. There wasn't enough money on hand to pay state employees or to fund purchases of emergency foodstuffs from Sweden and Portugal. The question boiled down to asking the Allies permission to print an emergency issue of reichsmarks. They were discussing it when an aide returned to inform them that Pastor Bonhoeffer had been executed by the Gestapo two weeks before.

The afternoon meeting wound down and Speer trudged back to his office to find a young Luftwaffe colonel waiting for him. It took Speer a second to realize it was Werner Baumbach, whom he'd often run into while kayaking on the Havel back before the war.

By the look of him, Baumbach was the happiest man in the world. He'd just arrived in Flensburg and only now had it occurred to him that he'd survived the war in one piece. And on top of it, it was May and everything was in blossom and he'd seen his first women in several months and they were even more beautiful than he'd remembered them. He'd billeted himself at Schloss Glucksburg, a nearby castle owned by his friend the Duke of Mecklenburg-Holstein, and it was great!

"You Luftwaffe buys have all the luck," said Speer, trying to sound upbeat. "I just got kicked out of my quarters by the British." He told Baumbach how he and the rest of the government had been living aboard the Patria, an old Hamburg-Amerika liner docked in the harbor. But that morning they had been told to vacate it and were now crammed into the cadets' dormitories. He gave a sour look.

Baumbach laughed. "Well, that's great, then, Albert. You can stay with me! There's plenty of room, plenty of food, plenty to drink. Get your stuff together. Let's go!"

(Excerpt from Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008, ebook version available on Kindle here).

Himmler in Hiding: Himmler's Astrologer Ponders the Cambridge Spies

“I thought I told you not to go outside,” said Macher. He was furious. He pointed to the house. “Get back inside now.”

Meekly, Franzi Loerber did as he was told and started walking back to the house. “I needed to see the stars,” he mumbled apologetically.

Macher was unimpressed. “You pull something like that again, I swear I’ll blow your brains out. I don’t care how great the Chief thinks you are.”

Franzi had no doubt that Macher would not hesitate to shoot him. Only the day before he’d killed an SS man who’d given him backtalk. Just like that. Bullet in the head, drag the body off, somebody clean the blood off the floor. Now where were we?

The others were standing along the side of the house, keeping back from the open front yard as they watched Macher throttle Franzi. There were three of them, Grothmann, Kiermaier and Gebhardt, who until then had been on lookout duty. Himmler was standing at the threshold, buttoning up his trousers as he stared out at them. “Macher, what is it?” he demanded. “Is everything all right? Tell me what is going on?”

“Zonag the Magnificent here wanted to go look at the stars,” Macher fumed. “Little fairy’s going to get us all caught.”

“He wanted to look at the stars?” Himmler asked. “Well maybe you should let him.” He turned to Franzi. “Did you see something? What was it?” he demanded, his voice squealing with excitement. “You should let him look, Macher. How can you expect him to complete my horoscope? Let him stay outside. I’ll watch him.”

Macher shook his head. “It’s too dangerous,” he said. “Everyone back inside.”

From far inside the house, a woman’s voice, high-pitched and fretful, called out, “Heinzi, what is it?”

“It’s nothing, nothing at all,” Himmler called back.

“Then come back to bed,” they heard her purr. “I’m so cold.” Even from outside, it was easy to tell she was pouting. Immediately Himmler turned and made his way back inside, unbuttoning his trousers as he did. Macher shook his head with disgust, then, turning his attention back to Franzi, he grabbed him by the collar and threw him against the ground. “I’ve about had it with you,” he said.

Franzi got back to his feet and stumbled back inside, numbly making his way into the empty parlor. But once there, he found that he could not, for the life of him, remember which chair he’d been sitting in before going out. There were four chairs in the parlor and four of them sitting there in them; Franzi, Macher, Grothmann and Kiermaier. Each with his own place and for Franzi to sit in someone else’s was to invite no small amount of abuse upon himself. By this point, everyone’s nerves were on edge and being at the absolute bottom of the totem pole, Franzi was everybody’s target of choice.

He tried to remember, but couldn’t. The vision he’d just had left him too drained. Even though it had been barely five minutes since he’d been sitting there, the way his head felt it could have been last year. He remained standing, woozily surveying the chairs, hoping to let the others sit down first.

"Sit down!” barked Macher.

Franzi went to an armchair and fell into it. “Get out of my chair!” Kiermaier growled from the doorway. Wearily, Franzi got back up and looked at the other chairs. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “Where was I sitting?” Angrily, Kiermaier pointed to the one across from him and Franzi lowered himself again, feeling more dazed than he ever had in his life.

“What’s with you, anyway?” asked Grothmann. “You’re acting strange.”

Franzi put his hand to his brow and said. “I’m sorry, I just...bad headache."

“Oh? So the Swami is having trouble getting out of his trance?” sneered Grothmann.

Franzi gave a week grimace and nodded.

“Hey! The Reichsfuhrer might buy that crap but don’t expect me to,” said Grothmann combatively.

Franzi closed his eyes and let the back of his head rest against the top of the chair. He tried to gather his thoughts, but his head felt like it was full of cold, wet cement. His thoughts moved listlessly through his brain like dying animals.

Then he remembered the vision and what he’d seen, and as dead as he’d been feeling, he suddenly felt a spark of warmth in his heart. Ziggy was near! Manni too, he knew it now with a certainty. They were looking for him, they were looking for him together! Was it even possible? And there was someone else there too, holding Ziggy’s hand and forcing him to look…….It felt like his old friend Nigel Westerby. He couldn’t believe it, but he knew it was true. What were they doing? What did they know? What could be going on that would bring them all together like this? For the first time in weeks he felt hope.

Up till now, he’d been feeling so worn down from fear and futility, he knew he’d soon run out of the strength and will to continue contending with Macher. The only reason Franzi was even alive was that no one else could take away Himmler’s pain. But that didn’t mean they trusted Franzi in the slightest. He was nothing more than a servant, someone they would have gotten rid of long ago if they’d been able to figure out a way to do without his talents. Nothing he could say could ever convince Macher that he wouldn’t try to run away at the first opportunity. As a result, they wouldn’t even let him go out unescorted to the outhouse.

The others got out quite a bit. Every few hours one of them would go sneak around outside to make sure no one had infiltrated in. Franzi had volunteered to go, but Macher wouldn’t let him. “This is man’s work,” he’d say with a superior smirk, as if being homosexual made Franzi an inferior sneaker.

Were they setting up some plan to rescue him? Did they know something about Himmler’s plans that he didn’t know? Franzi knew next to nothing about any of the day-to-day planning that went on. He wasn’t even sure how much Himmler knew. They seemed to be keeping a lot from him, ever since Macher found out he would confide things to Franzi during the course of a massage. They were making very sure that none of that information filtered down to him.

But since the Reichsfuhrer had nothing mundane with which to impress Franzi, he’d resorted to handing him morsels of information on a far grander scale. He never told him very much, by themselves they were all tantalizing, but useless little chunks.

Except what no one understood about Franzi Loerber was his ability to store up all the little chunks and fit them against and alongside each other until he managed to piece large pieces of the puzzle together. And by this point he actually knew quite a lot about the extent of German infiltration into the Soviet intelligence apparatus.

He knew they had two men in the NKVD’s Thirteenth Directorate, which handled foreign counter-intelligence. He didn’t know their names but he did know something about how they operated. He knew that they were among the bargaining chips that Schellenberg hoped to use to get them all in with the British. He also knew that the Soviets had British Intelligence pretty well riddled with their people whom they’d recruited straight from Cambridge. He even knew several of their names, Burgess, Philby, Donald McLean. But there was also another one, one whom Schellenberg had yet to identify.

He knew lots of other things as well. It wasn’t just spies and infiltration and intelligence estimates. He knew about linkages. He knew about the trading houses and holding companies and the foreign subsidiaries and which bankers and industrialists had worked with the Nazis throughout the war. He knew about British lords and American senators. There were plenty of powerful people out there with a vested interest in keeping that information from ever getting out. It was a sure bet that they’d have their people out among the advance parties tidying up and removing certain inconvenient realities before the main force arrived.

Just then a loud creaking of bedsprings erupted from the other side of the parlor wall. Himmler and his mistress were at it again. It had to be the fifth time that day.

Her name was Fraulein Potthast and she was, Franzi had learned, the Reichsfuhrer’s longtime mistress. She had already been living at the farmhouse for two weeks when they had arrived. Apparently Himmler had Kiermaier arrange her accommodation without anyone else knowing about it. She was young, blonde and pretty, though in a horse-faced way. She was also vivacious, flirtatious and loud. She liked wearing shimmery silk robes; lilac and silvery blue and when it was cold she would wrap herself in a heavy, full-length fur which she told them was sable, though Franzi knew it was something else.

It was strange having her brought into their pared-down, die-hard ranks. Franzi could tell Macher didn’t approve of such a reckless change to what had until then been his flawless regime of evasion and escape. But before he could voice his objections, the Reichsfuhrer had already vanished into the bedroom with her.

Her presence was a mixed blessing to say the least. She got on everyone’s nerves and seemed spectacularly unmindful of the perilous situation they were in. It didn’t register with her that they were, at that moment, the focus of possibly the largest manhunt in history. All that mattered was that finally she was the one closest to the Reichsfuhrer! That his mighty empire was now down to a handful of people and that it barely extended beyond the farmhouse was of no consequence. She had him now! She had risen to the very top and no one could take that away from her.

And because of this, she felt entitled to rule the roost, to be treated as the lady of the house, First Lady of the whole SS Empire. She would voice her opinions, she would ask questions, demand answers and accounts. She demanded deference and was quick to inform the four subjects of her dominion which of them were currently on her good list and which were not.

On the other hand, she kept Himmler occupied and out of their hair for hours at a time. Until now, Franzi never had the impression the Reichsfuhrer was much of a swordsman. He seemed more the mousey, schoolmaster type, too prissy and fastidious to ever get really down and nasty. But now he was absolutely unstoppable. Nothing, it seemed, spurred the Reichsfuehrer’s romantic ardor quite like impending doom.

It shouldn’t have affected Franzi’s situation either way except that it did. It made it a lot worse. To his dismay, Franzi discovered that Fraulein Potthast regarded him as her rival. Even though she managed to occupy nearly all of the Reichsfuhrer’s waking attention, there were nevertheless things he needed that she could not provide, physical things, things altogether too similar to her own ministrations for her to be able to brush them aside.

For much as Himmler was now generally calmer and more stable from having her around, his stomach did occasionally erupt into paroxysms of pain, that were worse than ever before. When that happened there was nobody who could take the pain away but Franzi. Each time, she would be dismissed from her privileged place and forced into the common room to sulk while Franzi would come in and go to work on Himmler’s stomach and abdomen, kneading the spasms and squeezing out the knots and replacing them with warmth. He’d listen to Himmler as he’d freshly detail all his fears and he’d calm him and tell him about what the stars were saying about the future. And by the time he’d leave, the Reichsfuhrer would again be glowing in happiness and optimism. Sometimes he would want to have a little party, light the nice candles, break out a bottle or two of the good stuff and even play the gramophone. During which time Fraulein Potthast would feel impelled to act as the charming hostess, addressing everybody with pet names of her own devising; everyone, of course, except Franzi. And they’d all have to treat her with graciousness and deference, which was asking an awful lot of Macher, who had a hard enough time keeping up the pretense that she was anything more than some snatch-on-the-run.

Franzi opened his eyes only to see Kiermaier staring at him. Kiermaier had the unnerving quality of sitting motionless and staring straight at you for an hour, two hours, three, it made no difference to him. He didn’t talk about things, he didn’t give off any indication what he was thinking, if he was thinking anything. And as the groaning bedsprings grew noisier and more imperative, Kiermaier’s stillness only grew disconcerting. Franzi knew better than to start a conversation or, worse, make a comment about what was going on in the next room. Kiermaier was Himmler’s personal bodyguard and while he might have to put up with Macher’s or Grothmann’s little digs, he certainly wasn’t going to take anything from Franzi Loerber.

Franzi drifted back into his thoughts about his brothers and wondered if the view he’d found of the town and that castle was enough landmark that they could find their way. He hoped he was right, he prayed to God they were coming to get him out of this hell. It would be so wonderful to be rescued, to be free. He felt like a Rapunzel locked in a tower, waiting to let down his golden stair, so he and his rescuers could descend it, dismantling it in the process and taking it with them on their escape. Wherever they were going, he knew they’d need it.

The creaking grew louder, but always irregular and arrhythmic and punctuated by the Reichsfuhrer’s sporatic, labored grunting. Does he think himself a great lover? Franzi wondered. Is he relishing his role of public stud? Probably.

“Jesus God, is that all he’s good for?” It was Macher, seething with disgust. He hated weakness in any form and the thought of serving a Reichsfuhrer so enslaved to his own urges ran against his grain.

Kiermaier shot him a poisonous look. “Watch your mouth,” he growled. Macher pursed his lips into a contemptuous sneer, but said nothing. Franzi looked down, not wanting to get drawn into the argument, knowing it would only get him beaten on by both of them.

Macher had only been Himmler’s adjutant for the last two months, but Kiermaier had served as bodyguard for twenty years. It didn’t matter that Macher outranked him and was obviously in charge, Kiermaier’s loyalty was absolute and he wasn’t about to let Macher or anybody even suggest disrespect to his boss. The two butted heads on a regular basis, and, as a result, Franzi sometimes fantasized about Macher and Kiermaier having such an argument that it would get out of hand and they’d end up shooting and killing each other, leaving Franzi free to walk out. But he knew it wasn’t going to happen. They were both pros, and knew better than to tread very hard on the other’s space. Besides, any excess anger they had, they usually took out on Franzi.

He thought about Ziggy and Manni again. How would they escape? Would they steal through the night fields and forests, hiding in the shadows while their pursuers and the victorious armies forged past? And after that, what? Would they find passage across the waters aboard anonymous, nondescript steamships, melding themselves into the mass of humanity in transit?

Where would they go? Anywhere, as long as it was someplace where the dogs couldn’t follow. A sunny land, somewhere lazy and entropic. Someplace where they could go to ground and hide themselves, someplace where even the presence of three identical-looking foreign men would scarce arouse curiosity in the good-natured natives. Spain, Portugal, Chile, the Andes, Uruguay, The Argentine. On second thought, maybe not The Argentine, since it seemed like half the SS was already on their way there. Uruguay, then. Buy a hacienda or a cattle ranch, sink into happy oblivion, keep a low profile, maybe marry, have children. Why not?

Then another thought came into his head. If they were planning to come and rescue him, they had better get a move on it. Even though Macher and the others had gone out of their way to keep Franzi in the dark, he knew beyond a doubt that something was about to happen. There had been several visitors during the last few days, all coming from Flensburg to discuss things with Macher and Grothmann. Every time they did, he’d get sent into the parlor with the girl while Himmler stayed hidden in another room, listening in on the conversation.

That very morning, in fact, a Luftwaffe officer came up in a jeep driven by two British soldiers, both of whom remained in their vehicle while he went inside to talk to Macher and Grothmann. About the only things Franzi actually made out was the Luftwaffe man saying ‘flying boat,’ and Macher telling him, ‘we’ll have it here tomorrow.’

“We’ll have it here tomorrow.” What could Macher have been referring to? What could the Luftwaffe guy care about that much besides payment. He couldn’t want Reichsmarks. No paper money, unless it was Swissfrancs. Couldn’t be British Fivers either, not with the way Schellenberg had been forging them. No, for something like that, it’d have to be Specie; Gold, up front, payment in hand, nothing promissory. Thank you very much, welcome aboard, take any seat you like, we’ll be taking off shortly!

Besides, the Russians were also closing in on them. Only a few days earlier, while they were hiding out in a manor house on the edge of a small village, looking out the window onto the street, Franzi noticed a zigzag mark in yellow chalk on a traffic sign across the street. An inconsequential mark, to be sure, not something anyone would pay any attention to, except that, it hadn’t been there the day before, and it just happened also to be the hailing mark of his old Moscow-Center spy ring. They were looking for him and he didn’t know what to do.

The obvious answer was of course that they were looking for Himmler to bring him to justice. He could find a way to leave them a countermark and lead them to him, which would earn him praise and reward and even a bright, quiet, unproblematic future.

Of course another possibility was that they also wanted the Gold. In which case he could only expect praise and reward if the gold was going to the public good, which was, by the nature of the substance, a bit of a stretch. More likely, they’d want to pocket it for themselves and get rid of him.

Perhaps they wanted him because he’d been their man inside the SS for all these years and it was time to get their spy out and bring him home. Even on an honest, straightforward level, the idea sounded horrendous. He had no desire to go to Russia, even as a hero of the Soviet People. But he knew it was doubtful they would ever do that.

But there was always the possibility they’d figured out he wasn’t a Soviet hero at all, but someone who’d been playing both sides and giving his best work to the British. If that was the case, it wouldn’t be a quick shot in the back of the neck. No, Franzi would have real hell to pay!

Could they have figured that out? Ever since he’d learned from Schellenberg that the Russians had their own people at the top of British Intelligence, he knew it was a very real possibility. All it would take was someone figuring out where Manni had been getting his information from and passing it on to the Russians, who’d promptly connect the dots.

The creaking grew louder and louder, Fraulein Potthast began moaning and making little mewing squeals of joy and then she started screaming full out. She’s faking it, Franzi thought to himself. He’s putting it to her with that pathetic asparagus sprout of his, thinking he’s King Kong reincarnated. Franzi saw Macher and Grothmann exchange a less-than-bemused glance.

Then suddenly it wasn’t the girl who was screaming but Himmler! He shrieked out in excruciating agony, infinitely worse than he had during any of his previous attacks. Kiermaier bolted up from his chair and ran over to the bedroom to investigate. If that bitch has tried something, Franzi could hear him thinking. Had she bitten him someplace? Goddammit, I’ll kill her! 

(A slightly different version of this chapter appears in Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008, now also available on Kindle here). 

George Ball, Paul Nitze, and John Kenneth Galbraith Drink Coffee on the Final Morning of the Third Reich

Back when I was originally researching Germania, I was able to get an interview with Paul Nitze, one of the greatest defense and foreign policy experts of the Postwar era, who had also been part of the United States Strategic Bombing Survey team that had gone to Flensburg in order to interview Albert Speer.  Nitze was very gracious and helpful and in the course of the two hours I spent talking with him, told many interesting and funny stories about their time at Flensburg and what it was like dealing with Speer.  The following excerpt, which did not make it into the final version of Germania, is based on what Nitze told me about the morning of the "Kibosh," when Speer, Doenitz and the rest of the Flensburg government were all finally arrested.

Barely five hours had passed since they’d come back from Schloss Glucksburg, when George Ball woke up in his bunk aboard the Patria. Seeing the bright morning sunlight eagerly streaming in through the tiny cabin’s lone porthole, he decided to get up. He thought how nice it would be to have coffee outside. He got dressed and then pulled out the Aladdin thermos flask his wife had given him from his bag and hurried to the officers’ mess to see if they’d fill it for him.

On the way he ran into Sergeant Fassberg. “What’s on the schedule for today, sergeant?”

“Nothing much,” Fassberg answered. “Apparently everyone else is still asleep.”

Hearing this, Ball held up his empty thermos and said, “I’m going topside for coffee. How about joining me?” He knew he shouldn’t be asking since, technically, he was an officer and they weren’t supposed to fraternize with noncoms. But being that his rank was largely administrative and with the war now over, he figured it was all bullshit anyway. Fassberg agreed it was an excellent idea. Ball went to the officers’ mess, got the thermos filled, filched two mugs, and with that, he and Fassberg made their way topside. But when they reached the entrance to the top deck, a British MP held up his gloved hand and turned them away.

“What’s going on?” asked Fassberg, perplexed.

“General Rook’s orders,” the MP told them. “He wants the deck cleared. The Nazi Admiral is coming.”

“Doenitz?” asked Ball.

“The new Hitler,” shrugged the MP. “I don’t know his name.” Then, to cover his bases, he guiltily added, “sir.”

“You know, we could always go ashore,” suggested Fassberg. “Have our coffee on the dock. I wouldn’t mind that.”

“Good idea,” said Ball.

Heading toward the gangway, they ran into Major Spivak. He looked worried. “Anyone seen Loerber? He hasn’t shown up yet.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, sir,” said Fassberg. “You know what he’s like. He’s probably got a bag on up at the castle.”

But Spivak was unconvinced. “I don’t like it,” he said nervously. “Being as much of a Kraut as he is, he could get into trouble with the MPs. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the Kibosh is on.”

“It is?”

“I got it from on high.”

“Well I guess that explains that,” said Ball, thinking about what the MP told them.

“Listen,” said Spivak. “I’m going to take the jeep back up to the castle and make sure nothing has happened. Tell Galbraith when you see him.”

Out on the quay, Ball and Fassberg looked around until they found a low wall they could sit on. Ball poured the coffee and handed one of the steaming mugs to Fassberg.

“So today it all gets rolled up, hey?” said Fassberg. “About time, I’d say.”

“Amen to that,” said Ball.

“I mean this place has really become a joke.”

“Comic opera, I’d say,” agreed Ball.

It looked like any May morning in Flensburg. A flock of seagulls floated complacently on the oily waves, while further out in the harbor, the vast disarray of unmanned destroyers, minesweepers, gunboats and small craft bobbed discordantly from their tethers and chains.

“I don’t think any of them actually realize the jig is up,” said Fassberg. “I mean can you believe Speer?”

“Crafty little bastard,” said Ball. “I have to admit, there were times I forgot what I was dealing with.”

“Dirty Nazi rat,” spat Fassberg. “Where does he ever get the idea that he’d have a place running the post-war world? He’s nuts, right?”

Ball laughed. “It’s hard for some people to accept that the world will go on without them.”

A line of turreted, four-wheeled armored scout cars broke the morning’s peace as they motored noisily down the quay, causing the seagulls in the water to arch their necks, irritably flap their wings and fly away.

“But it really is a beautiful morning,” observed Fassberg. “A perfect day for all this shit to end.”

First published in 2008 by Simon & Schuster, Germania is now also available on Kindle here.

Doenitz Sends for Speer, Americans Get in the Way with Questions.

"The Old Man wants you to go to the motor pool. Get a vehicle, drive up to Schloss Glucksburg and fetch Speer. It sounds like he’s playing the truant again. Bring him back, no excuses. The Grand Admiral doesn’t care if he’s dying of cancer. Do you think you can do it?”

"Jawohl,” answered Ziggy, jumping to his feet. “I’ll bring him back immediately.”

"Good,” said Ludde-Neurath. “Try not to start any gun battles.” Ziggy could see the glint of amusement in the senior officer’s eyes. Had his time in the doghouse already ended?

The motor pool assigned him a small kubel with exactly one liter of petrol in the tank. Ten minutes later he was approaching Glucksburg. In the daylight, uncloaked from darkness and shadow, the schloss hardly resembled the place where only two nights before they’d fought a crazed gun battle. Instead what he saw was a slightly garish, tall white building, not at all fearsome, with narrow windows and uninteresting proportions.

Driving up to the front gate, he was met by a squad of armed but dispirited-looking Wehrmacht. Ziggy wondered where they’d been the night of the battle. Had they absented themselves by prior arrangement or simply upon seeing Himmler’s men drive up.

The soldiers stepped aside and Ziggy motored slowly through the narrow forecourt passage. As he passed out of the rear portal and began driving over the bridge, something up on the battlements caught his eye. He looked up against the sunlight and saw the outline of two men juggling. Stopping the car, he held his hand up against his forehead to shield his eyes from the glare. One of the men was unmistakably his brother Manni. The other was not so tall, a little heavier and older, but also surprisingly nimble, like he’d been doing it for years. It was Speer.

Ziggy drove on across the moat and into the castle courtyard. A sentry escorted him inside to a small reception room, where a minute later he was met by a thin young man in a gray suit. “I’m sorry, but the Reichsminister is busy,” he told Ziggy.

"The Grand Admiral wants Reichsminister Speer to report to the government building immediately,” said Ziggy.

"I shall give him your message,” said the young man.

"No, he is coming with me,” said Ziggy. “I have orders to bring him to the Grand Admiral.”

The young man led Ziggy into a large parlor which had been converted into a makeshift typing pool, where a half dozen young women sat clattering away at typewriters while two others fed paper into a mimeograph machine. He found a chair and sat down.

A minute later, the door opened and the young man stepped back inside, followed by a long stream of men in American uniform who, except for a few, seemed distinctly unmilitary. And unlike the British up at the Marineschule, who treated any Germans they encountered with a rancid prickliness, these men all seemed relaxed and downright jovial.

The secretary pursed his hands together. “Please excuse the disarray, gentlemen,” he said.

"Oh that’s all right,” quipped a tall, beaky man who looked like he could use a haircut.

"Is all this for us?” asked another, pointing at several neat stacks of documents lined up on one of the tables.

"Yes, it is,” said the young man in slightly labored English. “Those are the reports on the electrical industry.”

"Excellent, excellent.”

"I will go up and notify the Minister that you are here. Please excuse me, gentlemen.”

As soon as the young man had closed the door behind him, the Americans padded around the table mischievously. One of the typists gave them a disapproving glare.

"Excuse us, ladies,” said one of them.

"Sprechenzee English?” asked another with a sheepish smile. The young woman glowered back and continued typing.

Then they spotted Ziggy sitting in his chair. “Hello,” one said.

"Hallo,” answered Ziggy.

"Do you, uhh, sprechenzee...”

"Yes, I speak English,” answered Ziggy.

Suddenly they were all interested in him. “Do you work for Speer in some capacity?”

"Howdja get that Iron Cross?”

"Were you in U-Boats? What can you tell us about production of the Type XXIs?”

"Say! Aren’t you Ziggy of the Flying Magical Loerber Brothers? I used to watch you perform at the Blue Star.”

"At that, the secretaries all looked up from their typing. “Ziggy?” Then one of them pointed at him. “Look! It’s Ziggy! Ziggy!” The collective gasp that went through them sounded more gut-wrenching to Ziggy than a torpedo detonating against the hull of a ship.

"Holy Cow, Paul, you’re right, it is him.”

"What are you talking about? Magical who?”

"The Flying Magical Loerber Brothers, Ken. I can’t believe you’ve never heard of them. Four brothers, identical quadruplets, the biggest thing in vaudeville, everyone loved them!”

"Paul’s right! These guys are famous. I must have seen them perform a dozen times at the Blue Star. They were fantastic!”

Then they turned to Ziggy. “I saw you perform at the Admiralspalast,” one said.

"I saw you perform at the Mocambo Club,” said another.

"Ziggy Loerber, Holy Cow!”

The women had stopped typing and were staring at him as if they hadn’t decided whether it would be improper to get up and flock around a favorite star who was now a naval officer with the Knight’s Cross around his neck.

Still seated, Ziggy stared back at them and knew something didn’t add up. Why were they acting so excited towards him? Surely they knew Manni was already there with Speer. But maybe they didn’t. So what was he doing there if they didn’t know about it? He had to be there as a spy. Why else would he be juggling in plain sight with Speer? Could he be there to kill Speer? But why?

Ziggy decided he needed to move quickly. He stood up from his chair and gave a curt bow to the secretaries and the Americans. “Excuse me, but I must go.”

"But Herr Loerber, wait!”

He stepped out of the salon, carefully closing the door behind him. Speer was coming down the stairs with his secretary. With his eyes settling briefly on Ziggy, the secretary whispered something to Speer. Speer nodded noncommittally and then proceeded past Ziggy to the salon door.

Ziggy stepped in front of the door. “Excuse me, Herr Reichsminister,” he said.

"Yes,” asked Speer, looking directly at Ziggy for an instant before turning to his secretary with his eyebrows raised slightly in reproach.

Ziggy continued unflustered. “The Grand Admiral has instructed me to drive you to the Marineschule.”

Speer regarded him bemusedly. “But Captain, don’t you see, I have guests.”

For a moment, Ziggy felt completely intimidated by Speer. He had a presence that bespoke superiority and wit and honestly acquired arrogance.

"The Grand Admiral wants you there, immediately,” Ziggy said in the same tone he always gave orders in.

Speer shrugged. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Ziggy shook his head. “First I must speak with my brother. Where is he?”

I beg your pardon,” said Speer, looking puzzled.

"Manni Loerber,” said Ziggy.

Speer studied Ziggy like he was a buried memory already working its way out of the ground. “Second staircase on your left,” he said in a guarded tone.

"Thank you,” said Ziggy and started running up the corridor.

The staircase went up five flights, after which the carpet and white walls gave way to wood and bare stone. He reached the top landing and, pushing open a heavy door, stepped outside onto the sun-washed expanse of battlements. He looked about the different stone walkways connecting the four towers, but saw no one. He walked over to the parapet and leaned down from one of the tooth-like gaps to take a look. Below was the lake and the green fields and the carpet of trees beyond. Then he felt something cold and hard press against the side of his neck. “What are you doing here?” asked a man’s soft voice.

"Manni, it’s me,” said Ziggy.

"Zigmund?”

"Would you get the gun off me?”
(An abbreviated version of this chapter appears in Germania, first published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, now also available on Kindle here).

Kriegsmarine and Jewish Underground Fight the SS

“I see one of them coming out now!” whispered one of the sailors, pointing to a shadowy spot at the foot of the castle wall. Peering through his binoculars, Ziggy made out a dark figure coming out of the ground. It was Franzi, creeping along the bank, looking like he had no idea what to do next.

“Signalman, flash your light at him,” ordered Cremer. “Let him know we’re here.” The signalman held out his pocket torch and did as he was told. Franzi seemed to notice it, but still made no attempt to get into the water. “What is he waiting for?” hissed Cremer. “He needs to get moving before they start shooting at him.”

By now, the shooting had been going on for twenty minutes and was at its height. The British were pouring gunfire into the castle entrance, but to little effect. Though they had the forecourt, the SS still had both ends of the bridge and were shooting down from the castle’s high windows.

None of it made any sense, thought Ziggy. If the Allies were so mad to capture Himmler, why had they decided to do it with such a paltry force? They could have easily sent in an entire armored division if they’d wanted to. Instead they’d elected to storm Schloss Glucksburg with a force of barely fifty men, whose shooting and assault skill was hardly equal to that of the much smaller, but determined force inside. The lucky thing was neither side seemed to be aware of Cremer’s group hiding in the tall grass along the bank of the moat.

“Signal him again,” whispered Cremer.

Franzi looked in their direction and lowered himself down the bank, his feet sliding into the water. He pushed away from the bank and began swimming toward them. Almost immediately there was a burst of machinegun fire from one of the castle windows. Franzi submerged into the water and re-appeared a few seconds later back at the bank.

“Covering fire!” shouted Cremer. Several of the sailors began firing their rifles at the man in the window, but he remained where he was, shooting back at them, seemingly unconcerned about the prospect of getting hit.

“Captain,” shouted one of the men. “Here come some Tommies.”

Ziggy turned and saw a group of British soldiers crawling out from the forecourt and working their way along the side of the building toward the moat.


“Cease fire,” shouted Cremer. “Everyone down.”

Still unaware of their presence, the British soldiers came to the corner of the forecourt nearest the moat and started shooting at the castle entrance. The SS returned the fire, forcing the British back behind the edge of the building. Immediately four of the Tommies broke away from the wall and made for the tall grass where Cremer’s group was hiding. Two were lugging a heavy machinegun, the others a tripod and belts of ammunition.

“Everyone stay down. Nobody shoot,” hissed Cremer.

A few seconds later, the four Tommies found themselves surrounded by Germans with rifles. “Get down and not a word from any of you,” said Cremer in English. Startled, the four soldiers dropped to their knees and put their hands up.

“We’re trying to get one of our men out,” he told them. “Don’t interfere with us and we won’t interfere with you. Deal?”

“You are not SS?” asked one of them in oddly accented English.

“No, Navy,” Ziggy answered. Then something occurred to him. “You’re not British, are you?”

None of them said anything.

“You’re Blood of Israel.”

They remained silent.

“Your enemy is across the moat, remember that,” said Ziggy.

They nodded.

“All right then,” said Cremer. “We’re going to be giving covering fire. We won’t shoot at you. Take your position and good luck.”

As quickly as they could, the four ran to their new positions on the bank. A moment later they had the gun set up and were pouring fire into the castle entrance.

Cremer stood up and waved his arms. “Come on!” he shouted to Franzi. “Get moving!”

Franzi let go of the bank again and began swimming toward them with forceful strokes. The men in the windows opened up again with their machine guns, which hit the water only a few yards from Franzi, but he kept swimming.

“More covering fire,” shouted Cremer.

By now the shooting was going on in all directions; from the castle, from inside the forecourt, from the bank next to it, from the windows and the bridge. But the hundred yards of water which separated the opponents prevented any of it from having much effect, other than keeping Franzi pinned down in the middle of it. He would dive under for stretches of twenty or thirty seconds, then come back up at nearly the same spot, and resume swimming erratically before being forced under water again. It was obvious that at the rate he was going, he would never make it across.

Ziggy tried to think. They had to come up with something quick! Something to make the shooting stop. Something to entice Himmler and his group into breaking out. Something to- Lightning over the castle. The words jumped into Ziggy’s head and kept repeating themselves like the lyrics to a music hall song...lightning over the castle...lightning over the castle...lightning over the castle...He tried to push it out of his mind, but it kept coming back. Lightning over the castle.

“Give me the signal pistol,” he said to Cremer.

“What?”

“Give it to me!”

Cremer handed it over. “What are you going to do?”

Ziggy didn’t answer, but raised the pistol high in the air and fired it, sending a white hot meteor blazing into the sky. It exploded in a blinding, molten burst, before drifting slowly to the ground.

Ziggy cracked open the pistol and removed the massive spent shell. “Quick! Give me more rounds,” he told Cremer.

“I’ve only got two,” answered Cremer, handing them to him from inside his coat pocket. Ziggy loaded a fresh round and fired it, then the other one. As they watched them explode, a hush came over the battlefield.

Now what? thought Ziggy. In another second everyone would realize it was all a bluff and start shooting again.

But then they heard Himmler's screeching, excited voice echoing from the castle’s entrance, “It’s the sign! It’s the sign! The prophesy is being fulfilled. Three lightning bolts over the castle. My time has come. Macher, Grothmann, stop what you’re doing. We must leave this moment. Our Karma, Macher! We’re invincible!”

A moment later the two Mercedes and the Horch darted across the bridge and into the forecourt. There was gunfire, but the cars never slowed and a few seconds later they were back outside, roaring down the road and disappearing into the distance.

“I don’t believe any of this,” Ziggy heard one of the men saying.

Over on the lake, he could see the splashes and ripples as Franzi quickly swam towards the shore. He seemed to be doing all right. In another few minutes, he’d be there. The fake Tommies on the bank had already removed the machine gun from its tripod and were carrying it away as quickly as they could, but the ones at the forecourt wall had turned to face Cremer’s group, their rifles at the ready. One of them was running back to the forecourt entrance.

“I’ve got a feeling they are about to declare our little truce over,” Cremer said to Ziggy.

A minute later, the Tommy re-emerged with a man who looked like he might be their leader. He waved for one of them to come over.

“I’ll go,” said Ziggy and began walking towards them. The man came forward, walking quickly and keeping his hands out by his sides, palms open. They stopped a few feet from each other. Back by the forecourt, the soldiers had assembled in a line, looking like they were ready to start fighting again.

“Hello,” said Ziggy in English.

“So what’s this about?” the man asked in German.

“You tell me,” said Ziggy.

“Who’s this person in the water?”

“That’s not your concern,” said Ziggy.

“You’re one of the Loerber Brothers, aren’t you? Then you’re also a Jew. You should be helping us instead of them,” he said.

“I just did help you,” answered Ziggy. “Now I want you to go and leave my men alone.”

“That gold belongs to us.”

“Well go look somewhere else. We don’t have it,” said Ziggy. “Don’t take it out on us just because you screwed up the whole thing.”

“Don’t think the matter is settled yet,” the man said. “We’ll talk again.” And he waved to his men that they were leaving.
(Excerpt from Germania, published in 2008 by Simon & Schuster, now also available on Kindle here).

Hungover Speer After the Gun Battle at Glucksburg

Albert Speer woke up on the floor that morning with a splitting headache and a hangover and a sneaking suspicion that he’d been talking to Himmler during the night. Baumbach was asleep on the couch. He tried waking him up, but he didn’t budge. Seeing that it was already after nine he got dressed, ate something and tried calling below for his driver to get the car ready to take him to Flensburg. But to his surprise, the driver wasn’t around. No one was. It was as if they’d all disappeared during the night. Walking through the halls he noticed that some of the furniture was askew and a number of the lower wall panels had been smashed in. He went over to examine one and saw that instead of being stone, as he’d assumed, it was actually made of light wood, disguised to look like a carved slab. Groggily Speer shook his head, disappointed that cheap materials like this would be used for such a grand interior.

When he crossed the bridge to the forecourt he noticed that his Mercedes was missing. Could his driver have taken it and fled somewhere? It was possible. In the square outside, there were two shot-up, burned Navy kubelwagens which he knew with a hazy certainty could not have been there when he’d come in the night before.

It was a grey, cold, overcast morning that felt as if the spring had at the last minute relented and let the winter have the last say. Not knowing what else to do, he started walking towards Flensburg, glad he was wearing his trench coat to ward off the chill. After walking a few minutes in the fresh air, he felt almost alert. Then a British military police jeep stopped and, recognizing him, they gave him a ride into town.

When he got to Doenitz’s offices, the morning government meeting was already an hour underway. Speer shuffled into his chair, ignoring Doenitz’s glower as he did. The meeting was like every other he’d sat through during the last two weeks. The topic at hand was the banks and how they didn’t have enough currency on hand and what they should suggest the Allies let them do about it. It went on for another hour, during which time Speer did little besides stare numbly at the table’s surface. When it finally let up, Doenitz and the others ignored him, which was fine by Speer.

He met with his staff after that, listening to them discuss industrial matters. He noticed some of them were missing; they’d probably gone the same route as the driver with Speer’s Mercedes. Even if he hadn’t been so hung over, he wouldn’t have cared much. This whole thing was a farce anyway. Even if they could come up with constructive ideas for getting Germany back on its feet, the Allies weren’t going to listen.

He was disappointed, however, that Manni Loerber wasn’t around. He would have been the perfect companion for Speer’s currently much-diminished state of grace. Even Manni’s more vicious little barbs would have been welcome. This place lacked any kind of spirit, any kind of tension. At least when Hitler was alive, there was plenty of sarcasm to go around. He’d never imagined Doenitz was so humorless.

The afternoon trudged by with almost unbearable slowness. Speer finally got to hide himself in his office, staring at reports and trying to write some letters. At one time work had been a refuge for him, but now it was just empty drudgery. There was no challenge, nothing interesting enough to seize and absorb his intellect. None of it mattered. He was now nothing more than custodian to the memory of a no-longer-existent industrial power. He knew he should at least feel some pride at having saved as much of the Ruhr’s infrastructure as he did, but at the moment, it didn’t look like any of it made any difference. Nobody on the allied side seemed even remotely interested in getting any of it back up and running. He’d even heard that the Western Allies were considering turning Germany into a completely non-industrial agricultural nation.

Then at around four o’clock, one of his assistants came in looking very excited. He’d been with the others up at Schloss Glucksburg when a jeep full of American soldiers drove up and asked about Speer’s whereabouts. They said they’d been looking for him for more than a week and wanted to interview him about industrial issues. Would he be interested in cooperating with them?

Would he? Speer grabbed his raincoat and briefcase and hurried downstairs, where to his delight, his Mercedes was waiting for him along with the driver ready to take him back to the Schloss.

(This is part of a chapter that got cut during the edits of my novel Germania, first published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, now also available on Kindle here).

Speer and Baumbach: Drunk at Schloss Glucksburg.

Placing his feet on the table, Baumbach pushed himself even further backward to get a fuller view of their visitor. The man just stood there looking so comically angry that it made Speer giggle. Then suddenly he realized the man was Himmler and in an instant the drunkenness dried up in him. He struggled to his feet. “Reichsfuhrer, I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you!” he said.

Boiling with anger, Himmler stepped into the room, followed by several tall SS men with machineguns in hand. He smiled icily. “It was a nice try, Speer,” he said. “But once again you were not successful.”

“Whatever are you talking about, Reichsfuhrer?” asked Speer. “I haven’t done anything.”

“You’re not the Reichsfuhrer,” protested Baumbach. “The new Reichsfuhrer is Gauleiter Hanke. I know. I personally flew him to Prague in a helicopter.”

“Be quiet!” Speer hissed. “I’m sorry, Reichsfuhrer, he means no disrespect. Please, is there something I can do for you?”

“What makes you think, even for a second, that you are entitled to my gold, Speer?” seethed Himmler. “I never took your things. Why are you trying to take mine?”

“But I haven’t done anything,” said Speer.

“Done anything?” Himmler cried. “You and your friends just tried to kill me, tried to take my gold! But it didn’t work.” Himmler gloated and raised his finger threateningly. He started accusing Speer of foiling his escape plan, taking over command of KG-200, blowing up his flying boat and oddest of all, selling him to the Jews. And now he was here to settle accounts.

“No, Reichsfuhrer, you’re completely wrong. I-, we- haven’t done anything. We’ve been just sitting here getting drunk all evening. There must be a misunderstanding. Isn’t that right, Werner?” Speer turned to Baumbach, but he had fallen asleep on the couch.

For the first time Himmler stared at Baumbach. “What’s Baumbach doing here? He was supposed to be on the airplane, dead.”

“Sorry?” asked Speer, thoroughly confused. But then, seeing that Himmler’s confusion was even greater than his own, he stepped forward and the next thing he knew, some other part of himself, shrewd, implacable and unaffected by alcohol, had commandeered his mouth, laying out iron-clad reasons why neither he nor Baumbach could have had anything to do with the incident Himmler had escaped from. He assured Himmler that he had never, ever done anything disloyal to him- in fact, he had spoken up for him to Doenitz that very day.

He went on, making complex explanations, and to his surprise, saw Himmler nodding at the different points he was making. Then Himmler waved him to silence. “In that case, Speer, yes, there is something you can do for me.”

“Yes, just tell me what it is, Reichsfuhrer, and it’ll be done at once,” Speer heard himself say.

“I need another airplane, Speer.”

“Yes, of course, Reichsfuhrer,” said Speer. He suddenly felt the waves of drunkenness washing back over him. He wanted to sit down. He wanted to get rid of Himmler quickly so he could go lie down. He wanted to go to the bathroom, but he knew he couldn’t ask Himmler to hold the thought a second while he left the room.

“I need it now, Speer.”

“Yes,” agreed Speer. “Let me see what I can do.” An airplane. He imagined snapping his fingers like a headwaiter. An airplane at once for the Reichsfuhrer! “Airplane?” he repeated. “Yes, ummm, come to my office first thing in the morning and I’ll have it taken care of at once,” he said.

Himmler glared at him. “Not in the morning, Speer. Now!”

“Yes, Reichsfuhrer.”

Himmler was getting angry again. Speer tried to summon up the eloquent person inside himself to explain for him again, but that person seemed to have wandered off. “Ummm, unfortunately under the current circumstances,” he paused to stare at the swimming ceiling, “my current brief as Grand Admiral Doenitz’s chief of ummm, economic and industrial,” his knees were beginning to buckle, Himmler’s face now a grotesque caricature of something from some other time. “Does not allow, allotments of unauthorized,” he imagined having pliers to grab words with, the words like fish, fish like airplanes. “Ummm, airplanes to, ummm current or former members, of the previous government, in accordance with Grand Admiral Doenitz’ explicit, explicitly express, uhhh...agreement with the Allied Control Commission.”

“Allies?” shouted Himmler. “It would seem to me, Speer, that you are considerably more concerned with insinuating yourself into their good graces than with preserving Germany’s life spring! You always thought you were better than the rest of us, that you were exempt, just because you were the Fuhrer’s favorite. Now you think because there is a new order taking hold in Europe, you can just disassociate yourself from us and become part of it. Well it’s not that simple. They have to have a reason to want you.

“Let me tell you something else, Speer. There are still numerous changes about to take place, changes which you couldn’t begin to grasp. Being able to design buildings isn’t enough. Now they’re going to want someone who knows what’s going on in the streets, someone who understands the forces of destiny, of karma. You’re nothing more than a grubby little technocrat, Speer. You will never be Eisenhower’s architect!”

Speer felt the words cascading past him and wondered how long it would take for Himmler to tire and either shoot him or just go away. He was staring past Himmler and his aides to the doorway and to his shock saw Manni Loerber wedged between two men like he was their prisoner. Speer stared at Manni, but Manni looked away as though he didn’t know him. What was going on?

And somewhere in his drunkenness, Speer remembered that time in the Ruhr when he’d told him, “If you ever want to trap Himmler, all you have to do is wait outside my office for him to show up in the middle of the night.”

“...for the karmic convergence requires very specific...”

ThenSpeer noticed a shadow moving behind the men in the doorway. From nowhere a hand clapped itself over one of the troopers’ mouths. The other hand was clutching a knife which plunged into the man’s neck. Immediately the body went limp and was pulled noiselessly into the darkness. A moment later the same thing happened to the other trooper. The way they were taken, both seemed almost compliant in letting their throats be cut.

The assailant emerged, looking directly at Speer, finger on his lips. It was Manni, clearly Manni. He smiled at Speer for a second as he tapped his brother on the shoulder. A look of sudden understanding flashed through his eyes, then he too disappeared.

Suddenly there was machinegun fire outside. Himmler’s aides sprang to action, pushing Himmler behind them, running up to the doorway and firing shots into the corridor. There was a rapid exchange of fire farther down the hall.

“They’ve killed Bauer and Schmidt!” somebody shouted.

“How’d they get in here?”

“I don’t know.”

“We have to go now!” one of them shouted. “Reichsfuhrer, stay behind us!”

Speer pitched forward, collapsing onto the thick carpet. He gazed up to watch Himmler and the others leave. Outside there was a gun battle going on. But he couldn’t tell what was real anymore and what wasn’t.

(Excerpt from Germania, first published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, now also available on Kindle here).

Albert Speer Dreams of Greenland

To just fly away.

What a thought! To separate oneself from all the details and involvements and get away to a place where life was down to its essentials. He could leave all this behind. Why not? They could take off in a flying boat in the middle of the night and by sunrise they’d be halfway to Greenland.

At least that was how it seemed to Albert Speer while he sat through another morning cabinet meeting. Doenitz sat at the head of the table, correct and steely-eyed as always. Today’s topic was housing. Some bright boy from the transportation ministry was explaining how to mass produce worker housing. It would mean organizing construction into separate phases; one crew putting down piping followed by a concrete bed, the next crew would do the framing, another prefabricated side panels, another a roof and then a finishing crew would put in the electrical wiring and the interior. He argued that with a force of two hundred workers, operating in teams, they could build thirty single-family cottages in a week. The idea was that they could quickly supply semi-permanent family housing for areas where there were high priority factories and industrial sites, but a shortage of usable dwelling space. Speer watched Doenitz nod as he listened to the young man describe the processes and the breakdown of logistics, as though he agreed that under the right circumstances it might actually work. But as it was, they still had not gotten a single go-ahead from the Allied

Control Commission on any of their proposals. They hadn’t even gotten an acknowledgement that the proposals had gone anywhere besides the bottom of a desk drawer.

Eventually the subject switched to renewed Allied demands that the Doenitz Government hand over Reichsfuhrer SS Heinrich Himmler. “I’ve told them again and again that Himmler is beyond my control and that I haven’t seen him since I turned down his request to be in my government,” Doenitz told them. “Now they are claiming to have spotted him inside Flensburg the night before last. I intend to respond that I don’t know anything about it. But please, if any of you hear anything, even just a rumor, bring it to my attention immediately. Anything positive we can tell them would probably help.”

While he listened, Speer began absentmindedly making doodles on the sheet of paper he had for making notes. He started with a small circle, then he began surrounding it with smaller circles, until it resembled a daisy. After that, he started putting down vertical lines, then horizontal ones, and then, almost without realizing it, he began sketching a house.

He started with the front door, making it wide and curved at the top. Then he drew the windows: a square one on the right and a long rectangular one on the left, both the same height, with shutters on the ends. After that, he drew in flowerboxes. He then put in vertical lines, one on each end, to mark out the sides of the house. He followed these with horizontal lines; one to mark the top of the roof and the other the bottom. But no sooner had he drawn them than he realized it had been a mistake. The roof was too low. He wanted to put in a second story, one with a balcony and a long bank of windows and a door. He took out a small gum eraser and began carefully removing the top horizontal lines. Looking up, he saw Doenitz glowering at him. Speer put down more lines. Staring at it, he realized how much more he preferred small-scale to large-scale. Yes, small-scale suited him better. In school, his building designs were all for small-scale structures. That was where the original Speer was, but would anybody bother looking at his designs and trying to figure out where Hitler’s gargantuan influence left off and Speer’s more reasonable, intimate sensibility took over? Was there a chance that someday someone of rare talent and understanding might declare ‘Here! You see! This element is pure Speer! See how the simple, elegant lines emerge!’ A nice thought, but that might take centuries.

Abandoning his straight lines for the moment, Speer’s pencil began making squiggly lines and shapes on the paper to represent the irregular outlines of icebergs. Speer stared at the paper and imagined watching the sunrise from high above the shimmering north Atlantic. Flying west, he’d probably have to leave the cockpit and go aft to find a window he could observe it from. He thought of listening to the heavy drone of the aircraft’s six engines with his hands on the cold metal bulkhead and his nose pressed against the glass and seeing the first rays of light spread across the dark surface of the water, then filling in to reveal the waves’ white foam.

Back in his office, Speer stared out the window and suddenly realized the giant flying boats were gone from the harbor. For a moment he felt a rush of panic as it occurred to him that Baumbach might have flown away without him.
(An excerpt from Germania, first published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, now also available on Kindle here).

KG200 Flying Boats Explode in Flensburg Harbor

The four flying boats were being kept in a remote corner of Flensburg harbor in a cove nestled among the broken hills which descended like steps from the side of the fjord.

It was where utility boats, small barges and other shallow-draft harbor craft docked and where the harbor patrol had one of its auxiliary stations. Shortly after the aircraft’s unannounced appearance, Doenitz ordered them towed there, in order to keep them inaccessible and out of public view. Their crews were ordered off them, except for a handful that stayed to look after the aircraft. In addition, a guard was placed there around-the-clock to prevent any unauthorized tampering.

But when Cremer and his men drove in through the compound’s back gates, they were surprised to find that everything was dark and none of the buildings showed any indication that anyone was inside. Then, hearing a low whistle, Cremer peered into the dark and saw one of his petty officers crouched among some stacked pipe, furtively waving at them. He and the others had been hiding there all day, he told them. Several hours earlier, a detachment of kettenhunde, Naval guardsmen, drove up from town and ordered everyone out, after which all the lights were shut down. All but one of the lights, he told Cremer, insisting he come up and see for himself what was going on underneath it.

They quietly made their way down the hillside to an equipment-strewn storage yard built onto the bluff overlooking the cove. Looking toward the harbor, Cremer could see the light of the streetlamp blazing into the blackness. On the way they came to a row of small metal storage sheds, in whose shadow four more of his men were hiding, including Manni Loerber, dressed in navy coveralls and trying hard not to look like a lifetime civilian. One look at his face and it was plain that he had no idea what had happened to the British either.

Leaving the others there, Cremer and the petty officer continued crawling up to the edge of the bluff. Cremer looked down and saw the lamp, standing at the foot of a small boat dock which extended out into the water like a long, narrow finger pointing at the spot out in the water where, half-hidden in the shadows, the four mammoth aircraft were moored.

But that wasn’t all. Clustered underneath the lamp stood a large group of people, easily thirty of them, mostly men, but a few women as well, all of them dressed for travel, in raincoats and heavy hats. They stood with baggage at their feet, as if waiting for a bus. Most of the men were heavyset in a way that suggested their girth was commensurate to their importance, men used to living well and eating amply. Gauleiters, thought Cremer. The handful of women were, on the other hand, nearly all tall and slim, and probably quite young. Only one or two looked like they might be wives.

There were others as well, Luftwaffe personnel, some in utility coveralls and flying suits, others in combat gear, clutching submachine guns. They moved about, attending busily to this and that, talking with each other, checking their watches, occasionally staring out speculatively into the darkness, keeping purposefully apart from the passengers.

The travelers started arriving an hour earlier, the petty officer whispered to Cremer. They’d come in their own cars, which the Luftwaffe men then took and drove away to a far corner of the yard. It had been forty minutes since the last one had arrived. They seemed to be still waiting for somebody.

Out on the water, one of the flying boats was starting to come to life. A row of circular lights blinked on along its fuselage, from below the cockpit to amidships. A moment later, another line snapped on, this one slightly lower than the other, going from amidships all the way to the tail. They weren’t running lights, Cremer realized, but portholes. Someone inside was turning on the interior cabin lights. Red lights filled the cockpit as the silhouettes of two men moved into the compartment and settled into their seats. They’re going through their primary instrument checks, Cremer thought. It’s still going to take a few minutes.

Cremer and the petty officer crawled back. Gathering everyone around him, Cremer laid out his ambush plan and showed everybody their positions. They’d wait till his signal before starting anything. The idea was to get them out in the open, away from their cars, hopefully up on the pier where their escape would be cut off. They would wait until Himmler’s group got clear of their cars but before they reached the dock and could join up with the milling group. Cremer would blow his whistle and the petty officer would use the bullhorn to announce they were all under arrest and unless they wanted to be shot they would immediately toss away their weapons and get down on the ground.

If shooting started, which he expected, they were to concentrate on the muscle, the guys with the machine guns. They’d prefer to capture Himmler alive, but if he made things difficult, then too bad for him! But mainly they wanted to pull Franzi Loerber away from the group. He was the one who looked like Captain Loerber and his brother Manfred here. Take a good look at them in case you don’t already know what they look like, gentlemen. Good luck to us all!

Everyone went to their positions. Suddenly everything was quiet again. Cremer looked at Ziggy, crouched in the shadows. He was looking strange again. What was with him, Cremer wondered. He’d known him most of his adult life and that whole time he was the straightest, calmest, most unimaginatively reliable man he’d ever met. But once back in the bosom of his weird family, he’d become a different person, someone given to trances and psychic pronouncements. And Manni, what the hell was he? When Ziggy had introduced them the day before, Cremer’s immediate impression was that the guy was a total freak.

Staring out past the flying boats into the harbor, seeing the buoy lights swaying with the waves, he thought of all the U-boat patrols he and Ziggy had been on, back before Ziggy had gotten his own command. He wondered if his friend’s famous luck only held at sea or if it would extend to land operations. He prayed it would, since without it, this misbegotten adventure would likely end up in a complete massacre. Their only real chance was to get Himmler’s group off-guard and bluff them into believing there was something more formidable coming at them than a bunch of U-boat sailors armed with pistols and Tommy-guns.

Out in the harbor, all of the anchored warships kept their lights burning, if for no other reason than to not be obstacles to navigation. It made Flensburg harbor look alive and bustling. But the sad fact was that by this point, except for the minesweepers, few ships had anything more than skeleton crews aboard them. Their crews were all permanently ashore now, either massed in some British-run prisoner of war enclosure or waiting to be put in one, or already demobilized and sent home. As for the ships, unless the allies chose to use them for something, they were all lifeless things.

A few small patrol boats combed the waters, searchlights blazing back and forth, happily oblivious to what was going on nearby on land. That’s it, thought Cremer, keep the tension up, but nothing out of the ordinary. Don’t spook them, don’t let them think any of this is the slightest bit different.

The Luftwaffe man in charge stepped out on the dock where the people on the flying boat could see him and held his hands out to show he didn’t know where whoever-it-was, was. Then he turned to the passengers and told them something which didn’t seem to allay their growing impatience. Cremer looked at his watch and realized twenty minutes had gone by. Where were they? What were they supposed to do if Himmler’s group didn’t show? Could it be that they were actually escaping some other way. This whole thing was definitely a massive cock-up.

“Headlights!” someone whispered.

“It’s them!” hissed someone else from the other side of the rise. “Two Horches!”

From where he was, Cremer couldn’t see anything, except scattered illuminations of the headlights on some of the moored boats. But he could hear the approaching cars’ engines coming up the harbor road.

But the Luftwaffe men could see them. One of them began walking up the dock, signaling the pilot. Immediately the flying boat’s six engines sputtered and whined as the large, three-bladed propellers began to turn, slowly at first, then faster and faster as the engines’ metallic whine turned into a loud roar. At the same time another Luftwaffe man stepped forward and waved for the Horches to come up close. But instead, the cars halted nearly a hundred yards away. After a quick, heated exchange of words with the man on the dock, he and two others started towards the cars to see what the deal was.

“Shit!” hissed Cremer. “We need to move over, where we can see what’s going on. Quick!”

They stepped back to keep out of view, then, silently as they could, made their way over to the side of the bluff overlooking the harbor road. It turned out they couldn’t see anything from there either. Cremer turned and saw Ziggy, looking more lost and desperate than ever before.

“What is it?” they heard one of the Luftwaffe men yell at the Himmler party. “You’re supposed to drive up. We’re not running a porter service here.”

“I want you to put out that light!” Macher’s voice yelled back. “Now!”

“We need it on! We’re still loading!” the Luftwaffe man shouted back angrily.

“That’s your problem,” barked Macher. “Kill it now!”

A moment later someone hit a switch and everything was back in darkness. “All right, then,” said Macher. “Keep coming.”

Then there was silence. Cremer started moving to another position. Finally he found a spot where he could see the cars. But in the darkness it was hard to make out anything. There were people moving around, bending over and picking up things. He tried to figure out who was who, but there was so much commotion, he got confused.

Four of them started walking toward the dock in a tight group. Then he recognized the trilby hat he’d seen Himmler wearing back at the farmhouse. Here we go, he thought, slipping the police whistle between his lips. He just needed to get them a little further from the cars, a little closer to the dock and then he’d give the signal.

Then, suddenly, a siren ripped through the stillness and at the same time searchlights flashed on, striking the group with their blinding beams. There was shouting as hands shot up to shield faces from the searing light. Then shooting broke out and the group that had momentary been frozen, broke into scattered, frenzied flight. Two of the figures began running toward the dock, ripping off their overcoats as they did, shouting and waving desperately not to shoot them. But the other two ran back, to the cars, all the while returning submachine-gun fire. More fire was coming from the cars as their engines roared back to life. As the sirens continued to howl, some of their fire hit the searchlights, several of which instantly faded out. One of the men running toward the docks screamed as he collapsed, writhing to the ground. The other clutched his arm before the side of his head exploded.

Cremer stood up. “Everyone hold your fire!” he shouted at his men.

Meanwhile on the dock the passengers were scattering any direction they could, some running into each other, some jumping into the water, others getting hit by bullets, bleeding, screaming with the outrage, the injustice of it all.

And then, just as suddenly, the flying boat exploded in a huge burst of flame.

As the explosion thundered, blotting out even the wailing siren, there was a screeching of tires and a roar of engines as the two Horches turned and tore back down the way they came, still firing at their ambushers as they did.

Frantically, Cremer started gathering his dazed group. “Pull back!” he shouted. “Quickly! We’re getting out of here! Now! Move!”

But Ziggy wasn’t moving. He looked blankly at Cremer, who, seeing his disorientation, grabbed his arm and, with the help of one of his men, pulled him along as they withdrew back up the hillside.

By the time they reached their cars, the huge aircraft was being consumed in flames that lit up the sky. There was a continual cracking of smaller explosions as ammunition inside the aircraft cooked off. Cremer wondered how he was ever going to explain any of this to Doenitz. But at the moment his main urge was to get his men out of there.

“Everyone into the cars,” he ordered in a calm voice.

But Manni stepped in front of him, resolute and serious. “We’ve got to go back and get Franzi!” he shouted.

“How the hell are we going to do that?” Cremer shouted back. “We don’t even know where they’ve gone.”

“I bet Ziggy knows,” said Manni. He grabbed his brother by the shoulders and gave him a slight shake. “Where are they going, Ziggy?” he asked softly, as one might question a child. “Where are they taking Franzi?”

Ziggy looked at Manni like he didn’t recognize him. “Franzi?” he asked. “Franzi?” He turned and stared down the harbor road, like he was waiting for a reply. Then he looked at Manni and then at Cremer, his eyes alert and clear.

“They’re on their way to Schloss Glucksburg,” he told them. “They’re going to make Speer pay for this!”

(A different version of this story, told from Himmler party's point of view, appears in Germania, published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, now also available on Kindle here.)

Flensburg: Beers with British Spies

When Ziggy returned to the offices, Ludde Neurath was sitting at his desk. He looked worried. “Some British officers came looking for you,” he said.

“For me?” asked Ziggy, wondering what Westerby wanted this time.

Ludde Neurath nodded. “Two of them. They wanted to bring you over to the Patria for questioning.” He searched Ziggy’s eyes while he spoke. “The Old Man thought there was something dodgy about them and told them they couldn’t. He told them it wasn’t part of the deal. He said if they wanted to talk to you they would have to either do it here or they could arrest you, in which case their request would have to be in writing.”

“Oh,” said Ziggy, relishing the thought of Westerby getting turned away. “So what was dodgy about them?”

“The way they wouldn’t identify themselves,” said Ludde Neurath. “They didn’t have any papers authorizing them. Usually we get some notification first. They also weren’t interested in talking to you here. When I told them you’d be back, they said they didn’t want to wait.” He waited a moment, then asked solemnly: “Is there something you should perhaps be telling me about?”

Ziggy shrugged dismissively. “There was a British officer who hounded me a little when I was at Montgomery’s headquarters,” he said. “And he was waiting for me at the airport when we came back from Berlin. He knows that my brother was with Himmler’s party that night in Ploen. He thinks I might know where they are now.”

“Do you?” asked Ludde Neurath.

“No,” answered Ziggy.

“That’s good,” said Ludde Neurath. “We were thinking, maybe you shouldn’t be here from now on. We can have you doing something less visible until things quiet down.”

“Let me think about it,” Ziggy told him.

Ludde Neurath nodded and went back to the inner suite. The afternoon wore on. The flow of supplicants and other visitors petered out. At six o’clock Ludde Neurath told Ziggy he could leave. Ziggy fetched his leather overcoat and left. On his way down the stairs he saw a British officer waiting at the landing below, leaning against the window chatting with a janitor. It was Westerby. Seeing Ziggy approach, he straightened up, and, smoothing down his jacket with a quick sweep of his hands, broke off his conversation with the janitor and stepped forward into Ziggy’s path.

“Ahh, Capitan Loerber!” he said, feigning surprise and delight. “How nice to see you.”

“Good afternoon, Major Westerby,” answered Ziggy.

“So how are things?” Westerby asked.

“Oh, everything seems to be going just fine. How is it for your group?”

“Oh, busy, busy,” said Westerby. “You know how it is. There are never enough hours in the day. They have us running around from one place to the next. Half our orders are contradictory.” He fumed agreeably to show they were both essentially in the same boat.

Ziggy nodded.

Westerby widened his eyes. “Come for a drink,” he said. “I know a little place just around the corner.” He pointed behind him with his thumb. “What do you say? Beer and a chin wag among colleagues. Besides, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

At least it was a different tack from the strong-arming they’d evidently tried upstairs, thought Ziggy. He’d appreciated how Doenitz had stood up to them, but he also doubted there was much point in trying to resist. If they wanted to interrogate him, they’d easily find a way.

“A beer would be nice,” agreed Ziggy.

“That’s the ticket,” said Westerby. “Right, come along.”

They walked quickly out the gates and downhill toward the waterfront, their boots marking a crisp tattoo against the cobblestones. They passed milling groups of forlorn, resentful-looking soldiers, Westerby nodding to them while keeping up his jaunty pace, like this was a fine day and he was glad to be strolling around, enjoying the air. Up ahead the Patria loomed gray and ugly in the dimming, early evening light. Ziggy noticed it had a Union Jack fluttering atop its mast.

Once underway, Westerby no longer seemed compelled to make small talk. Ziggy could sense an alertness and intensity to him he hadn’t noticed previously. As they made their way along the quayside past the tied-up tugs and minesweepers, Ziggy wondered what the interrogation would be like. Westerby’s cordiality didn’t fool him. He already knew that for all their outward manners the British were real bastards whenever there was something they really wanted. Once they’d have him aboard the ship, he’d effectively be in British territory and they could do what they liked.

Standing at the foot of the gangway were two British troopers in full battle gear, their Enfield rifles fixed with bayonets. Menacingly they eyed Ziggy as he and Westerby approached. This is where it ends, thought Ziggy dismally. Oh well, he told himself, at least he’d had a decent run. Sixteen patrols, one hundred sixty thousand tons, two destroyers, and he’d always brought his crew home. That was something. But to his surprise, instead of turning to go up the gangway onto the ship, Westerby walked past it like the Patria wasn’t even there.

“We’re not going aboard?” asked Ziggy.

“Heavens no,” said Westerby with a shudder. “This is a social call.”

They kept walking. The town of Flensburg stood at the far end of the quay. They went past several ancient brick warehouses, and then turned onto a side street, walking past rows of shuttered shop-fronts. Halfway up an alley they came to the back entrance of an old hotel. The door opened and some Wehrmacht officers came out, laughing among themselves, obviously drunk. The sight of Westerby and Ziggy failed to evince any interest from them. One of them even held open the door for them. Going through a small vestibule lined with dustbins and mops, they entered a narrow corridor painted an ugly green, with more soldiers making their way out, buttoning their coats and putting on their caps as they did. They also paid scant attention to Westerby as if the presence of British soldiers was no longer anything exceptional. At the end of the corridor a beefy-looking petty officer guarded a door. He coldly eyed them both, but then, recognizing Westerby, nodded, and ushered them inside.

It was a pub, all right, dark and smoky and smelling of spilled beer, with soldiers and sailors of all ranks sitting clustered in groups at long, battered wooden tables. They weren’t all German, either. More than a few were British. There were even a few Americans. There wasn’t much mixing, but at the same time, nobody seemed particularly bothered by the others’ presence.

“I thought there wasn’t supposed to be any fraternization,” said Ziggy.

“There isn’t,” answered Westerby. “That’s why it’s going on here.”

They went to an empty table in the back of the pub and sat down at one end across from each other. A waiter came, set down three steins of beer, put down a paper chit on the table, put down three marks and moved on.

Ziggy took his beer, sliding it closer to him. Westerby did the same, but then folded his hands on the table like he was waiting patiently.

Ziggy eyed the third beer. “So where’s your colleague?” he asked.

Westerby nodded over to the corner of the room. Ziggy turned to look and noticed a trim figure heading towards them. He recognized him at once. It was his brother Manni, grinning at him like the Cheshire cat. He sat down next to Westerby. “Hello Ziggy,” he said, barely able to contain his effervescence. He pointed to the beer. “Is this for me?”

Ziggy was stunned. He stared at his brother, unable to speak. Westerby gave a slight smirk. “I’d like to introduce you to a colleague of mine,” he said. “But as I can see, you’re already acquainted.”

“What do you mean ‘colleague?’” Ziggy managed to ask.

“What I mean,” answered Westerby unblinkingly, “is that your brother Manfred has been my prize agent for the last ten years.”

Manni flashed out his hands. “Surprise!” he giggled. “You’re not mad, are you?” he asked, with fake anxiousness.

“You’re a British spy?” asked Ziggy, still thoroughly taken aback.

"That’s nothing,” Manni whispered, his eyebrows raised as he leaned forward, “Franzi’s a Russian one.”

Ziggy stared at him for a long time, like he couldn’t be sure any of it was real. Then Westerby cleared his throat. Ziggy saw the exasperated expression on his face. He was obviously irritated by the way Manni was treating what was to him still a deadly serious subject. Looking at Westerby, Ziggy realized for the first time the man was deeply worried.

“Which is why I’ve asked you both here tonight,” said Westerby. “Franzi is in a perilous situation right now, and it’s important we get him out.”

“Come on, Ziggy,” cooed Manni. “Say you’re glad to see me!”

Ziggy ignored him and continued to look at Westerby. Something had gone extremely wrong, that was why he had brought him here. This time he wasn’t just fishing for information. He was in a deep fix and Manni, being Manni, was not being any help.

So Manni, the quintessentially silly person that he was, had been working for the British and despite all that, he’d apparently been successful enough to have survived doing it. Amazing, he thought. And now the war is over and here is Westerby finding out that his prize agent is first and foremost a prize loon!

"I thought you said Franzi was your friend, but here you’re telling me that Manni is your agent. What is going on?”

“Well, you can hardly expect me to reveal the identity of my agent to you while there was still a war on, old boy,” drawled Westerby. “But yes, what I told you was the truth. Franzi was my friend. He is also a brave soldier and spy and right now there are a lot of people after him. I’m going to need your help to get him out of Himmler’s clutches. There is an awful lot at stake here, Captain Loerber. If you’re interested, I’ll explain it to you. Otherwise you’re free to leave now. What is it?"

Ziggy decided to stay.

Once Westerby started speaking, it was as if a veil had dropped, revealing an aspect of him that until now had been hidden. Franzi was in deep trouble but then so was Westerby. In the ten days since Ziggy first met him, he’d found himself on the other side of the looking glass and now there was no longer anyone on his own side he could trust. That was why he’d come to Ziggy now. The situation was desperate and he needed help.

Yes, it was about SS gold, but it was also a lot of other things, other people, other sides, other interests. There wasn’t anything that he could put his finger on. All he really had were a lot of suspicions and definite bad feelings. But for someone in his business that was all he needed.

What was particularly telling, he said, was how much interest there was in Franzi from so many different quarters, but also from his own organization. It didn’t make sense. True, Franzi was now part of Himmler’s inner circle, but then so were a lot of other, more important people, people like Macher, Grothmann, and Gebhardt, except nobody in London was screaming for their hides like they were screaming for poor Franzi Loerber’s, who on the face of it wasn’t anything more than a crackpot homosexual masseur and fortuneteller! No one in London was supposed to know he was a spy. Westerby had gone out of his way to make sure no one did. Why then all the interest?

“You, Captain Loerber, happen to be the first person in creation whom I have informed of that fact. So why is everybody wanting him. I mean, even if they had figured out that he was our Joe, even that should not have excited the interest that it had. Not unless they’d figured out about the Russian connection. But how could that be?”

Westerby explained how it had started. He’d been in Berlin since the 1920s, operating under trade cover of a Swedish businessman. His real job of course had been as a talent spotter for British Intelligence. As a habitué of the Berlin cabaret scene, he’d gotten to know many performers including Franzi and Manni.

Manni hadn’t been Westerby‘s first choice. It had been Franzi and he’d spent more than a year getting to know him and feeling him out. But when he did finally make his pitch, Franzi to his shock and consternation told him he had already gone to work for the Russians. It was something he had already started having doubts about. But you know how it is, he told Westerby; once you’re in, you’re in. The important thing was that he’d at least be fighting fascism this way. Sadly Westerby had to agree and decided not to force the issue. He knew the Bolsheviks weren’t ones to countenance changes of heart. They shook hands and wished each other good luck, maybe we’ll meet again after the war.

Dutifully Westerby wired back ‘no sale!’ to London, without going into any interesting details. Then he proceeded to recruit Manni Loerber, who despite all his incipient silliness, turned out to be an outstanding agent.

By then it was the middle of summer and war was on the horizon. Germany and Russia had just surprised everyone with their sudden entente and their armies were already massing along Poland’s borders. As he was about to leave, Westerby instructed Manni to be ready for the opportunity where he might bring his brother into the fold, though were he to do so, he should under no circumstances reveal his identity to London.

Then, when halfway through the war, Manni began sending material that appeared to originate from SS Headquarters, Westerby surmised Franzi had been won over. Westerby’s bosses were at first delighted, but quickly grew curious, then suspicious. Who was this source? they demanded. Westerby professed ignorance. It was somebody, he told them, somebody Manni knows who’s decided to spill information. Manni can do that, he told them, he’s very charming, very manipulative.

It was nice stuff, but at the same time, it wasn’t anything that could be classified as ‘top drawer.’ The information it provided was more corroborative than anything else. Even so, the overlords remained unduly curious as to who it could be coming from.

He told them he didn’t know. Finally, after a lot of hemming and hawing and beating around the bush, they asked him point-blank if he thought it might be Franzi Loerber. He told them he didn’t think so and gave a number of reason why not. The two brothers had had a serious falling out and weren’t speaking. Being in the Annenherbe, an SS mystical research institute, Franzi was far from the SS mainstream. Besides, he was much more of a committed Nazi than he’d initially thought. To put them off track, Westerby described what a social butterfly Manni was and how he enjoyed a wide circle of acquaintance. It was much more likely that the material was coming from one of those sources. They tried to pick his explanation apart, but Westerby held firm until they seemed to lose interest.

It didn’t last, though. Shortly after that they were back under other pretenses, wanting to know what he knew about Franzi Loerber, what he remembered, what his impressions were of him, never saying why they were interested. He told them as little as he could without appearing like he was holding back on them. But something, he knew, was definitely up.

Westerby had that old-school fieldman’s near-pathological fear of ever letting his employers know too much about anything he felt they didn’t need to know.

Manni slapped his hand upon Westerby’s shoulder. “All this time, Westerby’s been looking out for Franzi, like a guardian angel. I mean this man is a complete prince!” he declared with a surprising gush of emotion.

“It’s true, Captain Loerber,” said Westerby. “There’s been hardly a night during the last three years when I wasn’t worrying about him. I’d thought that if I could come up with something either dull or clever enough I could kill their interest in him, but, I’m sorry to say, that’s not how it worked out. Since the beginning of the year, I’ve been approached by people outside the Service asking about him, all kinds of people. I don’t know how it got out, but it did. Right now, he’s one of the most hunted men in Europe.”

“What kind of other people?” asked Ziggy.

“Germans, Swedes, people who act like they’re Brits or Americans, Russians, Jews. It was bad during the war, but now it’s a flood. Once they get him, they’re all going to tear him apart.”

“Honestly, I thought it would be easy once I got here. My guess was that with all the chaos going on, for a while at least, people would have other things on their minds and I could come in and spirit him away. But I was wrong about that too.”

Westerby ran his finger along the side of his beer glass, wiping off the moisture clinging to its surface. He stared at the glass in angry silence and even Manni didn’t seem to feel compelled to fill in the moment with one of his jokes.

“I figure this is our last chance,” Westerby said finally. “I can’t do this on my own. There’s nobody on my own side I can trust.” Then, to Ziggy’s utter shock, Westerby grabbed his hand and turned it so the palm faced upwards. “Look!” he implored. “Look, Captain Loerber, there must be something you can see! You have to find out where your brother is. You’re our only hope!”

Ziggy stared down helplessly at his palm, not having any idea what he was supposed to be seeing there. He looked back up at Westerby, lost.

“Look!” Westerby repeated, fairly shouting. “Find him!” He wasn’t imploring, he was giving orders, the same way Ziggy had ordered faltering crewmen back to their stations during the worst part of a depth charge attack. “What-do-you-see?”

Ziggy didn’t see anything. He didn’t do palm reading. There wasn’t anything there. It was just a goddamn palm for Christ’s sake, nothing but lines and creases and folds. He knew he had to deliver, had to give Westerby something, anything! He stared harder.

“You must get past your ill feelings,” said Westerby suddenly. “Do it for him, please! He told me about what happened that time. It’s not important, you know that. Do it for him. You’re the only one who can help him now. Without you he’s lost!”

Ziggy burned with embarrassment. He wished Westerby would go away. He wanted to run off away from Westerby, away from Manni. Go back to the calm and safety of Cremer’s Guard Battalion and let what happens happen.

Westerby’s grip tightened on his hand. He could tell Westerby was reading it all. He looked down on his palm. The web of lines on it was as dense and chaotic as the erratic routes of Himmler’s convoy crisscrossing the countryside ahead of their pursuers. Their paths had no apparent destination or goals, merely outrunning the dogs, but never managing to find a haven for very long.

Franzi, was he far or near? What were his eyes seeing? What was he thinking? What did his skin feel? Warmth or cold? Cold or warmth? Cold. Dry or damp? Dry. What was he smelling? Cooked cabbage and tinned beef, cold on a plate. Cigarette smoke, open window and a night breeze, smell of pine. Pine trees outside the window, the wind blowing through them. Ziggy felt his eyes glaze as his focus narrowed, looking past the lines.

They were in a farmhouse, a different one than earlier. They were inland, but still close enough to smell the sea. They’re keeping within reach of Flensburg. Forest nearby, men hiding inside it. A line of kubelwagens hidden under camouflaged tarps. They’re staying put, waiting for something to come. Everyone is tense. Arrangements for escape keep falling through.

“No one’s going anywhere until the gold comes,” Ziggy said aloud.

“Where are they?” asked Westerby.

Ziggy didn’t know.

“Find a landmark!”

He had to get Franzi to go outside and look around. But it was not allowed. Go outside Franzi! Make an excuse, tell him something. The stars! Tell them you have to look at the stars! He could feel Franzi getting up from the table and shuffling outside ignoring the voice, Macher’s, asking him what the hell he thinks he’s doing? But Franzi has already pushed the door open and has stepped outside into the farmyard. The pine trees are roaring in the wind. Franzi turned his head up to stare at the night sky, the broken clouds sailing overhead. Look around, Franzi! Find me a landmark! Something! Nearby was a small stand of pine trees and beyond were fields with a forest beyond it. He could sense Franzi turning around and walking to the front of the farmhouse. There was a lane leading up to a road a hundred yards ahead bordering the farm. Franzi’s eyes followed the road down into a shallow valley where he saw a town full of darkened houses and a church tower and just beyond that there was a castle, low with four stubby towers on the corners, topped with high cone-like roofs. He could see it stood against the shimmering black water of a lake. And then Macher came and grabbed Franzi and the connection was broken.

“That’s definitely Schloss Glucksburg,” Manni said confidently, after Ziggy described what he’d seen.

"Do you know how to get there?” asked Westerby.

Manni chuckled. “Well I should,” he told them. “That’s where I live now,” he announced with a pronounced touch of self-importance. “Me and Speer and General Baumbach.”

“Baumbach of KG200?” asked Westerby. “You’ve never mentioned him before.”

“Well I only met him yesterday,” Manni answered. “Speer wanted me there to help set up his office.”

“Do you think Himmler knows this?” asked Ziggy.

“As a rule of thumb, the Reichsfuhrer knows everything,” quipped Manni. “He still runs all three of Germany’s intelligence services. He should know who his next-door neighbors are.”

“Can you take us there?”

“Sure.”

Westerby turned to Ziggy. “We may need some more help on this. Do you think your friend Cremer would mind cooperating?”

“I could ask.”

Westerby folded his hands together. “I guess now we’re getting somewhere. Talk to Cremer, see what you can get from him. We have to make this work. Franzi has done more to defeat the Nazis than probably anyone in this whole war. And what’s going to happen is the victors will feast on him,” said Westerby.

“Of course Manni here is also a great unsung hero of the war,” he added, not a little sardonically.

Manni waved him off. “Just don’t go including me in any of this. You know me, I’m just a humble entertainer, an artist. I don’t concern myself with the political sphere. That was something Franzi was passionate about, not me!”

They got up to leave. Manni went his own way but Westerby decided to walk back with Ziggy to the Marineschule.

Once again, they slipped back into silence. Ziggy felt like he was now one very big step closer to getting Franzi. Westerby wasn’t such a bad sort, for an Englisher. He could work with him. He decided he should chat him a little about the earlier incident that day, when Westerby’s presence caused such a ruckus at the office.

"You know you managed to get the Grand Admiral riled quite a bit this afternoon,” he said.

"What are you talking about?” asked Westerby.

“Well you weren’t exactly very diplomatic about the way you demanded I go with you for questioning."

“What?”

“To the Patria,” continued Ziggy. “They’re actually still very bitter about the way you guys ejected them from it the other day.”

“I never did anything of the sort,” insisted Westerby.

“Well that’s what they told me you said when you came in with that other guy, acting like we were already your prisoners. The Grand Admiral is trying to be very ‘by the book’ about this, you know.”

“What other guy? I never came by your offices today.”

Ziggy looked at him in alarm.

“You mean some British officers came by today trying to take you to the Patria for questioning?”

“Yes, I was out. The way they described it, I assumed it was you.”

A worried look returned to Westerby’s face. “I’ve got a feeling the dogs are a lot closer on our trail than I’d thought. Be careful, Captain Loerber.”

When they reached the Patria, Westerby drew himself straight to attention and gave Ziggy a stiff salute. It was so far the only remotely military act which Ziggy had seen him perform. Ziggy returned the salute. “I’ll be in touch with you,” said Westerby. “Do talk to Cremer, see if he’s willing to help.”

“I want to thank you for looking out for my brother,” said Ziggy.

“If you’re speaking of Franzi, I’d tell you ‘not at all.’ But if you’re referring to Manfred, I’d tell you war is hell. Good night Captain Loerber.”

He turned and marched up the gangway onto the Patria’s main deck.
(This is a chapter deleted during the final cut of my novel Germania, first published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, now also available on Kindle here).