May Day 1945, Hamburg

Doenitz got up from his chair and opened the door to the outer office. Ludde-Neurath was staring at the war log. “Sir?” he asked, looking up.

"Captain, I need to ask you a question and I want a completely honest answer,” said Doenitz. “Do you ever get into conversations where during the course of it people say to each other or to you, “This war has to end.” Do you ever get into these conversations?”

For one very long, uncomfortable moment, Ludde-Neurath stared back hard at him like he wasn’t sure it was a trick question or something else. Then he answered, “Sure, all the time.”

"All the time?”

"Sir, what do you think people talk about?”

Doenitz nodded and went back into his office. He finished off the coffee, set the cup back down and rubbed his eyes. Then he switched off the desk lamp and in the darkness swiveled his chair around toward the window. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he saw the first light was beginning to gather in the Eastern sky. In another hour, the first allied air attacks would commence. They would hardly discriminate between refugees and military traffic.

Today was May first, May Day. A funny time to start.

###

Later that morning, Doenitz convened his first government meeting. He announced to his staff that he was now the Head of State and would be seeking an immediate cessation of hostilities with the West while continuing military operations to support the evacuation of the Baltic.

But it was May Day; Day of Revolt. And in Hamburg, the surviving residents declared a Socialist Revolution. In keeping with a century-old tradition, they hung red flags from lampposts, buildings, windows, anywhere they could. Of course the only red flags anybody could find had big circles with swastikas at their centers. But once those were cut out and discarded, everyone agreed they served their historic function quite sufficiently. Kaufmann, the Hamburg gauleiter, sent Doenitz an ultimatum: if he did not allow them to declare Hamburg an open city, they would turn against the city’s defenders in order to avoid further British attacks. Doenitz was furious, but there was nothing he could do. He radioed a request to the British for a truce.

By now his government was seven hours old. It consisted of himself, Speer and two advisors. Speer pointed out that they needed someone to handle diplomatic affairs. They spent the better part of the morning searching for someone to fill the combined post of chancellor and foreign minister. Within hours, candidates began to show up. The first was von Ribbentrop, Hitler’s old foreign minister. As usual, he was drunk. He loudly demanded Doenitz restore him to his post, citing his close friendship with the current British Prime Minister, “Mr. Vincent Churchill.” He was promptly ejected from the premises. Himmler arrived next with Count Schwerin von Krosigk, the old finance minister and a onetime Rhodes Scholar, upon whose coattails Himmler hoped to ride back into power. Doenitz ejected Himmler and kept von Krosigk, if for no other reason than to prevent the Reichsfuhrer from forming a shadow government.

They held another government meeting. Von Krosigk conceded that at this point their diplomatic options were few. He too had heard the rumor about Schellenberg’s negotiations with Eisenhower but after having spent the morning with the Reichsfuhrer, he had no reason to believe it had any basis in fact. “One thing is certain, Grand Admiral,” he said to Doenitz. “We’ve only got one card we can play; the Russian card. If we can convince them that without our help, they too will be swallowed up by the Red Tide, we might have something.”

Then someone pointed out that the question of whether Hitler was alive or not still remained and not knowing might hamper any negotiations. That glaring fact had slipped their minds. Not long after that, a final telegram came from the bunker informing Doenitz that Hitler had died the previous day, several hours, in fact, before Doenitz received word of his appointment. The Fuhrerbunker and all of Berlin went silent. That night, Doenitz went on the radio and announced Hitler was dead.

The next morning Doenitz summoned Admiral von Friedeburg, his longtime deputy and new head of the Navy. “I want you to go to Field Marshal Montgomery and negotiate an end to the fighting,” he told him. “Try to get him to agree to a partial surrender in the Northern Sector, but above all, persuade him to give safe conduct to civilian refugees and to retreating military personnel. I know we are in no position to bargain. We are beaten. Nevertheless you must do this for the sake of our people. You must get him to agree.”

Watching von Friedeburg leave, Doenitz felt a momentary surge of hope. Von Friedeburg was the best man he had; tough, courageous, forthright and professional. His presence made Doenitz feel, at least in that instant, that his government might rise above all the prevailing depravity and opportunism and make something of it that was decent and good.

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

A U-Boat Captain and a Jewish Assassin Discuss the Future over Coffee

The waiter brought their coffee and left. Ziggy stared into his cup and the small white ceramic jars of sugar and milk. The war wasn’t over yet and even a rundown French cafe like this one had coffee, and milk and sugar to go with it.

"I’m sure it’s all been stolen from the Americans,” said Sebastian. For a moment Ziggy wondered whether his brother had read his mind.

"I didn’t have to read your mind for that. It’s all pretty obvious,” said Sebastian.

Ziggy glared at Sebastian. Sebastian looked back exasperated. “Look, Ziggy, I’m on a job and I don’t have the time or energy to turn it on or off just to be polite.”

"On a job?”

"I’m with the Blood of Israel. We have to get Franzi out.” Sebastian leaned forward. “Let me ask you this, Ziggy. Have you thought about what’s going to happen to us now that the war is over and the Nazis are beaten?"

"Us as in the Loerber Brothers?” asked Ziggy.

"Sebastian gripped the table with both hands. “No goddammit! Us as in the Jews!

"Yes, we’re the ones who’ve suffered the most in this war and now we’re about to be conveniently forgotten. The West should be standing up for us, but let’s face it, they’ll be the first ones to act like the whole thing never happened. And where is that going to leave us? With nothing.”

Ziggy nodded impassively. He particularly dreaded Sebastian’s didactic discussions where the point was waiting, hidden somewhere among a minefield of polemics.

"Ziggy, the Jewish people need a homeland. The West owes it to us, for sitting on their thumbs while millions of us got butchered. But do you think they feel any obligation toward us? Hah! They’re too busy cutting cozy deals with the SS to help fight their war against the Russians. It’s not in their interest to acknowledge what we’ve been through.”

Ziggy tried hard to imagine Bedell Smith cutting a deal with the SS, but he guessed the point would be lost on Sebastian. “What does this have to do with Franzi?” he asked.

"I’m coming to that, Ziggy. My point is that they’re not going to give us our homeland out of niceness or guilt. The only way they’ll do it is if we have a dagger at their throats. And with all the dirt Franzi has on everybody, they’ll give us anything we ask for just to keep it from getting out.”

Sebastian brought the coffee cup to his lips, but once there he put it back on its saucer without tasting it. “Listen to me, Ziggy. I can’t do this alone. I’m going to need your help.”

"Have you thought about using Manni for this? He seems like a better bet than me.”

"No,” said Sebastian, with surprising vehemence. “I can’t work with Manni.”

"Not even for Franzi?”

"No.”

Neither said anything for a while. They drank their coffee and looked around the room. Outside the sun was starting to get low. Ziggy hoped von Friedeburg hadn’t woken up yet.

Then Sebastian looked at Ziggy. “You think I like getting dragged back into all that Loerber crap? Believe me, I was a lot more eager to get away from it than you were. And magic? I only started doing the stuff with the dreams a couple months ago. I hate doing it, but you know something? This is war and in a war you use the weapons you have. Dreams sow terror in goyim hearts and that is priceless.”

"I take it you don’t care much for goyim,” said Ziggy.

"I don’t hate them per se, but I’m not going to pretend to be one just to save my lousy skin.”

Ziggy felt the barb strike him. “I didn’t do it to save my skin,” he shot back.

Sebastian arched an eyebrow. “Oh? So then why did you go into the Navy?”

Ziggy looked away. He thought about Luth and Cremer. He thought about poor old von Friedeburg having his fitful sleep on that bed and what Doenitz had said to him on the bridge and all the men who’d kept his secret, all dead now, except for Cremer. I’d joined to prove I could be a good German, he thought to himself, and no one could say I wasn’t. And he thought about all the photographs and all the bodies. He looked back at Sebastian and thought, at least he’ll never need to justify his sanctimoniousness.

"Sebastian, what do you want me to say? I made that choice ten years ago. You can’t change the past.”

"But don’t you see, that’s where you’re wrong,” cried Sebastian. “You can join us. Put your past behind you and be what you always were; a Jew.”

Be a Jew. Ziggy felt overwhelmed by the sheer simplicity of the idea. It felt right, the way it had echoed in his heart, sitting in temple when he was young, like waves on the ocean. It was also perfectly absurd. “Sebastian, I’m a Nazi U-Boat captain.” He pulled open the neck of his trench coat so his brother could see his Iron Cross. “Brilliants, swords and oak leaves, Sebastian. There’s no wiping that slate clean.”

Sebastian shook his head. “Come on Ziggy. You think you’re the only one who did things they’re ashamed of? Almost anyone who survived the camps did terrible things, Ziggy, things that make you look like a saint. You know what we tell them? We say, stop blaming yourself for what you had to do. Quit torturing yourself for the things that were outside your control. All that we demand is that you be a Jew among Jews.”

"In Palestine?”

"Yes, of course, it’s the only place we can ever be safe.”

Sebastian sounded so convincing that even though Ziggy knew what he was saying had to be full of holes, he couldn’t think of any arguments to the contrary. “So I take it you have a plan,” he said.

"Well yes, but it’s not completely worked out.”

"Explain what is worked out.”

"Well,” began Sebastian, “we know Himmler has set up his headquarters in a chateau a few miles outside Flensburg. The time to go in is now, while there are enough people that it’ll still be easy to confuse them. By tomorrow they may have moved on somewhere else. We’ve got a plane waiting, we could be there before midnight. We both put on SS uniforms, distract, confuse, act as decoys for each other. Get in close, grab him, get him out, like that!”

"It sounds harebrained,” said Ziggy.

"We’ve pulled off more with less.”

Ziggy nodded. It was true.

"It won’t be without problems,” said Sebastian. “Himmler’s got a guy working for him named Macher. He’s a particularly tough nut.”

"I know, I’ve met him,” said Ziggy.

Palestine. It sounded like it might be a good idea. Certainly there wouldn’t be much point in staying in Germany. He didn’t see why the Allies would be interested in rebuilding it. For all he knew, they’d let it revert to cow pasture. In Palestine, he’d be just another pioneer refugee, not a Magical Loerber Brother, not Hitler’s Jewish U-Boat ace. He could live with that.

Wipe the slate clean. Everything that had happened in the last ten years didn’t happen at all or it happened to someone else, someone who lies dead on the bottom of the Atlantic in his iron coffin, or something very nearly like it.

They talked about it some more, the logistics, the weapons they had, the size of Himmler’s force. Sebastian seemed to have a lot of backup manpower at his disposal. Some were already in the area disguised as Wehrmacht, others as British.

He watched Sebastian holding the coffee cup to his lips as he spoke. The sophistication he exuded was so natural, Ziggy could hardly reconcile it with the fumbling affectations which had defined his memory of him. But then, we’ve all become something else, made by the times and circumstances we intersected with. Even the ships I sank, the ones I watched burn and break up, and making myself stand there on the bridge listening to the cries for help which I could not render, knowing myself at my most cruel and predatory, none of it will matter once it’s put behind me. A memory is inherently false, frozen in time, yet endlessly buffeted by shifting context.

"If we’re going to do it, we need to get going now,” Sebastian said quietly.

"Right,” said Ziggy. His throat felt constricted. He pushed the chair back and got to his feet, suddenly feeling like he was slipping off a trapeze. “I have to go back now.”

Sebastian looked at him, but didn’t say anything.

Thanks for saving my life,” said Ziggy and quickly went out the door.
(Excerpt from Germania, first published in 2008 by Simon & Schuster, now also available on Kindle here).

The Death of Admiral von Friedeburg as Observed by a British Guard

After accompanying von Friedeburg back to his quarters, the British soldier barked at the admiral’s orderly to help him pack. The orderly nodded and began opening the drawers of the admiral’s bureau and stuffing their contents into a suitcase. The soldier sat down on von Friedeburg’s bed and lit a cigarette, casually flicking the spent match onto the floor.

After staring at his suitcase for a minute, Von Friedeburg turned to him and said he needed to use the bathroom. “Help yourself,” the soldier replied, “just keep the door open.” He accompanied him to the bathroom and stood his post outside the doorway, to keep an eye on him.

And perhaps if he’d kept his eyes fixed directly inside the bathroom, everything might have worked out all right. But instead he turned and allowed other things to wander into his field of view. Nice things, shiny things, expensive silver, gold, bronze and marble things, sitting on the Admiral’s bureau and sideboard. Leaving his rifle resting against the wall, he strolled over and began helping himself to whatever came his way: a silver cigarette case, a plaque, a small clock, a bronze figurine, an ivory letter opener, an ornate magnifying glass. And while he was at it, he also took the Breton lace doilies that they’d been resting on. So enrapt was he in gathering spoils, he never noticed the bathroom door shutting until the sound of the key turning in the lock roused him from his beguilement.

Alarmed, he ran to the door and hammered on it with the butt of his rifle. His mission had been dirt-simple; deliver the prisoner alive with his bag packed. As long as he fulfilled that, he could get away with stealing anything he fancied. But they’d made a point of warning him against just this sort of thing. Only a week before, Preutzmann, one of the SS leaders, had committed suicide while in custody. And this guy was a lot higher up on the Nazi food chain. He was head of the Navy!

Finally the door came open and revealed the Admiral already slumped over on the toilet, his eyelids in their last flutter, his face beginning to turn blue, and everywhere the bitter scent of almonds. He’d taken cyanide!

The soldier ran back into the bedroom, where the orderly stood helpfully, but disinterestedly at attention. “Get a doctor!” he shouted. “Now!”

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

Admiral von Friedeburg Give His Final Salute, Takes His Leave

They drove down to the waterfront. There, on the quay beside the Patria, groups of people had gathered, talking nervously among themselves, like they knew they were about to witness something historical. There they found Galbraith and several of the others standing together in boisterous mood. When Manni approached them, they all seemed taken aback to see him there.

“Minister Speer thought you would like to have these reports,” said Manni, feeling a little ridiculous. But then he realized Galbraith was also embarrassed. Manni, like Speer, was from yesterday, an inconvenient reminder of something that wasn’t supposed to spill over into the present. Manni sensed his unease and imagined he probably felt like a swain that had been tracked down by the chambermaid of a lady whom he’d assiduously courted for what turned out to be only a brief dalliance.

Choosing to accept with aplomb the unpleasant role which had been accorded him, Manni gravely held out the reports to Galbraith like it was his bastard child. The effect must have worked, for Galbraith visibly froze with trepidation and reticence. Then, casting his eyes down in mock shame, Manni offered the unloved documents to Nitze. Please sir, his eyes seemed to be saying, give them a good home!

Nitze took the papers and began browsing through the titles. “Hey, this is some good stuff,” he declared. “An appreciation of the effect of bombing on the manufacture of specialty steels, Experience of the Vegesak shipyard in streamlining manufacturing processes for the Type XXI U-boats. Hey, look, here’s one on plans to destroy the Soviet Electrical Grid."

"You take care of it then,” Galbraith sniffed without interest.

“Gosh, a month ago this stuff would have been worth several times its weight in gold,” observed Nitze. “Now it’s just historical ephemera. Jesus, how the worm turns. Thanks. Say, where’s your brother Sebastian? We’ve been looking for him.”

“I don’t know,” said Manni. “He seems to have gone off on his own.”

Nitze laughed. “That guy can put a tomcat to shame!”

Manni laughed too, but it had a hollow sound. He looked at all the bustle. “What is going on here,” he asked.

“It’s the Kibosh, my friend,” said Ball. “The last of the Third Reich is finally being dissolved.”

“Oh,” said Manni, like he wasn’t entirely sure what it entailed. “I guess it took this long for the paperwork to catch up.”

George Ball laughed, Galbraith gave him an icy glance like he should feel free to leave. Nitze continued going through the reports, smacking his lips with delight as he did.

“We’ll tell your brother you were looking for him,” said Spivak pointedly.

Then Manni spotted Ziggy standing alone at the gangway, like a wallflower at an orgy. He excused himself to the Americans and went over.

“Hello, Ziggy,” he said.

“Hello,” said Ziggy.

“Seen anything of Franzi?”

“No.”


“Here comes somebody,” shouted someone in the crowd, “an admiral. Is it Doenitz?”

“I can’t tell,” answered someone else. “Ask him,” he said, pointing to Ziggy.

“Scuze me,” the man said. “Is that Admiral Doenitz up there?”

Ziggy looked up. It was an admiral coming down the gangway, escorted by a gruff-looking British soldier. But not Doenitz. Tall, not short, his posture stooped, his eyes defeated and lifeless, coming down the gangway with the heavy-footed shuffle of a man on his way to the gallows. It was von Friedeburg.

Reaching the bottom he stopped and turned to Ziggy. He spoke to him like each word was an effort. “Well Captain Loerber, I suppose this is the end. I want to thank you for your service and your comradeship. When you see the Grand Admiral, will you give him a message for me. Tell him this, ‘Admiral von Friedeburg, having fulfilled his duty to the last full measure, is taking his leave.’ Do you have it?”

Ziggy stared hard into von Friedeburg’s glassy eyes. “I will give him the message,” he said. “Goodbye Admiral.”

They saluted. Von Friedeburg turned and went with his guard over to a waiting truck. As the driver and the guard brought down the truck’s back gate, they looked up to see a large group of U-boat men being led down the quayside under British guard.

They were marching and as they approached von Friedeburg, they snapped into a salute and began singing defiantly. It was We are Sailing Against England, a song from the old days, when the future still looked bright, and their enemies’ days numbered.

“Heute wollen wir ein Liedlein singen, 
Trinken wollen wir den kuhlen 
Wein Und die glaser sollen dazu klingen 
Den es muss, es mus geschieden sein”

“The nerve!” fumed Fassberg. “I think somebody needs to remind these birds they’ve lost.”

“Fucken’ Krauts!” yelled someone else.

Gib’ mir deine Hand, 
deine weisse Hand Leb’ wohl, 
leib wohl Denn wir fahren, 
denn wir fahren, 
Denn wir fahren gegen Engeland, Engeland.

Ziggy watched von Friedeburg. His eyes were on the ground and he seemed too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice them marching by. Ziggy snapped to attention and returned the passing men’s salute. “Admiral!” he shouted.

Unsre Flagge und die wehet auf dem Maste, 
Sie verkundet unsres Reiches Macht, 
Denn wir wollen es nicht langer leiden, 
Dass der Englsihmann daruber lacht.

“Admiral!” Ziggy shouted again, louder than before. Von Friedeburg looked up and came to attention and brought his right hand up sharply to his brow. The British guard grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him up onto the truck.

The marching sailors had passed, but they continued to sing the final refrain.

Gib’ mir deine Hand, 
deine weisse Hand Leb’ wohl, 
leib wohl Denn wir fahren,
denn wir fahren, 
Denn wir fahren gegen Engeland, Engeland.

"What happened to Franzi? Where is he?” Manni asked Ziggy.

“I don’t see anything,” answered Ziggy. “Give me a minute."

“Here comes another one,” someone in the crowd shouted.

“Which one is it?”

“An army guy.”

“It’s General Jodl.”

“Yeah? Ooo’s ‘ee when ‘ee’s ‘ome?”

“Head of the OKW operations staff.”

“Well he looks like an imbecile.”

“Imagine him leading anyone in battle?”

“I can’t imagine any of them leading anyone in battle.”

“Here comes Doenitz!”

“Jesus, I’m starting to feel like a bobbysoxer waiting to see Sinatra.”

“He’s so dreamy!”

“He looks like a pinhead.”

“Yeah? Well so does Montgomery.”

“So does Eisenhower.”

“So does Churchill.”

“So does Truman.”

“Well, Doenitz looks like a bigger pinhead than all of them.”

“That’s for sure!” Both the British and American elements of the crowd could agree on that.

“Honestly, who’d have thought that after spending all these years fighting the Nazis, they’d turn out to be just a bunch of jerks!”

Ziggy watched Doenitz being led off. God knows what fate awaited him. Maybe they’d hang him, maybe he’d just spend the next ten years in jail. Either way, Ziggy found it hard to care. This was a good day for Germany, he grimly told himself. The regime which had led them into the depths of barbarity was being expunged from the face of the earth.

He thought about his life as a U-boatman, his years at sea and the war which he shouldn’t have survived. He saw the image of himself standing on the deck of a ship staring out into the endless expanse of cold gray sea and suddenly it all felt like somebody else’s life.

But something about it didn’t feel right. He closed his eyes and let the image wash over him the way a memory could not. And he realized that image was not himself at all. It was Franzi, standing on the deck of a trawler which was only then clearing the Kattegat and making its way into the open waters of the North Sea. He couldn’t tell if he was happy. But he knew he wasn’t worried. At least not the way he’d been for the last ten years. He was with friends, friends, just like Sebastian had talked about.

The vision faded. Ziggy turned to Manni. “Don’t worry about Franzi,” he said. “He’s doing all right.”

Manni brightened. “Really?” he asked.

“Really.”

(This is a chapter left out of the final cut of my novel Germania, first published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, now also available on Kindle here).

Smoking Cigarettes and Waiting for the Rain to Stop with Admiral Von Friedeburg

They were put into a clapped-out Humber and driven out to the Luneberg aerodrome, along with a dozen members of Montgomery’s staff who were being sent with them. But by the time they’d reached the airfield, the drizzle had turned into a downpour and they were informed everything had been grounded. They were taken into a hangar where chairs had been set up for them; ten for the British contingent, and a few feet away, two for the Germans. There was a large hole in the re-enforced concrete roof through which rain poured into a Messerschmitt fighter, whose after section had been crushed by a massive chunk of fallen concrete. The little airplane stood on its front wheels, wings still bravely stretched out, but with its nose pointing helplessly upward. They faced the wrecked airplane in meditative silence. It seemed to Ziggy like it was in pain.

Under the propeller, its wide, ovular air intake gaped in outraged protest, like the screaming horse in Picasso’s Guernica. In the cold glare of emergency lights, the rain falling through the hole glittered like snowflakes. It battered the forlorn wreckage, pelting the glass windscreen, rolling down the wings in heavy rivulets, and dripping from the propeller blades.

The British officers exchanged bits of conversation with each other, but it had been so long since Ziggy had used his English, it seemed more like birds’ chirping than anything else. He couldn’t tell what the Admiral’s state was. He made Ziggy feel restless. They’d been together since early afternoon, and except for screaming at him that one time, von Friedeburg had barely acknowledged his presence. Now they were apparently destined to be together for another couple of days and he had a feeling it was going to be the most thankless duty he ever pulled.

Ziggy wondered what was going to happen now that the war was ending. Had the Allies found out about all those camps the SS were running? There’d be hell to pay once they did. Everyone was already scrambling to disassociate themselves with them. It gave him a certain grim satisfaction.

Ziggy noticed a heavyset British officer wandering around the hangar, rifling through tool cabinets and drawers. He didn’t seem to be part of the delegation; there certainly hadn’t been a chair set up for him. The seated officers kept looking at him and exchanging terse noises among themselves, until finally the general in the group murmured something to his adjutant; the adjutant said something to the aide and the aide got up and went over to the man as he went through a tray of screwdrivers. There was a brief, inaudible exchange of words and a moment later the aide sheepishly returned to the adjutant and muttered something. The adjutant turned to the general and ran his forefinger down the side of his nose. The general nodded and the whole matter was dropped. The man continued going through the drawers, handling the tools and acting like he was the only one there. Except Ziggy knew the man was watching him.

It went on like this for a while before the man at the tool rack looked back at the aide, gesturing with a thrust of his chin toward Ziggy. The aide got up and walked over to Ziggy. “Major Westerby would like a word with you,” he said.

Ziggy stood up. “I’d better go see what he wants,” he said to von Friedeburg, who didn’t react.

Seeing Ziggy approach, the man dug into an inside pocket of his duffle coat and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

“You’re Major Westerby?” asked Ziggy.

The man nodded. “How is your Admiral?” he asked in perfect Berlin German. “Do you think he’ll be fit enough to perform his function?”

“He’ll do what he has to,” Ziggy replied.

Westerby nodded approvingly, then offered him a cigarette. Ziggy hesitated. It would be nice to know how he was expected to conduct himself in the situation. Could the bounds of icy correctness be stretched to include smoking a cigarette over business? He stole a look over at von Friedeburg, who seemed oblivious. The British officers, on the other hand,stared at them intently.

“Let’s go around the corner,” Westerby suggested. He led Ziggy to a spot along the side of the hangar where they were protected from the rain by the overhanging roof. Ziggy let him light his cigarette.

“I saw you perform many times at the Blue Diamond,” said Westerby. “Your brother Franzi was a friend of mine. In fact, both your brothers are friends of mine.”

Ziggy looked again at his face, trying to recognize him. He wasn’t sure. Between the four of them, there had been constant traffic backstage of friends and acquaintances.

“Look Major,” said Ziggy. ”If you don’t mind, I’d rather not make this a social occasion.”

Westerby ignored him. “The reason I’m asking,” he said, “is we’re trying to learn Franzi’s whereabouts.”

“How would I know where he is?” asked Ziggy. “I’m in the Navy, not the SS.”

“My understanding is you saw him two days ago when the Reichsfuhrer came to Naval Headquarters in Ploen. He’s apparently become part of Himmler’s inner circle.”

Ziggy didn’t say anything. How could Westerby know that?

Westerby continued. “As I understand it, part of your falling out with your brothers came when they joined the SS and Nazi Party. I’m wondering if you’re still as big an anti-Nazi as you were before the war.”

“Major, if you don’t mind, I’ll just smoke this by myself.”

“What if I told you that neither of them are what you think.”

“Major Westerby, if you’re trying to drop broad hints that they’re both Allied spies, then I already know.”

“Well if you know that, then perhaps you can tell me who Franzi’s been working for?”

“Well, the British, of course.”

Westerby explained that Franzi was actually a double agent of sorts. He’d started out working for Moscow, but then around the time he’d begun having second thoughts about them, Manni - who by then was working for Westerby - convinced him to share the information he was sending eastward, assuming that no one in Moscow would ever be the wiser. Only it didn’t work out that way.

Ziggy tried to listen, feeling his mind clouding over with the sheer assault of information. Cambridge, Moonpool, Schellenberg, and then the Russians. All he knew was that it sounded exactly like the kind of thing Manni and Franzi would find irresistible. Sowing chaos, playing different sides against each other, and with the help of their magical abilities, repeatedly escaping by a hair’s breadth. Though supposedly there was a moral angle to it, he doubted they could even think in those terms.

“Not that Franzi was pro-Bolshevik, mind you. Not at all. Like yourself, he was anti-fascist. They just got to him before we could,” said Westerby.

“But why are you telling me this?” asked Ziggy.

Westerby looked at him searchingly. “Because Franzi is in great danger, and not just from the SS, whom he’s trying to flee, but also from the Russians who want to kill him to keep things he knows from getting out. And I don’t mind telling you, Captain Loerber, that once it starts, none of you will be safe. We need to get him away from Himmler. My organization is thoroughly infiltrated by the Russians. There isn’t anyone there I can trust. Manni and I will do what we can, but we need your help to get him out.”

Ziggy was incredulous. “My help? How do you expect me to help you?”

Westerby was adamant. “Captain Loerber, you’ve got the guard battalion. That’s more than we have. You can ask Cremer for help. He’s your friend. You’ll be at an advantage. Doenitz will be setting up his government in Flensburg. I’m sure Himmler will not be far away. It shouldn’t be that difficult to locate him.”

“How do you expect me to locate him?” asked Ziggy.

Westerby looked exasperated. “For Heaven’s sake, man, you’re magic, remember?”

For a long moment the two stared at each other. Ziggy couldn’t decide if Westerby was pulling his leg or completely nuts. He looked into the hangar and there was the injured fighter plane, its gaping mouth bellowing from the depths of its pain. The Blood of Israel will have its vengeance!

Ziggy looked down at the packet of cigarettes in Westerby’s hand and snatched them. “I have to go back now, Major,” he said quickly. “Thank you for the cigarettes.”

He went back to sit with von Friedeburg. After another hour of waiting in silence, they were taken to an empty mess tent where two metal trays of food had been set for them. After that they were led to a small tent where there were two cots set up, each with a thin blanket. They were told they should be ready to leave at short notice, once the rain had lifted.
(Excerpt from Germania, by Brendan McNally, Simon & Schuster, 2008)

Von Friedeburg Signs Unconditional Surrender to Montgomery

It had been four days since Ziggy and Cremer had come aboard as heads of Doenitz’ security detail and other than the standoff with Himmler’s men, they hadn’t done much in that time besides salute and present arms a couple dozen times. When the order came for Ziggy to take a detachment of men to accompany the Grand Admiral to Levensau Bridge, he assumed it had to do with Admiral von Friedeburg’s negotiations with the British.

Levensau Bridge was only a mile or two east of the British front lines and in the last day all the fighting seemed to have come to a halt. Though the bridge still stood, it had been too heavily bombed for vehicles to cross over. They parked on the road leading up to it and waited. For the first time in days, the bridge was empty. Presumably everyone on the other side who’d wanted to flee the British had already done so, and anyone who wanted to go west thought better of doing it right there.

On the opposite bank a Navy staff car was driving up. Then it stopped and Admiral von Friedeburg got out and began clambering across the bridge towards them. For several minutes, Doenitz stood with his aides, silently watching von Friedeburg’s progress through his field glasses. Then he abruptly took them away from his eyes. “Wait here,” he said and started quickly up the bridge to meet him.

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Ziggy put his field glasses to his eyes and looked over at von Friedeburg approaching. Something was very wrong, he thought. His footsteps seemed jerky and his face was frozen into a Greek mask of horror. He watched the two men stop and face each other. They began exchanging words back and forth. Doenitz remained stiff and arched while von Friedeburg stood slumped. Then von Friedeburg put his hand over his eyes and Ziggy realized with a shock that he was weeping.

Doenitz started barking something at him, but von Friedeburg kept crying and shaking his head like he was saying, no, I tried but it didn’t work. Hans, get hold of yourself, Doenitz seemed to be saying. Remember what you are! But von Friedeburg only kept pleading. Please don’t make me go back. Please, I can’t take it. I can’t!

Ziggy kept his eyes on the two figures, clearly defined against the grayness of the river and sky. Their gestures seemed to describe what they were saying so completely it made Ziggy wonder if, without even knowing it, he was telepathically reading conversations again.

Whatever the case, there was no question about Doenitz’ answer. You have your orders and you will carry them out! Then Doenitz softened his stance slightly and said something reassuring. Von Friedeburg set his mouth hard into a grimace, and stood rigidly at attention as the rain pelted his face. Doenitz finished speaking, then turned and began angrily marching back. Von Friedeburg stood motionless for a few seconds and then started walking back to his side of the river.

Ziggy lowered his glasses. He wished he hadn’t witnessed any of it. The way von Friedeburg was acting seemed less like head of the Navy than some freshly-minted ensign being dressed down after panicking during his first depth charge attack. What had happened to him?

Twenty yards from the bottom of the bridge, Doenitz stopped and gestured for his adjutant. The adjutant ran up, but before he even got there, Doenitz snapped out a couple words and the adjutant turned again and ran back to the others.

“Korvettenkapitän Loerber,” he barked. “Report to the Grand Admiral on the double!”

“Jawohl,” shouted Ziggy and ran to see what the old man wanted.

Doenitz looked at him cold and hard as iron. “Something has come up,” he said. “I need you to go back with Admiral von Friedeburg to help him negotiate with the British.” Then, softening his voice, he added, “You’re a U-Boat captain. You’ll know how to handle it.”

“Yes, sir,” said Ziggy, completely bewildered.

Doenitz went on. “The Admiral is having problems. He has a very difficult job ahead of him. You must help him, be his friend, but if things get out of hand you are to remind him of his duties, as a German Naval officer and as a man.”

Ziggy looked at Doenitz and saw how his eyes blazed with cold anger. “You speak pretty good English, as I recall,” he continued. “That might be helpful. Loerber, you need to make sure he’s able to function. The Navy’s honor is at stake. Do you think you can do that?”

“I’ll do my best, Grand Admiral.”

“No! That won’t do, Loerber. The Admiral just did his best and it wasn’t enough. Whatever it takes, Loerber, you must see to it that he carries out his task. On this I am giving you full leeway. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Grand Admiral.”

“It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. Now get moving.”

Ziggy saluted and started across the bridge. He hadn’t been walking a minute when things started reeling on him. Be his friend? Remind him of his duty? Full leeway? If it hadn’t been Doenitz telling him this, Ziggy would have thought it a joke.

The rain clouds that hung over them, low and heavy, cloaked everything in gray gloom, making the riverbank look more like a forlorn late fall than the middle of springtime. So the war was ending, he thought. Hitler was dead, Doenitz was Head of State and Von Friedeburg was apparently in the middle of negotiating a ceasefire with the British. Peace was finally descending on Europe. Germany was finished. We’d wanted war and gotten it. He tried to imagine what peace would be like, but couldn’t.

Ziggy walked across at a brisk pace. As he approached the Admiral’s Mercedes, the driver got out and came to attention.

“Come on, let’s get going,” said Ziggy, not bothering to salute back.

“Sir?” asked the driver. “Perhaps you might prefer to ride in the front.”

Ignoring his suggestion, Ziggy opened the rear door and leaned inside. Admiral von Friedeburg sat empty-eyed in the back. “Herr Admiral?” asked Ziggy.

Von Friedeburg did not look at him.

“The Grand Admiral has asked me to accompany you, sir.”

Von Friedeburg glanced at Ziggy just long enough to let him know he understood.

“I’ll be sitting in the front, if you need me, sir.”

Von Friedeburg gave a slight nod like he thought it was a good idea. Franzi shut the rear door and took the seat next to the driver.

Two minutes down the road, a pair of British Army motorcyclists picked them up and with their sirens blaring, escorted them past miles of parked tanks and milling British soldiers to a large encampment out on the Luneberg heath where a British flag snapped arrogantly from a hastily erected flagpole. A hand-lettered white sign proclaimed, “TAC HQ 21^st Army Group.” Hearing them come, soldiers in mud-colored uniforms streamed out of the tents to get a look at them. The car stopped outside a tent where a group of unpleasant looking sergeants stood waiting to receive them, rifles in hand. One of them opened the car’s door and they got out. Inside the tent the rest of the German delegation was waiting. Ziggy immediately recognized Admiral Wagner. The others were a Wehrmacht general and a major who carried a leather satchel, which Ziggy assumed belonged to the general. They all seemed embarrassed by von Friedeburg’s reappearance. As von Friedeburg stood silently with Wagner, the general took Ziggy aside and murmured to him, “We’d hoped the Grand Admiral would send a replacement. Did he not get my note?”

Ziggy looked directly into the general’s eyes. “Well, I guess he didn’t, Herr General,” he said.

The general obviously didn’t like Ziggy’s answer, but before he could say anything, a heavyset British officer appeared in the entrance. “Admiral von Friedeburg, General Kinzl, if you’re ready, the Field Marshal would like to proceed.”

Von Friedeburg nodded emptily. The British officer gestured for everyone to get in line and then led them outside to another, larger tent crammed with officers and men with newsreel cameras. They were brought up to a large table where a short, prissy, but domineering man dressed causally in a field jacket and beret stood glaring at them in irritation, like he’d already had quite enough of them, thank you.

“Gentlemen, we shall begin,” he told them in a shrill, accusing voice.

A soldier came up and set down four large documents in a row on the table. Next to them were pens set into tiny round jars of ink. The prissy little man, who Ziggy surmised was Field Marshall Montgomery, gestured to von Friedeburg to come forward. As he did, glaring lights came on and a battery of newsreel cameras began loudly whirring. Von Friedeburg took a pen and bent over to the first paper, scratching his name onto it. Then, returning the pen to its well, he went to the next document, where another pen was waiting. He put his name to that second copy and proceeded to the third and then the fourth. As he did, Montgomery signaled General Kinzl to come forward and sign, then Admiral Wagner. One after another they worked their way signing their names to the copies. When they were done, they stood in a group while Montgomery and two of his officers did the same.

Once they’d finished, Montgomery brusquely signaled for them to be taken away. As they stood outside in the rain, Ziggy approached von Friedeburg. “Admiral, what about the negotiations? Wasn’t I supposed to help you with them?”

For the first time, Von Friedeburg looked directly at Ziggy. “Negotiations?” he exploded. “There aren’t any negotiations, you fool! This is an unconditional surrender!” (Excerpt from my novel Germania, first published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, now also available on Kindle here).

Margaret Bourke-White Photographs von Friedeburg's Corpse

Here is the original ending for my novel "Germania." It's based on a true incident, in which Margaret Bourke-White, the famous Life Magazine photographer, went to photograph the body of Admiral von Friedeburg. Most of what happens in this chapter is based on her own descriptions in her memoir, though some liberties have of course been taken.



The woman said her name was Margaret Bourke-White and that she was a press photographer with LIFE and wanted to take just a few pictures of the dead admiral. She and the major were coming out of the Flensburg police headquarters where they’d had Speer, Doenitz and Jodl standing together in handcuffs trying to act like it was any other day of their lives. There wasn’t anything else planned. By now all the people from the government and ministry offices had been taken away. There were British soldiers loitering around the government offices, but that didn’t look like anything. She had all the shots she needed of that. By now, everyone else was tired and knocking off. She could go up to the airfield to shoot the top Nazis getting flown off in Dakotas, but it probably wouldn’t happen for another couple of hours and she didn’t want to be up there waiting around with everybody else. And now she’s heard about the admiral killing himself and figured it might be worth trying to get something out of that.

“So what do you say?” she asked the major. “His quarters are just over there, aren’t they? Couldn’t we just go over now and have a look? You and me? Come on.”

The major twirled his forefinger around his mustache as he listened to her request. Yes, he supposed there’d be no harm in letting her have a peek. Certainly, let’s go!

As they walked over to the admiral’s apartment, she explained what they were actually doing was putting together a photo essay; pictures of top Nazis who’ve killed themselves and their families next to pictures of Hitler.

“Oh,” the major answered. He’d seen some of those himself.

“Oh you have?” she said. “Did you notice that it’s almost always the same picture? About ninety percent of the time.”

“Same picture? Sorry?”

“Yeah, of Hitler. It’s always the same one.”

“Ah.”

“Artistically speaking, that’s weird.”

“I should think,” said the major. “And you think you might get one of them this way?”

“It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” agreed the major. Then he thought of a question. “So is there some sort of effect you’re trying to achieve?’

“Well yes,” she answered. “I suppose you could say there is a certain repetition. Each one’s different, but they’re still all the same.”

“Dashed dreams of glory and all that,” suggested the major.

“Yeah, exactly,” said Margaret Bourke-White. “Listen, do you have any idea what the story was with him?”

“Von Friedeburg?”

“Why exactly he killed himself?”

“I believe he was of the opinion, Miss, that his treatment had not been entirely honorable. It was a protest.”

“And he was what?”

“Head of the German Navy, following Grand Admiral Doenitz’ brief elevation as Head of State.”

“And he was the one who did all the surrenders?”

“That’s right.”

“Ah,” she said, happy to be able to put her subject into some kind of context.

“Have you thought about Himmler? You’ve heard he’s killed himself too. Why don’t you take his photo?” asked the major.

Margaret Bourke-White frowned. “Well you see I can’t,” she said. “He’s all the way over in Luneburg. I’ll never get there in time. I’m afraid the admiral will have to do.”

“Ah,” said the major, giving his moustache another twirl.

There was a guard standing outside the door who let them in. She expected to find the admiral lying right there, but instead it was just two German sailors, one thin and the other fat, drinking wine and not looking particularly sorrowful about anything. According to the sergeant, the thin one was the admiral’s orderly, the other, the orderly’s “friend.” Both of them were still in uniform, but had judiciously removed any Nazi-looking insignia from them, lest they incur the wrath of the British army. They smiled when they saw her. “Nazi kaput!” the fat one said with a grin.

Margaret Bourke-White turned to the sergeant. “Where is the admiral?”

“He’s in the toilet,” said the sergeant.

“Well in that case, I’ll just wait till he gets out,” she answered. They all had a good laugh with that one.

The major led her to the adjacent bathroom. There he was, still slumped against the toilet. His jaw was open and his eyes stared out emptily. She gave a dissatisfied grunt.“That’s nice, but I can’t use it,” she said.

“We can put a picture of Hitler behind him,” suggested the major. “That would work, wouldn’t it?”

“No it really wouldn’t,” she said. “It would look phony. Nobody brings photographs of Hitler into the bathroom with them. I mean that’s nuts.”

“No, I suppose they wouldn’t. Shame,” said the major.

“What we could do,” she suggested, “is get him out on the bed in that other room, put the picture there, behind him. That would work.”

“Yes, we could do that,” allowed the major, impressed with her inventiveness. “Sergeant, have those two bring the body out and lay him out on that day bed.”

The two Germans came in and did as they were told, smiling helpfully the whole time. They carried the admiral out, one with his arms under his shoulders, the other carrying him by the feet. They laid him on the sofa and folded his hands together. “Sehr gutt,” the skinny one muttered when they’d finished. Then he reached for a blanket and tried to cover it over the body.

But Margaret Bourke-White brusquely waved him off. “Not yet!” Then she called out, “Major, have you found a picture?”

“No,” the major answered with just a touch of worry. “I don’t see one anywhere around.”

“Look again. There has to be one. There always is. Try the study.”

The major came back a moment later with a framed picture in his hand. “All I found was this,” he said, holding it up for her to see. It wasn’t Hitler, but Doenitz.

She stared at it a moment. “Maybe they’ve got one next door,” she said. Then she thought about it a second and took the picture from him and placed it against the wall, beside the body. “Don’t worry,” she declared and started setting up her camera. “It’ll work just as good. They’ll never notice.”
(Germania was published by Simon & Schuster in 2008 and is now also available on Kindle here).