Albert Speer, Hiding from Hitler in the Ruhr

Speer suddenly remembered an incident from ten years earlier when Hitler’s takeover of the government was still not entirely complete. Speer’s organization had been given offices in a building whose occupants were at variance with their orders to immediately vacate. When they didn’t move fast enough, someone sent in stormtroopers. Speer remembered coming in to look over his new office and finding a large bloodstain on the oriental rug on the floor. ‘Don’t worry about that, we’ll take care of it immediately,’ they told him. Sure enough, the next time he went in, the blood-stained carpet was replaced by another. The incident was never mentioned and he hadn’t given it any thought until now.

But then it’s easy to have no conscience when all you’re is an acceptor, someone who does what he’s told and leaves it at that.

That night, sitting around the campfire, Speer decided to try to get Manni Loerber to talk.

“I have a question,” he said. “Do you mind telling me what all that stuff is you keep talking about at the factories, which always seems to compel everyone to throw away all caution? What does it all mean?”

Manni grinned. “It doesn’t mean anything, Herr Reichsminister. Look, let’s just keep this simple. You do your job, I’ll do mine. All right?”

Speer tried another tack. “You know, I saw you and your brothers perform many times back in the old days,” he said. “You seemed like such a fun bunch.”

Manni sat silently reflecting on it for a while, the light from the fire dancing on his face. “Yeah, well, it was a long time ago,” he said, like they were talking about someone he’d never met.

Then von Poser spoke up. “If I remember, Herr Manni, didn’t your brother Ziggy go into the Navy? He became a U-Boat captain, sank a lot of enemy ships. I don’t recall hearing of his death. Is he still alive?“

“I wouldn’t know colonel, we haven’t talked since before the war.”

“And your brother Franzi? What about him? Didn’t he join the SS? Wasn’t he doing some kind of research?”

A tiny spark of humor showed in his eyes, causing the curtains of his reserve to part just the slightest. “Yes, he’s one of the Reichsfuhrer’s seers.”

“Seer?”

“Alchemist, actually. That was his training. But mostly they use him for horoscopes.”

Von Poser laughed. “Heinrich Himmler uses alchemists? That is too funny, Herr Manni.”

“You might not think it was funny if you were an alchemist having your talents squandered making horoscopes for people who have no future.”

“I can see your point,” chuckled von Poser. Everybody feared and hated Himmler and the thought of him shivering in front of an astrologer seemed particularly rich.

“What about your brother Sebastian?” asked von Poser. “He disappeared, didn’t he? For all the gossip the afternoon papers used to print about you boys, when he vanished no one said anything. Some people thought it might have been something, political.”

Manni shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, Colonel. Father refused to talk about it.”

“And you, Herr Manni, what have you been doing all these years?”

“Oh? This and that.”

“Meaning precisely?”

“Meaning precisely, don’t ask.” But he said it without rancor.

“And now you’re part of a three-man campaign to save the Ruhr.”

“That’s right, and if you ask any more questions, it’ll be a two-man campaign in about thirty seconds.”

At around ten, they got back on the road heading to Nuremburg, but a couple hours into it, it began raining so heavily that they finally gave up. They found an abandoned farmhouse on the side of a hill overlooking Detmold and went to sleep there. When they awoke, shortly after dawn, it had stopped raining and the heavy gray cloud cover opened up to blue skies and swarms of enemy fighters. “I don’t think we’re going anywhere today,” declared von Poser. They found some dry wood and got a fire going. They made coffee, sliced some bread and opened their last remaining cans.

“What have we got?” asked Manni.

“Fish, potatoes, and gooseberries,” answered Speer.

“Sounds perfect,” said Manni.

“Colonel von Poser tells me that today is your birthday. Allow me to offer you many happy returns of the day.”

“Thank you,” said Speer, a little uncomfortably. They’d been traveling for a week and this was the first time the young man had directed anything personal towards either of them.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “In honor of the occasion, I shall teach you the single most important skill I know, one that will definitely guarantee your success in the postwar world.” But then he waved his finger at Speer. “But you must promise never to ask any more stupid questions.”

Speer stared at him, stunned, feeling a mixture of curiosity and fear. He hoped this would not have to involve making a pact with the devil. As it was he was already trying to weasel out of an existing one.

A chapter from Germania (Simon & Schuster, 2008) that didn't make the final edits. Kindle download available here.

Speer at Glucksburg, the Night Before His Arrest

Manni helped Speer back to his room. Speer sat down on his bed while Manni rummaged through a dresser and found a pair of pajamas for him. “Do you need help getting into them?” he asked.

Speer shook his head. “Sit down, Loerber. Let’s have a last drink,” he said pointing to a nearby chair. Manni sat down while Speer brought out a bottle of schnapps and two glasses from a bedside table. He poured some into each glass and handed one to Manni. He raised his glass to Manni. Manni did the same to him.

“Happy Days,” said Manni.

“Happy Days,” answered Speer.

They drank. Manni drained his glass and set it down. Speer held on to his almost-empty glass and looked hard at Manni. “Am I a fool, Loerber?” he asked.

“Herr Reichsminister?” asked Manni.

“I mean it, Loerber. Tell me the truth. Do you think I am a fool?”

Sitting in his chair, Manni brought himself respectfully to attention. “Yes, Herr Reichsminister, I do think you are a fool.”

“Please tell me why?”

"Herr Reichsminister, is there any point?”

“Just tell me the truth.”

“Because you expect the whole world to see it your way,” said Manni. “You think that all you have to do is explain it to them, factually, in a helpful, reasonable voice, and the world will lose track of what you’ve done. Because you act candid, you assume they’ll accept your explanation that all you were was just a talented technocrat doing his job, no different from all the other people just like you who are doing the same thing all over the world. You think your reason and your irony is enough to keep the shit from touching you when the fact is you’re already up to your ears in it.”

Manni thought for a second, then added, “But beyond that, of course, I think you’re a great guy to work for.”

“And that’s why you’re still here?” Speer asked.

“That’s right.”

“You’re a spy, aren’t you?” said Speer.

Manni Loerber smiled like he’d just been paid a compliment. “And when did you come to that conclusion?” he asked.

Speer slowly shook his head. “In the Ruhr,” he said.

“You knew back in March and you haven’t done anything about it until now? I feel good about that.”

“You are a spy,” said Speer again. “Who are you working for?”

Manni answered proudly. “Herr Reichsminister, it was my honor to serve His Majesty, the King of England.”

Speer didn’t say anything for a while. Then he quietly muttered, “I guess I ought to be relieved it wasn’t the Russians.”

“Well I wouldn’t be too relieved,” said Manni. “It is my unfortunate understanding that all the best information got siphoned off by Soviet counter-spies and sent to Moscow.”

Speer thought about it. “Either way, Germany died.”

“I gather the Allied prognosis was that it was necessary to kill Germany in order to save it,” answered Manni.

“And your prognosis, Herr Loerber?”

“I don’t have one,” answered Manni. “I’m just glad it’s over.”

Speer smiled bitterly. “And I thought you were my friend. You betrayed me.”

Manni shook his head. “No Herr Reichsminister, it wasn’t betrayal.”

“It wasn’t? What was it?”

“It was serving two masters, Herr Reichsminister. And if I hadn’t served you well, we might have had this conversation sooner.”

Speer looked away, fuming with anger and humiliation.

Manni remained standing at attention. “Do you know what this is now?” he asked. “Herr Reichsminister, it is the end of the line. We are at the moment before the axe comes down. I heartily recommend you get some sleep. If you get up early enough, maybe you’ll get to eat breakfast before they come for you.”

Speer looked back up at Manni. “So what did the British pay you?” he asked bitterly.

“Thirty pieces of silver, what do you think? Listen, I’m a Jew, I’d have done it for free.”

“Suddenly everyone’s a Jew,” said Speer.

“I’m sorry,” offered Manni.

“Don’t be,” said Speer. “I’m sure I’m going to hell anyway.”

“Goodnight, Herr Reichsminister.” Manni turned to leave.

“So you’re a Jew?” asked Speer.

Facing Speer again, Manni smiled and gave a curt bow.

Speer shook his head angrily.

“If it’s any consolation, Herr Reichsminister, you almost succeeded in killing us off,” said Manni.

“So that’s what it is now?” said Speer. “You’re blaming me for that? You know I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“Please, Herr Reichsminister,” said Manni. “Welcome to the rest of your life.”

“So what will become of me?” asked Speer.

“I don’t know,” said Manni. “I doubt they even know what they’re going to do. Ultimately these things tend to take on a life of their own.”

“Unless of course they just decide to kill me on the spot,” suggested Speer.

“That is always a possibility,” accepted Manni. “I don’t know anything other than it’s the Kibosh.”

“Kibosh?” asked Speer.

“It’s one of those American words,” said Manni.

“Ah,” said Speer.

“So what will become of you, Loerber?” asked Speer. “Will you go to London?”

Manni let out a short laugh. “I hope not,” he said. “I’d like to return to Berlin.”

“There’s not a lot there, you know,” Speer pointed out.

“Oh, I know,” answered Manni. “I’m not in that big a hurry. I’ve still got lots of friends in Hamburg. Some of them must be alive. I’m sure I’ll find something there.”

“So you’ve got it all figured,” said Speer.

“Only for the next day or so,” said Manni.

“I guess I should sleep,” said Speer.

“You’ll thank me in the morning, Herr Reichsminister.”

“I’m sure I won’t,” said Speer. “Do something for me, will you?”

“What?”

“There’s some reports on my desk on the left-hand pile. Bring them to Galbraith. I’d like him to see them. Do this for me, Loerber.”
(Another chapter left out of the published version of Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008; Kindle copy available here).

Two Jewish GIs Make First Contact with Albert Speer in Flensburg

A half hour later, the GI returned with a middle-aged man, short and heavyset, bespectacled with a big nose, looking every bit the Jew from all the old anti-Semitic posters, only instead of wearing a black banker’s suit and a bowler hat, he was in US Army combat fatigues with a .45 strapped on his hip.

The GI said, “Major Spivak, I present to you, Reichsminister Albert Speer.”

Speechless, Major Spivak stared at Speer. Finally he muttered, “Holy Cow!”

Speer stood up from his desk. “Good afternoon, Major,” he said, pleasantly as he could. He thought about extending his hand in greeting, but realized he shouldn’t.

Major Spivak didn’t return his greeting but continued to look at him with nervous distaste. He was thinking the same thing as everyone else; this man I’m talking to is Hitler’s...best ...friend!

Finally he recovered enough to say, “Sergeant Fassberg says you’d be willing to be interviewed.”

"Yes, whatever you’d like to know,” answered Speer. “It’s about strategic bombing you say?”

"Yes, the economic and other effects of daytime strategic bombing on the German war economy.”

"Please, have a seat,” said Speer. “I’m sorry I cannot offer you any coffee or other refreshment.”

Brusquely Major Spivak shook his head, like it was neither expected nor desired. They sat down and both men began undoing the snaps of their shoulder bags and took out notebooks and manila file folders. “Sergeant, do you have the file on the abrasives industry?” asked Major Spivak.

"Right here,” answered Sergeant Fassberg, handing him a sheaf of papers.

"All right, let’s start,” said Major Spivak.

He spent the next three hours asking Speer very detailed questions, first about abrasives and oil baths and then about specialty steels and problems with machine tools and manufacturing different kinds of screws and fasteners, nearly all of which Speer was able to answer easily from the top of his head.

Though it was obvious Major Spivak continued to regard Speer with extreme discomfort, he nevertheless conducted the interview with complete professional detachment. He’d ask questions, write down the answers, ask follow ups and write those down as well. In the end, as he sat looking over all his pages of notes, he turned to Speer, and, shaking his head with amazement, declared, “Well, Sergeant Fassberg was certainly right, Herr Speer. You’re definitely the mother lode.”

Then, for one very long moment, Major Spivak stared blankly ahead, while inside him the angels of light and darkness battled each other. Finally he looked at Speer and with the tiniest hint of cordiality asked if he’d be willing to undergo a more detailed debriefing by senior members of the Survey team.

"Why certainly,” said Speer. “I’d be happy to cooperate in any way I can.”

"Good,” said Major Spivak. “I’ll let the guys know. We’ll be in touch.”

They left without shaking hands or thanking him.

Speer went back to the castle feeling strangely let down. The Americans had come to him like heavenly messengers, only to vanish with the same abruptness with which they’d appeared. It had been the first time in months anyone had come seeking his expertise and even if Major Spivak had not been terribly courteous, he had at least acknowledged that Speer had something no one else had. He wondered what he’d meant when he said his colleagues would be “in touch.”

Baumbach, on the other hand, saw it as a clear sign that his friend’s bad fortune had reversed. “Well congratulations, Albert. Now they’ll have no choice but to bring you into their new administration. It’s just like what they’re doing with those rocket scientists from Peenemunde. You’ll probably get flown out to Okinawa to join Curtis LeMay’s intelligence staff.”

"We’ll see,” said Speer.

"I’d say this calls for a drink, Albert.” They settled into another night of drinking and storytelling and by the end of it, the whole episode became just a half-remembered jumble in Speer’s mind.
(Excerpt from Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008, Kindle version available here).

Americans Cross the Rhine and Speer's Ruhr Rebellion Goes Nowhere

At first, a war is a cause, a crusade. But ultimately it becomes nothing more than an intersection of x and y axes; a cost-benefit analysis, a calculus of conditions and circumstances. In this particular war, the lines had been crossed a long time ago and there was no longer any benefit, just cost. It wasn’t a question of belief or will, only numbers. And the numbers had said only one thing: the was is lost.

While the Western Allies stayed to the Western bank of the Rhine, people kept hoping it might somehow stay that way, as it had been two thousand years earlier when the Rhine had marked the Roman Empire’s northernmost border. They wondered what it might take to ultimately convince the British and Americans to stay put. The French could keep Strasbourg and the Alsace, the Russians the eastern bank of the Vistula. As far as fallback positions went, it almost bordered on the agreeable, Not that the Fuhrer would have seen it that way. But then again the Fuhrer wouldn’t be around for ever.

But of course now the Rhine was breached and the Americans were racing the Russians to Berlin. Now it was a question of trying to limit the destruction so that there might be something left for the future. It should be something everyone could agree to.

He and von Poser had gone in thinking it would be easy, since by then, Speer was on a personal basis with nearly every factory director in the Ruhr. Despite his youth, they all looked to him as a guiding light, someone who understood their needs and concerns, who respected their expertise and knew what could and could not be done. And he was someone they could speak frankly to about the suicidal course the war had taken. They’d all been acutely aware of what Hitler had done to the industrial areas in the east and were adamant the same thing not happen to their beloved Ruhr. Some had even dropped broad hints about their willingness to go against the regime should Speer elect to break with Hitler and lead a revolt. But now that Speer had come to do just that, they were suddenly overcome with reticence.

"Had I said that, Herr Reichsminister? You must be mistaken.”

"Don’t say these things, Herr Reichsminister. It’s treason.”

"Perhaps we should stop the conversation right here, Herr Reichsminister.”

"Herr Reichsminister, what you are suggesting is quite impossible.”

"Herr Reichsminister, you must not ask this thing!”

"Herr Reichsminister, I’ve always had the utmost respect for you, but if you do not leave at once, it will be my duty to inform the local Party militia of your subversion.”

"Now please, you must leave, immediately.”

"Get out.”

"Leave now!”

"Go!”

Not that it was surprising that everyone was now so scared. With everything in complete disarray and communication with Berlin hopelessly tangled, the local Nazi Party chiefs, the gauleiters, now held absolute power. Their “flying squads” seemed to be everywhere, examining travel documents, searching vehicles, questioning people about what they were doing away from the front lines, and then acting as judge, jury and executioner against anyone whose enthusiasm for the war they found wanting. Their victims were either taken away for torture interrogations or simply strung up from the nearest lamppost where they remained for weeks as a reminder to everyone else.

By the end of the first day, Speer was ready to throw in the towel and head back, and he would have except that von Poser’s steely determination showed no hint of flagging. So they went on, day after day, visiting chemical plants, steel mills, coal mines, electrical generating stations, ammunition works. Most of the distance driving they did at night, since during the day the sky teemed with enemy aircraft. Sometimes they traveled with military convoys, but more often alone. The roads were always kept dark and with their headlights masked down to tiny illuminated squares, they had to proceed slowly, since the roads were full of bomb craters and debris.

It was always a big guess where the roads would take them, since everything was rerouted and changed. Where the front actually was, was kept secret and more than once they ended up at the front lines with less than half a kilometer between themselves and the nearest enemy tank. Even more confusing was the fact that nothing looked familiar anymore. In his years as armaments minister, Speer had visited every factory town there countless times and knew the region like the back of his hand. But with half the buildings flattened and the sprawling industrial plants transformed into forests of twisted metal girders, frames and broken pipes, Speer and von Poser often found themselves disoriented. But as wrecked as everything looked, Speer knew that a surprising amount was repairable. Factories were often up and running again in a matter of days, machine tool works sometimes within hours. Of course if the militiamen really tried, they could render everything completely unfixable. And that was Speer’s biggest worry.

They drove around, visiting the factories that came their way. They’d talk to whoever was around, sound them out, listen to their excuses, nod sympathetically and then move on to the next location, hoping they’d get lucky. They’d knock off late in the afternoon, sleep a little, then drive through the night. Usually toward the dawn they’d find a command post where there were cots or they’d simply pull over and rest for a few hours. Sometimes they ate from their stock of canned food, but mostly they tried to eat whatever was being spooned out for the troops.

Then one night they were driving between Ludenscheid and Dessau on a particularly badly bombed stretch of autobahn. Speer sat beside von Poser in the front seat, an air defense map spread on his lap, while the radio alternated between piano concertos and a lifeless voice reading out positions of enemy aircraft; fighters reported in Grid E-6 heading westward, enemy fighters in Grid F-12 bearing east. Enemy fighters in Grid D-9 heading east, enemy bombers in Grid C-7, C-8 and C-10, high overhead heading west.

Then suddenly they heard the metallic scream of aircraft engines as machinegun fire ripped up the ground in front of them. Von Poser slammed on the brakes and before they knew it, the car was plummeting down the embankment. They pushed open the doors and jumped out onto the ground. A twin-engine Heinkel roared over them, with a smaller American fighter tight on its tail, firing away. The Heinkel’s starboard engine was aflame. Then its wing crumpled and it turned over, plunging into the darkness. A second later they heard the dull explosion and saw the flash of fire in a distant field.

They tried getting their car out of the ditch, but the mud was too thick and the four back wheels only spun uselessly. They stood around in the darkness unsure of what to do next. In another hour it would be light enough for the American Mustangs and Thunderbolts to return and begin strafing anything that wasn’t already blown up.

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

Albert Speer Insists He Was Never Hitler's Friend

With still an hour to kill, Speer lit a cigarette and went over to the couch and sat down.

You know what your friend will do if he finds out? They always referred to Hitler that way. Speer had always hated that. Hitler wasn’t his friend. Perhaps Speer was Hitler’s friend, perhaps even his only friend. But that wasn’t the same thing, was it? Besides, Speer knew what Hitler would do when he found out.

Reasonably speaking, all they could hope for now was to keep as much of Germany’s industrial base together so that some level of civilized life could continue after it was all over. He’d carefully broached that matter with Hitler during the winter, but Hitler dismissed it. “There is no need to preserve anything for the survivors, Speer,” he told him. “They will have proven themselves unworthy.”

Speer went over to the window and stared out. By now the bombing had taken out most of the city’s landmarks, leaving him without his usual points of reference. Locating Alexanderplatz had always been a matter of simply finding the old Town Hall’s clock tower and then going a little bit left. But now the tower was gone. So was the Karstadt department store, the Columbus building on Potsdamerplatz, the twin steeples of Saint Nicholas church. He tried to remember what they looked like, but they were already excised from his memory.

Instead what blazed unforgettably was the skyline of a city which had only existed on paper and tabletop scale models. He saw the dome, stretched out before him, larger than a sunrise, with its dozens of gigantic columns and a massive bronze eagle perched ominously atop its cupola.

And he heard Hitler’s voice reciting the numbers to onlookers, Sixteen times the size of Saint Peter’s in Rome! And he saw the rest of the imaginary city, the broad avenues, the monuments, the palaces and plazas, the gigantic ministry buildings, cinemas, concert halls, hotels and storefronts, miles and miles of it. The two of them had spent years dreaming it up; a city greater than Rome, a light among nations, a capital fit to rule the world for a thousand years; Germania!

Speer had actually believed in it back when Germany’s future still loomed bright, enough so that he went ahead with demolition orders for whole neighborhoods in order to make way for it. Berlin’s destruction hadn’t started with the first British bombing raids, but with the bulldozing he had himself engineered.

Once the war had started the whole thing should have been shelved, but the war only stoked Hitler’s enthusiasm. And when the enemy bombing did come, Hitler acted gleeful.

“They’re only doing our work for us, Speer,” he’d say. And Speer accepted it without question. Even after things went bad in Russia, Hitler insisted it be kept on as a top priority, summoning Speer to the studio in the middle of the night so they could discuss the changes which still kept occurring to him on a daily basis. They’d spend endless hours bent down at eyelevel to the miniature streets and buildings, peering under archways, discussing each gallery and staircase.

Even now, with the enemy at their door, Hitler still wouldn’t let it go. In his mind, Germania was still every bit as real as the miracle weapons, Inevitable Victory and all the other shabby fantasies which he insisted everyone believe in. And it was all Speer’s fault for wanting a thousand years of glory.

Going to pick up his bags, he paused for a moment to look at himself in the mirror. Was this the face of a future world leader? Except for some rings under his eyes and a receding hairline, there was still far too much boyishness in it. He was neither handsome nor ugly, his face was round, his chin soft. It was only the face of a technocrat. No, that’s not completely true, he told himself. His eyes had it. Dark, brooding, even without a night’s sleep, they had a sharpness to them, inquisitiveness, too, and sardonic humor. The face of a man who could put things into perspectice.

Speer went downstairs to the garage where Colonel von Poser was waiting beside a supercharged, six-wheeled Mercedes. They drove out after nightfall, heading west.
(Excerpt from Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008, Kindle version available for download here).

Hipster Nazi Albert Speer

Speer looked up from his desk and saw a young American GI standing in the doorway. “Are you Albert Speer?” he asked in strangely accented German. He was wearing combat gear; helmet, a bandolier of ammunition, and a carbine slung on his shoulder. What could he want? He was the first American soldier Speer had seen so far. Had he come to arrest him?

Speer decided to answer him in English. “Yes, I am Speer,” he said. “Please, how may I help you?”

More than a little taken aback, the GI started to explain to Speer about something called the “United States Strategic Bombing Survey” which wanted to interview him on the effects of strategic bombing on the German war economy."

"Why certainly,” said Speer. “What precisely would you like to know?”

The GI looked confused. “Um, look, if you don’t mind, could you just not go anywhere for a few minutes? Let me get Major Spivak up here.”

The GI turned and left and Speer went back to the report he’d been reading. But he was too excited to concentrate. The Americans wanted to interview him about managing the armaments industry. He tried to repeat in his mind what the young soldier had rattled off, United States Strategic Bombing Survey. What could that possibly mean?

It only took Speer a second to guess the reason. The American air war against Germany had been long, bloody, and until its last six months, largely ineffective. Now their campaign against Japan was underway and they must have figured that whatever lessons there were to be learned from bombing Germany better be learned quickly. Well then, he thought, if that was the case, they’d come to the right man. Nobody knew more about the effects of strategic bombing than Albert Speer.

A half hour later, the GI returned with a middle-aged man, short and heavyset, bespectacled with a big nose, looking every bit the Jew from all the old anti-Semitic posters, only instead of wearing a black banker’s suit and a bowler hat, he was in US Army combat fatigues with a .45 strapped on his hip.

The GI said, “Major Spivak, I present to you, Reichsminister Albert Speer.” Speechless, Major Spivak stared at Speer. Finally he muttered, “Holy Cow!”

Speer stood up from his desk. “Good afternoon, Major,” he said, pleasantly as he could. He thought about extending his hand in greeting, but realized he shouldn’t.

Major Spivak didn’t return his greeting but continued to look at him with nervous distaste. He was thinking the same thing as everyone else; this man I’m talking to is Hitler’s...best ...friend! Finally he recovered enough to say, “Sergeant Fassberg says you’d be willing to be interviewed.”

"Yes, whatever you’d like to know,” answered Speer. “It’s about strategic bombing you say?”

"Yes, the economic and other effects of daytime strategic bombing on the German war economy.”

"Please, have a seat,” said Speer. “I’m sorry I cannot offer you any coffee or other refreshment.”

Brusquely Major Spivak shook his head, like it was neither expected nor desired. They sat down and both men began undoing the snaps of their shoulder bags and took out notebooks and manila file folders. “Sergeant, do you have the file on the abrasives industry?” asked Major Spivak.

"Right here,” answered Sergeant Fassberg, handing him a sheaf of papers.

"All right, let’s start,” said Major Spivak.

He spent the next three hours asking Speer very detailed questions, first about abrasives and oil baths and then about specialty steels and problems with machine tools and manufacturing different kinds of screws and fasteners, nearly all of which Speer was able to answer easily from the top of his head.

Though it was obvious Major Spivak continued to regard Speer with extreme discomfort, he nevertheless conducted the interview with complete professional detachment. He’d ask questions, write down the answers, ask follow ups and write those down as well. In the end, as he sat looking over all his pages of notes, he turned to Speer, and, shaking his head with amazement, declared, “Well, Sergeant Fassberg was certainly right, Herr Speer. You’re definitely the mother lode.”

Then, for one very long moment, Major Spivak stared blankly ahead, while inside him the angels of light and darkness battled each other. Finally he looked at Speer and with the tiniest hint of cordiality asked if he’d be willing to undergo a more detailed debriefing by senior members of the Survey team.

"Why certainly,” said Speer. “I’d be happy to cooperate in any way I can.”

"Good,” said Major Spivak. “I’ll let the guys know. We’ll be in touch.”

They left without shaking hands or thanking him.

Speer went back to the castle feeling strangely let down. The Americans had come to him like heavenly messengers, only to vanish with the same abruptness with which they’d appeared. It had been the first time in months anyone had come seeking his expertise and even if Major Spivak had not been terribly courteous, he had at least acknowledged that Speer had something no one else had. He wondered what he’d meant when he said his colleagues would be “in touch.”

Baumbach, on the other hand, saw it as a clear sign that his friend’s bad fortune had reversed. “Well, congratulations, Albert. Now they’ll have no choice but to bring you into their new administration. It’s just like what they’re doing with those rocket scientists from Peenemunde. You’ll probably get flown out to Okinawa to join Curtis LeMay’s intelligence staff.”

"We’ll see,” said Speer.

"I’d say this calls for a drink, Albert.” They settled into another night of drinking and storytelling and by the end of it, the whole episode became just a half-remembered jumble in Speer’s mind.

He awoke late in the morning with a terrible hangover. Staggering through the hall down to the kitchens he debated whether he should call in sick or just show up the way he was, since it seemed that was the way everyone else was half the time.

As he was working his way through a cup of tea, he heard agitated footsteps running up the corridor toward him. He started to feel a sense of dread. It was the captain of the honor guard, which had been assigned to him for security.

"Herr Reichsminister, we have an emergency!”

"What is it?"

"The American Army is here, demanding to see you.”

"What?” "The Americans, your Excellency! There must be twenty of them. They’ve come in Jeeps.”

"In Jeeps? But what do they want? Are you sure they’re not looking for Himmler?”

"No, your Excellency. They say they want you. Reichsminister for War Production Albert Speer. Do you want my men to shoot at them?”

"No, absolutely not. Tell them to wait. I must get dressed first.”

He went back to his room and found his best gray suit. Then he selected a French tie and put it on. He took a glimpse in the mirror and thought to himself that he looked pretty good.

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

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).

Speer's Rebellion Against Hitler: Consorting with Assassins while Driving through the Ruhr

It happened again the following afternoon, only this time instead of coming out the front door he emerged from the alley, moving even quicker than he had the day before. On the third occasion he went into a regional police prefecture only to reappear a few minutes later, leading a frightened-looking man by the elbow. The man was wearing a raincoat which fit him so poorly Speer guessed they’d nicked it on their way out. Manni opened the rear door and let the man get in beside Speer. “He’s a friend of mine. I told him we’d give him a ride,” he said. Then he got behind the wheel, put the car into gear and they were off again. For the next two hours the man remained rigid, wild-eyed and trembling, like he thought he was still under the interrogator’s lamp. Eventually Manni glanced back from behind the wheel and asked Speer to find him something to eat. Speer went into his bag, and pulled out a can opener and a tin of mixed vegetables. He went to work opening it, then pulled back the lid and handed it to the man, who stared at it warily before taking it in his hands, and gulping down its contents in a few seconds. Once he finished, he looked around ravenously, then sank back in embarrassed silence. Finally, just as it was getting dark, they drove into a forest and let him out near a logging road. Without saying goodbye or waving the man hurried up the path and disappeared into the trees.

After that it got even stranger. He’d pull up to different party offices, and for several minutes would wait, meditatively staring into the building, never saying anything. And then he would either get out and go in or simply change his mind and drive off. Either way, he never explained anything.

During one such time, it occurred to Speer that perhaps the young man was an assassin, whose real mission was killing off Nazi Party officials. But he immediately told himself he was being silly. But then the next time the young man went out, it occurred to him again, and again the next time and the time after. And each time Speer dismissed the idea, until one day, just as he was getting ready to go, the young man took out his pistol and casually screwed a silencer onto the barrel before returning it to his jacket. As they watched him disappear into the building, von Poser suggested they could drive away at that moment. But for some reason Speer said no.

An hour later as they were driving down the road, hidden inside a military convoy, Speer asked himself what it was that actually bothered him about it, other than the prospect of getting caught. Was it that he murdered somebody or that it was someone whose only crime was slavishly obeying the Fuhrer just as he had been only a few days earlier?

When Speer had finally decided to go against Hitler, he never imagined it would suddenly put him in league with murderers and assassins. But then, why should he have such a problem with that? The fact was he’d been consorting with thugs and murderers for twelve years now anyway. Of course the difference was the SS and Stormtroopers were supposed to be the good guys. They’d been on the side of the law. They were following orders. They were supposed to stand for what was right and decent in the world. Manni Loerber was a lone crazy acting on his own, without orders or moderating influence or any kind of official justification. But was that the only real difference? It sure didn’t feel that way.

Or was it the way he operated? Was it knowing that when he put the bullet in their head he had them laughing and reminiscing about the good old days at the Blue Star Cabaret and the Admiralspalast? Was it better to be assassinated when you were happy than when you were scared?

Speer tried to remember what he knew about the Magical Loerber Brothers. Like most Germans he’d seen them perform easily a dozen times and certainly he’d enjoyed their act. It was impossible not to. But at the same time he’d never been part of the Loerber Brothers Mania which went on through the 1920s and ‘30s. He remembered seeing the cover of one particular variety magazine with their four clean-scrubbed, blonde haired, blue-eyed, smiling and utterly indistinguishable faces arranged in a half-moon. Which one is your favorite? it asked. Until then he had never imagined that such a thing as a favorite Loerber Brother could exist. Since he’d never been able to tell any of them apart, it hadn’t occurred to him that they might possess individual personalities. But everyone else apparently could and they obsessed endlessly over the supposed minutia of their lives. Franzi’s Secret Crush! Twenty things you don’t know about Manni! How does somebody like that turn into someone like this? What had happened?
(An abbreviated version of this chapter appears in Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008, now also available on Kindle here).

Juggling Through the Capitulation: The Four Magical Loerber Brothers, May 1945

THE FABULOUS FLYING MAGICAL LOERBER BROTHERS RENDERED IN PAPER

The Loerber Brothers: Which One Is Your Favorite?

He remembered seeing the words in white lettering inside a black circle on a magazine page. And a crooked headline snaking across it asking Which One is Your Favorite?

And suddenly the names started hitting him like waves: Ziggy, Franzi, Sebastian and suddenly Speer knew exactly which one he was.

Yes?” asked the young man.

"You’re Manni of the Flying Magical Loerber Brothers.”

The young man turned back and dazzled them with his smile. Then he turned back to keep his eyes on the road.

That first day they visited ten different factories and at each of them, whoever was running it; the owner, the general director, the workers’ committee, or in one case, an elderly, one-armed, ex-infantry general, all immediately agreed to join Speer’s campaign. It was as if everyone’s fear suddenly evaporated. The day after that, they visited two mines, a railroad roundhouse, an electrical generation station and the Bayer Pharmaceutical Works, which was now host to an artillery battery. There too, everyone agreed not to obey the scorched-earth orders when they came in. “Let ‘em come here and try to tell us what to do,” shouted a bunch of electrical workers waving machine pistols in defiance. “We’ll show those Nazi pigs what for!” And even the artillery battery commander, under strict orders not to move an inch, readily agreed to relocate his guns away to a less sensitive spot. “They don’t have to know anything,” he told Speer. “None of it makes any difference anyway. Let’s keep the chemical works intact.”

And in each case, Speer and von Poser hadn’t done anything any different than what they’d done in previous visits. The only difference was that at some point, Manni would step in and say something completely unremarkable like, “I can understand your misgivings on this, but if you’d just let me explain something to you...” And then he’d say something that, on the face of it, wasn’t that different from what Speer had tried himself. But this time it worked. Whatever they asked for, they got.

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

Hitler Tells Albert Speer to Have a Little Faith

He paced back and forth in front of his desk, not looking at Speer. “Sit down!” he ordered.

"Mein Fuhrer, I prefer to stand.”

"Sit down.”

Speer lowered himself into the chair.

"After all I’ve done for you and you repay me like this. You were nothing, Speer. Do you remember? An unemployed graduate without a pot to piss in.

"Do you know what I do to people who betray me? What makes you think you’re any different?”

Speer looked up at him. “The answer is yes, Mein Fuhrer, I know what happens to people who go against you. And I am no different.”

Hitler didn’t like that one bit. His head started twitching. He pulled his bad hand out to claw at the air. Everything was behind him now. His years of victory, of moving from strength to strength, were all gone. His charm, his wit, his animal vitality had deserted him. All that was left was this quavering shell. But even now, his determination and will, the two things that defined him, were undiminished. He sat down at the desk and studied its surface for a long time. What comes next, Speer wondered. Will he declare me apostate? Throw me to the lions, the SS? Is Himmler going to get to smile at me? So Speer, we were never good enough for you, were we? But now we’ll just see how much better you really are.

It might have been better to have been shot by the gauleiter’s deputy that time. For the first time he remembered his wife and children and how he’d loved being called Uncle Hitler by them. He hoped they wouldn’t be included.

Hitler looked up from the table. Suddenly he looked forgiving. “Speer, you think I don’t know things look bad? I’ve been a soldier for thirty years and I’ve seen more bad times than you’ll ever know.” The angry tone was gone. He sounded more like someone offering encouragement to a wayward friend. ”But I’ll tell you something else, bad times never last. Things turn around, sometimes very quickly. But the only way you can be there to take advantage of them is to have faith. Faith, Speer! Faith in yourself, faith in your volk, faith in your leader, faith in me!”

Faith, thought Speer. Faith doesn’t matter when you’re out of fuel, out of bullets and out of everybody but seventy-year-old Volkssturmers.

"Mein Fuhrer, what I saw in the Ruhr...”

Hitler quickly waved him to silence. “None of that matters, Speer. What matters is inside you. Don’t you see?” Hitler stood up from his desk, leaning forward so that he was close to Speer, his face a kindly grimace. “Now tell me, Speer, tell me you have faith.”

"I’d be lying, Mein Fuhrer,” answered Speer, making no attempt to sound contrite.

"Then tell me you have hope. Don’t you at least hope everything will work out?” He looked imploringly at Speer.

Say yes. His eyes looked so sad, as if every other tragedy, every other turn of fortune he could bear. But not this. How could you do this to me? After all our dreams? Your hoping means more to me than anything, Speer. Hope. How could you not hope for a turnaround? Please say yes.

Speer saw the eyes, the trembling frame. He thought of how vigorous he’d been then, how full of life and joy. And now he was just a sad old man asking for a tiny favor from his only friend; a favor only a complete unfeeling bastard could say no to.

"I’m sorry, Mein Fuhrer,” said Speer. “But the facts do not lie.” He wanted to add, “The war is lost,” but somehow he couldn’t bring himself.

Hitler’s face darkened and once again he grew cold. “I’m giving you twenty four hours to think about what I’ve just said to you,” he said brusquely. “I want you here tomorrow telling me you have faith in victory.”

Back in his office at the ministry, Speer tried to write down what he wanted to tell Hitler. He thought about all the things he’d seen in the Ruhr that he wanted to describe to him. If he could have seen the elderly volkssturmers or the disorganized, fragmentary divisions. If he could have seen people like Jakob who still had faith in him, who still believed in victory, maybe then Hitler would see the utter travesty in what he was asking. But the words wouldn’t come to him and he knew Hitler wouldn’t listen anyway. It was impossible to write it down just as it was impossible to tell him to his face. What was he going to do? Speer didn’t know. All he knew was that he was dead tired. He went back to his quarters and went to bed.
(Excerpt from Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008, now also available on Kindle here).

Reichsminister Albert Speer Pays His Respects to a Dead Jewish Acrobat

Except for the old lady who owned the house, everyone else was gone.

Ziggy stared down at the body. Looking at his dead brother, he still didn’t know what to feel. Regret? Loss? Inconsolable sadness? None of them were there. Perhaps they’d come later.

Manni came over and sat down across from the body.

Ziggy looked over at him. “He told me you were an assassin,” he said.

Manni looked at him like he wasn’t sure he was an imbecile. “And you’re a U-Boat captain with the Knight’s Cross,” he answered. “How many ships did you sink?”

"Including my time with Luth, fourteen.”

"That’s a lot of ships,” said Manni.


"Manni, do you feel the British gave you enough respect?”


Manni blew a burst of air through his nose, letting Ziggy know that what he’d said was funny, though not amusing.

"Where were you when Father died?” asked Ziggy.

"In Canada,” he answered. “Did you hear where Franzi was?”

Ziggy shook his head.

Manni offered a wry smile. “Tibet.”

"Tibet?”

"Ahnenerbe field trip.”

"Did he find anything?”

"Besides a bad case of the clap? I don’t think so.”

The door opened and the old lady gestured at Manni from the threshold. He got up. “Look,” he said, “we’re going to have to decide what to do about Franzi. We’ll talk about it when I get back.” Then he followed the old lady into the hall, closing the door behind him.

Ziggy stared down at the threadbare carpet and the stray threads splitting off from the worn spots and suddenly knew the path that lay ahead for Franzi. Himmler’s group wouldn’t stay together much longer. It wasn’t possible. Things were so unstable now that even the slightest obstacle would cause them to fray and spin out in different directions, and once that happened, Franzi would be free. He saw it with diamond-sharp clarity.

He looked at Sebastian and suddenly the sadness was tearing him apart. If only he could have known this. How long had he been dead? He looked at the reddening sky outside the window. Twenty four hours, the same as eternity.

He stood up and went over to the body and brushed his hand against Sebastian’s hair. He found himself remembering the old days when they were performing. Had he ever known how brilliant he was? Had he ever looked beyond the top hats and tails, the five-six-seven-eight razzmatazz and seen what the rest of the world all took for granted? That the seedy glamour and corniness were nothing more than a picture frame in which genius ran free? Ziggy had hated the reminiscing too. But they really had been something. Better than cartoons, as good as jazz.

The door opened. Ziggy looked up and saw Manni re-entering the room, followed by a man in a dark suit. It was Speer.

"Ziggy, you’ve met Herr Reichsminister Speer, haven’t you?” said Manni. Speer put his hand out and Ziggy shook it. “Please, allow me to extend my condolences over the death of your brother,” said Speer.

"Thank you,” said Ziggy.

Speer looked down at Sebastian’s body and tears welled in his eyes. He turned to Manni. “Honestly, Herr Manni, after all we’ve been through, I didn’t imagine anyone’s death would bother me this much, but it does. I don’t understand why.

"It’s funny how you hope for things. I thought that with the war ending we’d all get to see you perform again.” A tear ran down his cheek. He gave a polite bow and left.

Ziggy and Manni returned to their chairs. They sat for a while, then Manni said; “Sebastian is dead. That can’t be changed. Now what are we going to do about Franzi?”

Ziggy spoke quietly. “I’ve got a feeling that Franzi’s time will come soon. And when it does, he won’t need our help.”

"Is this something that you suspect, or are you getting premonitions?”

"No and yes,” said Ziggy.

Manni looked genuinely amazed. “I thought you didn’t do this anymore.”

Ziggy shrugged.

The hostess gestured at Manni again. “We’ll talk about this later,” said Manni. “Let me see what she wants.”
(Excerpt from Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008, now also available on Kindle here).

Speer and Hitler: The Birthday Party

It was April 20, Hitler’s birthday. The day was declared a national feast day and in an effort to make it just like all the earlier ones, the last stocks of flour and sugar and sweets were opened up and distributed to the public. For several hours there was electricity and water again flowed from the pipes. People broke from whatever they were doing and took baths, baked cakes and then went outside to watch the parade and cheer.

As in years past, there was a party at the Chancellery. But instead of the usual long line of limousines pulling up with smiling ambassadors, envoys and high government officials, today the guests arrived in a handful of shared staff cars.

Speer came as he always did, driven in his Porsche, which he had parked in one of the underground garages. He made his way through the wrecked halls, climbing over collapsed beams and shattered walls to the bunker’s entrance. The Chancellery, his Chancellery, was falling apart. For five years it had stood up to the Allied air bombardment, but three days of pounding by Soviet artillery had turned it into ruins.

Passing through the airlock’s steeldoors and going down the steps, it seemed he’d returned to a world of order. Here the concrete corridors were still clean-scrubbed, the lights all worked. But then as he got down to the main level, he began noticing the uncollected dirty glasses, plates, and silverware gathering in the corners and beneath end tables. After weeks of endless parties, the housekeeping staff had clearly lost enthusiasm for the job.

In the corridor outside the conference room, a crowd of aides and adjutants milled around, while liveried waiters swirled among them with silver trays of canapés and drinks. Everyone tried to act festive, though it was obvious that what was really on their minds was getting out of Berlin. The Fuhrer had announced he would be flying out to the Obersalzburg to conduct the war from there. But so far he hadn’t told anyone when he’d be leaving. The Russians were now rumored to be in the outer suburbs, and while it was anyone’s guess when their encirclement of Berlin might be completed, until the Fuhrer officially gave word for them to decamp the city, they were all stuck there.

Inside the large room the situation conference was already underway. General Keitel was giving the briefing. Even now, in the midst of the catastrophe, he managed to find morsels of optimism. Whenever the Soviets had elected to withdraw from a sector, Keitel seized upon it as the portent of an upcoming reversal. In each instance, Hitler reacted with glee, rubbing his hands and ordering Keitel to elaborate on how they would exploit it. There seemed so many possible paths to victory, it left scant opportunity to examine those other places where German forces were fleeing in disarray. It went on for another hour. Speer listened to Keitel and Jodl predict how that alliance between the Jewish Bolsheviks and the West was on the verge of disintegrating. Goering talked about the new jet fighter squadrons which were becoming operational that very day. Doenitz chimed in with news that the first of the new miracle U-Boats had finished their testing and were beginning their first war patrols. Hitler loudly praised Doenitz for his indomitable fighting spirit.

Throughout, Hitler ignored Speer. Somehow he had fallen out of favor again, though he had no idea why. It had been weeks since he had committed a single subversive act.

Once the briefing had wrapped up, Hitler surprised everyone by leading them topside to the Chancellery garden, where a large group of twelve- and thirteen-year-old boys stood in ranks, waiting to be decorated for heroism in combat. It was criminal, Speer thought grimly, as he watched Hitler going from boy to boy, exchanging a few words with each, praising their courage and pinning iron crosses on their tiny chests. He doesn’t believe in Victory any more than I do, yet he happily sends children to their deaths.

The sight of Hitler plainly shocked the boys. He wasn’t at all what they’d expected. The hero they’d been taught to revere since the day they were born was just this decrepit old man? Those who’d fanatically believed in victory now knew they’d lost. Hitler immediately sensed their unease. His initial good humor and heartiness turned brittle and soon he was handing out the iron crosses without a word. Once he’d finished, the Hitler Youth were dismissed and he led the partygoers back to the bunker entrance. But at the threshold he stopped and turned to face everyone and announced that he was staying in Berlin. Whoever wanted to leave was free to do so, he declared with an angry wave of his hand. Uneasily, they followed Hitler back down into the bunker for cake.
(Excerpt from Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008; now also available on Kindle here).

A Personal Holiday Message to You From Grand Admiral Karl Doenitz

Dear Friend

Yes, it's that time of year again! Holiday season. And let's face it, you're about to go out to some busy mall and you're going to shell out your hard-earned Reichsmarks to buy aftershave, ties or a pair of argyle socks, for that special World War II-addict in your life. And why? Especially since you know they'll never use them. The reason, of course, is that you can't stand having to go into a Barnes and Noble or some other bookstore and buy some overpriced and totally lame WWII book, because you have no idea what books they already have.

Do you mind if I make a suggestion?  Buy them an ebook version of Germania!!  It's got everything a Third Reich junkie craves. Lots of Nazis, tanks blowing up, wrecked airplanes, five monster flying boats, all bigger than the Spruce Goose. Who wouldn't want to see those?

Plus, I'm in it. That's right: along with my friends Albert Speer, Karl Jodl, Admiral von Friedeburg and even Reichsfuhrer SS Heinrich Himmler! You've watched them on the History Channel in grainy black and white stock footage that you've already seen a hundred times. With Germania, almost everything you read is brand new. You'll see things History Channel never got around to: you'll witness the moment Himmler's personal masseur leads the SS in their first "Heil Himmler!" You'll see his historical showdown with me, where I tell him Hitler picked someone besides himself to be the new Fuhrer.  If you don't know who did get the job, then you need to buy a copy of Germania for yourself.

Buy Germania for your dad or brother, or your boyfriend, or yourself.

Buy Germania for your girlfriend, because this is the kind of World War II book girls totally love.

It's available on Kindle, cheap!  By now you must have a Kindle; every happening person does.  And if you don't, you can go to Amazon, download the free Kindle App and that way you can read it on your PC, Tablet, MacBook, iPad, or even on your Android Smartphone. Think how much more fun it would be reading about the end of Nazi Germany while all your hipster friends assume you're playing Angry Birds, Mellow Gorillas or reading New Republic.

Here are some reviews from L.A. Times, Seattle Times and others, plus a celebrity endorsement from Lemmy Kilmister of Motorhead.

Order Germania today,  for the sake of future generations!

Your pal,  Karl

With a Magician's Help, Albert Speer Bugs Out of the Joint

“I’m sorry, colonel,” mumbled Speer.

Colonel von Poser looked away.

The laughter continued in sporadic bursts. Speer kept listening for other sounds, someone yelling, screaming, arguing. But all he heard was the laughing, loud and growing more hysterical, like whatever it was, had them busting their guts. Then suddenly it stopped and everything went quiet. Von Poser looked at Speer. This is it! They heard a lock turning on the steel door. Then it opened and out stepped the young man, only this time he wasn’t smiling or trying to look menacing. He handed them their identification books and gestured them to follow him. “Quickly,” he said.

They followed him down the corridor to another steel door. He took out a key on a long chain. He put a key in the lock, turned it and popped the door open. Dull gray daylight burst in. The young man stuck his head out but then pulled it back in and shut the door.

“Back,” he told them.

They went back up, past their cell, all the way to a place with three steel doors. Choosing the one on the left, he put his hand on the handle and looked at Speer and von Poser. “Just walk through quickly,” he told them in a quiet voice. “Don’t look around, don’t stop. Okay? Let’s go.”

He pushed the door open and quickly led them up another corridor through a small comfortable office with two desks at one side and on the other a low table surrounded by stuffed club chairs where the four men with automatics were sitting slumped over and leaning back, their mouths gaping open, the rest of their faces shot off. There was blood and brains everywhere. Speer did his best not to look.

The young man opened the far door and ushered them through, locking it behind them. They went up another corridor, much wider and lined with shelves and file cabinets. Halfway up, two men were going through an overhead cabinet. The young man turned back and fixed his eyes on Speer and von Poser. “All right,” he whispered. “One, two, three...”

They followed him past the two men who barely acknowledged them when they walked past. The next room was full of people at desks and typewriters and people carrying papers. Some people looked up, but nobody said anything. Twice people acted like they were going to say something. But somehow the young man’s nod quieted them and made them forget they were about to ask something pointed. Speer watched  the young man nod to different people and he guessed he had been somebody back when he was younger. Somebody whose face had been in photo magazines, always smiling, clean, bright-eyed, youthful Aryan laughter.

Who was he?

He took them through a lobby, past desks and rows of chairs and rifles and Party militiamen in brown coats with holster harnesses and black ammunition bandoliers strapped from their shoulders. He waved to a couple of burley men in feldgrau coats and constable’s hats. “Next time I’ll bring you some photographs,” he said like it would probably never happen. They nodded back like they didn’t really believe it either but looked forward to it just the same.

Outside, they went over to where Speer’s Mercedes had been left. The young man opened the back door and let them get in. Then he shut the back door, opened the front and put himself behind the wheel. The engine started up, he shoved it into gear and drove out.

They motored past milling groups of militiamen who ignored them, then went out a gate where no one bothered stopping them for papers. A few minutes later, they’d gone past streets full of bombed out buildings and then found themselves out of town and speeding up an empty road. Speer and von Poser sat back and exchanged looks of astonishment.

They drove past fields and pastures where cows were busily grazing, oblivious to everything but the grass.

Then the young man turned back to address them.

“All right, so here’s the deal,” he said. “I’m going to be your driver from now on. You’re trying to keep the Nazis from blowing everything up. Isn’t that right?” He said it like it was something everyone already knew. “Well you’re going about it the wrong way.”

“Apparently,” grunted von Poser.

“I can get you what you want,” the young man said. “I’ll have them eating out of your hands."

“How are you going to do that?” asked Speer.

“I’m magic,” the young man said. “No one ever refuses me.”

They looked at him dumbfounded.

“Why?” asked von Poser.

“I need to get around,” the young man explained. “Business to take care of.”

“Who are you?” asked Speer.

“Never mind who I am,” the young man snapped and returned to his driving.

Nobody said anything after that. Speer and von Poser settled into their bewildered silences. Speer stared out at the passing countryside. In the late afternoon sun, the winter fields no longer looked so bleak. He thought he saw hints of green beginning to emerge.

As he drove, the young man began whistling something Speer remembered orchestras playing back when he was still a young man with lots of dreams, but no job. A lyrical and melancholy number that expressed how everyone seemed to feel back then. Then he remembered it was called Harlem Rhapsody.

He remembered seeing the words in white lettering inside a black circle on a magazine page. And a crooked headline snaking across it asking Which One is Your Favorite?

And suddenly the names started hitting him like waves: Ziggy, Franzi, Sebastian and suddenly Speer knew exactly which one he was.

“Yes?” asked the young man.

“You’re Manni of the Flying Magical Loerber Brothers.”

The young man turned back and dazzled them with his smile. Then he turned back to keep his eyes on the road.
(Excerpt from Germania, first published in 2008 by Simon & Schuster, 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.

Speer in the Ruhr: Sharing Confidences with a British Spy

Back in the car, driving through the night, rain spattering against the windscreen as the pneumatic wipers made faltering sweeps on the glass, they had the radio turned up high, blaring enemy fighter coordinates along with Bruckner. Speer was in the front seat, staring ahead into the garbled gray horizon, past the flashes of artillery and streams of tracer rounds, and wondering what was going to happen with them. He didn’t want to go back to Berlin. He didn’t want to answer to Hitler for what he’d been doing here. He didn’t want to be forgiven and be allowed to worm his way back into Hitler’s good graces so they could again spend endless hours talking about architecture or movie musicals or how someday the two of them were going to design and build the finest neo-gothic cathedral back in his hometown of Linz.

At the moment they were driving toward Duisburg, not that there was anything waiting for them there other than a fueling station where they could fill up their tanks with diesel. In the three days since the incident, their crusade had deteriorated into an aimless shuffling about. The Battle of the Ruhr Pocket, as it was being called, was already in full force and with it, the fate of the region’s factories and chemical plants had passed from the hands of the gauleiters and militias to the Americans, who seemed content to bomb and shell it all to bits. Even so, it felt better to remain there than go home. Here they were beyond Hitler’s reach and the Russians weren’t likely to get there anytime soon.

He glanced over at Manni Loerber at the wheel and wondered what he was thinking. Having ended his own personal retribution campaign, Manni also didn’t seem to have any idea what to do next. Odd guy, thought Speer. One minute he could be as remote as an iceberg, the next as energetic and affable as your oldest friend. They might spend hours driving about without exchanging a word, then stop somewhere, brew up some coffee, have a bite, and suddenly he would start cracking jokes, break out the balls and insist they spend the next hour juggling. And whenever they did, Speer, who was normally reticent about sharing confidences with anybody, would end up spilling his guts, telling Manni things about Hitler he hadn’t even told his wife. Afterwards he’d always regret the things he’d said. Speer wanted his rebellion to be on his own terms and didn’t like the idea of being so easily manipulated. But being finally around someone so quick and witty was like a drug for him and he couldn’t help telling him things. It also made it all the more obvious just how mediocre and tiresome even the best conversations he’d had with Hitler had been.

“Night fighters in grid C-1, Mosquitoes in grid B-9, squadron of bombers flying east south east Grid B-14,” the voice on the radio announced, then returned to a piano etude.

That day he’d told Manni about the time Hitler had, on a whim, given the order to melt down all the Luftwaffe’s bombers and build nothing but fighter planes. The day before he told him about Germania, and all the endless hours they’d spend together revising cupolas and shopping arcades and imagining the way the great dome would look in the light of a setting sun. He even told him of the time when he’d been gravely ill the summer before, and Hitler had allowed Heinrich Himmler, the head of the SS and Speer’s chief nemesis, to have him transferred to a special SS clinic where Himmler almost succeeded in having him poisoned.

Manni in turn told Speer a few secretsof his own; how Old Gustav was actually from Bulgaria, and their mother’s great uncle had been a rabbi in Riga. The Loerber Brothers, the blue-eyed, quintessentially Aryan Loerber Brothers, were Jews.

“Night fighters in grid D-16 heading north,” said the radio announcer. “Mustangs in grid D-4 heading east. Mustangs in grid A-6, A-7, and A-9, circling.”

Morning found them on the outskirts of Ludenscheid. They’d driven till three, then taken shelter inside a half-wrecked building which a Volkssturm battalion was using as its command post. Partially demolished buildings had become valuable since they were less likely to be directly targeted for additional pounding. Speer stood at its entrance, huddled in his overcoat, staring out at the drizzle and the gray bleakness and wondering if this was the day he’d finally get caught.

In the yard below, some soldiers had a fire going, using wood pulled from the wreckage, with a large cooking pot dangling from an iron tripod above the flames. Nearby stood the volkssturmers, gray and grizzled, shivering in their heavy coats. They were old men, retired bakers and clerks and librarians. Men who’d fought their own wars long ago and having survived them, didn’t see the point in dying now. Speer wondered what Hitler would think if he saw them. Would he continue proclaiming that they were what was going to turn the war around or would he give a wave of his hand and send them all home?

“He can be quite magnanimous when it suits him,” he remembered telling Manni the day before. At that, Manni gave a cruel snicker which still rankled Speer. He didn’t like having to defend Hitler, but at the same time, he felt miffed by such glaring absence of awe. He was, after all, Hitler, not some puffed-up party hack.

(An abbreviated version of this chapter appears in Germania, first published in 2008 by Simon & Schuster, 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).