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).

Kriegsmarine and Jewish Underground Fight the SS

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

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

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

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

“Signal him again,” whispered Cremer.

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

None of them said anything.

“You’re Blood of Israel.”

They remained silent.

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

They nodded.

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

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

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

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

“More covering fire,” shouted Cremer.

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

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

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

“What?”

“Give it to me!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello,” said Ziggy in English.

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

“You tell me,” said Ziggy.

“Who’s this person in the water?”

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

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

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

“That gold belongs to us.”

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

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

Himmler in Hiding: A Little Fun in the Farmhouse

This was the moment, Franzi told himself. If he wanted to get away, he had to act now. Macher was out on night patrol with two of the others, which meant they probably wouldn’t be back for at least another hour. Himmler was also safely out of the picture, having retreated to the bedroom for another session with Fraulein Potthast. That meant the only people he’d have to contend with were Grothmann and Kiermaier, Himmler’s personal bodyguard. The three of them were sitting in the front room, Franzi in the corner, while Grothmann and Kiermaier sat opposite each other at the table.

For the last three days they’d been holed up in a gamekeeper’s cottage, deep in a forest somewhere near Flensburg. Before that they’d been continually on the move, never spending more than a night in any one place. But when they came here, they found, to the surprise of everyone except Kiermaier, that Fraulein Potthast, Himmler’s mistress, was already ensconced there. Macher didn’t like it and neither did Grothmann, but as Franzi saw it, even though she got on everyone’s nerves, at least she kept Himmler busy and out of their hair for hours at a time.

All he had to do now was put Kiermaier and Grothmann to sleep. Just get inside their minds, find the rhythms of their awareness, and then, like stepping into a chorus line, become part of it. Then, without them noticing it, induce a new rhythm. Make the flow of their thoughts change from a razor sharp wave into a long, greasy, monotonous roll. Franzi and his brothers had grown up practicing it on their father. It was easy as Gustav Loerber was the rare individual whom self-doubt never visited.

Kiermaier, on the other hand, was alertand suspicious and entering his mind felt like walking barefoot across a beach of sharp rocks with the waves pounding casually beyond it. But gradually, Franzi got him nodding. Grothmann, to his surprise, turned out to be relatively easy. The constant creaking and squealing coming from the bedroom had him so irritated, that all Franzi had to do was set up a couple of counter-rhythms to send him blessedly into oblivion.

Franzi rose from his chair and began making his way toward the door, carefully shifting his weight from one foot to the other so the floorboards wouldn’t creak. But halfway across, he felt so overcome with fatigue that he had to stop and hold onto the wall. He tried to imagine running into the forest, up a trail, then cutting off to the side until he found some ferns or undergrowth he could disappear into. And after he got his strength back, he’d creep off like a badger. He figured they’d give up looking for him after a few hours, since they could no longer spare the men for a sustained search.

He made another couple steps toward the door. He reached for the handle, checking quickly behind him to make sure the two were still out. Suddenly, a shrill scream tore through the stillness.

“Oh Hanzeeeeeeee!” shrieked Fraulein Potthast from behind the bedroom door.

Franzi pulled his hand away from the door handle just as Kiermaier and Grothmann snapped awake.

“Oh Hanzeeee, Hanzeee, Hanzeee!”

Oh shit, thought Franzi.

Kiermaier’s eyes were darting around the room. “What happened?” he asked, thoroughly confused.

“I don’t know,” answered Grothmann. He looked suspiciously at Franzi. “What were you doing? I didn’t see you get up.”

“I wasn’t doing anything,” said Franzi as he sank back into his chair. He closed his eyes and tried to think. But his mind felt like it was full of cold, wet cement, his thoughts moving listlessly through it like dying animals.

By now Fraulein Potthast’s screaming had subsided into little satisfied mewing noises. Grothmann gave a disgusted look and tried to focus his attention on the dirt under his nails while Kiermaier’s face returned to its usual blank inscrutability.

Franzi had been trying to escape for a week now, and each time, his attempts came apart at the last moment. Something always went wrong. Once he got Macher to run into a hall closet, believing it was a front door, but he barely bumped his head. Another time, he’d got Grothmann and Kiermaier so angry at each other that they drew their pistols, but their training got the better of them and they soon calmed down again.

He remembered going through Flensburg that night and seeing his brothers there with Nigel Westerby. They had to be planning his rescue, which he absolutely had to prevent from happening. It didn’t matter what resources Westerby had or what magic Manni could muster up for the occasion. They didn’t stand a chance against Macher.

There was more creaking of bedsprings, louder, more jerking and arrhythmic. Grothmann’s eyes narrowed. This weakness of character was something he had not heretofore suspected about the Reichsfuhrer. But Himmler was insatiable. In the time they’d been here, he’d hardly done anything but have sex with Fraulein Potthast. Franzi wondered what it was about being the most hunted man on earth that could stoke one’s ardency to this degree.

The creaking grew louder. “Jesus God, is that all he’s good for?” muttered Grothmann. Kiermaier shot him a poisonous look. Grothmann glared back. It occurred to Franzi that if he’d had the strength, perhaps he might have been able to engineer another showdown between the two. But he didn’t. Instead he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

The next thing he knew he was being shaken awake by Grothmann. “Wake up, Loerber, wake up! The Reichsfuhrer is having an attack.”

Groggily, Franzi followed Grothmann into the bedroom. Kiermaier was already inside, holding down the writhing, naked Reichsfuhrer, while Fraulein Potthast cowered in the corner, her dressing gown wrapped tight around her.

While Kiermaier held down his knees, Franzi began working on Himmler’s stomach. Everything was knotted up, even worse than usual. Franzi let his fingers probe deep into the muscles and immediately, Himmler’s screaming dropped to a whimper and he started to relax. Once Kiermaier felt certain Himmler was out of danger, he took Fraulein Potthast by the wrist and led her out of the room. Himmler’s breathing began slowing down and he stopped whimpering. “Oh Herr Loerber,” he sighed. “You have saved me again.”

“Thank you, Reichsfuhrer,” answered Franzi.

“You really are quite remarkable.”

“Thank you.”

For a few minutes, neither said anything, but Franzi could tell Himmler had something major on his mind.

Finally he spoke. “May I ask you a question, Herr Professor?”

“Certainly, Reichsfuhrer.”

“What do you think of General Schellenberg? Is he someone you would trust?”

“Sorry?”

“Let me put it this way, Loerber, has he taken you into his confidence on occasion? You’ve done things for him, secret things?”

Franzi felt the tingling on the back of his neck.

“What were you doing for him most recently?”

“I was helping arrange the moving of some containers to remote locations. General Schellenberg wanted them dispersed into barns and cellars where they could be retrieved unnoticed.”

“Containers, you said?”

“Yes, Reichsfuhrer. Containers of intelligence files, relating to Source Moonpool.”

“Did General Schellenberg tell you that?”

“No, Reichsfuhrer, I just assumed it.”

“Why?”

“Because Major Steiner was working on it with him.”

“Major Steiner!” Himmler smiled. It was the answer he was looking for. “Major Steiner, yes,” Himmler said. “But did he ever say anything about gold?”

Franzi acted startled. “Gold, Reichsfuhrer? No, he never said anything about that.”

“Did General Schellenberg ever name any of the locations where they were hiding the containers?”

“Not to me Reichsfuhrer.” Franzi paused long enough to adopt a troubled expression. The fact was Schellenberg and Steiner had both, unbeknownst to each other, given him the lists of the locations of the gold. And each list was completely different.

Himmler went on. “Looking back on it now, with the virtue of hindsight, I think we can fairly say it was a mistake entrusting the location of the gold to the same individual running the special operations against the Soviets. General Schellenberg assured me the man was better than anyone at keeping secrets. But now they’re both gone.”

“Oh,” said Franzi.

“This puts our negotiations with Eisenhower into a problematic area, since Schellenberg has not yet fully informed us of the details of the agreement he has reached with him. I can’t very well go to Eisenhower myself, having no idea what the status is. That would be showing all my cards.”

“Yes, it would be,” agreed Franzi.

“So you wouldn’t have any idea where he might have gone to?”

“None, Reichsfuhrer.”

“Can ask you another question?”

“Of course.”

“What do the stars say will become of me?”

Always the stars, thought Franzi. He hadn’t seen a star in several days, since Macher wouldn’t let him outside, other than escorted visits to the latrine.

“Reichsfuhrer,” he began, “these are very difficult times. There is much uncertainty about. But know this,” he said with all the stillness he could muster as he tried to think up something.

“Yes?” asked Himmler expectantly.

Franzi tried to mobilize his brain cells into a last minute defense. “I see, I see...” And then he saw it. A vision, clear as crystal, and almost immediately the unplanned words came to him. “The change will come very soon, Reichsfuhrer. It will come even before the moon wanes.” He saw Himmler’s face light up. Franzi went on. “In the East, two men wait. They stand surrounded by a bloody tide. They wait for their king, their new king.”

Himmler gasped. “That must be Bulgakov and Rybchinski,” he whispered. “Does one of them have glasses?”

“One of them sits on a horse with a golden mane, the other whirls through the air like a fish. They’ll wait for you in the place where the sun shines at night and glows golden from the Earth.”

“You mean Greenland, don’t you? This is amazing!” said Himmler. “Greenland is a place I’ve always dreamed of going to.” But then he added worryingly, “Does it say how long I should stay there? When could I come back?”

Franzi shrugged. Greenland? he thought. Why on earth would anyone want to go there?

“The thing is,” said Himmler, “I still have my career to think about. If I am gone too long, won’t somebody else take the posts which I am destined for? But go on, professor Loerber,” he whispered excitedly. “Please don’t stop. Tell me more! What else do you see?”

“I see a maiden.”

“A maiden? You see Fraulein Potthast?”

Franzi shook his head. “I see another maiden, with long golden hair, in a gown of feathery white. She stands beside an empty throne next to a stone altar where there is a golden helmet and a spear.”

“That’s the Spear of Destiny!” Himmler said breathlessly.

“With her right hand she points to the North Star, with the left to a castle, a castle with four towers.”

“Four towers? That’s Schloss Glucksburg!”

“There is a golden glow from the castle’s West tower.”

“Golden glow! You saw gold? That must be the treasure! We’re supposed to bring it there. Does that mean it will come? Will the gold shipment arrive?”

Franzi nodded.

“So then I should tell Macher not to move again. Perhaps we should move closer to the schloss? What do you think? Should we?”

Franzi nodded again.

“Does the maiden say anything?” asked Himmler.

“She says, ‘beware!’”

“Beware?”

“Beware!”

“Beware what?”

Franzi had no idea what. “Beware, the Blood of Israel!” he intoned in a voice that frightened even himself.

“The Blood of Israel?” Himmler was shocked. “Not them? They’re after my gold? Well they’re not going to get it,” he snapped. “The gold is mine! I’ve worked hard for it. Does the maiden have any advice about what I should do?”

“The helmet will go to the true king and with it, the throne. But not before three bursts of lightning rain on the castle. The gold shall build a new kingdom in a land of kings where there is no king.”

“That’s Germany!” Himmler was beside himself with excitement. “She has to be talking about Germany. Germany is the land of great and true kings. Will I be the next king?”

“Beware the Blood of Israel. The Blood of Israel will seek its vengeance.”

“It’s a little late for that,” Himmler cackled. “Hitler is already dead. I buried the hatchet with those people a month ago. We shook hands and everything. It’s Doenitz’s problem. They don’t have anything on me! In any event, I’ll have Eisenhower deal with them once I am king.”

After that, Himmler felt so much better he put on his best uniform and strode into the front room. Macher and the others were back now and everyone was where they had been sitting earlier.

Himmler smiled at Fraulein Potthast, who was now sitting by herself, forlorn and frightened-looking, like she had the onus on her for the attack. “Come on, Hedwig, put on your nicest dress, let’s light some candles and have some wine. We’re having a party!”

Immediately she lit up and fluttered back into the bedroom, only to emerge a few minutes later in a shimmering lavender gown, elbow length silk gloves and a long string of pearls around her neck. She was young, blonde and pretty, though in a horse-faced way. Now, reaffirmed in her position as the first lady of the SS, she greeted her guests with awkward formality, forgetting that they were all just fugitives from an empire which had already evaporated.

Himmler wound up the gramophone and handed her a stack of disks and invited her to choose. She made a great show of picking one out, pulling it out from its brown paper sleeve. “Play this one,” she said. Himmler put it on and lowered the needle. As the first notes surged out of the horn, he bowed and took her hand in his and they started to dance. The sad, happy rhythm and the swaying melody began filling the room.

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