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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sit down!” barked Macher.

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

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

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

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

Franzi gave a week grimace and nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Himmler's Bungled Escape

There was a British checkpoint in the middle of a bridge half a kilometer up, reported Grothmann. Nothing to it, just two very bored Tommies with enfields and a field telephone. Even so, they all traded looks with other. It was, after all, their first enemy checkpoint.

They’d go through one at a time, Macher told Franzi and Himmler. “It’ll be easy,” he said. “Keep twenty yards apart. When you get there, go right past the sentry. Don’t look him in the eye, but if you’re challenged, don’t avoid them.” He gave Himmler and Franzi each a tap on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, gentlemen, you’ll be fine. I’ll be right behind you.”

Then he took Franzi aside. “All right, Loerber. This is where it starts. Once we cross that bridge, we’ll be in enemy territory. I assume you know how to act. We don’t start anything, but we’ll finish it when it comes to that. You understand?”

He waited for Franzi to nod that, yes, he understood. He went on. “Now listen, there’s no reason we can’t walk through every British checkpoint we come across. There’s too many people out there. As long as you don’t call attention to yourself, they’ll never see you.

"We can walk to Munich in two weeks,” said Macher. “Once we get there, the networks will take over and everything will be easy. Once we get to South America and have the chief settled into some hacienda somewhere, I’ll cut you loose with a nice fat share for you to disappear with. Sounds good, doesn’t it, Loerber?” Again Macher paused and waited for Franzi to nod, then he went in for the kill.

"Now I have to know I can count on you. I have to know that if I go off somewhere to check something out for ten minutes you’re not going to be sneaking off somewhere. Because if you do that, you know what I am going to do?”

Franzi nodded that yes, he knew the answer to that. Macher nodded for him to say it aloud.

"You’re going to hunt me down and kill me,” he said.

Macher nodded. “That’s exactly right. Now can I count on you as a brother-in-arms?”

Franzi nodded effusively. “Yes, Colonel, yes! You can count on me!” Franzi said it with complete earnestness and sincerity. Franzi Loerber was ready to follow Macher to the ends of the earth, which was roughly what Macher had in mind.

Macher was incredible. Never in his life had Franzi seen anyone who came close to him. No one had his awareness or his instincts. Nobody moved like him, like a shadow or a panther. And the casual way he killed put even Manni to shame. No one, except perhaps Grothmann.

"You can count on me, Colonel,” Franzi said again and then added, “I swear, sir.”

Macher nodded solemnly. “All right,” he said, giving Franzi’s shoulder a punch. “Now go get the Reichsfuhrer ready.”

Franzi walked back to the other end of the clearing where Himmler was sitting on a tree stump. Macher made it sound so easy. To get to Munich all they had to do was keep walking and not attract any attention to themselves. But of course there was a problem: Himmler. For twenty years the spotlight had been on him. He was someone the whole world had looked at and pointed out and now he was completely incapable of blending in, of becoming just one in the mass of humanity. He stood out like a sore thumb and now it was Franzi’s job to teach him otherwise.

Himmler was sitting against a stump, sourly examining his new set of identity documents.

What is it, Reichsfuhrer?” Franzi asked wearily.

"I don’t see how this is going to work,” Himmler said, his voice tinged with hysteria. “Here, look at it.” He thrust the papers into Franzi’s hands. Franzi looked. The name on them didn’t say Himmler, but Hitzinger, Heinrich, a sergeant in the Special Field Police, demobilized a week earlier. The face in the photograph wasn’t Himmler’s either, but the resemblance was good enough to get through any cursory inspection.

"Honestly, Reichsfuhrer,” said Franzi. “It’s just fine.”

"But look at this,” said Himmler, tapping his finger on the demobilization certificate. “It looks like it was run off on a mimeograph machine.”

Franzi tried not to sound exasperated. “I’m sure it was run off on a mimeograph machine, Reichsfuhrer,” he said. “But that’s how it’s being done these days.”

Himmler shuddered. “But it’s all so cheap, so unconvincing.”

"Jesus, thought Franzi, what does he want? An engraved, watermarked parchment? Even now, when Himmler’s empire was down to five people walking on foot, the man’s expectations flourished on a grand scale.

"Reichsfuhrer,” said Franzi. “Forget about the documents. They don’t matter. What matters is you.”

He stopped and waited for Himmler to say something or to look him in the eye. Finally he did.

"You have to learn to make yourself invisible.”

"Invisible?” asked Himmler, cringing at the idea.

"You have to carry yourself like you’re nobody. The way you’re walking now tells the world, you’re a king in disguise. And that will get you caught. Tell yourself I’m nobody, I’m nobody, I’m the same as everyone else here. I’m tired, I’m hungry, I’m scared, I’m nobody. Nobody.”

Himmler grimaced unhappily.

"Reichsfuhrer, think of King Alfred and the cakes.”

"He was English.”

"He was Saxon, just like Henry the Fowler.”

"Well, Henry the Fowler never had to,” grumbled Himmler.

"He didn’t have to because it wasn’t his destiny,” said Franzi. “But it is your destiny, Reichsfuhrer. It is what the stars demand.”

Himmler let out a bitter laugh. “The stars? Sometimes I think my stars have abandoned me. Why else would things have gone so badly?”

"Reichsfuhrer,” said Franzi. ”Things are not going that badly at all. We’ll be in Argentina soon. And never think that your stars have abandoned you. The stars always know who they belong to.”

At this, Himmler seemed to brighten. “Really?” he asked.

"Absolutely,” answered Franzi.

"Well, then they have an odd way of showing it,” sniffed Himmler. “Look, Loerber, I just don’t know how to act like I’m nobody. All this time I’ve been somebody people look at and pay attention to. Anything else just doesn’t seem right. I wouldn’t know the first thing about being just a nobody. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

Franzi had an idea. “Reichsfuhrer, you know the song Harlem Rhapsody, don’t you?”

Himmler sniffed. “Well of course I do,” he muttered. “What does that have to do with anything?”

"Well, you know the words, don’t you?”

Himmler looked confused. “I didn’t know it had words,” he said. “I thought it was just a tune.”

"You don’t know the words to Harlem Rhapsody? Franzi rolled his eyes like it was hilarious. “Not even how it begins? Honestly, Reichsfuhrer!”

Franzi wiggled his finger and made sure he had Himmler’s attention. “Reichsfuhrer, it starts like this.” He began singing the opening bars, the ones everyone would always whistle or hum, Doo dah dah doo - doo doo, sing it with me. Doo dah dah doo – doo doo!” And Himmler sang it with him in his whimpering voice. “Doo dah dah doo, do do! Doo dah dah doo, do do!”

And then Franzi added the words. "Nobody knows - my name." And Himmler sang it with him. “Nobody knows my name. Nobody knows my name.”

And then it dawned on Himmler. “Nobody knows my name,” he sang. “Nobody knows my name. Nobody knows my name.”

"You’ve got it?”

Himmler nodded.

"Good.”

"Is he ready, Loerber?” asked Macher.

"He’s ready.”

"Let’s go!”

They joined up with Kiermaier and Grothmann, who were waiting for them at the edge of the woods, looking down on the crowded roadway. They moved in a group down the embankment to the road and stepped into the mass of people making their way toward the checkpoint.

Argentina would be nice, Franzi told himself. Once he got there, maybe he’d even change his name to Ramon! Of course in order to get there, he’d have to hold Himmler’s hand all the whole way to Munich and then across the Appenines to Italy or Spain. He’d prefer not having to do it, but he didn’t want Macher to kill him either. Franzi wanted Macher to like him and Franzi could tell Macher almost did.

Franzi looked over at Himmler trudging up the road flanked by women and two old people wheeling bicycles. He paid them little notice, he just kept singing to himself as he walked along.

Nobody knows my name. Nobody knows my name.

And sure enough, Himmler’s fledgling waddle had already started to even out. He wasn’t quite the sore thumb he’d been earlier. Perhaps they just might make it to Munich.

They came around the bend and there was the bridge and the two Tommies with their enfields. Just as Grothmann had said, they weren’t showing any interest in any of the hundreds of people who were passing by. They seemed to be there purely as signposts, to indicate that this was now British territory.

A hundred yards from the bridge, Macher had them stop and then started sending them across one at a time. Grothmann went first. He situated himself alongside a woman with her family, carrying one of the children. After that Kiermaier went, also without any problem. Once he saw them both on the other side of the bridge, Macher clapped his hand on Himmler’s shoulder.

"See you on the other side. We’re right behind you.”

Himmler put up his hand. “Just one thing before I go,” he said, turning to Franzi. “I would like to ask you something, Loerber.”

Franzi stared at him. “Reichsfuhrer?” he asked.

"You are a homosexual, aren’t you?”

Franzi felt his mouth drop open.

"Reichsfuhrer,” said Macher. “I don’t think this is the time-“

Himmler put up his hand. “Answer my question, Loerber, and don’t lie!”

"Reichsfuhrer,” said Franzi, trying to contain his rage. “I don’t know what to say.”

"Well you do know it’s wrong, don’t you?”

"Lots of things are wrong,” muttered Franzi.

"Don’t change the subject, Loerber,” said Himmler. “It’s one thing to have to do bad things because of operational necessity. But it’s another thing to do it because of weakness of character.”

"I’ve always tried to do the right thing, Reichsfuhrer, but it’s difficult,” said Franzi, pretending he wasn’t boiling on the inside.

"I know that, Loerber,” Himmler answered, sounding suddenly paternal. “I just want you to promise me that when we get to the Argentine, you’ll stop and find a nice Aryan girl and settle down. It’s easier than you think.”

"I promise I will, Reichsfuhrer.”

"All right. That’s all I have to say,” said Himmler. He reached out to shake their hands. “Colonel Macher, Professor Loerber. I’ll see you men on the other side.”

Himmler walked up the road, humming quietly as he did.

They watched him approach the bridge. He walked easily, like he’d been walking for weeks and had the hang of the road.

"It’s working,” said Macher. “Good work, Loerber!”

"Thank you, sir,” said Franzi.

"Cut out the ‘sir,’” grunted Macher.

Franzi thought about Buenos Aires for a moment, then changed his mind.

He had to get the sentry to notice Himmler. He had to make the sentry wake up and see that the meek little demobbed field police sergeant was the one they were supposed to be keeping an eye out for. And at the same time he had to make Himmler start calling attention to himself again. And he only had about twenty seconds left to pull it off!

He focused on the Tommy. The Tommy’s gaze was leaden. He’d been there since morning and his brain was barely functioning.

Franzi started hitting him with little mind-bursts on the right and then left hemispheres, that got his eyes opening and shutting in mild spasms. The sentry shook his head and started examining the people going past him. But it only lasted a few seconds and his awareness began to deaden again. Franzi hit him with a stronger burst. Wake Up! The sentry shook his head again. He was awake. Good. Now Franzi focused on Himmler, ambling comfortably toward the sentry. "Nobody knows my name. Nobody knows my name,” he hummed, moving with the notes. Franzi decided it needed an extra beat.

"Come on, Reichsfuhrer. Just thirty more feet,” whispered Macher. “Just twenty more feet, just ten more feet. That’s it.”

"Nobody knows my name,” hummed Himmler, to which Franzi added Cha-cha-cha!

"Nobody knows my name, Cha-cha-cha sang Himmler, twitching to the left. "Nobody knows my name, Cha-cha-cha,” and a twitch to the right.”

"What the hell is he doing?” gasped Macher.

"Nobody knows my name, Cha-cha-cha! Nobody knows my name!”

Franzi jumped back inside the sentry. Look over there! Look at him! That’s the one! Him! That’s the guy! Look! See!

And seeing through the man’s eyes, Franzi saw him fixing on the half-dancing figure coming up to him. But even though the man’s movements were starting to register, the sentry’s brain slipped back to half sleep.

Himmler walked right past him, quietly humming as he did. Himmler was clear! Macher nudged Franzi.

But then Himmler did something strange. He stopped and turned and then walked back to the Tommy and once he had the man’s attention, he showed him his papers. They could hear him saying, “Are these good?”

The Tommy, now thoroughly awake, put his hand up to stop the line and began politely thumbing through Himmler’s documents.

"What the hell?” whispered Macher.

They could hear the British soldier saying to Himmler, “It says here you’re discharged from the Geheim Feld Polizei. That’s SS! I’m afraid I’m going to have to take you in for questioning.” He put his hand firmly on Himmler’s shoulder and said something in English to the other soldier. Himmler looked back at Macher helplessly.

"Wait here,” Macher said to Franzi and began pushing his way through the crowd to the checkpoint. As he approached them, the two Tommies brought up their rifles and pointed them at Macher. Macher reluctantly put up his hands. One of the soldiers began searching him and pulled out his pistol and knife. Next thing he knew, both he and Himmler had handcuffs on.

Franzi stood there for a little while, frozen with disbelief. Then it suddenly occurred to him that he was free and he turned around and began walking back to Flensburg.

It was nearly nightfall when a Red Cross lorry pulled up and the driver leaned out and asked if he wanted a lift into town. “There’s something very big going on there,” he said.

(A slightly different version of the "Himmler's Arrest" chapter from Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008, now also available on Kindle here).

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

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

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

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

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

"On a job?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not even for Franzi?”

"No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"In Palestine?”

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

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

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

"Explain what is worked out.”

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

"It sounds harebrained,” said Ziggy.

"We’ve pulled off more with less.”

Ziggy nodded. It was true.

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

"I know, I’ve met him,” said Ziggy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Blood of Israel: Jewish Psychic Revenge on the SS

Himmler stirred in his seat. His breathing seemed almost mechanical, as if being controlled by an outside force. Franzi turned to look at him. His eyes were wide open, but unseeing, as if in a trance.

“Blood!” Himmler whispered.

“Reichsfuhrer?” asked Franzi.

“Blood! The Blood of Israel will have its vengeance!”

“Reichsfuhrer, are you all right?”

“The Blood of Israel will have its vengeance,” repeated Himmler. ”The Blood of Israel! The Blood of Israel! The Blood of Israel!”

“You want to tell me what the hell is going on?” demanded Macher.

“His mind’s been invaded,” answered Franzi. He tried shaking Himmler, but Himmler just kept shouting; “The Blood of Israel will have its vengeance! The Blood of Israel will have its vengeance!”

“Reichsfuhrer, snap out of it!” shouted Franzi. But Himmler kept going on and on. Blood. Vengeance. Israel.

“Colonel Macher, I think we need to stop the car now!” said the driver.

“Keep driving!” shouted Macher. “You, Loerber, get him out of it, now!”

Franzi grabbed Himmler by the arm, shaking it. Then he started slapping his face, but Himmler continued to shout, “The Blood of Israel will have its vengeance! The Blood of Israel will have its vengeance!”

The driver was beginning to lose it, and Grothmann looked rattled. “We need to do something,” he hissed.

Franzi bent down and pulled his medical bag from under the seat and began rooting through it. He found a bottle of smelling salts and stuck it under Himmler’s nose, but it didn’t even change the rhythm of his breath. Vengeance. Israel. Blood.

Franzi reached back into his bag and pulled out a crystal the size of a pinecone and held it against Himmler’s forehead. “Reichsfuhrer, wake up! Please wake up!” Nothing. Franzi was beginning to feel desperate.

“The Blood of Israel will have its vengeance! The Blood of Israel will have its vengeance!”

“Somebody do something!” yelled the driver, now on the verge of panic.

Franzidropped the crystal, pushed Himmler hard against the back of the seat and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Sebastian, stop it right now! You’re going to get me killed!”

Himmler stopped. Suddenly everything was quiet.

“How the hell did you do that?” asked Macher.

“I don’t know, Colonel,” answered Franzi.

Himmler yawned and stretched.

“You called out to your dead brother, didn’t you?” said Macher. “What does he have to do with this?”

Franzi stared hard at him. “Colonel Macher,” he began. “Rather than try to insult your intelligence with an idiot discussion about spooks and magic, let’s just say there’s stuff out there you don’t know anything about. Now I know you think what I do is bullshit, and, well, you’re mostly right. But Colonel, the biggest mistake people make about magic is believing they can open a door halfway. If the Reichsfuhrer had been more like yourself and just left it all alone, none of this would be happening.”

Before Macher could say anything, Himmler interrupted them. “I just had the weirdest dream!”

“How so, Reichsfuhrer?” asked Franzi warily.

“I can’t remember,” said Himmler. “But I’d really like to go for a walk right now. Driver, stop the car. Loerber, you will accompany me.”

“Yes, Reichsfuhrer,” answered Franzi.

“We’ll continue this discussion later,” said Macher. He rolled down the window and stuck his head out. “Five minute break,” he shouted.

Outside the night air was cold and Franzi sucked it in like it was liquor. He and Himmler started down the road, past the troopers who stared down at them from the back of the trucks, until they were away from the headlights. Then Himmler stopped and pointed up into the sky. “Professor Loerber, tell me what the stars say.”

Franzi looked up at all the low clouds drifting across the star-lit sky and for the thousandth time wondered what it was about stars that made people think they gave a rat’s ass about anything. He’d been gazing at them for years and they’d never given so much as a hint. But he needed to tell Himmler something, so he said, “The change is happening now, Reichsfuhrer. The whole grand cosmic order is shifting. A thousand years will pass and it will be nothing compared to what is happening tonight. And you, Reichsfuhrer, are at the very center of it.”

Himmler gasped. “What else do they say about me?”

“It is a moment of great danger,” Franzi went on. “But it is a moment of even greater opportunity.”

“So what should I do?"

“You need to go with the flow,” Franzi droned. “Stay the course, during all the instability, so that you will be the one left standing when the chaos has stopped.”

“Ahh,” said Himmler. “But go on.”

The words were now coming to Franzi independent of any strategy. “The first shall be last and the last shall be first,” he said.

“You mean the Jews, don’t you?”

“The last shall be first and the first shall be last.”

“Yes, it has to be the Jews,” said Himmler, sounding relieved. “It’s a good thing I buried the hatchet with them. It was the smartest thing I ever did. What else?”

“Beware!” whispered Franzi. “Beware!”

“Beware what?” asked Himmler.

“Beware the man.”

“Which man?”

Franzi had no idea which man. “The man who serves with both hands!” he said, pointing to one of the far stars on Orion.

“Are you talking about Eisenhower?”

Franzi pointed to the sky again. Himmler looked up. A flash in the sky appeared; a comet or a meteorite, blazing from the West to the East, before burning out and disappearing.

“My God!” exclaimed Himmler. “That was incredible. I didn’t realize you had such a powerful gift of prophesy!”

“You must warn Eisenhower,” Franzi said.

“Warn him about what?”

“The man who serves with both hands.”

“You’re talking about the traitor, aren’t you?”

Franzi felt a chill.

“It’s got to be those Cambridge spies Schellenberg was telling me about,” Himmler said excitedly. “Philby. He serves London and Moscow. That’s serving with both hands, isn’t it? I’ll have Schellenberg tell Eisenhower about Philby and the others. You’re right, it’s more than a bargaining chip. It’s our good faith measure. Professor Loerber, you are a genius.”

Then suddenly Himmler was in a big hurry to get moving again. “Come on, let’s not keep the Grand Admiral up all night waiting for us.”
(Excerpt from Germania, first 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)

German Navy Faces Off SS in Ploen

It was midnight when they finally drove into the Ploen naval base. In the darkness all that stirred was a single petty officer who pointed a flashlight to where they should park. The men got out of their vehicles, weapons at the ready, and assembled into a tight cordon with Himmler, Macher, Grothmann and Franzi in its center. “Keep your eyes open,” Macher told them. “Anybody sees anything, sing out. If any of these Navy clowns try anything funny, we’ll let them have it. Let’s move.”

The petty officer pointed them to a small cluster of buildings at the end of a walkway flanked on either side by groves of trees. They started down the path, moving slowly and deliberately. “There’s men behind those trees,” reported one of the troopers in a loud whisper. Franzi peered into the shadows between the moon-lit tree trunks and tried to make out the shapes of men hiding among them, but could see nothing. “More behind that row of dustbins,” said another. Macher nodded but kept the group moving closer to the buildings.

“Pathetic,” muttered Grothmann. “If this is their idea of an ambush, they’ve got another thing coming.” Someone else chuckled quietly. Franzi could hear guns being cocked and safeties clicked off. “This is going to be more fun than killing Russians,” someone cracked.

Halfway there, Macher gave the order to halt. “Everyone pick a target.” Then he shouted into the darkness, “Whichever one of you is in charge I suggest you come out right now.”

A naval officer in a long leather coat emerged from behind a tree as casually as if he had his desk there. Even in the dark they could make out the iron cross around his neck. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said pleasantly enough. “I am Korvettenkapitän Cremer, head of the Doenitz Guard Battalion. You are here to see the Grand Admiral?”

“What the hell were you doing back there?” demanded Macher.

“Just a routine security precaution,” answered Cremer.

“You tell your men to come out right now,” said Macher.

Without turning, Cremer raised his right hand and called out. “First squad, come forward. Everyone else, stay where you are.” A dozen sailors stepped out from the trees with rifles pointed, and advanced across the grass toward them. When they were about twenty feet away, Cremer put up his hand again and they halted.

“Tell your men to lower their weapons,” said Macher.

“You’re on our base, so you should lower yours first,” countered Cremer.

“Forget it,” said Macher.

“Have it your way,” said Cremer.

A minute passed and nobody moved. The SS troopers maintained their steely determination as they faced off against Cremer and his sailors, who didn’t waver either. Himmler seemed distracted, as if none of it particularly concerned him. Franzi wondered how much longer before someone started shooting. Then a light came on outside the operations hut. The door opened and a naval officer stepped out. “If you’ll come this way, Reichsfuhrer, the Grand Admiral is waiting for you,” he called out. Without a word, Himmler walked the rest of the way by himself. The naval officer held open the door and followed him inside.

After that, both sides relaxed a little. They partially lowered their weapons and settled in to wait. Cremer walked around them, looking at their weapons and into their faces. When he came to Franzi, he stopped and stared at him with a puzzled look. “Loerber?” he whispered, like he thought it was altogether amazing.

“Is there a problem?” growled Macher.

“I’m not sure,” answered Cremer. Then he turned and waved toward the bushes. “Captain, come here,” he called out.

A figure stepped out of the darkness. A naval officer in the same long leather coat and a glint of an iron cross at his throat. It was Ziggy!

He began walking across the lawn toward them.

“You stop right there!” said Macher.

Ziggy ignored him.

“I’m not going to say it again,” said Macher. “Captain Cremer, keep your man back.”

The naval guard raised their weapons again. The SS raised theirs.

Cremer kept signaling Ziggy to come forward. Ziggy was now close enough that even in the darkness, Franzi could tell that he recognized him.

“Franzi?”

“Ziggy?”

“Colonel, do you mind?” said Cremer. “These guys are brothers. They haven’t seen each other for a long time.”

“Both of you, step away! Now!” said Macher.

Ziggy stopped, giving Cremer a worried look.

“Colonel Macher, you want to start something, go ahead, but I guarantee you, we’ll finish it. Second squad, lock and load.”

“Troopers, wait for my word,” said Macher.

Franzi looked at Ziggy. Ziggy smiled.

What is he thinking? wondered Franzi. It was like the old days, standing in the wings just before going onstage, none of them talking, primed to act as a single unit. The orchestra would strike up Harlem Rhapsody, and they’d wait five bars and then run out on stage.

Harlem Rhapsody. Suddenly the memory was on him, so incredibly vivid, he could almost hear its lilting sadness; the song, he imagined, of a black man on a street corner, gazing up to the window of the woman his heart cries for as packed streetcars clatter by. They all loved that song. He could hear it now, crisp and sweet.

Wait a minute, he was hearing it! Someone was whistling Harlem Rhapsody from one of the other buildings! Ziggy heard it too. They both looked over to see where it was coming from and saw a figure leaning casually against the railing in front of the entrance, cigarette in hand, looking away up into the sky as the blue notes curled up like smoke from his lips.

Manni.

Everyone stood in spellbound silence; Cremer, Macher, Ziggy, everyone, as the melody drifted to them through the cold night air.

Then the light came back on and the door flung open as Himmler bolted out alone. He made his way quickly as he could toward them. Two of the troopers stepped aside to let him into the cordon. Even in the darkness, he looked livid.

“Reichsfuhrer, is everything all right?” asked Macher.

“Let’s just get the hell out of here,” snapped Himmler.

Franzi looked back at the building and saw that Manni was gone.

(Excerpt from Germania, by Brendan McNally, Simon & Schuster 2008).

Himmler Almost Walks Through a British Checkpoint

Ahead of them was their first bridge and it looked easy. There was a checkpoint in the middle of it manned by two British sentries, whose only purpose seemed to be to announce to people that they were now in British territory. In the last fifteen minutes they had not bothered to stop even one of the hundreds of people passing by them.

Macher came over. “We need to go now, Reichsfuhrer,” he said. “The situation is optimal and we can’t risk it changing.”

Himmler nodded, looking over his papers again. “I’m just not sure.”

“Reichsfuhrer,” said Macher. “They’re never going to even look at your papers. They’re only interested in us passing through and not bothering them.”

“All right,” said Himmler. “Just give me another minute.”

“I’ll get the bags,” said Macher and walked off.

Himmler turned to Franzi. “I would like to ask you something, Loerber,” he said. “You are a homosexual, aren’t you?”

Franzi looked at him in disbelief.

“Don’t lie,” said Himmler sternly.

“Reichsfuhrer, I don’t know what to say.”

“Well you do know it’s wrong, don’t you?”

“Lots of things are wrong,” muttered Franzi.

“Don’t change the subject, Loerber,” said Himmler. “It’s one thing to have to do bad things because of operational necessity. But it’s another thing to do it because of weakness of character.”

“I’ve always tried to do the right thing, Reichsfuhrer, but it’s difficult,” said Franzi, boiling on the inside.

“I know that, Loerber,” Himmler answered, sounding suddenly paternal. “I just want you to promise me that when we get to the Argentine, you’ll stop and find a nice Aryan girl and settle down. It’s easier than you think.”

“I promise, Reichsfuhrer.”

“That’s all I have to say,” said Himmler. “Now let’s go.”

Macher said they should go across one at a time. Grothmann went first. He situated himself alongside a woman with her family, carrying one of the children. After that Kiermaier went, also without any problem. Once he saw them both on the other side of the bridge, Macher clapped his hand on Himmler’s shoulder. “Nothing to it, Reichsfuhrer,” he whispered. “Go right past him. Don’t look in his eyes, but don’t avoid them either. You’ll be fine. We’re right behind you.”

Himmler set off. Macher let about twenty people pass by, then grabbed Franzi into the line with him. Immediately Franzi could see it was not going to be so simple. Himmler’s movements were so jerky he stood out even though he didn’t look any different from anyone else in the crowd. Being anonymous had become contrary to his nature. Franzi wondered how long it had been since Himmler had even been in the presence of strangers. Ten years? Fifteen? Twenty? “Maybe I should go alongside him,” he suggested to Macher. “Calm him down.”

But Macher still didn’t trust him. “Forget it,” he grunted. “You’re not leaving my side. The Reichsfuhrer can manage this himself.”

But then, to Franzi’s surprise, Himmler got the hang of it. His footsteps began slowing down, his elbows and shoulders stopped jerking. Forty feet from the checkpoint he started becoming invisible.

Macher and Franzi kept close behind Himmler. Just thirty more feet, Reichsfuhrer. Just twenty more feet, just ten more feet. Himmler was now walking up to the checkpoint and then, he was past it. No problem at all. Himmler was clear. And in twenty more seconds, so would they.

But then Himmler did something strange. He stopped and turned and walked back to the British soldier and showed him his papers. And the British soldier put his hand up and stopped the line and began politely thumbing through Himmler’s documents.

“What the hell?” whispered Macher.

They could hear the British soldier saying to Himmler, “It says here discharged from the Geheim Feld Polizei. That’s SS! I’m afraid I’m going to have to arrest you.” He put his hand firmly on Himmler’s shoulder and said something in English to the other soldier. Himmler looked back at Macher helplessly.

“Wait here,” Macher said to Franzi and began pushing his way through the crowd to the checkpoint. Franzi watched as the British soldiers pointed their Enfields at Macher, who reluctantly put up his hands. One of the soldiers began searching him and pulled out a pistol and a dagger. Next thing he knew, both he and Himmler had handcuffs on.

Franzi stood there for a little while, frozen with disbelief. Then it suddenly occurred to him that he was free and he turned and began walking back to Flensburg.

(Excerpt from Germania)

SS Flying Boats to Wherever

One morning, several days after the Germans surrendered, a group of gigantic, six-engine, BV-222 flying boats appeared unannounced in Flensburg harbor. They were from KG-200, a shadowy, SS-run Luftwaffe unit, commanded by Col Werner Baumbach, which was being used to fly top Nazi officials to safe havens abroad. For several days they just sat there. Then, one night, word got out for anyone wanting  to leave that they needed to show up right away and bring plenty of gold in exchange for passage.  For Reichsfuhrer SS Heinrich Himmler, who had been in hiding, this was good news. But to Colonel Heinz Macher, Himmler's chief of security, it sounded suspicious.

Down in the harbor, the flying boat’s six engines began to sputter loudly and the large, three-bladed propellers started turning, slowly at first, then faster and faster as the engines’ metallic whine turned into a loud roar. At the same time, the passengers at the jetty started boarding barges that ferried them out to the aircraft. One of the Luftwaffe men shouted, “Make up your mind. We’re leaving in five minutes.”

“We’re coming down,” Macher shouted back. “Put out that light now!”

“We need it on! We’re still loading!”

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

A moment later someone hit a switch and everything was back in darkness. “All right, then,” said Macher. He ordered the remaining security men to walk ahead of the cars while the three men already on perimeter were to take up the rear. Everyone else got back in their cars and with their headlights turned off, they began making their way slowly down the hill.

Then the shooting started. Machinegun fire erupted from all over the boatyard and illumination flares shot up into the air, bathing everything below in cold white light. Macher’s men returned fire, while out on the jetty the remaining passengers scattered and collided into each other in panic. Women screamed. Grenades exploded. The three cars immediately slammed into reverse and, tires screeching, careened back up the hill, where they stopped long enough to pick up the rest of the men. Then there was a deafening roar as the flying boat exploded in a huge burst of flame that lit up the sky.

Driving back toward the gates, Franzi looked out the shattered rear window and saw the monstrous aircraft breaking apart as it burned in the water, accompanied by a continuous cracking of smaller explosions as ammunition inside the aircraft cooked off. Himmler was nearly hysterical. This was all Speer’s doing, he kept telling them. Speer was a usurper, Speer wanted his gold, Speer coveted his position as ruler of postwar, Speer had always been plotting against him, Speer wanted to unseat him, from the beginning Speer had set out to unbalance everything! Well he was going to show him. Yes he would! He’d show Speer what for.

Franzi looked around the inside of the car and realized all the windows were shot out. Everything was riddled with bullets, but aside from some minor wounds, no one seemed to be hurt. Fraulein Potthast held the collar of her fur coat tightly around the back of her head, shielding her ears, not saying anything. Kiermaier looked unperturbed as usual. Franzi felt the cold wind blasting at his face and wondered where they were going.
(Excerpt from Germania, first published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, now also available on Kindle here).