Speer at Glucksburg, the Night Before His Arrest

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

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

“Happy Days,” said Manni.

“Happy Days,” answered Speer.

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

“Herr Reichsminister?” asked Manni.

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

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

“Please tell me why?”

"Herr Reichsminister, is there any point?”

“Just tell me the truth.”

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

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

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

“That’s right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And your prognosis, Herr Loerber?”

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

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

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

“It wasn’t? What was it?”

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

Speer looked away, fuming with anger and humiliation.

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry,” offered Manni.

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

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

“So you’re a Jew?” asked Speer.

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

Speer shook his head angrily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kibosh?” asked Speer.

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

“Ah,” said Speer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I guess I should sleep,” said Speer.

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

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

“What?”

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

Doenitz Decides to Surrender

Alone, finally, Doenitz let his eyes close for a moment. It had been nearly six hours since the telegram had arrived from the Fuhrerbunker naming him Hitler’s successor and only now, with Himmler out of the way, was the weight of this new job beginning to sink in. Head of State, Reichspräsident, Fuhrer, Heil Doenitz! The last thought made him shudder.

He went back to his pile of reports and for two hours his attention remained focused only on paperwork. After thirty five years in the Navy, it had become second nature and now it provided him with a sense of reassurance that things were not as utterly chaotic as they appeared. Armies, even on their last legs, continued to generate reports, requests, tallies, statistics, strategic assessments. They kept streaming in and Doenitz continued reading them. But then somewhere around four thirty he looked up, rubbed his eyes, and realized nothing he was reading addressed the real heart of the matter; that the war was lost and as Head of State, the only choice left to him was deciding how large the funeral pyre should be.

He picked up a report from the Admiral Kummetz, in charge of the Baltic evacuation. Twenty more ships had come into different German ports with refugees and soldiers. Estimated numbers, thirty five thousand men, women and children. Tomorrow they hoped to get out fifty thousand. Every freighter, barge, and fishing boat they could get their hands on was now going to and from the Latvian ports of Lepaya and Memel, where upwards of a million Germans were still holding off the Russians. He knew as well as anyone what the Russians would do to them when they got them. He had to continue the evacuation. He couldn’t give up on them.

He needed to put together a government. But how was he supposed to do that? He didn’t know the first thing about government or diplomacy. He wondered if what Himmler had said about the Americans and British considering an alliance with Germany against the Russians could be true. It seemed crazy. But then didn’t he have all those spies and that whiz-kid Schellenberg with all his foreign contacts?

Besides, forming a new government is still only a means to an end. So what end was he seeking? What was left? A surrender? A few hours ago, the idea had still been completely unthinkable. But now it seemed to be the only thing that made any sense. The irony was that the Fuhrer had given the job to him because he knew he would never surrender.

So what should I do? Am I supposed to continue following the path of someone who has abdicated his responsibility and leadership? If Hitler wanted the war to continue, he should have stuck to his job. Where was he anyway? Was he dead? Or had he gone out to the streets to join the fighting? What difference does it make? he asked himself.

He remembered driving back from Luebeck that day telling himself that Himmler would be the next Fuhrer - the thought of serving under a liar like that seemed more than he could take. He found himself wishing he’d had the guts to arrest Himmler on the spot. Himmler’s men would have gunned him down immediately, but at least he could have died honorably, and remained true to all those young men he’d sent to their deaths.

Or, instead of returning to Ploen, he should have gone to the nearest airstrip, commandeered a plane and flown up to Oslo and gotten aboard one of the Type XXI boats and gone out to the North Atlantic to raise hell. The first enemy warship they’d find, they’d sink. Then they’d find another and sink it too and then the one after that and the one after that, until they’d finally get sunk themselves. He had the right to do that. He was a soldier and a soldier’s last bullet is always for himself. But it seemed Hitler had taken that privilege from him so he could go out fighting on the streets of Berlin. So why had he done it? It wasn’t right. Damn it, it wasn’t fair! It wasn’t. It was selfish!

So what do I do? What is the interest of the State? The interest of the State is survival. And at all costs, Germany must survive! Surrender, then? That’s not why I was appointed by the Fuhrer. But then he’s not Fuhrer any more. I am. I’m the Fuhrer. Don’t say that! Don’t use that word. I’m head of state. I’m in charge.
(Excerpt from Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008, Kindle download available here).

Two Jewish GIs Make First Contact with Albert Speer in Flensburg

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They left without shaking hands or thanking him.

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

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

"We’ll see,” said Speer.

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

Hipster Nazi Albert Speer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They left without shaking hands or thanking him.

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

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

"We’ll see,” said Speer.

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

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

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

"Herr Reichsminister, we have an emergency!”

"What is it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reich Government Finally Meets to Discuss Minister Appointments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May Day 1945, Hamburg

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

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

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

"All the time?”

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

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

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

###

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Legend of Werner Baumbach: Karl Hanke's Mysterious Escape to Prague from Breslau

To fans of the Third Reich and its vaunted war machine, few characters get venerated quite as rabidly as Werner Baumbach, the Luftwaffe’s top bomber pilot. He ranks right up there alongside fighter aces like Adolf Galland, Ernst Rudel, Erich Hartmann, and a handful of others who somehow survived the war and then wrote books about it. But Baumbach is different. While everyone else’s fame rests on combat exploits which are more or less documented, Baumbach’s legend is fed by shadows. Around him whirl a host of stories, of rumors and innuendo, none which can ever be proven or disproven, of secret missions, of the daredevil helicopter rescue of one particularly loathsome individual, and reports that he might have flown out possibly hundreds of top Nazis to safe havens abroad during the final days of the war.

It turned out that in addition to having flown Ju-88 dive-bombers in nearly every front of the war, Werner Baumbach also flew for a shadowy Luftwaffe special operations command known as Kamphgeschwader 200, or KG200. Very little has ever been found out about them other than that they were organized into different squadrons, or Staffeln, which were all kept far apart and mostly ignorant of each other. There was a special unit that flew long-range agent insertion missions, and another that flew shorter-range ones. There were units that flew captured B-17s, B-24s, Mustangs, Spitfires and Soviet aircraft. There were units that did electronic warfare and others with massive flying boats officially used to service distant weather stations, including robotic ones set up in Labrador. There was even a squadron being developed to fly suicide missions using manned versions of the rocket-powered V-1 buzz bomb.

Baumbach’smemoir, titled variously, The Life and Death of the Luftwaffe, or Broken Swastika, made no mention of any of it, not surprisingly, since it largely avoids mentioning the end of the war in the first place. It is mainly about flying Ju-88s and the art of dive bombing ships and bridges. But if Baumbach’s book fails to mention what he did at the end of the war, other memoirs do. Mostly it’s just fragments, but added up, they paint a picture of a man moving at incredible speed, in and out of a multitude of places.

In November, 1944, Baumbach was put in command of KG200. He apparently already knew something about it, having flown missions for them from time to time and also having advised actively on one of their weapons development programs. This time he was surprised to learn that a new staffel was being organized made up of suicide pilots. Baumbach didn’t like the idea to begin with and after talking to some of them, he quickly concluded they didn’t really understand what they’d gotten signed up for and had the unit disbanded. Almost nothing is known about what else Baumbach did during his time running KG200. But since its job was running operatives in and out of places behind enemy lines, one can only assume that was what they did during this period. It is known that one of its B-17s crashed while transporting a group of agents into France. Other missions, presumably, were more successful.

Sometime during March, all or part of KG200 morphed into a “Special Escape Section,” whose primary purpose was to fly Nazi bigwigs out of Germany to Spain and other neutral countries. They used whatever aircraft they had, including captured B-17s, B-24s, British Wellingtons and other Allied aircraft. How many got out? Dozens? Hundreds? No one knows. But apparently none of it rested well with Baumbach, who was himself a bit of a diehard. At one point he discussed with his old friend Albert Speer possible ways Hitler might be tricked into boarding one of his airplanes, whereupon they would fly him to where he could be handed over to the British or Americans. The enterprise apparently never went beyond the talking stage and the SS-run charter airlines seem to have continued its operations through April. At one point earlier in that month, they began using a Ju-390, a massive six-engine bomber/transport which was said to have taken several planeloads of passengers out of Prague’s Ruzyne airport to Spain. Baumbach was said to have flown at least one of these missions.

Then a very odd thing happened. Hitler found out from the news that Heinrich Himmler, his ever-loyal head of the SS, was secretly negotiating a peace deal with the Western Allies. Hitler went into a rage and fired Himmler from all his posts, though not his Nazi party membership, and then sent messages to Grand Admiral Doenitz informing him of Himmler’s treachery and ordering Doenitz to move against him. Doenitz promised to do something. He went and confronted Himmler, but Himmler thinly assured him the news reports weren’t true, all the while positively primping himself with the anticipation of becoming the next Fuhrer. Not long after returning to his headquarters, Doenitz received another cable from Hitler, this time telling him he was the new Fuhrer. Some time after that Hitler shot himself, but not before sending out another message; this time to Karl Hanke, Gauleiter of Breslau. Hitler decided to reward Hanke for his steadfast defense of the city, surrounded and under Russian siege since February, by making him the new Reichsfuhrer SS.

Since KG200 took its orders from the SS and not the Luftwaffe, it meant that Baumbach was no longer obliged to take orders from Himmler or answerable to him. At the time of Hitler’s death, Baumbach was in Hamburg alongside its gauleiter, Karl Kaufmann, who wasn’t sure what he should do. His orders had been to fight to the death, something the British Army, now fighting its way through the city’s western suburbs, was more than willing to accommodate them on. But Baumbach advised Kaufmann to just put up white flags and save what was left of the city. He did and after that a cease fire was called.

It was a different story in Breslau. For the three months that the siege had gone on, Hanke had brooked no discussion about what they should do. They would fight to the death and anyone who thought otherwise ended up hanging from a lamppost with a placard around his neck offering a suitable warning to anyone else whose resolve might be wanting. But now, suddenly, Hanke had pressing business elsewhere. His orders for KG200 were quite simple; ‘Get me out!’ Luckily, Baumbach was an old friend of Hanke’s, having been introduced by their mutual friend Albert Speer before the war.

Truth be told, no one actually knows how Karl Hanke got out of Breslau and showed up at Prague Ruzyne airport just as it was about to fall to Czech partisans. The accepted explanation is that Hanke probably already had a Fieseler Storch or some other light airplane waiting for him under a tarp on the airstrip in Breslau and that he flew off in that. It’s a commonsensical explanation, especially compared with the incredible story Albert Speer tells in his ‘Spandau Diaries.’ In that account, Baumbach flew into Breslau in a helicopter, picked up Hanke and then flew him all the way to Prague.

All that is known is that Hanke did arrive at Ruzyne and that the 18th volunteer SS Panzergrenadier Division, or what was left of it, was there at the airport to take him back to Prague. But once in Prague, the fighting going on there had gotten to the point where Hanke’s rescuers didn’t see the point in sticking around. They tried heading back to Ruzyne, but the partisans had taken the area. They changed direction and headed west, up the Karlsbad Road, trying to get back to Germany. A day later they were all taken prisoner and put into a stockade near Nova Ves. Hanke was in the uniform of a private and not recognized. A few weeks later he was reportedly killed trying to escape.

As for Baumbach, nothing at all is known about how he got out of Ruzyne. Perhaps there was something there waiting there for him, a Ju-88 or some other longer-range aircraft. Perhaps he flew the helicopter to another location where he got flown out. All that is known is that five or six days later, Baumbach flies into Flensburg, the little port city on the Danish border that was the Reich’s new capital city, with a flight of four or five gigantic, six-engine B&V-222 flying boats.

It doesn’t take much to assume the aircraft had been flown into Flensburg with the purpose of taking out a very large number of well-heeled Nazis on a one-way flight to someplace friendly and that might have been what was intended, but once Baumbach had landed, it seemed he decided to call it a day and just kick back and start getting very drunk. Luckily, Albert Speer was there as well and from the look of him, looked like he could use cheering up.

By this point Speer was third man in the governing troika set up by Hitler’s successor, Grand Admiral Doenitz. He was in charge of economic issues while Doenitz acted as “Reich President” and an aristocratic non-entity named Schwerin von Krosigk served as Chancellor and Foreign Minister. It was obvious from the beginning it was going to be a thankless task. The only thing they could do that actually mattered was end the war, which was accomplished via three different unconditional surrenders which took nearly a week.

Each day, parts of the Reich got cut away. One day it was Denmark, then Norway, then the Channel Islands, and the French Biscay ports, followed by Crete, Rhodes, and Dunkirk. Soon the only remaining piece of sovereign German territory was the Marineschule where the Doenitz government had its offices. At the same time their government grew. Ministers were added, along with assistants, secretaries, clerks and typists. And each morning at eight, Doenitz would convene his government, during which time they would methodically attend to the affairs of state. It was the first time a Nazi government had met. In the twelve years Hitler had been in power, he hadn’t allowed it to convene even once.

For ten whole days, Speer stood by stoically as the Reich got dismembered and attended the government meetings, as if the business being discussed actually meant something. But then the day came when the advance team of Allied representatives arrived; about thirty, mostly British, mostly junior officers, and thoroughly unpleasant to a man. Almost the first thing they did upon showing up was taking over the Patria, the large, rusting Hamburg-Amerika liner docked just below the Marineschule, and ordering everyone currently living aboard it to immediately gather their things and clear out.

Speer was livid. Patria had been a kind of haven for him, a tiny piece of order and stability after being on the move non-stop for almost two months. Now he and three hundred others were being kicked off it so that a handful of Brits could rub their noses in the dirt!

Speer was still shaking with anger as he walked down the gangplank, bags in each hand. That was when he ran into Baumbach, who laughed long and loud when Speer described his misfortune.

“Kicked off the ship? No place to stay? Well, I guess you’ll just have to move into the castle with me, Speer,” said Baumbach. It turned out he was ensconced in Schloss Glucksburg, the stately castle just outside town, which his friend, the Duke of Mecklenburg, had lent him. At Baumbach’s invitation, Speer moved into the castle and almost immediately, the two of them started getting drunk.

Speer’s memoir reveals little of what the two talked about during the next two weeks, except that at one point during their drunken ramblings, Baumbach proposed the two of them fly off to Greenland in one of the flying boats, to spend the summer hunting, fishing, kayaking and writing their memoirs together. Speer never found out if Baumbach was joking. A day or two later, Speer had some surprise visitors; a group of American bankers, lawyers, and economists from something called the United States Strategic Bombing Survey, eager to pick Speer’s brain on the effectiveness of the American daylight bombing campaign on the German war economy.

For the next ten days, Speer held court with the Americans at the castle, while Baumbach just mostly stayed drunk. One night, somebody blew up the four flying boats, as they sat moored in the harbor. A few days later, Eisenhower and the Western overlords decided they’d had enough of Doenitz and his government and rolled it all up.

Speer and Baumbach were both arrested. Speer was tried at Nuremberg as a major war criminal and served twenty years in Spandau Prison. Baumbach spent three years as a British prisoner, during which time he was repeatedly interrogated. What he might have told them about KG200 and his end-of-the-war exploits has never been learned. He did testify during later war crimes trials. Finally Baumbach was freed, whereupon he moved to Argentina and became a test pilot and flight instructor for the air force. He settled easily into the German émigré community, painting himself as an unreconstructed Nazi.

One day in October, 1953, he test flew a British Lancaster bomber, which the Argentinean air force had just acquired. Some time after taking off, something exploded on the bomber. Baumbach managed to bring it down to a watery landing in the Rio de la Plata, but drowned before he could be rescued.

Baumbach's role in the three-week Flensburg period is explored heavily in my novel Germania (2008, Simon & Schuster, and now also available as an ebook). Baumbach's earlier activities, including his activities with the Special Escape Section, his rescue of Hanke and subsequent escape from Prague and arrival in Flensburg with the BV-222 flying boats will be the subject of my upcoming novel, tentatively titled Baumbach and Speer.

A Personal Holiday Message to You From Grand Admiral Karl Doenitz

Dear Friend

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Order Germania today,  for the sake of future generations!

Your pal,  Karl

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Doenitz?” asked Ball.

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

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

“Good idea,” said Ball.

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

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

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

“It is?”

“I got it from on high.”

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

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

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

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

“Amen to that,” said Ball.

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

“Comic opera, I’d say,” agreed Ball.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Von Friedeburg and Surrender Party Return from Berlin

FLENSBURG FINALLY

Even though Flensburg airport was now officially under British control, their presence at this point was still so small that it was hard to tell anything had changed. The Nazi flags were down, but the only Union Jack that was evident was a tiny one tacked up outside the operations hut. Everything else was much the same as before the surrender. The Luftwaffe colonel who’d commanded the base beforehand was still going around giving orders as before. The difference, of course, was that now he was taking his orders from a young British lieutenant.

Everything was grounded. The day before, two German aircraft had been permitted to fly out: one to Prague, the other to Courland, to carry Doenitz’ surrender orders to the respective German Army Group commanders. But other than that, nothing could take off without express British permission.

The airfield was littered with dozens of aircraft, mostly single-engine Messerschmitt and Focke-Wulf fighters along with some two-engine night fighters and bombers. They stood scattered in no particular order, certainly not in anything resembling lines. Most were painted in a mottled gray and white camouflage. Others were grey with green or brown spots. Some were just solid gray. Some were under tarps, others were missing

engines or canopies or cowling or sections of wing. Either way, none looked like they’d ever fly again. Their time had passed, as surely as that of the mastodons and dinosaurs. In the course of a few days, they had imperceptibly transitioned from weapons of war into finely crafted detritus.

Peter Cremer had been up to the airfield several times in the last few days. As commander of the Grand Admiral’s security battalion, his authority was officially limited to the grounds of the Marineschule, where the new government had its headquarters, but the reality was that he was free to go anywhere he wanted without permission. The British were mostly interested in keeping anything German from taking off. Other than that they weren’t looking for trouble.

It was not as chaotic as it’d been immediately after the surrender had been announced. Things were beginning to quiet down into a sort of universal numbness as people tried to accustom themselves to the fact that after nearly six years of fighting, the war was now over. But that didn’t mean the anger and tension wasn’t lurking everywhere. Fights would break out suddenly between people who until then had been quiet and orderly. Sometimes at night they’d hear shooting going on along the waterfront or in the nearby woods. It was the uncertainty more than anything. No one had any idea what was going to come next.

This morning he’d come to the airport to pick up Von Friedeburg and Ziggy who, after a week, were finally coming back. From what Cremer understood, the idea originally had been that Ziggy and von Friedeburg would return to Flensburg immediately after signing the surrender to Eisenhower. But of course that wasn’t how it worked out. No sooner had it been completed than the Russians apparently began screeching about how it was unfair to them and demanded another surrender, an official one, be signed in Berlin with them officiating and with representatives of the Western Allies in attendance, instead of the other way around. So while Jodl was allowed to return to Flensburg, Ziggy and von Friedeburg, obedient to their new masters, boarded another Dakota and were flown to Berlin.

He stepped out of the operations hut into the bright morning sunlight and, placing his hand above his left brow to block out the sun’s glare, combed the southern sky for some sign of an approaching aircraft. The British controller inside had told him the flight from Berlin was due any minute. But there was still no sign of it.

Alongside one of the hangars, a line of staff cars and escort vehicles waited, their engines idling. Along with Ziggy and Admiral von Friedeburg, the airplane would be carrying Field Marshall Keitel, head of Armed Forces High Command, and General Stumpf, the newly appointed head of the Luftwaffe. It would have made more sense to have stuck them all in a single vehicle; certainly they could have stood saving that much petrol. But in the Old Man’s eyes, they’d already endured enough humiliation that he figured it would be better to allow them the indulgence. It made as much sense as anything did these days. Cremer thought that as long as the admirals were getting the goodies, he might as well do the same for Ziggy, who he figured was probably greatly in need of letting off some steam.

A group of Luftwaffe officers stood on the flight line ahead of Cremer. One with binoculars was pointing to a spot among the clouds while the others nodded. Then he heard the low drone of engines. Cremer stared hard until he could make out a black dot. A few seconds later it had grown to a full-sized twin-engine Dakota.

With a roar of its engines, and a bounce on its wheels, it put down on the grassy airfield, taxied up toward the tower, then abruptly turned and stopped, its engines still going full force. A door opened on the midsection of the aircraft’s left side and one of the British crewmembers jumped out and began helping the Germans down. It took only a few seconds. There were no exchanges of goodbyes or handshakes with those remaining on board. It seemed more like people being disgorged from a tram. As soon as they were all off, the side door shut again, the aircraft turned, the engines grew louder and, its mission completed, it lumbered its way back to the airstrip to take off.

As the travel-worn group walked towards them, a flock of aides and adjutants ran from the cars to meet them, relieving them of their bags and overcoats. Ziggy had been carrying the admiral’s valise, he handed it to one of them. Spotting Cremer, he bid farewell to von Friedeburg, who gave him a brief nod, discharging him from any further duties.

Ziggy Loerber looked tired, as if he’d just returned from a ten-week U-boat patrol. “Hello Peter, good to see you,” he said glumly. He followed Cremer to his open-roofed Kubelwagen.

“Glad it’s over?” asked Cremer.

Ziggy shook his head back and forth wearily and rolled his eyes. “You wouldn’t believe it,” he said.

“How was Berlin?”

“Like a moonscape.”

Cremer waited for the others to drive off before he started up the car. He let off the brake and slowly motored past the hangars and other buildings. Then he noticed a British officer step out in front of them with his hand outstretched, and a big, friendly smile on his face, signaling them to stop.
(This is an excerpt from a chapter that got cut from my novel 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).

Allied Spooks Call Doenitz on the Carpet

“Korvettenkapitän Cremer,” asked Doenitz. “Did you not suggest to me several days ago that we move the flying boats out of Flensburg harbor to the patrol station to the north?”

“Yes, Grand Admiral, that is correct,” said Cremer. He stood rigidly at attention, the way they always did when reporting to the Old Man. Ziggy was next to him, waiting for when the Grand Admiral’s wrath got directed at him, while in chairs a few feet away, two Allied officers glared at them with undisguised malice.

“Didn’t you also inform me that you were placing lookouts in the surrounding hills to keep an eye on them?”

“Yes, Grand Admiral.”

“So then, logically speaking, you should have known anything that might have been going on up there.”

“Yes, Grand Admiral.”

“But yet you profess to know nothing of the incident which took place last night. How is that?” Doenitz regarded them both icily. He was furious. Twenty minutes earlier the British and American officer had stormed into his office, accusing him of secretly moving the flying boats out of sight in order to allow a large number of former Nazi officials to escape. To defend himself, he called in Cremer and Ziggy, the two men who were supposed to keep him on top of these things. But instead everything they were saying made him look like a liar, or worse, a fool.

“Well?” asked Doenitz.

“Grand Admiral,” Cremer began. “At the time the incident at the cove took place, my men and I were involved in an operation at Schloss Glucksburg, assisting a British unit in an attempt to capture Reichsfuhrer Himmler, and therefore could not leave to investigate.”

Doenitz sat still, like an iceberg which had just become infinitely colder.

The British colonel raised his eyebrows incredulously. “Really?” he asked. “We are not aware of any effort by our forces to subdue the Reichsfuhrer.”

“Why wasn’t I informed about this?”asked Doenitz.

“Because it was a secret operation,” volunteered Ziggy and immediately regretted it.

“Secret? Secret from whom?” asked the American.

“Sir, we were asked not tell anyone so as not to jeopardize the operation’s success.”

“Told by whom?”

“A British intelligence officer named Major Westerby.”

The two Allied officers exchanged significant glances. For a second, Ziggy thought he saw just the tiniest glint of relief in Doenitz’ implacable mien, that perhaps this was all just a misunderstanding and that his trusted captains were merely doing what they’d been ordered.

“Were you?” asked the British officer. “And when did he call you to action?”

“Last night around 8:30,” said Cremer.

“You’re lying, Captain Cremer,” said the American.

“Captain?” asked Doenitz. “I expect you to tell the truth.”

“I am telling the truth,” said Cremer.

“Captain Cremer,” said the American. “Major Westerby has been dead for two days.”

“Murdered,” the British officer added.

Ziggy felt the coldness which always came over him whenever he learned a friend or former shipmate had died. Poor Westerby, he thought. He’d been right about the danger Franzi was facing.

“Actually, the request came from Major Westerby’s adjutant,” Ziggy said.

“Oh?” said the British officer. “And who might that be?”

“His name is Manni Loerber.”

There was a very long silence. The British officer stared at Ziggy. Doenitz stared at Ziggy. The American looked like he didn’t know what was going on.

“Manni Loerber?” asked the British officer in a shrill voice, like he knew he was being pointedly insulted. “Manni Loerber of the Flying Magical Loerber Brothers? Is this your idea of a joke?”

“My brother,” said Ziggy.

“Grand Admiral,” the British officer turned angrily to Doenitz. “What is going on?”

“Captain Cremer,” said Doenitz, coldly as before. “Explain what your subordinate is talking about.”

“Sir?” asked Ziggy.

“Not another word out of you, Loerber,” said Doenitz. “Captain Cremer, report.”

“Major Westerby approached us with his adjutant Corporal MacDonald, who it turned out was really Captain Loerber’s brother Manni, who then called us last night to provide support for an operation against Himmler. He never said anything about flying boats or anything going on in the cove, only to expect Himmler’s arrival sometime shortly after 10:30 at Schloss Glucksburg. But since the flying boat blew up at precisely 10:30, I assume he must have had something to do with it.”

“Corporal MacDonald?” countered the British officer. “I know for a fact that Major Westerby never had anyone working for him with that name.”

The American jumped in. “I think we can stop this part of the discussion right here.”

“But Colonel,” protested the British officer, “if this Corporal MacDonald knows something, shouldn’t we..."

The American cut him off. “This discussion is closed, Colonel.”

Ziggy watched them stare at each other; the British officer red with indignation, the American angry at having had to reveal that he’d been holding back on some key information. The British officer looked away from the American and, facing the window, asked, “So then, Captain Cremer, was this joint operation you describe successful?”

“No, the Reichsfuhrer and his men got away.”

“Perhaps this phantom operation was actually just a way of helping Himmler to escape?”

Doenitz bristled. “Colonel, I can assure you none of my people have been helping Himmler in any way,” he said. “We have been scrupulous in observing to the letter the terms of the surrender agreement and any suggestion to the contrary is an affront to the Navy’s honor.”

But the American was already in a hurry to wrap things up and get out. He stood up, forcing his British counterpart to do the same. “We’ve heard enough, Grand Admiral,” he said. “We’ll be making our recommendations to Supreme Headquarters. I can assure you that neither General Eisenhower nor the EAC will take any of this lightly. Good day, gentlemen.” And with that, they walked out.
(Excerpt from Germania, published in 2008 by Simon & Schuster, now also available on Kindle here).

The Killing of Wolfgang Luth: Who? What? When? ... Why?

“So who is Blood of Israel?” Ziggy asked.

Sebastian gave an ironic smile as he refilled their glasses. “Better you should ask who isn’t Blood of Israel?” Ziggy waited for him to elaborate but instead Sebastian said, “We’re buying land in Palestine, at least my group is. Putting in kibbutzes, nice places, everybody gets along, everybody shares. We’ve started raising vegetables, fruit, oranges, grapefruit, lemons, olives. Have you ever seen an olive tree, Ziggy? They’re incredible.”

Then Sebastian’s face darkened. “But of course, that’s just our group. There are others; anti-socialists, ultra-socialists, revisionists; the Jabotinsky’s, Lehi. More than you can keep track of. Most of the time we work together okay, but now it’s getting funny.”

“Is that what happened at the cove that night?”

“Honestly, I don’t know what happened. All I know was the day before there were all these Jabotinsky-types dressed as Luftwaffe. The next day they were gone. Even I get told only so much.”

“So how do we know this isn’t going to happen again?”

“Relax, there’s not that many people involved. And we only came up with our current plan yesterday when we got the fuel. Plus, the flying boats attracted too much attention. Everybody suddenly wanted to get into the act. No one will bother to think about midget submarines at all.”

“So how did you get the fuel?”

Sebastian shook his head and laughed. “I don’t mind telling you it was truly epic. The kinds of things that happen. We arrange to pump some from the minesweepers and right before we can do it, what happens? They get ordered north by the British. We divert a tanker truck full of diesel from the British, what happens? It gets hijacked by some Scottish infantry who for all I know probably have a deal going with Danish gangsters who’re taking over all the trucking in this part of Germany.”

“And then I realized the solution was right here under our nose. The German Navy might not have a drop to spare, but the Marineschule keeps a nice little store of its own for training cadets in handling large harbor craft. The British didn’t even know about it. It was just a question of finding a way of getting it released to us.”

“I’m telling you, it was a lot easier when the war was still on. Things were a lot more cut and dry. See a guy in an SS uniform, your first thought isn’t how can I get him to do things for me, it’s how do I slit his fucking throat for maximum effect and still get away.”

“And that’s what you did the whole war?” asked Ziggy.

“Well not the whole war. The real killing campaign only started this year, when it became easy to send people in. Before that, we’d infiltrate people into SS units and get information from them, occasionally blow something up, but mostly just basic intelligence stuff. Not that different from what Manni was doing.” Sebastian paused a moment, then added, “In fact, Manni’s been doing plenty of assassinations himself. He won’t tell you that, but our people spotted him in the Ruhr. Once he even got one of our people out of a Gestapo jail, without even knowing who he was. Just went in and did it. It’s not what the British hired him to do, but you know Manni, he likes to do things on his own.”

Ziggy shrugged. “War turns us all into killers.”

The parlor had striped wallpaper, peeling and weathered at the edges, with groupings of tiny framed paintings. There were so many, it was difficult to focus on any one. Ziggy looked at Sebastian, who had fallen silent, a troubled look on his face. His eyes avoided Ziggy as he stared at the wallpaper. Finally, he spoke. “Manni doesn’t think we should go to Palestine, ”he said quietly. “He thinks that once we get Franzi out we should take the gold and fly to Spain. We can keep the fuel money. Nobody knows about that.”

He paused again, rubbing his fist against his lips. Then he stared back at Ziggy. The light had gone out from Sebastian. Now all he looked was tired and desperate.

“I want to get away from this shit, Ziggy.” Sebastian dug his thumb and forefinger into his eyes. He let out a sniff. “I don’t want to keep doing this Blood of Israel. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of the killing.”

Ziggy stared at Sebastian. “But what about Palestine, Sebastian? I thought your dream was going to a kibbutz and raising olives?”

“Fuck olives,” mumbled Sebastian. “I’m tired of all this.”

“Tired of being a Jew?”

“No! Yes! No, of course not!” Sebastian let out a long sniff. “I’m tired of the cause. I just don’t want to be part of it anymore. I don’t want people pointing at me and saying ‘do you know what he did?’” Sebastian gave a sheepish grin. “Besides, how long would I last on a farm? A half hour? Fuck Palestine. Let's just go to Spain.”

Ziggy had to laugh. “If we go to Spain, we’ll spend the rest of our lives with everyone thinking we’re Nazis.”

“I don’t care,” sniffed Sebastian.

“How many times can you put the past behind you, Sebastian? I’m sick of new beginnings.”

Sebastian suddenly brightened. “But don’t you see? It won’t be a new beginning at all. We’ll be going back together, to what we were.”

“And how are we going to pay to get to Spain?”

“With the gold the SS gave us for the fuel.”

“What are you talking about?”

“When the SS agreed to give us gold to pay for the fuel, we still know Manni would have one of his own people taking over the fuel dock and we’d get the fuel for free.”

“Take over from whom?”

“Luth.”

“Luth was in charge of the fuel?”

“He was rector of the Marineschule, wasn’t he?”

“Well yes, so you would have had to pay off Luth to get the fuel?”

“Yes, that was where everything stalled.”

Ziggy looked at Sebastian and suddenly felt everything crumbling around him. “You killed Luth?”

“Hey, we made him a nice offer and he wouldn’t take it. He acted like a complete prick. He even asked if we were Jews. Can you imagine that? After all we’ve been through, to have some God damn Nazi prick ask, ‘Are you Jews?’ I mean the nerve of some people!”

“You killed...Luth?”

“What do you care? It’s one less Nazi in the world. And he was a real Nazi, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Ziggy, staring back at Sebastian. “He was also my captain.”

“I know who he was.”

They stared at each other in leaden silence. “Why did you have to kill him?”

“I beg your pardon, Zigmund, but do you think I need an excuse to kill a Nazi? You really have been in the Navy too long.” Sebastian shook his head incredulously. “If you have a problem with it, try remembering that we’re doing this for Franzi and to bring those SS bastards to justice.”

“And you killed him over fuel oil?”

“I did it for Franzi!” Sebastian’s irritation was now in the fore. “I mean this is stupid, Zigmund. You need to get over this. We’ve got a big task ahead of us and there’s not any point talking about some fucking dead Nazi.”

“It’s not about Luth,” said Ziggy, calmly staring at his brother as if from opposing cliffs. “It’s about Cremer and the men. If they knew any of this, they wouldn’t want to help you. And I’m not going to drag them into it. This is not how the Navy does things.”

Sebastian was furious. “Who the hell do you think you are? You’re suddenly too good for us? Have you already forgotten what you were a part of?”

Ziggy shook his head. “I’m through with this. I don’t want to talk to you again. Keep away from me and Cremer.”

“You’re going to let Franzi die, just so you and your men can keep your white gloves immaculate? I’m not going to let this operation go down because of your willful, high-handed selfishness.” Sebastian stared hard at Ziggy. “Don’t for a moment think we’re going to let you back out.”

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

Hungover Speer After the Gun Battle at Glucksburg

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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