Schellenberg Learns Kersten Is Gone, Calls for a Substitute

Normally Schellenberg was wary of letting Himmler veer off on a different topic, but this was a good sign. It meant the Reichsfuhrer was solidly thinking about running things after Hitler was gotten rid of.

"Reichsfuhrer,” he began solemnly, “I would say the best thing to do would be bow. Why? Because it shows your gallantry and your readiness to approach Eisenhower as a supplicant. Offering to shake hands right off could create the impression of being too forward. But when you bow, he will feel compelled to put his hand on your shoulder and be gracious.”

Himmler was suddenly a whirl of activity, speaking quickly as he paced back and forth. “You’re right, you’re absolutely right. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll come up to him and I’ll bow.

Schellenberg smiled.

"Now I just need to see about getting the Fuhrer’s permission,” Himmler added almost as an afterthought.

Schellenberg stood dumbfounded.

...Getting the Fuhrer’s permission?

Could he possibly have heard it wrong? The understanding was supposed to be that if Hitler didn’t agree to step down, he should be shot. ... Permission? He stared up at Himmler, who stared back, his watery eyes imperceptible as ever behind the pebble lenses of his glasses.

There is also the matter of my uniform. Should I wear the green one or the black. I think black would be ideal,” he ventured.

Schellenberg tried to keep from exploding. “Reichsfuhrer, you need to tell me, are we still on the same page on this?”

Himmler dabbed at his mouth with his forefinger. “Whatever do you mean?” he asked, absently.

"None of this can happen until you confront the Fuhrer and make him step aside. We’ve already discussed this.”

Himmler twitched.

"Now are you going to do it or not?”

A bigger twitch this time.

"Count Bernadotte is going out on a limb telling Eisenhower you are ready to take over the government. That was the whole point of my flying up to Stockholm. That was what we agreed on, wasn’t it?”

Himmler’s stomach jerked.

"They both expect immediate action from us, Reichsfuhrer. And I’d say they are also definitely starting to lose their patience.”

Another twitch. Himmler’s mouth gaped.

Schellenberg pushed it further. “Reichsfuhrer, the situation is critical. The Russians are going to chew us up and spit us out. They’re going to rape and kill everyone they find. Is this what you want to happen?”

Himmler was all frantic motion now, waving his arms like he was battling an onslaught of flies. “General Schellenberg, you know it’s not as simple as that. You really must understand my situation here. I owe everything to the Fuhrer. Everything! And while yes, I might agree in principle, I just can’t come to him and say ‘Get out of the way, it’s now my turn... It’s just not, it’s just not, it’s unthinkable...I’ve sworn an oath of allegiance, a sacred oath, and I, for one, take that sort of thing very seriously...”

"Reichsfuhrer...,” interjected Schellenberg. But Himmler waved him to silence.

"You must understand the karmic implications of what you are suggesting. It would be much better for everyone if the Fuhrer elected to step down, that would minimize the celestial trauma. I think we should give it a few more days and see if something might alter the forces in our favor. Karmically speaking, it would be the thing to shoot for. And my astrologer assures me there are some major events on the horizon, so who knows?”

Schellenberg cursed himself. The whole trip had been a waste. All of his efforts over the last two years had been a waste.

"We need to be patient, Schellenberg, and not rush anything. It’s the cosmic thing to do.” Beads of sweat were forming on Himmler’s forehead and his left eyebrow was fluttering.

Schellenberg began shouting. “Reichsfuhrer, do you understand the situation we’re in as a nation? We are facing racial extermination. And unless you move immediately, now, today, we will all be destroyed. You must find the strength inside yourself to do what must be done.”

"But you don’t understand,” shot back Himmler in a high- pitched voice. “I owe him everything. I swore an oath to him.” Suddenly Himmler clutched at his stomach and began shrieking in pain. “It’s starting again, Schellenberg! The pain, it’s tearing me up!” he screamed. “Aaahhhh, I can’t take this! It’s killing me, it’s killing me. Call Kersten. Get him in here at once.”

"Reichsfuhrer,” said Schellenberg calmly. “Kersten is still in Stockholm.”

"Aaaaaaaahhhhhh!” Himmler shrieked as he thrashed about on the couch. “Do something, Schellenberg! Do something! I can’t take it.”

Schellenberg went to the door. In the outer office, Himmler’s adjutants, aides and secretaries all waited in hushed terror. “Shouldn’t we send for Kersten?” suggested one of the women.

"Kersten isn’t coming back,” said Schellenberg. “Is there anyone else we can call?”

Everyone looked at each other helplessly. There wasn’t a doctor Himmler would let touch him. There was only Kersten. Nobody could take the pain away like Kersten. Nobody could listen to him and give him advice like Kersten. In the next room Himmler screamed like he was being gutted.

"There has to be somebody,” repeated Schellenberg.

One of the adjutants shifted nervously. “Ummm, there’s Sub-lieutenant Loerber from the Astrology Branch. He’s supposed to be pretty good.”

Himmler shrieked louder.

Then get this Loerber up here on the double!” ordered Schellenberg.
(Excerpt from Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008, now also available on Kindle here).

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). 

Schellenberg Picks a New Masseur for Himmler

When the call came, Franzi Loerber had already officially gone off duty and was sitting by himself in the staff and junior officers’ canteen having a cigarette while working out the final calculations on a large batch of horoscopes he’d been assigned to do on senior members of the planning staff. It was crap work, very tiresome. Calculate algorithms based on the variations factored from the shifting positions of fifteen ascendant and twelve descendant groups of stars over twelve nine-day intervals starting a month before conception. It was all complete nonsense, something he’d invented on the spur of the moment a long time ago, but for some reason people swore by it. And far be it from Franzi to tell anybody what they should believe in.

All in all, horoscopes were fairly formulaic stuff. The calculations took forever but the actual writing never took more than five minutes. You always had to make sure it offered so much opportunity, so much warning, and lots and lots of ambiguity. Just write something down, and boom, you’re done and you move on to the next one.

He went on with his number crunching for another hour until the tediousness finally got to him. Putting the horoscopes aside, he took out his hand-written Moscow Center coding chart and began composing a long overdue report.

“47361 73908 66214 38947 03418 87451,” he wrote. It was his way of saying everything was under control and that some promising leads were coming up. “15376 21294 97124 33965,” he added, more as an afterthought. It meant everyone believed the end would come soon.

Franzi looked up to see the cute captain from internal security eyeing him from the next table. Under normal circumstances he might have seen if he could take it somewhere, but since the captain was a spy-hunter and Franzi happened at that moment to be writing a coded letter to Moscow, he instead looked away. He thought about mentioning him in the report. Moscow seemed to like hearing who in SS Headquarters was queer. He tried to remember what the captain’s name was; Hessler, Hindemann?

“96101 49327 85634.” He hated what he was doing. Ziggy was a U-Boat captain, Manni an assassin, Sebastian was an operative for a secret Jewish terror network, all of them living lives of adventure and excitement. And all Franzi had done this entire war was calculate horoscopes and report his fellow SS queers to Moscow and London. “68225 79031 66496.”

Franzi looked at the clock. There was a dead drop hidden in one of the lavatories on the second floor. If he posted the message in the next twenty minutes, he could have Moscow off his back for at least two weeks, maybe longer if things went downhill fast enough. “98343 74588 19632.” He stared at the paper for a long time. Then he looked up. The cute captain was staring at him again. What did he want? Sex? Betrayal? Both? Why not? The captain smiled. Franzi smiled back. He crumpled the paper into a ball, then tossed it into a wastebasket along the wall. Franzi rolled his eyes. The captain gave him a sympathetic smirk like he knew what that was like.

He was done serving Moscow, Franzi decided. The war was all but over and now he had to start taking care of himself. Manni was already gone. He’d left for the Ruhr a month earlier and by this point he was probably safely behind Allied lines. Now Franzi needed to do the same. But how?

It had been a big mistake agreeing to spy for the Russians in the first place, but then at the time he hadn’t felt like he had any right to be picky. If he’d only waited for two more weeks, he could have gone to work for the British. It turned out their friend Nigel Westerby was a British operative and had already signed up Manni. Though Franzi readily agreed to share his information with them, he remembered seeing the disappointment on Westerby’s face.

He remembered how the Russians had first come to him after they’d found out Gustav had just wangled him a cushy research post with the Ahnenerbe, the SS-run racial heritage and occult studies institute. Franzi hadn’t liked the idea of spending the war working with a bunch of charlatans and mystic crackpots, but the Russians insisted it would be an excellent career choice and a great way to fight the Nazis from the inside. It turned out he’d been right on his first guess; it was worse than being a librarian. For someone like him, who’d spent his entire life in the celebrity spotlight, it was a living death. He remembered how, at first, everyone there was excited to have one of the Magical Loerber Brothers on the staff and people would come up to him all the time to ask questions and reminisce, but it wasn’t long before the utter mid-level facelessness of his new job wiped the shine right off him. And once that happened, everyone stopped thinking of him as anyone special.

He noticed two staff majors waving frantically at him from the canteen doorway. “Loerber, come here!” one of them hissed. They waited until Franzi was up close, then whispered. “You’re a masseur, aren’t you?”

Franzi nodded warily. “I’ve done some,” he said. “Not professionally.”

“Get your things,” one of them whispered. “You’re needed immediately at the Reichsfuhrer’s offices.”

Franzi picked up his papers and followed them upstairs to the fifth floor. He was brought past the guards and the identity checkpoint without anyone even taking his name down or checking his papers. Once inside, he was led through a warren of corridors and outer offices where an array of majors, colonels, generals and secretaries all stood attentively, waiting for his arrival. Outside the Reichsfuhrer’s office, a young general stood before the door. Franzi recognized him at once. It was Schellenberg, head of SS intelligence, head of all German intelligence, foreign and domestic, and Franzi’s boyfriend’s boss.

“The Reichsfuhrer needs your help,” Schellenberg said. “Do the best massage you can. And not a word of this to anybody, do you understand?”

Franzi nodded.

But Schellenberg wasn’t satisfied. “I mean nobody. Not your office mates or your fellow astrologers, and certainly not your boyfriend. Clear?”

Franzi nodded.

“Good,” said Schellenberg. “Now go in.”

“But Herr General, isn’t Professor Kersten the only one...?”

“Kersten is gone,” answered Schellenberg, holding open the door and then following him inside.
(Excerpt from Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008, now also available on Kindle here).

Schellenberg Does Lunch with Himmler's New Astrologer

“You know Loerber, I think you and I are going to make a great team,” said Schellenberg as he and Franzi walked down the fifth floor corridor. Only a week had passed since he’d joined Himmler’s staff and this was the third time he and Schellenberg had lunched together, sitting off in a corner at the senior SS staff dining room. After seven years lost in the Ahnenerbe’s perpetual mystic twilight, the shine was back on Franzi Loerber. And it felt good.

“Thank you, Herr General,” said Franzi. “I am honored to be working for you.”

“Just bear in mind one thing,” cautioned Schellenberg. “Right now you and I have only one goal.”

Franzi nodded. They’d been over it a dozen times already. Eisenhower had made it clear there would be no peace with the West until Himmler seized power from the faltering Fuhrer. And Franzi, owing to his calming and persuasive abilities, would now act as Schellenberg’s spear point in that effort.

The task was proving to be a challenging one to say the least. Though he had succeeded several times in getting the Reichsfuhrer fired up to the point where he’d storm off to the Fuhrerbunker to “show Hitler what’s what,” each time something conveniently went wrong and his determination fizzled out just short of the breech. Even so, Franzi had brought him far closer to action than Schellenberg ever had, and Schellenberg remained convinced it was now just a question of seizing every opportunity to get Himmler to move.

“Another thing to keep in mind, Loerber. Since you’re now part of the team, I might as well let you in on this little secret. Count Bernadotte is going to be coming down here very soon and he’ll be bringing with him senior representatives of the World Jewish Congress to meet with the Reichsfuhrer. They say they’d be willing to settle things with us because they recognize that what happened to the Jews was not really the SS’ fault.”

“That’s good news, Herr General.”

“Indeed it is, Loerber.”

Franzi didn’t see how this was possible. After all that had happened in the camps, after so many millions brutally murdered, how could anyone believe an offer like that could be anything but a ploy? Maybe this whole thing with Eisenhower was also a ploy. Why wouldn’t it be? It wasn’t like he was under any obligation to play fair with someone like Himmler.

There was muffled rumbling in the distance. The Soviet artillery was finally within earshot. They turned the corner and continued down the corridor back toward the Intelligence staff offices. Several colonels and majors sprang to attention as they passed. They offered salutes which Schellenberg and Franzi returned without comment. Schellenberg was all right, Franzi thought; very collegial and incredibly bright, especially compared to some of the thugs who’d risen high in the SS ranks. He probably didn’t even hate Jews. That’s what made it so difficult to reconcile the crazy things he said with the grim reality around them. There had to be things nobody else knew about; secret deals, behind-the-scenes relationships which allowed Schellenberg to retain his blue-sky optimism. Franzi reminded himself that the man he was talking to was the most informed person in all Germany. He would know it if the Western Allies believed the Russians would turn on them once the victory against Germany was complete.

Schellenberg continued. “I don’t have to explain how important an agreement like this will be to the future of Europe. It is imperative Hitler be already out of power when they arrive, so that the Reichsfuhrer can have a free hand to make deals on behalf of Germany. Use any method you can think of to motivate him. We cannot let this thing fall through!”
(Excerpt from Germania, first published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, 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).

Blunt and Philby Discuss Schellenberg

For some reason, popular culture likes to portray Nazi Intelligence chief  SS General Walter Schellenberg as a cool-headed, thoroughly competent spymaster.  Others, including myself, take a markedly less generous view (see my earlier blogpost here). According to at least one historical source, Schellenberg had a meeting in Stockholm at the very end of the war with a British intelligence officer who turned out to be Anthony Blunt, a Soviet mole and member of the notorious Cambridge spy ring.  Below is part of a chapter I wrote for GERMANIA, which ended up getting cut, in which Blunt meets with Kim Philby, another member of the Cambridge spy ring. Enjoy!


“Moonpool, you say they call it?” asked Kim Philby a few hours later.

Blunt nodded. He had taken the evening flight back to London and gone straight to Philby’s club. “Some bad news,” he told him.

Listening to Blunt’s description of what Schellenberg had told him a few hours earlier, Philby’s nimble mind was already busy coming up with plans of action. “I’d say this definitely calls for a crash meeting,” he said quietly. Moscow needs to start moving immediately before someone else gets their hands on it.”

“What else do we need to tell them?” asked Blunt.

“They’re going to want to know who else is looking for Himmler right now,” said Philby. “What can you tell them?”

“From what I understand it is a rather biggish manhunt. Though I daresay most of those doing the hunting haven’t a clue. I know the main hunt is being led by some Colonel Herzog. But he’s a tanker, turned cop.”

“Jew?”

“Rather. His father used to be chief rabbi in Belfast.”

“Great,” said Philby, visibly not impressed.

“I’ve heard Westerby’s on it too.”

“Westerby? Jesus!” Philby let out a laugh.

“Yes, last I heard he was sneaking around Monty’s headquarters, being a thorough pain in the neck to everybody. The Americans have their boys out, but at this point it’s unclear how far they’ll get in the northern sector.”

“Aren’t there some American intelligence people attached to British 21 Army Group?”

“Yes, but I gather that at this moment they’re all probably too busy getting drunk and screwing frauleins to be any kind of real threat.”

“So you’re saying Westerby is the only one we have to worry about?”

“Yes, actually. Speaking of Jews, I saw a report the other day about a bunch of rampaging Yids, out to settle scores and kill as many Nazis as they can find. I imagine they’re looking for the gold too. They call themselves the Blood of Israel.”

Philby snorted contemptuously. “That’s pathetic,” he said. “I think this is all going to be a walk in the park. Who besides Schellenberg knows the particulars about Moonpool?”

“It appears the management is being run by one of his adjutants; a Major Steiner. It also appears that Steiner has a boyfriend with whom he’s been engaging in a lot of pillow talk.”

Philby looked impressed. “Name?”

“You’ll love this, Kim. Remember that SS lieutenant they kept asking us to find out about? The fortune teller?”

Philby had to think about it a moment. “You mean Franz Ferdinand Loerber?” Philby was nearly aghast. “Him?”

Blunt smiled.

Philby let out a huge laugh. “Well I reckon that would explain why they were so interested.”

“So I gather.”

“So what kind of a man is this Schellenberg?”

Now it was Blunt’s turn to laugh. “I have a feeling that most of what he thinks he knows about the British Secret Service came from reading a lot of cheap novels. Honestly, I’ve met Americans who had a better sense about it than he did.”
First published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, Germania is now also available on Kindle here.

Bernadotte in Berlin III: The Coup That Never Happened

This is the last part of a rescued chapter from Germania, exploring the efforts to get Himmler to act against the Fuhrer. The quote at the end about "having to act in one way or another" is a statement actually attributed to Reichsfhrurer Himmler during this desperate period. Shows the complete unreality that was going on.


“So good of you to come, Herr Count,” Himmler said. “It’s always a great pleasure to have you here.”

“So good to be here, Reichsfuhrer,” replied Bernadotte, “especially on this occasion.”

“Yes,” agreed Himmler.

“On this momentous, historical occasion, I should add.”

“Yes,” repeated Himmler, still smiling.

“So tell us, please, how did everything go?” asked Bernadotte.

“Everything went exceedingly well, Herr Count.”

“It did?”

“Yes!”

Bernadotte said nothing, waiting for Himmler to elaborate. Himmler pursed his lips and squinted behind his thick glasses, as though he was carefully considering a proper choice of words for the declaration he was about to make. But none came.

Himmler smiled. Bernadotte smiled. “And?” he asked.

“And?” Himmler asked back quite pleasantly.

“Can you give us some detail?”

“Detail?” Himmler seemed almost troubled by the word.

“What can we tell Eisenhower?”

“Eisenhower?” asked Himmler. “Ah, well yes,” he said. “Ah yes, well, you can say to His Excellency Mister Eisenhower that everything has gone quite well and we are ready to move forward.”

“Can you be more specific, Reichsfuhrer?”

“Yes, you can tell him most assuredly, the German people are ready to stand squarely with him, shoulder to shoulder, in the grand, historic struggle against Jewish Bolshevism!”

Himmler held up his hand and smiled with gracious embarrassment. “Perhaps you should just say ‘the struggle against Bolshevism.’ Don’t mention the Jewish part. Yes.”

“Do you have any documents for me?"

Himmler stared back blankly. “Sorry?” he asked.

“It would be helpful if I could bring back documents to Eisenhower certifying you as the new leader.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have any such documents,” said Himmler, apologetically.

“You don’t?”

“No, the situation as it was, did not allow for it.”

“So you’re saying you merely got a verbal acknowledgement of the transfer of power.”

“Well actually, there wasn’t the moment. The time for that did not present itself.”

“It didn’t?”

“No, sadly,” confessed Himmler.

“Things moved too quickly, you’re saying?” asked Bernadotte, envisioning the exchange of harsh words followed by a shootout. “Things got out of hand? Is everything under control now?”

“Why yes, of course,” Himmler assured him. “Everything is perfectly under control.”

“That’s good,” said Bernadotte, relieved. Schellenberg nodded in agreement.

“Well then, could you just write down now a formal statement describing the incidents leading up to the transfer of power, including Hitler’s fate? That should be sufficient under the circumstances.”

“Hitler’s fate?” Himmler seemed genuinely puzzled. “Whatever do you mean by that, Herr Count?”

Bernadotte stared hard at him. “There has been a coup. Hitler is dead. If Eisenhower is to enter into negotiations with you and your new government, he needs to be provided with the details in a signed, notarized document from you.”

“But our Fuhrer isn’t dead, Herr Count. I just spent three hours talking with him. I can assure you he is very much alive and well.”

“But I thought you just said that you had not had a chance to get either a signed document from him or a verbal acknowledgment. So logically speaking, unless you’ve killed him, how on earth are you the new head of government?”

“You must have misunderstood me, Herr Count. I simply said that during my meeting with the Fuhrer, the moment didn’t arise for discussing such issues. But believe me, Herr Count, I tried. I really intended to bring it up. But the moment wasn’t there. It’s unfortunate, but there you are.”

Himmler turned away to indicate the subject was now closed.

Bernadotte stood in stunned disbelief. All the elaborately envisioned structures of possibilities and outcomes were crumbling and crashing around him.

There was no coup, there was no six-man executive, there were no allies or loyalists for that matter. There hadn’t even been a confrontation. There were no senators with their daggers drawn. There was only Goebbles in the Propaganda Ministry, Doenitz at the Navy, Speer with his war industries. Things were exactly as they had been before. Himmler hadn’t been under any pressure to act because the others didn’t even know about any of it. They were still in the exact same hopeless position as the last time he came down. Exactly the same, only infinitely worse.

He hadn’t even brought it up!

He looked over at Schellenberg and seeing the hopeless exasperation on his face, he almost felt sorry for him. Schellenberg had hitched his fortunes to Himmler’s star, thinking he was Germany’s last best hope, thinking he was a man worthy of his allegiance, his talents. But he’d wasted it all on the man. Himmler was incapable of actually taking initiative. He hadn’t even brought it up!

“You made me fly down for this?” Bernadotte asked, his voice becoming shrill.

Himmler turned back to face him. He clearly wasn’t used to being addressed this way.

“Herr Count,” he said in a calm, measured voice. “I told you I tried. I did my best.”

But Bernadotte was livid. “Reichsfuhrer, you didn’t do anything!”

Himmler looked very hard at Bernadotte. If it had been normal circumstances he’d probably had him immediately taken out and shot. But he knew he couldn’t. He knew that eventually he would have to enter into negotiations. He needed Bernadotte. He tried another tack. “You don’t understand the situation, Herr Count, I went there fully intending to present the ultimatum to the Fuhrer, but when I talked to him I could tell he wouldn’t be receptive. The moment wasn’t there. Neither was the Karma.” He looked away again.

Bernadotte could not believe what he was hearing. “Karma?” he repeated incredulously. “Karma? Reichsfuhrer, I wonder if you are even aware of the enormity of the catastrophe Germany is facing?”

“Oh I assure you, I am, I am. But you have to appreciate my loyalty to the Fuhrer. I owe him everything. Without him, I would be nothing, nothing at all. I have been through an awful lot these last months. And they have had a profound effect on me, a profound effect! I don’t mind telling you, Herr Count, that since the assassination attempt last summer I have for the first time in years, rediscovered my belief in Providence. In God, Herr Count, I am not ashamed to tell you now that I believe in God and I can safely say, sir, that Almighty God has a plan for Germany and the Fuhrer is part of that great plan, and I for one, do not believe it is my place to interfere with it.”

“Your Fuhrer is hell-bent on Germany’s destruction,” exclaimed Bernadotte. “The future of your country now rests entirely in your hands. Unless you or somebody does something immediately, in two or three weeks this country will be nothing but a pile of rubble and anyone who survives will probably greatly envy the dead. If you want to prevent this from happening you should make your move right away.”

“Oh believe me I understand what you are saying. And let me tell you this, and you can tell this to Eisenhower: even if I do not possess full authority at this moment, I recognize that eventually I must act in one way or another. Tell him that!”

"Great! That’s absolutely wonderful!” Bernadotte muttered dryly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a plane to catch!” And with that Bernadotte stormed out of the office heading straight for the stairs leading down to the courtyard.

Schellenberg ran after him. “Wait,” he shouted. “Let me take you to the airport!”

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

Bernadotte in Berlin II: The Coup Is On

Steiner smiled, giving Bernadotte a respectful bob of his head. “General Schellenberg begs your indulgence and regrets that he cannot be here right now, Herr Count,” he said. “But he wants you to know that things are now in motion, such as has been previously discussed. He asks that you wait with me until he can join us.”

Bernadotte grimaced with displeasure, but got in beside Steiner. The driver shut the door and a moment later they were off. Steiner opened his cigarette case and offered it to Bernadotte, who shook his head. For the next hour as they drove around the darkened city Steiner smoked cigarette after cigarette. Neither man said much. Three times the car motorcycle messengers drove up and flagged them down. Each time Steiner stepped out, read the message they handed him, dictated a reply, which Bernadotte couldn’t hear, then got back in the car and ordered the driver to continue, never offering Bernadotte any explanation.

It was only after the third such stop that Bernadotte turned to him and bluntly asked: “Captain, please tell me what is going on?”

The directness of the question seemed to deeply trouble Steiner. For another minute or two he appeared to mull it over while taking long, meditative pulls from his cigarette. Finally he crushed it out. He ordered the driver to park by a row of bombed out buildings. “Come with me,” he snapped to Bernadotte. “We’ll talk outside.” He opened the door and stepped out. Bernadotte followed him out among the rubble. At the edge of a water-filled bomb crater, Steiner stopped. “It’s happening right now. You should have your message for Eisenhower shortly.”

“What is it that you say is happening right now?” asked Bernadotte.

“You know,” answered Steiner evasively as before. “The same thing you and he talked about the last time you were together. You know, in Stockholm.”

But Bernadotte had already had all the indirectness he could take. “Listen Captain,” he barked back in anger and frustration. “Just quit beating around the bush and tell me precisely what is going on!”

Steiner continued to eye Bernadotte uneasily, but then he spoke. “They’ve gone to the Fuhrer to make him step down,” he said. “They’re going to make him leave Berlin for the Obersalzburg. They’ll let him stay on as Reichsprezident, but all the actual affairs of state will be decided by a six-man executive headed by the Reichsfuhrer. There! You asked and I’ve told you. Have you any more questions, Herr Count?”

Bernadotte was stunned. "Yes, I do have a question,” he said. “Tell me, who are Himmler’s allies?”

“I’m afraid I cannot say,” answered Steiner, giving a slight smirk. “Perhaps General Schellenberg will tell you.”

“And you say it’s happening right now?” Bernadotte asked.

“Yes,” said Steiner, “this very moment. I expect we’ll know something very soon.”

“My God!” said Bernadotte, his voice nearly a whisper. Steiner smiled grimly then nodded back at the car to indicate that they should get going.

For the next hour they drove around in silence, Bernadotte staring from the window while Steiner continued to smoke.

So it’s on, thought Bernadotte, as he stared out at the darkened, unsuspecting city. ‘\The coup is finally taking place. So Himmler and his allies had gone to Hitler and laid it on the line. “We’ve come here tonight, Mein Fuhrer, to discuss with you something that can no longer wait. As you know, Mein Fuhrer, the current course of events is no longer running in Germany’s favor. We believe that we are facing imminent disaster and unless a radical course of action is embarked on, Germany and the German people will not survive. We have concluded, Mein Fuhrer, that we must now seek an immediate peace settlement with the Western Allies. Only then can we convince them to join with us against a common Soviet foe. For this reason, Mein Fuhrer, we are asking you to step down and hand over all executive powers to a six-man executive council led by myself. You will continue to reign as Head of State, Mein Fuhrer, but in order to do that we ask that you immediately leave Berlin and reign from the Obersalzburg.”

But would Himmler actually say something like that to Hitler? Did he actually have the guts to look him in the face and tell him that? Bernadotte didn’t think so. After all, in none of their previous closed-door meetings had he even come close to professing anything disloyal. Besides, even if he did, would Hitler even listen long enough to let him say it? Would Himmler lose his courage and back down?

If Bernadotte could find a way to reconcile the cowardly, indecisive Himmler that he knew with the other Himmler: the ruthless and cold blooded one who’d murdered millions without a second thought; the Himmler whom all Europe shivered in fear of. Maybe then he’d be able to see what was in the works and what was coming. Perhaps that Himmler was capable of acting differently, that one wouldn’t be so lily-livered when it came down to facing one mere man, even if that man was Adolf Hitler?

It had started to rain, the heavy drops pelting hard upon the car’s roof. Looking out, he made out the familiar darkened silhouettes of the buildings on the western end of Potzdammer Platz. As they drove through the square, he saw work crews shoveling rubble into a bomb hole where some tram tracks had run, while a few feet away welders were busily fitting rails back into place. With any luck, by dawn, the trams would be running again.

But for Himmler there’d be no possibility of  turning back. He’d have to go through with it. Because if he didn’t act right away, his rivals would find out and word of his betrayal would quickly get to Hitler. And if his rivals didn’t, then his allies certainly would if for no other reason than to save their own skins. No, this time he’d have to stand up, and it would have to be tonight.

Bernadotte tried imagining a logical sequence of events, but because everyone involved was so utterly unpredictable, he had no idea what turns such a conversation might take. Probably they’d begin by making a reasonable and respectful-sounding approach. But then, how quickly would Hitler interrupt them with screaming and accusations? And when that happened, how would they respond? Would they get conciliatory? Would they try to smooth over the ugly reality of what they were asking by making emotional pleas? Of course it’s only for a temporary period, Mein Fuhrer, only until we can find a way to stabilize our situation with the Western Allies…..Please, Mein Fuhrer, think about the German people. Think about the women and the girls and the babies and the children, Mein Fuhrer. The Aryan children, what about them, Mein Fuhrer?.....No, Mein Fuhrer, it is not about capitulation, it is about making a strategic alliance that will allow us to fulfill our goals. It is no different that the pact you signed with Joseph Stalin six years ago. Remember that? Frankly, Bernadotte couldn’t imagine Hitler buying any of it.

So then would they start getting direct and telling him all the blunt, unpleasant things he really didn’t want to hear? This war you’ve led us into has gone on too long, Mein Fuhrer.

Too soft, thought Bernadotte, they wouldn’t say that. Something with the word ‘disaster’ would work much better. This war you’ve led us into has been a disaster, a complete disaster. Disaster and ruin, that’s what they’d serve him. You’ve caused disaster and ruin to the German people! It’s gone on too long and the German People cannot and will not take any more. Accuse him of failure to lead, failure to face reality. It’s gone on too long and right now very hard decisions must be made about the future of the German People and, Mein Fuhrer, you have shown you are not capable of making them. So we are asking you to step down now.

And what if Hitler didn’t agree to step down? Hitler wasn’t one who allowed others to challenge or contradict him. Himmler and the others had better have the resolve and determination to follow it through or else they’d be in big trouble. For one thing they’d have to show him who was boss and whose hand no longer held any cards.

It is too late for you to protest, Mein Fuhrer, the decision has already been made and the first steps have already been taken toward seeking an immediate armistice with the Western Allies. I will be going to meet with Eisenhower myself.

And then, they’d be at a point of no return, where they simply couldn’t back down. Everybody’s backs would be to the wall. Everybody: Hitler, Himmler, Himmler’s supporters….The outcome at that point would be completely unpredictable.

Another motorcycle messenger had come up from behind and was flagging them. Steiner leaned forward and instructed the driver to stop. He read the paper the messenger gave him.

“What now?” asked Bernadotte.

“General Schellenberg says we should come now,” said Steiner.

“Is it over?”

But Steiner didn’t answer.

When they arrived at Schellenberg's offices, Schellenberg looked up and gave Bernadotte a quick nod of recognition before turning back to the cluster of officers he was conferring with. For another five minutes Bernadotte waited before Schellenberg finally dismissed them and walked over. He looked harried, Bernadotte observed, like he hadn’t slept in quite awhile.

“So, has Captain Steiner briefed you?”Schellenberg asked.

“He tells me the coup is on,” Bernadotte said in low voice. “Is it?”

Gravely Schellenberg nodded.

“Any news?”

Schellenberg shook his head. “No, nothing yet,” he aswered. “But we expect to hear something anytime.” Then he added, “You understand, Herr Count, the situation is extremely volatile at the moment. Anything can happen. But let’s just say that at this moment I am extremely optimistic.”

Another group of officers was being brought in. Seeing them, Schellenberg cut short the conversation and walked over to them. Bernadotte settled into an empty chair in the corner and looked on as another hushed, but heated discussion ensued. They left a few minutes later only to be replaced by another group and then by another group and another group after that. Three times Schellenberg gathered some of them in front of a hanging map of Berlin, pointing to different key spots around the city, then making an emphatic, circular sweep of his hand converging onto a spot in the city’s center which he’d then pound with his fist. That spot, Bernadotte knew, was where the Reichskancellei and Fuhrerbunker stood. And each time the men nodded gravely, hardened, resolute men, men prepared to do or die. They had to be discussing special units that were being held in reserve in case fighting broke out, Bernadotte decided.

When would the uprising begin? Or had it already started? Fighting could already be erupting all over the city between the insurgents and forces still loyal to Hitler. He began trying to guess who the loyalists might be. Were they SS units whom Himmler didn’t directly control? It was possible. There had been rumors that Kaltenbrunner, head of the SS security service, was a potential rival to Himmler. But would the soldiers in those units obey the orders given to them once they found out what was actually going on? He wondered what their morale was like at that moment. Could any of them still actually think Hitler was capable of getting them out of this mess? He wished he knew.

Then of course there was the whole question of Himmler’s allies. Bernadotte suddenly realized he hadn’t gotten to ask Schellenberg about who they were.

If Himmler had been able to get Goebbles on his side, he’d have something. But did he? What about Bormann, Hitler’s secretary? No way! He was too close. There was nothing in it for him to go against Hitler. And what about the Luftwaffe and its chief, fat Hermann Goering? Might he suddenly show his loyalty to Hitler for no other reason than to regain all the favor he’d lost in recent years?

Bernadotte got up from his chair and walked to the widow. Sluggish light was beginning to fill the courtyard. It would be dawn soon. There were still a half dozen motorcycle riders tiredly milling about, warming themselves around a wood fire burning in an ashcan placed next to a wall, presumably as protection against the rain.

There was the sound of a rifle shot in the courtyard. Instinctively, Bernadotte jerked back from the window, only to realize a second later that it was just a backfire from one of the motorcycles being started up. A couple of the men inside the room gave nervous laughs.

For the first time, Bernadotte started thinking about his own safety. If the fighting spun out of control and nobody had the upper hand, what would he do? Get out! Get back to Stockholm and if he couldn’t get out of Berlin, he’d need to get to the Swedish Embassy. And if he couldn’t make it there, then he’d need to find his way to the Irish Embassy, or the Swiss Embassy. Find a way to get the word to Eisenhower that it was all falling apart.

Maybe if the fighting went on long enough without any clear outcome, that might compel the individual area commanders to seek separate surrenders. Eisenhower might then be able to quickly seize vast areas of territory. That would work too.

One of the radio operators shot his hand up like he had something. He started scribbling down a message on a piece of paper which he then held up. Immediately Steiner went over, grabbed it and then brought it to Schellenberg, who stared at it and then he broke out into a broad smile. “The Reichsfuhrer has left the Fuhrerbunker!” he announced to everybody in a loud voice. “He’s on his way here now.”

Everyone looked immensely relieved. Schellenberg walked over to Bernadotte. “I think you’ll have your message for Eisenhower,” he said quietly, so no one else could hear. Then he turned on his heel and walked back.

Bernadotte looked at his watch. It was 5:45, he now had exactly forty-five minutes before his flight left Templehof for Stockholm. He had to be on that plane.

He started doing the arithmetic in his head. They’d land in Stockholm by eleven. He could be at the Foreign Ministry by noon. Eisenhower could have the message by one. If they felt like moving on it quickly, there could be a ceasefire in effect possibly by midnight. It was all a question of what Himmler was prepared to do.

Then someone shouted “They’re here!” and everyone rushed to the windows that looked down into the courtyard. Bernadotte saw a procession of five Mercedes driving in from the street. The car doors opened and he could see the figure of Reichsfuhrer Himmler confidently stepping out from the back of one.

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

Bernadotte in Berlin I: Waiting for Schellenberg

The meetings that morning all went perfectly. As Bernadotte had expected, everyone was eager to sign whatever agreement they were handed, just so long as it was worded vaguely enough and required nothing from them beyond good intentions. He went first to Ribbentrop, and then to Ley. Both were drunk. So was nearly everyone else. And, Bernadotte noted, the meetings all seemed to follow a wholly new protocol, one which adhered to only a few of the old formalities while replacing the others with whatever approximations were at hand.

Previously, before such meetings would start, he’d find himself in a plush ante-room drinking coffee offered to him by young, pretty secretaries. Then a few minutes later, an older, inevitably punctilious male secretary with a leather agenda folder in his hands would appear and escort him into whichever minister’s inner chambers. In the minister’s office, there’d be a large window on one side, an oak-paneled wall on the other, a large rectangular conference table in the center, lined with heavy, carved wooden armchairs and, off by the inner wall, the minister’s enormous, though mostly empty desk, above which hung a large Nazi party banner, sumptuously festooned with golden braid, fringe and tassels.

But this time the young secretaries brought him straight in to the ministers’ offices. There was no longer any point keeping him waiting since the ministers could no longer pretend to have more pressing business. Besides, there was no coffee to offer him, only a weak and bitter brew made from acorns, which they really preferred not serving. The ministers’ offices no longer had glass in any of the windows. Most didn’t even have window frames, since those had been blown out by the bombing. The large conference tables were now buried beneath stacks of bound papers and files. In lieu of lamps and candles, they made do with cups on their desks filled with grease and a burning twist of rag for a wick. And as for the banners, they had grown frayed and musty and the fringe and tassels all seemed to have been stripped from them. He wondered what greater purpose they might possibly now be serving.

But what was most noticeably absent was the colossal arrogance of the ministers and their staff. Now everyone was helpful and solicitous. They’d listen with almost exaggerated interest as Bernadotte outlined the issues at hand. All of them did their best to sound deeply concerned over the refugees’ plight. But they were also quick to point out just how limited they were, and that even if they wanted to help, what could they do? And Bernadotte would tell them this: You can want to help. You can intend to do the right thing, situation permitting. You can lessen the mechanisms of unnecessary suffering. You can agree not to impede missions of mercy. You can agree to that, can’t you? And they’d all say, well yes, if you put it that way, I guess we could. How about we drink on that Herr Count?

By two o’clock he had finished. He went back to his hotel hoping to find a message waiting for him from Schellenberg. His flight would leave at six thirty the next morning. If he missed it, he’d be stuck in Berlin for at least two more days, something he really wished to avoid.

For an hour he lolled in the hotel lobby, reading and rereading a copy of Volkischer Beobachter, trying to act as if having a team of shabbily dressed secret police spies staring at him from three different points in the room didn’t bother him in the slightest. Finally, at three thirty, the clerk at the front desk signaled to him.

He had a message from Schellenberg telling him that a car would come by for him in half an hour. Until then he should continue waiting in the lobby. Which he did, only to get another message twenty-five minutes later that the meeting had been delayed and to stay put until they knew something. He did that too.

Sometime before five another message came in saying that there had been another delay and that if he could please go back to his room or to dinner, they’d let him know later what the new plans were. Bernadotte decided to go out for a walk.

The skies over Berlin were covered in thick, soupy gray rain clouds, which explained why there hadn’t been any air raids that day. As a result, the streets were teeming with people taking advantage of the bad weather to spend some time outdoors. Bernadotte was struck by how tired, hungry and irritable everyone looked. During the two months since he’d last been there, the air raids had become incessant: American heavy bombers attacked during the day, while British ones came at night. And the whole time the Russians kept pushing closer. The thunder of their artillery never seemed to stop. It seemed that in another week or two they’d have the city surrounded. And when they’d done that, the battle would start, the big final bloody battle and there was nothing the Berliners could do to stop it. And when it was finished, that was when the real horror would start; rape, murder, wanton destruction. Bernadotte knew it, and so did all the Berliners he passed on the street.

It hadn’t been quite the same for the Nazi bigwigs he’d been talking to today. They all seemed in a state of alcohol-fuelled unreality. But then Bernadotte had no doubt that when the time came, they’d all find a way out of the trap. People like that always did.

And when it was over, would there even be anything left of Berlin besides rubble and corpses?

When he got back to the hotel, there was still no message for him. He went up to his room, had a bath, dressed for dinner which turned out to be potatoes and cabbage served on none-too-clean plates and mismatched silverware. After that he spent another interminable hour in the lobby. Finally at ten, he’d had enough and went up to his room and went to sleep. At two in the morning he was awakened by the telephone ringing next to his bed. “Bernadotte,” he announced drowsily.

“This is the reception,” said the voice. “Sorry to wake you, Herr Count. But there is an urgent message from General Schellenberg asking you to be ready in the lobby in twenty minutes.”

“I’ll be there,” Bernadotte answered and rang off.

When he got downstairs, a black, six-wheeledMercedes with SS flags on the front mudguards was already waiting for him outside. He settled his bill at the front desk and quickly walked outside to the car’s rear door which the smartly-dressed SS driver was holding open for him. But when Bernadotte looked inside, he discovered waiting for him inside not Schellenberg, but his adjutant, Captain Steiner.

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

Schellenberg Helps Himmler Bury the Hatchet with the Jews

Someday in the future, when the history books were written, this would be the moment they’d point to as the new beginning. This was when men of reason and vision came together, put an end to the most senseless and bloody conflict in human history and forged a new era of peace and prosperity. And he, General Walter Schellenberg, would be forever remembered as the artificer of that peace.

Schellenberg stood at the entrance of Zeithen Castle, watching the Reichsfuhrer’s motorcade drive up. Inside the castle Count Bernadotte was waiting along with the Jewish Representative. They’d flown down from Stockholm in what turned out to be the last commercial flight into Berlin, landing at Templehof just as the Soviet ring around the city was starting to close. Luckily Schellenberg had gotten them picked up and whisked out not an hour before it did.

The long line of cars stopped. The driver jumped out and opened the door and the Reichsfuhrer stepped out, followed by a host of aides, adjutants, batsmen, and the thirty-six heavily armed SS troopers who made up his personal security detail. He strutted up the driveway, his boots kicking up bits of the thick gravel. Seeing Schellenberg, he fixed him with his usual empty gaze, and then let a thin smile form briefly on his lips. It is done, it seemed to say. Before Schellenberg could greet him with the customary salute, he put his hand out for Schellenberg to shake. Side by side, they walked up the castle corridors toward the salon where their guests were waiting. He was back to his old self, observed Schellenberg. The nervous skittishness was gone, replaced by decisiveness and control.

Schellenberg hadn’t spoken much to the Jewish Representative yet, but he seemed like a completely reasonable sort, with his eyes fixed more on the future than the past.

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He was sitting in the parlor on a couch by himself, a little man, gray, finite and dapper in his London suit and red and purple French tie. He stood up when they entered the room. Schellenberg made the introductions. “Reichsfuhrer, I would like to introduce you to Herr Norbert Masur of the World Jewish Congress. He has flown down from Stockholm to be with us today.”

“So good of you to come, Herr Masur,” said Himmler with surprising affability. He quickly extended his hand for Masur to shake. “I trust you had a pleasant flight down?”

Masur nodded and assured him there had been no problems at all.

“Good, good,” said Himmler heartily. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to have you here. There is much we have to talk about.”

Masur nodded again. Yes, there was, he said, his eyes quietly riveted on the Reichsfuhrer.

Schellenberg had coffee brought in and they sat down to talk.

“I have asked you to come here,” began Himmler, “because I believe the time has come to put an end to this terrible period between your people and my people.”

Masur nodded, urging Himmler to go on.

Himmler adopted a solemn, sincere look. “You must understand I didn’t have anything personally to do with all the terrible, unfortunate things that happened to your people. I am a soldier, Herr Masur. Do you understand what that means? It is my duty, my sacred duty to obey orders and that is what I did. No one asked me to agree with them. You must understand that it was never my intention to harm anyone or cause them pain. I always sought to solve the, ah, Jewish Problem by peaceful, humane means, by expulsion, emigration and resettlement. But we were prevented from doing that by two things, Herr Masur. We were prevented by the extreme resistance by the outside world as well as by opposition from the Nazi Party.”

On this point Schellenberg had expected Masur to raise some objections, but he appeared detached, smiling his mandarin smile and nodding in all the right places, but saying almost nothing. Perhaps the man was shy. In any case, he was listening.

“I never hated Jews, Herr Masur. I must tell you that growing up in Bavaria, many of my best friends were Jews. I thought they were all very nice people. And I don’t want what happened to be a stain on our future relationship. We need to think about the future, Herr Masur, and I don’t mind telling you that the future Europe which our peoples will share is going to be a most wonderful place.”

Finally Himmler finished and invited Masur’s reply.

Masur clasped his fingers together as he spoke to them in a startlingly forceful voice. “What you say is very interesting, Herr Himmler. But my reason for coming here today is simple. Whatever has gone on in the past cannot be changed. What I would like from you today are assurances that no more Jews will be killed. Let me repeat that: not one more. I would also like your guarantee that the remaining Jewish prisoners should remain in the camps and that under no circumstances should they be evacuated away from the approaching Allied armies. I would also ask that you provide me with a list of all the camps where Jews are being kept. If you can do these things for us, perhaps we will have a basis for future discussions.”

Himmler broke into a relieved smile. “I am happy to report, sir, that I have already given such orders. And just to show my good will, I would also like to propose releasing a large group of Jewesses from Ravensbrück.” Himmler’s smile became conspiratorial. “The Fuhrer has already given me permission to free Polish women. It would be a very simple matter to have these Jewesses reclassified as Polish. I could do that for you if you’d like.”

Masur nodded and said yes, he would like that.

“So what do you say, Herr Masur?” asked Himmler jubilantly. “Are we burying the hatchet?”

The three shook hands. Masur remained polite, but ever so distant.

They left him there and went into an adjoining room to see Count Bernadotte.

“I am happy to inform you that you may now go to Eisenhower and tell him I am taking over command of the Reich and would very much like to start peace talks at the General’s earliest convenience,” Himmler said. “How soon do you think you could get something started?”

Count Bernadotte told him he’d get on it right away, except that with Berlin and Templehof already cut off, the only way they could get back to Sweden was by driving at least into Denmark before he could arrange for a neutral aircraft to pick them up. They decided Schellenberg would drive them in his car.

“Gentlemen,” Himmler declared. “I think it’s fair to say, this marks the beginning of a whole new era.”
(Excerpt from Germania by Brendan McNally, Simon & Schuster 2008)

Schellenberg Recommends Schwerin von Krosigk for a Job

Another deleted chapter from Germania

It was at about the same moment, not that many miles away, Minister for Finance Schwerin von Krosigk was sitting at a campfire with a dozen-odd members of his staff drinking tea from tin cups in the middle of a field that stood between the lake and a large apple orchard. They’d made their camp there, parking the three ministry lorries and four automobiles in two lines and stringing camouflage netting up over them to make them less visible. They hung some large tarps, like lean-tos, down from the sides of the different vehicles, which they’d slept under. They’d dug a fire-pit off to the side, lined it with large rocks and then arranged their camp chairs and logs around it and in its own way it was almost pleasant.

They’d arrived there the day before last after an absolutely harrowing trip out of Berlin. What would normally have been a five-hour drive ended up taking them the better part of a week. The roads were a nightmare, jammed with everyone who’d been allowed out: mostly it was government people and administrators from the different ministries who’d been given permission to relocate their critical files and other records to Hamburg. And of course it was the Brown Pheasants too; the Nazi party officials, so named because of their sumptuous brown-and-gold uniforms, and even though most of them were no longer wearing them, it was easy enough to tell who they were.

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And rather than give orders in time to allow for an orderly withdrawal, it had come at the last minute just as the Russian encirclement of the city was nearly complete. And then it came out all at once and immediately the one or two remaining roads out were completely jammed with private vehicles filled with people, all of whom had been waiting for weeks for the word to come that they could leave.

And the route was long and winding and full of detours since by now, most of the bridges had been knocked out either by the allied air attacks or by their own demolition squads, determined to prevent anything workable from getting into enemy hands. Driving anytime during the day was impossible because of the air attacks which by now were endless, and directed against any thing that moved, regardless of whether it be civilian or military. And anytime there was a military convoy going in either direction they’d have to immediately get completely off the road. But almost worst of all, there were the endless roadblocks and checkpoints where they’d have to present their papers and authorization documents which would then be examined and checked against whatever very incomplete and fragmentary lists the police had been supplied with. More than once they’d been ordered to turn around and go back to Berlin, and if not for some very lucky higher intervention, they would have had to.

They managed to reach Hamburg only to find out that it was about to fall to the British, which meant they’d have to keep going east to Luneberg and then across the Elbe. Their anabasis finally ended at a checkpoint outside Eutin on the Baltic coast, where at first the military police tersely informed him that neither he nor his staff had passes allowing them to enter the Northern Zone, but then after one of his men got one of the liaison officers on Field Marshal Busch’s staff to determine that even if their names weren’t on any of the six official evacuation lists, they should have been included on them, they were issued temporary residence documents allowing them to stay. By that point there were no longer any billets for them anywhere in town so they ended up driving to a field near one of the smaller lakes and setting up their camp there.

Now sitting there in their gypsy encampment it was as if time itself had come to a halt. The things which for so long had defined their existence no longer had any bearing. For the moment they were wherever they were. For the moment there was nothing to escape from and nowhere to escape to. It was a bright warm spring morning and there were leaves on the trees and birds singing and the earth they stood on was warm and soft and full of life. And even though in another five or ten minutes a bunch of British Typhoon fighters might come screaming out of the clouds, with their guns blazing, sending them all scurrying into the ditch, at least now everything was quiet and peaceful and that was good enough.

Throughout the days and evenings they’d sit around a big portable Telefunken wireless listening to whichever news broadcasts they could pick up. It was pretty clear that Berlin was by now almost entirely overrun. Whether the Russians had taken the Fuehrerbunker or the Reichskanzelei was still unclear at that point. But one thing was completely certain, there would be no miracle turnaround such as the propagandists had endlessly prophesied. Berlin, for all intents and purposes, had already fallen.

Sometime during these days he’d find himself remembering the odd conversations he’d had with the SS general Schellenberg and with Himmler. He almost had to laugh when he recalled how portentous they’d seemed to him at the time, all the promise and hope they offered. But now a mere month and a half later, it turned out that none of it had come to anything. After that one bizarre dinner, he’d never heard another word from either of them.

Mostly though, he tried not to think about anything. There was no point dwelling on what was now definitely the past and the future still seemed altogether too elusive to try to construct anything from. As finance minister, there were few jobs presently more irrelevant than his. The end would come in another day or two and he was glad none of it was his responsibility. Besides the weather here in the country was pleasant enough and they still had enough food to last the week. So he sat back and tried to relax.

Now, as he sat in his shirtsleeves drinking tea, one of his section heads pointed at something. “Hey, look at that!” he exclaimed. Von Krosigk turned and saw a long line of green, open-roofed kubelwagens and staff cars slowly lumbering out of the apple orchards toward them.

“I wonder what they want?” someone said.

“Well there’s nobody here but us,” said someone else.

“They’re SS,” observed another.

Fifty yards from their camp, the convoy halted. The front door opened on one of the Mercedes and a young SS officer jumped out and ran towards them.

“What could they want with us?” one of the deputy section heads muttered as they watched his approach. “They must think we’re from a different ministry.”

Then the young SS officer called out, “Is one of you Finance Minister Schwerin von Krosigk?”

“Right here,” answered Von Krosigk raising his hand and then immediately wishing he hadn’t.

“Would you come with me please?” the officer asked. “The Reichsfuehrer SS wants to speak to you.”

“If he’s looking for emergency cash, tell him we don’t have any,” one of the section chiefs muttered in a low voice, though loud enough for the rest of them to hear.

Von Krosigk followed the young officer back to one of the staff cars. Its rear door opened and out stepped General Schellenberg. “Hello Herr Minister,” he began, fixing von Krosigk with his foxy smile. “I’m glad to see you and your staff succeeded in getting out of Berlin.”

Immediately an uneasiness came over von Krosigk. “What is it?” he asked.

“The Reichsfuehrer would like you to come with him to meet Grand Admiral Doenitz. Do you remember that thing we discussed that time, do you think you can tell it to the Admiral?”

“Of course, I remember,” answered von Krosigk. “But why? What does Admiral Doenitz have to do with any of it?”

“We can’t explain that to you right now,” answered Schellenberg. “There’s no time to spare.” Then he noticed how von Krosigk was dressed. “Is that all you’ve got?” he asked, looking slightly askance. “Can you find a tie?”

“General, please tell me what is going on?”

“We need to get moving right away,” insisted Schellenberg. “Don’t you have a tie?”

“I can’t just leave my staff like this,” protested von Krosigk. “I have responsibility for them. We are all still operating here in an official capacity.”

A man stepped out from one of the open kubelwagens. It was a large SS colonel. “Is there a problem here, General?” he asked.

“Reichminister von Krosigk feels that he’d be wrong to leave his staff unsupervised,” Schellenberg answered, still smiling foxily.

“Is that so?” asked the colonel staring hard at von Krosigk. “Maybe you should just do as you’re told.” The way he said it, von Krosigk knew it was probably a good idea.

“Go back and get a tie,” added Schellenberg. “Hurry, the Reichsfuehrer doesn’t want to waste any more time.”

Von Krosigk turned and double-timed it back to the camp. Everyone looked alarmed, and when he asked for a tie, one of his deputies immediately went into a clutch bag, pulled one out, and handed it to him. Without bothering to say anything more than, ‘I’ll be back,’ von Krosigk ran back to the waiting vehicles, fixing the tie around his neck as he ran and hoping all the while that this whole thing wouldn’t get him killed.

The whole way to Doenitz’s headquarters, von Krosigk sat wedged between Schellenberg and Himmler. While Schellenberg was bringing von Krosigk up to speed on the recent developments, Himmler did little besides grunt irritably. At first von Krosigk thought Himmler was extremely angry about something, but then as the ride went on, he began suspecting that the Reichsfuehrer might actually be in extreme pain.

Schellenberg explained how, by some complete fluke, it was Doenitz, not Himmler that Hitler had named as his successor and that since last night Doenitz had been acting in that capacity. This was a disastrous choice since Doenitz, good man though he was, had no knowledge whatsoever of politics or foreign affairs. And now they’d just learned he was looking for someone to handle foreign affairs for him and apparently had his eye on a completely inappropriate candidate, who would be an even bigger disaster and since von Krosigk had always been Himmler’s choice for a foreign minister, he thought he should find von Krosigk and get him there in front of Doenitz so Doenitz could see how well-versed he was in foreign issues and pick him instead. “It’s just a question of getting you there before somebody else shows up,” Schellenberg explained. “It’s also a question of explaining to the Grand Admiral how you think the Western Allies would want somebody like the Reichsfuehrer to negotiate with them. You can do that, can’t you?”

But before von Krosigk could answer Himmler cut in. “Can you tell it to him? Are you capable?” he asked. He looked nervous, like things weren’t working the way he’d expected them to.

“Yes, Reichsfuehrer, of course I can,” said von Krosigk, though he didn’t see how he ever could. Those two previous meetings, all he’d really done was parrot the logic and lines fed to him by Schellenberg.

At first Schellenberg attempted to coach von Krosigk on what he should tell Doenitz and how he should act. But as he went on and on, what he was saying seemed only to further irritate Himmler, until he finally took the hint and stopped talking.

That seemed to placate Himmler. But then after a few minutes of silence, he began moaning loudly. Alarmed at his distress, Schelenberg immediately ordered the whole convoy to halt. As soon as it did, he opened his door and sticking his head out, shouted “Send a medic!” But instead, Himmler rasped out excitedly, “No! Get Loerber!”

A moment later a young SS officer in a black uniform ran up. He stuck his head into the rear compartment to take a look at Himmler’s condition.

“He’s having one of his attacks,” Schellenberg told him. “You have to do something.”

The young man nodded intently. He unbuttoned his dress tunic and handed it to one of the other officers and then began rolling up his sleeves. “Don’t worry, Reichsfuehrer, you’re going to be all right,” he said reassuringly. But the Reichsfuehrer only groaned louder. The young man quickly started unbuttoning Himmler’s shirt so that his chest was exposed. He began working his hands over the man’s chest. “Does that feel better Reichsfuehrer?” But the Reichsfuehrer’s screams did not abate.

Von Krosigk turned to Schellenberg. “What’s wrong? Is he sick? Is, is he wounded?”

Schellenberg shook his head. “It’s his stomach.”

Warily von Krosigk edged himself back, away from the milling throng of SS men.

The young man had stepped halfway inside the car, one foot still on the ground, the other on the floor of the rear compartment, leaning over the Reichsfuehrer’s supine figure.

He stuck his head back out. “Someone get my bag; the black one! Hurry!” he shouted. A few seconds later it was in his hands. A big leather doctor’s bag. “Here, hold this!” he said, thrusting it into a bystander’s hands and immediately began rummaging through it.

“So who’s that,” von Krosigk asked one of the officers. “Is that his doctor?”

“It’s not his doctor,” the officer explained. “It’s his masseur.”

“No, it’s not his masseur,” corrected another officer. “His masseur is in Stockholm. That’s Loerber, his astrologer. Don’t worry,” he added. “He’s good.”

Von Krosigk saw that the young man hadpulled from his bag a small purple velvet sack that appeared to be tied with a golden cord. He undid the cord and from the bag he extracted two large crystals. Holding one in each hand, he then passed them to Himmler uttering something in a very low voice as he did. Himmler eagerly clutched the two crystals in his hands, nodding tearfully, but compliantly to whatever the young man was saying to him. Then the young man took the Reichsfuehrer’s hands in his and pulled them up above his head. He regarded them momentarily, only to correct their apparent alignment, then nodded gravely and turned back outside to go into his bag once more. He took out another small velvet sack, this one bright red and extracted a large, pinecone shaped, hexagonal crystal which he first rubbed with a piece of soft cloth, then he placed it on the Reichsfuehrer’s stomach, shifting its position several times before presumably determining the proper spot where he then left it.

It went on like this for another five minutes, with the young man taking things in and out of the bag, at one point handing a small handful of what looked like a ball of compressed wood shavings to a bystander, instructing him to light it. Once it was burning, he slipped it into what looked like a tiny golden censer on a long chain. Immediately a sulfurous gray-yellow began issuing from the censer’s many tiny holes. Holding it by its chain, the young man then solemnly swung the censer a half dozen times over the Reichsfuehrer’s figure, muttering words that did not sound even remotely Germanic

Even from where he stood, the smell of the smoke made von Krosigk so queasy he wondered how anyone nearer or inside the car could stand it. But to his surprise, no one besides himself seemed particularly affected by it. All the while, the stricken Reichsfuehrer continued faithfully clutching the crystals above his head in the prescribed manner.

As he continued to rub the Reichsfuehrer’s stomach with one hand, with the other, he deftly gathered the two crystals the Reichsfuehrer had been holding, then the one on his stomach. Then, still holding them in his hand, he pulled a handkerchief from one of his pockets, using just two fingers, and wiped the crystals clean before letting them slip back into their velvet sacks, which suddenly seemed to have appeared hanging from his wrist by their golden cords. And with a single, elegant motion, he slipped the velvet sacks off his wrist, pulling the cords shut as he did.

Watching the young man, von Krosigk was struck by the sheer seamlessness of his motions. There’d been no fumbling, no wasted movement. All of it had been executed with the smooth, confident precision of an expert waiter, or a seasoned thief, or a top stage magician performing complicated tricks. Then he remembered that the young man’s name was Loerber.

“Is he one of the Loerber Brothers?” von Krosigk blurted out suddenly.

The SS men officers solemnly nodded. “Yes, that’s Franzi Loerber,” said one. “I’ve been seeing him work all this last week and he’s definitely the magic one!” The others nodded too. They’d also seen him in action.

The funny thing was, after that, Himmler was acting bright and excited and full of energy and ideas. “We’ll set the Grand Admiral right about things. He’ll let me go to Eisenhower. There’s no reason he should go all the way back to square one on this when I’ve already got months of legwork behind me. Yes, Gentlemen, I’ve got a feeling we all might just be having lunch with Ike himself this very time tomorrow.”

Von Krosigk found himself sharing a glance with Schellenberg. As their eyes met, he raised his eyebrows at von Krosigk, like he was completely sharing his boss’ jubilation. Von Krosigk made a polite smile and spent the rest of the drive staring fixedly as he could at a stain mark on the back of the seat in front of him.

When they arrived at Doenitz’s headquarters, a collection of drab, grey, one-and-two storey huts built on the edge of some Baltic inlet, Von Krosigk, walked with Himmler and a dozen of his men up to the camp commandant’s hut. The whole way up dozens of sailors stood watching them like they were almost expecting a show down. In front of the commandant’s hut a line of armed sailors presented arms and after talking with the Grand Admiral’s adjutant, Himmler and Schellenberg were escorted inside, leaving von Krosigk standing with the escorts.

“What happened?” he asked the SS colonel heading Himmler’s guard detail.

“Grand Admiral Doenitz invited the Reichsfuehrer in for lunch,” the colonel said.\

“But what about me?”

“I guess you weren’t invited,” he answered.

“But was the Grand Admiral informed of my presence? I’m the reason the Reichsfuehrer came here.”

“Hey, don’t ask me,” the colonel answered.

Thoroughly peeved, Von Krosigk then turned to the man commanding the Naval guard. “I think I was supposed to go in with them.” The man pointed to a petty officer, standing nearby. “Talk to him,” he said. “He’s the Grand Admiral’s adjutant’s assistant.”

“Excuse me,” said von Krosigk to the adjutant’s assistant. “But I believe I was supposed to go in with them. That man said I should talk to you.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but who are you?” the adjutant’s assistant asked.

“Reichsminister for Finance Count Lutz Graf Schwerin von Krosigk,” he growled. “I was supposed to meet with the Grand Admiral as well.”

“I’m sorry, but the Reichfuehrer hadn’t said anything about it to the Grand Admiral’s adjutant. Finance minister, you say, sir?”

“Yes,” said von Krosigk.

“I need to talk to Captain Ludde-Neurath about this, sir,” he said. “Please wait.”

The adjutant’s assistant went inside. A few minutes later he came out. “Captain Ludde-Neurath would like to know what the matter was you were supposed to talk to the Grand Admiral about.”

So Schwerin von Krosigk told the adjutant’s assistant whatever it was Schellenberg had said about someone to do foreign affairs. The adjutant’s assistant listened dutifully to what he was being told.” He nodded. “Let me go tell Captain Ludde-Neurath. I’ll be back.” He went back in and for ten minutes there was nothing. Himmler’s guard detachment was by then standing at ease alongside Navy guards a few feet away. Their commanders, the scary colonel and a Navy captain wearing infantryman’s feldgrau stood together smoking cigarettes, like they already knew each other. Seeing von Krosigk standing there forlornly, the SS colonel snickered. “What’s the matter, Herr Minister, did the Reichsfuehrer forget about you?” the Navy captain also smiled like it was all typical of what was going on. Von Krosigk glowered back agreeably and found something else to stare at.

Then the door opened and the adjutant’s assistant popped his head out and waved him in.

“I’m sorry about that, sir,” he told von Krosigk. But if you’ll just have a seat Captain Ludde-Neurath will be with you.” He was pointed to a bench in the middle of the busy corridor.

He sat there alone for nearly another hour, wondering the whole time if he’d been completely forgotten and that perhaps he should just quietly find his way back to the encampment. Then, just as he was about to leave, the naval officer he recognized earlier as being the Grand Admiral’s adjutant came up to him. “Finance Minister Schwerin von Krosigk?” he asked.

“Yes?”

“Come with me, please.”

The officer, who identified himself as Captain Ludde-Neurath took him down the hall and into to an outer office where two yeoman clerks sat silently typing. “Wait there, please,” he said, pointing him to a chair. He then went inside the inner office, shutting the door behind him. A minute later the door opened and out trooped Albert Speer and Heinrich Himmler. Seeing von Krosigk sitting there as he walked past, Himmler glanced at him absent-mindedly like he didn’t remember who he was. Five more minutes alone. Then ten minutes, then fifteen. And all the while the two sailors kept typing and their furious pace, not even once looking up to acknowledge his presence. Then suddenly the door to the inner office opened a crack and Doenitz stuck his head out and coldly regarding von Krosigk he said, “would you come in, please.” Nervously von Krosigk got to his feet and walked inside the admiral’s office.

Doenitz pointed him to one of the recently vacated chairs. “So, you’ve been Finance Minister since when?” he asked tersely.

“Since 1929, Grand Admiral.”

“And you spent several years living in London?”

"Cambridge, actually. I was a Rhodes Scholar.”

"A Rhodes Scholar? So would you say you understand the English?”

“I suppose so.”

“And how long has it been since you’ve been there?”

“Thirty years.”

“And you think what you know from it still applies?”

Von Krosigk shrugged. “Things don’t always change that much, Grand Admiral.”

Doentiz seemed to accept the explanation. “Would you have any ideas or recommendations about our current situation?”

Von Krosigk tried to remember the things he’d discussed with Himmler and Schellenberg, what they’d agreed on about international contacts with the Red Cross or with Postal Union representatives, but somehow none of it seemed coherent enough to bring up. “I suppose it depends on what the Grand Admiral intends to do,” he said finally.

“What I intend to do is seek an immediate end to the war,” Doenitz answered in a cold, angry voice.

“I see,” said von Krosigk.

Doenitz continued. “Reichsfuehrer Himmler seems to think the Western Allies are eager to make common cause with us against the Bolsheviks. Do you agree?”

Von Krosigk had to think about it. For the last few weeks everyone had been saying just that and they’d all agreed that was what Churchill and Eisenhower and the new American President Truman had in mind. But now that he was being asked that question by someone as serious as the Grand Admiral, he suddenly wasn’t so sure. “I don’t know,” he said.

“So you don’t see any hope of us playing the Anglo-Americans and the Russians against each other?”

“No, Grand Admiral, I don’t know that at all,” answered von Krosigk. “All I know is the Russian card is the only one in our hands that we can use with the West. And the only thing we can do is try to play it the best we can. How well the West will want to play with us is hard to say. I’d be lying if I told you I had any special insight into it.”

“Reichsfuehrer Himmler has just spent much of the last hour singing your praises,” said Doenitz. “He thinks your presence could just about guarantee a favorable reaction from the Western Allies. What do you have to say about that?”

“I’m not actually sure what anybody can accomplish at this point.”

“Well at this point I’d say that anything which Reichsfuehrer would wholeheartedly recommend, I’d probably dismiss out of hand. But Speer seems to have a high opinion of you also. Therefore, if you want the job, it’s yours,” said Doenitz.

Von Krosigk blinked twice. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but what exactly is the job, foreign minister you never said?”

“Foreign Minister,” Doenitz grimaced when he said it. “Actually under the circumstances I think it’d be better to just make it chancellor. You’ll be my Number Two. Are you interested?”

< Von Krosigk was dumbfounded. “Chancellor? You want me to be chancellor?”

< “That’s right,” said Doenitz.

“But, that would be the same position as Bismarck or, or the Fuehrer under Hindenburg. Grand Admiral, I don’t know what to say. Honestly, I am not worthy of this honor.”

Doenitz looked unimpressed. “Count, this is not going to be an honor. It’s going to be a dirty, thankless, humiliating task. Now if you want it, it’s yours, otherwise I’ll need to find someone else. So are you in?”

Von Krosigk nodded. “Yes, Grand Admiral, I’m in.”

“Good,” Doenitz said tersely. “Welcome aboard.”

There was a brisk knock on the door. “Enter!” barked Doenitz.

The door opened and in walked Doenitz’s adjutant with a telegram in his hand. “From Berlin,” he said. He gave it to Doenitz and then turned to leave.

“Wait,” said Doenitz. He stared at the message for a moment then looked up. “Get Speer!” he said.

A minute later, Albert Speer had come in and was sitting in the chair next to von Krosigk. Doenitz held out the telegram for them to see. Speer looked at the telegram. He and Doenitz looked at each other for a moment, then Doenitz handed the telegram to von Krosigk.

It read: GRAND ADMIRAL DOENITZ. FUEHRER DECEASED YESTERDAY AT 3:30 PM TESTAMENT OF APRIL 29 APPOINTS YOU REICH PRESIDENT, MINISTER GOEBBLES CHANCELLOR, REICHSLEITER BORMANN PARTY MINISTER, MINISTER SEYSS-INQUART FOREIGN MINISTER. ON THE FUEHRER’S INSTRUCTIONS THE TESTAMENT SENT OUT OF BERLIN TO YOU AND TO FIELD MARSHAL SCHORNER, TO ASSURE ITS PRESERVATION FOR THE PEOPLE. REICHSLEITER BORMANN WILL TRY TO GET TO YOU TODAY TO ORIENT YOU ON THE SITUATION. THE FORM AND TIME OF ANNOUNCEMENT TO THE TROOPS AND PUBLIC ARE LEFT TO YOU. CONFIRM RECEIPT.

Von Krosigk looked at the wall clock. The Fuhrer had been dead twenty-four hours.

“We should work on an announcement,” said Speer.

All three nodded.