Doenitz Decides to Surrender

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't Lose the Monocle! Nazi War Criminals Get Social Security and Jobs in Hollywood.

Outside in the corridor, someone was approaching. The door opened and General Strong stepped in. “General, we’re ready to begin,” he said.

Jodl nodded. He reached into his jacket’s inner pocket and took out something which he then fixed into his eye. A monocle! Jodl now looked like a Prussian played by Erich von Stroheim. What was he thinking? Did he somehow consider it vital that Germany be represented in her darkest hour by a walking caricature? Perhaps he was angling for a post-war career in Hollywood. From what Ziggy had heard, plenty of German and Austrian Jewish refugees had found lucrative careers playing Nazis in films. Jodl was the real thing. Why shouldn’t he get some of it?

"Ready?” asked Jodl. Seeing everyone nod, he said to them: “Gentlemen, this is a black day for Germany, but I promise you, we will survive!”

I wonder if Eisenhower will be there,” von Friedeburg mumbled aloud to himself.

They walked down the corridor in single file, past the staring soldiers, General Jodl first, followed by Major Oxenius, then Admiral von Friedeburg, then Ziggy.

They were brought into a crowded, map-filled room, at the far end of which, under the glaring light from a bank of movie-studio floodlights, was a large rectangular table. Sitting there facing them were nearly a dozen British, American, and Russian generals with Bedell Smith at the center. Ziggy examined the faces of the other Allied generals, but none of them looked anything like Eisenhower. On the other hand, he noticed Suslaparov glaring at him, this time not as though they were best friends.

They took chairs on the near side of the table. Bedell Smith gestured to an aide, who brought Jodl a document. Scowling, Jodl examined it perfunctorily and then scribbled his signature onto it before passing it to von Friedeburg, who did the same. The document then went to Bedell Smith, then to a British general, a French general, an American, and then Suslaparov, all of whom added their signatures to it. Then another copy of the surrender made the rounds, followed by another and another and another.

When all the copies had been signed, Jodl raised his hand. “General, I would like to say a word,” he said.

"Yes, of course,” said Bedell Smith, sounding nicer than he had in any of their previous encounters.

Jodl stood up and began addressing everyone in the room. “General, with this signature the German people and the German armed forces are, for better or worse, delivered into the victor’s hands. In this war, which has lasted more than five years, both have achieved and suffered perhaps more than any other people in the world. In this hour I can only express the hope that the victor will treat them with generosity.”

Then they were marched out. The war was over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"On a job?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not even for Franzi?”

"No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"In Palestine?”

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

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

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

"Explain what is worked out.”

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

"It sounds harebrained,” said Ziggy.

"We’ve pulled off more with less.”

Ziggy nodded. It was true.

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

"I know, I’ve met him,” said Ziggy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Von Friedeburg and Surrender Party Return from Berlin

FLENSBURG FINALLY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Glad it’s over?” asked Cremer.

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

“How was Berlin?”

“Like a moonscape.”

Cremer waited for the others to drive off before he started up the car. He let off the brake and slowly motored past the hangars and other buildings. Then he noticed a British officer step out in front of them with his hand outstretched, and a big, friendly smile on his face, signaling them to stop.
(This is an excerpt from a chapter that got cut from my novel Germania, first published in 2008 by Simon & Schuster, now also available on Kindle here).

Von Friedeburg and Doenitz Meet on Levensau Bridge to Discuss the Surrender

History tells us that as soon as Grand Admiral Doenitz took over as the "new fuehrer" of the Reich, he sent Admiral von Friedeburg to meet with Field Marshal Montgomery as a first step in convincing the Western Allies to end their war with Germany and join them in a new grand alliance against the Russians.

Of course it didn't go down that way. Once he'd arrived at Montgomery's HQ, Monty tersely informed von Friedeburg that there would be no discussions of any kind. Von Friedeburg was there only for one thing, to sign an unconditional surrender, and if he did not do this, Monty was happy to continue killing every German he could find. Von Friedeburg was crushed. Doenitz had entrusted him with the survival of the German people and he'd failed. History tells us he reacted by suffering a nervous breakdown on the spot and that he had several more over the course of the next few days during which time he was forced to sign not one, but three diffferent surrenders; first to Montgomery, then to Eisenhower, and finally to the Russians in Berlin. After that he returned to Doenitz' headquarters in Flensburg, where he remained in a catatonic state for the next two weeks, before finally committing suicide, shortly after being arrested by the British. Beyond that, very little is known about von Friedeburg or why he committed suicide. In my novel Germania, a large part of the story deals with von Friedeburg's progress through the multiple surrenders. I tried to create a real character out of him, instead of the historical footnote that he is usually reduced to. This excerpt takes place during a meeting he had with Doenitz on Levensau Bridge, just before signing the first surrender.

It had been four days since Ziggy and Cremer had come aboard as heads of Doenitz’ security detail and other than the standoff with Himmler’s men, they hadn’t done much in that time besides salute and present arms a couple dozen times. When the order came for Ziggy to take a detachment of men to accompany the Grand Admiral to Levensau Bridge, he assumed it had to do with Admiral von Friedeburg’s negotiations with the British.

Levensau Bridge was only a mile or two east of the British front lines and in the last day all the fighting seemed to have come to a halt. Though the bridge still stood, it had been too heavily bombed for vehicles to cross over. They parked on the road leading up to it and waited. For the first time in days, the bridge was empty. Presumably everyone on the other side who’d wanted to flee the British had already done so, and anyone who wanted to go west thought better of doing it right there.

On the opposite bank a Navy staff car was driving up. Then it stopped and Admiral von Friedeburg got out and began clambering across the bridge towards them.

For several minutes, Doenitz stood with his aides, silently watching von Friedeburg’s progress through his field glasses. Then he abruptly took them away from his eyes. “Wait here,” he said and started quickly up the bridge to meet him.

Ziggy put his field glasses to his eyes and looked over at von Friedeburg approaching. Something was very wrong, he thought. His footsteps seemed jerky and his face was frozen into a Greek mask of horror. He watched the two men stop and face each other. They began exchanging words back and forth. Doenitz remained stiff and arched while von Friedeburg stood slumped. Then von Friedeburg put his hand over his eyes and Ziggy realized with a shock that he was weeping.

Doenitz started barking something at him, but von Friedeburg kept crying and shaking his head like he was saying, no, I tried but it didn’t work. Hans, get hold of yourself, Doenitz seemed to be saying. Remember what you are! But von Friedeburg only kept pleading. Please don’t make me go back. Please, I can’t take it. I can’t!

Ziggy kept his eyes on the two figures, clearly defined against the grayness of the river and sky. Their gestures seemed to describe what they were saying so completely it made Ziggy wonder if, without even knowing it, he was telepathically reading conversations again.

Whatever the case, there was no question about Doenitz’ answer. You have your orders and you will carry them out! Then Doenitz softened his stance slightly and said something reassuring. Von Friedeburg set his mouth hard into a grimace, and stood rigidly at attention as the rain pelted his face. Doenitz finished speaking, then turned and began angrily marching back. Von Friedeburg stood motionless for a few seconds and then started walking back to his side of the river.

Ziggy lowered his glasses. He wished he hadn’t witnessed any of it. The way von Friedeburg was acting seemed less like head of the Navy than some freshly-minted ensign being dressed down after panicking during his first depth charge attack. What had happened to him?

Twenty yards from the bottom of the bridge, Doenitz stopped and gestured for his adjutant. The adjutant ran up, but before he even got there, Doenitz snapped out a couple words and the adjutant turned again and ran back to the others.

“Korvettenkapitän Loerber,” he barked. “Report to the Grand Admiral on the double!”

“Jawohl,” shouted Ziggy and ran to see what the old man wanted.

Doenitz looked at him cold and hard as iron. “Something has come up,” he said. “I need you to go back with Admiral von Friedeburg to help him negotiate with the British.” Then, softening his voice, he added, “You’re a U-Boat captain. You’ll know how to handle it.”

“Yes, sir,” said Ziggy, completely bewildered.

Doenitz went on. “The Admiral is having problems. He has a very difficult job ahead of him. You must help him, be his friend, but if things get out of hand you are to remind him of his duties, as a German Naval officer and as a man.”

Ziggy looked at Doenitz and saw how his eyes blazed with cold anger. “You speak pretty good English, as I recall,” he continued. “That might be helpful. Loerber, you need to make sure he’s able to function. The Navy’s honor is at stake. Do you think you can do that?”

“I’ll do my best, Grand Admiral.”

“No! That won’t do, Loerber. The Admiral just did his best and it wasn’t enough. Whatever it takes, Loerber, you must see to it that he carries out his task. On this I am giving you full leeway. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Grand Admiral.”

“It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. Now get moving.”

Ziggy saluted and started across the bridge. He hadn’t been walking a minute when things started reeling on him. Be his friend? Remind him of his duty? Full leeway? If it hadn’t been Doenitz telling him this, Ziggy would have thought it a joke.

The rain clouds that hung over them, low and heavy, cloaked everything in gray gloom, making the riverbank look more like a forlorn late fall than the middle of springtime. So the war was ending, he thought. Hitler was dead, Doenitz was Head of State and Von Friedeburg was apparently in the middle of negotiating a ceasefire with the British. Peace was finally descending on Europe. Germany was finished. We’d wanted war and gotten it. He tried to imagine what peace would be like, but couldn’t.

Ziggy walked across at a brisk pace. As he approached the Admiral’s Mercedes, the driver got out and came to attention.

“Come on, let’s get going,” said Ziggy, not bothering to salute back.

“Sir?” asked the driver. “Perhaps you might prefer to ride in the front.”

Ignoring his suggestion, Ziggy opened the rear door and leaned inside. Admiral von Friedeburg sat empty-eyed in the back. “Herr Admiral?” asked Ziggy.

Von Friedeburg did not look at him.

“The Grand Admiral has asked me to accompany you, sir.”

Von Friedeburg glanced at Ziggy just long enough to let him know he understood.

“I’ll be sitting in the front, if you need me, sir.”

Von Friedeburg gave a slight nod like he thought it was a good idea. Franzi shut the rear door and took the seat next to the driver.

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

Smoking Cigarettes and Waiting for the Rain to Stop with Admiral Von Friedeburg

They were put into a clapped-out Humber and driven out to the Luneberg aerodrome, along with a dozen members of Montgomery’s staff who were being sent with them. But by the time they’d reached the airfield, the drizzle had turned into a downpour and they were informed everything had been grounded. They were taken into a hangar where chairs had been set up for them; ten for the British contingent, and a few feet away, two for the Germans. There was a large hole in the re-enforced concrete roof through which rain poured into a Messerschmitt fighter, whose after section had been crushed by a massive chunk of fallen concrete. The little airplane stood on its front wheels, wings still bravely stretched out, but with its nose pointing helplessly upward. They faced the wrecked airplane in meditative silence. It seemed to Ziggy like it was in pain.

Under the propeller, its wide, ovular air intake gaped in outraged protest, like the screaming horse in Picasso’s Guernica. In the cold glare of emergency lights, the rain falling through the hole glittered like snowflakes. It battered the forlorn wreckage, pelting the glass windscreen, rolling down the wings in heavy rivulets, and dripping from the propeller blades.

The British officers exchanged bits of conversation with each other, but it had been so long since Ziggy had used his English, it seemed more like birds’ chirping than anything else. He couldn’t tell what the Admiral’s state was. He made Ziggy feel restless. They’d been together since early afternoon, and except for screaming at him that one time, von Friedeburg had barely acknowledged his presence. Now they were apparently destined to be together for another couple of days and he had a feeling it was going to be the most thankless duty he ever pulled.

Ziggy wondered what was going to happen now that the war was ending. Had the Allies found out about all those camps the SS were running? There’d be hell to pay once they did. Everyone was already scrambling to disassociate themselves with them. It gave him a certain grim satisfaction.

Ziggy noticed a heavyset British officer wandering around the hangar, rifling through tool cabinets and drawers. He didn’t seem to be part of the delegation; there certainly hadn’t been a chair set up for him. The seated officers kept looking at him and exchanging terse noises among themselves, until finally the general in the group murmured something to his adjutant; the adjutant said something to the aide and the aide got up and went over to the man as he went through a tray of screwdrivers. There was a brief, inaudible exchange of words and a moment later the aide sheepishly returned to the adjutant and muttered something. The adjutant turned to the general and ran his forefinger down the side of his nose. The general nodded and the whole matter was dropped. The man continued going through the drawers, handling the tools and acting like he was the only one there. Except Ziggy knew the man was watching him.

It went on like this for a while before the man at the tool rack looked back at the aide, gesturing with a thrust of his chin toward Ziggy. The aide got up and walked over to Ziggy. “Major Westerby would like a word with you,” he said.

Ziggy stood up. “I’d better go see what he wants,” he said to von Friedeburg, who didn’t react.

Seeing Ziggy approach, the man dug into an inside pocket of his duffle coat and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

“You’re Major Westerby?” asked Ziggy.

The man nodded. “How is your Admiral?” he asked in perfect Berlin German. “Do you think he’ll be fit enough to perform his function?”

“He’ll do what he has to,” Ziggy replied.

Westerby nodded approvingly, then offered him a cigarette. Ziggy hesitated. It would be nice to know how he was expected to conduct himself in the situation. Could the bounds of icy correctness be stretched to include smoking a cigarette over business? He stole a look over at von Friedeburg, who seemed oblivious. The British officers, on the other hand,stared at them intently.

“Let’s go around the corner,” Westerby suggested. He led Ziggy to a spot along the side of the hangar where they were protected from the rain by the overhanging roof. Ziggy let him light his cigarette.

“I saw you perform many times at the Blue Diamond,” said Westerby. “Your brother Franzi was a friend of mine. In fact, both your brothers are friends of mine.”

Ziggy looked again at his face, trying to recognize him. He wasn’t sure. Between the four of them, there had been constant traffic backstage of friends and acquaintances.

“Look Major,” said Ziggy. ”If you don’t mind, I’d rather not make this a social occasion.”

Westerby ignored him. “The reason I’m asking,” he said, “is we’re trying to learn Franzi’s whereabouts.”

“How would I know where he is?” asked Ziggy. “I’m in the Navy, not the SS.”

“My understanding is you saw him two days ago when the Reichsfuhrer came to Naval Headquarters in Ploen. He’s apparently become part of Himmler’s inner circle.”

Ziggy didn’t say anything. How could Westerby know that?

Westerby continued. “As I understand it, part of your falling out with your brothers came when they joined the SS and Nazi Party. I’m wondering if you’re still as big an anti-Nazi as you were before the war.”

“Major, if you don’t mind, I’ll just smoke this by myself.”

“What if I told you that neither of them are what you think.”

“Major Westerby, if you’re trying to drop broad hints that they’re both Allied spies, then I already know.”

“Well if you know that, then perhaps you can tell me who Franzi’s been working for?”

“Well, the British, of course.”

Westerby explained that Franzi was actually a double agent of sorts. He’d started out working for Moscow, but then around the time he’d begun having second thoughts about them, Manni - who by then was working for Westerby - convinced him to share the information he was sending eastward, assuming that no one in Moscow would ever be the wiser. Only it didn’t work out that way.

Ziggy tried to listen, feeling his mind clouding over with the sheer assault of information. Cambridge, Moonpool, Schellenberg, and then the Russians. All he knew was that it sounded exactly like the kind of thing Manni and Franzi would find irresistible. Sowing chaos, playing different sides against each other, and with the help of their magical abilities, repeatedly escaping by a hair’s breadth. Though supposedly there was a moral angle to it, he doubted they could even think in those terms.

“Not that Franzi was pro-Bolshevik, mind you. Not at all. Like yourself, he was anti-fascist. They just got to him before we could,” said Westerby.

“But why are you telling me this?” asked Ziggy.

Westerby looked at him searchingly. “Because Franzi is in great danger, and not just from the SS, whom he’s trying to flee, but also from the Russians who want to kill him to keep things he knows from getting out. And I don’t mind telling you, Captain Loerber, that once it starts, none of you will be safe. We need to get him away from Himmler. My organization is thoroughly infiltrated by the Russians. There isn’t anyone there I can trust. Manni and I will do what we can, but we need your help to get him out.”

Ziggy was incredulous. “My help? How do you expect me to help you?”

Westerby was adamant. “Captain Loerber, you’ve got the guard battalion. That’s more than we have. You can ask Cremer for help. He’s your friend. You’ll be at an advantage. Doenitz will be setting up his government in Flensburg. I’m sure Himmler will not be far away. It shouldn’t be that difficult to locate him.”

“How do you expect me to locate him?” asked Ziggy.

Westerby looked exasperated. “For Heaven’s sake, man, you’re magic, remember?”

For a long moment the two stared at each other. Ziggy couldn’t decide if Westerby was pulling his leg or completely nuts. He looked into the hangar and there was the injured fighter plane, its gaping mouth bellowing from the depths of its pain. The Blood of Israel will have its vengeance!

Ziggy looked down at the packet of cigarettes in Westerby’s hand and snatched them. “I have to go back now, Major,” he said quickly. “Thank you for the cigarettes.”

He went back to sit with von Friedeburg. After another hour of waiting in silence, they were taken to an empty mess tent where two metal trays of food had been set for them. After that they were led to a small tent where there were two cots set up, each with a thin blanket. They were told they should be ready to leave at short notice, once the rain had lifted.
(Excerpt from Germania, by Brendan McNally, Simon & Schuster, 2008)

Jodl Arrives at SHAEF to meet Eisenhower, Doesn't.

More like a bold conqueror than the emissary of a defeated nation, Colonel General Alfred Jodl strode into Supreme Allied Headquarters, determined that Eisenhower was going to see it his way. Unlike his more somberly dressed predecessor, Jodl, in his splendid gray and silver uniform, inspired confidence.

Accompanying him was a tall major with the narrow, pointed face of a greyhound. Jodl noted the admiring stares from all the American and British officers and men and he told himself that this would be a glorious moment.

The escorts led them to a small waiting room. Stepping inside, he saw the sunken-faced von Friedeburg sitting with his aide. Pathetic, he thought.

Ziggy nudged von Friedeburg, who hadn’t reacted to their entry. Both got to their feet. “General Jodl,” said von Friedeburg.

“Heil Hitler!” Jodl declared triumphantly. Neither man made any effort to salute, nor did they shake hands. Instead they regarded each other with palpable distaste. “This is my aide, Major Oxenius,” Jodl said and the major snapped into a Heil Hitler salute. “So what is the situation here, Admiral?” Jodl asked.

“The situation, Herr General,” answered von Friedeburg, “is that they are not accepting any conditions whatsoever and all we’ve been able to do is delay.”

“But haven’t you explained to Eisenhower that we want to help them fight the Bolsheviks?” Jodl asked.

“General, we haven’t even seen Eisenhower,” answered von Friedeburg tiredly.

Jodl looked shocked. “That’s utterly unacceptable,” he said hotly. “You should have insisted you speak directly with him. I’m going to make that my first point.”

Von Friedeburg gave a listless smile.

“What else?” Jodl asked.

“There isn’t anything else,” von Friedeburg answered. “All our appeals have fallen on deaf ears. Either we sign an unconditional surrender immediately or they say they will seal off the western frontier and start shooting refugees and anyone trying to surrender.”

“But don’t they want our help against the Bolsheviks? Didn’t you offer them our divisions?”

“General, at present, the Soviet Union is not their enemy, we are. If the West is planning a war against the Soviets, they have evidently not informed anyone in this building about it.”

Jodl looked at him astounded. “Are they crazy? Don’t they understand what they face? Didn’t you tell them what the Russians are doing?”

“General, I tried,” said von Friedeburg in a hopeless voice. “Apparently they consider us a greater evil than the Bolsheviks.”

There was a sharp knock on the door and then it opened. A British major stood at the doorway, flanked by two White Helmets. “General Jodl, if you’d come with us, please,” he said.

“Best of luck, General,” said von Friedeburg without enthusiasm. “Hopefully they’ll listen to you.”

Jodl shot him an ugly glance and strode out. Ziggy closed the door. Von Friedeburg settled himself onto the leather sofa, then pointed them to the two tiny chairs. “Gentlemen,” he said.

They sat down. Oxenius dug into his inner pocket and brought out his engraved cigarette case, which he offered first to von Friedeburg, then to Ziggy. Both refused. Oxenius lit one for himself and seeing that neither of them were going to initiate a conversation, stopped trying to act sociable and turned to the door.

Hours passed. Nobody said anything. It was already late afternoon. Finally, Jodl returned, looking exhausted. “Who is this Walter Bedell Smith?” he asked disgustedly. “I don’t believe I’ve even heard of the man before. He wouldn’t budge on anything regarding the conditions of surrender. I did manage, however, to get them to agree to some significant changes in the wording of the surrender document. They will acknowledge that the German armed forces have fought honorably. It’s not much, but it’s something. Damn it, we deserve at least that!”

Von Friedeburg seemed impressed. “You are a better negotiator than I am, General.”

Jodl smiled bitterly.

“So then what’s next?” asked von Friedeburg.

“Bedell Smith is having a meeting with Eisenhower,” said Jodl. “When it’s over, I suppose we’ll meet again to agree on the final details.”

There was another knock on the door. An American sergeant brought in a bottle of whiskey and several glasses. “General Strong sends his compliments,” he said.

Oxenius took the whiskey and glasses from him and brought them inside. Jodl looked over at the bottle. “Pour some for everyone, would you, Major?” he said. “I’m not going to bother offering a toast.”

“How about to the German army for fighting honorably,” suggested Oxenius helpfully as he poured whiskey into their glasses and handed them out.

“Yes, a splendid idea, Major,” said Jodl, brightening a little. “Gentlemen,” he said, raising his glass and waiting for the others to do the same. “To the German Wehrmacht for fighting honorably.”

They emptied their glasses. Oxenius refilled them and they drank again. Then, as they were putting their glasses down, von Friedeburg fixed Jodl with a friendly smile, “So, did General Bedell Smith show you any photographs?”

For a second Jodl froze. Then he glowered at von Friedeburg. “What of it?” he asked.

“So then you saw them?”

“Yes, I saw them.”

Von Friedeburg’s smile turned into a lunatic leer. “Pretty nasty stuff, wouldn’t you say, Herr General?”

Jodl stared at him with visible displeasure. “War is nasty stuff, Admiral,” he answered calmly, hoping von Friedeburg would let it rest.

But von Friedeburg was only getting started. “No, what we in the Navy waged was war. What was going on in those camps was the mass murder of civilians, carried out as national policy. Wouldn’t you say?”

At this, Ziggy felt a cold sweat. He looked over at Oxenius and saw how nervous and wide open his eyes were.

“I wouldn’t know, Admiral,” answered Jodl evenly. “I am a soldier and do not involve myself in politics.”

“But you knew of it?”

“Like I said, Admiral, I do not concern myself with political matters.”

“So mass murder is simply a political matter?” asked von Friedeburg.

“What are you getting at, Admiral?” Jodl asked, his voice dead serious.

“I think they’re going to hang us all, Herr General,” von Friedeburg said, grinning maniacally, like he thought it was too funny.

Ziggy stepped forward. “Admiral, I think maybe you should sit down and rest,” he said.

“Be quiet, Captain Loerber, and pour us some more whiskey,” von Friedeburg said in a calm voice. “I’d like us all to raise a glass to Western Civilization. To the intellectualism and humanism that makes us something better than barbarians.”

“I’ve had quite enough of this,” shot back Jodl. “I’m ordering you to shut up.”

“Don’t think you can pull rank on me, General. I’m head of the Navy.”

“You’re a disgrace as a soldier, Admiral. For you to talk like this, you’ve obviously lost your sense of honor.”

“That’s right, Herr General. I have lost my sense of honor. I lost it the day I swore allegiance not to Germany but to Adolf Hitler. We all lost it. And now look what we’re all guilty of. And please don’t insult all of us by pretending you didn’t know.”

Jodl was livid. “Half the German Nation has made the supreme sacrifice in this war and instead of respecting their memory, you disgrace them all for a bunch of Jews!”

“Excuse me, sir,” said Ziggy, stepping forward. “I’m a Jew.”

The two men stared at him for a second and then turned back to each other. “When this thing is over,” Jodl said, “I shall definitely report you to Grand Admiral Doenitz. This talk of yours is treacherous and...and...”

“Defeatist?” suggested von Friedeburg.

“You disgust me,” snarled Jodl.

There was a knock on the door. Oxenius opened it. This time it was General Strong. “General Jodl, if I could have a word with you?”

“What is it, General Strong?” asked Jodl, trying to collect himself.

“Perhaps we should talk outside.”

“That’s all right, you can tell us all,” said Jodl.

“General Bedell Smith informs me that General Eisenhower has ruled out any changes to the wording of the surrender.”

“But we agreed. It is imperative that we acknowledge that the German Armed Forces have conducted themselves honorably.”

“I’m sorry, but General Eisenhower considers that wording completely unacceptable.” General Strong looked empathetic but uncompromising. He went on, “General Bedell Smith wants to know if you will accept the original terms for surrender.”

Immediately Jodl countered. “In that case we would like forty-eight hours grace time before the articles of surrender fully take effect. Tell the General that.”

General Strong shook his head. “No more delays, General,” he said resolutely. “General Bedell Smith has ruled that out. Now are you prepared to sign?”

Jodl stood silently for a long time. Then he nodded. “As I see it, I have no choice,” he said angrily. “Yes, General Strong, I am prepared to sign.”

General Strong nodded solemnly. “I shall inform the General immediately.” He closed the door.

Jodl turned to the others. “Well, there you have it, gentlemen.” Ziggy stared at the floor and hoped it would be all over soon. He and Oxenius exchanged a glance. Your Admiral is a loony and so are you, Oxenius’ eyes seemed to be saying.

Outside in the corridor, someone was approaching. The door opened and General Strong stepped in. “General, we’re ready to begin,” he said.

Jodl nodded. He reached into his jacket’s inner pocket and took out something which he then fixed into his eye. A monocle! Jodl now looked like a Prussian played by Erich von Stroheim. What was he thinking? Did he somehow consider it vital that Germany be represented in her darkest hour by a walking caricature? Perhaps he was angling for a post-war career in Hollywood. From what Ziggy had heard, plenty of German and Austrian Jewish refugees had found lucrative careers playing Nazis in films. Jodl was the real thing. Why shouldn’t he get some of it?

“Ready?” asked Jodl. Seeing everyone nod, he said to them: “Gentlemen, this is a black day for Germany, but I promise you, we will survive!”

“I wonder if Eisenhower will be there,” von Friedeburg mumbled aloud to himself.

They walked down the corridor in single file, past the staring soldiers, General Jodl first, followed by Major Oxenius, then Admiral von Friedeburg, then Ziggy.

They were brought into a crowded, map-filled room, at the far end of which, under the glaring light from a bank of movie-studio floodlights, was a large rectangular table. Sitting there facing them were nearly a dozen British, American, and Russian generals with Bedell Smith at the center. Ziggy examined the faces of the other Allied generals, but none of them looked anything like Eisenhower. On the other hand, he noticed Suslaparov glaring at him, this time not as though they were best friends.

They took chairs on the near side of the table. Bedell Smith gestured to an aide, who brought Jodl a document. Scowling, Jodl examined it perfunctorily and then scribbled his signature to it before passing it to von Friedeburg, who did the same. The document then went to Bedell Smith, then to a British general, a French general, an American, and then Suslaparov, all of whom added their signatures to it. Then another copy of the surrender made the rounds, followed by another and another and another.

When all the copies had been signed, Jodl raised his hand. “General, I would like to say a word,” he said.

“Yes, of course,” said Bedell Smith, sounding nicer than he had in any of their previous encounters.

Jodl stood up and began addressing everyone in the room. “General, with this signature the German people and the German armed forces are, for better or worse, delivered into the victor’s hands. In this war, which has lasted more than five years, both have achieved and suffered perhaps more than any other people in the world. In this hour I can only express the hope that the victor will treat them with generosity.”

Then they were marched out. The war was over.
(Excerpt from Germania, by Brendan McNally, Simon & Schuster 2008)

Long, Dark First Night as Fuhrer: Doenitz Finally Thinks the Unthinkable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So what do I do? What is the interest of the State? The interest of the State is survival. And at all costs, Germany must survive! Surrender, then? That’s not why I was appointed by the Fuhrer. But then he’s not Fuhrer any more. I am. I’m the Fuhrer. Don’t say that! Don’t use that word. I’m head of state. I’m in charge.

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

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

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

“All the time?”

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

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

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

(Excerpt from Germania, by Brendan McNally, Simon & Schuster, 2008; Kindle download now also available here).

Person of Interest: Admiral Hans Georg von Friedeburg

von Friedeburg signs the surrender to Montgomery

One of the more shadowy characters that I encountered while researching my novel on the "Flensburg Reich" was Admiral Hans Georg von Friedeburg. At the time, remarkably little was known about him, even though he played a prominent role in the German Navy up to the time of his death on May 23, 1945. If you go to nearly any high school or courthouse in America today, you will find, framed on the walls, copies of many of the key documents of American History, provided to them by some organization called The Exchange Club. There, among copies of the Constitution, the Articles of Confederation, the Gadsen Purchase, and the Emancipation Proclamation, is a copy of the unconditional German Surrender signed at Rheims, France on May 7, 1945. And there, among all the signatures, is the neat signature of Grand Admiral Hans Georg von Friedenburg . His story is an extremely odd one and is worth telling.

There were three separate German surrenders that marked the end of World War II in Europe. The first was at Luneburg Heath in Northern Germany to British Field Marshal Montgomery. The second was in Rheims, France, to Allied Supreme Commander General Dwight Eisenhower. The third was in Berlin to Russian Field Marshal Konev. Von Friedeburg was the only individual to attend all three. And if not for this, he would be barely a footnote in history. But by being there, his image and face are something anyone who knows even a little about World War II is familiar with.

The main reason von Friedeburg was such a shadowy figure is simply because of who he was shadow to; Grand Admiral Karl Doenitz. Beginning sometime in the late 1930s, when Doenitz became head of U-boats, von Friedeburg was right there behind him. Then, when Doenitz became head of the Navy, following Grand Admiral Raeder's dismissal by Hitler, von Friedeburg became head of U-boats. Finally, when Hitler killed himself and Doenitz became head of state, von Friedenberg became the new head of the Navy.  Always a step behind Doenitz and for that reason, nearly indistinguishable from him.

A day or two after taking over from Hitler, Doenitz sent von Friedeburg to Montgomery to arrange an end to hostilities. Doenitz was under the impression that the grand alliance between the Soviets and the Western Allies was already at the point of breaking up and that we would be amenable to them joining us in a new entente against the Russians.  Von Friedeburg went to Montgomery also expecting he would be treated with a certain amount of gallantry and generosity of spirit as was customarily expected between victor and vanquished. But von Friedeburg was in for a big surprise.
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Montgomery was probably already known among his fellow Allied generals as being a bit of a prick. By this point in the war, Eisenhower was already sick of him, since Monty.had a way of taking the lion's share of resources while moving a little too cautiously against the enemy. His battles against the more audatious American General Patton were already well known to anyone in the West who could read a newspaper. But it is doubtful that von Friedeburg or anyone accompanying him knew this. It was enough to know that Monty was in charge of all military operations in northern Germany.  The Germans had a massive evacuation operation going on in the Baltic, comparable to what the British had done at Dunquerque in 1940, only much, much bigger.

When von Friedeburg arrived at Monty's TAC HQ, Montgomery went out of his way to be a total prick. Part of this was, of course, his own already-described nature, but the main reason was that, only a few days before, Monty's troops discovered Belsen, one of the Nazi's most notorious death camps. And what they'd seen there so shocked and disgusted them that there was very little gentility left to give to von Friedeburg. Within a very short time after meeting Montgomery, von Friedeburg suffered a nervous breakdown and was soon openly weeping. He briefly went back to confer with Doenitz at Levensau Bridge. Doenitz apparently harshly upbraided him and sent him back to Montgomery to try to negotiate. Montgomery would have none of it and curtly informed von Friedeburg that if he did not immediately sign an unconditional surrender, the truce would end, hostilities would be resumed and he would merrily kill as many fleeing German refugees as he could. He did, however, let von Friedeburg know that he would be willing to turn a blind eye on the German evacuation activities if they would agree to an unconditional surrender. A few minutes later, the surrender was signed and the war in northern Europe had ended.

Having done this, von Friedeburg assumed he would then be allowed to return to Doenitz's headquarters. But it was not the case. He was immediately flown to Rheims to sign another surrender, this time to General Eisenhower. Von Friedeburg had hoped that Eisenhower might be more amenable to his entreaties. After all, Eisenhower was a political general and a world leader and surely he must know what was going on. Besides, Eisenhower was of German origin. But as it turned out, Eisenhower wouldn't even meet with him. He, too, had recently visited German death camps and was at least as disgusted with what he saw as Montgomery. Instead, he sent in his Chief of Staff, General Walter Bedell Smith. For all Eisenhower's reputation as a smiling, likeable nice guy, the reason he could do this was because Bedell Smith, his right-hand man, was an out-and-out bastard, whom fearless warriors like Patton and Montgomery were both terrified of. Bedel Smith was an even bigger prick to von Friedeburg than Montgomery had been. He also demanded a complete and unconditional surrender, this time without any offers of off-the-books accommodations. Then, when von Friedeburg asked they were being treated so ungallantly, Bedel Smith let out a cruel laugh and promptly presented the German admiral with the latest copy of Stars and Stripes, which showed in ghastly detail the atrocities committed at Dachau, Belsen, Ravensbruck, and other newly liberated concentration camps. Von Friedeburg stared in horror at all the pictures of starved, beaten, and mass murdered Jews and he promptly had another nervous breakdown. Bedel Smith suspended the negotiations and sent the Germans off to a guesthouse to stew on it.

The next day, when Bedel Smith summoned them back, von Friedeburg was still so visibly unhinged that Bedel Smith demanded Doenitz send in someone else capable of surrendering. Ten hours later, Colonel General Alfred Jodl arrived. Cool and composed, Jodl also tried to convince the Allies to join up with them against the Soviets. But he was not successful. In the end, Jodl signed the unconditional surrender and von Friedeburg signed after him. Jodl was allowed to fly back to Flensburg to Doenitz's headquarters. Not so von Friedeburg. The Allies still had plans for him. He was taken to Berlin, where he signed a third surrender, this time to the Soviets. By this point, von Friedeburg was mostly in a daze. Finally he was allowed to fly back to Flensburg. For the next two weeks, he continued a kind of zombie existence in the land of the living, but no longer really alive.

The "Flensburg Reich" was often marked by extremely peculiar behavior of its occupants. Von Friedeburg's behavior during this period was mainly listless. Apparently the other Nazis mostly just avoided him. Then, finally, on May 23, the Allies rolled up the whole regime and arrested everyone. Doenitz, von Friedeburg and Jodl were all summoned to the Patria, an old Hamburg-Amerika liner, where the Allied Control Commission was headquartered. There they were tersely informed of their government's liquidation and they were all promptly placed under arrest. They were then escorted back to their quarters to pack their bags. Once there, von Friedeburg asked to go to the bathroom, where he promptly took some prussic acid and killed himself. One of the first people to find his body was the celebrated LIFE Magazine photographer Margaret Bourke-White, who had him taken off the toilet and laid down on a bed, where she photographed him. On the wall behind him, was a framed portrait of Doenitz. This photograph of von Friedeburg was the last entry in a grand LIFE photo essay showing a succession of various top Nazis who'd killed themselves with pictures of Hitler always in the background. It was always the same picture and perhaps through persistence of vision or some other bit of visual trickery, the photograph of Doenitz above von Friedeburg's unhappy corpse seems indistinguishable from them.

von Friedeburg as posed by Margaret Bourke-White

As I said, for years and years, I gathered research on the "Flensburg Reich," and though I gathered a lot of information on a lot of people and events, what I had on von Friedeburg never progressed beyond the barest of a barebones outline. I spent years of my life wondering about him and trying to figure out what had gone on in his head during those terrible, humiliating days of surrender. I never found out, but when the time finally came to write my book,  Germania, I simply did the best I could using my imagination. I used him as a sort of literary device. What if he were the one Nazi who through some defect in his personality could not engage in the infuriating denial that all the others did, where they claimed that they didn't know about it or that they were just following orders? What if he were the one who drank deeply of his own guilt so that he wallowed in it, admitted and embraced the implications of his and his nation's awful criminality? In a sense, von Friedeburg became the moral center of my novel, a stark contrast to all the other Nazi leaders who envisioned bright futures for themselves and spent their time in Flensburg trying to disassociate themselves from their unpleasant past.

Soon after I finished and sold the novel to Simon & Schuster, some very telling details of von Friedeburg's life began accreting onto the Internet. That before the war, he had spent a period serving as a naval liaison to Reichsfuhrer SS Heinrich Himmler. Of all the admirals in the German Navy, he was among the staunchest Nazis. He had gotten quite close with both Hitler and Himmler. Then I learned he had a very dark secret. Hans Georg von Friedeburg had a Jewish grandmother. Hans Georg von Friedeburg was a Jew.

(Germania was first published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, and is now also available on Kindle here).