Himmler's Astrologer Having Doubts About the Upcoming Himmler-Eisenhower Alliance

Mostly they sat in chairs set up along the corridor facing the line of windows that looked down into the courtyard; the higher ranks at the far end, Franzi and the other junior officers down closer to the doors leading to the stairway. The Reichsfuhrer had taken the large corner office with the double doors while the three smaller offices were used by what was left of the command and operations staffs. Near the entrance, across from the lavatories, a hotplate was set up where they’d boil water for coffee and tea. If they wanted to smoke they could step outside to the top floor landing, but beyond that, they couldn’t leave. They didn’t want them talking to anybody on the lower floors or out in the yard.

This, they were told, was to be their new headquarters. After a week of moving from place to place, the SS had taken over the large gray building of the regional police presidium in the north German city of Luebeck. The small courtyard was crammed with half-tracks and open-roofed Volkswagens while dozens of heavily armed Waffen SS troopers milled around. For the most part, discipline was being maintained, but even so, cracks were starting to appear. For the first time everyone had stopped pretending about victory being inevitable. The war was lost and they all knew it. Their one shred of hope lay in the Reichsfuhrer’s completing his deal with Eisenhower, and from what Franzi could tell, things were progressing nicely.

Each day a fresh stream of supplicants came in to confer with Himmler and assure him of their support. There were party officials, gauleiters, generals, ministers, deputy ministers, all eager to ingratiate themselves.

Out on the landing, there was endless, unhindered speculation. They’d moved a wireless there to listen to the news reports coming out of Berlin, which weren’t actually good for much since about all they ever said was how the Fuhrer was continuing to lead the defenses of the city and that fresh relief spearheads were expected to arrive at any time. Franzi told himself that sooner or later, the Fuhrer continues to personally lead the defense of Fortress Berlin, was going to get replaced by something more ambiguous, yet more telling. The Fuhrer has gone out to join the fighting. The Fuhrer has left the Bunker. But then Radio Berlin stopped broadcasting, so they tried the Hamburg station, which turned out didn’t have any news, though the music was nice. Hearing two colonels complaining, Franzi took the bold step of suggesting they try Radio Atlantik.

At first, the two stared at each other, wide-eyed, wondering if they should. Radio Atlantik was an enemy propaganda station and listening to it was verboten. Finally one of them said, “Can you find it?” Franzi started twisting the dial and ten seconds later, he had it tuned in.

"Turn it up!” urged one of the colonels. Immediately they heard a young man’s friendly voice reading reports of air strikes and armored thrusts and about British and American bombers now being used to drop food into parts of Holland where the civilian population was on the verge of starvation. Apparently without a ceasefire being declared, the German military authority there had agreed not to hinder the relief effort. Now that was real news.

Berlin was now almost completely overrun with Russian troops in the center of the city, they said, with only a few scattered pockets remaining in German hands. Meanwhile in San Francisco, a large conference was being held for something called the United Nations.

They continued listening to it for a while when a voice behind them said sharply, “What are you doing?” They looked up and saw an SD major staring hard at them. Neither of the colonels acted like they cared what some pipsqueak major thought about anything. “What do you think?” one said, cigarette dangling from his mouth.

"That’s Radio Atlantik, isn’t it? You know that’s strictly forbidden,” said the major.

"Oh stuff it,” said the colonel.

"You’re listening to Radio Atlantik, the voice of Free Germany,” announced a young woman with a pronounced Schwabian twang. There were three notes played on a chime, their call sign, and then the young woman said, "And now for some happy music, here’s Cab Calloway’s Jumpin’ Jive!”

The major nearly exploded. “How dare you? And right here outside the Reichsfuhrer’s offices?” His face shook with anger and disgust. “You’re all under arrest,” he said. “So help me, I’ll have you all hanged.” Then he turned to a captain having a cigarette alone in a corner. “Don’t let any of them leave,” he barked and turned to go downstairs.

In a searing instant of alertness, Franzi pitched himself into the major’s mind just enough so that when he started down the stairs, he misjudged the second step by an inch, while the third turned to butter beneath his feet. He went flying downward, head over heels, hitting the middle landing with a loud thud and a crack. He was dead, his neck broken.

The three stared down at him dumbfounded. Franzi reached over and turned the radio off. Word of the accident ran through the corridor, but nobody bothered getting up to see. A few minutes later the body was taken away and the radio was back on. Franzi staggered back inside the office corridor and slumped into the first empty chair he could find. For a long time he stared at the wall calendar, before the words and numbers began to make any sense to him. Today was April 30, Walpurgisnacht, the last night for resident witches to get out of town. Franzi wished there was some way he could use the occasion to justify doing the same.

He was no longer needed there. It had been more than a week since he had given Himmler a massage. His panic attacks had ended once Bernadotte went to Eisenhower. Having thus broken with the past, Himmler was a changed man. Himmler the icy interpreter of orders had become Himmler the personable, Himmler the decisive and calm, Himmler the man of destiny. When Franzi got called in now it was simply as an advisor.

Not that Himmler had stopped dithering entirely, but it was now focused on less pressing matters. He couldn’t decide what form his new government should take. One day he’d want a two-chamber parliamentary system, the next he’d talk about reviving the old Nordic ‘Volksthing.’ Then he’d dither over who to include in his cabinet. But one thing he never wavered on: whatever its form, there would not be a place in it for Albert Speer. Once he announced to Franzi and the others; “Gentlemen, I do not anticipate having any need in my administration for a Reichsminister for Mechanical Drawing. Nor do I expect to rebuild Berlin as some Twentieth Century version of Rome.”

There was also no dithering when Himmler talked about running Eisenhower’s security apparatus; how their common vision of a new Europe would combine the universality of Charlemagne and the mystical grandeur of the early German monarch Henry the Fowler; how the Soviets would quickly collapse under their combined power; how great the future of Europe was going to be now that Hitler was out of the way.

It was all very encouraging, except for one nagging little detail. Hitler wasn’t dead yet. He was still in his bunker sending out radio messages hourly and ordering non-existent armies about. Another nagging detail was that even though the peace discussions seemed to be at an advanced state, Eisenhower still had yet to call off his armies. The speculation out on the landing was that he had to wait until the Russians finished off Hitler before moving ahead with the ceasefire. That made sense, everyone agreed. If Schellenberg’s boundless optimism was any indicator, then the Himmler-Eisenhower alliance was a done deal.
(Excerpt from Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008, now also available on Kindle here).

Reichsminister Albert Speer Pays His Respects to a Dead Jewish Acrobat

Except for the old lady who owned the house, everyone else was gone.

Ziggy stared down at the body. Looking at his dead brother, he still didn’t know what to feel. Regret? Loss? Inconsolable sadness? None of them were there. Perhaps they’d come later.

Manni came over and sat down across from the body.

Ziggy looked over at him. “He told me you were an assassin,” he said.

Manni looked at him like he wasn’t sure he was an imbecile. “And you’re a U-Boat captain with the Knight’s Cross,” he answered. “How many ships did you sink?”

"Including my time with Luth, fourteen.”

"That’s a lot of ships,” said Manni.


"Manni, do you feel the British gave you enough respect?”


Manni blew a burst of air through his nose, letting Ziggy know that what he’d said was funny, though not amusing.

"Where were you when Father died?” asked Ziggy.

"In Canada,” he answered. “Did you hear where Franzi was?”

Ziggy shook his head.

Manni offered a wry smile. “Tibet.”

"Tibet?”

"Ahnenerbe field trip.”

"Did he find anything?”

"Besides a bad case of the clap? I don’t think so.”

The door opened and the old lady gestured at Manni from the threshold. He got up. “Look,” he said, “we’re going to have to decide what to do about Franzi. We’ll talk about it when I get back.” Then he followed the old lady into the hall, closing the door behind him.

Ziggy stared down at the threadbare carpet and the stray threads splitting off from the worn spots and suddenly knew the path that lay ahead for Franzi. Himmler’s group wouldn’t stay together much longer. It wasn’t possible. Things were so unstable now that even the slightest obstacle would cause them to fray and spin out in different directions, and once that happened, Franzi would be free. He saw it with diamond-sharp clarity.

He looked at Sebastian and suddenly the sadness was tearing him apart. If only he could have known this. How long had he been dead? He looked at the reddening sky outside the window. Twenty four hours, the same as eternity.

He stood up and went over to the body and brushed his hand against Sebastian’s hair. He found himself remembering the old days when they were performing. Had he ever known how brilliant he was? Had he ever looked beyond the top hats and tails, the five-six-seven-eight razzmatazz and seen what the rest of the world all took for granted? That the seedy glamour and corniness were nothing more than a picture frame in which genius ran free? Ziggy had hated the reminiscing too. But they really had been something. Better than cartoons, as good as jazz.

The door opened. Ziggy looked up and saw Manni re-entering the room, followed by a man in a dark suit. It was Speer.

"Ziggy, you’ve met Herr Reichsminister Speer, haven’t you?” said Manni. Speer put his hand out and Ziggy shook it. “Please, allow me to extend my condolences over the death of your brother,” said Speer.

"Thank you,” said Ziggy.

Speer looked down at Sebastian’s body and tears welled in his eyes. He turned to Manni. “Honestly, Herr Manni, after all we’ve been through, I didn’t imagine anyone’s death would bother me this much, but it does. I don’t understand why.

"It’s funny how you hope for things. I thought that with the war ending we’d all get to see you perform again.” A tear ran down his cheek. He gave a polite bow and left.

Ziggy and Manni returned to their chairs. They sat for a while, then Manni said; “Sebastian is dead. That can’t be changed. Now what are we going to do about Franzi?”

Ziggy spoke quietly. “I’ve got a feeling that Franzi’s time will come soon. And when it does, he won’t need our help.”

"Is this something that you suspect, or are you getting premonitions?”

"No and yes,” said Ziggy.

Manni looked genuinely amazed. “I thought you didn’t do this anymore.”

Ziggy shrugged.

The hostess gestured at Manni again. “We’ll talk about this later,” said Manni. “Let me see what she wants.”
(Excerpt from Germania, Simon & Schuster, 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).

KG200 Flying Boats Explode in Flensburg Harbor

The four flying boats were being kept in a remote corner of Flensburg harbor in a cove nestled among the broken hills which descended like steps from the side of the fjord.

It was where utility boats, small barges and other shallow-draft harbor craft docked and where the harbor patrol had one of its auxiliary stations. Shortly after the aircraft’s unannounced appearance, Doenitz ordered them towed there, in order to keep them inaccessible and out of public view. Their crews were ordered off them, except for a handful that stayed to look after the aircraft. In addition, a guard was placed there around-the-clock to prevent any unauthorized tampering.

But when Cremer and his men drove in through the compound’s back gates, they were surprised to find that everything was dark and none of the buildings showed any indication that anyone was inside. Then, hearing a low whistle, Cremer peered into the dark and saw one of his petty officers crouched among some stacked pipe, furtively waving at them. He and the others had been hiding there all day, he told them. Several hours earlier, a detachment of kettenhunde, Naval guardsmen, drove up from town and ordered everyone out, after which all the lights were shut down. All but one of the lights, he told Cremer, insisting he come up and see for himself what was going on underneath it.

They quietly made their way down the hillside to an equipment-strewn storage yard built onto the bluff overlooking the cove. Looking toward the harbor, Cremer could see the light of the streetlamp blazing into the blackness. On the way they came to a row of small metal storage sheds, in whose shadow four more of his men were hiding, including Manni Loerber, dressed in navy coveralls and trying hard not to look like a lifetime civilian. One look at his face and it was plain that he had no idea what had happened to the British either.

Leaving the others there, Cremer and the petty officer continued crawling up to the edge of the bluff. Cremer looked down and saw the lamp, standing at the foot of a small boat dock which extended out into the water like a long, narrow finger pointing at the spot out in the water where, half-hidden in the shadows, the four mammoth aircraft were moored.

But that wasn’t all. Clustered underneath the lamp stood a large group of people, easily thirty of them, mostly men, but a few women as well, all of them dressed for travel, in raincoats and heavy hats. They stood with baggage at their feet, as if waiting for a bus. Most of the men were heavyset in a way that suggested their girth was commensurate to their importance, men used to living well and eating amply. Gauleiters, thought Cremer. The handful of women were, on the other hand, nearly all tall and slim, and probably quite young. Only one or two looked like they might be wives.

There were others as well, Luftwaffe personnel, some in utility coveralls and flying suits, others in combat gear, clutching submachine guns. They moved about, attending busily to this and that, talking with each other, checking their watches, occasionally staring out speculatively into the darkness, keeping purposefully apart from the passengers.

The travelers started arriving an hour earlier, the petty officer whispered to Cremer. They’d come in their own cars, which the Luftwaffe men then took and drove away to a far corner of the yard. It had been forty minutes since the last one had arrived. They seemed to be still waiting for somebody.

Out on the water, one of the flying boats was starting to come to life. A row of circular lights blinked on along its fuselage, from below the cockpit to amidships. A moment later, another line snapped on, this one slightly lower than the other, going from amidships all the way to the tail. They weren’t running lights, Cremer realized, but portholes. Someone inside was turning on the interior cabin lights. Red lights filled the cockpit as the silhouettes of two men moved into the compartment and settled into their seats. They’re going through their primary instrument checks, Cremer thought. It’s still going to take a few minutes.

Cremer and the petty officer crawled back. Gathering everyone around him, Cremer laid out his ambush plan and showed everybody their positions. They’d wait till his signal before starting anything. The idea was to get them out in the open, away from their cars, hopefully up on the pier where their escape would be cut off. They would wait until Himmler’s group got clear of their cars but before they reached the dock and could join up with the milling group. Cremer would blow his whistle and the petty officer would use the bullhorn to announce they were all under arrest and unless they wanted to be shot they would immediately toss away their weapons and get down on the ground.

If shooting started, which he expected, they were to concentrate on the muscle, the guys with the machine guns. They’d prefer to capture Himmler alive, but if he made things difficult, then too bad for him! But mainly they wanted to pull Franzi Loerber away from the group. He was the one who looked like Captain Loerber and his brother Manfred here. Take a good look at them in case you don’t already know what they look like, gentlemen. Good luck to us all!

Everyone went to their positions. Suddenly everything was quiet again. Cremer looked at Ziggy, crouched in the shadows. He was looking strange again. What was with him, Cremer wondered. He’d known him most of his adult life and that whole time he was the straightest, calmest, most unimaginatively reliable man he’d ever met. But once back in the bosom of his weird family, he’d become a different person, someone given to trances and psychic pronouncements. And Manni, what the hell was he? When Ziggy had introduced them the day before, Cremer’s immediate impression was that the guy was a total freak.

Staring out past the flying boats into the harbor, seeing the buoy lights swaying with the waves, he thought of all the U-boat patrols he and Ziggy had been on, back before Ziggy had gotten his own command. He wondered if his friend’s famous luck only held at sea or if it would extend to land operations. He prayed it would, since without it, this misbegotten adventure would likely end up in a complete massacre. Their only real chance was to get Himmler’s group off-guard and bluff them into believing there was something more formidable coming at them than a bunch of U-boat sailors armed with pistols and Tommy-guns.

Out in the harbor, all of the anchored warships kept their lights burning, if for no other reason than to not be obstacles to navigation. It made Flensburg harbor look alive and bustling. But the sad fact was that by this point, except for the minesweepers, few ships had anything more than skeleton crews aboard them. Their crews were all permanently ashore now, either massed in some British-run prisoner of war enclosure or waiting to be put in one, or already demobilized and sent home. As for the ships, unless the allies chose to use them for something, they were all lifeless things.

A few small patrol boats combed the waters, searchlights blazing back and forth, happily oblivious to what was going on nearby on land. That’s it, thought Cremer, keep the tension up, but nothing out of the ordinary. Don’t spook them, don’t let them think any of this is the slightest bit different.

The Luftwaffe man in charge stepped out on the dock where the people on the flying boat could see him and held his hands out to show he didn’t know where whoever-it-was, was. Then he turned to the passengers and told them something which didn’t seem to allay their growing impatience. Cremer looked at his watch and realized twenty minutes had gone by. Where were they? What were they supposed to do if Himmler’s group didn’t show? Could it be that they were actually escaping some other way. This whole thing was definitely a massive cock-up.

“Headlights!” someone whispered.

“It’s them!” hissed someone else from the other side of the rise. “Two Horches!”

From where he was, Cremer couldn’t see anything, except scattered illuminations of the headlights on some of the moored boats. But he could hear the approaching cars’ engines coming up the harbor road.

But the Luftwaffe men could see them. One of them began walking up the dock, signaling the pilot. Immediately the flying boat’s six engines sputtered and whined as the large, three-bladed propellers began to turn, slowly at first, then faster and faster as the engines’ metallic whine turned into a loud roar. At the same time another Luftwaffe man stepped forward and waved for the Horches to come up close. But instead, the cars halted nearly a hundred yards away. After a quick, heated exchange of words with the man on the dock, he and two others started towards the cars to see what the deal was.

“Shit!” hissed Cremer. “We need to move over, where we can see what’s going on. Quick!”

They stepped back to keep out of view, then, silently as they could, made their way over to the side of the bluff overlooking the harbor road. It turned out they couldn’t see anything from there either. Cremer turned and saw Ziggy, looking more lost and desperate than ever before.

“What is it?” they heard one of the Luftwaffe men yell at the Himmler party. “You’re supposed to drive up. We’re not running a porter service here.”

“I want you to put out that light!” Macher’s voice yelled back. “Now!”

“We need it on! We’re still loading!” the Luftwaffe man shouted back angrily.

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

A moment later someone hit a switch and everything was back in darkness. “All right, then,” said Macher. “Keep coming.”

Then there was silence. Cremer started moving to another position. Finally he found a spot where he could see the cars. But in the darkness it was hard to make out anything. There were people moving around, bending over and picking up things. He tried to figure out who was who, but there was so much commotion, he got confused.

Four of them started walking toward the dock in a tight group. Then he recognized the trilby hat he’d seen Himmler wearing back at the farmhouse. Here we go, he thought, slipping the police whistle between his lips. He just needed to get them a little further from the cars, a little closer to the dock and then he’d give the signal.

Then, suddenly, a siren ripped through the stillness and at the same time searchlights flashed on, striking the group with their blinding beams. There was shouting as hands shot up to shield faces from the searing light. Then shooting broke out and the group that had momentary been frozen, broke into scattered, frenzied flight. Two of the figures began running toward the dock, ripping off their overcoats as they did, shouting and waving desperately not to shoot them. But the other two ran back, to the cars, all the while returning submachine-gun fire. More fire was coming from the cars as their engines roared back to life. As the sirens continued to howl, some of their fire hit the searchlights, several of which instantly faded out. One of the men running toward the docks screamed as he collapsed, writhing to the ground. The other clutched his arm before the side of his head exploded.

Cremer stood up. “Everyone hold your fire!” he shouted at his men.

Meanwhile on the dock the passengers were scattering any direction they could, some running into each other, some jumping into the water, others getting hit by bullets, bleeding, screaming with the outrage, the injustice of it all.

And then, just as suddenly, the flying boat exploded in a huge burst of flame.

As the explosion thundered, blotting out even the wailing siren, there was a screeching of tires and a roar of engines as the two Horches turned and tore back down the way they came, still firing at their ambushers as they did.

Frantically, Cremer started gathering his dazed group. “Pull back!” he shouted. “Quickly! We’re getting out of here! Now! Move!”

But Ziggy wasn’t moving. He looked blankly at Cremer, who, seeing his disorientation, grabbed his arm and, with the help of one of his men, pulled him along as they withdrew back up the hillside.

By the time they reached their cars, the huge aircraft was being consumed in flames that lit up the sky. There was a continual cracking of smaller explosions as ammunition inside the aircraft cooked off. Cremer wondered how he was ever going to explain any of this to Doenitz. But at the moment his main urge was to get his men out of there.

“Everyone into the cars,” he ordered in a calm voice.

But Manni stepped in front of him, resolute and serious. “We’ve got to go back and get Franzi!” he shouted.

“How the hell are we going to do that?” Cremer shouted back. “We don’t even know where they’ve gone.”

“I bet Ziggy knows,” said Manni. He grabbed his brother by the shoulders and gave him a slight shake. “Where are they going, Ziggy?” he asked softly, as one might question a child. “Where are they taking Franzi?”

Ziggy looked at Manni like he didn’t recognize him. “Franzi?” he asked. “Franzi?” He turned and stared down the harbor road, like he was waiting for a reply. Then he looked at Manni and then at Cremer, his eyes alert and clear.

“They’re on their way to Schloss Glucksburg,” he told them. “They’re going to make Speer pay for this!”

(A different version of this story, told from Himmler party's point of view, appears in Germania, published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, now also available on Kindle here.)

Flensburg: Beers with British Spies

When Ziggy returned to the offices, Ludde Neurath was sitting at his desk. He looked worried. “Some British officers came looking for you,” he said.

“For me?” asked Ziggy, wondering what Westerby wanted this time.

Ludde Neurath nodded. “Two of them. They wanted to bring you over to the Patria for questioning.” He searched Ziggy’s eyes while he spoke. “The Old Man thought there was something dodgy about them and told them they couldn’t. He told them it wasn’t part of the deal. He said if they wanted to talk to you they would have to either do it here or they could arrest you, in which case their request would have to be in writing.”

“Oh,” said Ziggy, relishing the thought of Westerby getting turned away. “So what was dodgy about them?”

“The way they wouldn’t identify themselves,” said Ludde Neurath. “They didn’t have any papers authorizing them. Usually we get some notification first. They also weren’t interested in talking to you here. When I told them you’d be back, they said they didn’t want to wait.” He waited a moment, then asked solemnly: “Is there something you should perhaps be telling me about?”

Ziggy shrugged dismissively. “There was a British officer who hounded me a little when I was at Montgomery’s headquarters,” he said. “And he was waiting for me at the airport when we came back from Berlin. He knows that my brother was with Himmler’s party that night in Ploen. He thinks I might know where they are now.”

“Do you?” asked Ludde Neurath.

“No,” answered Ziggy.

“That’s good,” said Ludde Neurath. “We were thinking, maybe you shouldn’t be here from now on. We can have you doing something less visible until things quiet down.”

“Let me think about it,” Ziggy told him.

Ludde Neurath nodded and went back to the inner suite. The afternoon wore on. The flow of supplicants and other visitors petered out. At six o’clock Ludde Neurath told Ziggy he could leave. Ziggy fetched his leather overcoat and left. On his way down the stairs he saw a British officer waiting at the landing below, leaning against the window chatting with a janitor. It was Westerby. Seeing Ziggy approach, he straightened up, and, smoothing down his jacket with a quick sweep of his hands, broke off his conversation with the janitor and stepped forward into Ziggy’s path.

“Ahh, Capitan Loerber!” he said, feigning surprise and delight. “How nice to see you.”

“Good afternoon, Major Westerby,” answered Ziggy.

“So how are things?” Westerby asked.

“Oh, everything seems to be going just fine. How is it for your group?”

“Oh, busy, busy,” said Westerby. “You know how it is. There are never enough hours in the day. They have us running around from one place to the next. Half our orders are contradictory.” He fumed agreeably to show they were both essentially in the same boat.

Ziggy nodded.

Westerby widened his eyes. “Come for a drink,” he said. “I know a little place just around the corner.” He pointed behind him with his thumb. “What do you say? Beer and a chin wag among colleagues. Besides, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

At least it was a different tack from the strong-arming they’d evidently tried upstairs, thought Ziggy. He’d appreciated how Doenitz had stood up to them, but he also doubted there was much point in trying to resist. If they wanted to interrogate him, they’d easily find a way.

“A beer would be nice,” agreed Ziggy.

“That’s the ticket,” said Westerby. “Right, come along.”

They walked quickly out the gates and downhill toward the waterfront, their boots marking a crisp tattoo against the cobblestones. They passed milling groups of forlorn, resentful-looking soldiers, Westerby nodding to them while keeping up his jaunty pace, like this was a fine day and he was glad to be strolling around, enjoying the air. Up ahead the Patria loomed gray and ugly in the dimming, early evening light. Ziggy noticed it had a Union Jack fluttering atop its mast.

Once underway, Westerby no longer seemed compelled to make small talk. Ziggy could sense an alertness and intensity to him he hadn’t noticed previously. As they made their way along the quayside past the tied-up tugs and minesweepers, Ziggy wondered what the interrogation would be like. Westerby’s cordiality didn’t fool him. He already knew that for all their outward manners the British were real bastards whenever there was something they really wanted. Once they’d have him aboard the ship, he’d effectively be in British territory and they could do what they liked.

Standing at the foot of the gangway were two British troopers in full battle gear, their Enfield rifles fixed with bayonets. Menacingly they eyed Ziggy as he and Westerby approached. This is where it ends, thought Ziggy dismally. Oh well, he told himself, at least he’d had a decent run. Sixteen patrols, one hundred sixty thousand tons, two destroyers, and he’d always brought his crew home. That was something. But to his surprise, instead of turning to go up the gangway onto the ship, Westerby walked past it like the Patria wasn’t even there.

“We’re not going aboard?” asked Ziggy.

“Heavens no,” said Westerby with a shudder. “This is a social call.”

They kept walking. The town of Flensburg stood at the far end of the quay. They went past several ancient brick warehouses, and then turned onto a side street, walking past rows of shuttered shop-fronts. Halfway up an alley they came to the back entrance of an old hotel. The door opened and some Wehrmacht officers came out, laughing among themselves, obviously drunk. The sight of Westerby and Ziggy failed to evince any interest from them. One of them even held open the door for them. Going through a small vestibule lined with dustbins and mops, they entered a narrow corridor painted an ugly green, with more soldiers making their way out, buttoning their coats and putting on their caps as they did. They also paid scant attention to Westerby as if the presence of British soldiers was no longer anything exceptional. At the end of the corridor a beefy-looking petty officer guarded a door. He coldly eyed them both, but then, recognizing Westerby, nodded, and ushered them inside.

It was a pub, all right, dark and smoky and smelling of spilled beer, with soldiers and sailors of all ranks sitting clustered in groups at long, battered wooden tables. They weren’t all German, either. More than a few were British. There were even a few Americans. There wasn’t much mixing, but at the same time, nobody seemed particularly bothered by the others’ presence.

“I thought there wasn’t supposed to be any fraternization,” said Ziggy.

“There isn’t,” answered Westerby. “That’s why it’s going on here.”

They went to an empty table in the back of the pub and sat down at one end across from each other. A waiter came, set down three steins of beer, put down a paper chit on the table, put down three marks and moved on.

Ziggy took his beer, sliding it closer to him. Westerby did the same, but then folded his hands on the table like he was waiting patiently.

Ziggy eyed the third beer. “So where’s your colleague?” he asked.

Westerby nodded over to the corner of the room. Ziggy turned to look and noticed a trim figure heading towards them. He recognized him at once. It was his brother Manni, grinning at him like the Cheshire cat. He sat down next to Westerby. “Hello Ziggy,” he said, barely able to contain his effervescence. He pointed to the beer. “Is this for me?”

Ziggy was stunned. He stared at his brother, unable to speak. Westerby gave a slight smirk. “I’d like to introduce you to a colleague of mine,” he said. “But as I can see, you’re already acquainted.”

“What do you mean ‘colleague?’” Ziggy managed to ask.

“What I mean,” answered Westerby unblinkingly, “is that your brother Manfred has been my prize agent for the last ten years.”

Manni flashed out his hands. “Surprise!” he giggled. “You’re not mad, are you?” he asked, with fake anxiousness.

“You’re a British spy?” asked Ziggy, still thoroughly taken aback.

"That’s nothing,” Manni whispered, his eyebrows raised as he leaned forward, “Franzi’s a Russian one.”

Ziggy stared at him for a long time, like he couldn’t be sure any of it was real. Then Westerby cleared his throat. Ziggy saw the exasperated expression on his face. He was obviously irritated by the way Manni was treating what was to him still a deadly serious subject. Looking at Westerby, Ziggy realized for the first time the man was deeply worried.

“Which is why I’ve asked you both here tonight,” said Westerby. “Franzi is in a perilous situation right now, and it’s important we get him out.”

“Come on, Ziggy,” cooed Manni. “Say you’re glad to see me!”

Ziggy ignored him and continued to look at Westerby. Something had gone extremely wrong, that was why he had brought him here. This time he wasn’t just fishing for information. He was in a deep fix and Manni, being Manni, was not being any help.

So Manni, the quintessentially silly person that he was, had been working for the British and despite all that, he’d apparently been successful enough to have survived doing it. Amazing, he thought. And now the war is over and here is Westerby finding out that his prize agent is first and foremost a prize loon!

"I thought you said Franzi was your friend, but here you’re telling me that Manni is your agent. What is going on?”

“Well, you can hardly expect me to reveal the identity of my agent to you while there was still a war on, old boy,” drawled Westerby. “But yes, what I told you was the truth. Franzi was my friend. He is also a brave soldier and spy and right now there are a lot of people after him. I’m going to need your help to get him out of Himmler’s clutches. There is an awful lot at stake here, Captain Loerber. If you’re interested, I’ll explain it to you. Otherwise you’re free to leave now. What is it?"

Ziggy decided to stay.

Once Westerby started speaking, it was as if a veil had dropped, revealing an aspect of him that until now had been hidden. Franzi was in deep trouble but then so was Westerby. In the ten days since Ziggy first met him, he’d found himself on the other side of the looking glass and now there was no longer anyone on his own side he could trust. That was why he’d come to Ziggy now. The situation was desperate and he needed help.

Yes, it was about SS gold, but it was also a lot of other things, other people, other sides, other interests. There wasn’t anything that he could put his finger on. All he really had were a lot of suspicions and definite bad feelings. But for someone in his business that was all he needed.

What was particularly telling, he said, was how much interest there was in Franzi from so many different quarters, but also from his own organization. It didn’t make sense. True, Franzi was now part of Himmler’s inner circle, but then so were a lot of other, more important people, people like Macher, Grothmann, and Gebhardt, except nobody in London was screaming for their hides like they were screaming for poor Franzi Loerber’s, who on the face of it wasn’t anything more than a crackpot homosexual masseur and fortuneteller! No one in London was supposed to know he was a spy. Westerby had gone out of his way to make sure no one did. Why then all the interest?

“You, Captain Loerber, happen to be the first person in creation whom I have informed of that fact. So why is everybody wanting him. I mean, even if they had figured out that he was our Joe, even that should not have excited the interest that it had. Not unless they’d figured out about the Russian connection. But how could that be?”

Westerby explained how it had started. He’d been in Berlin since the 1920s, operating under trade cover of a Swedish businessman. His real job of course had been as a talent spotter for British Intelligence. As a habitué of the Berlin cabaret scene, he’d gotten to know many performers including Franzi and Manni.

Manni hadn’t been Westerby‘s first choice. It had been Franzi and he’d spent more than a year getting to know him and feeling him out. But when he did finally make his pitch, Franzi to his shock and consternation told him he had already gone to work for the Russians. It was something he had already started having doubts about. But you know how it is, he told Westerby; once you’re in, you’re in. The important thing was that he’d at least be fighting fascism this way. Sadly Westerby had to agree and decided not to force the issue. He knew the Bolsheviks weren’t ones to countenance changes of heart. They shook hands and wished each other good luck, maybe we’ll meet again after the war.

Dutifully Westerby wired back ‘no sale!’ to London, without going into any interesting details. Then he proceeded to recruit Manni Loerber, who despite all his incipient silliness, turned out to be an outstanding agent.

By then it was the middle of summer and war was on the horizon. Germany and Russia had just surprised everyone with their sudden entente and their armies were already massing along Poland’s borders. As he was about to leave, Westerby instructed Manni to be ready for the opportunity where he might bring his brother into the fold, though were he to do so, he should under no circumstances reveal his identity to London.

Then, when halfway through the war, Manni began sending material that appeared to originate from SS Headquarters, Westerby surmised Franzi had been won over. Westerby’s bosses were at first delighted, but quickly grew curious, then suspicious. Who was this source? they demanded. Westerby professed ignorance. It was somebody, he told them, somebody Manni knows who’s decided to spill information. Manni can do that, he told them, he’s very charming, very manipulative.

It was nice stuff, but at the same time, it wasn’t anything that could be classified as ‘top drawer.’ The information it provided was more corroborative than anything else. Even so, the overlords remained unduly curious as to who it could be coming from.

He told them he didn’t know. Finally, after a lot of hemming and hawing and beating around the bush, they asked him point-blank if he thought it might be Franzi Loerber. He told them he didn’t think so and gave a number of reason why not. The two brothers had had a serious falling out and weren’t speaking. Being in the Annenherbe, an SS mystical research institute, Franzi was far from the SS mainstream. Besides, he was much more of a committed Nazi than he’d initially thought. To put them off track, Westerby described what a social butterfly Manni was and how he enjoyed a wide circle of acquaintance. It was much more likely that the material was coming from one of those sources. They tried to pick his explanation apart, but Westerby held firm until they seemed to lose interest.

It didn’t last, though. Shortly after that they were back under other pretenses, wanting to know what he knew about Franzi Loerber, what he remembered, what his impressions were of him, never saying why they were interested. He told them as little as he could without appearing like he was holding back on them. But something, he knew, was definitely up.

Westerby had that old-school fieldman’s near-pathological fear of ever letting his employers know too much about anything he felt they didn’t need to know.

Manni slapped his hand upon Westerby’s shoulder. “All this time, Westerby’s been looking out for Franzi, like a guardian angel. I mean this man is a complete prince!” he declared with a surprising gush of emotion.

“It’s true, Captain Loerber,” said Westerby. “There’s been hardly a night during the last three years when I wasn’t worrying about him. I’d thought that if I could come up with something either dull or clever enough I could kill their interest in him, but, I’m sorry to say, that’s not how it worked out. Since the beginning of the year, I’ve been approached by people outside the Service asking about him, all kinds of people. I don’t know how it got out, but it did. Right now, he’s one of the most hunted men in Europe.”

“What kind of other people?” asked Ziggy.

“Germans, Swedes, people who act like they’re Brits or Americans, Russians, Jews. It was bad during the war, but now it’s a flood. Once they get him, they’re all going to tear him apart.”

“Honestly, I thought it would be easy once I got here. My guess was that with all the chaos going on, for a while at least, people would have other things on their minds and I could come in and spirit him away. But I was wrong about that too.”

Westerby ran his finger along the side of his beer glass, wiping off the moisture clinging to its surface. He stared at the glass in angry silence and even Manni didn’t seem to feel compelled to fill in the moment with one of his jokes.

“I figure this is our last chance,” Westerby said finally. “I can’t do this on my own. There’s nobody on my own side I can trust.” Then, to Ziggy’s utter shock, Westerby grabbed his hand and turned it so the palm faced upwards. “Look!” he implored. “Look, Captain Loerber, there must be something you can see! You have to find out where your brother is. You’re our only hope!”

Ziggy stared down helplessly at his palm, not having any idea what he was supposed to be seeing there. He looked back up at Westerby, lost.

“Look!” Westerby repeated, fairly shouting. “Find him!” He wasn’t imploring, he was giving orders, the same way Ziggy had ordered faltering crewmen back to their stations during the worst part of a depth charge attack. “What-do-you-see?”

Ziggy didn’t see anything. He didn’t do palm reading. There wasn’t anything there. It was just a goddamn palm for Christ’s sake, nothing but lines and creases and folds. He knew he had to deliver, had to give Westerby something, anything! He stared harder.

“You must get past your ill feelings,” said Westerby suddenly. “Do it for him, please! He told me about what happened that time. It’s not important, you know that. Do it for him. You’re the only one who can help him now. Without you he’s lost!”

Ziggy burned with embarrassment. He wished Westerby would go away. He wanted to run off away from Westerby, away from Manni. Go back to the calm and safety of Cremer’s Guard Battalion and let what happens happen.

Westerby’s grip tightened on his hand. He could tell Westerby was reading it all. He looked down on his palm. The web of lines on it was as dense and chaotic as the erratic routes of Himmler’s convoy crisscrossing the countryside ahead of their pursuers. Their paths had no apparent destination or goals, merely outrunning the dogs, but never managing to find a haven for very long.

Franzi, was he far or near? What were his eyes seeing? What was he thinking? What did his skin feel? Warmth or cold? Cold or warmth? Cold. Dry or damp? Dry. What was he smelling? Cooked cabbage and tinned beef, cold on a plate. Cigarette smoke, open window and a night breeze, smell of pine. Pine trees outside the window, the wind blowing through them. Ziggy felt his eyes glaze as his focus narrowed, looking past the lines.

They were in a farmhouse, a different one than earlier. They were inland, but still close enough to smell the sea. They’re keeping within reach of Flensburg. Forest nearby, men hiding inside it. A line of kubelwagens hidden under camouflaged tarps. They’re staying put, waiting for something to come. Everyone is tense. Arrangements for escape keep falling through.

“No one’s going anywhere until the gold comes,” Ziggy said aloud.

“Where are they?” asked Westerby.

Ziggy didn’t know.

“Find a landmark!”

He had to get Franzi to go outside and look around. But it was not allowed. Go outside Franzi! Make an excuse, tell him something. The stars! Tell them you have to look at the stars! He could feel Franzi getting up from the table and shuffling outside ignoring the voice, Macher’s, asking him what the hell he thinks he’s doing? But Franzi has already pushed the door open and has stepped outside into the farmyard. The pine trees are roaring in the wind. Franzi turned his head up to stare at the night sky, the broken clouds sailing overhead. Look around, Franzi! Find me a landmark! Something! Nearby was a small stand of pine trees and beyond were fields with a forest beyond it. He could sense Franzi turning around and walking to the front of the farmhouse. There was a lane leading up to a road a hundred yards ahead bordering the farm. Franzi’s eyes followed the road down into a shallow valley where he saw a town full of darkened houses and a church tower and just beyond that there was a castle, low with four stubby towers on the corners, topped with high cone-like roofs. He could see it stood against the shimmering black water of a lake. And then Macher came and grabbed Franzi and the connection was broken.

“That’s definitely Schloss Glucksburg,” Manni said confidently, after Ziggy described what he’d seen.

"Do you know how to get there?” asked Westerby.

Manni chuckled. “Well I should,” he told them. “That’s where I live now,” he announced with a pronounced touch of self-importance. “Me and Speer and General Baumbach.”

“Baumbach of KG200?” asked Westerby. “You’ve never mentioned him before.”

“Well I only met him yesterday,” Manni answered. “Speer wanted me there to help set up his office.”

“Do you think Himmler knows this?” asked Ziggy.

“As a rule of thumb, the Reichsfuhrer knows everything,” quipped Manni. “He still runs all three of Germany’s intelligence services. He should know who his next-door neighbors are.”

“Can you take us there?”

“Sure.”

Westerby turned to Ziggy. “We may need some more help on this. Do you think your friend Cremer would mind cooperating?”

“I could ask.”

Westerby folded his hands together. “I guess now we’re getting somewhere. Talk to Cremer, see what you can get from him. We have to make this work. Franzi has done more to defeat the Nazis than probably anyone in this whole war. And what’s going to happen is the victors will feast on him,” said Westerby.

“Of course Manni here is also a great unsung hero of the war,” he added, not a little sardonically.

Manni waved him off. “Just don’t go including me in any of this. You know me, I’m just a humble entertainer, an artist. I don’t concern myself with the political sphere. That was something Franzi was passionate about, not me!”

They got up to leave. Manni went his own way but Westerby decided to walk back with Ziggy to the Marineschule.

Once again, they slipped back into silence. Ziggy felt like he was now one very big step closer to getting Franzi. Westerby wasn’t such a bad sort, for an Englisher. He could work with him. He decided he should chat him a little about the earlier incident that day, when Westerby’s presence caused such a ruckus at the office.

"You know you managed to get the Grand Admiral riled quite a bit this afternoon,” he said.

"What are you talking about?” asked Westerby.

“Well you weren’t exactly very diplomatic about the way you demanded I go with you for questioning."

“What?”

“To the Patria,” continued Ziggy. “They’re actually still very bitter about the way you guys ejected them from it the other day.”

“I never did anything of the sort,” insisted Westerby.

“Well that’s what they told me you said when you came in with that other guy, acting like we were already your prisoners. The Grand Admiral is trying to be very ‘by the book’ about this, you know.”

“What other guy? I never came by your offices today.”

Ziggy looked at him in alarm.

“You mean some British officers came by today trying to take you to the Patria for questioning?”

“Yes, I was out. The way they described it, I assumed it was you.”

A worried look returned to Westerby’s face. “I’ve got a feeling the dogs are a lot closer on our trail than I’d thought. Be careful, Captain Loerber.”

When they reached the Patria, Westerby drew himself straight to attention and gave Ziggy a stiff salute. It was so far the only remotely military act which Ziggy had seen him perform. Ziggy returned the salute. “I’ll be in touch with you,” said Westerby. “Do talk to Cremer, see if he’s willing to help.”

“I want to thank you for looking out for my brother,” said Ziggy.

“If you’re speaking of Franzi, I’d tell you ‘not at all.’ But if you’re referring to Manfred, I’d tell you war is hell. Good night Captain Loerber.”

He turned and marched up the gangway onto the Patria’s main deck.
(This is a chapter deleted during the final cut of my novel Germania, first published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, now also available on Kindle here).

Himmler in Hiding: A Little Fun in the Farmhouse

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh Hanzeeee, Hanzeee, Hanzeee!”

Oh shit, thought Franzi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, Reichsfuhrer,” answered Franzi.

“You really are quite remarkable.”

“Thank you.”

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

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

“Certainly, Reichsfuhrer.”

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

“Sorry?”

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

Franzi felt the tingling on the back of his neck.

“What were you doing for him most recently?”

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

“Containers, you said?”

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

“Did General Schellenberg tell you that?”

“No, Reichsfuhrer, I just assumed it.”

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” said Franzi.

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

“Yes, it would be,” agreed Franzi.

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

“None, Reichsfuhrer.”

“Can ask you another question?”

“Of course.”

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

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

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

“Yes?” asked Himmler expectantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I see a maiden.”

“A maiden? You see Fraulein Potthast?”

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

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

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

“Four towers? That’s Schloss Glucksburg!”

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

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

Franzi nodded.

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

Franzi nodded again.

“Does the maiden say anything?” asked Himmler.

“She says, ‘beware!’”

“Beware?”

“Beware!”

“Beware what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Himmler's Death in Allied Custody

It was him all right, thought the intelligence officer when they brought the little man into the room. Heinrich Himmler, head of the SS, biggest mass murderer in history. Problem was, he didn’t look like anything. Meek little man, that’s what he looked like, not a military leader, not the head of a grand police state, not the architect of genocide.

He’d come in wearing dirty, shabby clothes, a makeshift eye patch and papers identifying him as a sergeant in the Geheim Feldpolizei, but then he readily admitted who he was.

They made him undress and took his clothes away. Searching them, they found two brass capsules. One still held a glass phial that looked like poison. The other one was empty, but he wouldn’t say why. Then they’d offered him some British army trousers and a shirt to put on, but he refused them, saying he was afraid they’d let photographers in to take his photo. So instead they let him have an army blanket to wrap around himself.

And for the next few hours, it was just the two of them sitting in a room waiting for the interrogators from Headquarters to arrive. ‘Don’t try interrogating him yourself,’ they’d told him. ‘Leave him alone until we get there. Just keep an eye on him, that’s all.’

Except that Himmler wanted to talk. So they talked. They talked about the weather, and how the intelligence file photo they had of him was out of date, since it had him in his black SS uniform and he hadn’t worn that since the beginning of the war. He clucked with visible self-satisfaction at that. Then the intelligence officer asked him about his hobbies. Did he garden, have children, keep pets? Dogs?

“No, I don’t like dogs,” snapped Himmler, like it was something everybody was supposed to know.

After that they talked about other things; automobiles, airplanes, travel, dancing. Himmler told him how he’d been walking since that morning, that things had not gone well, and that the people wandering about were miserable and disorderly and that he hoped they would all be put to something useful in exchange for food.

“I’ll bet you must be hungry,” the intelligence officer said.

Himmler brightened. “Yes, I am,” he said. “I haven’t had anything all day.”

“I’ll get something for you to eat.”

“Yes, that would be nice,” he agreed eagerly.

“Stay in the chair,” ordered the intelligence officer. Then he opened the door and shouted, “Bring up some food.”

“Bring up some food,” repeated Himmler, recognizing that it might be a useful phrase to know in the future.

The intelligence officer smiled at Himmler. “We’ll have something for you in just a minute. But first I’d like you to look at some photos I took.”

“Oh?”

"Bergen-Belsen,” said the intelligence officer, handing Himmler the photographs. “I was just there. Take a look.”

Politely Himmler examined them, one after another, each for a couple of seconds then he’d move on to the next. Stacks of dead bodies, ditches filled with skeletal figures, children. He looked at the last one and then handed them back. His expression wasn’t any different. Bland, accommodating, uninvolved.

“So, do you have anything to say?” the intelligence officer asked.

Himmler looked almost surprised by the question. “Am I to blame for the excesses of my subordinates?”

“Are you?”

Himmler seemed affronted. “Should I be?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s just your opinion,” said Himmler.

The intelligence officer was about to suggest something else, but then Himmler asked, “Do you know when the food will be here?”

There was a knock on the door and a corporal brought in a tray with bread and thick slices of cheese. The intelligence officer set the tray down on the table and gestured for Himmler to eat. With a nod, Himmler began chewing on the bread and cheese.

“Good?” asked the intelligence officer.

Himmler smiled and nodded that, yes, it was good.

After that they talked some more. Himmler told him how he’d get terrible stomach cramps, but that he’d had an excellent masseur who also did his horoscope and was a wonderfully sympathetic person, who’d previously been a famous entertainer.

“Really?” asked the intelligence officer, wondering if Headquarters might know anything about it.

Then the door opened and three men came in. One was Colonel Murphy, commander of the unit. He’d just been made colonel two weeks earlier and was, by the intelligence officer’s own estimation, something of a massive prick. Along with him was Command Sergeant Major Austin, who wasn’t that much better, and an older man in the uniform of a captain in the Medical Corps named Wells, whom he had never seen before.

“How is everything?” asked Murphy.

“Everything is just fine, sir,” the intelligence officer answered.

“Any problems?”

“None at all, sir. He’s just had his lunch and before that he was telling me about how much he loves dancing.”

“You don’t know if he speaks English,” asked Murphy.

“No sir, I don’t believe he does.”

Himmler coughed, covering his mouth with his hand momentarily.

“What else did he talk to you about?”

“He has two children and doesn’t like dogs or gardening.”

“Ah,” said Murphy, like it might mean something.

“I showed him the photographs.”

“You did?” Murphy’s face colored. “You weren’t supposed to do that on your own. I was supposed to be there to record the reaction.”

“Well, there wasn’t much reaction, sir.”

“What do you mean, no reaction? Did he deny it?”

“He doesn’t seem to think it has anything to do with him, sir.”

“He doesn’t?” asked Murphy angrily. “You’ve ruined the whole thing. This was supposed to have been done in an expert way so we could maximize the effect and properly document the proceedings.”

The intelligence officer shrugged apologetically. “I’m sorry, sir, but the prisoner wanted to talk. So we talked. I merely obeyed the first rule of intelligence, ‘strike while the iron is hot!’”

Murphy didn’t like that. For the next two minutes he rained abuse down on his head, much to the amusement of Himmler, who grinned at him from his chair. He opened his mouth a crack and in that moment, the intelligence officer thought he saw something lodged in his upper back teeth.

“Sir,” he said to Murphy, sotto voice. “I think I just saw something in the prisoner’s mouth. Don’t turn, don’t say anything.”

“I thought you said he’s already been searched and poison has been removed.”

“Yes, sir, but ...”

“Plus you just fed him lunch. How is he going to eat a sandwich with a poison phial between his teeth?”

“Sir?”

Murphy was livid. “You’ve completely fouled this investigation, captain.” He turned to Wells and barked, “You’re the doctor, examine the prisoner for poison.”

“Sir,” snapped Wells. “I am a doctor, not a detective. Let the sergeant conduct the search.”

At that, the young colonel exploded. “You will do as you’re told!” he shouted.

With much unpleasantness, Wells approached Himmler and began looking into his half-opened mouth. “Yes, I think I do see something in there in between his back teeth,” he said.

“Colonel,” said the sergeant, standing behind Himmler. “If you’d like, I can sandbag the prisoner.”

“No don’t,” said Murphy. “Look closer,” he shouted to Wells. “What do you see?”

Wells moved closer to Himmler, who had now shut his mouth. “Open your mouth,” he ordered.

But as Wells grabbed him, Himmler jerked his head back and bit down on what he had in his mouth. There was the tiny crunch of thin glass and the harsh smell of cyanide filled the air. Himmler fell to the floor, twitched a few times and then went still.
(Excerpt from Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008, now also available on Kindle here).

The Next Fuehrer Has to Be Someone Ike Will Like

It's April, 1945. The Red Army has Berlin surrounded. Hitler is deep inside his bunker and isn't coming out, except, maybe, feet-first. But even as Nazi Germany is being ripped apart and swallowed up by the Allies, Hitler’s henchmen are busily jockeying with each other over who will be the next Fuehrer. The problem is, it can’t be just anybody. They know it has to be someone Eisenhower won’t just respect, it has to be someone he’ll......like!

The next Fuehrer has to be likeable so Eisenhower will make him his partner, not only in the soon-to-commence war against Russia, but also afterwards to rule Europe together. Himmler, Goering, Speer; each believes he’s the man for the job. But then, just before he blows his brains out, Hitler gives the job to someone nobody expects, who then promptly surrenders.

Suddenly the war is over. Suddenly everything is different, but not in ways anyone expected. Fact it, even though the defeat is total and the surrender humiliating and unconditional, once it's been signed, nobody, not even the victorious Allies, have any idea what to do next. For nearly three weeks, in a little town on the Danish border, the new Nazi government is allowed to exist. Ministers are appointed, meetings are held, reports and edicts are issued. And for a while, at least, the surviving Nazis are free to imagine any rosy, surreal future they wish. Welcome to the Flensburg Reich of Hitler’s successor, Grand Admiral Karl Doenitz!

And into this unhinged world sail four brothers, Manni, Franzi, Ziggy and Sebastian, the once-famous Flying Magical Loerber Brothers and the toast of Prewar Berlin. This time, though, they’re not out to entertain. They’re Jews, they’re spies, they’re assassins and they’re out for revenge. Check out "Germania," by Brendan McNally (first published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, now available on Kindle here)