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).

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)