Reich Government Finally Meets to Discuss Minister Appointments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Nazi Government in Flensburg, Doing What All Governments Do: Growing.

The subject that afternoon was fertilizer; nitrogen fertilizer. The nitrogen fertilizer needed to grow corn, corn to feed hungry people, but more importantly, to feed the draft horses which were in turn needed to plow farmland on which to grow more corn to feed more hungry people and more draft horses.

And in order to do this, Grand Admiral Doenitz told the assembled cabinet members, they needed to reactivate, on a priority basis, Germany’s nitrogen works. “Speer, how long would it take to bring them back on line?”

Speer stood up from his chair and started recounting the steps necessary to get gunpowder plants converted to fertilizer production. If they had the electrical generation on hand, and sufficient numbers of skilled repair crews, there was no reason something couldn’t be operational within a week. But, more likely, they would have to bring the electrical power plants on line first. With luck and a lot of cannibalization, it could be accomplished in two weeks. Rail lines would also have to be brought back up so that coal could be transported to the power plants and depending upon what bridges were still up, that might take another week in addition to that.

“So what you’re saying, Speer, is that it could take anywhere from one to four weeks to get the nitrogen production started?”

Doenitz was looking at Speer in complete seriousness, as though it hadn’t occurred to him that everything they’d been discussing existed purely within the realm of fantasy. The reality was that all the nitrogen works and electrical power plants were in Allied hands and the Allies had so far shown not the slightest inclination to listen to any suggestions the Doenitz government might make about getting Germany’s industries back in operation.

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

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

The discussion on fertilizers went on another twenty minutes and then they moved to the next topic on the agenda; churches. The question was whether a portfolio should be added for religious affairs. Dorpmuller the Transportation Minister suggested it might be a good idea, given everything the German people has just gone through, it was necessary that a Christian moral culture be re-instituted in the state.

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

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

“Do you have anyone in mind?” asked Doenitz.

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

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

###

If the present is simply the intersecting point between past and future, then Flensburg was that unrepeatable circumstance where the two merely brushed against each other, like two party guests eyeing each other as they wait for an absent host to come and make the requisite introductions. And while the past normally stands solid and unalterable and the future is but a swirling cloud of possibility, in Flensburg the opposite seemed to be the case. Here the future appeared fixed, bright and obvious, while the past was a murky shifting shadow, best not dwelled on, for its details seemed to change hourly.

And nowhere was optimism toward the future stronger than in the Doenitz government. The fact that it continued to grow was all the proof some people needed to believe that they had put themselves on the ground floor of a very prospective enterprise. They began seeking more and better furniture, larger offices with more windows and all the other appurtenances with which to demonstrate their recovered status.

Those stranded in the past, on the other hand, found themselves searching frantically for something, anything, which might help them ascend. Some lobbied for the creation of an ‘inter-ministerial working group’ to study undefined problems, others sought diplomatic passports, medical certificates or, failing that, a few sheets of office letterhead, as a protection against Allied arrest.
(Excerpt from Germania, first published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, now also available on Kindle here)

Hitler's Dead; Nazi Government Finally Holds First Meeting

The German government never met even a single time under Hitler. But under his successor, Grand Admiral Doenitz, the government convened every day during its entire three-week existence. The following is an excerpt from Germania (Simon & Schuster, 2008).

Doenitz was looking at Speer in complete seriousness, as though it hadn’t occurred to him that everything they’d been discussing existed purely within the realm of fantasy. The reality was that all the nitrogen works and electrical power plants were in Allied hands and the Allies had so far shown not the slightest inclination to listen to any suggestions the Doenitz government might make about getting Germany’s industries back in operation.

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

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

The discussion on fertilizers went on another twenty minutes and then they moved to the next topic on the agenda; churches. The question was whether a portfolio should be added for religious affairs. Dorpmuller the Transportation Minister suggested it might be a good idea, given everything the German people has just gone through, it was necessary that a Christian moral culture be re-instituted in the state.

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

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

“Do you have anyone in mind?” asked Doenitz.

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

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

Schellenberg Recommends Schwerin von Krosigk for a Job

Another deleted chapter from Germania

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

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

BUY THE BOOK

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wonder what they want?” someone said.

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

“They’re SS,” observed another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But what about me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” said von Krosigk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?”

“Come with me, please.”

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

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

“Since 1929, Grand Admiral.”

“And you spent several years living in London?”

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

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

“I suppose so.”

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

“Thirty years.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I see,” said von Krosigk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

< “That’s right,” said Doenitz.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All three nodded.

Walter Schellenberg: SS Spymaster Genius or Total Putz

There is something about SS Spymaster Walter Schellenberg that sets him apart from most of the other Nazi bigwigs. He's a lot like Albert Speer in that what's at stake isn't so much what he was, as much as what we need to see him as. Speer is often seen as "the nice Nazi," Schellenberg is a little different from that. Nobody needs to see him as "nice," but there is still this tendency to perceive him as different from all the other evil, knee-jerk, cardboard character Nazi baddies. Unlike all the others, Schellenberg is almost someone we can relate to.

Anyone who reads spy/intrigue/thriller fiction set in Nazi Germany during World War II probably will have encountered Walter Schellenberg at least a dozen times. In whatever particular story you're reading, he's the SS spy chief, whom the protagonist meets just after the first or second plot twist. He's the SS general who is not an evil Nazi ogre, nor is he the smooth, worldly and cultured Nazi who turns out to be utterly twisted. No, Schellenberg is the apparently rational, highly competent, non-fanatic spymaster who has a unique proposition for the protagonist which usually involves him working together with a German opposite number with whom he has much in common, and might ultimately consider a friend until the final reel, when he kills him, or doesn't because it turns out he's actually Jewish or something else in keeping with the genre. 

Whatever the case, Schellenberg is the one hoping to cut a deal, because, unlike all the other die-hard fanatics, he actually grasped the ugly reality of the situation Germany had put itself into. And in this sense alone, the Walter Schellenberg of popular literature did resemble the Walter Schellenberg of reality.  He was the SS Spy Chief who was desperately trying to engineer a peace deal between Nazi Germany and the West. He'd probably had some low-level discussions going on via intermediaries as early as 1942 in places like Lisbon. But in the Spring of 1945, the writing was on the wall for anyone who wasn't totally deluded. At this point, Schellenberg had much higher level discussions going on with the Western Allies in Stockholm. They weren't actual peace negotiations as much as they were an ongoing prelude to peace talks, and they were permanently snagged on one big point.  The Allied representatives made it clear to Schellenberg that there couldn't be any real discussions unless Hitler was removed from office. He could be deposed, assassinated, arrested, or merely persuaded to step down. But until that happened, there could be nothing.

It was a reasonable precondition to peace discussions. The problem was, that Reichsfuhrer SS Heinrich Himmler, the man Schellenberg hoped would be an acceptable alternative to Hitler, was a hopeless waffler. As much as Himmler believed he ought to be the man who'd lead Nazi Germany into a Grand Alliance with the West against Russia, he couldn't quite bring himself to actually confront Hitler or move against him. It is also at this point where the whole mythology of SS General Walter Schellenberg, the cooly competent spymaster, collapses into slapstick comedy.

Schellenberg wasn't particularly different from the horde of ambitious young men who found their way into the Nazi Party and then the SS in the period immediately following Hitler's ascendency to power in 1933. He'd gone to university first studying medicine, then switching to law. Presumably Schellenberg became a Nazi not out of any grand conviction, but because that was where the opportunity was. He joined the SS and found his way into the counter-intelligence branch of the SD, the SS's burgeoning security apparatus, which was already a confusing mass of departments and sections all vying against each other for power. Luckily for Schellenberg, he was able to attach himself to another rising star, Reinhardt Heydrich.

But what really insured his rise above all the competition was one supremely ballsy feat, which he pulled off early in the war. He got through to some top-level British intelligence officials operating in then still-neutral Holland and created for them the impression that there was a group of discontented German Army officers who might be convinced to depose the Fuhrer. A number of meetings took place and everything seemed to be going positively as far as the Brits were concerned. Another meeting was arranged, this time at the tables outside a cafe in Venlo, a Dutch town, just across the German border. The two British officers were there along with a Dutch colleague. This time one of the disaffected Wehrmacht officers was actually an SS Major named Schellenberg. The trap was sprung, a gunfight ensued and the next thing anyone knew, the Dutch agent was shot dead, and the two British officers had been whisked across the border and into German imprisonment. Not long after that, Schellenberg was made head of SS foreign intelligence.

But despite all the hype, Schellenberg's performance as a spymaster wasn't actually anything great. Most of what he knew about the spy business came from all the cheap, pulpy spy novels he'd read. It wasn't entirely his fault. As much as Germany might have had a long history as a police state, when it came to foreign intelligence, all their continual regime changing meant they were perpetually stuck re-inventing the wheel.  By comparison, Britain's foreign intelligence apparatus went back all the way to Queen Elizabeth I with probably very little in the way of interruption. The closest thing Germany had to a real intelligence service was the Abwehr, but since their chief, Admiral Canaris, was actively involved in the conspiracy to assassinate Hitler, he wasn't terribly inclined to serve as much of a mentor to Schellenberg. With nothing but proto-James Bond novels for guidance, Schellenberg built his version of a spy service with more emphasis on honey traps and flashy gadgets than on an actual foundation of spycraft. To show off his incredible amateurishness, Schellenberg's great pride was his desk, which he had equipped with hidden guns aimed out the front which he could fire with the touch of a button.

There is an old saying about people rising to their level of incompetence. For Schellenberg, it came in the aftermath of the failed, July 20, 1944 assassination attempt on Hitler. Having been discovered among the conspirators, Canaris was arrested, and eventually executed, and the Abwehr and all the other German foreign intelligence agencies were rolled up, combined and put under Schellenberg's control.

With all the information he now had access to, Schellenberg ought to have seen the writing on the wall and correctly concluded that Germany's situation was now hopeless and that the only possible course of action was unconditional surrender. But Schellenberg was an incorrigible optimist, not a good quality for an intelligence officer. Despite everything, he remained convinced not only that the West would be willing to effect a separate peace with Germany and join with them against the Soviets, but possibly, most ridiculous of all, Schellenberg believed they would accept Reichsfuhrer SS Heinrich Himmler as an ally and partner in a new Grand Alliance. Even though Schellenberg was himself quite aware of  Himmler's role carrying out the wholescale murder of millions of Jews, Slavs, Gypsies and others, he still assumed Eisenhower and the other Western leaders would blithely overlook it all in the interests of defeating the Soviets.

But perhaps, craziest of all was believing that his boss, Heinrich Himmler, was capable of standing up to Hitler, let alone moving against him. The fact was that, despite his cold efficiency and utter remorselessness in carrying out Hitler's orders, Himmler was completely incapable of acting on his own. With Himmler, as with many of the top Nazis, there was an odd sort of anti-darwinism in play.  He became one of the most powerful men in Europe largely because he never once made any decisions on his own.

The Nazis believed in the Law of the Jungle and to them, the "Fuhrer-Prinzip" was an extension of this natural law. They accepted its harshness, and though they would never discuss it, there was an implicit understanding that even a supremely great leader like Adolf Hitler would ultimately get replaced, the same way any lion-king would have to give way to a younger, more powerful successor.  Hitler might have initially led Germany to many great victories, but now the victories had all turned to disaster and he'd shown he was incapable of doing anything to stop it.  Being the one with the most power, it was now Himmler's time to step to the fore and take over. But even if Himmler did have the power, he didn't have the will.

It went on like this until late April, 1945, when the Red Army was just hours from closing the ring on Berlin. Only then did Himmler make his move. On the last commercial flight into Berlin from Stockholm, Schellenberg brought down their longtime intermediary, Count Folke Bernadotte, the head of the Swedish Red Cross, along with Norbert Masur, from the World Jewish Congress. After promising to Masur that no more Jews would be harmed or moved, Himmler extended his hand to Masur, declaring that he was now taking charge and that it was time for the SS and the Jews to "bury the hatchet."   Masur did as he was asked, and soon after that they returned to Stockholm.  Bernadotte immediately sent word to Western intelligence that Himmler would be taking over from Hitler and that negotiations could now finally begin.

With Hitler stuck in Berlin, all but dead, and the war all but over, Himmler and Schellenberg settled down in Luebeck, a small city in northern Germany, and while they waited for Eisenhower to get back with them, they began happily planning their role in what would soon be a new world order. In a way, it must have been a wonderful time. Each day saw visits from former Nazi bigwigs that had managed to get out of Berlin, now angling for top jobs in Himmler's administration. Schellenberg had convinced Himmler that it was just a matter of time before he would be accepted by Eisenhower as a key new ally. Himmler liked the way that sounded. It all seemed so nice, that Schellenberg probably was believing it himself.

The problem was, Himmler kept his coup a secret and Hitler only learned about it a week later, when word of it got publicly announced at the United Nations conference in San Francisco. Hitler, who at that point was already on the verge of blowing his brains out, held off just long enough to denounce the treachery of the man he'd always called his "Faithful Heinrich," and strip him of all offices, ranks and party membership. To stick the knife deeper, Hitler then named Grand Admiral Karl Doenitz, head of the Navy, as his successor, and having done that, went ahead and committed suicide.

Thus began Heinrich Himmler's steep decline and fall. That night Doenitz took the unprecenteded step of ordering Himmler to his headquarters in Ploen, in Northern Germany, where he bluntly informed him that he, not Himmler, was the new head of state, and even if they did not know at that moment whether Hitler was dead or alive, Himmler would be following Doenitz' orders.  Himmler was shocked, but even so, recovered quickly enough to ask the Grand Admiral to make him the "Second Man" in his government.  Doenitz coldly responded that this would not be the case, since, as he explained, he planned on setting up a government that was less overtly political in nature.  The real reason was that Doenitz, as a soldier, could not countenance Himmler's duplicity. He'd witnessed it first hand,  having had to visit the Reichsfuhrer's headquarters twice earlier that day. Doenitz also didn't bother raising the question of Hitler's firing of Himmler, figuring he'd cross that bridge later.

The next day, at the behest of Schellenberg, Himmler returned to Doenitz' headquarters in a last desperate attempt to wheedle a post in the new administration. This time Schellenberg went with him, along with the current Finance Minister, Schwerin von Krosigk. Von Krosigk had been a Rhodes Scholar in Oxford thirty-five years earlier and even though he had not been in England or anywhere abroad since, they touted him as a foreign affairs expert. Over lunch, Doenitz rejected Himmler's entreaties, though he did make Schwerin von Krosigk his foreign minister.  A couple days later Himmler received official notification that he had been removed from all offices. By then he had gone from one of the most powerful men in Europe into a kind of living ghost. For the next three weeks he drifted about. His empire evaporated around him until it was just a small handful of followers.  Schellenberg, it appears, was not among them.

Schellenberg also became a ghost, although of a much different sort. While the history books do tell us that Doenitz made Schwerin von Krosigk his Foreign Minister at the same time that he told Himmler to take a hike, they leave out Schellenberg, who was also at the meeting. Officially, nothing happened. Nothing in the official records of the Doenitz Government indicates he was given any kind of post. But one extremely controversial writer, forensic doctor and historian Hugh Thomas, alleges that Schellenberg was then provided with a diplomatic passport, the first issued by the Doenitz regime. He then traveled to Stockholm where he met again with Bernadotte and it was further alleged, British Intelligence officers, including Anthony Blunt, who, years later, was revealed to be a Soviet mole.

It's not known when it finally dawned on Schellenberg that the talks he'd been having with Allied representatives and intermediaries were not going to actually come to anything. One of the last images he presents in his memoir, The Labyrinth, was of leaving Stockholm and arriving in Copenhagen, where the Danes, mistaking him for one of the liberators, greeted his car with joyousness. If he ever reported back to Doenitz, who'd set up his short-lived government at the naval academy in Flensburg on the Danish border, no one knows. But if he did, he didn't stick around very long.

What had probably happened during his lunchtime meeting with Doenitz, was that Schellenberg painted a version of the same optimistic picture he'd been painting for Himmler. He probably insisted that the Western Allies would be agreeable to a peace deal, especially since the negotiations, which were already underway, were going so well. Of course these were the same negotiations, which, Himmler had insisted only the day before, were nothing but a piece of Allied disinformation. Once it became clear to Doenitz that the peace talks actually did exist and that they were making solid progress, he probably gave Schellenberg permission to go back to Stockholm and continue them. Doenitz was the first to admit, he knew nothing whatsoever about international politics. Since Schellenberg had been the Reich's top foreign intelligence official, he assumed he must know what he was talking about.

Of course the actual fact was, despite everybody's claims to the contrary and otherwise, the peacetalks had never actually started. The Western Allies weren't interested in discussing anything with the Germans other than an unconditonal surrender, which is what Doenitz ultimately found out when he sent delegations, first to British Field Marshal Bernard Law Montgomery in Luneburg, then to Eisenhower in Rheims and finally to the Russians in Berlin. He probably had little interest in hearing what Germany's spymaster had to say after that.

When Doenitz's pathetic little government finally got arrested and rolled up on May 23, 1945, Schellenberg was in Denmark. It wasn't until sometime in June that he finally got tracked down and taken into custody. It was the British that took him prisoner and, interestingly, they would not let the Americans talk to him for a long time, which has led some to suspect that British discussions with the the SS leadership were far more extensive than the British have ever acknowledged.  The one American intelligence officer who did interview Schellenberg was a onetime Hollywood actor named Horace L. Hahn.

Schellenberg's postwar career wasn't much to speak of. He cooperated with Allied prosecutors and testified against various top Nazis at the Nuremberg War Crimes trials and was himself sentenced to six years imprisonment.  He was let out early for health reasons.  He managed to write his memoirs, which were extremely interesting without being overly frank or confessional. It has been continually in print over the years. He died in 1952, soon after completing it.  He had contracted some mysterious liver ailment, which many suspected might have been the result of an exotic poison which he'd been given. Although he was only 42 when he died, by all accounts he looked like a very old man.

But what died was only Schellenberg the man. As long as Nazi Germany continues as a subject for spy fiction and thrillers, Schellenberg the fictional spymaster and worthy enemy will probably outlive us all.

Walter Schellenberg is also a major character in my novel Germania (first published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, now also available on Kindle here).