Hungover Speer After the Gun Battle at Glucksburg

Albert Speer woke up on the floor that morning with a splitting headache and a hangover and a sneaking suspicion that he’d been talking to Himmler during the night. Baumbach was asleep on the couch. He tried waking him up, but he didn’t budge. Seeing that it was already after nine he got dressed, ate something and tried calling below for his driver to get the car ready to take him to Flensburg. But to his surprise, the driver wasn’t around. No one was. It was as if they’d all disappeared during the night. Walking through the halls he noticed that some of the furniture was askew and a number of the lower wall panels had been smashed in. He went over to examine one and saw that instead of being stone, as he’d assumed, it was actually made of light wood, disguised to look like a carved slab. Groggily Speer shook his head, disappointed that cheap materials like this would be used for such a grand interior.

When he crossed the bridge to the forecourt he noticed that his Mercedes was missing. Could his driver have taken it and fled somewhere? It was possible. In the square outside, there were two shot-up, burned Navy kubelwagens which he knew with a hazy certainty could not have been there when he’d come in the night before.

It was a grey, cold, overcast morning that felt as if the spring had at the last minute relented and let the winter have the last say. Not knowing what else to do, he started walking towards Flensburg, glad he was wearing his trench coat to ward off the chill. After walking a few minutes in the fresh air, he felt almost alert. Then a British military police jeep stopped and, recognizing him, they gave him a ride into town.

When he got to Doenitz’s offices, the morning government meeting was already an hour underway. Speer shuffled into his chair, ignoring Doenitz’s glower as he did. The meeting was like every other he’d sat through during the last two weeks. The topic at hand was the banks and how they didn’t have enough currency on hand and what they should suggest the Allies let them do about it. It went on for another hour, during which time Speer did little besides stare numbly at the table’s surface. When it finally let up, Doenitz and the others ignored him, which was fine by Speer.

He met with his staff after that, listening to them discuss industrial matters. He noticed some of them were missing; they’d probably gone the same route as the driver with Speer’s Mercedes. Even if he hadn’t been so hung over, he wouldn’t have cared much. This whole thing was a farce anyway. Even if they could come up with constructive ideas for getting Germany back on its feet, the Allies weren’t going to listen.

He was disappointed, however, that Manni Loerber wasn’t around. He would have been the perfect companion for Speer’s currently much-diminished state of grace. Even Manni’s more vicious little barbs would have been welcome. This place lacked any kind of spirit, any kind of tension. At least when Hitler was alive, there was plenty of sarcasm to go around. He’d never imagined Doenitz was so humorless.

The afternoon trudged by with almost unbearable slowness. Speer finally got to hide himself in his office, staring at reports and trying to write some letters. At one time work had been a refuge for him, but now it was just empty drudgery. There was no challenge, nothing interesting enough to seize and absorb his intellect. None of it mattered. He was now nothing more than custodian to the memory of a no-longer-existent industrial power. He knew he should at least feel some pride at having saved as much of the Ruhr’s infrastructure as he did, but at the moment, it didn’t look like any of it made any difference. Nobody on the allied side seemed even remotely interested in getting any of it back up and running. He’d even heard that the Western Allies were considering turning Germany into a completely non-industrial agricultural nation.

Then at around four o’clock, one of his assistants came in looking very excited. He’d been with the others up at Schloss Glucksburg when a jeep full of American soldiers drove up and asked about Speer’s whereabouts. They said they’d been looking for him for more than a week and wanted to interview him about industrial issues. Would he be interested in cooperating with them?

Would he? Speer grabbed his raincoat and briefcase and hurried downstairs, where to his delight, his Mercedes was waiting for him along with the driver ready to take him back to the Schloss.

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

Felix Kersten, Himmler's Miracle Masseur, and Franzi Loerber, the Man Who Replaced Him

The history books tell us that Reichsfuhrer SS Heinrich Himmler suffered from terrible stomach cramps brought on by the stress of being possibly the greatest cold-blooded mass murderer in history. As Nazi Germany's fortunes kept getting worse and worse, so did Himmler's stomach spasms.  The history books tell us that during this time Himmler was completely dependent on his Finnish masseur Felix Kersten, the only man who could take his awful pain away. The history books also tell us that Kersten was an important intelligence conduit who, working through Swedish Red Cross chief Count Folke Bernadotte, kept back-channel communication going with Eisenhower. The history books tell us that in March, 1945, Kersten flew to Stockholm with SS intelligence chief General Walter Schellenberg, for some high level discussions with Bernadotte and possibly Allied intelligence officials. They also tell us that when the meetings were finished, Kersten decided at the last minute to remain behind in Stockholm and take care of personal business, which left the increasingly frantic and stressed-out Reichsfuhrer in a bit of a quandry.  The history books don't tell us how he managed to cope without Felix Kersten's magic fingers. For that, you need to read my novel Germania.

Kersten is on Schellenberg's mind one day in April 1945, as he's flying down from Stockholm to persuade Himmler to finally take action to depose Hitler:

"There must be immediate action," Bernadotte had told him. "Force Hitler to step down, arrest him, kill him. How you do it is not our concern. Just get it done.”

That was what Schellenberg really needed to tell Himmler, and perhaps in a perfect world, he would. But he knew from experience how terribly skittish his boss was when it came to things like this. Anything requiring definitive action sent him into one of his massive panic attacks. His stomach would go into spasms and next thing he’d be screaming for Kersten, his Finnish masseur, to come in and take the pain away. Schellenberg didn’t want that to happen this time because Kersten wouldn’t be there. He was supposed to fly back with Schellenberg from Stockholm, but at the last minute he’d made up some excuse and stayed behind. That put Schellenberg in a doubly sensitive situation, since he’d have to force Himmler into making a difficult decision without having Kersten on hand to rescue him.

With a Finnish passport which allowed him to come and go seamlessly, Kersten was the Reichsfuhrer’s secret envoy to Allied intelligence. Schellenberg had flown up with him the day before to see Count Folke Bernadotte, head of the Swedish Red Cross and a member of the Royal Family, who was their intermediary to Eisenhower to explore ways of making a deal to end the war.

Needless to say, the meeting with Himmler doesn't go well. When Schellenberg pushes him to stand up to Hitler, Himmmler suffers one of his panic attacks:

Suddenly Himmler clutched at his stomach and began shrieking in pain. “It’s starting again, Schellenberg! The pain, it’s tearing me up!” he screamed. “Aaahhhh, I can’t take this! It’s killing me, it’s killing me. Call Kersten. Get him in here at once.”

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

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

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

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

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

“There has to be somebody,” repeated Schellenberg.

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

Himmler shrieked louder.

“Then get this Loerber up here on the double!” ordered Schellenberg.

Franzi Loerber is one of the fictional Flying Magical Loerber Brothers, who were the toast of Berlin's cabaret scene before the war. After spending the whole war in bureaucratic anonymity as a Russian spy in the SS astrology department, Franzi gets suddenly elevated to the post of Himmler's personal masseur and psychic advisor:

Schellenberg remained where he was, nodding at Franzi not to mind his presence. Franzi noticed the thick spectacles lying on the desk and realized that without them, the Reichsfuhrer probably couldn’t see anything. Franzi finished with the abdomen and began working the chest, the shoulders and the arms. He kneaded the muscles, methodically working his fingers deep into them, following the strands up to their ends, then moving to the next. All of them felt expended, moribund; as if having been rid of their pent-up tension, they were now unwilling to recover any of their former elasticity. Himmler’s body was a mess, shapeless and puffy, no tone, color like paste. Hadn’t he ever taken any exercise? What kind of food did he eat? A man in his position could eat anything he wanted. But this was the body of someone who kept himself going on cheap sweets and canteen food. He couldn’t understand how anybody could do that to themselves.

“You’re very good,” said Himmler, after Franzi had worked on him for fifteen minutes.

“Thank you, Reichsfuhrer,” Franzi answered.

“No, I mean it,” insisted Himmler. “You’re very good. You might even be better than Kersten. I haven’t felt this relaxed in a long time. I want you on my staff full time. What is your name?”

“Loerber, Reichsfuhrer. Lieutenant Loerber. I’m with Ahnenerbe.”

Himmler seemed surprised and delighted at his answer. “Loerber? As in the Flying Magical Loerber Brothers?”

“Yes sir. I am Franzi.”

Himmler let out a laugh. “And ten years later, you’re here exactly when I needed you. It must be karma.”

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

Speer and Baumbach: Drunk at Schloss Glucksburg.

Placing his feet on the table, Baumbach pushed himself even further backward to get a fuller view of their visitor. The man just stood there looking so comically angry that it made Speer giggle. Then suddenly he realized the man was Himmler and in an instant the drunkenness dried up in him. He struggled to his feet. “Reichsfuhrer, I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you!” he said.

Boiling with anger, Himmler stepped into the room, followed by several tall SS men with machineguns in hand. He smiled icily. “It was a nice try, Speer,” he said. “But once again you were not successful.”

“Whatever are you talking about, Reichsfuhrer?” asked Speer. “I haven’t done anything.”

“You’re not the Reichsfuhrer,” protested Baumbach. “The new Reichsfuhrer is Gauleiter Hanke. I know. I personally flew him to Prague in a helicopter.”

“Be quiet!” Speer hissed. “I’m sorry, Reichsfuhrer, he means no disrespect. Please, is there something I can do for you?”

“What makes you think, even for a second, that you are entitled to my gold, Speer?” seethed Himmler. “I never took your things. Why are you trying to take mine?”

“But I haven’t done anything,” said Speer.

“Done anything?” Himmler cried. “You and your friends just tried to kill me, tried to take my gold! But it didn’t work.” Himmler gloated and raised his finger threateningly. He started accusing Speer of foiling his escape plan, taking over command of KG-200, blowing up his flying boat and oddest of all, selling him to the Jews. And now he was here to settle accounts.

“No, Reichsfuhrer, you’re completely wrong. I-, we- haven’t done anything. We’ve been just sitting here getting drunk all evening. There must be a misunderstanding. Isn’t that right, Werner?” Speer turned to Baumbach, but he had fallen asleep on the couch.

For the first time Himmler stared at Baumbach. “What’s Baumbach doing here? He was supposed to be on the airplane, dead.”

“Sorry?” asked Speer, thoroughly confused. But then, seeing that Himmler’s confusion was even greater than his own, he stepped forward and the next thing he knew, some other part of himself, shrewd, implacable and unaffected by alcohol, had commandeered his mouth, laying out iron-clad reasons why neither he nor Baumbach could have had anything to do with the incident Himmler had escaped from. He assured Himmler that he had never, ever done anything disloyal to him- in fact, he had spoken up for him to Doenitz that very day.

He went on, making complex explanations, and to his surprise, saw Himmler nodding at the different points he was making. Then Himmler waved him to silence. “In that case, Speer, yes, there is something you can do for me.”

“Yes, just tell me what it is, Reichsfuhrer, and it’ll be done at once,” Speer heard himself say.

“I need another airplane, Speer.”

“Yes, of course, Reichsfuhrer,” said Speer. He suddenly felt the waves of drunkenness washing back over him. He wanted to sit down. He wanted to get rid of Himmler quickly so he could go lie down. He wanted to go to the bathroom, but he knew he couldn’t ask Himmler to hold the thought a second while he left the room.

“I need it now, Speer.”

“Yes,” agreed Speer. “Let me see what I can do.” An airplane. He imagined snapping his fingers like a headwaiter. An airplane at once for the Reichsfuhrer! “Airplane?” he repeated. “Yes, ummm, come to my office first thing in the morning and I’ll have it taken care of at once,” he said.

Himmler glared at him. “Not in the morning, Speer. Now!”

“Yes, Reichsfuhrer.”

Himmler was getting angry again. Speer tried to summon up the eloquent person inside himself to explain for him again, but that person seemed to have wandered off. “Ummm, unfortunately under the current circumstances,” he paused to stare at the swimming ceiling, “my current brief as Grand Admiral Doenitz’s chief of ummm, economic and industrial,” his knees were beginning to buckle, Himmler’s face now a grotesque caricature of something from some other time. “Does not allow, allotments of unauthorized,” he imagined having pliers to grab words with, the words like fish, fish like airplanes. “Ummm, airplanes to, ummm current or former members, of the previous government, in accordance with Grand Admiral Doenitz’ explicit, explicitly express, uhhh...agreement with the Allied Control Commission.”

“Allies?” shouted Himmler. “It would seem to me, Speer, that you are considerably more concerned with insinuating yourself into their good graces than with preserving Germany’s life spring! You always thought you were better than the rest of us, that you were exempt, just because you were the Fuhrer’s favorite. Now you think because there is a new order taking hold in Europe, you can just disassociate yourself from us and become part of it. Well it’s not that simple. They have to have a reason to want you.

“Let me tell you something else, Speer. There are still numerous changes about to take place, changes which you couldn’t begin to grasp. Being able to design buildings isn’t enough. Now they’re going to want someone who knows what’s going on in the streets, someone who understands the forces of destiny, of karma. You’re nothing more than a grubby little technocrat, Speer. You will never be Eisenhower’s architect!”

Speer felt the words cascading past him and wondered how long it would take for Himmler to tire and either shoot him or just go away. He was staring past Himmler and his aides to the doorway and to his shock saw Manni Loerber wedged between two men like he was their prisoner. Speer stared at Manni, but Manni looked away as though he didn’t know him. What was going on?

And somewhere in his drunkenness, Speer remembered that time in the Ruhr when he’d told him, “If you ever want to trap Himmler, all you have to do is wait outside my office for him to show up in the middle of the night.”

“...for the karmic convergence requires very specific...”

ThenSpeer noticed a shadow moving behind the men in the doorway. From nowhere a hand clapped itself over one of the troopers’ mouths. The other hand was clutching a knife which plunged into the man’s neck. Immediately the body went limp and was pulled noiselessly into the darkness. A moment later the same thing happened to the other trooper. The way they were taken, both seemed almost compliant in letting their throats be cut.

The assailant emerged, looking directly at Speer, finger on his lips. It was Manni, clearly Manni. He smiled at Speer for a second as he tapped his brother on the shoulder. A look of sudden understanding flashed through his eyes, then he too disappeared.

Suddenly there was machinegun fire outside. Himmler’s aides sprang to action, pushing Himmler behind them, running up to the doorway and firing shots into the corridor. There was a rapid exchange of fire farther down the hall.

“They’ve killed Bauer and Schmidt!” somebody shouted.

“How’d they get in here?”

“I don’t know.”

“We have to go now!” one of them shouted. “Reichsfuhrer, stay behind us!”

Speer pitched forward, collapsing onto the thick carpet. He gazed up to watch Himmler and the others leave. Outside there was a gun battle going on. But he couldn’t tell what was real anymore and what wasn’t.

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

The Death of Admiral von Friedeburg as Observed by a British Guard

After accompanying von Friedeburg back to his quarters, the British soldier barked at the admiral’s orderly to help him pack. The orderly nodded and began opening the drawers of the admiral’s bureau and stuffing their contents into a suitcase. The soldier sat down on von Friedeburg’s bed and lit a cigarette, casually flicking the spent match onto the floor.

After staring at his suitcase for a minute, Von Friedeburg turned to him and said he needed to use the bathroom. “Help yourself,” the soldier replied, “just keep the door open.” He accompanied him to the bathroom and stood his post outside the doorway, to keep an eye on him.

And perhaps if he’d kept his eyes fixed directly inside the bathroom, everything might have worked out all right. But instead he turned and allowed other things to wander into his field of view. Nice things, shiny things, expensive silver, gold, bronze and marble things, sitting on the Admiral’s bureau and sideboard. Leaving his rifle resting against the wall, he strolled over and began helping himself to whatever came his way: a silver cigarette case, a plaque, a small clock, a bronze figurine, an ivory letter opener, an ornate magnifying glass. And while he was at it, he also took the Breton lace doilies that they’d been resting on. So enrapt was he in gathering spoils, he never noticed the bathroom door shutting until the sound of the key turning in the lock roused him from his beguilement.

Alarmed, he ran to the door and hammered on it with the butt of his rifle. His mission had been dirt-simple; deliver the prisoner alive with his bag packed. As long as he fulfilled that, he could get away with stealing anything he fancied. But they’d made a point of warning him against just this sort of thing. Only a week before, Preutzmann, one of the SS leaders, had committed suicide while in custody. And this guy was a lot higher up on the Nazi food chain. He was head of the Navy!

Finally the door came open and revealed the Admiral already slumped over on the toilet, his eyelids in their last flutter, his face beginning to turn blue, and everywhere the bitter scent of almonds. He’d taken cyanide!

The soldier ran back into the bedroom, where the orderly stood helpfully, but disinterestedly at attention. “Get a doctor!” he shouted. “Now!”

(This is a chapter that got cut during the final edits of Germania, first published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, now also 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)

Blunt and Philby Discuss Schellenberg

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jew?”

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

“Great,” said Philby, visibly not impressed.

“I’ve heard Westerby’s on it too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Philby looked impressed. “Name?”

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

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

Blunt smiled.

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

“So I gather.”

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

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

Albert Speer Dreams of Greenland

To just fly away.

What a thought! To separate oneself from all the details and involvements and get away to a place where life was down to its essentials. He could leave all this behind. Why not? They could take off in a flying boat in the middle of the night and by sunrise they’d be halfway to Greenland.

At least that was how it seemed to Albert Speer while he sat through another morning cabinet meeting. Doenitz sat at the head of the table, correct and steely-eyed as always. Today’s topic was housing. Some bright boy from the transportation ministry was explaining how to mass produce worker housing. It would mean organizing construction into separate phases; one crew putting down piping followed by a concrete bed, the next crew would do the framing, another prefabricated side panels, another a roof and then a finishing crew would put in the electrical wiring and the interior. He argued that with a force of two hundred workers, operating in teams, they could build thirty single-family cottages in a week. The idea was that they could quickly supply semi-permanent family housing for areas where there were high priority factories and industrial sites, but a shortage of usable dwelling space. Speer watched Doenitz nod as he listened to the young man describe the processes and the breakdown of logistics, as though he agreed that under the right circumstances it might actually work. But as it was, they still had not gotten a single go-ahead from the Allied

Control Commission on any of their proposals. They hadn’t even gotten an acknowledgement that the proposals had gone anywhere besides the bottom of a desk drawer.

Eventually the subject switched to renewed Allied demands that the Doenitz Government hand over Reichsfuhrer SS Heinrich Himmler. “I’ve told them again and again that Himmler is beyond my control and that I haven’t seen him since I turned down his request to be in my government,” Doenitz told them. “Now they are claiming to have spotted him inside Flensburg the night before last. I intend to respond that I don’t know anything about it. But please, if any of you hear anything, even just a rumor, bring it to my attention immediately. Anything positive we can tell them would probably help.”

While he listened, Speer began absentmindedly making doodles on the sheet of paper he had for making notes. He started with a small circle, then he began surrounding it with smaller circles, until it resembled a daisy. After that, he started putting down vertical lines, then horizontal ones, and then, almost without realizing it, he began sketching a house.

He started with the front door, making it wide and curved at the top. Then he drew the windows: a square one on the right and a long rectangular one on the left, both the same height, with shutters on the ends. After that, he drew in flowerboxes. He then put in vertical lines, one on each end, to mark out the sides of the house. He followed these with horizontal lines; one to mark the top of the roof and the other the bottom. But no sooner had he drawn them than he realized it had been a mistake. The roof was too low. He wanted to put in a second story, one with a balcony and a long bank of windows and a door. He took out a small gum eraser and began carefully removing the top horizontal lines. Looking up, he saw Doenitz glowering at him. Speer put down more lines. Staring at it, he realized how much more he preferred small-scale to large-scale. Yes, small-scale suited him better. In school, his building designs were all for small-scale structures. That was where the original Speer was, but would anybody bother looking at his designs and trying to figure out where Hitler’s gargantuan influence left off and Speer’s more reasonable, intimate sensibility took over? Was there a chance that someday someone of rare talent and understanding might declare ‘Here! You see! This element is pure Speer! See how the simple, elegant lines emerge!’ A nice thought, but that might take centuries.

Abandoning his straight lines for the moment, Speer’s pencil began making squiggly lines and shapes on the paper to represent the irregular outlines of icebergs. Speer stared at the paper and imagined watching the sunrise from high above the shimmering north Atlantic. Flying west, he’d probably have to leave the cockpit and go aft to find a window he could observe it from. He thought of listening to the heavy drone of the aircraft’s six engines with his hands on the cold metal bulkhead and his nose pressed against the glass and seeing the first rays of light spread across the dark surface of the water, then filling in to reveal the waves’ white foam.

Back in his office, Speer stared out the window and suddenly realized the giant flying boats were gone from the harbor. For a moment he felt a rush of panic as it occurred to him that Baumbach might have flown away without him.
(An excerpt from Germania, first published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, now also available on Kindle here).