In the last two years their work had become even easier. The recent Gestapo Law removed secret police actions from all judicial oversight, and the Führer himself had declared that any means, whether supported by existing law or not, were legal, as long as they served his will. That carte blanche opened every door.
Barely four weeks had passed since Heydrich had summoned Horst into his office for a special conference. Heinrich Müller, chief of Gestapo operations, sat to the right of Heydrich's desk, a cup of coffee in hand. Müller extended his arm in casual salute, but failed to rise. Heydrich stood behind a mahogany desk framed by brilliant flags and motioned Horst to the unoccupied leather chair. Horst declined coffee with a shake of the head, and the SS orderly withdrew from the room without being asked.
“How is your lovely wife?” Horst recognized the look in Heydrich’s eyes whenever he spoke of Erika or flirted with her at social gatherings. Rumor had it his mentor was a less than attentive husband.
“Thank you, very well indeed.” Something important was clearly on hand, the small talk a formality. “I trust you and yours are doing well?”
Heydrich accepted the inquiry with a gracious nod. He took his seat behind the desk, its broad polished surface bearing two phones, an inkwell surmounted by a bronze eagle clutching a swastika, and a silver charger laden with refreshments. No files or portfolios. He directed Horst’s attention to the platter of small cream cakes, which he politely declined. Müller helped himself to a cake.
“Tell me, my dear Horst,” Heydrich said, “what do you make of the disposition of the Jewish problem to date?” He gave an encouraging smile. “Please speak freely, and keep in mind we share a common goal.”
“Well, on one hand I’m confident the Reich has made a tidy sum with the Aryanization of Jewish businesses and the confiscation of their wealth. And our national efforts aim to encourage emigration, especially to Palestine. But there seems to be no coherent plan, and at this rate we won’t eradicate the vermin for years.”
“So what would you suggest?”
“Let’s face it, we’ve little consensus on the ultimate goal. The Führer made clear over a decade ago that eliminating this menace was a high priority. It’s obvious we need to free up our own youth to protect the Reich, and that means using fit young Jews to work in industries and farms. But as for the rest—the old, the feeble, the worthless—we say we encourage emigration, but then make the process so burdensome and expensive relatively few actually leave.”
“There are others at the top who feel we should milk them before we set them out,” Heydrich said. “The Reich needs money. Our friend Eichmann is having great success in Vienna and the Ostmark moving things along. Perhaps we should implement his operation throughout the Altreich?”
“I’m not convinced they’ll go willingly. We’ve taken away civil service jobs, business opportunities, and access to commerce, educational and cultural opportunities—all very effective at impoverishing them, and they certainly know they aren’t wanted. Yet many just hunker down and refuse to take the hint.”
Heydrich nodded but remained silent as he refilled his cup. Horst looked over at the bull-necked Müller, who took another bite of his cake but added nothing to the discussion.
“If I may, gentlemen,” Horst said, “we’re promoting their exodus—pardon the poor pun—and thousands leave weekly. But our inconsistency in both treatment and goals means a troublesome slog before we’re rid of this scum.”
Heydrich’s response was measured: “The German People know the time will come to solve the Jewish problem once and for all. We now have the broad support of our people, they’re fed up, and their brutal response now occurs spontaneously.” He set down his cup. “But I agree, Horst, piecemeal action will never be sufficient, and we must keep the bigger picture in mind. The Reich isn’t stagnant, it must grow, and that means many more of these people coming under our control.”
His gaze was intense. “Just take a look at our Austrian brothers, finally back within the Reich, and all the Jews they must deal with. The labor and detention camps alone won’t suffice, and inaction gets us nowhere. Uncoordinated action, whether instigated by us directly or arising out of the people's fury, only delays the inevitable.”
Horst nodded in agreement. Müller appeared bored, obviously already briefed on the agenda.
“There are and will be simply too many of them for us to handle without a clear blueprint, and the risk they pose can no longer be stomached. Exclusion from German society and expulsion from the Reich are only the first steps. There can ultimately be only one solution, and now, at last, it’s time we plan for it.”
He took a cigarette from a polished case, and a silver plume of smoke rose toward the ceiling. “Horst, you’re to be our point man on this. I want a proposal for the Reichsführer-SS and ultimately for the Führer himself, a comprehensive, far-sighted protocol with practical methods to solve this burden as we assume our destined boundaries.”
Horst was thrilled. “I was hoping we’d move in that direction, and am pleased to play my part.” An assignment made in heaven: work and pleasure combined.
“Don’t be hemmed in by the misguided scruples of foreigners and bleeding hearts. Those fools have no understanding of what we’re dealing with here. Carry it as far as you wish, knowing that all of Europe will eventually be ours. Our requirement for vital space can’t be denied, so put your creativity to work, clear?”
“Perfectly clear, and the opportunity is a great honor. I assume we focus first on our neighbors to the east?”
“Poland, Lithuania, and beyond, they’ll be the worst infested, but again, don’t limit yourself. When our political and military moment is ripe, we’ll need a well-designed protocol to apply wherever and whenever we wish.”
“I’ll need to delegate some of my current projects, and make use of additional staff.”
“But of course, and I suggest you coordinate with Eichmann, as necessary. I know you find him tedious, but he’s our point man for SD research on the Jewish problem. In fact, he’s just returned from Vienna, and he spent time last year in Palestine. He’s a reliable source of information you may find useful.” Heydrich rose. “So, there’s your task.”
Horst despised the dark little Eichmann, and suspected the uneducated, uncouth boor might himself have Jewish blood. He would avoid working with him. “How soon would you like to see it?”
“Shall we say a month, at least for the preliminary protocol?” Heydrich glanced at Müller, who nodded in concurrence before reaching for a second cake.
“I’ve personally enjoyed your creative procedures for the interrogation cells, von Kredow,” Müller finally spoke, all the while wiping his lips with a napkin. “This should be right up your alley.”
Horst allowed himself a hint of a smile in acknowledgement. Rising from the leather chair, he saluted sharply with outstretched arm, first Heydrich, then Müller, and took his leave. His excitement was as great as the evening he had first met Göring.
Now the month had passed and all the basics of the protocol were in place. The weeks of diligent planning and writing had flown by, with lesser assignments passed along to Klaus to oversee. Horst was confident of praise from his superiors, and his goal was personal oversight in the application of his suggestions. He stood at the desk of his study and briefly scanned the draft proposal in its black leather folder before slipping it into his briefcase and carefully latching the flap. As he passed the wall mirror, he assured himself that every hair was in place, and ran an index finger with extreme care along his scar. Just as a reminder.
Horst assumed his wife was still in her room. He seldom gave her much thought. She was still useful to him socially, her physical attributes a feather in his cap and her social graces a plus, but his sexual interest in her had faded. Early in the marriage her distaste for his domination had made taking her even more pleasurable, but with the birth of the boy he had lost interest. Compliant, willing women were everywhere, no matter what his
demands. And his “dagger” Klaus stood ready to clean up any mess should an assignation prove more violent than usual.
Oskar waited patiently under the porte cochère, the engine of the sedan idling smoothly. He held the rear door for Horst, and then fed gas to the powerful Daimler engine as they left the gates. Horst removed the protocol from his briefcase. Morning traffic was spotty as they left Zehlendorf and headed east on Berliner Strasse. Despite the light rain, the black Mercedes carved a clear path through morning traffic toward Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The piercing steam whistle announced the imminent arrival at Potsdamer Station. Ryan stood to observe the rail yard activity and lowered his rain-swept window, but shut it again quickly as a departing locomotive, passing near enough for him to feel the draft, filled the compartment with coal smoke. His elderly traveling companion, small bag already on her lap, sniffed at the impropriety and held a handkerchief to her nose. As he singled out familiar Berlin landmarks from the elevated tracks, he thought of the trip to Washington, D.C. just four months earlier.
He had found the men’s lounge of the Baltimore & Ohio Capitol Limited crowded at six in the morning. Standing before a bank of stainless steel sinks, their suspenders dangling at the waist, his fellow travelers sought to synchronize their razors with the rocking of the speeding train. Outside, the wig-way signals gave urgent warnings as the train shot by grade crossings, and less distinguished trains sat on sidings out of deference to the Capitol Limited.
Ryan waited his turn in one of the leather lounge chairs and read of Britain and France’s rejection of the latest demands for concessions to Czechoslovakia’s Germanic minority. Hitler was calling for self-determination of these Sudeten Germans. The good Führer will get what he wants, just as he did in Austria. The article ran to an inside page, but offered little else new.
Ryan had hesitated paying the extra fare for a deluxe “name” train, but the afternoon departure from Chicago with its early arrival in Washington was too good to pass up, so he swallowed the surcharge and had a decent night’s rest in a Pullman sleeping car. Now freshly washed and shaved, he breakfasted on fine china in the dining car, the table decked in crisp linen. He sighted forward along the streamliner watching the two spotless diesel locomotives in royal blue-and-silver livery snake the train through the Appalachians. At the Martinsburg stop Ryan quickly used a pay phone in the station. The long-distance operator put his call through in moments and he reached his brother at home in Virginia with the anticipated arrival time. The train was on schedule.
Ed had been easy to spot across the crowded concourse. An inch shorter than Ryan and three years his senior, his brother was more slender in the face, but his smile was also his calling card. Edward wore an expensive checked suit and a trilby hat with deeply-creased crown. Ed had married a New England socialite of wealth and breeding just before his brother’s move to Germany, and Ryan had been best man. He liked his sister-in-law, but found her too affected for his taste, preferring a woman who knew how to relax. The couple owned an expensive brick townhouse in Falls Church, across the river from the capital and Edward’s State Department workplace.
Ed welcomed Ryan with a huge grin and bear hug before grabbing his brother’s bag. He led them from the concourse toward a green Dodge parked in a no-parking zone. Ryan was impressed with finding a driver at the wheel and official government plates on the sedan.
“Okay, enough mystery, what the hell’s going on? Getting here cost me an arm and a leg, and—unlike certain people I know— I’ve yet to marry rich.” Ryan remembered his manners. “But before that, how’s Grace doing? No little niece or nephew on the way for me to spoil?”
“Give it time, brother, give it time. Grace is doing swell, and looks forward to seeing you tonight for dinner, but more about that later.” Ed signaled the driver to move out. “But first off, you should know things at State have been crazy lately. Secretary Hull feels we’re doing too little to counter the dictatorships in Germany and Japan, and he’s pressing for serious rearmament, but many of our countrymen and congressmen want us to stay out of both Europe and Asia.”
“From what I’ve seen in Germany and France, that won’t be possible. Just imagine Europe under Hitler. And the Brits and French continue to bluster and vacillate.”
“That’s where you come in. My boss Richard Kohl is Deputy Assistant Secretary on the German desk, a demanding guy to work for—never lets up, never satisfied—but I think you’re going to like what he has to say.” Edward tore the cellophane from a pack of Lucky Strikes and reached out the pack. Ryan shook his head, opting instead for his pipe. “Kohl’s not convinced Hitler’s ambitions reach as far as we might think, but he’s willing to listen. And he’s looking for people like you. Interested?”
“Certainly. At least in hearing what he has to say.”
Edward had always tried to direct his younger brother’s life to the smallest detail, perhaps as all first-borns do. But having now already experienced far more than his older sibling stuck in a Washington office, Ryan was not about to seize the bait at first glance. Listen, learn, weigh the consequences, then make the decision. Or so he told himself.
The State Department Building was a stone colossus, multi-storied towers and massive wings occupying five acres of lawns and terraces. The car dropped them at the South Wing. Spiral staircases of granite lined with bronze balustrades and mahogany rails rose from the lobby to wide corridors covered in black slate and white marble checkerboard. German and Austrian Affairs occupied one section on the third floor, and the front office bustled with clerks processing files. A receptionist ushered them into Kohl’s personal office.
Richard Kohl was stout, in his early fifties with a ruddy complexion and thinning hair meticulously combed over. His manner was cordial and ingratiating. “Dr. Lemmon, a pleasure to meet you at last. And Edward, glad you managed to lure this famous brother of yours to Washington.”
Kohl gestured toward the chairs in front of his desk. He spread the contents of a file out before him. Ryan recognized old newspaper reports from Europe carrying his byline, neatly mounted on thin cardstock, and spotted his name atop a government form with several pages of typed copy attached by a clip.
“We’ve taken a close look at your rather intriguing overseas career, thanks to Ed here,” he nodded to Edward. “And I hear you’re damned good in the classroom, as well. But more important, at least to me, you come highly recommended by some friends at Harvard Business. Always good to be well-connected. Right, Dr. Lemmon?”
“Thank you, sir, pleased to be invited here, and friends are indeed valuable. But tell me, I can’t quite see what use Washington has for a small-town college professor.”
“I trust Ed here managed not to reveal too much, so I’ll start from scratch.” A knock on the door brought a receptionist bearing coffee. “As you well know, Europe’s a mess, Asia’s equally unstable, and we Americans think we can stay uninvolved? Well, we didn’t succeed the last time around and we’ll soon be in shit up to our ears again. Now our immediate concerns here in this office are Nazi Germany and the expanding Reich, and you’re already quite familiar with the situation over there.”
“Yes, it’s sad to see the changes, and even sadder for those living through it.”
“All cards on the table, Dr. Lemmon, we think you can do us a great service by returning to Germany for a spell. Frankly, we need to get in touch with the grass roots. What you learn over there might help provide us with intelligence to defuse tensions a bit, or just change a few isolationist minds over here. Influential minds. And should we have to get involved—that’s what Secretary Hull and President Roosevelt expect—you’ll have made our job a helluva lot easier. Still interested?”
“Absolutely, sir, tell me more.”
“Right now this country’s woefully underequipped for an intelligence battle, much less another war. We need to know with what and whom we’re dealing. As for our President, he plays his cards close to
the vest, and prefers to hold several hands at once. So he’s exploring a number of options for gathering clandestine information, and we’re now one of them.”
“Sounds intriguing.”
“We need a few qualified chaps for an ongoing project. In a nutshell, a few of the President’s friends—Harvard and Yale men, that sort of thing—anyway, these well-off buddies trot the globe, keep their eyes and ears open, and report back to him. But now we need to know what the less powerful and influential are up to.” Kohl swept his hand over the news clippings. “You were in contact in Germany and France with many of the political movements, right?”
“Nearly all, I suppose: monarchists and nationalists, Nazis, Social Democrats, Communists, some of the fringe groups, too. But I’m told most opposition is now in the detention camps or in bed with the Nazis. Is anyone still fighting the tide?”
“That’s your task to find out. We’ve a few connections within Hitler’s government which could prove useful, but we suspect some opponents are still lying low and biding their time. We need to reach out to them, and know what they’re capable of. But quietly, you understand.”
“Of course.”
“For now, we can offer you an assignment you might actually enjoy, and you’ll fit in well with the existing talent within ‘The Group,’ as we call the project around here. Accept our offer, and you operate for us in the areas you know best, pretty much independently. I hear you easily pass for a German or a Frenchman?”
“I’ve done so before,” Ryan said.
“Excellent. That’s what our vetting people reported.” He chuckled. “We had native speakers pay you a covert visit or two to confirm your abilities.” Ryan recalled a couple of prospective students sitting in on classes who had seemed a bit out of place.
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