But, on that October morning Schonewille was not thinking about what went on in the camps. Rather, how maybe he should have used his staff car to take him to his destination instead of walking in the late autumn sunshine.
As he strode briskly down one of the streets radiating out from the Victory Monument on the East West Axis, the boulevard that divided the Berlin’s beautiful park, the Tiergarten, he could hear the mournful wail of the air-raid sirens.
For a moment he hesitated, undecided as to what to do. Stay in the open spaces of the park, or try to reach an air-raid shelter before the bombs started falling? However much he hated the shelters he knew that this was his best chance of survival, for the openness of the Tiergarten was no shelter at all. So he continued towards the Tiergartenstrasse, the avenue that ran around the southern boundary of the park. As he hurried along he was joined by other Berliners, all heading for the safety of the shelters. Then he heard the sound of an engine, very faint, almost indistinct from the noise of the city. A few minutes later it had vanished and almost immediately the all-clear siren was sounded. Must have been a reconnaissance aircraft, he thought. Relieved, he slowed his gait back to a brisk walk. The further he got into the city the worse the bomb damage became. He was appalled at the level of devastation.
For months, ever since the allies had broken out of the Normandy beach-head, destroying the Vll Army and the V Panzer Army in the Falaise gap, as well as killing 10,000 and capturing 50,000 battle-hardened front-line troops, Schonewille had begun to have serious doubts as to the long term future of the Third Reich. During the latter part of 1941 he had spent a few weeks on the Eastern Front and had not regarded the Russians as a tough enemy, not even after the debacle of Stalingrad and the failure of the Kursk offensive. But now, with the Russian steamroller sweeping westwards he began to fear the Red Army also.
The bomb damage in the German capital reinforced his growing apprehension. He had not visited the German capital since early in August and in the intervening ten weeks the destruction had been awesome.
The constant raids of the British heavy bombers by night and the Americans by day had destroyed almost one quarter of Berlin’s one-and-a-half million dwellings. For every one destroyed there was another badly damaged. The casualty figure was horrendous with some 40,000 people officially regarded as dead or missing. The wounded and injured numbered tens of thousands more.
As Schonewille skirted piles of debris and walked past the blackened shells of buildings, some still smouldering, he was amazed to see how people were apparently still going about their daily lives. In fact, almost three quarters of the city’s factories were still functioning, albeit with some difficulty. Many industries were being decentralised or being put underground, so German industry in Berlin was able to keep up a high rate of production.
Services were also still being maintained: postmen delivered letters and telegrams, the garbage was being collected, the police were still on duty and the shops still standing were offering a large selection of goods. Some department stores were even running sales.
When the bombing had started two years before, Schonewille, ever prudent, had moved his own residence to the western outskirts of Spandau in the sub-district of Staaken. This was a pastoral area, although Spandau itself was the centre of the huge Berlin armaments industry. Nevertheless, this area had missed most of the saturation bombing that had laid waste to half the other suburbs. Consequently, though he had been able to see the fires and hear the explosions from his window, it was damage being inflicted on others.
Schonewille’s destination that morning was the Berlin headquarters of the Reichsbank, the National Bank of Germany. The bank was like most of its kind, a solid imposing structure built a decade or so before the First World War. So far it had escaped any damage, its 5,000 employees busily running the finances of the Third Reich while much of the world burned around them.
It was almost a relief to Schonewille when he stepped through the main entrance of the Reichsbank. The quiet atmosphere and orderly queues of people waiting to be served helped steady his thoughts.
The walk had taken him longer than expected so he was late for his appointment with the senior vice president of the Reichsbank, Emil Puhl. The banker was of the old school. He believed in his country, good order and the importance of the banking establishment. He was one of the thousands of senior bureaucrats and functionaries who turned a blind eye to what was happening both within and outside the Reich.
Despite his background and basic decency this former pillar of the Weimer establishment had helped turn the Reichsbank into the biggest clearing house of stolen funds in the world. It was the biggest money laundering operation in history. Money from the looted countries of Europe and the inmates of the concentration camps was all collected and placed in the vaults of the bank to become the reserves of the German government.
The bank also had another important client, the most powerful and feared organisation in the Reich, the SS.
It was for this reason that Schonewille was visiting Emil Puhl. The SS major’s boss was Obergruppenführer Dr Oswald Pohl, Head of the Economic and Administrative Department of the SS. This department was charged with the responsibility of administering the concentration camps.
Early in the war Vice-President Puhl concluded an agreement with SS General Pohl, which enabled the Reichsbank to receive and act as a clearing house for the huge amounts of loot stolen from the hapless Jews of Europe and the inmates of the concentration camps. This money was credited to the bank accounts of the SS.
Schonewille was the accountant who controlled much of this vast ill-gotten treasure. It was he who itemised the currency, gold coins, jewellery, personal affects and clothing stripped from the camps’ inmates. It was on these trips to itemise the monthly tallies that he visited many of the charnel houses of eastern Germany and Poland, and it was here that he regularly seized the opportunity to exorcise his hatreds by executing a dozen or so victims with his silenced automatic.
He waited in a small ante-room for ten minutes and just as he began to grow impatient a door opened and a tall thin man in his mid thirties beckoned.
“Good Morning Herr Major, it is a pleasure to see you again. It has been what … nine, ten weeks?”
Schonewille smiled and nodded his head. “That is correct Klaus. Almost ten weeks and by the looks of what has been happening outside it has been a long ten weeks, nicht war?”
“Unbelievable,” replied the other man.
Klaus Heger was the closest friend that Schonewille had ever had: the closest he had allowed another person of the same sex to become. This friendship was part of the key to Schonewille’s character for Heger owed his position to the major and his background was much the same.
Both men were products of broken marriages. In Schonewille’s case his parents’ divorce had made him into a victim, partially through circumstances beyond his control and partially through his own innate feelings of inferiority. Schonewille’s real name was Wenck. He had it changed in deference to his mother who had reverted to her maiden name after the divorce and because of the hatred he felt for his father.
Helmuth Wenck had been a diplomat for most of his adult life. A much decorated pilot during the First World War he had married Inger Schonewille in 1908 when the Fatherland’s future was assured. He was only twenty-one and had as yet not decided what to do with his life. His father was dead, the victim of a riding accident, and his doting mother had no control over him. To a large extent he did what he liked.
It was felt by Wenck’s mother and many of his relations that the young man had married beneath him. Inger was a vivacious, beautiful brunette but her intellect lagged far behind that of her husband. His attraction to her was, to a large extent, physical and she was smart enough to trade her sexuality for marriage to an attractive man with an important pedigree. Wenck also appreciated her ability to make him look on the bright side, for he had a pessimistic view to life. That he loved her there was no doubt, but
when he entered the Diplomatic Corps and began to forge a successful career he found her limited knowledge of world events a hindrance. Worse still was her refusal to try and improve her basic knowledge and she thus became a source of constant embarrassment to him.
The war intervened and when he realised the fighting would not end quickly, Wenck joined the air force. Any differences that had become apparent early on in their marriage disappeared during the hostilities. This was partly because their enforced separation lessened those differences and a soldier home on leave does not worry about his wife’s intellect.
But when the war ended the old problems re-surfaced. Worse, Inger became a clinging wife consumed by fears of imagined infidelities. Yet, knowing her own shortcomings she still made no attempt to change.
Like many German officers the defeat and humiliation of the Versailles Treaty rankled, but for the pilot it was made even more difficult because the nation was allowed no air force. Neither could he return to his old profession since the Diplomatic Corps was almost non existent. The war had ruined his family fortune and, although he and his mother were not destitute, money was in short supply.
The family had good connections in Holland and it was through these connections that he was able to find employment.
The aircraft designer Anthony Fokker, denied the right to continue building and designing in Germany, smuggled much of his equipment and plans as well as several aircraft to Holland where he set up another manufacturing base. Wenck’s Dutch connections put up some much needed funds and, in return, he was offered a job with the fledgling organisation as a test pilot and office clerk.
A week after arriving in Holland he attended a diplomatic reception where he met a tall blonde Icelander, the daughter of a Reykjavik fishing tycoon. Two days later he initiated divorce proceedings.
He married Vigdis Hermannsson the morning after his divorce became absolute. The haste was necessary for scarcely one month later she presented Wenck with a son who was christened Peter.
Meanwhile, for Friedrich and his mother life became a series of snubs and humiliations, or so it seemed to the embittered woman. True, divorce still contained a social stigma and the Wenck family did not exactly crowd around with offers of support, but neither did they abandon them. After all, young Friedrich was still a Wenck.
The divorce settlement was sufficient so Inger never had to work, although it would have been easier on them both if she had tried to obtain some sort of employment to augment their income. She never bothered and always complained loud and long about the injustices that had been perpetrated on them both. Nevertheless, young Friedrich was enrolled in a good school, the fees paid for by his father. Although a good student he never fitted in. Indifferent at sport and with no father to guide him he felt an outsider, especially when parents were invited to school functions. Helmuth Wenck made many attempts to show an interest in his son and often came to the school, but the meetings were not a success.
Though the boy craved his father’s attention, perversely he gave little in return. Attempts at affection were met with indifference and any questions that Friedrich deemed to be interference in his mother’s life or privacy he refused to answer. At his son’s sullen refusal to co-operate, Helmuth Wenck usually became exasperated. Their meetings, therefore, became fewer and further apart.
Eventually, they ended all together. Wenck rejoined the Diplomatic Corps in 1924 and was immediately posted to Iceland, a natural turn of events considering his wife’s nationality.
In Vigdis the diplomat had the perfect companion and partner, consequently the marriage prospered. She was everything that Inger was not. Sure of herself, well-educated and intelligent, she fitted in well with her husband’s career. In their young son Peter, the father found a kindred spirit who looked like a Wenck but had inherited his mother’s sunny nature. It was natural then that his feelings for his first born should wane and emotionally he left the lad to fend for himself.
Klaus Heger had been a fellow student at Friedrich’s school. Partly because of their similar backgrounds and partly because they were both good at mathematics and figures, they became friends. Friedrich was always the dominant partner in the friendship; for some reason young Klaus was the only boy of his own age group to whom he felt superior.
On leaving school both trained to be accountants, though Heger opted to join the Reichsbank while Friedrich went out on his own. The reason was that he always felt uncomfortable with the establishment, whether it be represented by his father, the Wenck family, senior bureaucrats, or the other students at his school.
It was this discomfort that eventually turned to a dislike of the establishment so strong that it verged on a pathological hatred, which enabled him to fit in so well with the other misfits within the Nazi Party.
Heger had none of those feelings. He had joined the Nazi Party only after Schonewille had pressed him to do so. Similarly, his rise in the bank’s hierarchy was due in no small measure to the SS major’s patronage.
“Well Klaus, where is the esteemed vice president?”
“He was unable to wait any longer, Sturmbannführer.” Heger always started any meeting by being very formal, being careful to address Schonewille by his SS military rank. “He had an important meeting at the Reichs Ministry with Doctor Funk. At any rate, you know I have been increasingly taking over control of these matters so I am aware of all the details.”
Schonewille nodded his head and reached down for his briefcase. “This is the latest tally from the camps.” He placed a sheaf of papers on Heger’s desk. “And these contain details of what was gathered from those renegades in the Warsaw ghetto after the uprising.”
Heger quickly perused the second sheaf of papers, his accountant’s mind quickly adding up the columns of figures.
“One-hundred-and-seventy-thousand reichsmarks. I would have expected more. Also, there’s very little gold listed here.”
“No, you are wrong. In fact I was surprised it was so large,” countered Schonewille. “Those bastards in the Warsaw ghetto had spent most of their money on obtaining arms on the black market.”
Heger shook his head and swore softly. “Verdammte Jews. I hear they caused us more than twenty thousand dead, both civilian and army?”
“More I understand, although how did you come by that figure. I understand it is classified?”
Heger’s long face broke into a smile. He tapped his nose conspiratorially. “Oh, I have my contacts, Friedrich,” he answered with a smirk. Schonewille noted the change in his address. It had come quicker than usual. But he said nothing. He extracted another sheaf of papers from his briefcase, glanced quickly at the last page to refresh his memory and handed them to the banker.
“Study these my friend,” he said, fitting in with the change in formality. “I think you will find these figures more to your liking.”
Heger picked up the papers and immediately turned to the last page. He lifted his eyebrows and nodded his head in appreciation.
Turning to the first page he asked, “Where does this lot come from? Not from the camps, surely?”
“No, from Hungary. Eichman has been busy fleecing the Jews of Budapest. And very successful he was too, as you can see. Quite apart from the paper money, which is significant, is the gold total, don’t you think?”
The other nodded his head and looked directly at the SS officer. “What camps did you visit this time?”
“Two Polish camps, Chelmno and Treblinka and, of course I went to Warsaw and Budapest. Why do you ask?”
“I just wondered.”
There was a moment’s silence and then Heger asked what it was like in the concentration camps. What the hell is the reason for these questions, thought Schonewille. He answered carefully.
“It is certainly not how the newsreels or Doktor Goebbels tells us, I assure you …” He let the rest of the sentence hang.
“Oh well, they are only Jews,” said the other.
Schonewille did not answer. In truth he was
not anti-Semitic.
In the past, before he had joined the party, the Jews had been among his best customers. At any rate, his link with the Jews was stronger than anybody could have possibly imagined. His cold blooded executions were not perpetrated against the hapless Jews, but rather against the former elite of the German community, political prisoners and those who had fallen foul of the New Order. He always gained a great deal of pleasure in seeing the look of terror on their faces just before he pressed the bulbous snout of the silencer on their temples and blew their brains out.
The discussion returned to financial matters for a few minutes and then Heger abruptly got his feet. He crossed over to a cupboard, unlocked the door and reached inside. On finding what he wanted he closed the door and returned to his seat. He reached forward and placed a round tin on the edge of the desk in front of Schonewille. He motioned for him to pick it up.
“What is it?”
“Open it, take a whiff.” And then as Schonewille complied, “Wonderful smell is it not?”
The tin’s content was a brown powder. The aroma was heady.
“Groβer Gott, it smells like coffee.”
“That’s correct, coffee. But wait until you taste it.” He pressed a lever on his intercom. “Frau Metz, bring in the kettle with boiling water and two cups on the black tray if you please.”
When these arrived Heger motioned the woman away and then proceeded to spoon a quantity of the powder into each cup. After pouring in a measure of boiling water, he stirred the drink and handed it over.
“Milk? No, what about some saccharine, although I advise you not to spoil the taste with that shit? No, good,” he said as Schonewille again shook his head.
Schonewille blew into his cup and then carefully sipped. As an SS major who travelled a great deal he had access to all sorts of contraband and luxury goods, yet it had been almost three years since he had tasted coffee as good as this. He smacked his lips in appreciation and asked how this had come into Heger’s possession.
The Reichsbank Robbery Page 2
