The Reichsbank Robbery

by Colin Roderick Fulton

  “One of my clients is an old family friend, a paratrooper. He was stationed in France when the Allies landed in Normandy. A few days after the main landing he was out on patrol with his men when they came across a parachute container hanging in a tree. It had obviously been destined for the American paratroops who had been dropped during the initial landings. They opened the container expecting to find arms and instead found it to be crammed with food stuffs. Not iron rations, mind you, but delicacies like ham, chocolate, jam and of course this powdered coffee. Now I ask you, how can we hope to win the war if our enemies can afford to send supplies like this to their front-line troops by aeroplane?”

  As if realising what he had said Heger abruptly got up from his desk, crossed the room and quickly opened the door. When he was satisfied that the corridor was empty he went back to his desk.

  “Well, before I answer that Klaus, you realise this is defeatist talk, don’t you?” He asked the question with a trace of menace in his voice.

  The other nodded his head soberly, but said nothing. Schonewille chose his words carefully, for he had no intention of revealing his thoughts.

  “I think we still have a chance. I know things are looking increasingly difficult, but the Führer is not a stupid man and he has promised us another secret weapon.”

  Heger looked like he wanted to yell, but he kept his voice low. Nevertheless, there was vehemence in his words. “For God’s sake, Friedrich. The Allies are at this moment at the Siegfried Line, the Ruskies are less than one hundred kilometres from Konigsberg. Army Group North has just been wiped out, and now I learn that we are evacuating Belgrade.” He stopped for breath and then went on. “What about the bombing? You’ve seen what it is like out there. Soon there will be nothing left.”

  Schonewille again chose his words carefully, not committing himself to any line of thought. He asked what Heger was trying to say. The banker changed his tone slightly, but went on.

  “Two months ago a group of leading financiers and industrialists met at the Hotel Maison Rouge in Strasbourg. I can’t tell you their names, it is more than my life’s worth. But what I will say is that they met to discuss plans on what to do with all this,” (he waved his arm at the sheaf of papers) “and the rest of the Reich’s monetary assets in the event of a defeat.”

  He paused for a moment and then went on.

  “For the past few weeks large amounts of funds have been taken out of the Reich and re-invested in neutral and non-belligerent countries, both here in Europe and in South America. These funds are for the use of the party if we are ever defeated. At least that is the official line agreed to at the meeting, but I would bet a thousand Reichsmarks to a Pfennig that some of those bastards are lining their own pockets as well.”

  Schonewille sat in stunned silence. He had always regarded himself as more intelligent than Heger and prided himself on knowing more about what was going on. But now things were obviously different.

  “What has this got to do with me?” he asked carefully.

  “Friedrich you are a very influential man within the SS. You are involved in what is going on in the camps. What do you think will happen if either the Russians or the Allies win? What do you think will happen to you, or me for that matter?” He went on quickly, pointing his finger. “I’ll tell you what will happen. We will be shot!”

  Even though Schonewille was growing angry at being put on the defensive like this, he did not know what to say. The conversation had taken him into territory in which he had not yet dared enter. In truth, Schonewille like many others in the Reich was beginning to fear for his future. Again he spoke carefully.

  “But what is it that you want of me. Why are you saying this?”

  Heger gave a small sigh. He smiled slightly. “Come to my house tonight. I have a proposition to make. I need you. In fact we might need each other. Will you come?”

  Major Friedrich Schonewille nodded his head.

  It was past two o’clock when Schonewille got back to his small two storey house in Spandau.

  He used a key to let himself in by the front door and, as he usually did, remained standing silently in the hallway for a moment or two, listening. There were sounds from the ceiling and he realised she was upstairs having a bath.

  Good, he thought to himself. He liked her when she smelt clean and the knowledge that she was naked sent a tremor through his groin. It would be a pleasant afternoon, he mused.

  However, he made no attempt to go upstairs. Quietly, he turned and walked into the sitting room, took off his belts and holster, his jacket and undid the top button of his shirt.

  Sitting down, he opened his briefcase and extracted a manila folder. There were about six sheets of paper inside, the top one containing a photograph of Klaus Heger. It was the banker’s official SS file.

  After leaving the Reichsbank he had stood in the street for a few moments, undecided at what to do. The recent conversation had both disturbed and intrigued him and his natural caution was now working overtime. He knew that what was happening could be the key to his survival and this brought about a realisation that he was woefully short of any accurate information of what the military situation was really like. He also needed to gain some added information about his friend. This resolved he had made his way to the SS and Gestapo headquarters.

  He had taken a tramcar part of the way and walked the rest. All the time his mind had been racing. The result was that he arrived at the H-shaped building knowing exactly what he wanted and how he could get it without raising any awkward questions. Suspicion was always on duty in the SS. As usual security was tight, but with his credentials it was a mere formality to gain access.

  He had asked for an audience with several people in the economic section of the SS and this was duly given. It seemed nobody was too busy even in these parlous times.

  He requested up-to-date information on the military situation and the likelihood of the Third Reich’s armies being able to stem the flood of foreign armies. His excuse on needing this sensitive information was the need to obtain as much loot from the east as quickly as possible if there was the likelihood of the Red Army breaking through any further westward.

  The information coming his way both surprised and appalled him. All the main extermination camps in the east of Poland were now within striking range of the Russians. In fact Treblinka was in the process of being de-commissioned as was another camp, Sobibor. The Treblinka closure had been known to him, but the full reason had never been explained. In April, a revolt by Jewish prisoner-workers had led to a mass escape and the death of a dozen or more camp guards. Following this and, with the knowledge that the approaching Russian Army might cause the inmates to become even more bold, the SS decided to hasten the execution of the remaining prisoners and the removal of those who could still be of some use as slave labour.

  The huge complex of Auschwitz-Birkenau though, which now covered an area some eight miles round (and at any one time housed upwards of 70,000 prisoners, of which 50,000 were slave labourers feeding the labour demands of the special war plants of such industrial giants as Krupp, Siemens and IG Farben), was still some distance away from the advancing Russian hordes. Nevertheless, the Red Army was still very close.

  Schonewille was also able to gain knowledge of some hard-to-obtain intelligence, namely the size of the approaching Russian Armies. On reading this information he quickly realised Germany had no hope. Others around him seemed to be in no doubt as to Germany’s ability to survive, but to the SS major it seemed as though they were unwilling to face the truth, or at best were too fanatical to even contemplate defeat.

  Obtaining Heger’s file had been much easier. The filing clerk had owed him a favour and Schonewille, with a promise of replacing the file the next day, had been allowed to take it away with him after signing the required book. On an impulse he had made one more information gathering sortie. At the time he was not sure why, but a germ of an idea had begun to form in his mind. It was disjointed, a fragment of a p
uzzle which, in effect, had not even been created yet.

  His second destination was the Air Ministry, situated almost exactly opposite the Gestapo headquarters, although the main entrance was around the corner in Wilhelmstrasse. On entering, he asked to be taken to the records section where, after some preliminaries, he was able to obtain the file of a certain Major Peter Wenck. Since his direct authority was not as strong in the Luftwaffe’s headquarters he was not able to borrow the file, but he was given as much time as he wanted to read it. It proved to be very enlightening.

  Back in his house, Schonewille spent fifteen minutes perusing Heger’s file. It did not tell him anything he did not already know.

  He sat back, his shiny boots outstretched in front of him, one heel resting on his ankle. He folded his arms and leant his head back on the sofa and tried to martial his thoughts. It was in this position that the woman found him few moments later.

  She had sensed his presence as soon as she had got to the bottom of the stairs. As she always did in such circumstances, she waited a moment to prepare herself before entering the sitting room.

  Schonewille stood up as she entered and smiled. Those few who had met them together noted how his smile for her was particularly warm. It was a smile he reserved for no one else, except perhaps his mother and she was now dead, a victim of an air-raid while visiting friends in Hamburg a year before.

  “Sophia, how nice you look. As always you are a vision of loveliness,” he said gallantly and moved to take her in his arms.

  She smiled thinly and allowed herself to be held, even answering his kiss with a degree of warmth. She knew by his embrace that he wanted her, so it was not unexpected when he asked her to come upstairs to the bedroom. Once there she helped him undress, something he always liked, and allowed herself to be undressed in turn. This took only a few seconds because under her dressing-gown she was entirely naked, her body still pink and warm from the effects of the bath.

  Schonewille stepped back and looked at her for a moment. She was so beautiful. Tall, almost as tall as he, with long black hair, dark brown eyes atop a small straight nose and a full generous mouth. The perfection was heightened by the only blemish on her skin, a small beauty mark on the left of her chin. Her breasts were full and un-marked by any child-bearing, the nipples round, large and hardening as they sniffed the cold air.

  Schonewille had never been fully at ease with women of his own strata. He found the intelligent or worldly wise ones too intimidating and the simple ones too silly. He had always needed somebody of intelligence, yet somebody over whom he could exercise his power. The combination was not easy to find. With Sophia, that power was his.

  Despite his lack of experience with women he was not a bad lover and his caresses, if not fully arousing the woman, were at least pleasant. For this she was always thankful. She was aware that he loved her and had proved this by risking much for her, but the unpalatable fact was she hated him and all he stood for. Paradoxically, within this hate there was also a degree of gratefulness, combined with the knowledge that without him she would now be dead.

  He climaxed with a groan, murmuring endearments as he collapsed on her body. She answered by entwining her legs around him, though saying nothing in return. But, when he raised his head to look at her, she gave him a small smile.

  Schonewille rolled over and sat up, reaching over to pull the blankets over them. As he did so he caught sight of the numbers on her arm. As always, he decided they would have to be destroyed. Removal was impossible, but a burn would hide their incriminating evidence. Yet, he knew that unless this was done forcibly she would not permit the numbers to be obliterated. Why, he could not fathom, because if they were seen by someone there was a strong chance she would end up from where he had rescued her, Auschwitz.

  Chapter Two

  Time with Sophia always had a calming effect on Schonewille. Love-making extended this a few degrees so that the man who began to dress three hours later was less driven and a more inner-satisfied individual. It even showed in the way he dressed. He was usually very careful to wear his service uniform when he left the confines of his home, complete with belts, holster, breeches, black boots and dour demeanour. Quite simply he needed the authority it gave him. There was also, of course, the fear and respect accorded to anyone wearing the Totenkopf, the skull-and-crossbones motif on their peaked cap that so aptly described the Waffen SS and all it stood for.

  But now, with this feeling of well-being, he decided it was better to tone down his official image for his next meeting with Heger and wear Ausgehanzug, or walking out dress. This was a much more casual affair. The front and rear belt supports of his tunic were replaced by clips and he wore no holster. A white shirt and black tie (for the tunic was now open at the neck) softened the image still further and instead of breeches and riding boots he now wore long trousers and soft leather shoes. They were Italian, purchased in Milan on his last visit and, as he laced them up, he hoped it would not rain.

  Whatever Schonewille wore, he was always very careful to include two items: his iron cross (second class) and his combat medal. Both had been earned, in a fashion, and were another clue in the complex make-up of his character. They were also another example of the lengths to which he went to create a new image for himself.

  Schonewille was a member of the SS-HA, or the SS-Hauptamt, to give its full title. This was the main office that controlled all branches of the SS.

  As an accountant he also belonged to the SS-WYVH, or the SS-Wirtschafts-und-Verwaltungshauptamt, which was the Economic and Administrative Main Office of the SS and controlled all its finances. It also administered the use, sale and acquisition of SS property, supply and installations, plus the concentration camps.

  Originally he had been part of Amtsgruppe A1V, the Prüfungsamt or auditing office for the troops. He was then seconded to Amtsgruppe B1V, which controlled raw materials, bulk purchases of equipment and all foreign currency looted from the occupied countries and camps. It was his work in these two sections that brought him to the attention of his superiors and ultimately saw him promoted in August 1942 to major and transferred to Amtsgruppe D, the branch that administered the concentration camps.

  Schonewille was to become a man of status within this section. In official terms he was a SS-Fachführer. These were men with specialist qualifications earned in civilian life. It was they who performed all the necessary administrative, legal and technical services within the Waffen SS. To all intents and purposes they were the bureaucracy, and like all bureaucrats they largely controlled the inner workings of this huge, multi-faceted organisation.

  Although an administrator, Schonewille was also an officer and, therefore, before he had been allowed to attain officer rank, he had to attend Junkerschule, or officer cadet school. This was not a perfunctory course either. To be an SS officer required three qualifications: be of good German character, be a good National Socialist or SS member and have leadership potential.

  In Schonewille’s case the latter was open to question, but membership of the party at such an early date had given him a degree of influence and power that had translated itself into the ability to give orders and put forward ideas. In other words, he had found a measure of leadership.

  At any rate, the course lasted six intensive months and when it finished he was perfectly able to handle himself in a fight if he so desired.

  Schonewille was not a physical coward, he just regarded himself as superior to the everyday soldier and had little regard for the aims, ambitions and dedication of the front-line officer. However, in a perverse way he admired the status and glory that went with being a successful fighting man. At the same time he was well aware of the contempt that soldiers or officers felt for those who only acted as administrators and had never seen action.

  The SS had given him a greater self-confidence in his abilities outside his chosen profession. It also helped him feel more at ease in the company of those that in the past he had regarded as his social superior
s. He realised that front-line experience, no matter how small, would enhance his social status still further. Therefore, he set out to gain some of this experience. He had not sought combat, but as it transpired, this is what he actually got. As usual, he used the experience to his best advantage.

  In September 1941, as the German Army headed eastwards across the Ukraine, Schonewille attached himself to one of the most famous of the SS fighting divisions, the Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler. While at divisional headquarters, some forty kilometres behind the front, he was informed of a mission being mounted against some dissidents. These, he was told, were either a newly-formed guerilla band or the remnants of some Red Army force that had been decimated when the Wehrmacht had fought its way through the area some three weeks before.

  A colonel had told him blandly, “It will be no more than a policing or mopping up operation, Captain. It will be very easy. Go along and enjoy the experience.”

  Four hours later he found himself in a pine forest with a force of some forty soldiers fighting for his life. There was only one other German officer left alive, a young second-lieutenant just out of officer school. High on patriotism but low on experience, the twenty-year-old lieutenant was very much under the sway of a thirty-year-old sergeant, a veteran of the French, Yugoslav and Greek campaigns as well as having served on the Russian front since the start of Operation Barbarossa.

  With the original commanding officer dead, Captain Schonewille was now the senior rank and out of necessity took charge, although he was wise enough to also heed the advice of the sergeant.

  The Germans were cut off and nearly surrounded by a well-armed band of Red Army regulars numbering at least 300, the remnants of an infantry regiment that had been destroyed in the fierce fighting of almost a month before. They had lain doggo after the main battles had past and in the ensuing three weeks had rested and recuperated, waiting to attack the soft rear echelons of the German forces.