As they continued to walk towards the source of the noise Schonewille began to sweat. Eicke turned and they were let through a gate into one of the men’s camps. The smell that wafted through the buildings was rank. A combination of sweat, disease and excrement, which had combined to give a powerful all pervading odour that hung about the camp like a poisonous cloud. Schonewille knew he would have to have his uniform carefully washed to get rid of the smell, which was already permeating the fabric.
They passed between two huts to a cleared area. There were five men standing to attention. Two guards, one holding a leashed Alsatian and three emaciated skeletons dressed in the striped remnants of the prisoner’s uniform. Eicke turned his head with an indulgent smile.
“There you are, Herr Obersturmbannführer. I know how you like to use your automatic on certain prisoners. Well, I have personally selected three political prisoners for you.” He surveyed the three wrecks in disgust and said vehemently. “Useless bourgeois pigs.”
Schonewille stood for a moment uncertain what to do. He was not in the mood for any killing. The noise of those choking in the nearby gas chamber had unnerved him and although it had now ended, he wanted to leave as quickly as possible. He turned away, shaking his head. Then one of the prisoners spoke in a thin quavering voice. “Friedrich. Mein Gott, is that you Friedrich?”
Schonewille swung round and peered at the man. He looked searchingly into his face, but did not recognise him, something which in the circumstances was not surprising. The man was thin and stooped with eyes sunk deep into his skull. The skin was yellow and blotchy with two festering sores under his left eye. His age was indeterminate.
“Friedrich, Friedrich Schonewille, is it you?” the prisoner repeated. His uncertainty caused his voice to drop to a whisper and a dribble of yellow saliva appeared on his lips. In the background Eicke laughed.
“He seems to know you, Herr Obersturmbannführer.”
Schonewille ignored him, but the prisoner heard Eicke’s words and said pleadingly, “Danke Gott. It is you Friedrich. It’s your old friend, Carl Wilmersdorf.”
With those words the prisoner sealed his own death warrant. Wilmersdorf had been a friend of the family, or rather a friend of Schonewille’s mother. He had been a prominent banker and had even served for four years in the Reichstag in the days of the old Weimer Republic. Though married with five children, he had a reputation as a ladies man. He had taken it upon himself to act as Inger Schonewille’s financial adviser and confidant after her divorce, and she soon repaid him by becoming his mistress.
Young Friedrich had found them one afternoon in his mother’s bedroom. The sight and sounds of his mother moaning under the thrusting form of the banker was too much for the boy and he had nursed an abiding hatred of the man ever since. Over the years Wilmersdorf had tried to ingratiate himself into the lad’s affections, but to no avail. Finally, to ease the situation, his mother refused to allow Wilmersdorf in the house if young Friedrich was home or expected for a visit.
Schonewille did not answer the man. He extracted the Walther and quickly screwed the silencer onto the barrel. Cocking the weapon, he held it at arm’s length until the snout of the silencer was only inches away from the man’s left temple. A moment’s fear and panic showed in the banker’s eyes and then with a sigh he said, “Danke Friedrich, you are going to help me escape from hell, you…”
The words were cut short as Schonewille pulled the trigger. There was a small cough from the Walther and the right side of Wilmersdorf’s head erupted as the heavy-calibre nine-millimetre bullet blew his brains out. The man standing next to him was spattered with blood, brain tissue and bits of bone, though he hardly flinched. The body fell to the ground, twitched for a second and then was still.
Still holding the smoking automatic, Schonewille swung around and snapped to Eicke, “Let us leave. You can have the rest to yourself.”
As he strode away Eicke motioned to one of the guards who nonchalantly lifted the barrel of his machine pistol and emptied the entire thirty-two-round clip into the two remaining prisoners. Eicke hurried after Schonewille. He caught up and was about to say something, but the look on the older man’s face made him stop.
They walked in silence back to the office of the camp Kommandant and it was only when they were inside that Schonewille busied himself with unscrewing the silencer and putting it and the weapon away in their respective holsters.
With a curt Dankeschön, Schonewille gathered up his briefcase and left the office, ignoring the salute of the sergeant with the pock-marked face.
Once back in the hotel Schonewille stripped, had a bath and washed his hair. As usual he had brought a spare uniform with him and he put it on, thankful of its clean smell. Unfortunately his cap still carried the odour of the camp and since he did not carry a spare there was nothing he could do about it.
The car that had delivered him back to the hotel was still waiting and after checking out he was driven to the station. Surprisingly, the train was on time. It took exactly sixteen hours before the exhausted and irritable SS leutnant-colonel alighted onto the Berlin platform.
The station master’s office was warm and the leather armchair in the corner of the room though old and cracked was supple and comfortable. He was left alone. The day shift station master did not enter the office and although the phone rang several times no one came to answer it. Schonewille let it ring. In a perverse way he was determined that as many people as possible were inconvenienced that morning.
Just after seven he roused himself from the seat and opened the office door. The corridor was deserted. Obviously everybody was keeping as wide a berth as possible to the irritable SS officer. Nobody wanted to end up on the Eastern Front.
He walked out onto the platform and looked around. It was still crowded with people and for a moment he looked in vain for a porter. Reluctantly he picked up his overnight bag and with his briefcase hanging from his other arm walked from the station. Here his luck changed. An ex-British army Humber staff car with SS number plates was just pulling away from the curb. Schonewille hailed the driver and on questioning him was told he had just dropped a General Somebody-or-Other off and was now on his way back to the underground garages behind Hitler’s bunker near the Reichskanzlei. Seizing the opportunity, he ordered the driver to take him to the Reichsbank.
On entering the bank he was shown into Heger’s office. His old friend looked tired and was obviously nervous. He scarcely returned the SS officer’s greeting and looked askance at his appearance.
“Himmel Friedrich. You look like you have slept in your uniform and you could have shaved. Our meeting is most …”
Schonewille waved his arm in irritation and cut him off. “Shut up Klaus. That is just what I have done. I’ve spent God knows how many hours in a stinking train. I’m tired, bad-tempered and I want a bath. So let us get this meeting with your mysterious man over and done with.” Heger opened his mouth, but then decided to say nothing other than a curt “Come with me, please.”
Schonewille followed him wordlessly down a number of corridors. Finally, they stopped in front of a large ornate oak door, the wood dark with age. He presumed it was the office of the bank’s senior vice-president, Emil Puhl. Heger paused for a moment and then gave a hesitant knock.
“Bitte,” a voice answered.
They stepped inside.
It was a large office, well-furnished, though with the black-out curtains still closed, a trifle dark and gloomy. The central room light was on but its glow was not sufficient to open up the whole room and the corners and walls were left in shadows. At the far end of the room, facing them, was a tall man dressed in an SS uniform. Heger edged further into the room and addressed the stranger.
“Herr Brigadeführer, let me introduce Obersturmbannführer Schonewille.”
The man stepped forward and extended his hand. Schonewille first clicked his heels and saluted before taking the proffered hand.
The grip was strong and the hand full
of calluses. Schonewille’s brain, which was working overtime, found this strange since the Brigadier General’s Waffenfarbe on his shoulder straps was coloured red, which meant he was in the legal division. Therefore, he was either an SS Fachführer or Sonderführer and not a front-line soldier. With his rank it was unlikely he engaged in any manual work, so why the calluses? His uniform was immaculate and he wore the Iron Cross first class plus a number of other decorations. Schonewille put his age at about fifty and a fit, strong fifty at that.
What worried him was that he did not recognise the general.
“Brigadeführer Emil Grauwitz,” the man said formally. He looked at the lieutenant-colonel carefully, noting his rather unkempt appearance. Schonewille, interpreting the look explained the reason, while at the same time desperately searching his memory for any details of the man standing in front of him.
Grauwitz was an imposing figure. His height was backed up by a solid frame and there seemed not an inch of surplus flesh on him. He had a high forehead, accentuated by a severely receding hairline and a fine Patrician nose. The eyes in the half-light appeared black, the same colour as his hair. Schonewille mentally told himself to beware. He still could not place the officer and this fact bothered him. It put him at a grave disadvantage. He was irritated, but like the man in front did not let a trace of expression cross his face. In contrast, Heger’s face showed nervous concern as he looked from one man to the other.
Grauwitz motioned Schonewille to a high-backed lounge chair and took a seat on a similar piece of furniture opposite. After a moment’s hesitation Heger filled a third such chair, though he strategically positioned himself mid-way between the two.
Grauwitz folded his arms and lifted his chin arrogantly as he stared at Schonewille. The room went quiet as the stare continued for four or five seconds. Heger started to speak, but the general raised one wrist without unfolding his arms. Finally he spoke.
“Well, Herr Obersturmbannführer, what do you think of our little ploy?” It was a leading question and it left Schonewille with little room to manoeuvre. So, he answered just as directly.
“I think it is an interesting situation, Herr Gruppenführer. We are like a trio of mice salting away some cheese before the cat gets us. The trouble is this cheese does not belong to us and in reality we are all thieves.”
Grauwitz raised his eyebrows and gave a hint of a smile. “And how will we get our cheese out of the Reich?”
Schonewille hesitated. He was about to lie, but he had a vague feeling of being played with. He took a calculated risk and looked directly at the other man.
“I think we will have to fly the cheese out. In fact, I have already put something in motion to that effect,” he said quietly. Then he took a stab in the dark. “But of course, Herr Brigadeführer, you would be aware of that.” His intonation made it a statement of fact, not a question and it had an immediate effect on Grauwitz. For a moment he looked slightly surprised, though he attempted to hide the emotion under a thin smile. He nodded his head.
“You are much wiser than I gave you credit for, Obersturmbannführer. I was intrigued at your moves to contact your brother and now I wonder how you knew I was checking up on you. You might have guessed, but either way I now realise I will have to be very careful in my dealings with you. I’m not sure whether your intelligence is a good or bad thing.” He paused for a moment. “At any rate only time will tell.”
Heger sat in bemused silence. He again opened his mouth to speak and again Grauwitz cut him short. “In a moment, Klaus. Now, Obersturmbannführer, tell me … Where would you like to fly to?”
Schonewille shook his head. “I am not sure; at least, not yet,” he lied.
He already had a good idea of where he wanted to go, but there were three reasons why he did not want to reveal the possible destination. Firstly, he was not sure of the feasibility of his plan. Secondly, he was certain the general had his own ideas of where the plane should fly to and thirdly, he wanted to keep something up his sleeve. He did not trust Brigadeführer Emil Grauwitz.
Chapter Six
Schonewille sat across the chair so that he could rest against the brick wall of the restaurant. It had once been the wine cellar of the establishment, which had been forced to move its tables underground by the bombing.
In this position he could see the entrance and spot his brother when he arrived. Not only would it give him a few more moments in which to decide on how to greet the flier but, more importantly, how to bring him in on the plan, something he had not yet decided. He glanced at his watch, irritated by the delay. Wenck was already fifteen minutes late.
He let his mind wander back to the morning’s meeting with Grauwitz. The man worried him. He now knew that what transpired with his half brother would be vital. What was cause for concern was that his own plan was still only partly formulated. There were too many loose ends and it would depend to a large degree on the coming discussion on whether the plan would actually be feasible. Instinctively he knew he would have to be completely open with Wenck if he was to obtain his help, and this was against both his nature and experience.
On reading the flier’s record he realised just how little he knew of the man. Not for the first time he wished they had been closer. Perversely, he had always wanted to be friends, but as with his relationship with their father, he had turned them both away with his attitude and rudeness.
There was a stir at the steps that led down from the surface. He felt rather than saw his brother so it was not until he actually sighted Wenck being led to his table by an elderly waiter that he knew for certain it was him.
Most of the patrons were senior officers and party members with their wives and mistresses. There was only a sprinkling of younger fighting men. In reality, though, it was not Wenck’s youth, but the Knight’s Cross at his throat which caused much of the murmured comment. Although he was aware of the decoration and the reason for it being awarded, Schonewille still felt a moment’s twinge of jealousy. He realised that against its aura of bravery his Iron Cross was a mere bauble, yet he was grateful nevertheless that it was pinned to his tunic.
He rose to greet his brother, extending his hand with a smile. Schonewille outranked Wenck, yet he was surprised when the flier saluted him before grasping the proffered palm. Schonewille smiled again. This time it was less forced.
He motioned to the chair and wordlessly they sat down. For a moment the silence continued as they searched each other’s face. Schonewille was aware that many of the people seated nearby were staring at them. He began to wish they had chosen a less conspicuous place. The pilot was the first to speak.
“Well, older brother. What’s this all about then?”
His directness caught Schonewille off guard. For a moment he did not know how to answer. He attempted to say something, but to his annoyance began to stutter.
To his relief Wenck saved him from further embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Friedrich. I did not mean to be quite so direct. It’s just that I’m not used to playing around and I’ve had a long day. I only landed late this morning and I discovered they’ve lost part of my kit. Then I found there was nowhere for me to stay.” He laughed, a harsh sound that contained little mirth. “Shit, Berlin is a mess. Haven’t been here for more than a year. I knew it was bad but I cannot believe the devastation.” He shook his head and fell silent and looked around before continuing. This time, though, he dropped his voice. “The Allies are certainly giving it back in spades, aren’t they?” He looked directly at his brother.
This was just the tack Schonewille wanted the conversation to take, so he answered without hesitation. “That is right, Peter. We are being hit very hard, grievously I think, and that is why you are here. There is something I want to discuss with you, but let us wait for a little while. We have much to catch up on first.”
He motioned over the waiter and went on. “For Berlin, the menu is quite good. I have even been able to procure a bottle of champagne. A thirty-four, though only of average qua
lity I’m afraid, but beggars cannot be choosers as the saying goes.”
After ordering, Schonewille made another move to try and cement their relationship. “I must congratulate you Peter on your Knight’s Cross. And with Oak Leaves as well. The Fatherland is proud of you.” He spoke without rancour.
Wenck congratulated him in return. “Oh, I don’t know. I think it is easier to get a decoration in the air. There is much more chance for glory. Father told me you got your bit of metal in some brawl on the Eastern Front. Well done.”
Schonewille warmed to the words. Maybe they could get on, he thought. While they exchanged pleasantries, he ran his mind back over what he had read of his brother’s service record and what he himself knew of the man.
Wenck had actually learned to fly in America. He had been taught by their father who had spent six months attached to the German embassy in Washington during 1937. It was natural, therefore, that eventually he would be drafted into the Luftwaffe. During much of 1938 the elder Wenck was despatched to a number of European countries, including England, in order to gain as much intelligence as possible about their air defences. Peter Wenck had stayed with his parents because he liked travelling and although he loved flying and intended to be an airman, he was not yet sure the German Air Force was the sort of career he wanted. Pylon racing and record breaking were more his line.
On returning to Germany in May 1939 the decision was made for him, though he went willingly enough. Since he did not actually start flight training immediately it was not until a year later that he joined his first operational squadron in France, just in time for the Battle of Britain.
Although his flying had been rated as extraordinary, his gunnery was barely average and this, coupled with his rather free spirit, had meant his instructors had earmarked him for bombers. They reasoned that the discipline of looking after a crew and the necessary tactics of flying a twin-engined bomber would curb his impetuousness and be the best way to make him a useful member of the Luftwaffe. In effect it was a stupid move for he had just the right skill and temperament to be a fighter pilot (not withstanding his shooting ability).
The Reichsbank Robbery Page 8
