Nor did it end there. Himmler was also in command of the Home Army, the rag-tag defence force made up of sub-teenagers and elderly civilians. He was also in charge of the police force, concentration camp labour and the industrial complex that it slaved in and was now the overall Chief of Intelligence.
To top it off, Hitler had recently conferred on him control of the V rocket production program, made him Minister of the Interior and Chief of Army Armaments. There were others as well. Himmler was collecting titles and power as Göring was collecting art.
Despite this, Himmler was also astute enough to realise things were going badly for Germany and was endeavouring to try and gain kudos with the Allies. Grauwitz knew some of Himmler’s moves in this area and it was through this that he hoped to gain what he wanted: the authorisation to obtain the vital escape aircraft. He was not stupid enough to try blackmail. His moves were much more Machiavellian.
Even though the Reich had looted most of Europe, it was still desperately short of hard cash and Himmler had devised a scheme whereby Jews were being sold for foreign currency. As well as gaining the much needed dollars, these Jews who had not yet been in any of the concentration camps would be a living proof to the Americans that the ghastly rumours leaking from Europe about the extermination camps were not true. Most of these Jews were being transported directly from Hungary, but the chaotic state of Germany’s rail system meant the flow of deportees was being halted.
At the same time, the American Jews were being tardy in paying and Adolf Eichmann was threatening the Jewish community in Budapest. Unless the matter of payments was straightened out another 75,000 Jews would be taken from Hungary and immediately transferred to the Reich.
This was the key to Grauwitz’s argument.
He told Himmler how the flow of deportees had been halted yet again because senior officers from the Concentration Camp Inspectorate were being tardy in their job. Since it was Grauwitz’s job to organise the legal transfer of funds in exchange for the Hungarian Jews, he could not fulfil his duty.
Himmler drew his lips into a thin line and glared up at him. His voice was low, almost a hiss. “I am aware of this lamentable state of affairs, Herr Brigadeführer. What I would like to know is, are you here to apportion blame, or do you have something constructive to say to me?”
“The latter, mein Reichsführer.”
Himmler’s eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses opened a fraction and a shadow of a smile formed on his lips. He nodded his head and asked Grauwitz to continue. The officer shifted his feet and Himmler’s smile widened somewhat. “Oh, I am forgetting my manners, please sit down.”
Grateful of the opportunity to be able to break away from Himmler’s steely stare, if for only a moment, he sat down and continued. “Herr Reichsführer, in order for us to get those accursed dollars and Swiss francs we need the Jews to arrive in Switzerland in good condition. Even when they finally get there, if they get there, they are in poor condition. Why do we not fly them there?”
Himmler said nothing, his eyes never leaving Grauwitz’s face. For a moment there was silence. “Why indeed?” he answered, raising his eyebrows.
The SS brigadier went on, choosing his words carefully. He explained the problems in shifting the Jews by air. There was a lack of aircraft suitable for the task, plus, an acute shortage of petrol, as well as other logistic and bureaucratic difficulties.
“Despite this, Reichsführer, I believe that if I can lay my hands on two or three aircraft I can make this operation successful.”
A hint of anger crept into Himmler’s voice. “You may have a point there, but it galls me to think those Jewish swine will be able to travel in comfort while the Reich’s fighting men have to use their feet to travel … Pah,” he finished in disgust. “Well, what is it you have in mind?”
“Reichsführer, my plan is simple. We should try to fly some of the Hungarian Jews to southern Germany and then truck them across the border. I also believe we should look at the possibility of using Sweden as another outlet.” He paused for a moment to see if Himmler would take the bait. Himmler nodded his head in thought, so Grauwitz plunged on. “Sweden would be a good alternative since we could base at least one aircraft in southern Norway where there is not much allied air activity.”
Grauwitz paused and Himmler motioned him to continue.
The SS officer explained how he believed the legal niceties would be easier when dealing with the Swedes. He also believed the much needed foreign currency would be forthcoming far more readily if the American Jews were dealing with Swedish officials rather than the cautious and conservative Swiss.
Himmler readily agreed and asked what he wanted.
The other replied how he needed some sort of authorisation that would allow him to gain the necessary aircraft, whether from the SS’s own transport fleet or even from the Luftwaffe.
At the latter option Himmler smiled. “Good, good. Try to get them from the Luftwaffe, mein Herr. Göring does nothing with them anyway.”
The Reichsführer lifted the handset of his phone and spoke to his secretary. He asked a question, paused and then dictated the contents of a letter to the man at the other end. Scarcely five minutes later there was a knock at the door and the secretary entered carrying a stiff leather document holder. Himmler opened it and extracted a single sheet of his official note paper. He perused it carefully, signed it and handed the document over to Grauwitz.
“Is this sufficient?”
“Ja, mein Reichsführer, das ist gut.”
Himmler immediately returned to the pile of papers on his desk, at the same time bidding Grauwitz gute Nacht.
The latter rose to his feet, extended his hand with a guttural Heil Hitler, and walked to the door. Just as he had his hand on the handle, Himmler’s voice cut in.
“Keep me informed, Herr Brigadeführer. Keep me informed and be successful.”
Grauwitz took the lift to the underground car park and found his driver leaning against his vehicle’s boot smoking. At his appearance, the man leapt to attention, flicked the half finished cigarette away, saluted and opened the rear near side passenger door.
As they drove out into the night air of Berlin he extracted the Reichsführer’s letter and, ignoring the blackout, turned on the car’s interior light. Holding it up so he could read it properly, he scanned the two paragraphs, checking virtually every word to see if there was anything missing. Short and to the point it might be, but it was sufficient. He leant back in his seat and switched out the light. He sighed with relief. It had been easier than he could have hoped.
When Schonewille had told him to gain authorisation in order to obtain a transport aircraft with a long range capability and had even suggested Himmler, Grauwitz had at first baulked at the idea. Nevertheless, he quickly realised that unless he could obtain an aircraft with sufficient range to transport them far from the borders of the Third Reich, there was no way of making their plan work.
When he and Heger first dreamed up the plan of the false bank account he had hoped to use the secret Odessa organisation to spirit himself and his loot to Spain. However, Grauwitz was by inclination and experience a secretive man and he did not fully trust the newly-formed SS escape organisation. They were too fanatical and too keen to continue the fight from South America. He had joined both the SS and the party, because it was the expedient thing to do. Quite simply, his prestige and power were dependent on them. If the German communists had won government instead of the Nazis, he would have joined the Communist Party. The thought of stealing money for the greater glory of some government in exile did not appeal to him in the least.
As a Brigadeführer in the SS’s legal section he had access to aircraft and after dismissing the Odessa idea he had thought of bribing a pilot to fly him to Spain. From there he had planned to use his legal and banking contacts, plus his financial resources, to get to South America. While he had originally needed Schonewille to provide the vital concentration camp connection, the man’s links with
the pilot Wenck had been both unknown and fortuitous.
Nevertheless, he was troubled. He had initially not told Schonewille directly about Spain, but he knew from their conversations that the SS accountant had believed Spain to be the immediate answer. In their later conversations, Schonewille had hinted how it might be possible to fly further with the right type of aircraft and in return Grauwitz had told him to make plans in this direction and to report back to him when they were finalised. He wondered how these plans were progressing.
Now, the idea of a plane ultimately able to reach Argentina or even Paraguay was very appealing. How Wenck and Schonewille were planning this part of the operation he was not sure, nor at the present time did he care. He had checked up on the pilot and had been sufficiently impressed by his record to reason that Wenck could be left to plan this part of the operation by himself.
At any rate, he was now not sure whether he would need to activate the plan. Despite the intense secrecy, he knew of the planned offensive in the Ardennes. With any luck, the attack might succeed and there would be no need to leave Germany.
Yet, if the attack failed he now had the wherewithal to escape from the doomed Reich. Through the power of Himmler’s letter he had permission to obtain at least two aircraft. If the plans by Schonewille and Wenck fell through, or if he decided he wanted to double-cross them, he now had the ability to fly to Spain on his own. From there he could activate his original plans.
I’ve been very smart, he told himself smugly. Then he remembered the look on Himmler’s face as he ordered him to be successful. Maybe lucky is a better word, he thought to himself soberly.
Wearily, he placed his thumb and forefinger against his temple. The nervous tension had brought on a headache and he knew that over the next few weeks there would be many more. Crossing Himmler was almost as bad as crossing the Führer. Treachery, or what was perceived as treachery, resulted in a terrible fate. A mental picture crossed his mind as if in warning.
Like many others he had been forced to watch a film of the execution of the surviving eight bomb plotters after they had been sentenced to death by the president of the People’s Court, Ronald Freisler. The condemned men had been herded into a room at Ploetzensee Prison and then hung with piano wire from meat hooks suspended from the ceiling. The sight of Field Marshal von Witzleben’s contorted face as the wire bit deep into his neck and his feet pawed the air in a useless attempt to release the strain had been almost too much for him. By all accounts he had not been the only one. It had been whispered how even Goebbels had nearly fainted at the sight.
Back at his office he poured himself a schnapps and then called Schonewille on the telephone.
Half-an-hour later the accountant was ushered into his office. The conversation was short. Grauwitz believed in the maxim of walls having ears. He handed over Himmler’s document. Schonewille was expecting some sort of authorisation, though not one actually signed by the Reichsführer. While he had suggested Himmler as a source to Grauwitz, he had not really believed such an authority would actually be forthcoming.
He raised his eyebrows and gave a questioning look to the SS Brigadier. The man ignored the hidden question and said curtly: “I think you will agree this is more than sufficient to get what you want.” He explained the subterfuge he had used on Himmler to gain the authorisation.
“We may have to obtain a second aircraft to fly those Jews I told you about out of the country and I’ve now got both the written and verbal permission to do so. I’ve also convinced the Reichsführer that Sweden might be a better destination than Switzerland. Therefore, I have permission to base an aircraft in southern Norway where I believe your brother is stationed.” Then as an afterthought in case the walls did have ears.: “The scheme has the complete approval of the Reichsführer, so we had better do a good job. Therefore, I hope your brother is the right man for this operation.”
On the way back to his apartment Schonewille was a worried man. The letter from Himmler frightened him. Despite Grauwitz’s explanation about the Jews he began to wonder whether the Reich’s second most important man might also be part of the plot. After a moment’s reflection he came to the correct conclusion that if Himmler wanted to escape from Germany, he could do so without this elaborate scheme.
Still, he was in an agitated frame of mind when he entered his home. This agitation was heightened by the scene that met his eyes.
Sophia was sitting on a sofa facing the door to the entrance hall, her face as white as a sheet and her dark eyes staring and strained. At his entrance she gave an audible sigh of relief. “Oh Friedrich, I’m so glad you are here.”
Pleased as he would normally have been by such a greeting, the look on her face immediately told him neither love nor affection were the cause of her sentiments, rather relief and fright. He asked what was the matter.
In a quavering voice she explained how she had broken their rule about her venturing out at night alone. She had wanted to buy some bread and had gone out just as the shops were ready to close. Hurrying back in the early darkness, she had been stopped by a young and officious SS officer who had demanded to see her identity papers. Her agitation had caused him to be suspicious and it was only when she produced her papers and explained how she was staying with her cousin, Brigadeführer Schonewille, that his suspicions were allayed.
Schonewille shook his head. He knew her papers would stand up to all but the most thorough scrutiny, but the number on her arm would give her away instantly.
“Liebling,” he said softly. “We have to get rid of those accursed numbers and we must do so immediately. I will not put it off any longer.”
She nodded her head mutely and Schonewille went into the kitchen. Reaching up he opened a cupboard door and extracted a small glass bottle with a rubber stopper. He carefully placed it on a sideboard and then went to another cupboard under the sink where he chose a number of clean rags. He took the bottle and rags back to the sitting room before returning to the kitchen where he filled a kettle with cold water. Taking some cord from a drawer he returned with the articles to where Sophie was sitting silent and unmoving. There was a wooden chair with thick arms in the corner. He dragged it over and motioned for Sophie to sit in it. Without a word, she did as she was bid.
Schonewille quickly undid the buttons of her linen blouse and helped her take it off. He then deftly tied her hands to the arms of the chair and wrapped the rags around both her wrist and upper arm, leaving the crude tattoo visible in between.
He left the room for a moment before returning with an old and thick woollen rug which he placed on her lap with one edge hanging down her right side onto the floor.
“Are you ready mein Liebling?” he asked.
She nodded her head and closed her eyes.
Schonewille knelt down on one knee and carefully withdrew the stopper from the flask. Holding the container a few centimetres from her arm, he carefully allowed a thin stream of sulphuric acid to pour onto the naked skin. Sophia jerked her arm involuntarily as the acid bit, but still Schonewille allowed the liquid to fall until the area of unprotected flesh was a congealed mess. At first she made no sound, but finally Sophia gave a cry of pain and then promptly fainted.
Putting down the flask, Schonewille waited a few moments more and then picking up the kettle began to pour the cool water onto the arm, diluting the acid and reducing its effect. He dabbed the wound, noting with a mixture of relief and distaste how the flesh had lifted away and how the tattoo seemed to have disappeared. He continued to pour more water on the wound until the rug and the floor around was soaked.
Undoing the cords he lifted her in his arms, carried her upstairs and tenderly bandaged her arm. She regained consciousness and moaned but said nothing. In soft words he assured her it was all over and that the acid had done its work. Schonewille did not see the look she gave him. If he had he would have been acutely distressed. It was as if the disappearance of those incriminating figures had released her from bondage, as though the pain
had awakened her from her enforced slumber of fear. The Jewess was suddenly much stronger and even though he was her protector the complicated relationship that had bound them together was, for the first time, beginning to fracture.
Chapter Twelve
10 December 1944
“Zum Teufel, Leo. Sei nicht so langsam.” Wenck swore at his friend because he was so slow.
Captain Swabisch remained unperturbed. He was still unused to the B17 and he was determined the pre-flight check was done fully and in sequence. He sat on Wenck’s right, a clipboard balanced on his lap as he went through the start-up sequence.
“Master switch, on; generator and batteries, on; throttles, idle cut off; fuel, full rich.” Swabisch’s left hand moved to the mixture control levers set immediately in front of the throttle levers and then to the turbo and mixture control lock lever. Satisfied, he continued. “Fuel pumps, on; boosters, on; carburettor air, off; gyros, locked; tanks, cross feed; altimeter …” he paused for a moment and then went on. “Altimeter, pressure altitude, set; supercharger, off; controls, free; automatic pilot, off and locked.”
He looked up and grinned. The small fluorescent light in the centre panel above their heads gave off enough radiance so they could see each other’s facial expressions. Wenck gave a half smile in return. He was nervous, partly through lack of sleep and partly because he was taking this still largely unknown aircraft off on their first night flight together.
Although the cockpit was well laid out, there were almost 200 dials, levers, knobs and other sundry gadgets to be memorised and their function understood. Experienced though he was, it was still a daunting task, especially since nearly all the instruments were still calibrated in their original imperial measurement. The only German instruments were add-ons designed to harmonise with German navigation and radio aids.
He remembered Major Peter Stahl’s final words as they had clambered into the aircraft scarcely five minutes before.
The Reichsbank Robbery Page 13
