The Vatican's Last Secret

by Francis Joseph Smith

  It was a game to him now; an old-fashioned game of keep away. The old man was one of the last big Nazi’s left. Only the Israeli’s didn’t know who they had sitting in front of them. They, of all people. He suddenly looks up as if reenergized. “All-right, all-right,” he said licking his lips in apparent frustration. “You will have to provide me with immunity if I speak. Also a new identity, money, passport,” searching the two-way mirror for any sign of agreement. “Meet my demands and I will speak!” a smile creased his unshaven face. If only he could prolong the game a little longer. He wanted to rattle their world with a revelation. Yes, a revelation so great they would have to let me live so I could lead them to the answers. And they thought they had the upper hand!

  The guard looked to the two-way mirror and the room full of Intelligence Analysts behind it, each studying the old mans every move. The white light blinked off and on in affirmation. The Analyst controlling the light switch knowing full well the old man would die of a “sudden heart-attack,” this after providing the details they required. This Nazi pig would surely get Israeli justice.

  The guard slowly eased the key from his pocket, taking as much time as possible to prolong the old man’s misery, unlocking the old man’s handcuffs. “If it were up to me, I’d shoot you now,” spat out the guard in disgust. “Better yet, dump you down by the Wailing Wall with nothing but a Nazi flag wrapped around you,” the guard referring to one of the Jewish people’s holiest shrines in Jerusalem.

  The old man nodded in apparent thanks to the guard. The last thing he wanted to do was piss off the big bastard. The old man was exhausted but happy to be free, moving his arms in a circular motion several times to get the blood flowing once more. Satisfied he reached greedily for the cup of water, almost knocking it over in the process, quickly swallowing its contents in one, long swallow; droplets appearing on each side of his mouth, running down his chin.

  He nodded his thanks once again, wiping the excess from his chin with the sleeve of prison uniform.

  “Alright old man, you had your water— now talk as if your life depended upon it!” shouted the guard — knowing secretly that it did.

  The old man nodded once more, holding up the cup for one more refill. The guard retrieved the pitcher, quickly refilling the cup.

  “Last one, old man,” said the guard in apparent frustration, wondering why he had to wait on this pig.

  The old man quickly gulped down the water. He definitely had the upper hand. They wanted the information only he had. He looked over to the two-way mirror and then leaned back in his chair, a slight grin on his face.

  “A smoke would be nice,” the old man replied. “It’s my nerves that require calming; too much excitement for an old man like myself.”

  The guard looked back to see the light blink off and on in response to the old man’s request.

  An American Marlboro and a plastic lighter were quickly produced from the guard’s shirt pocket. The guard tossed the half-empty pack on the table. The old man reached in and fished out a cigarette, putting it to his lips, the guard lighting it for him.

  The old man took a long drag in response. “Almost a man’s last request, yes?” looking up to the guard, the guards arms folded, patiently waiting for him to start providing some answers.

  After several seconds, the old man looked around for an ashtray, finding none he chose to extinguish his cigarette directly on the table; no need in angering his hosts any longer. He looked over to the gold bar and shook his head before choosing to pick it up, eyeing it appreciatively, his mind wandering back to better times; at least better times for himself.

  “You know, I once had hundreds of these gold bars,” he began before placing the heavy brick of gold back on the table, a smile once again creasing his face. “Hundreds upon hundreds of these little babies occupied a spot in my vault.” He paused to consider what course he should take next, deciding to go for the jugular. “You will appreciate this little story I am about to tell. It will no doubt concern some of your deceased relatives. You know the ones I am referring too, the European relatives that died in the camps. The concentration camps run by people such as myself.”

  The guard readied his hand to strike the old man when the interrogation room door suddenly opened, in walking Lieutenant Silverman clad in civilian attire consisting of a white button down shirt and khaki dress pants.

  Silverman said something in Hebrew to the guard, patting him on the back in consolation; the guard smiled at Silverman as he leaned in to his ear to whisper his reply. The guard then turned to the old man and bid him a weak, “Shalom,” or good-bye before exiting the room.

  After the door slammed shut, Silverman walked over to where the old man sat with an air of cockiness about him. Silverman nodded in greeting before he casually withdrew his 9mm service weapon from the base of his back, placing it roughly in the old man’s mouth. The old man’s eyes went wide as he tried to protest but to no avail. Silverman then leaned down to the old man’s right ear, before whispering: “My associate was being polite with you. I will kill you in ten seconds if you don’t start saying what we want to hear. Do you understand?”

  The old man quickly nodded. His teeth banging up and down on Silverman’s 9mm.

  Silverman roughly patted him on the head. He then withdrew his 9mm from the old man’s mouth, proceeding to wipe his weapon on the man’s pants leg. “Now speak old man.” He started a countdown in German: “Zehn, Neun, Acht; 10, 9, 8…”

  The old man used his sleeve to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. He nodded to Silverman and then to the two-way mirror. “You may want to allow those people behind the mirror to come into this room,” he said before picking up the gold bar once more. “They will want to hear every word I say.”

  Silverman grew impatient. “I’ll be the judge, old man. Just start talking. And it better be what we want to hear; names, dates, locations.”

  “Patience young man, patience,” replied the old man. “Patience and you shall be rewarded with exactly that. I want you to recall an old Jewish Proverb: What you don’t see with your eyes, don’t invent with your mouth.”

  Silverman simply shook his head in disgust, removing the weapon from the base of his back once more. “You of all people!” he said, raising his voice slightly, clearly agitated. “Don’t recite Jewish Proverbs to me to try and provoke a word duel, old man! Just tell me what I want to hear and I won’t blow your worthless brains across the floor.”

  The old man held up his hand. “I will talk and provide you with everything you want to hear,” he said, clearing his throat, knowing he could not toy with his captors any longer. “Do you have any idea of the history of this particular set of gold bars?”

  Silverman shook his head. “No, but I’m sure you will soon tell me, yes?”

  The old man nodded before continuing: “These bars are European in nature, from Jews who died in the camps,” he said a matter-of-factly. “Like I told the guard who was in here earlier, it might be from some of your relatives. Possibly it was fillings from their teeth, maybe wedding rings, and some common jewelry. We wasted nothing in the camps,” he said with perverse pleasure. “Everything was melted together to form these bars,” holding up the gold bar for Silverman to see. “There are hundreds more just like this one.”

  Silverman took several deep breaths, walking behind the old man and out of his view for the moment. He couldn’t let this old Nazi see him loose his cool. He had to control his emotions and the sudden urge to vomit. He was a professional soldier who had witnessed death on many occasions; some by his own hand. But he could never get over the horror of the people herded into the camps to be worked to death, or the ones who meekly went straight to the gas chambers thinking they were showers.

  The old man knew he was in control for the moment and pushed forward. “How about the three tins?” he said, pointing to what resembled three small tins of tobacco. “There used to be four.” He paused dramatically, and then once more looked to Silverman.
“But I had to use one full tin for my escape after the war. Everyone was hunting for me and my boss.” The old man opened one of the tins, emptying its contents on the table for all to see. Out came hundreds of small diamonds; most sparkling in the rooms light. Some of the larger stones still contained the initials of their previous owners, not having been cut and polished since forcefully taken so many years before.

  “Do you know where I acquired all of these beautiful stones?” the old man said aloud, still staring at the diamonds. He acted as though he didn’t care about the repercussions that would surely follow. He just wanted to rub their noses in it. He was an old man now. Most didn’t think he would live to tell his tale. He relished it and was thumbing his nose in their direction.

  Anger was building deep within Silverman. He took several breaths to try and contain it. His superiors wanted everything recorded for the trial. That was, if he lived that long. Earlier they had instructed him to just let the old man wag his tongue. He was, in effect, hanging himself.

  “Jews,” blurted out the old man in disgust. “I acquired them from Jews who came into the camp; my concentration camp to be more specific. I don’t want you to think this was some summer camp. The Jews tried smuggling in these little diamonds but my men found them. My soldiers were very good at what their job.” The old man looked up to Silverman to gauge his reaction. “The Jews made me a very rich man.”

  Silverman started to mentally recite the Kel Maleh Rachamim, the Jewish Prayer for the Soul of the Departed. He knew the man was a murderer of many of his relatives. The least he could do was pray for them while standing over this beast.

  The old man could see he was wearing on him. “Ah, but what you don’t know is the story and the series of events that transpired between 1945 until,” he paused, the pause planned, looking at Silverman then the two-way mirror, then he pointed his index finger down to the table for emphasis. “I happen to have intimate knowledge of events that have, or will ensnarl the governments of Israel, Germany, the Vatican and the man running for the office of President of the United States. I was even with Martin Bormann in the end. I even escaped from Germany with him after the war.”

  Silverman looked to the two-way mirror in disbelief.

  The old man definitely had everyone’s attention.

  At the mention of Bormann’s name, the analysts behind the two-way mirror came alive and started calling their superiors on their cellphones. After the war, Martin Bormann was rumored to have survived and became one of the most hunted Nazi’s at that time. But after several years of dead-ends, most gave up, thinking he died in his attempt to escape Berlin. Now they had some possible confirmation he may have lived.

  The old man was a master at manipulation. Of course, he had many years of practice.

  “Let’s go back to the beginning,” the old man said, cautiously placing the diamonds back into their original tin before moving it beside the other two. He took a slight pause as he readied himself to reminisce, smiling at Silverman as he continued. “My name is Manfred Heber. In May of 1945, I was an SS Colonel and the commandant of a concentration camp in Austria..……”

  CHAPTER 70

  MAY 1, 1945: BERLIN, GERMANY:

  THE FUEHRER BUNKER

  The end was clearly near. Soviet troops were only blocks away. Their artillery shells were raining down at the rate of one every four seconds as the commander of Berlin’s government district met in the Fuehrer bunker with the leader of Nazi Germany, Adolf Hitler. Although Hitler was 5 foot 9 inches tall, now, with his back arched, he looked much smaller. The eyes that his admirers had once called “captivating” were blood red, as if he had not slept for days. His face was bloated, and its color was a blotchy, distressed gray. A pair of pale green sunglasses hung from his right hand; bright light bothered him now. For a moment he gazed blankly as the Commander looked Hitler in the eye and he informed him that his troops would only be able to hold on for, at most, 24 hours and that they would probably exhaust their ammunition sometime the next day. He then asked Hitler for permission to break out of the city. Hitler’s bottom lip curled at the request. Previously he had threatened immediate execution for anyone not willing to fight to the end. But even he saw the pointlessness of further fighting. The odds were desperate. Hitler nodded as he weakly shook the Commanders hand thanking him for his service before nonchalantly dismissing him.

  It was truly over. Even Hitler realized that now. An empire that once extended across Europe and Africa was now down to mere kilometers. But he was not about to be captured and displayed like a circus animal by the victors. He knew that his arch enemy, Joseph Stalin, Premier of the Soviet Union, would love to capture him alive. Hitler’s agents had informed him that Stalin had set up a special unit whose sole charge was to hunt for his location and to capture him alive if possible, dead if not. This troubling news only pushed Hitler’s choice forward by several days.

  That night, Hitler, in a short ceremony, married his mistress, Eva Braun. All who attended knew this was truly the end. Hitler had at one time vowed he would never marry because he was already married to Germany.

  With the marriage to Eva Braun, the end was only hours away. The next day, after a small reception attended by fellow bunker residents, Hitler and his new wife paid their final respects to loyal staff. At the end of the receiving line stood two well-heeled individuals whom no one in the bunker had laid eyes on before today; Horst Myers and Mikel Drunz. Horst Myers was Hitler’s banker from day one in 1933 when he first assumed power. He was rarely seen in the Party circles. His name never mentioned. Myers may not have known where the proverbial bodies were buried, but he, as Hitler’s banker, knew where the money was buried and had access to the secret Swiss accounts he personally set up in the pre-war years.

  Mikel Drunz’s true identity was known only to Bormann and Hitler as that of a Vatican Emissary, sent by Pope Pius XII to work out some last minute details with the Vatican Bank. Technically, he was Hitler’s Vatican Banker. The Bank wanted everything to be legitimate before they would accept any additional money transfers. Unfortunately for Drunz, he was caught in Berlin as the last aircraft had already departed.

  So now, both of Hitler’s bankers were stuck in Berlin; the very bankers who controlled hundreds of millions of monies stolen from all across Europe. If they died, so did access to Hitler’s accounts.

  Hitler decided to speak with Myers and Drunz separately, away from his ever present staff. Each was observed in heated conversation with Hitler. Documents were presented, and then signed. At the end of his discussion, he shook hands and smiled at each as if good friends.

  He waved to most of his staff as he approached his study’s open door. At the last second, just before he was about to enter, Hitler turned and called aside Martin Bormann, his private secretary and part of Hitler’s “inner circle” for many years. Some present overheard Hitler say the name Licio Gelitoni to Bormann, over and over again then he pointed over to Horst Myers and Mikel Drunz. Only a select few were aware that Licio Gelitoni was a member of Mussolini’s Black Shirts and one-time secret liaison between the Mussolini regime and the Nazi high command. It was said by those in power that Licio Gelitoni knew where the bodies were buried because he buried them.

  Hitler now leaned into Bormann, grabbing his shoulder for support to steady himself, his Parkinson’s disease hampering his body’s day-to-day activities. As Hitler spoke, Bormann nodded in understanding, allowing him to ramble on. After several minutes Hitler pointed to him, and then once again over to where Myers and Drunz stood. It was then that he was overheard saying “Germany’s future success resides with Licio Gelitoni and the three of you. You must succeed.” Hitler then shook his hand, bidding him good-bye as he disappeared into his study.

  Once the door was closed Bormann wasted no time, quickly walking over to Myers, whispering something in his ear, then the same to Drunz. Myers shook his head, loudly saying he would not do it. Bormann leaned in once more, Myers smiled this time, nodding. Bormann
patted him on the back. Each now eyed the door Hitler had closed, waiting patiently for the inevitable.

  After some five minutes, a muffled shot, followed by a second rang out. Hitler and his new wife had committed suicide by biting down on cyanide capsules and then Hitler shot her once before turning the gun on himself.