Brandenburg: A Thriller

by Glenn Meade

  “I want the roadblocks tight. You understand?” Gonzales sighed impatiently. “What about the one you found alive on the lawn?”

  “He’s wounded, not badly, but he’s lost a lot of blood. Two of our men went with him in the ambulance. We’ll make him talk just as soon as he’s patched up.”

  “And the staff from the villa? Anyone alive?”

  “A butler. We found him hiding in the basement. Another butler’s dead. I didn’t count him. Shot in the chest. He must have got in the way of their escape. That makes thirteen dead in all. The butler who’s alive is too shocked to make sense. He took some pills to calm down.”

  Gonzales jabbed a finger at the detective. “Make him make sense. Find out how many people were here. Get descriptions, names. I want answers.”

  The man nodded, walked away.

  Gonzales drew on his cigarette; his hands trembled. He looked back toward the scene of the carnage, shook his head, and spoke aloud. “Thirteen men dead . . . I don’t believe it.”

  All for what? Who were these people? What the devil was going on?

  The sound of an ambulance wailing up the driveway distracted him. Too late now. Sanchez never had a chance. To do what he did was loco. Stupid. He must have wanted these people from the villa badly.

  Footsteps approached, a soft voice saying, “Sir?”

  He turned, in a daze.

  A young cop stood there awkwardly. “Sir, there’s a man out front who says his name’s Cortes. Judge Felipe Cortes.” The young man put the emphasis on “Judge,” hesitated, looked pleadingly at Gonzales.

  “What does he want?”

  “He says he wants to talk to the officer in charge. He seems pretty angry. Wants an explanation for all the noise and shooting. He asked if we knew where we were.” The cop swallowed nervously. “He said this was a respectable area, not some tin-and-cardboard barrio.”

  Gonzales knew the judge: a pompous idiot who lived in a big house with servants and a fat wife. As corrupt as many of his neighborhood friends.

  “Did he?” Gonzales was barely able to contain his rising anger. “Tell him I’m busy.”

  “Sir, I told him. He refuses to listen.”

  “Then”—Gonzales said it slowly, but frustration edged his voice—“tell him to keep his fat nose out of my business. Or I’ll have him arrested for hampering the police in their duty.”

  He saw the young cop’s eyes open wide at the angry disrespect.

  Gonzales stubbed out his cigarette on the lawn. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell him myself.”

  He turned and left the young man standing there, walked slowly back up toward the villa, each step an agony.

  PART FOUR

  39

  DACHAU. WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 21

  Volkmann awoke at eight in the morning and after breakfast checked out of the hotel and drove by Wilhelm Busch’s house again.

  The white Audi wasn’t there, and when he rang the doorbell, there was no reply.

  Snow was forecast in the next twenty-four hours, and he decided that if Busch hadn’t appeared by the middle of the afternoon, he would drive down to the old monastery off the Salzburg road before the weather turned bad.

  There was nothing to do but wait, but his mind was restless. He drove to the old Dachau camp, and the parking lot reserved for the tourist buses was empty. He parked the Ford and walked up to the gate. The railway tracks were no longer there but the camp was still ringed by the original concrete walls, barbed wire, and wooden watchtowers.

  The metal entrance gates still bore the words ARBEIT MACHT FREI. The gates were open, but a sign on the wire fence said the camp was closed to visitors. He saw a truck with building materials parked inside, and decided to step through.

  The camp remained much as it had looked during the war, but the Blockhaus, the U-shaped barrack house that had once served as the administration building, was now a museum and cinema. To the right were the cells that had housed the maximum-security prisoners, kept in isolation by the SS.

  The only testament to the rows of prison huts that had once stood were two solitary wooden replicas, to show visitors how the prisoners had existed in the squalid camp. He saw the redbrick chimney where the crematorium still stood. A sign on the wall outside the modernized Blockhaus annex said in German: “Museum.”

  He opened the door.

  Blown-up photographs hung from the walls, and there were several exhibits in glass cases. A tangled mound of eyeglasses in one, looking like some grotesque work of art; a tattered, striped prison uniform in another, a ragged yellow Star of David sewn on its sleeve. In the middle of the long room stood a grim reminder of the brutality inflicted in the camp: a wooden whipping block used by SS guards.

  On the wall to the left was a series of photographs: victims of the camp experiments, a cattle train loaded with corpses, lines of emaciated flesh that had once been men, women, children, laid out in the sun. In one, a grinning SS officer, hands on his hips, stood looking down at a young mother, wide-eyed in death and clutching a dead little girl with matchstick legs.

  He did not know why he had come here, but for a long time he stared at the pictures, until he was overcome by the images of brutality and torture.

  A noise sounded behind Volkmann. A startled woman stood in the doorway, carrying a sheaf of papers. He guessed she was one of the administration staff.

  “Are you with the building repair people?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “The camp is closed to visitors right now. Didn’t you see the sign outside on the gate?”

  He walked past the woman but said nothing and went outside.

  As he drove out of the parking lot, he was thinking of his father, and he never noticed the dark green Volkswagen pulling out a hundred yards behind him.

  • • •

  When he drove by Busch’s house again, there was still no car in the driveway, but he decided to stop and try the bell just the same.

  When he rang for the second time, the door was opened by a man. Despite his obvious old age and his frail appearance, he was big and burly. He wore tinted, thick-lensed glasses and a woolen cardigan, his sparse snow-white hair combed back off his deeply wrinkled face.

  He peered at Volkmann sternly. “Yes?”

  The voice was sharp and aggressive. The man’s skin was yellow from ill health.

  “Herr Busch, I wonder if I might speak with you.”

  “About what? Who are you?”

  Volkmann produced his identity card. The old man held out a wrinkled hand and stared at the ID for several moments before looking up at Volkmann.

  “You’re the fellow who called yesterday. My granddaughter told me. What do you want?” Impatience bristled in the old man’s voice as he handed back the ID.

  “I was hoping you could help me. I’d like to ask you a few questions, Herr Busch.”

  “Questions about what?” he demanded.

  “Could we talk inside?”

  Busch broke into a sudden wheezing fit of coughing. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his mouth. When he had recovered, Busch wiped his mouth with the handkerchief and said gruffly, “You better come in.”

  He led the way past a hallway into a living room. “This way.”

  The room was long and wide, and steps led down to a warm conservatory. Sunlight poured in through the glass. Framed photographs of Busch’s family hung on the living room walls, and Volkmann saw an old one in black-and-white of Busch in officer’s uniform.

  Volkmann went to sit in a cane chair. Busch was still good on his feet considering his age, but when he sat opposite, he coughed harshly again and placed a hand on his chest.

  “The consequences of old age and a former cigarette habit, Herr Volkmann. The medicine helps, if only for a while. Now, what’s this about?”

  There was a gruffness in the man’s voice that irritated Volkmann; it suggested he was used to giving orders. The images on the walls of the camp museum were fresh in Volkmann’s mi
nd, and when he glanced at the photograph of Busch in uniform, he felt a flush of anger.

  “You’re familiar with DSE, Herr Busch?”

  “I’ve heard about it, yes.”

  “You were with the Gehlen Organization after the war. You were an intelligence officer.”

  “That is correct, yes. But what’s this got to do with—”

  “During the war, you were also an officer in the Abwehr.”

  Busch’s watery blue eyes became suddenly wary. “That was a very long time ago. Maybe if you tell me what this is about?”

  “A case I’m working on. I hoped you might be able to help me.”

  Busch seemed to mellow slightly. He half smiled. “Herr Volkmann, I retired from intelligence work many years ago. I don’t understand why you’d want my help.”

  Volkmann explained about Hernandez’s murder. When he told Busch about the house in the Chaco, he saw the confusion on the old man’s face and said, “Herr Busch, the man who owned the house joined the Nazi Party in Munich in 1929. His party number was six-eight-nine-six. Twelve numbers away from yours.”

  The look on Busch’s face went from puzzlement to understanding. “I see. How did you find me?”

  “I had the Nazi Party membership files cross-referenced with the WASt. There are only two men still alive in Germany who had party numbers relatively close to the number of the man I spoke of. You’re one of them.”

  The heat in the conservatory was stifling, and Busch shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “You said this man in Paraguay was dead. I don’t understand. What relevance has he got to the journalist’s murder you spoke of?”

  “None, obviously, Herr Busch, but his past is very unclear, and someone related to him may be implicated in the murder.” Volkmann paused. “For some reason the man who once owned the Chaco property received large sums of money from Germany, both before and during the war. Your party number was close to his. I was hoping you might remember him and help me to shed some light on the matter.” Volkmann looked at Busch. “I realize it’s unlikely, but right now you’re the only connection I have.”

  Busch half smiled and shook his head. “Herr Volkmann, we’re talking about a long, long time ago.”

  “I realize that. All I ask is that you just look at the photograph and tell me if you recognize the man.”

  Volkmann removed the photograph of Erhard Schmeltz from his wallet.

  The old man took the photograph. He looked down at it, then back up, shook his head.

  “The face . . . I’m sorry, I can’t remember. Besides, my eyes are not what they used to be. I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time.” He went to hand back the photograph. “What was the man’s name?”

  “Erhard Schmeltz. He came from Hamburg.”

  Something flickered in the old man’s watery eyes, and he stared down at the photograph again. When he finally looked up, Volkmann saw the look of disbelief on the wrinkled face.

  “You remember him?”

  Busch said slowly, “Yes, I remember him.”

  “You’re certain?”

  Busch’s yellow skin had turned pale. “I met him many times.” He paused for a moment. “And the name, yes . . . I remember. Erhard Schmeltz. From Hamburg.”

  Volkmann said, “Can you tell me anything about him?”

  Busch suddenly looked very uncomfortable. He turned back and his tone softened.

  “Would you mind if we stepped out into the garden, Herr Volkmann? The heat . . . I . . . I need some air.”

  When Volkmann nodded, the old man stood up shakily, and when they put on their overcoats he led the way to the door.

  • • •

  They sat facing each other on the wooden chairs at the picnic table. Busch looked down at the photograph in his hand. His voice sounded shaky.

  “Erhard Schmeltz, from Hamburg. Yes, I knew him.”

  “What sort of man was he? How did you meet? Anything at all may help.”

  Busch looked back as if he were still lost in reverie. “He knew my father. Schmeltz served in the First War, so he was much older than I. He and my father worked together for a time. The kind of man Schmeltz was? Physically, he was a big man. Tough and dependable. But a peasant, not an intellectual. The type who takes orders, not gives them.”

  “How did you two meet?”

  “It was the summer of 1929, just before I joined the party as a youth. In those days, the Nazi movement was gaining ground. Germany had come out of a war with nothing.” Busch stared at Volkmann. “People say things are bad now, but in the old days it was worse, believe me. Do you know what it’s like to see a man wheeling a barrow full of banknotes to the bakery shop to buy a loaf of bread? Crazy. But that’s how it was in Germany in the Depression.

  “Every day there were riots and protests and armed anarchists roaming the streets. No one could find work. And when people saw university professors reduced to selling trinkets and matches on street corners, they knew they were lost.” Busch removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes. “My father was a soldier in the First War, like Schmeltz. After the war there was nothing for him but a long list of badly paid jobs. We went from lodging house to lodging house, barely eking out an existence, never enough bread in the house to feed a hungry family.

  “And then came the Nazis. They promised prosperity, work, hope. To make Germany great again. Drowning men will grasp at straws, and we Germans then were drowning, believe me. There was a price to be paid, of course, but that came much later.”

  Busch stopped rubbing his eyes. “You might ask what all this has got to do with Erhard Schmeltz? Nothing, except that I want you to understand the background and how we came to meet.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “Schmeltz worked in the same factory as my father. One day in the autumn of 1929, the factory closed down. That evening my father and his colleagues went out to get drunk to forget their sorrows, and later my father brought some of the men home to meet my family.”

  Busch paused. “My father’s friends were very drunk. One of them was Erhard Schmeltz. They all sat around the table in our kitchen having soup and bread. They talked of Germany’s hopelessness. I sat with them. Schmeltz had been a factory foreman. The loss of his position had upset him completely. At the table, he brought up the subject of the Nazis. Most of the other men present were communist or socialist party supporters. My father wasn’t political. But Schmeltz declared that he was going to become a Nazi Party member. He said they were the only hope for Germany and suggested that my father and the others do likewise. Schmeltz even tried to interest me. I was a youth, easily impressed when Schmeltz said he served with Hitler in the First War and knew the top Nazis. A week later, I applied for membership and was accepted.”

  “How often did you meet Schmeltz?”

  Busch shook his head. “After that night, I didn’t see him again for at least another year. We were not close friends, but I got to know him.”

  “You say he knew some of the top Nazis personally. Who did he know?”

  Busch looked out at the bare winter trees. “Himmler, Bormann. And he and Hitler were old army comrades. But I didn’t hear Schmeltz mention his connections again after that night. He was really a very private man.”

  “What was Schmeltz’s function in the party?”

  Busch shrugged. “He helped at elections and played bodyguard. Many times I saw him at party rallies or in the Munich beer halls with some of the Nazi bigwigs. He was more brawn than brain, but a loyal and trusted party man.”

  “Did you know that Schmeltz emigrated to South America?”

  “No, I didn’t. And by telling me, you solved an old mystery.”

  “How?”

  “Sometime in 1931, Erhard Schmeltz disappeared. No one knew where he had gone. But if what you say is true, now I know.”

  Volkmann paused, looked at the garden, then back again. “Do you know of any reason why a loyal Nazi like Schmeltz left Germany for Paraguay?”

  The old man turned back, and said
solemnly, “Why is this so important? All this happened so many years ago. What relevance has it to now, to the present?”

  “I don’t know how exactly, but I believe it has. Do you know why he ended up in Paraguay?”

  “No, I don’t. But I do remember there were rumors after he disappeared.”

  “What rumors?”

  Busch shrugged. “But there were so many rumors. That he had been sent away on a mission. That he had got into someone’s bad books and been forced to leave the country. But which story is true, I cannot say.” Busch hesitated. “You said there was a photograph . . . of a woman? May I see it?”

  Volkmann removed the photograph from his pocket. Busch squinted down at the image.

  “Do you recall ever having seen that woman before?” Volkmann asked.

  The old man looked up. “At my age, faces are difficult to remember. The young woman could be anyone. And my eyes . . . they’re not the best. You know her name?”

  “No. There was just a date on the back of the original photograph. July 11, 1931.”

  Busch peered at the image again, then shook his head. “I’m afraid she’s not familiar to me.”

  “Could she have been a relative of Erhard Schmeltz’s?”

  Busch studied the photograph more closely, then shrugged, handed it back. “It’s possible. I thought perhaps his sister. I met her several times, but it’s not her.”

  “What about his wife, or a girlfriend?”

  Busch smiled. “No, most definitely not. Schmeltz wasn’t a womanizer. He was a big, awkward countryman always ill at ease around women.” He paused, began to say something more, then appeared to change his mind.

  As Volkmann replaced the photograph in his pocket, Busch said, “You’re not telling me everything, are you, Herr Volkmann?”

  The light was fading to gray now, the sun gone behind clouds.

  Volkmann said, “Erhard Schmeltz emigrated to Paraguay in November of 1931. According to records in Asunción, he had with him his wife, Inge, and their child, a boy named Karl. Schmeltz also had five thousand American dollars in his possession. At six-month intervals afterward, he received bank drafts of five thousand American dollars from Germany. At first the drafts were sent privately. But after the Nazis came to power, they were sent secretly by the Reichsbank, right up until Schmeltz died in Asunción in 1943. After that, his wife received the money, until February of 1945, when the drafts ceased.” Volkmann paused. “I’d like to know why Schmeltz received that money, Herr Busch. It may or may not have relevance to the case I’m working on, but I’d like to know. It’s part of the puzzle.”