One day I was following Gruppenführer Sepp Dietrich along the dimly lit corridor in the SS headquarters in Munich, beaming with delight at the sight of him nodding with approval at my latest report.
“Look who’s here. The Owl himself, and his new shadow,” he suddenly muttered with sarcasm. I followed his gaze and saw Reichsführer Himmler, who had just entered the corridor from the opposite side, followed by a tall blond man of my age. Despite the personal dislike which the two SS leaders constantly displayed toward each other, they still stopped to salute and exchange handshakes, as two high ranking officers were supposed to, even though all they wanted was to tear into each other’s throat over the control of the organization that each wanted for himself.
While the two were exchanging political small talk, both I and the tall fellow behind Himmler’s back were eyeing each other as well.
“Ah! Where are my manners?” Dietrich remembered about us. “These two brilliant young men should make an acquaintance. They quite possibly will be working together soon.”
Since, according to the military etiquette of the SS that the superior commander would never make introductions of those below them in rank, making exceptions only in the rarest occasions, the one of the lowest rank was to introduce himself first to the one of the higher rank. So I outstretched my hand towards SS-Standartenführer, hardly older than me.
“SS-Sturmhauptführer Ernst Kaltenbrunner, doctor of law,” I introduced myself first, firmly gripping his cold hand. “An official district speaker for the Party in the Upper Austria and official legal representative of SS-Abschnitt VIII in Danube, at your service.”
“SS-Standartenführer Reinhard Heydrich,” he replied with an unexpectedly high pitched voice and a condescending grin, which touched only the corners of his lips, which only doubled my already unpleasant impression of him. “Chief of the Sicherheitsdienst, Secret Service of the Reich. Pleasure to meet you.”
Not only did he exceed me in rank, but he was the chief of the secret service, of which we had only heard rumors about in Austria. It was the way he said it, as if savoring every word and rubbing my face into the fact that he was so much better than me, that caused my immediate disdain. Round-faced Himmler, who was hardly an inch above his protégé’s shoulder, smiled at Dietrich with the same smile that Heydrich had on his long, pale face. My dog has more awards on its chest than yours! Sepp Dietrich, however, was quite difficult to provoke. He returned the smile, with a silent ‘we’ll just see about whose dog is better’ look, saluted Reichsführer again, and all four of us went about our business in opposite directions.
“Well, what do you think of that one, huh?” Dietrich addressed me as soon as we entered his office, obviously referring to Heydrich.
“Looks like an ambitious young man,” I replied carefully.
“Ambitious is right. Too ambitious. It’ll bite Himmler in his…” He sneered, without finishing his thought. “But it will be too late then. He’ll see what he did. Can’t stand that half-a-girl.”
“Why half-a-girl?” I couldn’t help chuckling.
“He talks like a girl, he looks like a girl with short hair, and I constantly catch him staring at his own reflection in every surface like a girl, the egotistic, self-centered Himmler’s suck-up! His place is at Röhm’s headquarters, if you ask me, and not running the SD!”
I was waiting for clarification concerning that last statement about the leader of the SA Ernst Röhm, rival to the SS, but Dietrich just kept angrily shuffling through his papers, not even sure what he was looking for.
“Why Röhm?” I finally inquired gingerly, and immediately regretted it as he shot a pointed glance at me.
“You don’t know about Röhm?” He slightly arched his brow with a grin.
“He’s the leader of the SA…”
Judging by his sneering, Dietrich meant something different by his question. Hardly suppressing another chuckle, he finally went on explaining, “Maybe it’s better that you don’t know. But just a piece of advice for the future: if you ever meet Röhm personally at a Party meeting or elsewhere, and he invites you to his headquarters to talk to you in private about your possible promotion – don’t go.”
“Jawohl,” I answered, still confused, but Dietrich had changed the subject already.
As it turned out later, Heydrich’s impression of me wasn’t much different from mine of him. The same evening I happened to overhear his conversation with Himmler while smoking in the headquarters’ backyard, heavily shadowed by multiple trees and bushes. The window to Reichsführer’s office was open, and I could perfectly hear every single word, absolutely invisible to them in the dark.
“I just don’t understand why Gruppenführer Dietrich is so fond of him. Kaltenbrunner this, Kaltenbrunner that! It’s all he talks to me about, when he chooses to talk to me. Like I care what his Kaltenbrunner does!”
“If you don’t care, why are you so agitated now?” I could hear Reichsführer smirk slightly.
“I’m not agitated in the slightest! I don’t like that Austrian, that’s all. I think Gruppenführer Dietrich is putting too many hopes in him for no particular reason. He didn’t make any impression on me. And his file is not that impressive either. Why Dietrich favors him so, it just baffles me!”
“Kaltenbrunner is doing an immense job in Austria. What seems unimpressive to you is of much importance for the future of both countries. And don’t forget, he has much fewer chances for the promotion there than your lot here, in the Reich, and many more obstacles on the way.”
“Or maybe he’s just not that smart, Reichsführer!” Heydrich continued haughtily. I made a face at the remark, even though he couldn’t see it. I also made myself a mental note to get to that arrogant asshole the first chance I got. “Personally, I am of the opinion that all his promotions are solely due to Gruppenführer Dietrich’s attitude towards him. He would still be a simple SS man here, in Germany. He seems smart only compared to others around him. All of them are nothing more than a bunch of half-wit Austrian commoners, no breed, no intelligence, no nobility about them. Bunch of brainless lumberjacks, good only for their physical abilities. And did Gruppenführer Dietrich make sure that he’s Aryan anyway? He seemed much too dark to me. Like some gypsy; only a ring in the ear is missing.”
“Reinhard!” Reichsführer burst out laughing. “What on earth did he do to you? You just met him, and off you go with some rant about the poor innocent fellow for no reason whatsoever! Of course he’s Aryan, as Aryan as it gets, his forefathers lived in the same area for centuries. He’s a typical Dinaric, that’s why he’s so dark. The Führer is from Austria too, and he has black hair, just like I, the Bavarian. Not everybody is so perfectly milky white as you are, my dear Reinhard. Leave Kaltenbrunner alone and leave your suspicions. And don’t forget, no one, except you, ever doubted his origin, however many people are currently discussing yours.”
That was something interesting. Quickly getting rid of my cigarette, I pricked up my ears, trying not to miss a word.
“You know perfectly well that it’s not true, Reichsführer!” It seemed like Himmler had struck a nerve, judging by his protégé’s quivering voice with notes of panic in it. “It’s my enemies… they’re spreading rumors to turn you away from me! There is no Jewish blood in me, I swear my life on it!”
“I have people still looking into it, Reinhard,” Himmler answered calmly. “I believe that you believe that you are a purebred Aryan. Sometimes we don’t know these things, that’s all. It’s not your fault, and it won’t affect my attitude towards you. Don’t forget, the Führer’s closest bodyguard Emil Maurice is half-Jewish, just like general Milch, the hero of the Great War, both of whom he still calls his dearest friends and faithful comrades. Loyalty, that’s what counts, Reinhard, loyalty.”
“I will be forever loyal to my Führer, to you and to the Reich, Reichsführer!”
“I know you will, my boy, I know you will.”
Especially after I find that missing bir
th certificate, I finished his thought in my mind and smiled the widest grin. Behind that façade of perfection, even the highest leaders of the Reich had the ugliest skeletons in their closets. I had just found out what Heydrich’s was. Now I could go home in peace.
_______________
Nuremberg prison, February 1946
I couldn’t wait for the court to adjourn so I could go back to my cell in peace. I was terribly sick, and cursed my decision to go to the courtroom at all that day. By the evening it was even worse, the flu or whatever the hell had taken occupancy in my body. I refused the dinner altogether, not finding the strength to even get up from my cot, and just shook my head no at the guard through the little opened window in my door. The damn lights wouldn’t go off on top of everything, hurting my eyes even more and bringing back the faint remains of headaches I had suffered from ever since my brain hemorrhages. I covered myself with the blanket and rolled into a shivering ball, sweating and freezing at the same time. I didn’t even stir after the MP guard by my cell called me after another check, “Kaltenbrunner! You can’t cover your head, you know the rules.”
I was already in a half-conscious state due to the high fever that I wondered if he really said it, and who it was and where I was, and why someone was pulling the blanket from my clenched fist, unwrapping me and touching my face. Another voice joined in later on, and someone forced me on my back, rolled up my sleeve and pricked me with a needle. Then they unbuttoned my shirt and were pressing something cold and round to different spots, sending more chills through my body from the unwelcome touch. It hurt me to even feel clothes against my skin, and they kept putting their hands on my throat again, pushing under my chin, behind my ears, until I, with the last of my strength, slapped off their hands and turned my back to them all.
“Leave me alone, I’m dead already,” I mumbled with my burning mouth.
“I’m pretty sure you’re still alive,” the voice replied calmly. “Now turn back to me and take this medicine. Your lungs are in a very bad condition as it is, and we don’t need any complications from the bronchitis, do we?”
After I didn’t comply with his request, the prison doctor, as I found out later, gently but firmly stuck his hand under my shoulders, lifted me up to a half sitting position and pressed something smelling strongly of herbs and medicine to my dry lips.
“Open it. Come on, open your mouth. Don’t make me ask your guard to help me open it!”
At this point I just wanted them to leave me alone, and if swallowing that disgusting herbal stuff would make them disappear, I decided to go along with it. He was right, the doctor, whose face I couldn’t even see because they had finally turned the lights off, and the only source of light was through the opened door, when he said that I would feel better. As a matter of fact I felt very happy and serene in just a matter of minutes after a second shot he gave me. Morphine. I smiled, finally understanding why Göring used to be so addicted to it prior to his incarceration, and why he was always in such a cheerful mood. Morphine was pure kindness, pure comfort, but only until its effect wore off, leaving me feeling even worse than before. He gave me another dose the next morning, but much less this time, and watched my reaction closely after checking the rest of the vital signs.
“Funny people you are,” I remarked, stroking my blanket, which suddenly seemed so soft, not feeling as euphoric as I had felt the night before, but not experiencing any pain either. Just a very pleasant numbness in my whole body. I smiled at the doctor. “You’re treating me for flu, so afraid that I might die of it, just so you will be able to hang me later.”
“It’s not up to me to decide. I’m just doing my job. And you haven’t even taken your stand yet. How do you know what the outcome of your trial will be?”
I softly laughed at the naivety of his reply.
“I’m the former Chief of the RSHA and the highest SS official, who was standing just below Himmler. I was in charge of the Gestapo. My signature is on multiple protective custody orders. What do you think the judges will do? Award me with a golden star on my forehead and let me go?”
“Is he always so sarcastic, or it’s the morphine?” The doctor turned to Dr. Gilbert, who had just come into my cell to check on me as well. Or to gloat, which would likely be more of the reason as to why he had put in an appearance.
“Always, when he’s not playing the offended victim in front of others. Then he’s as meek and pitiful as it gets. Some even made the mistake of giving in to his charms.” The psychiatrist crossed his arms over his chest, looking at me intently, clearly meaning my close friendship with agent Foster, who was still visiting me from time to time, much to Gilbert’s dissatisfaction. “Fortunately, I could apply my knowledge of psychiatry to learn his true character. He’s cunning like a fox. He knows that I know it, and dislikes me even more for it.”
I didn’t react in any way to the provocation, only smiled and closed my eyes. They exchanged another couple of opinions on the account of my health, and finally left me alone. I sighed with relief, turned to the wall and chuckled softly at the thought that Dr. Gilbert wasn’t the only one with such an opinion of me. Most of my former subordinates in the RSHA would most likely agree with him, and the more they loathed me for all the abuse and sarcasm I was generously pouring on them, the more sarcastic and loathsome I would become, as if nurturing the monster they had created themselves.
Berlin met me – the Austrian, who no one expected to be appointed to that post – with mistrust and prejudice, and I didn’t care enough to change their opinion of me. I guess surrounding myself with my fellow Austrians, who I immediately appointed to several key positions, didn’t add to my popularity. Out of the whole RSHA staff only one non-Austrian, for an absolutely unexplainable reason, sided with me. SS-Helferin Annalise Friedmann.
I remembered sitting by the desk in my office in early 1943, late into the night, with an empty brandy bottle in front of me and with a coffee cup filled with cigarette butts, because the ashtray had been filled a long time ago, and pressing a gun to my temple. I was certain that it was the night when I would end it all, once and for all. My life was a complete, hopeless and purposeless mess. I was locked in a cold, hostile city against my will, I hated everyone around me, and I hated myself more than everybody. But what was worst of all, I had just lost the only person who still cared for me and loved me selflessly, even when I, myself, couldn’t understand why.
The previous day Reichsführer Himmler called me in my house in Linz with his condolences concerning my mother’s death and asked me if I wanted to take leave. I gathered all my strength, politely refused, said that the duty for my country was above all, and promised to come back right after the funeral. The only thing I asked him was not to acknowledge the event in any way, and, more than anything, not to let anybody in the RSHA know. I was used to dealing with hatred, but I wasn’t sure that I would be able to handle their pity.
Himmler kept his word, and I was relieved to see that on the morning of my return everybody was in their regular working mode. Only in the evening, when it was time to go home, did it hit me with force. I was going to an empty house, to my empty life, and with no one to call when I just needed to hear simple words of reassurance: everything will be alright in the end, Erni. You’ll make everything right, I just know it. I love you…
I love you. So many women were saying those words to me, and it didn’t mean a thing; nothing at all, not causing any response within me, only disappointment and annoyance like that of a homeless beggar who rushes in the dark to the sparkle of a golden coin only to find a broken piece of glass. The only woman who I wanted to hear those words from now, the only one who could save me and give me some hope, would never say them. She had probably left home already, to her wonderful husband, who everyone in the RSHA spoke so highly of, and who even I couldn’t hate no matter how much I tried. Of course she loved him, he was so polished, so intelligent and respectful, and most certainly his favorite pastime didn’t include getting drunk to th
e point of not remembering anything at all the next day, and waking up in the bed of a woman, the name of which he couldn’t even recall.
No, Heinrich Friedmann was an exemplary subordinate, always on time with every report, always ready with an answer to every question, always compliant with every request but at the same time confident enough to speak his mind if he thought that his way of solving a problem was better. Usually I would say something like ‘Screw you, we’re doing it my way’ and proceed without further discussion, but not with him though. I couldn’t even curse him out, like I did so many times and with such pleasure with my dearest Schellenberg. Friedmann was so much a gentleman, with every single hair in its perfect place, with his uniform always perfectly cleaned and pressed, always shaved – unlike me, especially when I woke up somewhere which was not my home, hungover, and would go straight to work all disheveled and even angrier because of that – that I couldn’t lower him to my level with cursing. Yes, of course she loved him. How could she possibly love me? What was I thinking, hoping that one day she’d finally give in to me? No, she was too elevated, too well-bred to become someone’s mistress. They were so perfect for each other, the husband and wife, it was sickening to look at them. No, she would never love me, never…
The Austrian: A War Criminal's Story Page 17
