Nothing left to lose

by Stuart Allison

  ‘I see your point. Put the two ideas together and we have a possible solution. I believe Hoess is already constructing a huge camp at Auschwitz-Birkenau; we could amend the plans to include gas chambers and some means of disposing of the bodies. Yet it would be a mammoth undertaking. I’ll see what the conference thinks of the idea tomorrow.’

  Thus in essence, I became, if not the father of the Holocaust, then one of the minds that helped to fashion it, a heavy burden to carry for the rest of my life. Now, not a day passes that I do not regret bringing those ideas to Heydrich’s attention in my eagerness to please him. The rest of the Wannsee conference is a matter of historical record, there, thanks to my prompting; the decision was made to exterminate a race of some twelve million souls.

  Life in Prague continued in what had become its routine way. I dealt with matters for Heydrich and spent weekends with his family, who I came to regard as my family. Heydrich became a kind of elder brother to me. He sent me to Auschwitz-Birkenau to report on the construction of the camp with its new gas chambers and crematoria. Not being content with the progress, he left me there to oversee and expedite the construction, by ensuring that Hoess got all the resources and co-operation he needed.

  I was still at Birkenau when I heard that Heydrich had been wounded in an assassination attempt on May 27th. A partisan had attempted to spray his bulletproof car with a machine pistol. When the pistol jammed, Heydrich had ordered his driver to stop and drew his sidearm to arrest the assassin, so typical of him. As he exited his car, a second partisan threw a bomb into the vehicle, wounding both Heydrich and himself. True to type, Heydrich had pursued his assailant despite his wounds, but had become weak from shock and sent Klein his driver to pursue the bomber. Klein had been wounded in the ensuing gunfight and the culprit had escaped. All this I learned in a phone call from Lina, Heydrich’s wife, who assured me that he was not seriously wounded. He had a broken rib and had lung and spleen damage, but the surgeons who had operated on him were confident he would make a full recovery. Two days later, Lina phoned again, infection had set in caused by the horsehair stuffing from the car seats that had entered his body in the explosion. The prognosis was not good. I set off at once in my staff car. I arrived in Prague three hours later and went straight to the hospital. Heydrich was feverish and pale. I stayed with him an hour, then at his request escorted Lina home to the children. The next day, doctors told us there was nothing else they could do, the septicaemia was too advanced. The following day Himmler flew to Prague to visit Heydrich. In Himmler’s presence he said goodbye to his children and later that day, after Himmler had left, he slipped into a coma from which he never recovered. He died two days later with Lina and I beside his bed. In death his face took on an ethereal beauty I had never noticed in life. I took Lina home and sat with her as she informed the children that their beloved father was dead.

  I was filled with a deadly rage at the death of my ‘brother’, a sensation I had not felt since Spain. I vowed then and there to extract vengeance for my dead friend. First I had a final service to perform. I escorted his body back to Berlin and was one of the pallbearers who carried his coffin to his final resting place in the Invalidenfriedhoff. I stood comforting Lina, whilst his eulogy was read by Himmler. At the end of the ceremony the Fuhrer himself spoke to Lina to offer his condolences.

  In my absence from Prague the assassins had been located in the vault of St Cyril’s church, where they had held out against repeated attacks and committed suicide when their capture became inevitable. My chance to fulfil my vow to avenge Heydrich had gone. Nevertheless I flew back from Berlin straight after the funeral.

  The Fuhrer had ordered widespread reprisals for Heydrich’s death. He ordered the execution of 30,000 random Czechs and told the SS to “wade in blood” to find his killers and their associates. He was persuaded by Governor General Frank to moderate his response, yet I believe some 14,000 people were arrested and sent to camps. The Gestapo unearthed a link between the village of Lidice and one of the assassins. The Fuhrer ordered “teach the Czechs a final lesson in subservience and humility” and I was glad to arrange it.

  I accompanied the SS reprisal squad to Lidice, technically Hauptsturmfuhrer Max Rostock was in command, but outranking him, it was my orders that prevailed. On my orders all of the inhabitants were rounded up. Males over fifteen were locked up in a number of farm buildings, whilst the women and children were incarcerated in the school. In batches of ten, I had the 173 men and boys executed by machine gun fire. Such was my rage that I commanded the execution detail personally. When I was finished seventeen rows of bloody corpses lay on the ground, some with viscera hanging out and others with shattered skulls and I felt satisfaction. The women I had removed to Ravensbruck concentration camp. The children went to Chelmno, with the exception of a few very young children, who were sent for re-education in German families. I cared not that this was the same as a death sentence. Finally I ordered that engineers bring up explosives to raise the village to the ground. It was in the course of this that I was hit in the hand by shrapnel and doctors were forced to amputate what remained of the little finger on my left hand. Hardly a glorious episode, but I was nevertheless awarded a silver wound badge. Now I regret those actions, my only defence before God will be that I was lost in grief for my friend. Today it seems like insanity had gripped me and robbed me of all rational thought, leaving only a visceral desire for vengeance.

  After Lidice I took the leave that been accruing for the past year and spent the time in Berlin with Lina and the Heydrich children, to whom I was Uncle Willi. At the end of my leave I was sent back to Auschwitz-Birkenau as an adviser to Commandant Hoess. I was to spend the next two years at Auschwitz. Strangely it is my time there that weighs lightest on my conscience, as I was not involved with the killing. My task was to ensure that the economic opportunities were exploited to the full. Commanding the administration of what the inmates called Kanada, I was responsible for ensuring that all assets were returned to the Reich, from high value items like gold, jewels and currency to items for recycling such as spectacles. I was sure that there was a degree of corruption amongst the men under my command, but try as I might, I could prove nothing.

  In late 1943 rumours of corruption reached the ears of the authorities and Morgen, an Obersturmbannfuhrer from the RPKA arrived to investigate. I have no doubt that he thought that I was involved, for he spent hours questioning me. Eventually, only two of my men were arrested. Despite his efforts, Morgen failed to garner any evidence against me, but I felt sure that what he could not find, he would fabricate. Knowing he kept all of the evidence in the hut he was using as the centre for his investigation, I ensured that nothing would come back to haunt me, thanks to a judicious piece of arson. Although nothing could be now proved against me, my reputation was seriously damaged by his allegations. I was incensed after all my service to the Reich and decided that if I was to be accused and treated as if I had committed these crimes, then I may as well feather my own nest. I began to retain items of high value that were easily hidden and transported, diamonds and other precious stones were particularly useful in that respect. In the following months I accumulated a fortune in precious stones. Today I admit that my actions were morally dubious, but as the true owners were dead, it still does not feel like theft. Of all my crimes, this is the one that bothers my conscience least. These actions did allow me to care for my family and in the period after the war, I have taken the money that I have amassed from the prudent investment of those valuables and I have anonymously donated a far greater sum to Jewish charities. I hope that goes some way to making amends.

  Father Charlie put his head round the door of the study.

  ‘I don’t want to disturb your reading, but I’m going to say evening mass, feel free to make yourselves a drink, while I’m gone.’

  ‘Is it that late already?’ Lisa asked. ‘We’ll never get to the end. We’re just getting to the good part, how he managed to get away with all this.’
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  ‘Mmm, he does seem to be a walking war crime. There seem to be few atrocities that friend Miller did not have a hand in. I love the way that mere theft does not bother his conscience. I should think not, it’s the merest trifle in comparison with two counts of mass murder and involvement in planning genocide.’

  ‘I know what you mean, I’m getting a bit tired of all the hand-wringing, “Oh I’m so sorry for my crimes, forgive me.” Some things are unforgivable. Come on, let’s take a short break for a drink, it’ll help our concentration and in the long run will speed thing up.’

  ‘Okay, ten minutes then it’s back to the death-throws of the Third Reich!’

  ‘Right, I’ll go make some tea then.’

  Chapter 31

  Our break lasted fifteen minutes, then it was back to the story. With tired eyes we continued to read the journal.

  I remained at Auschwitz until early 1945. With the war now going against Germany, a number of senior army officers attempted to assassinate the Fuhrer with a bomb at his Rastenburg headquarters. The SD were ordered to root out the traitors and Kaltenbrunner, Heydrich’s successor recalled me to Berlin to help with the investigation. The main protagonists in the plot von Stauffenberg, Olbricht and von Haeften had been overzealously executed by General Fromm and died without being questioned. On the Eastern front, General von Tresckow had chosen to commit suicide in no-man’s land with a hand grenade. On the orders of the Fuhrer, the SS were to spare no efforts in identifying and bringing to justice all of those involved in the conspiracy. Himmler passed the law of sippenhaft, the relatives of those involved in the conspiracy were also to be held responsible and punished. This was my task for Kaltenbrunner, I was to identify and arrange for the arrest of the relatives of the accused conspirators. I did not personally carry out the arrests, but followed my orders in identifying and having transported to camps people like von Stauffenberg’s wife and brother, von Tresckow’s wife. For once I have few regrets for my part in these events. If I had not followed my orders then another would have done so.

  ‘The old excuse, I was just obeying orders. That’s what all the war criminals tried to use as a defence.’ I exclaimed in annoyance.

  ‘I see your point; he does exactly as he’s ordered, perhaps even willingly, then he tries to wriggle out of the moral consequences.’

  ‘Sorry for disturbing you, it’s just that he really annoys me, always seeking to put the best complexion on his actions. “I was grieving, I was furious, I was ordered.” It makes me sick. Anyway, back to the journal, we must be getting near to the end of the story.’

  It was clear to everyone but the Fuhrer, that the war was lost. With the Russians pressing from the east and the British and Americans crossing the Rhine in the west, I began to plan how to extricate myself from the mess that was Germany. I realised that I would be a wanted man once Germany fell and began to plan my escape. I was not alone in this; many in the SS began to seek to escape the retribution of the Allies. The "Organization Der Ehemaligen SS-Angehörigen”, the organisation of former SS members or Odessa was already helping prominent SS officers to escape the Reich. I did not want to spend my life in South American exile like so many of my colleagues. I had the resources to start a better life and I realised that it would be easy for me to disappear into the chaos of the collapsing Reich and reappear in a new identity, a British one, which would get me out of Germany. Unlike members of the Waffen SS, I had never had my blood type tattooed on my arm, it had not been necessary, as even in my time with Sepp, I had been nowhere near combat, thus there was no physical way to identify me. It was simply a matter of the paperwork that would allow me to disappear. Consequently, Odessa procured for me forged identity papers and a British Army uniform. So William Miller, or Wilhelm Muller as I was known disappeared and Corporal Reg Clayton of the Royal Army Service Corps, prisoner of war, took his place.

  ‘What’s that about tattoos?’ Lisa asked, ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘Member of the Waffen SS, effectively the SS army, had their blood group tattooed inside their left arm, to ensure they had first call on supplies of blood if they were wounded.’

  ‘Charming! Sorry to have interrupted your concentration, I didn’t know if it was important.’

  In the dislocation following the collapse of Germany, there were many former prisoners of war roaming around, thus I hid myself in plain sight. I was picked up by the Army, who fed me and issued me with a new uniform. Things were too chaotic for identities to be checked against military records and within a matter a few days I had been repatriated to Britain. It would not be possible to maintain the guise of Reg Clayton in a civilian society of birth certificates, passports and all the red tape of the state. Once in England, I heard about the destruction of Coventry, which offered me the opportunity to change my identity again. I visited the city posing as a bereaved prisoner of war, searching for relatives. I found the grave of Peter Sinclair, who had died in infancy. Had he survived, he would have been my age. Alongside him were buried his mother and father, he was the ideal candidate. I obtained a copy of his birth certificate and Peter Sinclair was reborn. The jewels I had looted from Auschwitz were slowly sold off for me to obtain the capital to finance my new life. My one regret was that I could not see my beloved mother. William Miller had to remain dead. I took care of her anonymously; it was too little, but it was all I could do for her. No-one knew my identity and I had to preserve that secret. Even my wife never knew of her husband’s previous life.

  Now, in old age the sins of my past weigh heavily on my conscience. I have returned to the Church of my youth. In an attempt to atone for my sins, I told everything to my friend and confessor Father Nathan Donovan. This text is the result of my talks with him, a way of me coming to terms with my guilt.

  Peter Sinclair 31st October 1986

  ‘So that’s it then.’ Lisa said. ‘It’s all a bit of an anti-climax.’

  ‘Yes, I feel a bit deflated. It seems strange to have reached the end of the story…or is it? Look, there is another page here.’

  Turning the page I showed to her another addition on the page after the signature.

  Postscript

  Today I told my son Richard, the secret of his heritage. He expressed some surprise at my confession. I explained the full horror of my appalling actions during two wars. I was amazed at Richard’s reaction to my disclosure. Far from condemning me, he applauded my wartime record, expressing a fiery hatred for Jews and communists. My late wife and I did all we could to ensure that his upbringing would produce an educated, liberal, humanitarian. In many respects he reminds me of myself at his age. It seems that blood will out and the hatred I carried in my early life still runs in the blood of my son, though for less reason. In my discussions with him, he extolled the virtues of Hitler and decried me for abandoning the politics of my former life. Despite what I had told him about my own experiences, he vehemently denied the holocaust had happened, claiming it was a mixture of fabrication, anti-Nazi, pro-Zionist propaganda and exaggeration. It seems hard to credit that my educated son could deny the veracity of events that I witnessed with my own eyes.

  Richard has expressed political ambitions which I shall do my best to suppress. He has all of the charisma of the Fuhrer, but is far better educated and in many ways less politically naïve. I genuinely fear for the fate of Britain should he ever enter politics in earnest. I have committed many sins in my life, but I sincerely believe that my son is capable of worse. For now, I will try to direct his energies into business, but with the restless energy he displays, I fear business will not hold enough attraction to make him permanently eschew a political career. I can only hope that someone will prevent him from making mistakes of an even great magnitude that mine.

  P.S. 27th January 1988

  ‘That’s a damning indictment of Richard Sinclair, considering his father’s record.’ said Lisa.

  ‘It could do enormous damage to Sinclair and the BNRA if it became public knowledge. If Sinclair suspects
the existence of this journal, you can see why he would go to any length to keep it secret.’

  ‘The revelations about his father would be damaging enough. Now we know for certain why there have been so many attempts to stop us.’

  ‘Yes, but can you imagine the damage that would be done, if his father’s opinion of him became public? With his father’s background, the idea that Sinclair was too extreme for him would certainly hole him beneath the waterline.’

  ‘You do realise how dangerous this information is? Sinclair would stop at nothing, and I mean nothing, to prevent this going public. If we were in danger before, then it just increased tenfold. It really is a matter of publish or die.’

  At this juncture Father Charlie returned from evening mass, enquiring about our progress. We gave him a brief outline of the end of the journal’s story. Finally we showed him the postscript. He put on his glasses and read the last page, frowned, then reread it.

  ‘I think this puts a whole different complexion on me allowing the publication of this journal. I believe from the postscript that Peter Sinclair would want his confession to be published, if it stopped the political ambitions of his son. So if you want to publish, you have my blessing. You can take the journal with you as evidence to support your story.’

  I thought about this. ‘I think it would be better if the journal remained in your care Father. I’ve taken enough notes for us to be able to write the final part of the story. We have already suffered enough threats because of our findings; this could make us even more vulnerable. Sinclair would go to any lengths to get his hands on it. He knows about us, but you are an unknown, so the book will be safer with you. We may need to produce the journal as proof of our article, if you have it; we know where to find it. You are our failsafe.’