by Therese Down
September 1940. Walter Gunther sat in a room with Joachim von Ribbentrop, German Foreign Minister; General Reinhard Heydrich, Reich Security Officer; Joseph Goebbels, Reich Minister of Propaganda and T4 Inspector; and Administrative Director at Brandenburg euthanasia centre, Christian Wirth. Also present was Reichsführer SS, Heinrich Himmler and, considerably less impressively as far as Walter was concerned, were his father-in-law, Ernst Schroeder, and Karl Muller, introduced to the assembly as the Director of Hygiene recently assigned to T4.
Pretty secretaries with glossy hair and crossed legs kept their heads bowed in deference to the sheer majesty of those assembled, though Walter noticed how often the eyes of the great travelled over the slender ankles and lustrous curls of the secretaries. This distraction added to his irritation. Since the bombing of his home and the near fatal wounding of his daughter, he was not in the mood for feminine frippery. In fact, he was aware of a growing contempt for women. Certainly, since his marriage to Hedda he had succumbed frequently to frauleins eager to bed a rich and influential SS officer. But all that had its place. Outside, his beloved Berlin tried valiantly to get to her feet in the early autumn sunshine, her splendour maimed by enemy bombs, and everywhere her pavements soiled by filthy Jews scampering and whining in droves like rats from sewers. Women? Walter had decided they could be confined to two categories – entertainment and weakness. Neither was ennobling and had no place in this illustrious boardroom, where the very future of the Third Reich might be influenced if not decided.
Reichsmarschall Goering was officially a joke since the English had routed the Luftwaffe during the previous two months of humiliating air combat over the English Channel. Goering had assured everyone that victory would be decisive and swift. Just as he had sworn that Berlin would never be bombed. The English were making fools of the German war effort. And instead of being able to pour his fury and shame into an anti-aircraft machine gun and rip the enemy out of the sky, Walter was assigned by Goering to oversee the extermination of cripples and lunatics and now, it seemed, apply his brilliantly strategic mind to the relocation of Jews by train to some godforsaken hole in Poland. He spat on the day he had impressed that idiot Goering.
Himmler had been watching Walter from the opposite side of the boardroom table. This handsome, angst-ridden young man intrigued him. There was in his endlessly working jaw, the narrowing of those icy eyes, something essentially Teutonic. Himmler realized the young SS officer was oblivious to all around him; oblivious even to the fact that the Reichsführer of the SS was scrutinizing his face. Every other young man in the room was shifting uncomfortably and trying too hard to affect the indifference and self-containment Walter displayed effortlessly.
Himmler rose from his seat and walked casually to Walter’s side. “Are you all right, Herr Director Gunther?”
At Himmler’s address Walter got immediately to his feet and saluted, bringing his heels together and bowing slightly as he did so. “Reichsführer Himmler, sir – a great honour.”
“Please.” Himmler sighed and motioned to Walter to resume his seat, his cigar leaving smoke trails as he waved his hand impatiently. “We have not met. I have heard much about your work, though. Very thorough. Very efficient.”
Walter nodded slightly again, trying not to think about the blush that threatened to rise from his throat and creep across his face. “Thank you, mein Reichsführer. I am, naturally, a great admirer of your work also.”
Himmler closed his eyes briefly. This conversation could prove disappointing. “Your part in today’s plans will be key. I think you are aware that we are facing… challenges of quite serious proportions?”
Walter nodded and looked up, straight into Himmler’s eyes. The blush was forgotten. In spite of Himmler’s previous instruction, Walter rose to his feet. “May I speak frankly, mein Reichsführer?”
Himmler looked slightly amused. “I wish you would.”
“I wish to do whatever I can to bring Germany to the greatness which is hers by right. We are so close, Reichsführer Himmler – I can feel it! Once we get these filthy Jewish rats out of Berlin we can think straight. We must… forgive me – we must regroup. Our Luftwaffe is the finest military air machine in the world. We have the finest planes on earth. I worked for Reichsmarschall Goering at the Air Ministry and I know what a lethal weapon the Stuka is – we should not have lost!” Walter’s pent-up fury and frustration were too evident. He swallowed nervously and began another apology.
“Don’t do that! Don’t apologize for being honest. I like your spirit, Director Gunther. I can use that.”
Walter half smiled, swallowed nervously. Himmler shook his hand, then returned to his seat on the opposite side of the imposing oval table. Walter breathed in deeply, calming himself, and resumed his seat. It was, though, hard to get enough air into his lungs. The sumptuous T4 boardroom was opaque with coils of smoke that intertwined like snakes and, growing heavy, seemed to sleep. The secretaries covered their mouths with scarlet-tipped fingers, trying their best to cough imperceptibly.
On a nod from Himmler, a small man with greased-flat side-parted hair and glasses started from exaggerated stillness, slid his clipboard onto the polished table and crossed the room to open a sash window. The chatter reduced, then died, as people took their places at the table and all eyes turned to the figure standing at the head of the table, Joachim von Ribbentrop, the Foreign Minister.
“Good morning, gentlemen. There are several things of grave concern to us at present. Europe is within our grasp, but there are those who laugh at us – who mock our noble aims and fail entirely to understand our superior intellectual and racial motives. They underestimate us.” Here, Ribbentrop paused and looked steely eyed at the assembled company. No one made a sound, several lowered their eyes. Ribbentrop was the most hated member of Hitler’s Reich, barely tolerated by Himmler and Goebbels and not tolerated at all by Goering, who openly lampooned him as an idiot to the Führer’s face.
But Hitler liked Ribbentrop’s barbarity and his inventive, ceaseless sycophancy. Ribbentrop was well known for making notes on even small conversational exchanges with the Führer; for feverishly tracking down people who had been known to have had conversations with Hitler and begging them to recount the smallest details of how the Führer looked, reacted, what he said, that he might write it all down and represent the Führer’s ideas as his own thoughts in later conversations. And Ribbentrop’s socialist zeal made even Himmler’s extremism seem discreet. Hitler had once quipped that where he had to galvanize many to share his visions of non-Aryan extermination, Ribbentrop always out-strategied him, so that he actually had to apply brakes to Ribbentrop’s enthusiasm. This, he had stated publicly, was delightful to him. So, the most extreme luminaries of the Nazi party gathered today upon Hitler’s orders and listened politely to this man whose favour with the Führer they despised but had to respect.
“You may be aware that I was in Italy in March of this year, on diplomatic business with our illustrious ally, Mussolini. I also had the questionable fortune to be granted an audience with the pope.”
Someone sighed, the secretaries scribbled furiously. Everyone wondered what this had to do with the agenda. Ribbentrop, unabashed at his failure to impress his audience, continued, raising his voice as if to compensate for his lack of substance. “Well, he too is laughing at us – from his safe Vatican City in the centre of the capital of our allied Italy. He dared to tell me that we – the greatest race on earth – are barbarians!”
At last, some reaction: Goebbels swore under his breath, a few others mumbled their indignation.
“Yes! As if his position protects him from our censure, gentlemen, Pope Pius dared to list to me a series of our great victories in Belgium, France, Czechoslovakia, Scandinavia, Poland – and call them ‘inhumane acts of barbarism’! I tell you, my friends, we must make it a priority to silence this insufferable pontiff, for it is known how he dares to help thousands of Jews to escape us – piling them into Catholic monas
teries and convents – even hiding them in his own Vatican City, as though he were untouchable. We should start with the Catholics. Did you hear his Easter homily? He mocked us throughout – to the whole of Europe. He is broadcasting anti-National Socialist propaganda throughout Europe on his Vatican radio station. Have you heard him?”
Ribbentrop was becoming agitated. He took out a handkerchief from his jacket breast pocket and dabbed at his brow. There was a slight tremor in his hand. He seemed to recover himself a little, and when he spoke again the whine of fury had disappeared from his voice.
“Reich Minister Goebbels, I am sure you are fully aware of all the pope is doing to undermine our great war effort. I need hardly remind you of the propagandist pamphlets he enlisted enemy planes to drop on Berlin last year. He has poisoned our Catholic clergy and they betray us beneath our noses. We should start with the Catholics – the Catholics and the Jews in Poland should be exterminated. It is necessary! They are working together to make fools of us!” Ribbentrop looked directly at Goebbels, who regarded him levelly in return with barely controlled loathing.
“You take care of your work, Herr Ribbentrop, and be assured I shall do mine.” Several men smirked their satisfaction at the put-down and Ribbentrop’s bridling at the snideness of Goebbels’ response.
“Very well. Ensure you do – as will I.”
“Are we here to discuss the pope, Herr Ribbentrop?” Himmler this time. “Because I understood that it is with Jews we are preoccupied this morning. I should warn you also that my mother is a most devout Catholic and would be scandalized at your heretical denouncement of her beloved pontiff. Are you going to deport my mother, Herr Ribbentrop? I wouldn’t like that, I think.” Sniggers erupted around the table. “And in any case, surely Mussolini can take care of the pope? Even he should be a match for an old man in a dress.”
Even Walter laughed aloud. A couple of secretaries took advantage of the momentary levity to look up from their scribbling and exchange surprised smiles, raise pencilled eyebrows.
“I assure you, Reichsführer Himmler, you will not get rid of Jews while there are convents and monasteries in Europe.”
“Let us turn our attention to the big problem, nonetheless, Reichminister Ribbentrop: the countless thousands of Jews who live openly on our soil, who have colonized Europe like rats. Let us excise the vermin we can see, then turn our attention to that which hides when the majority is destroyed. To the main business of the day, Herr Ribbentrop. I am sorry the pope was clearly so disrespectful of your diplomatic status – you are evidently upset.” More sniggering, though Himmler held Ribbentrop’s gaze while his mouth moved in a tight-lipped smile his eyes did not share. He added, with a sigh, “And anyway, here in Berlin we have our own dear Nuncio Orsenigo to keep a check on El Papa. A true German, Reichminister – I can vouch for him. I have dined with him several times – as indeed have you.”
“Yes, yes,” Ribbentrop responded irritably.
“As have I,” added Goebbels, to general murmurs of interest. “He produced the most exquisite vintage Chianti, as I remember – the old fox wasn’t keeping that for the altar boys.”
Ribbentrop was now obviously angry. “Well, as you are on intimate terms with our dear cardinal, gentlemen, you are aware no doubt that he has just lodged a formal complaint with the chancellery, citing German brutality against the Polish church!”
Goebbels in turn was irritated at Ribbentrop’s rebuke and growing tired of the Foreign Minister’s petulance. “Unless we receive such a document with a papal seal, we should remain unconcerned. Calm yourself, Ribbentrop.” Goebbels’ tone was one of affected soothing. “Orsenigo is not a threat to the Reich.”
“I don’t trust him,” retorted Ribbentrop, leafing through papers, the tremor in both hands quite noticeable now.
“And neither, I am willing to wager, does the pope. Now, Foreign Minister, to the point, if you please.”
“As you wish. Gentlemen, I refer you to your brief. The Madagascar Plan is abandoned. Given our undeserved – and soon to be avenged – setback at the hands of the British RAF, we of course cannot count on captured British planes to evacuate over four million Jews to Madagascar. The deportation is out of the question. The original plan, to exile them to Poland and use it as a centralized disposal base, is again a priority. As you know, the construction of the Warsaw ghetto is underway once more, and it is envisaged that by October it will accommodate half a million Jews. A further 200,000 can be contained in the Lodz ghetto. There are plans for several more ghettos at strategic Polish locations – indicated in your brief – and then phase two of the evacuation plan, ‘Final Goal’, will commence within a few months, and a number of specifically constructed camps in Poland, Czechoslovakia and Austria are nearing completion for the accommodation of at least three million more Jews. The Jew as a species is destined for extinction – natural selection at work, gentlemen.”
Only Christian Wirth clapped and said “Heil Hitler!” at this impassioned crescendo. Ribbentrop nodded to him, wiped his brow once more.
“If I may, Herr Ribbentrop? I believe I should take the meeting from here.”
The voice was one Walter had not heard before and he was intrigued to know more of the speaker. He had heard much about the esteemed General Reinhard Heydrich, Reich Security Officer; of his ruthlessness, efficiency, the esteem in which he was held by the Führer. Ribbentrop seemed reluctant to cede the floor and regarded Heydrich for several moments as if he had forgotten who he was. Heydrich looked amused, then made an expansive gesture with his right arm as if conducting Ribbentrop to a dining table. Suddenly, the latter picked up his papers with great brusqueness and nodded curtly to the audience, moving in the opposite direction to that indicated by Heydrich. Himmler guffawed and Heydrich moved to the head of the table.
“Gentlemen, I need hardly remind you how confidential today’s meeting is. Should any details escape the confines of this room and become known to uninvolved parties, the Führer himself will stop at nothing to determine the source of the leak. I am certain such warnings are unnecessary to such a distinguished gathering. Nevertheless, let it not be said that anyone had as mitigation for political indelicacy that he – or indeed she –” and here Heydrich looked over his spectacles at the secretaries, then smiled charmingly – “was not warned of the consequences.”
He removed his spectacles and, folding them, placed them in an inner jacket pocket before picking up his briefing bundle and folding previously referenced pages behind those he wanted to address. “Please look at page seven of your brief, if you would, gentlemen. Reichsmarschall Goering has asked me to take over responsibility for ‘the Judische problem’ from Foreign Secretary Ribbentrop.”
Here, there were more indistinguishable amused comments and a couple of faux coughs from Himmler’s and Goebbels’ side of the table. All knew how much Goering detested Ribbentrop and how much pleasure he took in depriving him of this key duty, and how much pleasure it gave Heydrich to announce it.
“Firstly, to the relocation of Jews from Germany to Poland in the first phase of the revised action following the abandonment of the Madagascar Plan. As the Foreign Minister said, we estimate that around three million Jews and other enemies of the Reich will be resettled in the Warsaw and Lodz ghettoes in the next month to six weeks. My esteemed colleagues, Aktion T4 Senior Directors Wirth and Gunther –” here Heydrich looked directly at both men in turn – “will assist me in the process. Sturmbannführer Wirth has an especial responsibility in readiness for phase two. He will be based at our Brandenburg facility, piloting some special measures by which we may eventually reduce –” here he paused and deliberately stressed the word, and contemplated his papers – “the numbers of non-Aryan peoples who are resettled in any one centre. Clearly –” now he looked up again, around the table – “concentrated millions of people will be a huge expense to the Reich at a time when we need to be focusing our economic resources on the war effort. Naturally, most of these resettled peopl
e will be put to work. For example, there will be a large camp built – and its construction most generously funded by IG Farben – in the Auschwitz area of Poland. Please see your brief, pages eight and nine, for exact locations and plans. This will eventually be a main camp to many smaller, satellite camps, all of which will provide a new and economical workforce for an IG Farben munitions and chemical factory. It is anticipated that this ingenious and cost-effective plan will be operational within two years.”
“And meanwhile, my dear Heydrich,” came Goebbels’ assured and easy tones, “what will our displaced Jewish and otherwise undesirable friends be doing?”
“Well, esteemed Minister of Propaganda Goebbels, they will be gainfully employed in various ghettoes, and inevitably – often – they will be… dying.”
Goebbels nodded and laughed. Wirth laughed out loud, his head thrown back in an unashamed bid for attention. He was already quite an extermination expert and his Brandenburg brief was to find the most efficient ways of dispatching large numbers of people then disposing of their bodies. Wirth enjoyed his work. He looked around the table, chubby cheeked and ruddy with mirth. There was an indubitable glint of stark madness in his black eyes. Walter hated him. Wirth was crass and crude and wholly untrustworthy.
Walter was not alone in thinking Wirth a psychopath. Many senior SS officers with Aktion T4 responsibility thought Wirth certifiable. His penchant for sadism was breathtaking. Recently, he had come up with the idea of disguising execution chambers as showers, and laughed till he cried when unsuspecting “patients” realized they had been assembled to be gassed, not deloused. “Gets me every time – the looks on their stupid faces!” Wirth had babbled to Walter on one occasion as they timed the deaths of the latest batch of “unworthies”. Walter had smiled and nodded, secretly bored and utterly disgusted by the whole sordid business. It was unsportsmanlike and degrading. Wirth’s credentials for his job were impeccable.
