“Who is it?”
“Rommel’s envoy, von Reinhardt.”
Von Reinhardt was waiting at the new chancellery when Himmler arrived. The aristocratic officer was seated in a chair in the outer office, and rose to his feet with visible effort, bracing himself on both arms, as the führer walked past.
“I’m rather surprised to see you,” Himmler said coldly. “I would have thought your master would be far too shocked by political reality to continue our dialogue.” He walked to the bar in his office to fix himself a drink. He did not offer one to his visitor, who merely turned to follow the führer with his eyes.
“You’re right,” replied von Reinhardt. “The deal with the Desert Fox is, as you no doubt realize, completely cancelled by the reality of Buchenwald. I daresay if he were here now, he would strangle you with his bare hands.”
“Let us stick to practical matters.” Himmler waved away the idle threat. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
“A deal that can lead to escape for you is still possible—if you are prepared to negotiate with me.”
Himmler stopped, his drink nearly to his mouth. “You? Have you gone freelance, then?” His eyes blinked behind the small, wire-rimmed glasses.
“Yes. I still think the outlines of the deal we reached together are in the best interests of the Fatherland. Rommel, an idealist, feels that bringing you to justice is the most important thing of all.”
“And you don’t? Funny. I would have thought you, too, would have that mystical reverence for justice.” The führer gulped from his glass. He was not a frequent drinker, but now the burn of the fine cognac was soothing to his stomach, and helped to clear his mind.
“Justice is a matter for the gods to sort out. Whether or not you receive justice will have no benefit to a single victim of the camps. This is a fact of ‘political reality,’ as you yourself might be inclined to observe.”
Himmler smiled. “I’m glad you understand that. Our party has written large upon the face of history, and nothing can undo what we have written.”
“That’s correct. The world will never be the same because of the Third Reich’s rise … and fall. So it is silly to worry about the past. Only the future can be affected by our actions in the present.”
“And you an historian.” Himmler took a sip, sat down in his chair. “I am beginning to see where you would take the long view. Please, continue.”
“Being interested in history does not automatically make one a hopeless idealist, you know.” The colonel walked slowly over to the bar. “May I?” he asked, leaning against the rail. Himmler gestured with his hand, and von Reinhardt dropped a few ice cubes in a glass, poured himself a drink from the same decanter the führer had used.
“How very interesting you are, von Reinhardt. It’s a shame you aren’t still on my side.”
“I’m on Germany’s side, if that means anything to you.”
“It depends, I suppose, on what you mean by ‘Germany.’ I am still the lawful leader of this nation, you will remember. My power is not to be scorned, nor treated lightly.”
“I intend no scorn. I simply mean that having you depart peacefully and quickly is in everyone’s best interest. Even Rommel, though I don’t think he’ll be able to understand that harsh truth. For a pragmatic man, our Desert Fox does have that surprisingly deep streak of idealism.”
“So, you’re willing to help the poor, beleaguered Nazi high command escape, are you?”
“Yes.” Von Reinhardt slowly raised his glass to his lips, sighed deeply, then added: “For a price.”
Himmler took another sip of his drink. “Am I now to believe that you are for sale to the highest bidder? Is this how you show your interest in the Fatherland? Or do you have such a low opinion of my insight and intelligence that you expect to fool me by pretending to be dishonest? Come now, von Reinhardt.”
“I’m not for sale. But there is a price to pay.”
“Money? Women? Art? What do you want?”
“Money.”
Himmler shook his head and smiled. “No, no, von Reinhardt. You cannot convince me that what you want is money.”
“Not money for me.” Von Reinhardt moved slowly back to his chair, used his free hand to brace his arm, and slowly lowered himself back to the seat.
“For whom, then?” Himmler was intrigued. He went to his huge black desk and sat down, facing his visitor expectantly.
“For the victims of the camps.”
“Ahh.” Himmler put his fingers together as a steeple. “For the victims of the camps. How much money?”
“Twenty million marks. Gold, I should think. Yes, gold is the only way it would work. I am certain that you have a lot of it stashed around, here and there—you know, just in case … .”
“Gold. Of course you would want it in gold. Very practical.” Himmler laughed. It was a brittle sound. “Keep talking. I find this conversation quite entertaining.” He took another long drink, vaguely annoyed when the glass was empty. Yet he felt relaxed, and masterful.
“You have the Soviets approaching Berlin on one side and the Western Allies approaching on the other. Within a week they will be bickering over the bones of your capital—surely you realize that. The skies above you are dominated by your enemies, and the troops on the ground are so numerous that you will never reach either the Eagle’s Nest or Switzerland or any other place of refuge without help. You might escape as a single man in disguise, but that will hardly meet your needs. First, your face is too well known, and the risk of accidental discovery high. Second, it would not suffice you to escape if you cannot bring with you wealth sufficient to reestablish yourself and the key members of government and Party and hope to rebuild. Shall I continue?”
“Go on.” Himmler waved his hand languorously.
“You will have to escape by car or truck. To do it the right way you would need a convoy. Yourself, a small bodyguard, communications equipment, and all the gold you have here in Berlin. I imagine there’s still a fairly tidy sum available to you. You would head south for a while and then go either toward Berchtesgarten or Switzerland, unless there’s another place available for you to hide. Simultaneously, you would send out of Berlin all the other key officials in small groups and in civilian clothing, so they could make their own way to your rendezvous point. From there, you would bribe and maneuver your way to a safe haven. South America seems like a good bet, I would think. Perhaps the only place on earth where you might have a chance to live as a free—not to mention, very wealthy—man.”
“Amusing. And how would this convoy avoid contact with my enemies? As you mentioned, the Allied armies are thick across the ground.”
“I’m still an intelligence officer with appropriate security clearance. I would provide you with detailed maps and troop movements, and could see that operational orders are issued to keep the enemy out of your way while giving the illusion that the front was still well protected. Of course, you will need to move quickly, but there are still opportunities for you. Neither your eastern nor your western enemies have yet approached Czechoslovakia. From there, you will have a clear road to the Alps. I’d suggest you prerecord some more radio addresses and have them broadcast to conceal the moment of your departure.”
Himmler began drumming his fingers on the tabletop. Should he consider this offer seriously, or not? He looked at von Reinhardt. As usual, the man was the picture of equanimity. He couldn’t read him, and that fact was not to Himmler’s liking. “Let us discuss—quite hypothetically, of course—the possibility that you are planning some sort of double-cross. Naturally, I cannot simply leave my payment with you, and trust you to carry out your part of the bargain.”
“It’s always wise to consider the option of a double-cross, Reichsführer. With all respect, I consider that possibility in reverse, as well. I think it should be possible to create a set of consequences that would make it in neither one of our interests to double-cross the other. We will need to place the twenty million
marks in one location and keep a hostage in another, so that your complete and successful escape releases both the money and the hostage.”
Himmler looked at von Reinhardt with more seriousness. “Would you be the hostage?”
Von Reinhardt paused, took a sip of his cognac, and smiled at Himmler. “Yes. It would not be my first choice of roles, but if it’s a necessity, yes, I would agree to be your hostage.”
“Twenty million marks for my freedom and a chance to start over. I must think on it. For now, I want you to stay the night. My guards will see that you have a comfortable room—one with a stout lock on the outside of the door, of course. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Very well, Reichsführer. But you must know that time is of the essence.”
“So it is. We will speak tomorrow.”
9 MARCH 1945
FORWARD ELEMENTS OF SECOND SS PANZER DIVISION “DAS REICH,” KÜSTRIN, GERMANY, 0247 HOURS GMT
Lukas woke up and looked out the rear of the truck, realizing that the division had entered another city. He knew even before the vehicle started to slow down that this was their destination. In another minute they had come to a halt, and even in the darkness he could make out the truck behind them pulling up close and also stopping.
Within the canopied cargo compartment of this vehicle, he sensed the watching, patient eyes of his men, the twelve veteran panzer grenadiers that Peiper had assigned to him. They were his own platoon of tough SS veterans, and he desperately wanted to prove himself worthy of their respect. Only the whites of the men’s eyes were visible in the almost lightless compartment, but to Lukas they seemed penetrating and keen, as if they could look right into his soul. Every one of these men was older than he was. He resolved that he would prove himself worthy to these heroes of the SS, who were so very different—so much more serious, weary, and yet quietly capable—from the boys who had formed his first command.
“Dismount—schnell!” came the order from outside of the truck.
“You heard—let’s go,” Lukas said, holding back the canvas flap so that the men could climb down to the ground. After the humid, drowsy warmth of the cabin, the chilly night air against his face felt bracing and invigorating, and he was instantly wide awake. A moment later Lukas followed the last of the enlisted men in spilling out of the truck.
Quickly, instinctively, he checked his weapons. His Schmeisser machine pistol was slung across his chest, and many extra clips of ammunition weighted him down as they were slung from pouches at his belt and on his back. His sidearm, a battered but capable Walther claimed from the equipment depot, was secure in its holster on his right hip, with several extra clips for that weapon fastened to his belt. On his left side he wore his knife, the same blade he had carried throughout the war, and the worn hilt felt smooth and comforting when he reflexively wrapped his fingers around it.
“Form up,” he called, as he heard other officers and sergeants shouting the same thing. “Check your weapons.” He was not certain if the latter command was necessary or not, but he wanted the men to know that he was thinking.
“What about the grenades, Herr Obersturmführer?” asked one of the privates. When Peiper had given Lukas his new assignment, he had also given him a promotion from second lieutenant to first lieutenant.
Lukas knew that there were two crates of the explosive devices, affectionately termed “potato mashers,” in the back of the truck. He pointed to the four largest men. “You two, and you two, each take a crate. We’ll carry them along in the boxes, until we get closer to the front.” He was gratified when the men reached into the truck without hesitation, following his orders to pull out the heavy cases.
The night sky was overcast, and the city dark, so he relied on his ears to decipher what was going on around him. He could hear the rumbling engines of tanks, was even able to identify the deeper thrum of a Panther against the rattle of the more numerous Mark IVs. The Second SS Panzer Division might be understrength, but it was still a lethal formation.
Next Lukas tried to get his bearings. He had never been this far east before, but he understood the geography that Standartenführer Peiper had explained to his officers: Küstrin was a city on the Oder River that stood astride the most direct route from Poland to Berlin. It was here that the Russians were expected to make their first great push, and here that Führer Himmler had dispatched his most loyal troops. It was hard to see much in the night, but he perceived mounds of rubble on both sides of the road, and a few tall walls that looked like they might have been intact buildings—though most likely these were just façades that had survived the bombing and shelling. He didn’t know where the river was, but he assumed that it wouldn’t be far.
He saw flashes of matches here and there as the troops started to light up ersatz cigarettes near the front of the column. The trail of sparkling lights moved back, and he saw that a tall officer in a peaked SS cap was coming along the line of trucks.
“Have a smoke and a piss, men,” he was saying. “We’ll move out in a few minutes. From here we’re on foot—these trucks are needed to go back to Berlin and bring up a few more of our friends. You don’t want to hog all the glory for yourselves, do you?”
By now Lukas recognized Peiper’s voice, and it made him feel better to know that the colonel was so near. One of the troops nearby struck a match as he passed, and the tall Standartenführer looked down at the young officer and smiled, a tight look that was almost a grimace. His scarred face was etched in fire, and he looked very fierce—like a mythical warrior, thought Lukas.
“Ready to go to work again, Obersturmführer Vogel?” he asked.
“Yes, sir!” Lukas promised.
“Good. We’ll be putting your grenadiers into some buildings near the waterfront. I’ll want you to wait there, but be ready to move out at a moment’s notice. Understand?”
“Yes, Colonel,” pledged the young soldier, his manner solemn and serious as he suspected a veteran’s should be.
“Good man,” said Peiper, and then he was gone.
A few minutes later they started to march. As dawn came to this blasted city, it was somewhat heartening to see the great number of SS soldiers around Lukas. This was the equivalent of a great panzerarmee, including many divisions of tanks, as well as thousands of battle-hardened soldiers. It was hard to imagine that the Russians could force their way across a wide, deep river when the bank was held by men like these. And vividly Lukas remembered the promise he had made to General Dietrich himself:
They would stop the Red Army here, or they would die trying.
OSWIECIM, POLAND, 1014 HOURS GMT
The Red Army major looked up at the metal gate and its sign, “Arbeit Macht Frei,” and shivered. Although he was a veteran of Stalingrad and thought he had seen all there was to see of man’s inhumanity to man, he now knew there were numerous chapters still left to witness. He turned to his captain. “I think this is rather beyond our authority as well as our capability. Captain Spalko, I want you to get to army-level headquarters with this as soon as possible. Get to the highest-ranking officer you can reach and explain the situation. Come back if possible, but if you receive different orders, you will of course follow them.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the captain. “But Major—”
“Yes?”
“What if they don’t believe me? I mean, I don’t know if I’d believe it if someone told me about this.”
The major looked at the gates and at the camp behind the gates. “Damned if I know. Do the best you can.”
“Yes, sir.”
SHAEF, REIMS, FRANCE, 1045 HOURS GMT
The cathedral tower rising above the central square of this French city bore the scars of many wars, but still loomed proud and straight, certainly the most dramatic building in this small city in northeast France. It was far from the most important, however.
That distinction fell to a three-story building of undistinguished architecture, in a quiet district of back streets near the railroad station. A small sig
n identified the place as the College Moderne et Technique, and in the prewar years more than a thousand young men had attended here, studying various technical trades. Now the large structure held only the most crucial sections of the Supreme Headquarters of the Allied Expeditionary Forces; the rest of the vast command hierarchy was spread throughout the city, wherever they could find room.
The Supreme Commander had chosen for his own office a small classroom on the second floor of the building. It had two windows overlooking the street, though even after the gray dawn these were still covered by blackout curtains. The general—or “the General,” as he was known through the HQ—had put his desk on the old teacher’s station, on a platform slightly higher than the floor of the room. The only other furniture in the room consisted of a few battered, but comfortable chairs.
General Dwight Eisenhower was nearing the end of a pack of cigarettes, and he was vaguely irritated that it was not yet nine in the morning. He had opened the package with his first cup of coffee, some four hours earlier. He shrugged and flicked his lighter one more time; he had more important things on his mind than cigarette consumption, right now. He stepped off the platform and paced the length of the classroom, then returned to his desk. He stared at the telephones, wondering when—not if, since he had already made up his mind—he should give the order.
Of course, he acknowledged that it was not entirely his decision to make. He had made his recommendation, sent it off to the Combined Chiefs of Staff, and expected an answer shortly.
As if on cue, there was a knock on the door followed immediately by the entry of Ike’s chief of staff, General Walter Bedell Smith. He greeted the Supreme Commander cheerfully.
“Ah, Beetle. I take it you’ve got my cable?”
“Came in less than an hour ago, sir.” He opened his blue leather folder and pulled out a sheet of paper, reaching to lay it on the desk. Eisenhower snatched it up before it came into contact with the surface. His eyes went right to the meat of the message:
Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine) Page 47
