by James R Benn
Henri spoke with a light French accent, his English as flawless as his cheery manners. He smiled as he opened a cigarette case, silver, with his initials engraved, and offered them around. Victor was the only taker, and Henri produced a gold lighter to get their smokes going.
“It’s only gold plate,” Henri said, catching me staring at the lighter. “I haven’t figured out a way to take my work home with me. Not yet.”
“Sorry,” I said. “The thought hadn’t crossed my mind. Not yet.”
“Good one, Billy,” Victor said, giving Henri a friendly jab to the arm. “Henri’s a real kidder. Hard to know when to take him seriously.”
“Do you two work together?” Kaz asked, swiveling his head to see who might be listening.
“Henri is a valued contact within the banking community here in Bern,” Victor said. “We are hoping that he’ll be involved in the Safehaven negotiations soon. Meanwhile, he provides what information he can.”
“Such as this little parade,” Henri said, as the roar of motorcycles sounded in the distance. “It should demonstrate the scale of the issue.”
“But why are you helping us?” I asked. “You work for the Swiss National Bank, after all.”
“I have my reasons,” Henri said, tapping ashes from his cigarette as the noise grew louder. “Now enjoy the procession.”
The roar of revving engines echoed off the stone buildings, announcing their arrival before we could see them. Six police motorcycles finally came into view, turning a corner into the wide thoroughfare leading to the plaza. They proceeded slowly, two abreast, the riders keeping a perfect formation. A Swiss army open staff car came next, officers in their kepi hats in the backseat, soldiers with submachine guns standing on the running boards.
Then came the main event. Five Mercedes-Benz heavy trucks, all with the German eagle and swastika insignia stenciled on the door. The canvas flaps were tied down, giving no hint of the cargo inside. But their slow pace and sagging truck beds were dead giveaways. One last truck was filled with Swiss soldiers, rifles at the ready. The convoy crossed the empty Bundesplatz, the Swiss escort peeling off, vanishing down a side street. The Germans drove to the Swiss National Bank, taking a road along the left side of the building and slowly turning right as massive wooden doors opened to greet them. With a great grinding of gears, the large trucks made the turn, moving into the interior of the block. The wooden doors shut with a great thud, followed by silence.
“How much gold just passed us by?” I asked.
“Each truck carries four thousand pounds of gold. Less than their capacity, in case one breaks down. Gold is going for thirty-six dollars an ounce, which is, let’s see,” Victor said, taking out a pen and doing the math on a napkin.
“In American dollars, five hundred seventy-six dollars per pound. That’s a little over two point three million per truck. Eleven and a half million and change,” Henri said.
“Only a banker would consider twenty thousand bucks loose change,” Victor said, finishing his calculations.
“The bank takes a cut,” Henri said. “A fraction of one percent for unloading, registering the deposit, that sort of thing. And then there’s the personal deposits for the Nazi leaders who suddenly see the wisdom of keeping a secret account. In addition to the gold bars, there are briefcases stuffed with cash, jewelry, and securities, all destined for personal accounts.”
“Accounts that are illegal for Germans to hold,” Kaz said. “Won’t Georg Hannes be interested?”
“The Nazi bosses are above all that. There is no legality in the Third Reich,” Henri said, the gracious smile gone from his face. “There is only what the Nazi leaders want. Hannes is undoubtedly following their example and salting away his own stolen funds.” A waiter hovered nearby, but Henri waved him off.
“Is this sort of convoy commonplace?” I asked.
“Less than it used to be,” Victor said. “One of the goals of Safehaven is to expose the illegal gold transactions coming out of Germany. The Nazis don’t care about legalities, but the rest of the financial world does.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand high finance,” I said, draining my glass. “Can you give me the simple version?”
“Of course,” Henri said, filling my glass and signaling to the waiter for another bottle. I didn’t argue. “There are international treaties going back to before the last war, which say that a conquering nation may expropriate public property, but not private property. Most banks, even if they function as a national bank, are private.”
“But the Nazis make no such distinction,” Kaz said.
“Precisely,” Henri said. “But other nations do and will not overtly do business with an offending nation.”
“It’s a matter of public record that Germany began the war with less than a hundred million dollars in gold reserves,” Victor said, leaning in and keeping his voice low. “They spent that much in gold buying Swiss francs last year alone. All told, they’ve sold about three hundred million in gold to Switzerland and nearly that much to other nations since the start of the war.”
“Looted gold,” Kaz said.
“Yes,” Henri answered. “Over two hundred and twenty tons from Belgium’s banks, and thirty-nine tons of gold confiscated from Dutch citizens, as two examples.”
“Do you know about gold from the concentration camps?” Kaz asked.
“Yes, although at times I wish I did not,” Henri said. “Gold fillings, wedding rings, jewelry, all melted down into gold bars. A good bit of that goes into the private accounts for the SS.”
“Okay, so there’s a law against using that gold. If that’s the case, why are the Germans sending so much of it here?” I asked.
“Oh, because Swiss banks can be very obliging,” Henri said. The wine came, and he poured himself a large glass. “Especially my own. The SNB accepted the Belgian gold after the Nazis melted it down and gave each bar a predated stamp. The bank knew and turned a blind eye.”
“Do they know about the gold from the concentration camps?” I asked.
“They do not wish to know,” Henri said with a heavy sigh.
“But I still don’t understand,” I said. “If other nations won’t accept the gold, what good does it do the Germans stored here in Bern?”
“Well, it’s not so much that governments don’t want the gold,” Henri said, sitting back and taking a drag on his cigarette. “It’s that they don’t want to be seen taking it.”
“Here’s an example,” Victor said. “Germany needs tungsten. Portugal has plenty, but doesn’t want to be a pariah in the world community, so they won’t take looted gold. They’re also not fools, so they don’t accept cash from the Germans. Reichsmarks won’t be worth a penny when the war is over.”
“But they will take Swiss francs,” Henri said. “And right now, across the plaza, Nazi purchasing agents are selling that shipment of gold to the Swiss National Bank for Swiss francs.”
“Which the Germans will then use to pay the Portuguese for tungsten,” Kaz said, putting it all together. “Who will then sell the Swiss francs back to the bank for gold bullion.”
“Manganese from Spain, chromium from Turkey, it’s all the same. Everyone wants gold, no matter where it comes from, as long as the paperwork is in order,” Victor said.
“Gold stolen from banks, homes, and ripped from the jaws of the dead,” Henri said. “We Swiss take a small percentage, a handling charge, and everyone gets rich. While Europe burns.”
“And the gold never moves from the SNB vaults,” Victor added, glancing toward the bank, where the wooden doors opened as engines roared to life. The five vehicles filed out, rumbling across the plaza and passing us by, their canvas flaps loose, their truck beds empty.
“You mentioned what lies beneath when we toasted,” I said. “The vaults?”
“Yes,” Henri said, gulping the last of his w
ine. “The SNB vaults are deep underground beneath this beautiful plaza. The gold of defeated nations, murdered Jews, and all the other unfortunate victims of the Nazis lies buried safely there, deep in the bosom of Switzerland’s most sacred space, our national bank.” His face was clouded with anger, and he turned away to stare at the bank. Or to avoid meeting our eyes.
“You are doing all you can to help, Henri,” Victor said. “It can’t be easy, keeping such a secret.”
“It is hardly enough,” he said.
“Your sympathies are not known?” Kaz asked.
“I do my job, and try not to reveal my true feelings,” Henri said. “It is best for my family that way. They think of Switzerland as a bastion of freedom and a democratic, neutral state. A moral center amid a depraved Europe, as my father says. I don’t know which would devastate him more—knowing the truth of what we’ve done, or finding that I’ve worked with Victor, an American, to end it. Neither fits their picture of the true Switzerland.”
“It was Henri who tipped us to Hannes asking about Lowenberg,” Victor said.
“A newly hired teller gave Hannes the information,” Henri said. “He came to me the next day because he sensed something was not right. Before we could do anything, Hannes had returned with Lowenberg, who closed out his account. As Victor probably told you, Hannes never worked that quickly before.”
“Would you lose your job if the bank discovered you were passing on this sort of information?” I asked.
“Most likely. My superiors view me as a bit of a dilettante, so they excuse my friendship with Victor and other foreigners. We Swiss are really very insular and mistrust nations that claim to be great powers. We prefer things on a smaller scale, as befits our geography. Except for gold, which we prefer in large quantities. But enough of that. Let us eat, gentlemen. It is a beautiful evening, the air is warm, and we have riches at our feet.”
Henri passed around the menus, smiling as Victor and Kaz laughed. He was the kind of guy who was full of words, which made him seem full of life, but there was something that lay beneath the surface, and it wasn’t gold. It was a darker secret that he masked with a playboy’s nonchalance.
“What do you recommend?” I asked, perusing the menu, which wasn’t in English.
“What are you in the mood for?” Victor asked.
“Sausages and potatoes.”
Chapter Fourteen
We all ordered sausage with potatoes and toasted the memory of Werner Lowenberg. Henri chose a bottle of Swiss chardonnay, declining the waiter’s suggestion of a German Moselle. After dinner we strolled down to the Dalmazibrücke, the pedestrian bridge over the Aare River, to see if Doctor Frenkel’s theory of suicide made any sense. Victor filled Henri in on our visit to the morgue as we walked. The sun had set, but it was a clear night, easy enough to find our way even in the blackout.
“A suicide?” Henri said as we crossed the bridge. “I think the police need a new coroner.”
He had a point. The bridge was low, only fifteen feet or so from the river. The railing was only chest high, so jumping wouldn’t have been a problem. But the height wasn’t enough to do more than give you a good soaking.
“Perhaps he could not swim,” Kaz suggested. “The current is quite swift.”
“What about that bridge?” I said, pointing to the dark form of a larger and higher span upstream.
“The motorway bridge has a high fence,” Victor said. “Not very likely.”
“But it would be easy enough to whack a guy on the back of the head and heave the body over this railing,” I said. “You’d only have to stun him, so the wound looks like a contusion from being rolled around in the water.”
“Especially if the coroner is a Nazi sympathizer,” Victor said.
“Do you think Frenkel is deliberately covering up a murder? That’s much worse than official indifference because Lowenberg was a fugitive Jew,” Kaz said.
“Frenkel is active in the SVV. You heard his opinion of Jews. An approach by the Gestapo would not be inconceivable,” Victor said. “The Swiss government at all levels often works closely with the Nazis. Do you know how the red J came to be stamped on passports held by German Jews?”
“I had assumed the Nazis instituted the practice,” Kaz said. “To mark the bearer as Jewish.”
“They had no need to. Passports are for travel outside the borders, not within Germany. It was the Swiss government that came up with the idea. To make it easier to identify refugees attempting to cross the border as Jews,” Victor said.
“And turn them away, back to certain death,” Henri said, his voice trailing off as we all leaned on the railing, gazing into the cold water, wondering at Lowenberg’s fate and that of so many others who had been denied sanctuary. Henri was at my shoulder as he lit a cigarette and snapped his lighter shut.
“Henri, back at the restaurant you said you had your reasons for helping Victor with Safehaven,” I said. “If you don’t mind my asking, what are they?”
“Uncle Rudolf. It was he who gave me this cigarette case when I graduated from university,” he began, looking at the silver case with a smile before stowing it away. “He was always kind and patient with me. Unlike my father, who believes his duty is to be stern and set a proper example. Perhaps that is because he’s the oldest brother, and Rudolf the youngest, I don’t know. Whatever the reason, Rudolf has always been good to me. He is a doctor and has a reserve commission in the army, which is not at all unusual.”
“Like Doctor Frenkel?” Kaz asked.
“Yes, but other than that, the two men are quite different. Uncle Rudolf did participate on the medical mission to the Eastern Front with Frenkel. He wanted to see the war firsthand, and thought he might find new medical techniques. But he learned more than he bargained for and came back a changed man. For Frenkel and his SVV friends, it was a chance to stand with the Nazis and aid them in their struggle against Bolshevism. Or Jewish Bolshevism, as they often call it. They came back even more fanatic than before.”
“Frenkel talked about the Germans relocating Jews on the Russian front,” I said.
“Relocating them to shallow graves, more likely,” Henri said. “Uncle Rudolf saw Jews being shot by the dozens outside Smolensk. He saw the Lodz ghetto and the horrible conditions there. Bodies in the streets, little food, and primitive medical facilities. Frenkel and the others saw the same sights, but kept quiet about it, telling everyone a sanitized story of how humanely the Germans were handling the Jewish problem in the East.”
“Your uncle did not remain quiet?” Kaz asked.
“No. He spoke out against the Nazis and their crimes. He told his story to the newspapers and spoke at public meetings to describe what he saw. People were incensed at first.”
“At first?” I said. “What happened?”
“The government charged him with violating Swiss neutrality. His case was brought before parliament, right up there on the Bundesplatz,” he said, arching his head to the nearby government building. “The army revoked his commission. Senior government ministers spread the story that he was suffering from nervous fatigue and his memory was not dependable. Soon, he began to lose patients, some because they disagreed with his politics, others because they feared the rumors about his health and mental stability. Today, he still sees a few faithful patients, but he is a ruined man. He thought he knew the Swiss character, that people would believe him and rally against such crimes against humanity. Instead, he’s become an outcast in his own land. That is why I will act against the Nazis and the Swiss who help them. It may be only a few pieces of paper now and then, but they are the only weapons at hand.”
“They’re powerful weapons, my friend,” Victor said, reaching out to clasp Henri on the shoulder.
“I may have the most damning piece of paper yet,” Henri said. “Soon, I promise you.”
“What is it?” Victor asked.
“We wouldn’t say anything,” Victor said. “You must know I won’t.”
“It’s for your own protection, my friend. Dulles is a very important man, and what he knows he passes on to other important men. I cannot risk anyone finding out about this. I am sorry, Baron, and Billy, I don’t mean to offend you. You seem trustworthy, but I think it best to be cautious.”
“Standing on a bridge where a man was likely murdered, that’s hard to argue with,” I said. “Good luck, and let us know if we can help when the time is right.”
We made arrangements to meet Victor at Dulles’s place in the morning, then parted ways, Victor and Henri heading off to their apartments while Kaz and I walked along the river, taking the route through the vineyards to our hotel.
“Billy, do you think there is any hope of the police investigating the death of Lowenberg?” Kaz asked as we sauntered along the river, lit by the half-moon.
“No, not if the coroner brings in a report of suicide,” I said.
“Then perhaps Maureen had the right idea,” he said. “Hannes should be stopped, but the politics here seem impenetrable.”
“You mean by Lasho?”
“I don’t really care who,” Kaz said. “I’d be happy to put a bullet in Hannes’s brain and toss him off that very bridge. Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, after no more than a moment’s thought. The more this war taught me about my fellow man, the less time I needed to consider weighty moral implications. I followed Kaz up the steps leading from the river, pausing near the entrance to the cathedral to look back at the river below. The city was dark, the reflected moonlight rippling in the river’s current.
“You know, I’ve become so used to blackouts that I never thought to question why they have them in Switzerland. It’s not like anyone’s trying to attack them. They don’t need to hide their cities from night bombers,” I said. There had been a few accidental bombings by off-course aircraft, but that hardly compared to the wholesale destruction of German cities. “As a matter of fact, keeping the lights burning would protect them. A well-lit city would obviously be in Swiss territory.”
