by John Holt
Hartman needed to be sure though. It was risky, but he had to check the Americans room. He went over to the door, and inserted the key, slowly turning it to unlock the door. He opened the door and peered into the corridor. There was no one there, and he could hear no sound. He turned to the left into the corridor. He slowly walked along the corridor until he reached the main staircase. Carefully he climbed the stairs up to the ground floor corridor. As he approached the room he could hear muffled sounds from the Americans. He listened intensely but could make out none of the words. Those Yanks speak too fast. Anyway, at least I know that they are still here. He turned around and moved back along the corridor. He went past the staircase, and continued until he had reached his private quarters, near the far end of the corridor.
Once inside, he closed the door, locking it. Now he could plan his actual escape. Hartman had known for a long while that this day would eventually come. He had known for some months that the war was lost, despite those interminable reports from Berlin. Major victories on the eastern front; the Allies routed in Italy; the Luftwaffe smash the RAF. The stories were nothing but propaganda.
He had considered that the war was virtually lost the day the Allies had landed in Normandy in June 1944. He knew then that the Third Reich was finished. It was only a matter of time till the end. Hitler, Goebbels, and the rest of them; they could all rot in hell. But he wasn’t going to rot. He was going to survive. He had to. He was determined. He planned to recover the hidden gold, and then make his way to a new life in South America. He knew that there was an escape route already established for party members. As soon as he was ready, and able, he would take that route. He had been meticulously planning for this day for a long time now.
First things first though. He needed to stay where he was until the Americans had left. When they discover that I’m not in that storeroom, they will naturally assume that I have got away. It was unlikely that they would bother searching the complex. They would not expect me to leave one room, just to stay locked in another. He planned on staying exactly where he was, and make his getaway after the Americans had gone.
Hartman suddenly felt quite tired. He checked his watch. It was almost one in the morning. He should get some sleep, he decided. Not too long, though. It was imperative that he knew that the Americans had left. He lay on his bunk, gazing at the ceiling, thinking of what lay ahead. After a while he turned his face away, closed his eyes, and drifted into sleep.
* * *
He awoke with a start. He sat up and looked around him. He looked at his watch. It was seven thirty. He hadn’t meant to sleep so long. It was far too late. Are the Americans still asleep, or perhaps they had already gone. Could he take a risk, and try to see. It was a risk, but he had to check, he had to know. He opened the door to his room, and went out into the corridor. Slowly, cautiously, he approached the room where the Americans were, some twenty yards further along. As he drew near, he stopped and listened. He could hear muffled sounds from within, although he could not distinguish what was being said. He moved away from the door, and into the shadows. The door to one of the offices was close by. Hartman entered the room, quietly closing the door behind him. They were still there.
A few minutes later he heard the door of their room opening. The Americans were coming out. Hartman opened the door a fraction, and peered through the small gap.
The first out of the room was Kadowski, followed by Scott. Hartman watched them as they came out, mentally counting them off in his mind. A few moments later, a third soldier, Bannister, joined the others. That’s three, where’s the fourth. Kadowski had stopped a few yards away, “Bartelli, get moving, and don’t forget the radio,” he shouted.
“Coming Sarge,” Bartelli replied as he emerged from the room, and rushed to join the others.
That’s four, that’s it. They are definitely going. Hartman was convinced that they were finally leaving. He watched them as they approached the main exit. Carefully, he followed, at a safe distance. He saw them as they reached the main doors, and left the building. Slowly he approached the doorway. As he reached the door he peered out, looking for them. There they were, but they were going the wrong way. They weren’t leaving. They should have turned toward the southwest, but they were going in the opposite direction. They were heading toward Kammersee. Why would they do that? What were they up to?
Hartman followed them from a safe distance as they walked through the forest. Kadowski and Scott were leading, walking quite quickly. The other two were much slower, checking to the left and the right as they went. They stopped occasionally, and glanced behind. Satisfied that they were not being followed they continued on their way. Hartman watched as they reached the lake. Then he saw them silently, gently, placing the four German soldiers into the lake. They then walked over to where Roberts was lying. The four men stood close to the body of their comrade. Hartman watched as three of the men bent down and lifted up the body, and carefully placed it into the lake. They continued to hold the body whilst Kadowski read aloud from his Bible.
Fools, I could kill all four of them right now. They wouldn’t know what hit them. Instinctively, Hartman reached for his revolver. It was not there. No matter, it was of no consequence. The only important issue was his escape, his survival. He looked back toward the four men, and watched as they eventually released Roberts’ body and it sank into the dark waters. That was it, Hartman thought. They have finished their sickly sentimental act, at last. Now they must surely leave.
But they didn’t leave. Instead the four men split up. Two men started to move along the southern shore of the lake; a third man had gone back into the forest. What were they doing? The fourth man, the Sergeant, continued to stand at the side of the lake.
Hartman looked at Kadowski, watching him as he stared across the lake. What was he looking at? Hartman looked across the lake, in the same direction, following Kadowski’s gaze. It was the waterfall. He is looking at the waterfall. Why? He knows about the gold, flashed through Hartman’s mind. He knows where it is. But how could he? It’s not possible. Perhaps he had been in the forest earlier, just watching. He must have seen something. But what was it. Had he seen the boat, with the gold on board, being rowed across the lake? He couldn’t have. If he had he would also have seen the crates being put into the lake. He would have seen everything. No, the Americans had arrived long after the gold had been taken across the lake.
Hartman looked at Kadowski again. He was certainly looking very closely at the waterfall. I don’t know how? Hartman thought, but I’m sure he knows something, or at the very least, he thinks he does. It didn’t matter how he knew, he just did that’s all.
No, that was very unlikely. He doesn’t know anything at all, not for certain. He might have a suspicion; a hunch as the Americans say, a gut feeling. But he has no proof, and no way of obtaining any. Hartman turned his gaze to see Bartelli and Scott walking along the southern slope of the lake. You won’t find anything that way. Hartman looked back at Kadowski. He knows something though, but exactly what? Whatever it was Hartman knew that there was nothing that Kadowski could do about it at the present time, but perhaps he planned to return sometime in the future. Hartman knew that this placed additional pressure on himself. Up until that moment he was the only person alive who knew about the gold bullion. Now that may have all changed. It was possible that there was somebody else who knew; that American Sergeant. I must get back here before he does, Hartman swore to himself. That gold is mine, nobody else’s.
Suddenly, he saw Bartelli rushing out of the forest back into the clearing. He was calling something urgently to Kadowski. As he stopped close to Kadowski, he seemed to calm down. The two men spoke together for a short time. Kadowski then called to the others. Shortly afterwards they started to make their way back to the complex. What is going on, thought Hartman, as he followed them. Maybe they were leaving at last, he hoped.
Hartman followed the Americans back to the complex. Once there the Americans returned to the r
oom that they had been using. Hartman watched them as they went in, and the door close behind them. He needed to know precisely what they were doing, and exactly when they were leaving. It was risky, but Hartman concluded that he needed a hiding place close to where the Americans were. Two doors along from the room occupied by the Americans, was a small communications room. It was kept locked. It would be an ideal location, for a number of reasons. Firstly, it would be a secure hiding place, inside a locked room, so they could not get inside. Besides as far as he was concerned the Americans believed that he had escaped, and had long gone. Secondly, from there he would be able to hear them leaving, which was most important. He reached the doorway, and quietly inserted his key. It was imperative that he was not heard. He checked his watch; it was a few minutes to one o’clock. He looked along the corridor, opened the door and entered the room.
He locked the door behind him. He looked around the room, ruefully. Telephones were lying shattered on the floor; desk drawers were all partially open. They were all empty. Papers were scattered everywhere. In one corner there was a pile of scorched documents. Cupboard doors, which had originally been locked, were hanging from their hinges, the door fronts smashed. At one time, not so long ago, this was all so important. It was so essential to the war effort. Now look at it, junk, nothing but waste paper and rubbish. That just about summed up the Third Reich. Its days were now numbered. It could only be a matter of weeks; a few months at the most. None of that mattered now. All that mattered was his safety, his escape, and his survival. The thought consumed him, as he sat waiting for the Americans to leave. Only then could he put his plans into action. In the meantime, there was nothing to do now but wait.
After a short while Hartman heard sounds coming from the Americans room. He walked to his door, and opened it cautiously. He peered through the slight crack. He could see nothing. He moved into the corridor. Slowly he began walking toward the room. As he approached, the door to the Americans room suddenly began to open. Hartman moved back into the shadows, holding his breath. Then he heard a voice saying, “Okay guys, it’s time to go.” The Americans slowly moved out of the room, turning toward the exit door, away from Hartman’s position.
He counted them as they left, “One, Bartelli, two, Bannister. Then three, the Sergeant,” then nothing. A few minutes went by, nothing happened. Where is the other one? Is he still inside or perhaps he is already outside the building? He wasn’t sure. Should he look inside the room, or wait a little longer. Then he heard someone calling. “Scott, come on, at the double.”
“Coming, Sarge,” a voice called back.
Suddenly Scott appeared at the doorway. He stopped and looked back inside the room, then turned back into the corridor, and ran after the others.
Once again Hartman followed them to the exit door. As they finally left the building they turned to the right, following the pathway, toward the village. Hartman was satisfied now. They were leaving, at last. As they vanished from sight, he went back into the building, and returned to his quarters. Must give them sufficient time to get away from here, Hartman thought. It wouldn’t do if they caught up with him a short distance down the road. Hartman decided to give them a few hours before he made his move.
That would be time enough to make the necessary preparations for his escape.
* * *
In order to effect his escape, the first priority was the disappearance of SS Major Dietrich Hartman. As from this moment he had to cease to exist, as though he had never been born. As an SS officer, he knew that he was not safe anywhere. The Americans were everywhere in the south, the British in the north, and the Russians in the east. He knew that if captured he would be arrested, and tried for war crimes. He also knew that there was no chance that he would be found innocent. No, all that he had to look forward to was execution, or at best a very long prison term.
He was finished with the military anyway. Germany had all but lost the war. He had heard the stories of old men and young boys being sent off to fight because there was a shortage of men. He had no intention of carrying on the fight. Why risk being caught, and executed. Why risk being killed on a battlefield, now with the end in sight. No, there was nothing to be gained. The sooner he was a civilian, the better.
To have any chance of surviving firstly he had to get rid of his uniform, and get some civilian clothes. Secondly he would need identification papers, in another name. Thirdly he would need some money. All of these things were even now safely hidden away in his quarters.
Inside his cupboard, on the top shelf, there was a battered dark brown suitcase. He took down the case, and placed it on the bed, and opened it. Inside there was a selection of civilian clothing. There were shirts, trousers, and a jacket. At the bottom of the case, there was a brown wallet containing identification papers belonging to a certain Peter Weiss, a business man, an arms dealer from Austria, living in Hamburg, an executive director of the Krupps Corporation no less. The photograph inside was of Hartman, only this was a different Hartman. The one in the photograph had darker hair, and was wearing glasses. This Hartman did not have a moustache.
There were also a number of personal documents, perfectly formed, and containing the flawless forged signatures of both Hitler, and Himmler. His sources had done a magnificent job. It had cost him a considerable amount of money, but it had been worth it. Money well spent.
Hartman removed his uniform, and threw it onto the ground. He then took some articles from the suitcase, and put them on. Hartman then went over to the washbasin, in the corner of his room. He opened the cabinet, above the basin, and took out a bottle of dye. He placed it on the shelf in front of him. He then went over to the door of his room. Opening it slightly, he carefully peered into the corridor. Nobody was there, and there was no sound. He closed the door quietly, and returned to the basin. Without further delay he proceeded to dye his hair.
Some while later, his hair dry, and combed, his face shaved, he walked back over to the mirror. He took out a pair of spectacles with a dark brown frame, and put them on. He looked back at the photographs. Not at all bad, he thought, looking back at his reflection in the mirror, not bad at all.
Now for the money, he murmured. He went over to the cupboard in the corner, opened a drawer, and took out some hand tools. He walked to the middle of the room. Bending down, he threw back the tattered piece of carpeting, and using the tools he lifted a section of floor boarding. Inside the void there was a small safe. Taking a key he opened it. There inside was one hundred thousand Deutschemarks. Also lying inside the box were twenty five thousand US dollars, counterfeit US dollars. They were, however, of a very good quality, and would certainly be accepted without question. He placed the identification documents inside his jacket, together with a small quantity of the marks. The dollars were carefully placed at the bottom of the suitcase.
What else would he need? He would certainly need some food. He went across to his provisions store. There was some bread, and a tin of ham, and some coffee. No milk and no sugar. Not much here, but it will have to do.
He looked around the room. What else would be useful? He wondered. There were a number of personal items scattered throughout the room. His SS insignia lay on the small dresser unit; next to it were a number of campaign medals. On the small bureau nearby was a photograph of his mother, long since dead. Next to it was a photograph of himself, and the Fuhrer. It had been taken at one of those early rallies in Munich. What promises those days had held, all now shattered like broken glass.
He turned around continuing to look. There on the wall was another photograph. Elsa. He went over to the wall, and took the photograph down. Elsa had been his girlfriend all those years ago in Nuremberg. She had left him and went somewhere up north, he didn’t know where. Sadly, she didn’t share his views concerning National Socialism. They had argued about it constantly. You’ve changed, she would say. You’re no longer kind, and thoughtful. You are becoming angry, vicious, cruel. He couldn’t see it then, but she had been right
, he had changed, and not for the better. He had become arrogant, seeking power and control over others. It didn’t matter now; it was far too late. He had heard nothing from her, since 1933. For a brief moment he wondered what she was doing at that precise time. Then he put the thought completely out of his mind, and let the photograph fall to the floor.
Nothing useful here, he concluded. He opened the drawer to the cupboard. There were a number of dossiers that he had prepared over the years. Generally they related to the people working at the centre, although there were a number of others included. Specials, he called them. He took them out of the drawer, and placed them on a small table by the door. He picked up one of the files. Wolfgang Behr was written on to a faded label. He glanced through the document. As far as he could recall there was nothing of any value. He threw it to the floor. The next file was entitled Walter Steiner. He concluded that there was nothing of any use there, either. He threw it down. The documents were of little value, now. Worse still, they could actually give him away. No, there was nothing of any use. Leave it all. He picked up the next file – Doctor Jurgen. He thought for a moment, and then cast the file aside. Nothing, he said silently. He picked up another. Theo Lehmann. Once again it was considered worthless, and he threw it down.
He took up the next file, and was ready to throw it down immediately, when he noticed the label. The file was dated 1942 to 1944, and labelled Austrian Resistance. He opened the file, and glanced at the pages. He slowly walked over to his bunk, still reading. He sat down on the bunk. The dossier made very interesting reading. It gave details of the activities of the local resistance movement. One of the leaders of the group was Ernst Richter. Hartman laid his head back, and closed his eyes, trying to remember. Then it came back to him. Richter had been a diver, and had a considerable amount of experience in the local lakes, including Kammersee. He could possibly be useful to me. He closed the file, and placed it inside the suitcase.
