by Nigel Jones
I mentioned a visit to France and Switzerland the previous winter. “Ah, now I have you,” he said. “Where is your other passport?” I was quite at a loss to know what he meant and said that of course I had only a single passport. “Don’t try to tell me lies. You must have another passport for you have just said that you were in France and Switzerland last December and there is no stamp of these countries here. We know all about you. You are really a Dutch officer and this passport is a fake.” I patiently explained to him that there were no French or Swiss stamps in my passport for the simple reason that, when you entered or left these countries by car only your motor papers were cleared and that as a rule, you did not even have to produce your pass. “Look,” I said. “You see, this stamp shows that I left Germany on the 14th December by the frontier post at Basel and re-entered Germany again on the 20th at Bregenz. I must therefore have been in Switzerland between these dates. As a matter of fact I went from Basel to Lausanne and from there round the Lake of Geneva into France, but you can’t check that from the stamps on my passport.”
Dr. Max continued his study and suddenly in great excitement said, “But there is no stamp to show that you ever left Germany again”. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but you can’t blame me for that. I remember that I gave my passport to the SS men at the frontier and they certainly took their time before handing it back to me. You must admit that I was in Holland when your people kidnapped me and it is easy to prove that I was there for months before.”
This is just an instance of the kind of futility which marked all the interrogations to which I was subjected by the Gestapo. I have never in my life come across people who could so easily be put off the scent and set chasing hares in all directions.
As the afternoon wore on the news seemed to get about that a strange animal was on view and there was a constant stream of visitors. Some just stood and gaped, others shot absurd questions at me. Amongst them was one who seemed to be of exceptional importance. He was brought in by the Oberführer and when he entered, everyone stood up and with a great uprising of arms there was a loud chorus of “Heil Hitler, Herr Direktor.” I don’t know for certain who he was, but I believe, to judge from photographs which I later saw in the Press, that he was Martin Bormann; the man, who even at that time probably exercised the greatest influence on Hitler. He asked me some questions, but I have forgotten what they were. Generally, I was asked whether I did not realize that Germany was certain to win the war.
It very soon became clear to me that belief in German victory was distinctly shaky. I had only to say that England would never give in before she had beaten Germany to be met with a flood of arguments showing that Germany must be victorious. Obviously, it was quite unimportant what I thought, so these arguments must have been attempts at self-encouragement. The simple fact was that in their hearts these people regarded me as their superior; as a representative of a nation which they could not hope to equal. How often was I not to hear the statement that the English were a ‘Herrnvolk’ a race of masters. An inferiority complex is, I think, the most marked German characteristic. All the military pomp and martial posturing, the shouting and stamping, are just a smokescreen put up to conceal it. From earliest youth all Germans are brought up to believe that blind and unreasoning obedience to orders is the highest human virtue and that even thought must be directed along lines ordained by higher authority. From earliest youth the education of a German is accompanied by persistent bullying designed to make him feel that he is as dirt in the eyes of the man above him; and natural leaders, rare everywhere, are in Germany almost non-existent. Every German has burnt into his soul the memory of countless occasions when he has been shouted at and insulted by someone in authority and, however high the rank he may attain, a certain feeling of inferiority and insecurity never really deserts him. This fact is to my mind the real explanation of Hitler’s rise to power and his complete dominance over everyone with whom he came in contact. His leadership was inborn, he had no doubts, and he acknowledged no superior. All other leaders in Germany were synthetic, he alone was real.
Most of my life has been spent on the Continent and I know many countries there better than my own. I believe that in outlook I am more European than insular. Yet, above all, I am an Englishman with that inherent conviction that … no, I can’t find words for what I mean. I was going to write, that I was the superior of every foreigner, but that does not express my meaning at all; there is nothing of conceit in what I feel. I think that the nearest that I can get is, to say, that always, deeply rooted in me, is the consciousness that I am British and that I am proud of it. No matter what these people said to me nor how threatening their attitude, it was impossible for me to take them seriously or to believe that they would resort to unpleasant methods in order to obtain information. I felt no personal antagonism towards them; they were to me simply a lot of German officials carrying out their duties in the ordinary German manner, hemmed in by regulations and the fear of their superiors’ displeasure. It was unthinkable that any of them exercised independent authority or, without direct orders from above, would resort to strong-arm methods of interrogation.
So, in many respects, I really felt quite at my ease and could concentrate all my attention to the question of satisfying their curiosity without giving anything away. This in itself was a large enough task, for all details of my story had to link together and, as my fiction grew, it was quite a feat of memory to recall everything that I had said when the next awkward question had to be countered.
Another thing which helped me was that none of the people with whom I came in contact at this time really believed that the war with England and France would have to be fought out to a finish. All seemed to have their hopes fixed upon a second Munich—they felt that something simply had to happen to end the war. They had therefore no inclination to get on the wrong side of a British prisoner, especially one, whom for some unknown reason they considered to be an important person. I believe that had we fallen into the hands of the Gestapo some months later, after the defeat of France, our treatment might have been far worse.
Since my return home, many people have said to me, often it seemed with a faint tinge of regret in their voices: “I can’t understand why the Germans didn’t kill you.” Now from the moment that I was able to collect myself and use my intelligence, it never seemed to me probable that my life was in any real jeopardy. How could it be? I had committed no crime; indeed, the boot was on the other foot for by kidnapping me in a neutral country the Germans had put themselves hopelessly in the wrong. People in England do not seem to recognize sufficiently clearly that until Hitler went hay-wire after the attempt on his life on 20th July, 1944, the Nazi regime took great pains to invest itself with an outward show of legality. Although a man might be spirited away from his home and taken to a concentration camp and there suffer such indignities and hardships that he died, technically he was accused of no crime nor was he undergoing punishment; he was merely, for his own good, held in protective custody, and if he died this was just too bad but death comes to all and who could prove that imprisonment was the direct cause of his decease? In any case, only seldom was a man of influence or importance treated in this way, and such men could never be held for an indefinite time without inquiries being made about them through normal legal channels. It is a great mistake to imagine that the Gestapo was omnipotent in Nazi Germany; on the contrary, only Hitler held real power and the Gestapo could continue to function only so long as it enjoyed his favour.
When the Gestapo organized their raid into neutral Holland they created a precedent in International Law. Obviously their action must have diplomatic repercussions and in the event of serious difficulty Stevens and I might become pawns of some bargaining value. It was therefore to no one’s interest to liquidate us, and indeed, as will appear from my own experiences, the greatest pains were taken to preserve us in good physical condition.
Dr. Max apparently had had his fill of night work, for round about six o�
�clock he downed tools, and heading the procession of typist, table and typewriter, he left the room leaving me to attack the bowl of watery soup that had been brought me for my supper. My sleep on this second night was not so good, for being less tired I was conscious of the brightly lit, overheated, and very stuffy room with its all pervading odour of stale feet, and of the movements of my two guards. When I got up in the morning I fel blear-eyed and miserable; I longed for a bath and for clean clothes. For breakfast there was the same slice of black bread and jam with its accompanying mug of ersatz coffee. Dr. Max turned up bright and early and told me in a businesslike manner, that my real interrogation was now going to begin; I must be very careful and remember that my life was at stake. He had hardly asked me a question before Oberführer Müller came in, apparently in a great rage. He had in his hands what seemed to be the typescript of my interrogation of the previous days. He ripped this in half and scattering the pieces on the floor he let fly at Dr. Max, berating him for allowing himself to be made a fool of by a British gangster and crook. Then, turning to me, he delivered a long harangue to the effect that I mustn’t think that he did not see through my tricks, that if I set any value on my life I had better stop fooling about and give them the information which they wanted. “Your life is in my hands and if you are not very careful I will order you to be shot without any more hesitation.”
I said mildly that I was sorry that I had disappointed him for really I had done my best. After all, I could not do more than answer the questions which I had been asked and I was sure that Dr. Max had found me co-operative in every respect. Dr. Max confirmed this and Muller, calming down a bit said that he would give me one more chance and that at my next interrogation I must “confess everything I knew”; otherwise, it would be the END. Muller and Max, typist, table, and typewriter then filed out of the room leaving me undisturbed for the rest of the day. The intention was probably to give time for the threats to soak home. It is amazing what faith the Gestapo had in such theatricals which were so obvious and so badly staged that they never had the slightest effect on me; on the contrary, they confirmed my general impression that there was no intention of proceeding to any extreme measures to extract information.
My room was a pleasant one and, facing south, I could sit by the window in the sun. It looked out on to a sort of recreation or sports ground on the other side of which I could see the Anhalter Station. This enabled me to fix my position in Berlin. There were always two men with me as guards, but they were all very decent fellows and before we parted most of them had become my friends. They were members of the Gestapo clerical staff and had the rank of criminal secretaries, one step below that of commissar. Most of them had previously done duty as police constables or in the detective department at the Wilhelms Platz, the Berlin Scotland Yard. Although they were not supposed to talk to me, their curiosity was far too great to allow them to bother about this rule. They were none of them really Nazis but just men who had held on to their pre-Hitler jobs and who, by joining the party, had achieved promotion to posts far beyond their capabilities or experience.
One, a chubby little fellow in spectacles, whose kindness I have mentioned above, originally belonged to the homicide squad and had some first-rate stories to tell about murders he had investigated. Another, named Philip Steinmetz, had done similar guard duty with van der Lubbe after the Reichstag fire. He said that van der Lubbe was a very nice young fellow and very far from the fool which he seemed at his court appearances. Although van der Lubbe had certainly played some part in setting the building alight, Steinmetz made no secret of his belief that the whole business had been arranged by the party. He then discussed with his partner whether it was Goering or Goebbels who had staged the fire but it was obvious that both approved of what had been done, because, ‘something had to be done to get rid of the Communists’.
There was a nice little man named Grothe who seemed to be a sort of general factotum in the building. If anything was needed, a chair, a table, or even a pencil, at once there was a cry for Grothe and invariably he could produce what was wanted. He seemed also to have taken over the charge of satisfying my material needs and whenever he came into the room had always some surprise for me. He treated me like a small child, making me guess which of the hands he held behind his back I would have. Always he brought with him sandwiches, apples or, most welcome of all, cigarettes. Although, no doubt, he was merely obeying orders in giving me these things, I shall always be grateful to him for the personal touch which he gave to his gifts and for his obvious wish to help me to raise my spirits. As time went on we became real friends and throughout my imprisonment it was a great comfort to me to feel that I had this friendly gnome in the fastness of Gestapo Headquarters. I do not know how he managed it, but in the end he seemed to run everything that concerned me, including my correspondence with my wife, and I cannot express how much I am indebted to him for his help and the comfort he gave me. I am glad to say that I was able to give him some little help after the end of the war and that we have remained good friends. He was an old police official and like all the other men of this class that I met, a thoroughly decent fellow quite uncontaminated by any Nazi ideas.
The only really objectionable men that I met at Gestapo Headquarters were the so-called ‘Commissars’. The place was thick with them and their principal occupation seemed to be to spy and report on the experienced officials who did the actual work. My guards told me that most of them were SA men who had been members of Hitler’s bodyguard in the early days. Those with whom I came in contact were surly uncouth fellows, most of them Bavarians, who did their best to look tough by clenching their lower teeth over the upper ones. One or another of them would occasionally burst into my room, suddenly opening the door wide and then standing glowering and saying nothing. It was plain that my guards were afraid of them and after such incursions there was always for a while an uneasy silence.
On the following day a typical young German lawyer came in accompanied by another young man with the most Jewish cast of features that I have ever seen; more like a caricature of a Jew than the real thing. With them came the inevitable table and typewriter and a very pretty little typist. I later discovered that only the top men were allowed to interrogate prisoners alone, and that all minor officials had to have an observer with them. Oberführer Müller then came in and said to the young lawyer, “I want to have everything from the very beginning; when you have finished, I want to know more about the prisoner than he does himself,” then, turning to me, he repeated his customary warning that my expectation of life was getting very shaky. Then, we all settled down to a nice cosy interrogation, for that is what it turned out to be. The young lawyer, who can only just have passed his final law exams, with true Prussian conscientiousness followed the Oberführer’s orders and started at the beginning; he was not even content to start at my beginning, but first probed deeply into my ancestry. After each name I mentioned he asked whether the person was of Arian descent and in dictating to the typist told her to enter in brackets after the name, ‘nicht Jude’.
Well, this sort of interrogation was of course right up my street, and I discovered that I could recall a wealth of detail from the days of my early childhood, all of which was gravely noted down. We worked steadily through my autobiography for the next two days and had traversed some thirty years since my birth. I was in the midst of a description of Henley Regatta in July 1914 when the Oberführer came and took the young lawyer aside. I heard some whispering, the Oberführer went out, and the young lawyer came back and said to me, “You are finished for the present,” then the whole cortège departed. I don’t to this day know what was the reason for all this, but from that day, the 15th, to the 27th November, there was a complete lull in proceedings. No more high officials came near me, no questions were asked me, and I was just left to laze away the time as best I could. It is a curious thing, but I suffered more from nervousness during this period than at any other time during my imprisonment; there was a beas
tly nightmarish feeling of something horrible waiting for me just round the corner and it got so bad that I would almost jump out of my skin if anyone entered the room unexpectedly. I got into a state where I worried about everything.
Most of all my thoughts were with May. What had happened to her? Where was she now? For a ll I knew, the Germans might already have invaded Holland. It was feared that they might do so on the very day on which I was captured. Since then I had had no news of any kind from outside. I knew that my chief would certainly have looked after my wife and that no one would be kinder than he, but however much I reasoned about the matter, I was horribly afraid for her. Then too, I became ridden by a sort of bogey which made me relive all the circumstances of our capture at the frontier. Why had we not tried to put up some sort of fight, just as Klop had done. The raiders had called out ‘Hands up!’ and Stevens and I had just done as we were told although we had loaded pistols in our pockets. I am sure that we were neither of us frightened of losing our lives … no … I think the raid had followed a certain pattern of which we had often read and we, well, we just behaved as people generally seem to do when they are kidnapped. Then my mind would go haywire and I would form fantastic pictures of Stevens and me fighting the raiders and unfailingly shooting them down one after the other … and then I would again realize that after all, I was a prisoner. It is a most strange feeling to know that you have lost all freedom of action and all the rights of movement which before you just took for granted. Often I had an almost irresistible longing to get up, open the door, and walk away somewhere.
