Read Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine) Online
Authors: Douglas Niles,Michael Dobson
Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine) (69 page)
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16 JULY 1945 — 17 APRIL 1946
One principle must be absolute for the SS man: we must be honest, decent, loyal, and comradely to members of our own blood and to no one else. What happens to the Russians, what happens to the Czechs, is a matter of utter indifference to me. Such good blood of our own kind as there may be among the nations we shall acquire for ourselves, if necessary by taking away the children and bringing them up among us … . We shall never be rough or heartless where it is not necessary; that is clear. We Germans, who are the only people in the world who have a decent attitude to animals, will also adopt a decent attitude to these human animals, but it is a crime against our own blood to worry about them and to bring them ideals.
I shall speak to you here with all frankness of a very grave matter. Among ourselves it should be mentioned quite frankly, and yet we will never speak of it publicly. I mean the evacuation of the Jews, the extermination of the Jewish people … . Most of you know what it means to see a hundred corpses lying together, five hundred, or a thousand. To have stuck it out and at the same time—apart from exceptions caused by human weakness—to have remained decent fellows, that is what has made us hard. This is a page of glory in our history which has never been written and shall never be written.
—Heinrich Himmler
Speech to SS group leaders
Poznan, 4 October 1943
Speech to SS group leaders
Poznan, 4 October 1943
16 JULY 1945
REICHSTAG BUILDING, BERLIN, GERMANY, 1400 HOURS GMT
Rommel stuck his head into Müller’s office. “Colonel Müller? May I interrupt you for a minute?”
“Of course, sir,” the pudgy supply officer replied, standing up and accidentally knocking over a cup of pencils on his desk. Rommel sat down and waited for Müller to pick the pencils up and compose himself.
“I want to thank you again for all your exceptional work during these months. I’ve had to throw you from one impossible challenge into the next, and you’ve worked miracles.”
“You’re too kind, Field Marshal, I-I don’t know what to say.”
Rommel held up his hand. “You don’t have to say anything. That’s my job, and I’ll say it in proper military form shortly. In the meantime, though, I wanted to ask you for still another favor.”
“Of course, sir. Whatever I can do.”
“This one’s more personal than professional.”
“Either way, sir. What can I do?”
“It’s about our mutual friend, Günter von Reinhardt.”
“Oh.”
“I didn’t know what he was going to do, you know. It was in the middle of Buchenwald, and I was having some difficulty in making sense out of the situation.” Rommel paused for a moment. “I’ve ordered men to their deaths before, not once but many times. I’m not afraid to do that. But von Reinhardt—”
“It had something to do with Goethe, sir—at least I think it did,” said Müller. “We had a long talk earlier the same day he talked with you, all about responsibility and guilt and actions.”
“I don’t think I quite understood him,” said Rommel.
“I’m not sure anyone did—including Günter himself,” Müller replied.
“Ah, if he were here, he could add just the quote to make it all clear. But as he is not here, then I will ask you a favor.” Rommel put a small box and an envelope on the table. “The box first.”
Müller opened it. It was a medal box, lined with white satin. His eyes widened when he saw what was inside—the blue and white ribbons of the Pour le Merite, Germany’s highest military decoration.
“I thought about this for a long time,” Rommel said. “This one in particular
I don’t like to give out lightly. This and the letter are for von Reinhardt’s parents. I want you to locate them, give them these, and then arrange for a military funeral. I, of course, will attend, and I will expect attendance at state funeral levels. As you can see, I need a talented logistics officer to handle it.”
I don’t like to give out lightly. This and the letter are for von Reinhardt’s parents. I want you to locate them, give them these, and then arrange for a military funeral. I, of course, will attend, and I will expect attendance at state funeral levels. As you can see, I need a talented logistics officer to handle it.”
“Then I must put my very best man on the job,” said Müller. He smiled, then turned away so that Rommel could not see the liquid welling in his eyes.
20 JULY 1945
LUBYANKA SQUARE, MOSCOW, USSR, 1223 HOURS GMT
The Lubyanka Prison consists of the lower levels of the NKVD headquarters building in downtown Moscow. Krigoff knew where he was, although he was brought into the building in a sealed truck through an underground loading dock and was placed in a windowless cell. There was only one place, really, where he could be. What he did not know was when—it could be any time, day or night, for the cycle of day or night meant nothing here. And although he heard occasional screams, the tramping of marching boots, a scuffle or clash from time to time, nothing happened to him. No torture, no interrogation, no bullet in the head, nothing. He was in a bare cell with a bare bulb behind a wire cage, a steel bucket for use as a toilet, and a mat on which he could sit and sleep. At intervals—who could say how long?—a tray of food slid under the door. It was gray and unappetizing but hardly worse than military fare.
He could only think of people he’d met. Paulina. General Yeremko. General Petrovsky. Lieutenant Kraichin. General Benko. The chairman himself. His thoughts chased themselves around and around and around.
After some timeless period, marked only by a procession of meal trays and exchange of waste buckets, there came a rattling of keys at his cell door. He scrambled to his feet, excited at the thought of human company, terrified at the thought of human company. It was a guard. He carried in two folding chairs and set them up. Then he walked back into the hall and brought in a small folding table and placed it beside the two chairs. He left again without saying a word.
Krigoff looked at the two chairs for a long time, wondering if he was supposed to sit in one. He walked around them, looked at them from all angles, then touched one, then the other, then the table. Experimentally, he sat in one, then the other. They were comfortable. After a while, though, he returned to sit on his mat.
There was a rattle of keys in the lock again. His heart pounding, Krigoff stood up once more. The door opened. It was another guard, who held open the door for a man who walked in.
It was Stalin. Stalin himself had come to see him.
“Comrade Chairman!” Krigoff breathed. He saluted. He had not forgotten his military discipline.
Stalin looked at Krigoff with an expression of friendly sympathy. “Ah,
Alyosha. It’s very good to see you. I’m sorry you’ve had such a difficult time. Come, sit down. Let me offer you a cigarette. Let’s talk.”
Alyosha. It’s very good to see you. I’m sorry you’ve had such a difficult time. Come, sit down. Let me offer you a cigarette. Let’s talk.”
Krigoff took the proffered cigarette with trembling fingers and allowed Stalin to light it for him. The smoke felt good in his lungs; it calmed him almost at once. “Thank you, Comrade Chairman. It’s very good of you to come and visit me like this.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. For an old friend like you it’s the very least I can do.” Stalin patted Krigoff on the shoulder as he sat down. Krigoff looked at Stalin and felt himself on the verge of tears at the great man’s kindness toward him. “Now, now,” Stalin said in a soothing voice. “I want you to tell me everything, Alyosha. Tell me what happened.”
Slowly and haltingly at first, Krigoff began to tell Stalin the story of his role with Second Guards Tank Army—his battles with both Yeremko and Petrovsky, including the spitting incident, which made Stalin chuckle, and then the events surrounding the final battle for Berlin. He gave his honest impressions of the chaotic aerial battle, and his real notion that American tanks were attacking. He described Marshal Zhukov’s plan, even admitted that it would all be Krigoff’s fault if it failed. And then … he faltered again … he remembered that flash of light, Paulina blinded, leading her through what seemed like Hell until they reached a Soviet aid station. Stalin asked him questions from time to time, which Krigoff answered as completely as he could.
Finally, he was finished. “That’s what happened, as best as I can tell you.”
Stalin nodded. “Thank you, Alyosha. I believe you. You told me exactly what I wanted to know, and it’s all right now. Everything is all right. You don’t need to worry. I understand. Get some rest now.” Krigoff nodded and stayed sitting in his chair.
As he stood up to leave, Stalin nodded at the guard. When Stalin had pulled the door shut before him, the guard took his pistol from its holster.
Krigoff looked at the guard. He smiled; he understood everything now. As the pistol fired, in the millisecond before the bullet tore through Krigoff’s brain, he was at peace.
He loved Josef Stalin.
21 JULY 1945
SURVIVORS’ CAMP #10, SOUTH OF POTSDAM, GERMANY, 1711 HOURS GMT
Heinrich Himmler woke up as the truck lurched to a stop. It took him a moment to recover his bearings, and he was about to order his men to be more gentle. Then he saw the rounded, flat-bottomed helmets, and knew that he was still a prisoner of the Americans. Day after day he had awoken, thinking that his imprisonment was merely a bad dream, that he would find himself once again master of Germany.
For months of interrogations he had strung his captors along, especially the young, guilt-ridden Sanger, with his pitiful sympathy for the Jews. His weakness had been so easy to exploit, so easy to manipulate. The Allies were now willing to settle for “truth,” as they termed it, and so his life would be spared. He could plan and wait, and look for an opportunity, a crack in their defenses, the inevitable moment when their attention would be focused on the threat from the East, and then he would be free once again.
Calm,
he told himself. They are inferior mongrels, almost as bad as Jews—they must not see his fear. But where had they brought him? Why had they come to a halt?
he told himself. They are inferior mongrels, almost as bad as Jews—they must not see his fear. But where had they brought him? Why had they come to a halt?
He was confused. For more than a day he had been driven along by these American captors, and he didn’t understand why they had not yet delivered him to some higher headquarters, some special prison. And he was in the hands of relatively low-ranking soldiers with only a few vehicles in his escort—an insult for a man of his stature. If he had only known they would be this stupid, he could already have had his rescue waiting for him.
“Why are we stopping?” he demanded, when he saw Sanger—it was always Sanger—getting down from the truck cab. The sergeant who had been riding with him—a black man, posted, he was certain, as an intentional indignity—took his time releasing the handcuffs, then pushed him none too gently toward the dim light at the back of the truck.
“There’s some people here we’d like you to meet,” Sanger replied cheerfully. “Why don’t you come along this way?”
It was daylight, Himmler saw. Although he wouldn’t admit it to Sanger, he was grateful for the chance to get out and stretch. He needed to relieve the pressure on his bladder, perhaps even coax something to eat from his captors.
He stepped awkwardly to the ground and walked around the side of the
truck, then froze as he saw the tall gates, the guard towers, the barbed wire fences stretching to the right and left. The fence was lined with gaunt people, unshaven and filthy, staring at him in eerie silence.
truck, then froze as he saw the tall gates, the guard towers, the barbed wire fences stretching to the right and left. The fence was lined with gaunt people, unshaven and filthy, staring at him in eerie silence.
“I accompanied Field Marshal Rommel into Buchenwald. I stopped him from shooting a couple of your Totenkopf-SS guards, though I was tempted to shoot them myself. I wanted their testimony. The story of what you and yours did will shame humanity for all time,” Sanger said as he walked.
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Himmler. “You’ve told me that story already. You’ve told me again and again and again. Do you think I’m the Pope and I’m going to canonize you or something?” He laughed at his own wit. “I did what I did because it was right for Germany, and nothing you can do can undo a single act of mine. That’s what strength is, by the way. You’ll never understand that, Sanger, not if you live to be a hundred. You’ll never know what it’s like to be a man. You ran out on us Germans like a little crybaby the first time you gave some old Jew
ein awah
—” Himmler’s mocking use of the baby term for an injury, a “boo-boo,” was the sort of insult he regularly used to belittle Sanger’s sentimentality and weakness, as he saw it. “—and you expect
me
to be impressed by that? Or by these rag-tag old Jews you’ve got locked up over there? I’ve seen Jews in cages before, Sanger. Remember? I put them there.”
ein awah
—” Himmler’s mocking use of the baby term for an injury, a “boo-boo,” was the sort of insult he regularly used to belittle Sanger’s sentimentality and weakness, as he saw it. “—and you expect
me
to be impressed by that? Or by these rag-tag old Jews you’ve got locked up over there? I’ve seen Jews in cages before, Sanger. Remember? I put them there.”
“I remember,” Sanger said.
“So you’ve got a few leftovers that didn’t make it into the gas chambers in time. The sad thing is that they’ll breed like vermin and Germans of the future will just have to finish the job we started. That’s the only thing I really regret, Sanger. I didn’t get to finish the job.”
Sanger looked at the camp inmates. “This is a survivors’ camp,” Sanger said to Himmler. “Not like your camps, of course—we actually are feeding these people, giving them coal and clothing against the elements, and providing medical treatment. But they know what it was like in your camps. Many of these came from Buchenwald, others from camps in the East. This is one of the areas where we’re actually successfully cooperating with the Soviets, you know.”
“How wonderful.” Himmler laughed. “The Slavs are sending you some leftover Jews. Even they don’t want them.”
One of the Americans, a short major with murderous eyes, snarled something at the führer.
“Oh—pardon my manners,” said Sanger. “This is Major Smiggs of the U.S. Nineteenth Armored Division. He particularly wanted to be introduced. He was one of the officers of the task force that captured you.”
“How nice for him. He got a medal, I presume?”
“Oh, yes, and a promotion, though I suspect neither of us will be keeping our military rank much longer.”
For the first time, Himmler felt a momentary shiver as he looked up into
Sanger’s face. Sanger was calm and smiling as he looked toward the camp. “As you know, the Western Allies have created a new organization called the United Nations, and one of their first official roles will be taking custody of international criminals such as yourself. Transfer arrangements have been made, and you are to be remanded to them.”
Sanger’s face. Sanger was calm and smiling as he looked toward the camp. “As you know, the Western Allies have created a new organization called the United Nations, and one of their first official roles will be taking custody of international criminals such as yourself. Transfer arrangements have been made, and you are to be remanded to them.”
“Yes, yes, I know all that,” Himmler said impatiently.
“They’ve been notified to pick you up here.”
“And where are they?”
“They’ll be here first thing tomorrow morning.” Sanger’s smile widened slightly. “There seems to have been a slight mixup in the paperwork.” He nodded toward the major.
Himmler started to fight then, turning to run for the woods until Major Smiggs took his arm in a grip like a vise. Himmler shrieked and squirmed in that grip, but the American—who was not large, but was very determined—simply dragged him over to the camp’s main entry. Sanger motioned the MPs out of the way and opened the gates himself so that no one else participated in the act.
Pushing the second and final Führer of the Third Reich forward, Smiggs said something in English, something Himmler couldn’t understand.
“Smiggs wants you to know that this is for the children of Buchenwald,” Sanger said, as the major pushed Heinrich Himmler through the gates to sprawl on the muddy ground. The gates slammed shut, and the prisoners moved forward.
“Wait!” cried Himmler, scrambling to his knees in the cold mud. “Sanger, be reasonable! You can’t do this! You’ll be court-martialed! Listen, we can work something out! I have a lot of information—I can tell you things—don’t walk away like that—come back! You can’t! Sanger, please! Don’t do this! I’ll make it worth your while! Turn around, Sanger! Talk to me!”
As the prisoners closed in on him, Himmler started to scream.
It was a noise that went on for a very long time.
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