The Reichsbank Robbery

by Colin Roderick Fulton

  “When I asked him to tell me about the camps he told me in no uncertain terms not to stick my nose into things which did not concern me. He did not deny anything. Just told me to mind my own business.”

  He lapsed into silence and his son looked around the room nervously. The older man caught the look and told him not to worry. The room was almost sound proof and the door very thick. He suggested that if Schonewille was implicated in this recall to Germany then he should try and refuse becoming a part of whatever his half-brother was involved in.

  As they left the office, a very pretty uniformed secretary stopped them and handed his father some papers that needed to be signed. While his parent read them she looked up at Peter and, after studying his face intently for a few seconds, gave him a stunning smile. The major general noted the smile and introduced them.

  “Gretchen, this is my brave son, Major Peter Wenck.” The woman looked up, gave another stunning smile and then walked away without saying a word. The two men looked at one another and grinned.

  They left the base shortly after and spent a convivial evening in each other’s company, drinking in several bars before enjoying a first class meal in a top restaurant. A little worse for wear, Peter spent the night sprawled on a sofa in his father’s tiny apartment.

  Despite the amount of liquor he had consumed the previous night, Peter Wenck awoke in the morning fairly clear-headed. More importantly, the man who caught the plane south two hours later was in a much better frame of mind than when he had arrived in Oslo.

  Chapter Five

  8 November 1944

  Five o’clock in the morning is not the best time to alight from a train into the cold blackness of a late autumn morning, especially when it is raining and a numbing wind is blowing from the north-east.

  Schonewille was glad he had finally reached Berlin, but he would have preferred to be on the other side of the city and on his way home. His head ached and he felt dirty. The rank smell of stale sweat, cigarette smoke and over-cooked cabbage had permeated his clothing till he thought he would vomit. He shook his head in frustration and immediately regretted the action. The migraine sent flashing messages of pain through his temples and he was forced to climb back into the train’s compartment and sit down until the throbbing had subsided somewhat.

  He knew there would be no car to meet him. He was almost five hours late from his already overdue schedule. The train trip back from Auschwitz had been a nightmare.

  Germany’s railroad system was in such chaos that to get anywhere was a hit-and-miss affair. One of the main targets of the allied bombing was the Third Reich’s transport and communications systems and the railways were slowly being pulverised under the incessant depredations of the giant bombers that roamed the skies over occupied Europe and Germany almost without pause. Time and again on his trip back from Poland the train was shunted onto sidings to make way for supply and munitions trains heading eastwards, or was re-routed onto another track to bypass damaged sections of line.

  To make matters worse, he had picked up a stomach bug and had spent much of his time in the carriage’s smelly toilet. His anus stung from the constant use and inadequate cleansing abilities of the coarse paper provided by the Reichsbahn. The desire for a bath was all-encompassing, but he knew that he first had to deliver his papers to Heger at the Reichsbank. A spasm grabbed at his bowels and he swore. He called over a porter, an elderly man with only one arm, and ordered him to carry his overnight bag. The briefcase he kept hold of himself.

  The man followed him to the station’s toilets and stood outside the cubicle, respectfully waiting. Here at least the paper was softer, but the pain was still irritating and sharp.

  With three hours to kill until he could gain entry to the bank. He ordered the porter to take him to the station master’s office. There he brusquely told the man in charge that he intended using his office for a few hours. The man was only the night station master and since he was clocking off in half-an-hour saw no reason to argue the point. At any rate nobody but a fool would say no to an SS lieutenant-colonel, especially one who was obviously in such a bad temper.

  Schonewille had been promoted to Obersturmbannführer the previous week and the method of promotion had taken away much of the joy this advancement should have engendered. The fact was that his new rank was a gift from the mysterious third man.

  On 4 November Schonewille had been contacted by Heger who informed him that a meeting with this mysterious third party had been arranged for the following day. For Schonewille this was none too soon. He had already placed the first sums of money in the spurious account, the proceeds of his visit to the Mauthausen concentration camp in southern Germany.

  The meeting was arranged to be at the Reichsbank, a factor Schonewille at first found very strange. But, after a moment’s thought, he realised that at the bank there would be much more chance of keeping the meeting free of prying eyes and official records. Such an encounter at an SS establishment would mean at best the recognition and memory of personnel and at worst official entries in some duty book.

  However, before this meeting actually took place he was ordered to visit another camp. So, on the fifth he boarded a train heading for the south-east, a 500-kilometre journey that normally would have taken no more than ten or eleven hours. It took almost twice that time. He was forced to switch trains at Breslau and then two hours later his train was switched onto a siding to let a munitions train through. They remained stationary for three hours while military traffic passed by, including a goods train hauling fifteen flatcars with their valuable load of King Tiger tanks.

  On his trips to Auschwitz, Schonewille never went directly to either of the two main camps that made up part of the vast complex. At any rate, passenger and goods trains seldom stopped at one of the sidings directly outside. Those were generally only for the cattle trucks carrying their human cargo of misery.

  The main rail line carrying Schonewille came from Katowice via Breslau and Berlin. A few miles north of the camps this line was joined by two other routes, one from the north-east, originating from Warsaw and passing through Lubin and Radom, and one from the east which came from Cracow.

  As soon as his train crossed the Vistula River, Schonewille began to pack the papers he had been perusing away into his briefcase and put on his leather overcoat. A few minutes later he stepped out onto the platform of Auschwitz station.

  As he suspected, there was no one there to meet him, but he managed to cadge a lift with another passenger, an industrial chemist working at the nearby IG Faben plant who dropped him off at a small inn just outside Auschwitz town. He was known here and the owner, a German World War One veteran who had been badly gassed at the Somme, greeted him effusively. The man had migrated to Poland in 1940 as part of the German lebensraum, or living space policy, which had been part of Hitler’s basic tenet ever since he penned Mein Kampf while in prison in 1923.

  Schonewille returned the greeting curtly. He was tired and bad tempered. He asked to use the phone and rang the camp. His temper did not improve when he learned that Kommandant Rudolf Höss was not available, nor was his aide.

  The functionary at the other end of the line apologetically explained that they were both attending to some problems and would be back later. He did not elaborate. Since it was past five o’clock, he suggested Schonewille freshen up and have an early dinner and then wait for the kommandant’s call. He took the advice and then checked with the railway station on when the next train would leave for Berlin. The one he had originally planned to use had long since gone. To his annoyance he learned there was none scheduled until 1.15pm the next day. Therefore, there was no need to visit the camp before morning, although he would have preferred to get the visit over and done with. He also contacted his office to tell them of the delay.

  The phone eventually rang just after nine o’clock. The same functionary relayed a message that Kommandant Höss was very weary and would see him at 1000 hours the next morning.

  By
this time Schonewille did not mind in the least. He had partaken of a reasonable meal and had found a pleasant enough drinking companion, a Waffen SS captain who, after being severely wounded in the battle for the Kursk salient, had volunteered for work with one of the SS commando units that roamed the east slaughtering any ethnic group the Reich deemed to be inferior.

  After much swapping of stories and much vodka and schnapps they had parted as friends, the way drunks usually do, with laughter, elaborate gestures and solicitous comments, each bidding the other “Schlafen sie gut”. Surprisingly, his hangover in the morning was slight, but he did feel exceedingly seedy. Consequently, breakfast was light, with once slice of bread and three cups of coffee. By the time his VW Kübelwagen arrived his hangover had gone, though the seediness remained.

  It was raining, a slight drizzle emanating from a grey leaden sky. The water drops were mixed with a light soot and the air had the pungent odour of burning. The ovens were working full blast as usual.

  They crossed over the River Sala and turned left and then almost immediately turned right but, to his surprise instead of turning left again down the road that would have taken him to the Auschwitz main camp, or Auschwitz 1 as it was officially known, the Volkswagen continued straight on towards the huge Birkenau camp, or Auschwitz 2.

  Schonewille disliked this complex. Strangely, he did not have any feelings one way or another about camp one or the many other camps he visited on his rounds. Here, Birkenau’s main function was death. It was in this place that the gas chambers and ovens were situated and it was here that Sophia would have ended if she had boarded one of the notorious cattle-trains that carried those Jews to the camp. It had been relatively easy to create papers to take her from the holding centre, but from here it would have been impossible.

  In a strange unfathomable way this incredibly evil charnel house touched at something buried deep in a corner of his soul and he always left it feeling depressed and slightly nauseous. Maybe it was the smell, though all the camps had an odour and he always made sure that he put on plenty of cologne before entering their confines. Or maybe it was the constant falling soot and ash that one SS officer had called the black winter of death. He did not know, nor did he try to analyse the feeling. To do so would have lifted the lid, ever so slightly, on his conscience.

  They drove between the huts of the main SS barracks and turned left down a short, narrow, well-maintained road. On either side were more huts. These were the administration buildings and the office of the camp commandant. The Kübelwagen slowed down and finally halted in front of a path leading to one of the buildings. Although it had stopped raining Schonewille hurried to the front door and let himself in. The room was well-lit with three empty desks and their accompanying chairs arranged in an L formation. A shortish, thick-set sergeant with the pock-marked residue of a long-gone acne scaring his face was in the act of putting on an overcoat. He straightened at Schonewille’s entrance and immediately saluted, at the same time offering a lukewarm smile whose brilliance was dimmed further by the NCO’s lack of front teeth.

  “Wo ist der Kommandant?” Schonewille demanded curtly, deigning himself to return the salute.

  The man shook his head. “Ich weiss nicht, Herr Obersturmbannführer.”

  Just then a door on the far side of the room opened and an SS captain walked in, calling a greeting, before stopping and saluting.

  “My dear Obersturmbannführer, let me congratulate you on your new rank. A well-deserved promotion, no doubt.”

  Schonewille had met the other man at a previous visit to the camp though he had no feeling about him one way or another. His greeting therefore was curt.

  “Thank you, Hauptsturmführer Eicke. Now, where is the Kommandant? I want to get my business completed and be back on my way to Berlin as soon as possible. I have an important meeting there,” he added to reinforce his wish to leave as soon as possible.

  The younger man shook his head. “I am sorry, Herr Obersturmbannführer. The Kommandant had to go to the Farben plant again early this morning. A problem with the standard of prisoners they have recently received. He just rang through to give his apologies. He has been delayed and it may be several hours before he returns.” Eicke shook his head apologetically and went on. “But, no matter. I have full authority to attend to the matter at hand and rest assured you will find all the paperwork in order.”

  In reality Schonewille did not care who handed him the paperwork. He had little regard for Kommandant Höss and found his ponderous enthusiasm and constant acclamations of what a fine job he was doing both unnecessary and boring.

  He nodded his head in agreement and the SS captain ushered him into another room before motioning him to sit in a chair in front of a large ornate desk. On the far wall underneath a portrait of Hitler was a large free-standing safe, and it was to this that Eicke crossed.

  He chatted on while opening the safe and marshalling the required documents. Schonewille hardly responded. In reality he hardly heard what the man was saying, his thoughts were far away. Irritably he snapped, “Das ist unglaublich. I expected the papers to be ready and waiting.”

  Eicke stopped talking and looked over enquiringly. He was a good-looking man with soft, boyish features and blue eyes. His close-cropped blonde hair heightened rather than detracted from his rather effeminate looks while his gestures and hand movements were those of an artist rather than a soldier.

  He shrugged his shoulders and lifted both palms upwards in a gesture of supplication. He was unsure of Schonewille and did not know how to pander to the older man’s obvious irritation.

  He spoke softly, but with an aggrieved tone. “Mein Freund. The papers are in order. Here they are. I have not kept you waiting and there is really no hurry. The next train for Berlin does not leave for almost three hours. At any rate I have a treat for you. No, it is a surprise that will keep,” he went on hurriedly as Schonewille raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth to speak.

  Schonewille did not apologise, but nodded his head in agreement and held out his hands for the papers. There was silence for a few minutes as he studied the figures. The total was impressive and included four kilograms of gold. It amounted to a lot of teeth. Schonewille commented on the haul.

  Eicke explained proudly that everybody had been working overtime and for the month of October just over 33,000 people had been exterminated. Schonewille asked where the dead had originated from.

  “Theresienstadt, Herr Obersturmbannführer.”

  Schonewille nodded his head. He had only been to the camp once. He smiled in memory. Theresienstadt had been formed as part of an elaborate hoax. It was designed as a holding camp for Jews and was used as a showpiece for observers from the neutral countries and the Red Cross. In fact a propaganda film was even made about the supposedly wonderful conditions at the camp and used to counteract the growing claims around the world that the concentration camps were being used to exterminate the Jews. Now with the Reich’s frontiers crumbling, this Czech camp was being denuded of all its inhabitants, who were being railed to Auschwitz and herded straight into the gas chambers.

  After checking the figures and signing the appropriate forms, Schonewille approved the transportation of the loot and placed the papers in his attaché case.

  “Gut, gut, alles in ordnung,” he nodded his head, giving the captain a thin smile.

  Eicke returned the smile a trifle nervously, paused for a moment and then as if making up his mind about something slid open a drawer from the desk and extracted a thick folded piece of paper. He paused again and then pushed it across the desk. The other took the package with a questioning look.

  It was actually pale green blotting paper folded to create a small oblong parcel some twelve centimetres by eight centimetres. He unfolded the paper to reveal five cut diamonds. Not one was smaller than two carats and one, a superb stone which, despite the poor backdrop and indifferent light, sparkled with a brilliant intensity, was probably just over three carats.

  S
chonewille looked up questioningly and Eicke with no expression on his face explained how they had been found in the anus of a dead Jewess and the Kommandant had left them for the SS colonel. The word gift was not mentioned.

  Schonewille cursed inwardly. There was no doubt it was a bribe, but for what? With Höss not present, no such request could be forthcoming, so he decided to accept the gift. Nevertheless, he protected himself.

  “Wonderful. They will help the Reich’s war effort. Better than on some fat Jewess, eh? I will see they are passed onto the Reichsbank. Thank the Kommandant for his diligence.” He placed the package in his tunic pocket and stood up. To change the subject he said, “Now, what about this surprise?”

  Eicke nodded his head and motioned for Schonewille to follow. They left the building and passed through a number of electrified fences into the main part of the camp. They were joined by two guards armed with machine pistols. As they walked down a road between the various camps and their wooden huts he suddenly heard a muffled sound, a moaning wail heightening in intensity. He felt the hairs on his neck start to rise and after a moment asked what the noise was. Eicke answered disinterestedly. One of the guards even went so far as to give a smirk.

  “Oh, that must be a gassing at crematorium five. As you know number four was put out of action by some Sonderkommando Jews during the mass escape attempt on the seventh of October. Now we’re too far away to hear anything from the other gas chambers, so it must be number five.”