Brandenburg: A Thriller

by Glenn Meade

  Birken paused, and the watery blue eyes looked at Volkmann. “Die Spinne, you’re familiar with its original function?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it had quite a few, actually. But the primary ones were to protect former SS men from prosecution and to help establish those same former Nazis and their families in commerce and industry. And, of course, to continue to propagandize the ideals of the Third Reich.”

  Volkmann looked out toward the gray, choppy lake and considered. “Did you ever hear of funds being sent back to Germany with that purpose in mind, Ted?”

  “In what respect?”

  “To finance extremists. Neo-Nazis.”

  Birken relit his pipe and said, “Mossad had a theory that some of the neo-Nazi resurgences in Germany over many decades were financed in part from Die Spinne funds, but there was never any solid evidence. Of course, Die Spinne was notoriously secretive and defied any attempts to infiltrate it. The Israelis tried to on a number of occasions, but their people involved on such missions usually disappeared, never to be heard of again.”

  The blue eyes regarded Volkmann keenly. “I presume this has something to do with these men, Schmeltz and Reimer, you asked me to check on?”

  “It sure does.”

  “Do you mind my asking why?”

  Volkmann told him the story. When he finished, Birken leaned forward.

  “Do you have the photograph of the young woman with you?”

  Volkmann removed the snapshot from his wallet. Birken studied it for a long time, then handed it back and shook his head.

  “I’m afraid I don’t recognize her. Of course, that date would have been long before my time. And the young woman could have been anyone. A public figure or simply an anonymous girlfriend of some Nazi officer.”

  “What about Schmeltz and Reimer?”

  Birken nodded. “After you called, I had a look back through my diaries. I kept copious notes when I was tracking down the missing Nazi gold. As I told you once many years ago, the team I was involved with after the war had to go right back through the books, back to 1933, to try to figure out where most of the money and bullion had come from. What part was party funds, what part belonged to the German people, what part had been spoils of war, and so on.” Birken smiled. “I hoped to write a book one day, but somehow I never seemed to get around to it. That’s the reason I kept copies of almost all the major accounts serviced over the twelve years of the Nazi regime.”

  Volkmann nodded. “That’s why I contacted you, Ted.”

  “The bad news is that I found nothing on this man Reimer, alias Tsarkin. He wasn’t one of the people we were chasing. The twenty thousand American dollars you say he had when he arrived in Paraguay could have been a little nest egg he had stashed away during the years of the war, or it quite possibly could have been paid to him from Die Spinne funds.”

  “What about the owner of the Chaco property, Erhard Schmeltz?”

  Birken again shook his head. “I found no record of money being sent to any Schmeltz in Paraguay. Not that I expected to. That’s not to say that the Reichsbank didn’t send him the funds. The account could have been serviced secretly. But the amounts sent to Schmeltz would have been small beer by comparison to some of the accounts the Reichsbank serviced abroad. Those were mainly for espionage work, for propaganda purposes. The real question is, why was Schmeltz sent money before the war? And why did the cash continue to be sent to his wife after his death?”

  “Any ideas, Ted?”

  Birken tapped his pipe. “Heaven only knows. It could have been for anything. Some Nazis set up slush funds through German immigrants in South America in the belief, I suppose, that one day they’d need them. There were always quite a number of German colonies in Paraguay, and most of them were fervently pro-Nazi.” Birken shrugged. “Maybe the Schmeltz couple was simply playing bank manager for someone.”

  “What about the fact that Schmeltz’s Nazi membership was endorsed by Himmler himself?”

  Birken smiled again. “Now that is interesting. But I’m afraid I still can’t give you an answer. It suggests that Schmeltz was a close acquaintance of Himmler’s or some high-ranking Nazi, obviously.” Birken raised an eyebrow. “But if some top Nazi was using this man Schmeltz to hoard cash for the future, I’m sure the amounts would have been much, much larger.”

  Birken paused. “Perhaps Schmeltz did someone a favor or kindness. Perhaps he was being repaid for it. It’s the only explanation I can think of when you consider that Schmeltz retained his party membership despite being thousands of miles away. Either that or he was being used to set up a slush fund for some Nazi. Blackmail’s another possible reason for the drafts, of course. But it’s unlikely that Schmeltz would have remained in the party if that were the case. And I can only assume that the reason the monies ceased in February of 1945 was because by then, the Reichsbank was finding it increasingly difficult to transfer funds out of Germany, even through its Swiss accounts.”

  “What was the gold bullion that made its way to Die Spinne actually used for?”

  Birken looked out toward the view beyond the window for a few moments, then turned back. “I think I’d have to agree with Mossad’s theory, at least in part. I’m sure some of it was used to finance neo-Nazi movements over the years. And not only in Germany, but all over Europe, and in America and South Africa in particular. But until now, Germany’s been too prosperous a country to have its keel unsettled by that kind of thing.” Birken shrugged. “I imagine a lot of the money sent to South America kept quite a number of old Nazis and their families in considerable comfort.”

  “Are we talking millions here, Ted, or what?”

  “Oh, much more than that, my boy. Probably as much as a quarter of the original amount that disappeared. Especially when you consider that the capital would have been put to work.”

  “How?”

  “In business ventures mainly, and land purchase. Much of it in South America.” Birken paused. “That’s where your last question comes in. What do you know about the Leibstandarte SS Division, Joe?”

  “Very little. Just that they were an elite within the SS, and Hitler’s personal bodyguard.”

  Birken nodded. “That’s right. They were first formed after the Night of the Long Knives, by Sepp Dietrich, a fanatical and dedicated Nazi officer. The SS men were all handpicked, hardened Nazis, fanatically loyal to Hitler. They were also instrumental in setting up Die Spinne and moving much of the Nazi gold to South America.” Birken smiled. “It’s interesting, but there is a slim connection between this fellow Erhard Schmeltz and Reimer.”

  “What kind of connection?”

  “Reimer was Leibstandarte SS. Erhard Schmeltz was SA. A Brownshirt.”

  When Volkmann nodded, Birken went on. “Well, the Brownshirt SA was initially set up as Hitler’s bodyguard. But after the Night of the Long Knives in 1934, when they were purged, some of their members ardently loyal to Hitler were inducted into the ranks of the Leibstandarte SS.” Birken shrugged. “It’s a small connection, but a connection nonetheless.”

  Volkmann glanced at his watch. “I’m booked on the twelve-thirty flight back, Ted. Do you mind if I use your phone to call a taxi?”

  “Not at all. Let me do it for you.”

  Ten minutes later they saw the cab pull up on the gravel path outside. Volkmann finished his drink, and Birken stood up shakily.

  “One last question, Ted. Did you ever hear of the Brandenburg Testament?”

  The old man thought for a moment, rubbed his chin. “No, I’m afraid not. What is it?”

  Volkmann shook his head, smiled. “I’ve no idea. Thanks for your help, Ted.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t be more useful.” Birken paused. “There may be one way I could try to get a fix on Schmeltz.”

  “How?”

  “So many of the old Nazis are dead, of course. But there are still a few of them alive. I have a contact in the German Federal Archives Office in Koblenz. I could ask him to see if he
can come up with some numbers close to Schmeltz’s party membership number and check them with the WASt.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s an acronym for the Wehrmacht Auskunftstelle. That’s the German Army Information Agency. It’s in north Berlin, and it’s one of the main German military-personnel records offices. The WASt keeps information on all former German Army personnel, going back to before the last war. That includes the SS, which was actually part of the army. Whenever former German military personnel claimed a pension, at retirement age, they had to apply through the WASt. Only when their military service records were confirmed could the pensions be paid.”

  “You mean former members of the SS were paid pensions?”

  “Lousy as that seems, yes.”

  “How can the WASt help?”

  “Well, if we can get a list of Nazi Party membership numbers and names that were close to Schmeltz’s, and those people served in the German military during the war and are still alive, they ought to be receiving pensions. The WASt will have a record of their addresses. But there really can’t be too many of the old boys still alive, especially those whose party numbers were close to Schmeltz’s and who knew him. That’s your big problem But leave it with me and I’ll see what I can come up with.”

  “Thanks, Ted. I appreciate your help.”

  “Not at all, my boy.”

  Birken led him to the front door, and the blue eyes sparkled as he gripped Volkmann’s hand. “I’ll be in touch if anything turns up.” He smiled. “Do call again sometime. It’s so seldom I get visitors these days.”

  • • •

  It was almost noon when the taxi pulled up outside the departures terminal. As Volkmann paid the driver, he noticed the dark green Citroën pull up across from the terminal—he had spotted the same car in the rearview mirror on the way in from the lake road.

  It was too far away for him to get a good look at the two passengers inside without making it obvious, but when he went to check in, he noticed the blond young man with the newspaper standing by the Hertz desk. He wore a long, dark winter overcoat, and his hair was cropped close to his skull. Volkmann felt certain he’d seen him that morning at the airport, standing by the information desk as he came out of arrivals.

  When he was handed back his boarding pass, Volkmann walked back out to the departures entrance and stepped outside. The green Citroën had disappeared, and there was no sign of the young man with the newspaper.

  He waited another ten minutes, going through the old routines, but he noticed no one watching him and he was certain he wasn’t followed as he walked back toward the boarding gate.

  26

  STRASBOURG. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 13

  He arrived back at DSE headquarters at three. Peters had left early but there was a message for Volkmann from the duty officer, and when he was put through, Jan de Vries came on the line.

  “A message came through the Italian desk,” the Dutchman said. “They say they’re rechecking all seaport cargo manifests that arrived from South America within the last month. If they come across anything, they’ll get back to you.” De Vries paused. “Also, a voice-analysis report just came in from your place in Beaconsfield.”

  “I’ll pick it up, Jan. Thanks.”

  There was some correspondence on his desk, but he ignored it for now. He felt certain that the blond young man at the airport in Zurich had been watching him and that the two men in the green Citroën had followed him out from the Zürichsee. But why? And who were they? It made him feel uneasy. Apart from Peters, only Erica knew he was traveling to Zurich.

  He signed for the two-page voice-analysis report, then went back up to his office.

  The report determined that there were three male voices on Hernandez’s tape.

  The first was in his late forties approximately. The man was a nonsmoker, heavily built.

  Like the two other voices the German he spoke was a softer version of plattdeutsch. But the analysis suggested that all three men were bilingual, their voices softened by a Latinate tongue, most likely Spanish.

  Of those two other voices, one was of a speaker roughly in his middle thirties, a smoker, likely of stocky build. And the other was of a much older man, in his late seventies or eighties. Possibly thin to medium build, and a nonsmoker.

  The German they spoke was regionalized to nonethnic German colonies within either Paraguay or Argentina.

  Volkmann made two copies of the report and left one each marked for the attention of Ferguson and Peters.

  When he went through the correspondence on his desk, he found a large envelope from Peters, containing photocopied material from the Berlin Document Center.

  Two manila folders inside each contained a sheaf of pages. A note was paper-clipped to the front of one of the folders. It explained that one set of original copies was from Heinrich Reimer’s file and the second from Erhard Schmeltz’s.

  Volkmann picked Reimer’s first.

  All the relevant information was in the file. SS number, Nazi Party number. In Reimer’s case there were notes concerning his education, medical history, his officer-training courses, his transfers and promotions, up to October 1944. Included was a four-page copy of Reimer’s family tree, dating back to 1800, to show the Aryan purity of his background.

  The third page contained three black-and-white photographs of Reimer. Two were head-and-shoulders shots, one front and one side profile. The third was a full-length photograph in the black SS uniform. The photographs showed a solemn-looking young man with cropped blond hair and a sharp face.

  Volkmann put the file aside and opened the folder on Erhard Schmeltz.

  The four pages inside contained a copy of Schmeltz’s original Nazi Party application form. At the top of the application it read: NATIONALSOZIALISTISCHE DEUTSCHE ARBEITERPARTEI.

  There was a line for the applicant’s signature, and it contained Erhard Schmeltz’s, the letters firm and bold. For “Profession” or “Occupation,” the words “Fabrik Werkmeister,” Factory Foreman, were written in Schmeltz’s handwriting. The place and date of birth were given as Hamburg. In a box in the top right-hand corner was stamped the number 6896.

  Schmeltz’s address was given as 23 Brennerallee in Schwabing, and the date of application was November 6, 1929.

  When he looked at the next page, Volkmann saw a copy of a letter headed Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, Berlin, the headquarters of the SS.

  A terse message simply said, “I recommend immediate acceptance of party applicant Erhard Johann Schmeltz into Gau Munich. Any queries, contact me personally.” The letter was signed H. Himmler, Der Reichsführer SS.

  The photocopies of Schmeltz’s original master file card from Nazi Party records contained very little information: name and address, party membership number, date of entry into the party. But there was a head-and-shoulders photograph of Schmeltz.

  It was of a plain, middle-aged man with a peasant’s face and a thick, bullish neck. His dark hair had partly receded and was combed over his scalp. He wore an ill-fitting suit. Dark, bushy eyebrows were knit together as he stared at the camera.

  Volkmann studied the image, wondering again what made Schmeltz leave Germany and travel to South America with his wife and child. And why he received such large sums of money.

  Finally he put the folders back in the envelope, tidied up his desk, and drove to his apartment.

  It was after five and dark when he let himself in, and Erica had set the table.

  She poured him a glass of wine. “You’re just in time for dinner. I went shopping in Petite France and bought fresh fish and vegetables and some bottles of Sauterne.”

  She looked good in jeans and a tight sweater, and her hair was down and fell about her shoulders. Over the meal he told her about the voice-analysis report and his visit to Zurich, but he made no mention of the man at the airport who had followed him.

  “Did your friend in Zurich have any idea why Erhard Schmeltz received the money?”

  He told he
r what Ted Birken had said. “But he was just speculating, Erica. So anything’s possible. What about you?”

  “I spent the day at the office, going through the library newspaper files on the murders.”

  “And?”

  She handed him a black plastic file. “I put it all together in there. Lubsch must have told you the truth. At least about the two people Kesser wanted him to kill.”

  Volkmann flicked through the file. “Why?”

  “A man named Herbert Rauscher was murdered in East Berlin five months ago. It’s got to be the same man. The Berlin papers ran stories, and they were picked up by the major dailies.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Rauscher was shot dead at his apartment. Two bullet wounds in the head. According to the newspapers, there were no witnesses, and the Berlin homicide had no leads. I telephoned their office, but they wouldn’t give me any information other than that the case is still under investigation.”

  Volkmann looked up from the file. “What about the woman?”

  “Her name was Hedda Pohl, and she was murdered, too.”

  “Where?”

  “Friedrichshafen in southern Germany, where she came from. As you probably know, it’s near the Swiss border, beside Lake Konstanz. She was shot dead in a wood outside the town, a week before Rauscher. I rang the local paper in Friedrichshafen and spoke to one of the reporters. She gave me what few details she could. Hedda Pohl was in her late sixties, the widow of a businessman, and had two grown children. The police found no motive for the murder, and don’t seem to be making much progress.”

  “Did you contact the local police in Friedrichshafen?”

  Erica shook her head. “No, I thought you’d want to do that. But I’ve put a file together with all the newspaper stories I could get on the murders.”