“This pretty much came to a head in 1938. Among other things, a law was passed requiring all Jews to carry identification cards. On October 28th, seventeen thousand Jews of Polish origin, most of whose families had been living in Germany for generations, were arrested with the intention of deporting them to Poland. When the Polish government refused to admit them, they were interned in so-called relocation camps on the Polish frontier.
“And all this came to a head on November 9th, which has become known as Kristallnacht, referring to all the broken glass and debris on the streets of Berlin and other cities. Much of it came from storefront windows of some seventy-five hundred Jewish-owned businesses. But some came from the thousand-plus synagogues that they burned. Thirty thousand Jews were arrested and sent to concentration camps—among them, Dachau.
“And then Hitler and Himmler decided to take advantage of all the hullabaloo that Ernst Röhm’s SA thugs were causing to solve another problem they had. They sent the Schutzstaffel all over Germany looking for Röhm. They found him at a country inn—in bed, naked, with a handsome boy. As homosexuality was a real no-no for Nazis, they took photographs of them in flagrante delicto, then shot both lovers on the spot. That ended the problem of Röhm wanting to take over the Nazi Party.
“Himmler then presented those members of the Schutzstaffel who had assassinated Röhm with Totenkopfrings, which made them sort of an elite within the elite SS.
“The rings proved so popular that Himmler, expanding this elite corps, awarded them to all three hundred original SS members. The SS by then had grown to about fifty thousand and soon would grow even larger.
“Then Himmler established a new tradition. When Schutzstaffel members who had been given Totenkopfrings died, they would take the rings off the corpses and install them in Himmler-provided frames, which then would be given to the families so they proudly could display them on their walls.
“This didn’t last long. As the SS grew like Topsy, so did the awards of the Totenkopfrings. Himmler was passing them out by the bucketful—about twelve thousand by the end of the war.
“The first thing he did was to order the families who’d received framed rings to send them to Wewelsburg Castle—remember, Himmler leased it for a hundred years in 1933 to serve as an SS educational and ceremonial center—where they would be stored for the ages in a ceremonial chest.”
“Twelve thousand rings? Each weighing what?” Dunwiddie asked.
“Depending on who made them, one and a quarter ounces to one and a half ounces,” Cohen said.
Dunwiddie said, “That’s twelve thousand times one-point-two-five—”
“Just shy of a half ton,” Cohen furnished.
“Good God, a thousand pounds of gold rings!” Dunwiddie exclaimed.
“There are at least three theories about what happened to the rings when they reached the castle,” Cohen went on. “I don’t know which, or any, of them I believe. The one I do tend to believe is that immediately on arrival, General Siegfried Taubert melted them down and sent them with a trusted flunky to Switzerland to quietly sell what were now untraceable bars of gold.”
“That had to have been dangerous,” Dunwiddie said. “What if von Dietelburg had found out? Or Himmler himself? They’re ruthless.”
“An understatement, Tiny. While I don’t know about SS-Reichsführer Himmler, I’m certain that if Taubert was selling melted Totenkopfrings, then von Dietelburg was getting his percentage. And, for that matter, it seems entirely possible that the whole scheme was von Dietelburg’s idea.”
“You said that there were three theories,” Father McGrath said.
Cohen nodded. “Theory two is that the rings are intact, hidden somewhere in the castle. There are a number of secret places they could be hidden, and I’m sure we haven’t found all of them. Theory three is that Taubert, knowing he couldn’t transport that much weight, moved them to a cave near here, then blew up the cave’s entrance.
“Theory three is what Sergeant Strauss said he believes, which is why he stuck around. So when I got things organized, we started looking for the cave.”
“Got things organized?” McGrath said.
“I took over the castle, Father Jack. Before I finished chatting with Johann Strauss that first day, I sent Vito’s driver off to find a telephone. Six members of Vito’s detachment arrived right after dark. The castle has been under my control ever since, and we have been exploring it steadily. Nobody gets in but my people.”
“Sir, I have to ask,” Dunwiddie said, “what does Military Government think about the CIC detachment that’s in charge of protecting the Tribunal taking over a castle two hundred–odd miles away?”
“They are curious,” Cohen replied, a hint of humor in his tone, “and I suspect displeased. But, so far, General Greene has been able to keep the situation under control.”
“And what have you found?” McGrath asked. “Anything?”
“This is where it gets interesting. I found—not immediately, but gradually, as I found it hard to believe myself—that Himmler was turning the castle into a holy place, into a Vatican dedicated to a religion he was starting.”
“A castle as a holy place?” Ginger said, in disbelief. “That medieval place looks like anything but that.”
“A holy place,” Cohen confirmed. “And it’s a Renaissance castle.”
Ginger nodded.
Cohen went on. “This is the point of the lecture, so pay attention. Enter Professor Karl Diebitsch, an artist—and, to be fair, a soldier; he was an Oberführer in the Waffen-SS—who had designed the all-black SS uniform and served as sort of Himmler’s artist-in-residence. Diebitsch also designed the gold Totenkopfrings.
“Starting in 1934, under Diebitsch’s direction, the plaster on the exterior walls of Wewelsburg was removed to make the structure look more castlelike. They opened a blacksmith operation to make wrought-iron interior decorations. The blacksmiths and the plaster removers were concentration camp inmates, mostly Russian POWs. But absolutely no Jews, as Jews would obviously contaminate the place.
“Officially, the castle was supposed to be turned into a meeting place for SS brass. That was bullshit. From the beginning, it was to be the Church of Saint Heinrich the Divine.”
“How did you come to that conclusion?” McGrath asked.
“Almost as soon as I got a good look at the castle, I saw that there were major changes to it. At first, I didn’t know what, exactly, had been changed, only that clearly there were changes. I later learned that between 1938 and 1943, the Nazis had built two rooms they called the Obergruppenführersaal—the ‘SS Generals Hall’—and the Gruft.”
“Gruft?” Ginger parroted.
“‘Vault,’ as in ‘burial vault,’” Cohen clarified. “Their ceilings were cast in concrete and faced with natural stone. And they had made plans for another hall on an upper floor. They wanted to turn Castle Wewelsburg into the Mittelpunkt der Welt—the ‘Center of the World.’
“What I found interesting is that many, if not most all, of the modifications made to the castle had to do with the number twelve. Himmler apparently wanted to reincarnate the Knights of the Round Table.”
“As in King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table?” Ginger asked.
“Yes, but a German, or Teutonic, version thereof.”
He made a significant pause, collected his thoughts, then continued. “In Nordic mythology, there are twelve Aesir—sort of gods—including Odin and Thor. When Himmler re-formed and enlarged the SS, he set it up with twelve departments—SS-Hauptämter. So I began to think that Himmler wanted the castle to serve as the stage for a Nazi version of the Knights of the Round Table.
“In this scenario, Himmler designated twelve senior SS officers as the knights of his round table.
“In the vault, the ceiling is held up by twelve pedestals. In the center of the ceiling there’s a huge swastika.
A gas line leading to the center of the floor was almost certainly going to fuel an eternal flame.
“In the Hall of the Obergruppenführers, there are twelve pillars and niches—the latter probably intended for the eventual interment of Himmler’s latter-day knights. There is also a sun wheel with twelve spokes. It looks like a wheel with the sun at the center.”
“What, exactly, is the purpose of this sun wheel?” Dunwiddie asked.
“In this SS religion they were starting,” Cohen explained, “they declared that the sun was the strongest and most visible expression of God.
“If I didn’t mention this before, I later learned, credibly, that upper-level SS brass, mostly general officers, would gather secretly at various places in Castle Wewelsburg to conduct religious rites. Or quasi-religious rites.”
“Sounds crazy,” Ginger said.
“Yes,” Cohen said. “Unfortunately, they were dead serious. But speaking of crazy, did you ever hear of the Inner World of Agharti?”
No one replied.
“Edgar Rice Burroughs, the fellow who wrote Tarzan,” Cohen said, “also wrote about an under-the-earth civilization. He called it Pellucidar.”
“But that was fiction, right?” Ginger said. “Fantasy.”
Cohen grunted. “Speaking of fantasy, what if I told you that beginning in 1941 the SS began construction of a vertical tunnel in Hungary, sort of a super mine shaft, that would eventually be equipped with an elevator that would take Himmler and his inner circle ten miles downward to the Inner World of Agharti?”
He paused, looked from face to face, then added, “Would you consider that fact or fantasy?”
“Fantasy,” Dunwiddie said.
“Insanity,” Ginger said.
“Incredible,” McGrath said.
“Yes, one would think all that. Yet work on the tunnel continued until November 1944, when the SS ran out of supplies and decided the project would have to wait for the Final Victory. I’ve been there. You would be astonished at the size of the mounds of evacuated earth and stone created from a hole, say, thirty feet in diameter and two and a half miles deep—that’s as far as they got.”
“It boggles the mind,” Dunwiddie said.
“Let me now turn to what else I learned happened in Castle Wewelsburg,” Cohen said. “They began to stage religious rites there. The first official Nazi religion ceremony was the baptism of Obergruppenführer Wolff’s son, Thorisman—rough translation, ‘Man of Thor’ or ‘Thor’s son.’”
“Thor?” Ginger said.
“The Nordic warrior god of power, strength, lightning, et cetera,” McGrath furnished. “That’s where we get Thursday—Thor’s day.”
“I never knew that,” Ginger said.
“Present at the baptism,” Cohen said, “were SS-Obergruppenführer und General der Polizei Reinhard Heydrich. Baby Thor got a silver christening cup from Himmler himself.”
“Colonel,” McGrath said, “I absolutely have to see this place.”
“I understand. And I want—”
Cohen’s telephone rang. He glared at it.
“And I want your opinion, Father Jack,” Cohen went on, “of where my thinking is going wrong.”
The phone rang again.
He grabbed the receiver and snapped, “Colonel Cohen.”
Moments later, he added, “Good afternoon, Mr. Justice.”
Then he said, “I’m on my way, sir,” and hung up.
He glanced at the others.
“You’ll have to excuse me. I am not sure what’s up, but something damn sure is. And this lecture is obviously over.” Cohen confirmed that by leaning toward the microphone and formally stating, “The Thousand-Year Reich Lecture interrupted at fourteen-forty-five hours, 18 April 1946.”
He looked at the others again.
“It’s quarter to three. I suggest you return to Farber Palast and discuss this among you—in the Duchess Suite, not in the bar. I’ll try to meet you there about half past five.”
He then walked out of his office.
V
[ONE]
International Tribunal Compound Prison
Nuremberg, American Zone of Occupation, Germany
1505 18 April 1946
The two enormous black soldiers leading the German prisoner out of the cellblock dwarfed him. Both were well over six feet tall. Their muscled arms and chests strained the OD Ike jackets. The prisoner was restrained with handcuffs, shackles around his ankles, and a chain around his waist. He had a black bag over his head.
As the soldiers and their prisoner passed the guardhouse, Jim Cronley stepped out of it. He made several gestures, first putting an index finger to his lips to indicate silence.
This made one of the huge men smile, revealing several gold teeth.
Cronley then raised his eyebrows, making a question of his next gesture, a back-and-forth movement of his right hand.
The man, smiling, nodded.
Cronley finally made a thumbs-up gesture and pointed to an Army 6×6 truck that had been backed up to the guardhouse.
The man smiled, saluted, and then prodded his prisoner into movement. He stopped him at the truck.
Another huge man standing on the bed of the truck reached down to take the prisoner’s hands, then pulled him onto the tailgate, causing the prisoner to grunt. Next, he reached down, grabbed the prisoner by his shoulders and lifted him deeper into the truck bed.
The other man, remaining on the ground, put the tailgate in place and then trotted to the cab and climbed in beside the driver.
The truck horn sounded twice, and the 6×6 began to drive away. As it did, a staff car pulled in behind it and followed.
* * *
—
Cronley turned and walked into the guardhouse. He took a leather folder from his pocket, showed it to the officer of the day—a first lieutenant of the 1st “Big Red One” Infantry Division—and formally announced, “CIC Special Agent Cronley to see SS-Standartenführer Müller.”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said. “Sir, I have to ask if you are armed.”
Cronley hoisted the left side of his Ike jacket, revealing a holstered Model 1911A1 Colt .45 caliber pistol.
“That question was pro forma,” the lieutenant confessed. “I didn’t notice your holster.”
“That’s the idea of the Secret Service cross-draw holster,” Cronley said as he took the pistol out. “You’re not supposed to notice.”
He handed the pistol to the lieutenant.
“Safety on,” he announced, “a round in the chamber.”
“You always carry it locked and loaded?”
“Only when I think I may have to shoot somebody.”
The lieutenant laughed.
He removed the pistol’s magazine and then racked the action, which caused the chambered cartridge to eject and land on the floor. He picked it up and then turned to the staff sergeant standing behind him.
“Escort Mr. Cronley to Müller’s cell. Second tier, Cell 11-R.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
—
The guard posted at the cell was a corporal whom Cronley guessed had yet to see his nineteenth birthday. He was wearing a white helmet liner and a white Sam Browne belt. Like the staff sergeant, he was unarmed except for a white police baton.
“Open it up,” the staff sergeant ordered, tapping the iron bars with his baton.
The corporal slid a two-by-ten-inch plank out of the way, then put an eight-inch-long key in the iron keyhole and turned it. Finally, with a grunt, he pushed the heavy door open.
A stocky, nearly bald fifty-year-old male was sitting on a GI bed. He looked up with annoyance mingled with curiosity as Cronley entered the cell.
“Guten tag, Herr Standartenführer,” Cronley said, cheerfully.
“Who the hel
l are you?” Müller demanded, in German. “And that’s Generalmajor Müller.”
“That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Who the hell are you?” he repeated.
“My name is Feibleman,” Cronley said. “James Feibleman. I’m the prisoner morale officer.”
“In other words, Biddle or Jackson—probably the latter—sent a Jew to remind me who won the war?”
Well, he knows who Biddle and Jackson are.
And I think he’d challenge me, if he knew who I am. Interesting.
“This Jew was sent to evaluate your morale, your mental condition, to see how depressed you are. We don’t want you to try to hang yourself before your trial.”
“How could I possibly be depressed in such surroundings?” Müller made a sweeping gesture around the cell, then added, “Waiting to be hanged?”
“That’s the point, Herr SS-Standartenführer. We—”
“I’ve already told you that my rank is generalmajor.”
“Not any longer,” Cronley lied. “That’s one of the things we thought might depress you. The Tribunal has decided once an SS officer, always an SS officer. In other words, the Tribunal does not recognize those late-in-the-war commissionings of SS officers in the Wehrmacht. You will be tried, and almost certainly hanged, as SS-Standartenführer Müller.”
Müller didn’t reply.
“We also thought that learning you’re not as important to Odessa as you thought you were might depress you somewhat. Has it?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Let me paint the picture for you. You’re still here while your friends General der Infanterie Wilhelm Burgdorf and SS-Brigadeführer Franz von Dietelburg are off somewhere enjoying the hospitality of the Organisation der Ehemaligen SS-Angehörigen. Didn’t that suggest to you that Burgdorf and von Dietelburg are considered by Odessa to be more important than you are?”
“As I keep telling you, Feibleman, I have no idea what or who you’re talking about.”
The Enemy of My Enemy Page 10