Hitler's Finger

by PJ Skinner

  Berlin, April 1945

  Dr Becker removed the severed finger from his pocket and unwrapped it from the greased proof paper in which he had concealed it. Dropping it into sterilized saline in a glass vial, he sealed it with hot wax. Then he put the vial into a metal tube and screwed on the top. With trembling hands, he placed the tube into a large canister of dry ice. Removing it from the corpse had been straightforward despite his trepidation. No-one wanted to enter the room while the smell of almonds hung in the air.

  Death had been instantaneous. Hitler’s head was on the coffee table with blood dripping from his right temple. The automatic, a Walther PPK, was lying on the floor below the dead hand that had dropped it. Becker strode over to the body and was shocked at the state of the Fuhrer’s hands. The nails were blackened by drug abuse and the fingers thin and grey. They were not the fingers of a well man. No wonder the Fuhrer had stayed hidden in the bunker for so long. The finger came away without a struggle. The enormity of the sacrilege was hard to ignore but Becker kept telling himself that he was doing this for posterity. He wrapped the body in a blanket and went for help. It had been taken out of the bunker for cremation with that of Eva Braun, and the fact that the Fuhrer’s left hand was missing a finger was never noticed.

  It had been easy to get permission to leave Berlin with the impending arrival of the Russians and the consequent breakdown of normal procedure. Nobody cared any more. People were trying to get away and many were taking what they could and abandoning Berlin. He requisitioned a truck and half a dozen young soldiers, who looked as if they hadn’t started shaving yet, for a mission of utmost national importance, a phrase guaranteed to make people jump to attention and ask few questions. He knew that the soldiers would be grateful to get out of Berlin and head for the relative safety of the coast with no questions asked. He packed his own trunks full of booty from the sacking of Jewish houses in Belgium. Gold chains and watches, delicate porcelain wrapped in mink coats, portraits of plump 18th century matrons. Confident that he could buy anything he wanted in South America, he left most of his clothes behind. It would also make him less easy to spot when he started his new life in Sierramar.

  Directing his driver to follow the truck, they started off down the road. His identification papers as a member of the Fuhrer’s household got him through the checkpoints with no delays. No one dared to question his right to travel wherever he wanted. Despite the chaos of troops and civilians streaming in both directions on the main roads, they managed to make good progress and arrived at the Port of Hamburg in plenty of time to catch the tramp liner to Sierramar before it left.

  The liner had been hired by Becker and a group of thirty other SS and Gestapo officers for making their escape from Europe when they realised that the war was lost. Everything from cars to containers of furniture and paintings looted from conquered towns, to gold bars, diamonds and jewellery were crammed aboard the liner by the dockworkers, who had no idea of the valuable cargo that they were loading. The cranes lifted the pallets from the dockside and lowered them into the bowels of the ship while the passengers waited on the shore and made sure that their belongings went on board. Most of the men had brought their families with them. They stood on the quay drinking coffee in their fur coats as if waiting to go on a cruise.

  Kurt Becker walked to the back of his container lorry with a member of the liner’s crew and flung open the door.

  ‘Okay lads, it’s your lucky day. You have arrived in Hamburg and if you wish, you may board the liner to South America and start a new life.’

  There was no answer. It was dark in the lorry and when his eyes adjusted, he could see that they were slumped on the floor of the container in a way that suggested death rather than sleep. He jumped up onto the running board and into the lorry. Shaking one of the soldiers by the shoulder, he was shocked to see his fixed eyeballs staring into space.

  ‘They’re dead. What on earth happened to them? What have you got in here?’ asked the crewman.

  ‘I don’t know what happened. The container was airtight but there was plenty of air for the journey.’

  Then it hit him. The dry ice had evaporated, giving off carbon dioxide which had flooded the container and suffocated the young men. He felt sickened. The finger was cursed. He made the crew man pick up the canister and wrap it in sacking. They left the bodies in the truck, just more casualties of war. Then they went up the gangway to talk to the captain.

  ‘Good evening, captain. I’ve got something that has to be kept frozen on board. Have you got somewhere that I can keep it?’

  ‘I don’t know what it is, captain, but they were all dead,’ said the crewman. ‘Don’t let him put it on board.’

  ‘The soldiers suffocated. It was a terrible tragedy but it has nothing to do with the canister,’ retorted Becker.

  ‘What are you talking about? What’s so bloody precious?’ asked the captain.

  ‘Some samples for my medical practice. I brought them here packed in dry ice and it evaporated on the way. The soldiers who hitched a lift in the back of the truck have suffocated. I never realised that could happen, I swear. You have my word that there is nothing dangerous in the canister, but I can’t leave it behind.’

  ‘As long as it’s safe, you can lock it in the auxiliary meat fridge for the journey,’

  ‘That’ll be fine. I’ll keep the key.’

  The captain shrugged. He was making a fortune taking this ship to South America. He would never have to work again if he got there without incident. He didn’t care what was in the canister.

  ‘Right you are, Dr Becker. Ensign, show him the fridge.’

  ***

  It took a month to sail to Sierramar through sometimes stormy seas. Kurt Becker checked the fridge daily for signs of tampering but it remained sealed. The senior German officers on board held meetings about their plans for the future in Sierramar and swore each other to secrecy. The news from Germany got worse and more difficult to obtain. By the time the liner got to the port of Guayama, the war seemed far away, not only in distance. They could see palm trees from the deck and bright coloured pastel buildings in the residential part of the city. Buses and cars crawled along the congested boardwalk. The liner docked in the port in the northern part of the city, which was dirty and battered by time and neglect. Large customs sheds lined the wharf and ancient cranes like a flock of skinny birds stalked the rails. The wharf was swarming with dockers and stray dogs hoping for a windfall. The sun beat down through the thick humid air cloaking them in heat and sweat.

  The German Consul was waiting as they came down the gangway, unsteady on their legs after a month at sea. It was like landing in paradise compared to war-torn Europe. Even the oppressive heat and filthy port did not put them off. The Consul had a stack of passports containing identities for their new lives. People surrounded him shaking his hand, wanting to be the first to escape their past as if a new name would wipe away the memories of the things they had done and justified to themselves on that long journey. They had invented heroic backstories of suffering and sacrifice to make sure that no one questioned their choice to leave it behind and start again. Kurt Becker had not asked for a new name. He had decided to keep his identity because he wanted to work as a doctor and needed to use his certificates. Anyway, the people who knew what he had done had perished in the gas chambers. There was no one left to accuse him.

  ‘Who’s going to come to this shit hole at the end of the earth to find me now?’ he said, wrinkling his nose at the smell of the port and slapping his arm. ‘Even the mosquitos are macho.’

  Most of the officers had already decided that they wanted to live in Calderon in the Andes where the climate was more similar to that of Germany and they could do dairy farming. Their children could go to the German school and be with other Aryans rather than mixing with the mestizos. The snow-capped volcanoes were too steep and dangerous for skiing but the sight of them would alleviate homesickness in those pining for the Alps.

  After th
ey got their passports, they waited on the quay for their belongings, negotiating with the dockers to get them carried to the waiting lorries organised by the Consul. None of this was done out of the goodness of his heart. The salary the Consul received in Sierramar did not keep him in the style to which he wished to become accustomed and he was determined to make the most of this windfall. He had also negotiated the rental of houses in Calderon to get them started and was taking a cut from the proceeds. Despite this, he was loyal to the Reich and felt the humiliation of the surrender deep in his bones. Helping these men get settled and escape the clutches of the do-gooders on the allied side who wanted to bring them to justice gave him some solace.

  ***

  Becker had his work cut out transporting the finger to Calderon without it thawing. The captain wanted to get rid of it as soon as they landed in port. The Consul let him use the fridge in the embassy where they managed to stuff it into the ice compartment. The conundrum of how to get the finger to Calderon was solved by the consul who had lots of friends working in the port. He requisitioned an ambulance that had arrived from the United States and had not yet cleared customs. A healthy bribe ensured that the importation paperwork would be delayed until the ambulance was returned to the custom’s shed after its journey to Calderon. The ambulance had a fridge for blood products and was perfect for transporting the canister up into the Andes.

  Dr Becker travelled on the ambulance to make sure that there were no unforeseen problems on the way. It took them three days to get to Calderon. Once there, the finger was packed and stored in the ice compartment of the Frigidaire in Dr Becker’s new home. He installed a generator and a back-up for the fridge which was never allowed to go off. He also ordered a new standalone freezer from the USA which took months to arrive. Guests to his house were unaware that the ice for their drinks had lain beside a frozen relic of their Führer.

  ***

  Once the group were established in Calderon, they held a monthly meeting and planned the building of a German village up in the mountains where they could get ready for the next phase of the Reich.

  ‘We need some sort of cover story for this village,’ said Rolf Hermann.

  ‘My view is that we should build something similar to the alpine villages back home, somewhere for tourists. That will give us a legitimate reason to employ Germans and keep the locals out,’ said Hans Schmitt.

  ‘We could make cheese and dairy products and sell them to finance the upkeep of the laboratory,’ said his brother Fritz.

  ‘And who is going to run these enterprises?’ said Rolf

  ‘We could take turns or divide the work. Once our wives and children are settled in Calderon, we can sort that out,’ said Franz Rauf.

  ‘I’ve got to run the laboratory,’ said Kurt Becker, ‘that will be a full-time job.’

  ‘Solidarity is the most important thing here. We will figure this out,’ said Boris Klein. ‘The important matter is the perpetuation of the Reich. Without us there will be no future.’

  The Schmitt brothers were dispatched to the region of Lago Verde, a village in the Andes to the south of Calderon, to find a site for the village. They arrived after taking a bus on a narrow road skirted by cliffs. The village had cobble streets and low adobe houses with straw roofs. The local people were mostly tenant farmers who shared their houses with their livestock to prevent theft. They were surprised to find the tall blond strangers in their midst inquiring about the purchase of suitable land for a settlement. Eventually they were introduced to the mayor, who also ran the local inn.

  ‘Gentlemen, how can I help you?’

  ‘We are looking for about one hundred hectares of land in order to establish a new village and some dairy farming.’

  ‘I can help you with that. There is a flat area in the valley across the peat bog, up on a rise. There is plenty of water and wood for construction, so you won’t have to bring it in.’

  ‘That sounds interesting.’

  ‘Even better, Lago Verde is due to get both electricity and telephone lines in the near future, and a timely bribe could easily make them stretch to the new village.’

  ‘So, can we talk to the owner to arrange a visit?’

  ‘You’re talking to him.’

  ‘Ah, and the bribe?’

  ‘Ditto.’

  ***

  ‘How’s construction of San Blas going?’ said Holger Ponce, the clerk at the Ministry of Public Works.

  ‘Pretty slow. It’s difficult to walk stuff in from Lago Verde. It will take us fifty years at this rate. We need to build a road to the site,’ said Rolf Hermann.

  ‘I can get you permission for the road from the Minister. A well-placed bribe will help to speed it up.’

  ‘No problem, let us know how much. We’ll need a contractor. I presume you have a suggestion?’

  ‘I know just the man,’ said Holger.

  ‘Does he know about us?’

  ‘He’s a budding fascist. Right up your alley.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Hernan Sanchez. I’ll set up an introduction and you can go from there. Don’t be put off by his youth. He’s dynamic and gets things done. It’ll be more expensive than some contractors but I think it’s worth it for the efficiency. Besides that, he has good government contacts that we can tap into.’

  ‘Set up the meeting.’

  CHAPTER 4

  August 1988

  The National Archive was a concrete carbuncle on top of a hill in the centre of Calderon’s political district surrounded by government buildings. Known as the blister, it was supposed to be covered in marble but the budget for the polished stone went towards the purchase of an art deco house in Miami for the Minister of Education. The entrance to the building was at the top of a featureless flight of steps that suggest gulag rather than place of learning. Alfredo was immune to the ugliness after using it for years. His focus on the mission ahead was such that he tripped and fell hard onto the flagstones that surrounded the door.

  ‘Are you injured, Dr Vargas?’ asked the security guard.

  ‘No damage done, thank you,’ said Alfredo, feeling the sharp gaze of a fellow academic on him as he staggered to his feet.

  ‘Fucking drunkard.’ The comment, which was meant to be heard, floated over his head as he brushed the concrete dust off his trousers.

  ‘I prefer borderline alcoholic,’ he said. Despite his comeback, he felt humiliated. It was true that he drank too much but he never came to the Blister unless he was sober. The terror of missing something important kept him sharp. His academic reputation was precious to him, despite his casual exterior. His knee felt bruised and sore but he avoided limping as he showed his pass at the door. He didn’t want anyone to see that he was hurt in case they sensed his weakness and thought he was vulnerable to their criticism. They were jealous.

  Out of habit, he headed for the section of the archives that contained the research on the Valdivia cultures but after standing beside the files for several minutes without moving he was startled to feel a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see a slim young man with a pudding bowl haircut and a name badge which said ‘Kleber Perez, Library assistant’.

  ‘Dr Vargas, isn’t it? Can I help you?’

  ‘Oh, thank you, I think you might. I need to see any archives concerning the German community in Sierramar during the 20th century, specifically any mention of families who arrived here after 1940. I don’t know where to start to be honest. This is not my area of expertise.’

  The young man fixed him with a piercing stare. An expression of concern or anger flashed across his features but he recovered his aplomb. Alfredo thought he might have imagined it. Perhaps the young man had heard about his drinking.

  ‘You will need to follow me. We are in the wrong place to start a search for modern history. The card indexes are on the other side of the building.’

  ‘Excellent. Much appreciated. Lead on.’

  They walked out into the atrium and crossed to the other
side into an identical room with a long bureau of reference cards at the entrance and filled with high, dusty bookshelves in a half circle, which moved open and closed on rails for easier access. The young man picked his way through the box with the speed of a card sharp, selecting several references and removing them from the boxes. He presented them to Alfredo.

  ‘There you go Doctor, that should get you started. Let me know if you need anything else.’

  ‘Thank you, Kleber.’

  Alfredo sat on one of the hard, wooden benches opposite the indexes and reviewed the cards he had been given. The young man was a bit of an idiot. If Alfredo had wanted to learn about German cooking and traditional clothing, he would not be in the National Archive. Young people these days, what sort of education were they getting? He limped over to the cabinets and replaced the cards. It occurred to him that he was not sure under which category Nazis in Sierramar would be stored. Politics? Foreign relations? Fantasy? Deciding that being methodical was the correct option, he picked up the first card box and moved over to a table. One by one he removed the cards and examined the summaries and then replaced them in the box. He went through three boxes and found a grand total of two references to German immigrants, both of them stored upside down. This was not encouraging but Alfredo was used to dead ends.

  He went to the stacks to look for the papers referred to on the cards. Neither document was in its slot in the filing boxes, but the lending cards stapled on the boxes indicated that both had been taken out by the same person, a certain Armando Bronca. Alfredo smiled. This was a joke name in Spanish meaning ‘starting a fight’, a nickname used by Ramon Vega, one of his friends from university days. Alfredo had not seen him for several years following an altercation in a bar which was nothing to do with Ramon and a direct result of Alfredo’s alcohol intake. He hoped that time had healed the wounds caused by his sarcastic tongue, which had been sharpened by too much drink.

  ***

  Ramon Vega lived in the valley parallel to that of Calderon in a farmhouse surrounded by modern houses where there used to be pasture. Alfredo drove down the winding road fringed by eucalyptus trees, avoiding the potholes and the chickens. Ramon’s home was built in the time of the Spanish occupation and it had settled with time as the foundations had dried out. The structure was close to collapse and the roof was bowed. A riot of bougainvillea and climbing hibiscus crawled over the white façade and invaded the crevices in the windows. The door was open and dust danced in the bright sunlight penetrating the dark interior. Alfredo stepped into the entrance, keeping one nervous hand on the door.