5
‘A highly gifted yet also very dangerous man whose gifts the movement has to retain… extremely useful’
Adolf Hitler on Reinhard Heydrich
Schellenberg felt every bump as the Mercedes trundled along the cobbles. He had always found Prague to be an agreeably pretty place but today it held no interest. As the state car sped past the Gothic and Baroque residences of the old town, a tangible sense of dread hung over the new head of AMT VI, the Reich’s Foreign Intelligence Service.
Schellenberg glanced out of the window, barely registering the morning bustle of activity, as the Czechs went about their day-to-day business, providing evidence that life still continued here, despite the presence of an occupying German army. He wound down the window of the Mercedes then flicked his spent cigarette into the cold air. The car had reached a Pekarna and the unmistakably sweet aroma of fresh pastry found him through its open window. The metropolitan streets were filled with people. Some stopped to pick up packets of Jubilejní cigarettes from the tobacconists or a copy of Národní Politika, turning up their collars against a drizzle that piggybacked in on a sharp eastern breeze, sending it almost horizontally into squinting eyes. The summer was long over and the heat of the city had given way to a stubborn, muggy rain that coated Prague’s buildings in a transparent grey shroud.
All of this Walter Schellenberg barely comprehended. He had survived numerous difficult and life threatening situations, regularly sat down with Heinrich Himmler, endured more than one audience with the Führer himself, steeling his nerves as Hitler ranted against the Jews, the Bolsheviks, his own generals. None of those meetings produced the symptoms he was now experiencing as his car crossed the River Vltava at the Manesuv Bridge, trundled inexorably up the precipitous hill beyond it and inched ever closer to Hradčany Castle – official residency of Reinhard Heydrich, surely the most dangerous man in the Fatherland.
Schellenberg’s palms were moist against the leather of the car seat, his stomach turning over, an acid sting in the pit of his belly that, for once, was not caused by the over indulgence of one of his senior Nazi hosts. They liked to gorge in Hitler’s hierarchy; too much beer and wine, more than enough food.Perhaps this explained the insatiable appetite for conquest; collecting countries into one huge, corpulent empire.
The Mercedes swept beneath the twin statues of the Battling Giants and into the courtyard of Hradčany, allowing a serious looking sentry to complete the formality of a challenge. Schellenberg preferred to address the man, a Waffen SS Oberschütze, personally. He wound down the window and held out identification for the senior private to examine. The guard took the papers in his gloved hand and scrutinised them carefully before admitting them.
The car moved off through the Matthias Gate and passed the Church of the Holy Rood. Then it pulled up crisply outside the presidential offices. The driver was out of the car and opening the rear door in an instant. Schellenberg alighted slowly, a thin and slight figure, looking somewhat older than his 31 years, largely, he felt, because of the long hours and stresses of his position. Even in SS uniform, with its death’s head cap, he still managed to resemble the amiable lawyer he once was and his face, with its long nose and cautious, languid eyes, could never hope to be described as threatening no matter what he wore.
A sharp-eyed major was already advancing across the courtyard to meet them. Once again, he wore the familiar uniform. Schellenberg realised he had barely seen a soldier since the airfield not sporting the regalia of the Schutzstaffeln. Prague was undergoing a second coup; first the Wehrmacht took it and now the SS was stamping its authority all over the city.
‘Welcome Colonel, I am Major Kreuzer. General Heydrich awaits you in the banqueting hall of the Lobkowicz Palace.’
Hitler on a bad day, rudely awakened from one of his famous afternoon naps; Himmler at his most absurdly mystic, contemplating aloud ways to preserve the souls of deceased SS men; Göring’s swagger; Bormann’s obsequious plotting at the Führer’s side; all of this he would have happily stomached in the same afternoon if he could just turn the car around and leave now. Heydrich was a man so without pity even senior SS men routinely referred to him as the Blond Beast. He was also Schellenberg’s boss and, unless Walter’s every instinct was incorrect, was now gunning for his former protégé.
That was it with Heydrich – no one was entirely safe from him. He did not have friends, was incapable of understanding the concept. Lately Schellenberg had begun to think of him as a cold, dead planet, drawing others towards it with an irrepressible gravitational pull. If you fell into Heydrich’s orbit you revolved around it for a while, entirely at his control, and hoped you would somehow emerge again without being dashed to pieces.
Schellenberg trailed a yard or two behind Kreuzer as they crossed a courtyard with the dark Gothic backdrop of St Vitus Cathedral. On a better day he would have marvelled longer at the architecture but now he began to wonder, irrationally, if he would ever leave Prague.
Hard to recall it now but there were still those who envied Schellenberg’s position, at the right hand of the man who controlled the RSHA, the National Security organisation of Nazi Germany, not understanding that loyalty to Heydrich meant you are with me only as long as you are of use to me.
Perhaps that would prove to be his undoing. Schellenberg now had the job he had always wanted, heading the Foreign Intelligence section. But did Heydrich, the man who had appointed him, perversely now see him as a threat? It seemed likely and why not, for the general had used a similar position, under Himmler, to ingratiate himself with the Führer. Heydrich would now expect plotting from Schellenberg, would view it as normal behaviour in fact. For now, though, Heydrich had the rank and position he coveted, General and Reichsprotektor of the former Czech held territories. Here he was ruler – an Emperor of sorts.
They finally reached their destination and Schellenberg followed Kreuzer into the banqueting hall where he was immediately greeted with a great cry of disappointment. At first Schellenberg wondered what he had done to prompt such an outcry. Peering into the brighter lights of the hall he realised no one was paying him the slightest attention. Instead the crowd of twenty or so onlookers was gathered in an uneven circle around two athletic figures, clad all in white.
The action had stopped for a moment, following the shout of disappointment, and one of the fencers had removed his face protector and turned away. He grasped a towel from an aide’s hands, wiped sweat from his forehead and turned back to face his opponent. As he dropped the towel and strutted back to resume the contest, Schellenberg realised it was Heydrich, his short cropped crown of blond hair, parted neatly down the left side and matted slightly with sweat. He wore the traditional fencing garb, all white, apart from the black buttons that fastened from the shoulder up to his neck, and the SS flash on his left arm. His athletic figure was offset by an unusual broadening of the hips that made him look a little off balance. That and his slightly high voice lent him a decidedly androgynous quality, which, if anything, made him an even more disquieting presence at close quarters. He did not acknowledge Schellenberg as he replaced his mask.
Around Heydrich was a curious assortment of cronies; uniformed officers from his personal staff, of course, that was a prerequisite when Heydrich performed, but here and there were women also – well-heeled ladies dressed in an opulent day fashion so at odds with the dowdy normalcy of the civilian population. Were they wives of senior SS men or some of Heydrich’s mistresses, or both? It was not inconceivable. Schellenberg recognised one from a visit to the theatre Heydrich had insisted they make on his previous visit. She ought to be familiar to his trained eye, as she had played the lead role in the production. Now it seemed she was involved in a much more dangerous performance with Heydrich.
The women were even more abrasive and unchecked than the men. Their brash cries of support or alarm intruded in this sedate ballroom, where every sound, however slight, echoed across th
e wide, polished wooden floors.
Heydrich resumed his opening stance, against an opponent that, judging by the earlier, strained look on his now covered face, and the reaction of this bunch of sycophants, had just displayed the great bad taste to score a hit against the Reichsprotektor. That would never do and the captain of the SS fencing team was looking to immediately redress the balance. In any competition Schellenberg had witnessed, Heydrich could never bear the thought of losing. It was one of the qualities that made him the man he was, always to finish first, always to be the top dog.
Schellenberg was not aware of the intricacies of fencing and he found himself almost bored as the two men thrust and parried their way around the matting, in short, sharp attacking movements, each one probing for an opening. How often had he seen this before, Heydrich the Germanic Emperor, holding court? Sometimes it was Reinhard the virtuoso violinist, classically trained as a child, who could bring a room to weeping with his exquisite playing, or Reinhard the renowned skier, who had to be the fastest and most accomplished athlete on the slopes. This time it was Reinhard the fencer, a sport that suited him; here he could be agile, graceful and devious, using his innate cunning to outfox an opponent.
Then a great cry of triumph rang out from one of the fencers and the contest was over. Amidst the cheers and applause as the masks came off, it was absolutely no surprise to Schellenberg that the victorious gladiator was Heydrich. He stood there, arms outspread, acknowledging the excited reaction of his subjects, then clasped a fraternal arm around his opponent, who had bowed gracefully in defeat. Schellenberg heard later he was a young SS captain, a talented fencer who had the good sense to lose the contest narrowly, whether by accident or design.
Presently the gathering broke up and Heydrich marched briskly to the door where he finally acknowledged his protégé.
‘Walter! I didn’t see you arrive.’
The first lie of the day so soon, thought Schellenberg. Heydrich noticed everything, particularly who was in the room with him at any one time.
‘I have something very important to discuss with you.’ Was that a gleam in the eye of the Reichsprotektor? ‘Let’s go to my office.’
Half an hour later, Heydrich had changed into his silver-grey uniform and was seated opposite Schellenberg behind a desk in his office, addressing him without looking up from the day’s correspondence, two dozen reports that he balanced in a pile on the very edge of the desk. He always had the ability to focus on two things at once, without detracting from either. It was a quality that impressed and irritated Schellenberg in equal measure.
As he spoke he read each one in turn and left short comments after a paragraph or at the foot of the page. The most lethal weapon in the Third Reich was not a knife or a gun but a file, with initials in the margin, thought Schellenberg. That was how they did for you in the Fatherland. It was enough to get you a train ride to a concentration camp, an appointment with the interrogators down on Prinz Albrechtstrasse, or simply a bullet in the back of the neck. Schellenberg wondered how many men had their fates sealed during that one hour in Heydrich’s office.
‘So how is your new wife?’ Still face down in the files and matter of fact. Schellenberg had been married for a second time and for just nine months.
‘Good, on the rare occasions I see her these days.’
‘Mmm, indeed.’ He chewed the edge of his pencil in contemplation.
‘And Frau Heydrich?’
‘In her element as a matter of fact. You should see the work she is putting in at the Panenské Břežany.’ Heydrich was warming to the subject.
‘Really?’
The Reichsprotektor was intensely proud of the sprawling estate that came with his position. The land and manor house were taken from a Jewish entrepreneur who had made his fortune trading in sugar. Now Frau Heydrich was adding a woman’s touch to the renovation of the building.
‘Yes, we have forty Jews out there working their arses off thanks to Lina. Building a swimming pool at the moment. She’s got them moving at quite a rate I can tell you.’
‘She’s very conscientious,’ Schellenberg assented.
Heydrich frowned at one of the reports, giving it his uncharacteristic full attention. He left Schellenberg alone with his thoughts and the sense of dread began to return. Now Heydrich was speaking quietly into the phone, issuing instructions to an unknown subordinate. He had an air of studied calm about him but it did not fool Schellenberg for a moment. He had been in situations like this before. Heydrich would sometimes even announce no work would be discussed at all and lure his subordinates into a false sense of well-being, before suddenly ruining their evening with an accusation or a heart stopping assignment.
Behind Heydrich’s desk was a huge mahogany unit. Row upon row of enormous, brass handled drawers were set into the biggest personal filing cabinet the Head of AMT VI had ever seen. This was Heydrich’s power base and the reason he was both loathed and feared by most of the key figures in the Reich. He stored hundreds of files here and always kept the keys on his person, far from the prying eyes of even the most trusted of his staff. If you had a vice or a weakness it was here: Göring’s morphine addiction and art thefts from the occupied territories, Himmler’s quasi-religious experiments on Aryan SS men, even Hitler’s turbulent mental condition, based on purloined medical files from the Führer’s personal physician Dr Brandt. It was all here. The files would stay locked away until the day when one would be needed. Then an important member of the Fatherland would find out who had the real power to make things happen in Germany. It would be hard to resist Heydrich when he had information that could consign you or your family to Dachau.
Schellenberg was becoming restless now and he decided to force the issue, however risky. He waited until Heydrich had completed yet another phone call.
‘There was a matter you said you wished to discuss, Reichsprotektor. You mentioned it was of some importance.’
‘Oh yes,’ he answered absentmindedly, but Schellenberg was not taken in for an instance, ‘I think you may wish to read this.’
Heydrich leant down to a desk drawer on his right hand side, opened it and withdrew another file. He handed it across the table to Schellenberg and resumed the trawl through his papers. Seeing he was not going to receive any further guidance or explanation, Walter transferred his full attention to the brown file in his hands. It was marked Geheime Reichssache, the highest rate of secrecy the Reich could afford a document. Since the vast majority of the paperwork that passed through Schellenberg’s hands was similarly labelled, this in itself was no reason for alarm. He opened up the manila folder to survey its contents and his blood immediately went cold.
There in bold lettering at the top of the first page was written SS Standartenführer Walter Schellenberg. The file had been prepared under his previous rank some weeks before but, judging by the weight of the papers within, it had been updated since and often. His eyes went straight to the word etched below his name – Ahnenpapiere, the documents that proved the racial purity of their subject and his family. Contained here were the papers Schellenberg had been forced to submit when he had first become engaged to his ‘new wife’, as Heydrich had referred to her just a few minutes earlier.
All SS men were compelled to apply directly to Reichsführer Himmler himself if they wished to marry. Then an extensive check was undertaken on the Aryan credentials of their future wives. This would go back several generations and, for Schellenberg, it had not been a simple process. His betrothed’s mother was Polish. Walter’s future mother-in-law came from a country that was taking the full brunt of the racial policies of Germany. Heydrich had promised to intercede in the case personally but Schellenberg was still surprised when he eventually received permission to marry from Himmler, via the office of the Rasse und Siedlungshauptamt. The Race and Settlement office was not normally as compliant, so perhaps he really did have Heydrich to thank, or so he thought a
t the time.
He turned over the first leaf of the file. Underneath the covering letter was a crisp new memo on expensive paper with a Nazi watermark. It was a letter to his nemesis Heinrich Müller, from a Gestapo operative who had conducted a follow up report into his application to marry. This surveillance initiative had concentrated on the branch of his wife’s family based in Poland. There at the foot of the page was a paragraph that would have far reaching consequences if it ever became more public. According to the investigation Schellenberg’s mother-in-law had a sister. That sister had a husband, and the husband was a Jew.
Schellenberg knew the implications instantly. His wife’s mother had a Jewish mill owner for a brother-in-law. The man could be picked up and sent to a concentration camp instantly. The wife, corrupted by her interracial marriage, would surely follow him, and the rest of his wife’s family would be guilty by association. In short, Heydrich had finally got him.
He glanced up to find the Reichsprotektor watching him.
‘Obviously Müller realised the importance of this information immediately and had the file sent for my personal attention by secure courier. No one else has seen the surveillance report yet.’
The last word hung in the air for a moment. ‘I am aware of the devastating effect this could have on your wife’s family and the inevitable repercussions for your own position in the Reich.’
Heydrich’s face took on a look of forced seriousness, as if he was about to make an announcement of monumental proportions. ‘That is why I have decided not to forward the file to Berlin. Instead I will keep it here for the time being.’
Schellenberg knew at once he had lost. ‘The Reichsprotektor is most generous. I am of course extremely grateful for his discretion.’
‘Good.’ Heydrich rose from the leather chair, took the letter from Schellenberg and walked to the back of the room. He had the key to the filing cabinet in the pocket of his feldbluse and he opened up one of the large drawers, selected a bulky file, presumably containing other choice observations on Schellenberg’s life and career, inserted the damaging information and closed, then locked, the drawer. He placed the key back in his pocket and turned to face Schellenberg with a smile.
Hunting the Hangman Page 4