There was a pause while Gebhart found the inner resolve to answer.
‘Now I am afraid it is too late.’
Himmler was amazed. ‘Are you sure? Can nothing be done for him? Another operation?’
‘I am afraid his condition has deteriorated so rapidly in the past twenty four hours that it is now inoperable. He is completely beyond our help. I really am so sorry.’
The Surgeon General of the SS steeled himself for the tirade that would surely follow this admission of failure. Instead Himmler remained completely silent for a moment then he simply nodded and walked through the door to Heydrich’s bedside.
Heydrich woke to find the Reichsführer SS sitting calmly by his bed.
‘Have you been here long?’ Himmler shook his head but did not elaborate further.
Heydrich’s mouth was dry and he swallowed hard, attempting to clear his airway. The head of the Schutzstaffeln rose to his feet, poured a glass of water from a jug on the bedside cabinet and gently held it to Heydrich’s lips, while his subordinate, propped up against pillows, strained forwards to sip at the liquid.
This seemed to have the desired effect and Heydrich lay back again, noting with satisfaction that the pain, though very much still with him, had diminished slightly. Thank providence; he must finally be getting better. Heydrich lacked the energy for more small talk and instead sought some honesty from his superior. When he spoke it was in slow, wheezing rasps.
‘I can’t seem to get anyone to give me an answer. Will I be alright? I don’t remember everything that happened to me.’
‘You have distinguished yourself, Reinhard. The partisans could not defeat you. They came after you with bombs, like cowards, but you sent them fleeing away, ducking from the bullets in your gun. Soldiers all along the eastern front will take heart from your example.’
Heydrich turned his head on the pillow so he could watch Himmler. The Reichsführer SS held his head slightly to one side so the light caught his pince-nez glasses, turning them into mirrors, which obscured his eyes and made his expression an emotionless mask.
‘Yes, but what is going to happen to me?’ he pleaded.
Himmler cleared his throat before replying in a voice other men might use to comment on the changeability of the weather.
‘You are dying, Reinhard.’
Heydrich took a long time to respond and when the words came they broke along with his voice.
‘Are they certain?’
‘There is nothing more that can be done. Fragments from the bomb have poisoned your blood.’
Once again Heydrich took moments to digest the news Himmler relayed. At one point he appeared to be stifling tears. Then he said simply and with wonderment in his voice. ‘But it cannot be. There is still so much left to do.’
‘All great men think like this, Reinhard, but there is no way to cheat providence. For some it is their destiny to leave the stage early but to what applause! You are our brightest light, Reinhard. An example to every SS man there has ever been or will ever be. We will ensure your memory lives on forever. We will name SS detachments after you, Hitler Youth camps, Concentration Camps, city streets even. There will be a Reinhard Heydrich Strasse in every capital in Europe. Twenty, thirty years from now there won’t be a single schoolchild who does not know your name or the great work you are associated with. There will be a statue of you in every public park. You will be known forever as the example for all to aspire to.’
‘But my wife, my children…’
‘Will be taken care of in a manner befitting the family of a German hero. Your wife will want for nothing and your children could not be better attended if they were the Führer’s own. Imagine the respect and love they will be held in years from now when they are pointed out as the son or daughter of the great Reinhard Heydrich. They have nothing to fear and nor should you.’
The words continued to pour enthusiastically from the Reichsführer’s mouth as if he were describing a glorious future for Heydrich and not his imminent death. The wounded man could not take it all in. There had to be some mistake. The doctors were wrong. He was not going to die. It was an impossible notion. He would recover and one day lead his country, he was sure of it. It was not his destiny to pass away inconsequentially in an obscure Czech hospital from a few poisoned flesh wounds. It couldn’t happen. He would show them. He would show them all.
33
‘The best political weapon is the weapon of terror.
Cruelty commands respect. Men may hate us.
But, we don’t ask for their love; only for their fear’
Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler
At that moment in Hradčany, Pannwitz was enthusiastically briefing Karl Frank on the steps taken to capture Heydrich’s attackers.
‘A reward of ten million Czech Crowns has been offered. That’s almost a million Reichsmarks. The equivalent of ten years’ pay for most of these untermensch.’
‘All of the evidence left at the scene of the attack is on display in the largest window of the Bat’a department store. Passers-by are encouraged to stop and look at the bike, the Sten gun, and the briefcase. There is also a mackintosh dropped by one of the assassins which has been placed prominently on a mannequin.
‘We have officers from the Czech and German Police working in tandem, backed up by men from regular army units, who are scouring the streets and houses of Prague one by one. This substantial force does not include the usual resources at the disposal of the Gestapo and the SS. More than twenty thousand men mobilised to look for just two. It is the biggest manhunt ever staged in the history of the Reich!’ he concluded with some satisfaction.
‘Yes, Heinz, I have heard of the results,’ answered Frank without enthusiasm. ‘They are dragging people from their homes, destroying a great deal of property in an entirely random fashion, running up and down the streets in full battle order and shooting out old ladies’ windows. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against keeping the population on its toes and if that involves the crushing of a few innocents then so be it, but this activity is bustle for the sake of it, a decidedly fruitless exercise. In the absence of a legitimate target for vengeance our men are lashing out in all directions. Where are my suspects? We don’t even have any proper witnesses; it’s embarrassing to you and me. Imagine what they are saying about us in Berlin.’
Pannwitz bristled. ‘Sometimes police work takes time but I am confident that eventually, with the reward…’
‘Eventually is not near soon enough. All I have so far with which to placate the Führer are the acts of vengeance taken in Heydrich’s name. Three thousand Jews have been transported from Theresienstadt in the past two days, on a special train. They will be immediately exterminated in the new concentration camps; an appropriate gesture since they were largely erected due to the vision of the general. In Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp they executed hundreds the instant they learned of the attack and in the eastern territories all of the special SS work against the Jews has been named Operation Reinhard in his honour. All of this brings the Führer some solace but, if you know the man at all, this can only be temporary. Until we deliver the assassins there will be no rest for either of us.’
‘I understand, State Secretary.’
‘I hope you do, Heinz,’ Frank concluded. ‘I sincerely hope you do.’
‘I will redouble my efforts, of course,’ Pannwitz promised. And he made as if to rise but, unable to hide his curiosity, he asked, ‘I understand the Führer has asked for a big show,’ and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, ‘some reprisal that will send a clear message to the population?’
‘I’ll leave the detective work to you, Pannwitz,’ answered Frank, ‘that’s what you are good at after all,’ and he smiled mirthlessly. ‘You leave the sending of messages to me.’
It took another day for Heydrich to realise he was not immortal. The spasms of excruciating pain that rack
ed his body, as the poison coursed through his veins, slowly but surely eroded his belief in the divine providence of his destiny.
There eventually came a point when the pain was so unbearable that even death was preferable to further suffering. By now Heydrich could not move his head from the pillow and he craved a sleep that would not come thanks to the nagging persistence of his wounds. Finally he realised the doctors were right. There was no hope left.
Reinhard Heydrich would not live through this war to witness the preordained victory of Germany’s armies. He would not enjoy the exalted status afforded to one of the foremost architects of a postwar Reich and he was to be cheated of the position he coveted beyond all others; leader of the German race. His tears were caused as much by an understanding of the bitterness of his fate than the overwhelming pain of his wounds.
Earlier he had given Himmler a message for his dear Lina – instructing her to wait until the time was right before remarrying with a clear conscience and ensuring his boys had the appropriate masculine influence of a stepfather. The fellow would have to be of the finest type and the truest Aryan blood. Himmler had promised to prevent any match that did not live up to their highest ideals of German manhood. Heydrich’s thoughts then turned to his little Silke and the grim realisation that he would never again hold the baby girl in his arms. The fact that many hundreds of thousands of German families across the Reich would experience similar grief before this titanic struggle was over never crossed his mind.
One of his last clear thoughts, before he slid into unconsciousness a few moments after midnight on the fourth of June, was to curse his assassins, those unknown men who had put him here and robbed him of everything he had and all that he desired.
‘Damn them,’ he whispered so softly that Himmler could not make out the words, ‘damn them all the way down to hell.’
There was no anguished death rattle as the Reichsprotektor slipped out of his coma a little more than four hours later. A soft, choked gasp was the only sound as Reinhard Heydrich finally crossed from this life into the next one.
Himmler had remained by his side until the very end, had been quite insistent on the point in fact, leaving all of the medical staff hugely impressed.
‘See how he cares for his men,’ exclaimed one of the German doctors.
The Reichsführer waited until he was sure Heydrich’s body was completely lifeless then rose from his chair and walked over to the cabinet next to the deceased man’s bed. Pulling open the drawer he brushed aside a number of personal effects that had been placed there for safekeeping; Heydrich’s leather wallet, containing money he could no longer hope to spend, along with the photograph of a family he would never see again, a rather cheap and battered looking old pocket watch and finally the item Himmler was looking for. From the bottom of the drawer the Reichsführer SS removed the key that had never left Heydrich’s possession since he had become the head of the Sicherheitsdienst eleven years before. Himmler held it up for closer scrutiny. He needed to be sure it was the right key. When he was satisfied, he put it in his pocket, took a last look at the lifeless figure of his subordinate, with its grey skin, lolling mouth and sightless eyes then left the hospital.
The next morning Schellenberg was surprised to personally witness Himmler’s early arrival at Hradčany. The head of AMT VI saw it as his duty to be at Heydrich’s office before anyone else in an effort to show some leadership following the traumatic death of their superior.
He was sensitive enough not to occupy Heydrich’s seat, however, and instead positioned himself opposite the empty chair, as he had done so many times before when the man was very much alive. Heydrich had ordered, cajoled and berated Schellenberg on a variety of matters from this desk. That will never happen again, he thought to himself ruefully. He was just going through the morning despatches when the Reichsführer SS walked in accompanied by a half dozen soldiers in black uniforms.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Schellenberg, but I really think we need to have these files removed as swiftly as possible.’
Himmler indicated the huge wooden cabinets at the back of the room.
‘I would hate to see them fall into the wrong hands after all of the diligent work General Heydrich has done. I’ll have them taken to Berlin this morning for safekeeping.’
He ordered the men to begin the process of transporting the heavily laden filing cabinets from the room. Schellenberg felt Himmler observed this process with more than a little satisfaction.
‘They should make interesting reading, Walter, don’t you think?’
‘Herr Reichsführer?’ Schellenberg tried to feign innocence, desiring no association with Heydrich’s private archive.
‘Yes,’ confirmed Himmler, adding almost to himself, ‘I wonder what he has written about me.’
Taborsky was concerned for Beneš. Ever since first word of the attack on Heydrich had reached them his President had been entirely preoccupied with its outcome, at the expense of sleep and the ruination of his meals. It was the inconclusive nature of those early reports that bedevilled him. Was Heydrich dead or alive and, if the latter, what was the state of his injuries? Would he be bed-bound for the duration of the war or was he already marching the corridors of Hradčany angrily plotting revenge on his assailants, hindered only by flesh wounds, a broken arm perhaps. And what of the brave attackers? No news had been forthcoming on the condition of Kubiš and Gabčík. They had simply disappeared. It seemed they escaped the scene of the attack but where were they now? Miles from the capital, holed up on some isolated farm perhaps, or had they been belatedly captured by the Gestapo and were even now undergoing unimaginable tortures?
Only that morning Taborsky had checked on Beneš to find him staring silently down at his desk. He watched as the President lifted an ancient, leaky fountain pen, made a characteristically indecipherable note then crossed it out again a moment later, before screwing the paper into a ball and consigning it to the wastebasket. No calls were allowed to disturb him and all appointments rescheduled.
Every few hours his secretary would knock quietly at the door, enter when he heard no response, and witness the head of the nation sitting in his hard leather chair, elbows on the desk, head down, fingers sometimes pressed against his temples, lost in private contemplation. A tray would be set gently on the desk, with coffee, or a pastry destined to remain uneaten. Its virtually untouched predecessor would be removed and Beneš left alone once more, to continue his passable imitation of a man in a trance.
Taborsky was in the office later that same day when a call was finally allowed through because its origin was Porchester Gate. Beneš answered it on the first ring.
‘František,’ he said urgently, ‘go ahead.’
Beneš picked up his pen and spent a few moments scribbling on a virgin sheet of unlined, white notepaper. The President was careful to allow no emotion to distract him from the imperative task of accurately recording all of the details. He would use the same notes to draft a memo to Churchill and Eden afterwards and wanted to ensure he would not be embarrassed by inaccuracy or omission.
The call lasted perhaps two minutes, no more, and was almost entirely one sided. Beneš listened intently and finally ended the dialogue with, ‘Thank you, František. Thank you so very much,’ and replaced the receiver.
Taborsky’s spirits lifted for a moment. The President’s secretary was no fool and he had been able to link the departure of Beneš’ agents months ago, to the news that had so animated everybody in their little embassy in Aston Abbotts. The attack on Reinhard Heydrich was all anyone was talking about. What remained was the need for an accurate report on the Nazi’s condition. Taborsky waited almost a minute for Beneš to lift his head and deliver the presidential pronouncement.
Finally Beneš looked over at his secretary and his face broke into a smile.
‘Got him.’
34
‘The man with the iron he
art’
Adolf Hitler’s funeral oration for Heydrich, 9 June 1942
Heydrich’s funeral was a macabre spectacle, most notable to Schellenberg for the two hours he was forced to stand as part of the honour guard in full dress uniform, at the height of an unusually warm day. Schellenberg delved deep within himself, trying hard to find a smattering of genuine grief but he could feel nothing, other than the trepidation caused by an uncertain future. Heydrich may have been a ruthless, impossibly demanding superior with a penchant for random acts that could inflict terror on his subordinates but he was the devil they knew. Lord knows what fate had in store for them now. It was a thought that preoccupied Schellenberg during two long days of ritualised mourning in Prague and Berlin.
The first night SS men lined the streets of the Czech capital holding flaming torches, while the general’s coffin was transported to Hradčany at snail’s pace on a gun carriage. The next morning, as the coffin lay in state, thousands of fearful Czechs walked by it to pay their respects in a fruitless bid to avoid further reprisals. Eventually Heydrich’s body made its final journey by train to Berlin for a full state funeral. Schellenberg travelled with it.
The ceremony was notable for an abundance of adornments to both the coffin and the Mosaic Hall of the Reich Chancellery where the funeral was conducted. Elaborate SS runes, gargantuan Nazi emblems and hundreds of white lilies competed for the eye’s attention in the most vulgar and ostentatious funeral ever to be held in the Third Reich.
Hitler was typically verbose in his oration. He proclaimed Heydrich a martyred hero of the Fatherland and vowed vengeance on all who had a hand in his death.
‘He was the great wolf leader of the Wolf Pack!’ apparently and how Heydrich would have loathed that ridiculous description, thought Schellenberg.
‘The man with the iron heart!’ concluded Hitler while in private he expressed supreme irritation at his Reichsprotektor’s idiotic scorn for security.
Hunting the Hangman Page 21