Out of Mecklenburg

by James Remmer

  Looking like a man who’d just been given a route map to salvation, Werner rose from his chair, picked up a long, brass poker and began re-arranging the embers in the hearth. ‘I’m not divulging any great secret,’ he said, speaking over his shoulder, ‘when I tell you that Minister von Ribbentrop was outraged by the turn of events in Argentina last January. As for the Führer, well, “a great betrayal”, I think his words were.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘This latest information, is it reliable?’

  ‘Absolutely, sir. It’s the brainchild of my source.’

  ‘Do you believe him? I mean, it’s a grandiose scheme… but if he’s capable of pulling it off, well…’

  ‘I have enormous trust in him, sir, and yes, he is capable of it.’ Von Menen almost choked on his own assurance. ‘But he has a rather big problem. In my reports last January, I informed you that Farrell was merely a puppet. Well, he’s still a puppet. The real power lies in the hands of Perón, and Perón will not abandon his power as easily as Castillo or Ramírez did. He’ll fight!’

  Werner’s face was full of puzzlement. ‘What is it with this man Perón? I find him an unfathomable individual. Why on earth didn’t he seize power for himself last January, or for that matter, last June?’

  ‘Because he wants to achieve power in a way that will silence his critics forever, especially the United States,’ replied von Menen.

  ‘Through the ballot box?’

  ‘Yes. He has total control over the entire Argentine labour movement and the under-classes worship him.’

  ‘But that doesn’t answer the question about his relationship with Germany.’

  ‘He has a great deal of empathy for Germany,’ said von Menen, ‘but as you once told me, politically he’s more inclined to the ideology of fascism. Nonetheless, he’s clever enough to recognise that the hearts of most Argentines beat in unison with the Allies. In that sense, he knows that if he’s to achieve meaningful political status, his long-term prospects will depend on a healthy relationship with the United Nations, meaning that Argentina will disassociate herself from Germany.’

  ‘And your source opposes those views?’

  ‘Most definitely.’

  ‘It seems like an almost impossible task. How on earth is your source going to achieve it?’

  ‘I’m not familiar with the strategy, sir, but he’ll have to stifle Perón’s supporters. If he doesn’t, they’ll swamp the streets of Buenos Aires before the first shot has been fired.’

  ‘You mean, the descamisados, as they’re called?’

  ‘Yes, they’ll have to be kept out of central Buenos Aires.’

  ‘Is that possible?’

  ‘I believe so. Within the upper echelons of the Argentine military, there is more disunion than the GOU would have us believe. Some of the officer class are adamant that Germany will, eventually, achieve victory and some would like to see an end to Perón. The main problem lies with the Federal Police. Their loyalty to Perón is unbending. Numerically, their strength poses a thorny problem for any would-be revolutionary. But given his position, I’m sure my source can assemble enough heavy armour to stifle every key location in Buenos Aires – the radio station, the Federal Police Headquarters, the Presidential Palace and every main Government installation. By then, the doubters will have lost their timidity and be right behind him. After all, like Mardi Gras, revolution is practically an annual event in Argentina.’

  ‘But where do we come in?’

  ‘He needs weapons. The latest variant of the Schmeisser machine pistol, the MP-40.’

  ‘Ah. Anything else?’

  ‘MG-42 Spandaus and…’

  ‘Yes?’ inquired Werner, hurriedly scribbling down the details.

  ‘Prisms.’

  Werner looked up from his notebook. ‘What?’

  ‘Prisms… submarine periscope prisms. He assured me that our people would know which submarines.’

  The look on Werner’s face implied much doubt. ‘Even if we accede to his request, we’re still left with the task of getting it to Argentina.’

  Von Menen was ready with his answer. ‘To be honest, sir, his knowledge of our submarine fleet embarrassed me.’

  ‘Obviously, he’s been well briefed by his friends in the navy,’ deduced Werner.

  ‘Perhaps, but it doesn’t say a great deal for the security in German shipyards.’

  Werner was in deep thought, von Menen sensing that he was warming to the idea. Eventually, he smiled. ‘We could always hand this over to Schellenberg… but we won’t. The Minister wouldn’t hear of it. Neither would I – in which case, I’ll be recommending that you should handle everything. Can I assure Minister von Ribbentrop that you’re capable of it?’

  ‘I’ve a plan formed already, sir.’

  ‘Well, you’ve convinced me, Carl. Now it’s up to me to convince the others. Bear in mind, though, it will certainly go to the very top.’

  ‘The Führer?’

  ‘Yes. It will not be easy, either. Admiral Dönitz will never countenance the idea of releasing a submarine for an operation he’s certain to see as foolhardy and adventurous. Then there’s the matter of the Schmeissers. These days, the Wehrmacht needs as many guns as it can get its hands on, hence we couldn’t oblige your source the last time. On the plus side, however, the restoration of diplomatic relations with Argentina would be a very prestigious achievement.’

  ‘There’s something else, sir,’ said von Menen, about to reveal his last, sweet ace. ‘The man I’m dealing with… Whilst he’s convinced that Germany will win the war, he accepts that things could go wrong. He’d like it understood that, if we help him now, he’s prepared to guarantee safe haven in Argentina for members of the German leadership.’

  ‘That could be construed as defeatist talk, Carl. All the same, I will mention it… in a low whisper. By the way, Carl, tell me, how did you get out of Argentina?’

  ‘I convinced a shipping clerk in Buenos Aires that my grandfather was dying in Spain. Then I bought him his pension!’

  ‘How much? No, don’t tell me! Best if I don’t know.’

  ‘The rest was fairly straightforward. Getting into Spain couldn’t have been easier, thanks to Herr Lindemann.’

  Werner grinned. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I need a favour, sir. I’m concerned about a girl I know, Lutzi Mayr – sorry, I mean Lutzi Helldorf. Her husband was a friend of mine, killed in Russia a few months ago.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I really don’t know how to put this, but I gather she’s in a concentration camp — Flossenbürg, I think.’ Von Menen watched Werner’s brow crease like a concertina. ‘Something to do with her brother, who was executed last August, allegedly for being implicated in the plot against… well, I suppose you can guess the rest.’ Werner puckered his lips, sucked in deeply, an exaggerated shudder passing through his shoulders. ‘It’s just that I’d like to know what’s happened to her, sir. I thought maybe…?’

  ‘I appreciate your concern for your friend, Carl, but I’m afraid such matters are for the Gestapo, and the Foreign Office has no influence over any part of Kaltenbrunner’s regime.’ Suddenly, Werner got to thinking, a hopeful glint in his eyes. ‘Perhaps there is one avenue I could explore,’ he said, ‘but I’m not making any promises. Anyway, before you go, best take this with you.’ He passed over a small booklet. ‘Try not to lose it. It’s an authorisation for petrol, a hundred and fifty litres a week – enough to take you to the moon and back!’

  ‘That’s very generous, sir.’

  Werner offered his hand and showed him to the door, hesitating as he reached for the handle.

  ‘One more thing, Carl… Your old friend, Müller… he’s back in Berlin. Doesn’t know you’re here, of course, but perhaps it would be wise if you
stayed clear of Gestapo Headquarters on Prinz Albrecht Strasse.’

  ‘Gestapo Headquarters?’

  ‘Yes; the moment Müller arrived back in Germany, Schellenberg wasted no time in getting rid of him. He’s now with the Gestapo, where his talents are more appreciated.’

  I might have guessed. ‘And Schmidt?’

  ‘In Denmark, I believe.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip, sir.’

  18

  Friday 27th October 1944

  Schwartz pulled open the heavy front door and Katrina stepped inside, the two large parcels she was carrying tumbling unceremoniously onto the polished oak floor.

  ‘Carl!’

  ‘Yes, your big brother, home at last!’ He lifted her clear of the floor.

  ‘Careful,’ she laughed; ‘haven’t you heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’ Von Menen lowered her to her feet, stepped back and eyed her closely. ‘You’re…?’

  ‘Yes,’ she beamed. ‘You’re going to be an uncle.’

  ‘Fantastic! When’s the big day?’

  ‘22nd March.’

  He flicked away the fringe from her porcelain blue eyes, cupped her face in his hands and beamed. ‘You look radiant,’ he said, ‘still full of girlish innocence.’

  ‘Thank you, kind brother. At twenty-nine, I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  After a late lunch, von Menen and the General left for a short stroll across the terrace.

  ‘There’s something on my mind, Father. Last Sunday, at the Savoy, I… well, I was a bit hasty. I know it’s no excuse, but I wasn’t prepared for the kind of devastation I found in Berlin. I still haven’t come to terms with it.’

  ‘It hurts me too, Carl,’ replied the General. What you said about von Witzleben and the others, trying to stop the Nazis, was right. Truth is, I very nearly joined them.’ He paused, finding it difficult to revisit that episode in his life. ‘I can understand your bitterness. It’s your generation that will have to pick up the pieces.’ They stopped just short of the orangery and looked out towards the fading light in the west. ‘You know, Carl, there’s a shadow of darkness descending over Germany, a darkness that will last for a generation or more. In the east, the Russians are converging upon us like a pack of ravenous hyenas. When they get here, they’ll exact an orgy of vengeful retribution upon us.’

  Just as Schröder had predicted.

  ‘Believe me, we’re at the mercy of the obituarists,’ concluded the General.

  ‘Do you think the Russians will be here before the Allies?’

  ‘I’m convinced of it.’

  ‘As far as Berlin?’

  ‘Yes. In the north, they might even end up beyond Lübeck, and believe me, when they arrive, no amount of bargaining by the Allies will induce them to give up one square metre of territory.’ He turned, fixed his son with a rigid stare. ‘Remember what Lenin said, “Whoever has Germany, has Europe”?’

  ‘There’s no way of stopping them?’

  ‘There’s all this talk about miracle weapons, and perhaps some of it’s true, but it’s all too little, too late. Eventually, most Germans will be scrambling for the things that will keep them alive – food, warmth, shelter and a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘How does Uncle Manfred view all this?’

  ‘He’s a realist. From behind his desk at U-boat Headquarters, he sees the same gloomy picture as I do. Reckons that Dönitz is just another fanatic, not as excessive as some, but a believer, all the same, someone who still sees Hitler as the great redeemer… His mother is still alive, by the way.’

  ‘Whose? Dönitz’s?’

  ‘No, Manfred’s.’

  ‘Goodness, she must be over ninety.’

  ‘Ninety-one, still living with her housekeeper – and she’s seventy-five!’

  ‘Near Königsberg?’

  ‘Yes, at Marienburg. The Russians will be past there before the year’s out. I’m convinced of it. So is Manfred. He’s been trying for months to persuade both of them to come this way, but his mother will not listen. “Damn the Russians,” she keeps telling him. Anyway, you’ll see Manfred on Saturday when he and his lady come to dinner. Jürgen, too.’

  ‘You mentioned that he’d been given a new command?’

  ‘Yes, one of the new generation electro-submarines.’

  Just as von Menen was beginning to think that he’d found some meaningful discourse with his father, mention of electro-submarines brought Vidal’s treacherous little scheme rushing back to his mind.

  ‘Might this new submarine… turn the situation, do you think?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘No, and neither does Jürgen. Those at the top are in too much of a hurry, he says, trying to push things forward, making too many mistakes. He’s mightily impressed with it, though; says it’s the first truly submersible warship. Reckons it can cruise submerged on silent-running electric motors further and faster – seventeen knots, I think he said – than any conventional submarine. I’m not a technical man, as you know, but to think that it can breathe, top up its batteries and dispense its exhaust fumes at periscope depth, well, that really is something.’

  ‘How on earth does it do that?’

  ‘Some revolutionary snorkel system, so Jürgen says. Anyway, time we went back inside. Your mother will be wondering what’s become of us.’

  ‘You go ahead, Father. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to see Hans and Greta.’

  Von Menen walked into the Steigers’ parlour feeling like a man who’d been asked to drain the Atlantic.

  ‘You look like an out-of-work mortician, Carl,’ quipped Steiger.

  ‘It shows, then?’

  Steiger turned to his wife, who was busying herself around the fireplace. ‘I’d say so, wouldn’t you, Greta?’ Greta smiled sympathetically.

  ‘Mind if I stay for a few minutes, Greta?’

  ‘Of course not. You’re welcome here anytime, Carl, you know that.’ She plumped up the cushion on a nearby chair.

  ‘You’ll have a drink?’ asked Steiger.

  ‘Thanks, I need one.’

  Von Menen gazed around the parlour, admiring its neat, cosy simplicity. ‘I love this room,’ he said. ‘It’s so homely, so welcoming.’ He walked over to the sideboard and stared blankly at the two large photographs of the late Steiger children – Heinz, wearing his short black Panzer jacket, and Anna, all of eight years old, smiling playfully on the back of a donkey at Travemünde. It was the last photograph taken of her. He reached out and brushed his finger poignantly across her face.

  Greta moved quickly to his side, reached up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Come and sit down,’ she said softly.

  ‘She was so young, Greta, and I was so damn foolhardy. I should never have been so far out at sea.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, Carl,’ said Greta. ‘It was an accident. You did everything you could. You were all young. How could you possibly have known that the weather would change so suddenly? Come on now.’ She took him by the arm and led him back to his chair. ‘We saw you and your father at the back of the house a short while ago; seemed you were having a profoundly deep discussion. My instinct tells me that it’s Hans’s turn next,’ she smiled, ‘or am I mistaken?’

  Von Menen smiled and nodded. ‘You can read me like a book, Greta. You always could.’

  They moved to a small oblong table covered with a brown, tassel-frilled counterpane. Steiger poured three glasses of Juniper schnapps. ‘Here’s to you, Carl,’ he said. ‘Prost!’

  ‘Prost!’ Greta and von Menen chorused.

  Following the toast and first sip, there was a hushed quiet, Steiger rolling his glass slowly between the palms of his hands. From the thoughtful look in his eyes, von Menen knew he was in for some brotherly advice. Greta must have sensed so too, as she found a s
ubtle moment to leave the table and return with her knitting.

  ‘You know, Carl,’ said Steiger, ‘apart from your mother, I think I am better acquainted with your father than anyone – with the greatest respect, that includes Manfred and you.’ He looked fondly at Greta, then gestured to a photograph of the General and himself in full battle-dress. ‘Your father was the best man at our wedding,’ he said. ‘Your parents stood sponsor for Heinz and Anna when they were baptised. When we lost Anna, it was they who stood by our sides. Then, when Heinz was killed, they insisted that we should come and live here. Not that it made much difference, because, as you know, we were practically living here anyway.’

  He paused, looked at his glass and drained the rest of its contents. ‘I’ve served alongside your father all my adult life, from the battlefields of the Somme to the suburbs of Moscow. I am immensely proud of that. When you left for South America, we’d just invaded Russia and we were gloriously triumphant. But when the Russian winter arrived… well, your father knew instinctively that the whole damn war would end in disaster. And he was right. Last week they announced that 50,000 German officers had been killed in action since the start of the war – over 130 of them generals! Difficult to believe, isn’t it? The recurrent theme now is retreat, retreat and retreat. It’s been that way for some time. It’s a living hell for any German soldier in the east. Trying to stop the Russian advance is impossible!’

  Steiger recharged the glasses, then continued. ‘Your father is a brilliant infantry general, the very best, an inspiring, courageous and daring battlefront commander, a man who’s worshipped and admired by all those soldiers privileged to have served with him; brave soldiers, tired soldiers, frightened and confused soldiers; men who need leaders like your father, not leaders who spend their time back at staff headquarters. When he was forcibly transferred to a desk at Zossen, it was the worst thing that could ever have happened to him, but he had no choice – his leg had given up completely. He just couldn’t walk anymore…’