by James Remmer
In mid-November, just as everyone was coming to terms with the sinking of the German battleship Tirpitz, a motorcycle courier arrived at the von Menen estate carrying sealed orders for the General.
Rendezvous with Major Baumer
Wednesday 15th November at 10h00
Keppler.
Making a mental note of the accompanying address, General von Menen set off across the courtyard in search of Steiger. He found him in the garage block, tinkering beneath the bonnet of his treasured Steyr command car, Greta nearby, dutifully holding a spanner.
‘Excuse me, please, Greta. Anything fixed for this Wednesday, Hans?’
Steiger lifted his head from the engine compartment, exchanged a quizzical look with his wife and shook his head. ‘No, can’t say as I have, General.’
‘Good, then we’re off to Berlin, on business.’ At that, Greta made a tactical withdrawal to the house.
‘Where in Berlin?’
‘Jägerstrasse, number thirty-four to thirty-six.’
Steiger picked up a piece of rag, wiped his hands and thought deeply, conjuring the hazy memory of a good-looking girl, an ornate, grandiose building with diamond-patterned brickwork and a pair of griffin-like creatures perched on the roof top. ‘Number thirty-four? That’s the old Reichsbank building.’
The General, already two slow paces out of the garage, stopped and turned, his face a picture of bewilderment. ‘What was that you said, Hans?’
‘Thirty-four Jägerstrasse. It’s the address of the old Reichsbank.’
‘I don’t know about the number, but you’re right, the old bank is on Jägerstrasse… and Jägerstrasse runs into Kurstrasse—’
‘Which is where the new Reichsbank is,’ interrupted Steiger.
‘Right again, Hans… and the two buildings are connected by an enclosed pedestrian walkway. But how do you know the street number?’
‘Easy. Do you recall me telling you about the time after I’d matriculated, when my father sent me down to Berlin to stay with my Uncle Frederick, the brains of the family, the one who worked in the office at the AEG works?’
‘Fixed you up with some sort of an engineering apprenticeship, didn’t he?’
‘Yes. I stayed with AEG until I enlisted.’
‘But what’s that got to do with the Reichsbank building?’
Steiger poked his head outside the garage and looked up and down the courtyard, checking that Greta had gone. ‘When I was staying with my aunt and uncle,’ he whispered, ‘I used to date a girl who worked there, really good looking, she was, but very aloof – ‘I work at the Reichsbank, thirty-four Jägerstrasse,’ she said, all very self-important like. It was well before I met Greta.’
‘You’re sure about the number?’
‘Positive.’ Steiger stuffed the piece of oily rag into his overall pocket and smiled. ‘Perhaps they want our photographs for the next issue of Reichsmark notes,’ he said cynically.
‘It’s an interesting concept, Hans, but I rather think not. Anyway, we’re to be there at ten in the morning. What say we leave around five and stop for breakfast at the Hotel Gröbler, in Perleburg?’
‘Sounds fine, General. Full uniform?’
‘The whole lot,’ winked the General. He was about to take his leave when, with one hand on the front wing of the Steyr, he said, ‘Shouldn’t you have got rid of this by now?’
‘I’ve tried, twice, but you know what the army’s like – if there isn’t a piece of paper to fit the purpose, nobody wants to know.’
‘Yes, but…’
‘General,’ interrupted Steiger, ‘I drove her all the way from Bialystok, through Warsaw, Poznan and finally to here. It was over a thousand kilometres. Besides, in a few months, she might come in handy.’
Shaking his head, the General waved away the excuse. ‘Another thing… something I’ve been meaning to ask you for some time. Where the hell did you get all the petrol from for that journey?’
‘Well, it was like this…’
The General threw up his hands in resignation, turned and hastened back to the house as fast as his crook leg would carry him.
‘Don’t tell me, Hans, I’d rather not hear,’ he bellowed over his shoulder. ‘I don’t need any lessons in sharp practices, thank you.’
Steiger dived back beneath the bonnet, still laughing.
19
Wednesday 15th November 1944
Steiger crossed the Weidendammer Bridge, made a left into Unter den Linden and turned right beyond the Opera House, edging his way gingerly past the mounds of rubble in Oberwallstrasse.
‘Nine-fifty, General,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘Jägerstrasse is next on the left.’
‘Stop just after the turning, Hans,’ the General instructed.
Steiger made a quick left, brought the Mercedes to a halt and switched off the engine. On the far side of the road stood a figure in the sinister garb of the SS, flanked by two men in dark suits, one about sixty, the other much younger.
‘Rumour has it that this is where they keep the bullion – in the new building, I mean,’ said Steiger.
‘It’s not a rumour,’ replied the General, intrigued by the figure on the far side of the road. ‘For the moment, though, I’m more concerned about that man in the SS uniform… It’s not Baumer, it’s Standartenführer Keppler!’ He nodded to Steiger. They got out and crossed the road at a steady pace.
‘Morning, General,’ said Keppler. ‘Allow me to introduce Herr Fischer and Herr Voigt.’
Fischer, the older of the two men in dark suits, stood with his heels together and dipped his head sharply. ‘It’s an honour to meet you, General. I’ve read a great deal about you.’
Keppler edged a little nearer to the General, mumbling a few words in his ear.
‘Warrant Officer Steiger,’ replied the General, loud enough for all to hear.
Voigt pricked back his ears, his eyes alight with excitement as they homed in on the black-and-white ribbon of the Pour le Mérite and the red, white and black of the Knight’s Cross.
‘The Sergeant Steiger?’ replied Keppler.
‘There’s only one,’ replied the General, ‘and before you ask, wherever I go, he goes.’
‘Er… of course,’ replied Keppler, patently aware that two years previously, Goebbels, at the insistence of Hitler, had organised a personal photoshoot of Steiger, his image appearing on the front page of Das Reich.
‘Right, gentlemen,’ said Fischer. ‘If you’ll follow me, please.’
Across Kurstrasse and into Reichsbank Platz, they saw the new Reichsbank building on the right, half of its windows blown out, piles of debris everywhere. Fischer led the way through the main entrance. Steiger kept a watchful eye on the labouring Voigt, whose orthopaedic left shoe with its two-inch sole rendered a painfully awkward gait. But when he gave the young man an encouraging pat on the back, Voigt obstinately picked up his stride.
They arrived at a twin arrangement of steel barred gates, set six metres apart, each with a wicket-type entrance. Fischer unlocked the first gate, re-locked it after everyone had stepped inside and repeated the process at the second gate.
‘Ideal place for a few people I know, Hans,’ whispered the General.
Steiger nodded towards Keppler. ‘I think one them is here, General,’ he muttered.
Along the corridor stood a massive polished steel door, set with three keyholes, a graduated dial, two chrome levers and a spoked brass wheel. They watched as Fischer worked methodically through the opening process – a click, another click, down with one lever, up with another, a clunk, a seemingly endless spin of the wheel – and finally pulled open the door, revealing a dimly lit room.
On the left, stretching for all of ten metres, was a barrier of floor-to-ceiling steel bars, lined on the inside by a continuous
length of black curtain. No one could see inside. Fischer unlocked the door opposite and pushed it open.
Steiger wrinkled his nose, a familiar smell invading his nostrils. ‘Resin,’ he said, ‘new timber, pine.’
The room was large, cold and austere, lit by a solitary shadeless bulb hanging from the ceiling. A neat arrangement of small wooden boxes with rope handles attached to each end reached up from the stone floor.
Leaving Keppler and the two officials in muted conversation by the door, Steiger and the General circled the boxes, one slow step after the other. Feigning a cough, Steiger covered his mouth and mumbled through his fingers.
‘If this is what I think it is, General, there’s enough to finance a whole Panzer army!’
The General nodded aimlessly. A moment later, Keppler and Fischer joined them.
‘Herr Fischer tells me that there are 820 boxes,’ said Keppler, ‘each weighing slightly more than thirty-two kilograms. And you, General von Menen, will have full responsibility for their safe passage to…’ Restraining himself, he looked guardedly at Fischer. ‘Well, we’ll discuss that later.’
Ten minutes later, Fischer and Voigt departed, leaving Keppler, the General and Steiger to confer in a smaller room.
‘Let me make one thing clear, General,’ said Keppler. ‘You may have your ideas about the content of those boxes back there, but I make no comment. Your only remit is to ensure that the consignment reaches its final destination – without incident!’
The General tapped the floor with his stick, his patience waning. ‘We have a long journey ahead of us. If we are not to discuss the contents of the consignment, can we at least speak plainly about the destination?’
Keppler pulled a map from his attaché case, opening it out across the table. ‘There,’ he said, jabbing his finger against a pencilled cross. ‘Priwall, which, if my limited knowledge of the region serves me right, is not too far from where you live, General.’
‘Where, exactly, in Priwall?’ asked the General.
Keppler pulled out a second map, so detailed that it showed the outline of roads and buildings. ‘Your journey will end here,’ he said, pointing to a rectangular figure-of-eight outline. ‘It’s just back from the…’
‘Submarine base?’ discerned the General.
‘Yes,’ agreed Keppler, ‘but the submarine base has no relevance to this operation.’ Refolding the map, he pushed it across the table. ‘You’d best take that with you. I’ve got another copy.’
‘What about access to the Reichsbank, loading procedures, that kind of thing?’
‘All streets in the immediate vicinity – Kurstrasse, Unterwasserstrasse, Reichsbank Platz, Jägerstrasse – will be closed. Pedestrian and vehicular access will be strictly forbidden.’
‘Logistics?’
‘I’ll leave that to you,’ said Keppler.
General von Menen looked searchingly at Steiger. ‘Warrant Officer Steiger, your opinion on logistics, please. You’re the expert.’
Steiger was no more a logistics expert than he was a ballet dancer, but he somehow managed to contain his surprise at his sudden appointment to quartermaster.
‘Let me see,’ he mused. ‘A consignment of 820 boxes, you say?’
‘That’s right,’ confirmed Keppler, referring to his notes. ‘Weighing a total of 26,400 kilograms.’
‘Near enough 26.5 tonnes,’ said Steiger, thinking out loud. He pulled out a pencil from his tunic pocket and jotted down some figures. ‘I’d say we’ll need ten Opel Blitz trucks, the three-tonne model… covered, of course… allowing for eighty boxes, something over 2.5 tonnes in each truck…’ He paused and thought for a moment. ‘Six men in each truck, two up front and four in the back, plus two motorcycle combi outriders and two Kübelwagons. Excluding General von Menen and myself, I’d say we’re looking at something like seventy men.’
‘My God,’ said the General. ‘Seventy men, ten trucks, two motorcycle combis, two Kübelwagons and fuel… There are commanders on the Russian Front who’d give their right arm for that equipment.’
‘Maybe,’ replied Keppler, seeming more concerned about Steiger’s calculations than the plight of German soldiers on the Russian Front. ‘I make that only 800 boxes, Warrant Officer. What about the other—?’
‘Standartenführer!’ snapped the General. ‘We’re talking about twenty boxes. If needs be, we’ll put the damn things in my command vehicle.’
Keppler responded with a hard stare. ‘General von Menen, when you speak to me, you are speaking to a representative of the Führer’s Secretary, Herr Bormann. I am well aware of your illustrious career, but be under no illusion, I have been ordered to impress upon you that mistakes will not be tolerated. Will. Not. Be. Tolerated. Do you understand?’
His blood almost boiling, General von Menen fixed the SS man with a steadfast look. ‘Have you ever been a real soldier, Keppler?’
Keppler shook his head.
‘No, I thought not. Then let me enlighten you. Orders are for the compliance of idiots and the guidance of prudent, sensible men. Which one are you?’
Disarmed by the question, Keppler fastened his attaché case. ‘The requisitioning is my responsibility, General,’ he said. ‘You’ll find men and transport waiting at the Reichsbank on the appointed day, at the appointed hour.’
‘And when is that likely to be?’ asked the General.
‘In about ten days, but I can’t give you an exact date. You will be informed in advance by special courier.’ Keppler rose to his feet. ‘Anything else before we leave?’
‘Yes, two things: I’d like a field kitchen to be in situ at the market place, in Perleburg, at least two hours ahead of the column arriving.’
‘And the second?’
‘Hauptsturmführer Baumer – he was supposed to be here today, which begs the question, what is his part in all of this?’
‘Hauptsturmführer Baumer has certain new responsibilities in the Mecklenburg region. At the moment, he is otherwise engaged at Schwerin. But he has a house between Bützow and Schwaan – a huge, white-painted place; I’ve been there many times – and he will be at Priwall to meet you on the day of the operation.’ Keppler’s voice took on a tone of caution. ‘It strikes me, General, that you have the same regard for Hauptsturmführer Baumer as you do for me, but you’d best be aware that he has some very influential friends. In fact, he’s only recently returned from Gestapo Headquarters in Berlin, having been posted there to help with the interrogation of some of the suspects involved in the plot to murder our glorious Führer.’ A sickening smile appeared on Keppler’s face. ‘His success rate was very high.’
‘I know what he is,’ said the General. ‘I’m well versed with the significance of the black diamond on the left sleeve.’
‘Maybe, but I know him much better than you do. Where Hauptsturmführer Baumer is concerned, fools and prisoners are not an option. Before his posting to Supreme Headquarters, he served with Department E5, as part of Einsatzgruppe A, in the Baltic States. Before that, he was with Department B4. Jews.’
Suddenly, Keppler’s face turned a peculiar shade of grey, his breathing erratic, his right hand beginning to shake. He reached for the back of his chair and sat down.
‘Are you all right?’ asked the General.
Frantically opening his attaché case, Keppler fetched out a small glass bottle, hurriedly shook out three pills and threw them into his mouth, jerking back his head in the process.
It struck the General like a lightning bolt. ‘You were with him, weren’t you? You were with the Einsatzgruppen, one of the killer squads.’
‘Only for three months,’ stammered Keppler. ‘I couldn’t stomach it a moment longer. It… made me ill.’
‘Have you any idea what’s happening to real German soldiers in the east, because of what you did?’ demanded the Gene
ral.
Keppler closed his eyes and lowered his head.
‘Not to mention the fate that awaits countless German families, women and children.’ The General hammered his fist loudly on the table. ‘Just think about it, Stand-ar-ten-füh-rer. The reprisals, which many Germans are suffering right now, due largely to your evil deeds, are just as gruesome and just as vile as anything you ever meted out, if that’s possible.’
The room fell silent, the General studying the sad and pathetic figure before him.
‘Do you know something, Keppler,’ he said softly; ‘people like you and Baumer sicken me. You have done this country the greatest disservice in its entire history.’ He turned to Steiger. ‘Warrant Officer, we’re leaving. There’s an awful smell in this room. I need some fresh air.’
Heading north-west through the ruins of Berlin, the General and Steiger were in a sombre mood, the reality of Hitler’s war all around them. Only the remnants of healthy normality remained, and soon, even the remnants would be gone, swept away by a regime hell-bent on destroying not just the material substance of Germany, but the very fabric of her nationhood.
In his euphoric rise to power, Hitler had promised a 1,000-year Reich, yet in less than twelve years all he had achieved for Germany was ruination. A once-great country was spiralling down the plughole of Europe, and with it would go one of Mecklenburg’s most distinguished families.
As the Mercedes sped through Nauen, General von Menen was in deep thought, beset by a notion as alien to him as the far reaches of the universe. And yet, as much as he searched his conscience, the same question came hurtling back. Why should they have it? Why?
They had just passed through Friesack when he finally emerged from his deep state of mental absorption. Steiger had not uttered a word since they had left the suburbs of Berlin, but when the General spoke, he knew he had won the bet with himself.