Out of Mecklenburg

by James Remmer

  Returned from Madrid last night. Had lunch with your friend, Juan, the day before. What a nice fellow. I like him very much. He asked me to pass on his very best wishes.

  Roll on Christmas – they’re switching me to Route 7 that week – Berlin/Copenhagen/Oslo. It’s a bit safer!

  Hope you’re keeping well.

  Best wishes, Ulricht.

  P.S. Nearly forgot. Juan insisted I tell you about Carmen Rodrigues (an old flame of yours?). She’s getting married on 20th January, spending her honeymoon in Las Palmas!

  Lucky girl… Lucky man!

  Von Menen had never heard of Carmen Rodrigues in his entire life, but the message was as clear as a spring day in the Bavarian Alps. Las Palmas might be the perfect destination for two newlyweds, but it was also a transit port on the Spanish/South Atlantic sea-route. Cortes’s message meant only one thing – there was a sailing to South America on 20th January, meaning he would have to leave Berlin by the 15th at the very latest.

  Overtaken by a sudden sense of urgency, he headed straight for Wilhelmstrasse.

  The duty officer at the Foreign Office was in a lethargic mood.

  ‘Sorry, but calls to Krummhübel at this time of an evening have to be very urgent,’ he explained.

  ‘But it is urgent,’ insisted von Menen. ‘I must get a message to Herr Werner immediately.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ smiled the duty officer. ‘It’s always urgent, it’s always immediate.’

  An SS guard standing five metres away closed in on the conversation. Von Menen reached into his pocket, pulled out the written authority issued by von Ribbentrop and countersigned by Bormann. He held it in front of the man’s face.

  ‘How much more urgent could it be?’ von Menen said angrily.

  The duty officer went into a blind robotic spin. Ushering the SS guard away, he instantly supplied a pen. Von Menen wrote down the message and passed it to him.

  URGENT – Documents MUST be available by 14th January at latest.

  Von Menen

  ‘I cannot over-emphasise how vitally important it is that this reaches Herr Werner immediately,’ he stressed.

  Now, it was up to Werner.

  Monday 11th December 1944

  After a taxing and frustrating hour, the switchboard operator at the Savoy Hotel finally put von Menen through to the plant foreman’s office at the ordnance factory at Borsigwalde.

  ‘Herr von Menen speaking.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Are you calling about the delivery you’re expecting?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I am.’

  ‘Well, it’s being loaded right now, sir.’

  ‘Good… I’m in Berlin at the moment, but my car has broken down and I’m the only person authorised to accept the consignment at Lübeck-Siems. In fact, I’m the only person who has access to the storage facility…’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘I was wondering if I might hitch a ride on the truck, if that’s okay?’

  ‘Just a moment, sir.’

  Von Menen waited with bated breath. Steiger, who had remained patiently next to him throughout, crossed his fingers.

  ‘Are you there, sir?’ asked the plant foreman.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  Von Menen covered the mouthpiece, a smile skimming across his face. ‘He’s swallowed it,’ he whispered.

  Steiger punched the air with his fists.

  ‘It’s not our usual policy, you understand, but given the circumstances, I think we can make an exception. As it happens, there’s only one driver and I imagine he’ll be glad of your company. Between you and me, sir…’ The foreman’s voice was much quieter now. ‘It’ll be a blessing in disguise, really. Don’t get me wrong, Erich’s a good man, but he’s prone to a drink or two.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll see to it that he stays sober,’ chuckled von Menen.

  ‘That’ll be the day, sir. What time can we expect you? The driver needs to be on his way by ten at the latest.’

  Von Menen looked at his watch. ‘I’ll be with you just after nine-thirty.’

  ‘Ideal, sir.’

  Replacing the receiver, von Menen turned to Steiger. ‘Let’s run through it one last time, Hans. You and Father will be waiting just the other side of Schönberg, right?’

  ‘Yes, just beyond the railway line. I’ll start flagging you down the moment I catch sight of the truck. All you have to do is keep your eyes peeled for a moving red light.’

  ‘And when we stop, you ask the driver where he’s heading?’

  ‘That’s right, and when he says Lübeck-Siems, I’ll introduce the pretence about the diversion, you know, the road being closed to heavy traffic…’

  ‘And that the Travemünde ferry is out of order until four o’clock in the morning?’

  ‘Right. All you’ll have to do then is suggest to the driver that, since you’ve got time to spare, you’d like to make a slight detour – something along the lines of visiting an aunt who you haven’t seen for a few years. She’s a companion to some spinster who has a big house beyond Dassow.’

  ‘And after we arrive, my “aunt” invites the two of us to stay overnight?’

  ‘That’s about it,’ affirmed Hans. ‘The rest will be down to your father and me.’

  Von Menen thought for a moment. ‘The driver... his foreman says he’s partial to a drink. Perhaps I could get him into a nice mellow state before we reach Schönberg. I’ve a bottle of Ansbach in my bag.’

  ‘Great idea,’ agreed Steiger. ‘If he’s a drinker, you’ll be his best friend by the time you reach Schönberg.’

  Erich Krenz was about sixty, short and stocky, with a big, round face, a blushed, veined complexion and a nose like an electric light bulb. Even at nine-thirty in the morning, the odour of alcohol on his breath eclipsed the ever-present smell of cordite, clinging to his thick reefer jacket like soot on a sweep’s hat.

  It may have been the effect of his early morning “fix”, but when the heavy Büssing-NAG truck pulled out of the munitions works at Borsigwalde, it was obvious to von Menen that Erich Krenz was a born talker, third-rate singer, fourth-rate theatrical mimic and fifth-rate military strategist, a man who had all the answers to Hitler’s increasing problems. They had just passed Friesack when von Menen pondered his next move.

  ‘Fancy something to eat, Erich?’

  ‘Thank you, sir, but I’ve got sandwiches. Nothing special, but if you’re feeling a bit peckish…’ – he glanced at von Menen’s pocket, the bottle of Ansbach poking out – ‘I’m more than happy to share them with you.’

  ‘Very kind of you, Erich, but I meant something hot, a proper meal.’

  ‘Oh, I see. In that case, sir, I’ll say no, if you don’t mind. I’ve other uses for my food and lodging allowance.’

  ‘You don’t need any money, Erich, I’ll treat you.’

  Krenz’s eyes lit up like a pre-war Christmas scene along Kurfürstendamm.

  When they left the Hotel Gröbler, Perleburg was in complete darkness. Krenz had consumed over two bottles of wine and a good deal of schnapps. He seemed fine until he reached the open door, took a whiff of cold air and almost fell to his knees.

  ‘Are you okay, Erich?’ asked von Menen.

  Krenz’s reply was incoherent.

  By the time they had reached the door of the cab, Krenz could hardly walk and von Menen wasn’t fooling himself. If the truck was going any further that day, it was he who would be doing the driving.

  They were not yet on the far side of Schönberg and the light waving ahead was not red: it was white, and it was growing brighter all the while. Krenz was fast asleep, snoring loudly.

  This was not the plan.

  Von Menen felt for his Walther, but realised it was hopeless. The road was blocked in bo
th directions; Alsatians barking loudly; uniforms everywhere, the field grey of the Wehrmacht and the awesome colours of the SS and the Gestapo.

  A corporal rapped on the door of the cab. ‘OUT!’

  Von Menen’s heart rate quickened. He could see it all: his parents, Hans and Greta, all arrested; Gestapo swarming all over the house. Next stop, Gestapo Headquarters and then… Plötzensee Prison! He stepped down from the cab and stood anxiously by the door.

  ‘Something wrong?’ he asked.

  The corporal said nothing.

  A Gestapo officer crossed the road, spun von Menen round and pushed him up against the door, kicking his legs apart. He found the Walther immediately, tossed it to the corporal and bawled out at the top of his voice.

  ‘Hauptsturmführer!’

  An SS officer raced over to the truck, followed by a half dozen soldiers.

  ‘Search the back!’

  ‘Captain!’ yelled von Menen. ‘You’re making a big—’ The corporal jabbed the butt of his rifle into von Menen’s side, the pain forcing a piercing wince, his knees weakening.

  ‘Name?’ screamed the SS officer.

  ‘Carl Franz von Menen.’

  ‘What are you doing? Where are you going?’

  ‘Sorry, but I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Corporal!’

  Another jab to the kidneys. Von Menen winced again, knees buckling as he dropped to the running board.

  ‘Stand up!’ screamed the corporal, hauling him back to his feet.

  By now, Krenz was lying in a stupefied heap by the side of the road, oblivious to everything.

  ‘I’ll ask you again,’ said the officer. ‘What are you doing? Where are you going?’

  ‘Sir!’ cried one of the men from the back of the truck. ‘Ammunition!’

  ‘Before you make any mistakes,’ groaned von Menen, ‘you’d best look in the top pocket of my jacket.’ He felt the muzzle of a Luger grinding into the small of his back as the SS officer pushed his hand across his shoulder, dipped into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

  Führer Headquarters

  To whom it may concern:

  BY COMMAND OF THE FÜHRER

  You are hereby ordered to comply with any request which the bearer, Herr Carl Franz von Menen, sees fit to…

  Signed: Joachim von Ribbentrop, Reich Foreign Minister

  Signed: Martin Bormann, Head of the Party Chancellery.

  Hands trembling, lips quivering, the SS officer turned a deathly pallor.

  ‘Corporal!’ he shouted. ‘Get those men out of the truck… NOW!’

  Von Menen snatched the Führer Order from him and stuffed it back in his pocket. ‘Now, Hauptsturmführer…?’

  ‘Dreesen, sir, SS Hauptsturmführer Dreesen!’

  ‘Hauptsturmführer Dreesen,’ said von Menen, clutching his side, ‘I’m not much interested in why you are here, but I would like to know what the hell you think you’re doing!’

  ‘My apologies, Herr von Menen. We’re looking for the crew of a Mosquito, brought down in neighbouring Grabow. A farmer says he saw two parachutes—’

  ‘Did you find the two parachutists in the back of the truck?’

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Dreesen, nervously handing back the Walther.

  Von Menen gestured towards Krenz. ‘Then kindly put that man back in the cab and order your men to retreat down the road. I want that barrier lifted within thirty seconds. Then…’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I want to speak to you at the rear of the truck.’

  Boiling with anger, von Menen waited at the back of the large Büssing-NAG, Dreesen’s footsteps approaching along the tarmac at a brisk pace. Dreesen stepped round to the back of the truck and walked straight into a wall of knuckle, his nose split, right to left. Von Menen yanked him up against the tailgate and held him rigid.

  ‘Now,’ he whispered, ‘have you any idea where the Russian front line is?’

  Dreesen answered in the negative.

  ‘Strange,’ said von Menen, shaking his head, ‘neither do I, but if you breathe one word about me, this truck, or its contents to anyone, I guarantee that you’ll have the answer to that question within twenty-four hours. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, Herr von Menen.’

  Just after six o’clock, the truck was on the far side of Schwerin. Krenz stirred, groped for the Ansbach, took a quick swallow and fell into another deep sleep.

  Von Menen saw a red light in the distance, moving left to right, two hundred metres ahead. Cutting the engine, he coasted to a halt.

  ‘Evening,’ said the “sergeant”. ‘Where are you heading?’

  ‘Lübeck,’ replied von Menen, nodding in the direction of the passenger’s seat.

  Stirred by the sound of Steiger’s voice, Krenz opened an eye, uttered a few garbled words then closed it again.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ whispered von Menen, clambering down from the cab, ‘but I had an altercation with the Gestapo, the other side of Ludwigslust.’

  ‘The Gestapo!’

  ‘Yes, a road block… not to mention a demonstration in the finer uses of a rifle butt and a physical grilling by a young Turk of an SS captain. Seems they were looking for two parachutists, seen bailing out of a Mosquito near Grabow.’

  Steiger looked up at the heavens, a near-full moon in the sky. ‘But you’re okay?’

  ‘Apart from what feels like a couple of bruised ribs, yes.’

  ‘And the driver? He looks completely gaga to me.’

  Von Menen closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. ‘You wouldn’t believe how much it’s taken to get him in that state. He’s drunk more than two-thirds of a bottle of schnapps and the best part of three bottles of wine.’

  The General, waiting patiently to act out his own part, joined them from the far side of the road.

  ‘My God, Carl, what have you done to the man?’ He peered through the open door of the cab. ‘It smells like a distillery in there.’

  ‘He’s completely smashed, Father. Whatever you do, don’t throw a match in there.’

  ‘Well, one thing’s for certain,’ said the General, gesturing at the lifeless shape in the passenger seat. ‘The original plan’s out of the window.’

  ‘I know,’ agreed Carl. ‘He doesn’t even know which planet he’s on, let alone the fact that he’s somewhere near Lübeck. I might just as well drive up to the house and sit with him in the cab, whilst you two get on quietly with it.’

  ‘But we can’t quietly hammer down the lids of the boxes,’ contended Steiger.

  ‘How long will it take you once the boxes are unloaded?’ asked von Menen, checking the contents of the near-empty Ansbach bottle. ‘Taking the lids off the cases, removing the ammunition and concealing the…?’

  Steiger pondered, looked at the General. ‘I reckon about an hour and twenty minutes – four minutes for each box.’

  ‘Certainly no more,’ agreed the General. ‘We’ve already fetched it up from the tunnel. It’s all waiting.’

  The General crossed his fingers as the big Büssing-NAG inched forward, clearing the arched entrance to the courtyard with a couple of centimetres to spare.

  The unloading only took twenty minutes. By eight-thirty, von Menen was on a night-time “mystery” tour of Mecklenburg, with what looked like a ventriloquist’s dummy as his only passenger. Krenz had sailed into oblivion. Only the in-out movement of his chest belied the fact that he was still alive.

  Back at the house, the General and Steiger were working frantically, discarding the right amount of ammunition and replacing it with gold, Frau von Menen and Frau Steiger alongside, emptying the discarded ammunition into the void below the trapdoor, both assured by Hans that it would not explode.

  When the truck finally return
ed to the courtyard, Steiger was just hammering down the lid on the last box, the women disposing of the last of over 40,000 rounds of ammunition. In what seemed no time at all, the twenty boxes were reloaded. Krenz hadn’t stirred once.

  ‘Is there any left, Carl?’ asked Steiger quietly.

  ‘Any what?’ replied von Menen.

  ‘Whatever it is he’s been drinking.’

  ‘Just a slight drop, why?’

  ‘Because we could do with some of it ourselves!’

  The two women suppressed their tittering. Easing Carl to one side, the General spoke very quietly.

  ‘The boxes we’ve opened, Carl, can be identified by a small, discreet cross, which I’ve scratched at both ends of each box. Now, how long will you be at the Flender-Werke Shipyard?’

  ‘About an hour; there’s plenty of labour up there.’

  ‘Good, Hans will give you an hour’s start. When you leave the dockyard, he’ll be waiting a safe distance back from the main entrance.’

  ‘In that case, Hans, take the BMW,’ said von Menen. ‘Krenz saw the Delahaye race past earlier this afternoon. If he comes round and sees another, well, who knows?’

  The unloading at the Flender-Werke Shipyard went like clockwork. When the storehouse door slammed shut, Krenz was still in a deep state of intoxication.

  Von Menen stuffed a few Reichsmark in his pocket and headed back towards the guardhouse, leaving the truck twenty metres short of the barrier. A brief word with the guard sergeant, and Krenz was allowed to remain in the cab. The sergeant would ensure his safe departure at first light the next day.

  Meanwhile, Erich Krenz slept on.

  26

  Monday 18th December 1944

  The proceedings at Lübeck’s Marriage Registry Office were as discreet and as private as Eva and Manfred could have wished for.

  Back at the house, a joyous surprise was in store for the newlyweds when Katrina and Jürgen asked them if they would be godparents to the baby Katrina was expecting in March. Eva, full of emotion, tears of joy trickling down her face, replied without giving the question a thought.