by Judy Nunn
It had all been ludicrously easy, Klaus thought. The priest’s cassock, which he’d at first detested, had proved the perfect disguise. People didn’t look at a priest, he’d discovered, all they saw were the robes, not the man.
‘Good morning, Father,’ they’d said as he stepped onto the train.
‘Good afternoon, Father,’ they’d said as he alighted at his destination several hours later.
He’d smiled beatifically and waved small blessings at them; he’d found it rather humorous. A war was in progress, he’d thought, and yet it appeared he could travel the whole of Europe unquestioned, simply because he was a man of the cloth. How extraordinary.
But he’d had a rude awakening in the alpine town of Innsbruck.
He arrived in the afternoon. It was late December, the height of the skiing season, and the township was crowded.
Again, Klaus was amazed. Holiday-makers, in the midst of a war? And not just locals either – he could hear other dialects and accents. He didn’t approve at all. He considered it improper.
He booked into a modest hotel, their last room. He was lucky, the girl told him.
‘It’s the height of the season, Father.’
‘Is it indeed?’ he said archly, and the girl gave him a strange look, so he waved her a blessing and said, ‘Thank you, my child.’
The following morning was bitterly cold. An icy wind swept down from the mountains and, to the disappointment of the skiers, the chairlifts were closed due to the unseasonal gale which was expected.
Klaus lounged over a newspaper and mid-morning coffee and cake in one of the cosy cafes before he was to catch the midday train. Soon he would be in Italy. How easy it had been, he thought. But as he was crossing the square on his way to the railway station, he heard his name called.
‘Klaus! Klaus Henkel!’
The voice was coming from behind him, and he curbed his instinct to run. Then a hand patted him on the shoulder, and he turned.
‘Klaus, I was sure it was you, I saw you in the cafe, but I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know you’d embraced the priesthood …’
The man was in his early thirties and Klaus recognised him. Koenig, he thought, although he couldn’t remember the first name. Koenig had been at university with him in Munich in the early thirties. An insignificant young man, he vaguely recalled, one who’d tried too hard, and unsuccessfully, to be liked.
Klaus decided that his best option was to bluff it out. He looked at Koenig blankly.
‘… I mean, you of all people,’ Koenig continued with a comradely chuckle. He was still trying too hard, Klaus noted. ‘You cared for nothing but athletics and politics, if I recall.’
‘I am sorry,’ Klaus said in Italian, his expression one of bewilderment. ‘Do you perhaps mistake me for someone else? I do not understand you.’
Koenig was dumbfounded by the response. It was also apparent that he did not speak Italian.
‘Forgive me.’ Klaus smiled apologetically, then added in stumbling and heavily accented German, ‘Ich kann nicht Deutsch sprechen. I am afraid I can be of no assistance to you,’ he said, again in Italian.
‘Oh.’ Koenig backed away in his confusion. ‘I’m sorry, Father, but you look so like someone I once knew.’ Embarrassed though he was, he continued to study Klaus quizzically, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he saw. ‘Please excuse me.’
Klaus smiled again, benignly this time. ‘God bless you, my son,’ he said in Italian and, with his by now well-practised priestly wave, he walked off, leaving Koenig staring after him in amazement.
But he did not go to the railway station – he did not dare. He’d been too complacent, he realised, he could no longer afford to travel the easy way, leaving an identifiable trail behind him.
It had become difficult after that. Cutting across country by foot, avoiding the larger towns as he headed south, stealing food where he could and sheltering in farmhouse barns. He was strong and in peak physical condition, but the weather was not kind, and once, in Chiusa, desperate for warmth and sustenance, he’d stayed overnight in the small village inn. He had been prepared to kill the innkeeper should there be any show of suspicion, but there had been none. The innkeeper had been honoured to have a priest staying under his roof.
Nonetheless, Klaus knew that when he reached the major cities of Milan and, more importantly, Genoa, where he might have to bide some time awaiting his passage to South America, he would need a new identity. The encounter with Koenig had shaken him and he doubted whether once the man had overcome his surprise, he had believed the case of mistaken identity. It was only a matter of time before Klaus Henkel would officially be a wanted man, and when he was, Koenig, who had no loyalty to the party, would most certainly report his sighting.
Then he had come upon the remote and secluded peasants’ hut, several miles from the village of Tirano. The timing had been perfect: he’d been exhausted and in need of a safe house where he could rest and see out the worst of the winter. He’d noted, too, that the peasant goatherd was approximately his own age and height and, once he got to know the family, that his papers were in order and easily accessible. It was a heaven-sent opportunity.
They were simple people, devout and trusting, and when they’d served their purpose he dispatched them with ease – all but the boy, whose absence had been an irritating glitch. Not that the boy constituted a threat, he’d thought as he’d set off on his long trek to Milan. The boy was ill, an epileptic, he would no doubt perish up there in the snow without the support of his parents. But Klaus would have preferred to have finished it all off tidily; he didn’t like loose ends.
He’d reached the sprawling outer suburbs of Milan on the first of May, and had been shocked when he’d heard the news. Adolf Hitler had committed suicide in his Berlin bunker just the previous day. Klaus had mourned the death of his Führer as he’d skirted the city and headed south to Genoa. Then, barely a week later, when Germany had unconditionally surrendered, he’d mourned the death of the Third Reich.
Upon reaching the city of Genoa, he’d found it easy to disappear. There, in the tough, seething seaport, life was cheap and people cared little for the business of others. He had sought out the contact he’d been given and then he’d booked into a small pensione not far from the docks, and become just a part of the mass of humanity as he’d awaited his passage to South America.
More than one third of Argentina’s population lived in or around the sprawling metropolis of Buenos Aires on the south-eastern coast of the continent. The vibrant and cosmopolitan city stood apart from other Latin American cities because of the diversity of its architecture, which reflected its European heritage. In the barrios of El Centro and La Recoleta, parks and boulevards lined with palatial mansions evoked Rome. In Palermo and Belgrano, the plazas were reminiscent of those in Paris, and in the barrios of San Telmo and La Boca, the cobblestone streets and rows of bars, cafes and cantinas had a distinctly Italian feel.
The Buenos Aires locals, predominantly of Spanish and Italian extraction, referred to themselves as Portenos, their predecessors having originally settled in the port area following their arrival from Europe by boat. But the Portenos had long since created new barrios, each with its own character and history, and it was here that the true identity of the city existed. The essence of Buenos Aires did not lie in the beauty or diversity of its architecture, but in the fierce Latin spirit of its people. The Portenos were intensely passionate, and the very air of the city was charged with their restless energy.
For Klaus Henkel, Buenos Aires had proved far more than a temporary safe haven. He had discovered a whole new life in this vibrant city, in this country which so differed from his German homeland. The months became a year, and he wallowed in the sensuality of Buenos Aires. He loved the heat of its climate, the slow fire of its music, the spiciness of its food and its hot-blooded women. He embraced a newfound hedonism, frequenting nightclubs in San Telmo and entertaining prostitutes at his lavish apartment in La Rec
oleta. Having quickly assimilated the language, he felt that he’d become one of the locals in this city so given to pleasure, where he could be free from the Teutonic discipline that had governed his existence from the earliest days of his childhood.
During the day, he maintained the respectable facade of Doctor Umberto Pellegrini, the identity supplied for him by the now well-established and highly efficient organisation known as Odessa – and the cover provided for him had proved to be impeccable. Doctor Pellegrini was a dedicated practitioner who worked at the Rosario Medical Clinic, a charitable institution offering medical assistance to the disadvantaged.
The clinic, in the port area of La Boca, was to all intents and purposes funded by the Catholic Church, and indeed, had the Bishop of Buenos Aires been questioned, he would have affirmed the authenticity of such a claim in accordance with his instructions from Rome. In reality, the clinic was not funded by the Catholic Church, but by Odessa, and although the treatment on offer was bona fide, the centre itself served a purpose far broader than medical assistance for the neighbourhood poor.
An escape route for German war criminals known as ‘The Monastery Route’ had been operating successfully for the past twelve months. Odessa smuggled the fugitives across the unpatrolled Swiss borders into Italy, after which they were moved by Roman Catholic priests from one monastery to the next until they reached Rome. There, Bishop Alois Hudal, the Rector of the College of Santa Maria dell’ Anima, had created a virtual transit station for escaping Nazis. New identities and Red Cross passports were supplied, and from Santa Maria dell’ Anima the fugitives were dispersed around the globe, particularly to South America where German agents, industry and commerce were well established.
The German General Staff, driven by imperialism, had set up operations in South America many years before Hitler took power in Germany. New industrial plants had been established throughout the Americas, especially in Argentina, which had become the chief focus of German intrigue in South America. By the end of the war, German agents had gained control of mines, banks, railroads, aviation lines, and chemical and steel works. By 1946, under the leadership of its new pro-Nazi president, General Juan Perón, Argentina’s munitions industry was virtually controlled by the German industrial conglomerate I.G. Farben. The German war strategists had planned well ahead, and with the vast accumulation of Nazi wealth safely deposited in Swiss bank accounts, they could steadily build their underground network in preparation for the future rise of the Fourth Reich.
As an Odessa centre, the Rosario Medical Clinic served an important purpose in the overall scheme, and its dedicated director, Doctor Fritz von Halbach, had welcomed Klaus Henkel’s arrival in Buenos Aires. Henkel, one of the first of the SS to escape, was a committed Nazi and a qualified doctor and would prove a valuable member of the team. Furthermore, the man’s ease with the Italian language was most convenient, as it enabled the director to choose a non-German alias for Klaus. Fritz von Halbach believed the image of the clinic should be that of an international body of dedicated people working for the common good of the poor.
Klaus had not previously met von Halbach in person, but he’d known of him by reputation for years. Everyone in Berlin society did. Doctor Fritz von Halbach was an eminent plastic surgeon who, prior to the war, had catered to film stars and the moneyed elite. His picture had regularly appeared in the press: urbane, handsome, wealthy and feted, he was of unimpeachable character and had never been associated with the SS. But among the hierarchy Fritz von Halbach had been well known as an avid Nazi supporter. It had been a lesser known fact that, mingling as he did with the rich and famous, he’d been a valued agent of the German General Staff. And he’d proved his loyalty by abandoning his highly successful practice in Berlin to set up a clinic in Buenos Aires which would serve as part of the underground network a full year before Germany’s final defeat. Fritz was a man with the future in mind, and a man who believed that the power of the Fourth Reich would emanate from Argentina.
‘It was well planned,’ Fritz said thoughtfully. ‘He must have bribed a guard to smuggle the cyanide capsule into the prison.’
‘Clever,’ Klaus agreed, and he nodded, feigning interest. The news of Hermann Goering’s suicide that very morning had meant little to him. ‘The others will no doubt be envying his escape.’
They were seated in the comfortable armchairs of Fritz’s office having a Cognac, as they occasionally did at the end of a work day when Fritz felt in need of a chat. The spacious office, with a lounge area and a bar in the corner, was at the rear of the clinic, well away from the public surgery, dispensary and consulting rooms. It was private and soundproof and housed a separate bedroom and bathroom, occasionally serving as Fritz’s quarters, although he maintained a modest apartment nearby. Clandestine meetings were sometimes conducted in the office, but the majority of Odessa business took place upstairs above the clinic where the first floor, complete with offices and a private surgery and operating theatre for Nazi use only, was a hive of activity. Few were invited into the personal domain of Fritz von Halbach. But Fritz made an exception for Klaus. Klaus Henkel was the only man at the clinic whom he considered his intellectual equal.
‘Yes, I’m sure they would have preferred a more dignified end.’ Fritz scowled as he poured himself a second hefty Cognac. ‘Von Ribbentrop, Streicher, Keitel, Sauckel and the others, they’re to be hanged like common criminals. And in a gymnasium, I believe. Where the Americans were playing basketball only days ago! Two gallows to be used alternately. The indignity of it – it’s disgraceful!’
Klaus gave another sombre nod, as if he cared. For the past week, the world headlines had been screaming that the twelve found guilty were to be hanged. He hadn’t heard Fritz’s inside information about the gymnasium or the twin gallows, but what did it matter? If a man was hanged he was hanged. Who cared where or how it took place? Fritz was obsessed with the Nuremberg trial, and Klaus was bored. It was October 1946, and the trial of the major war criminals, or rather those who had been captured and indicted, had been dragging on for nearly a year now. This was only the beginning, he thought – there would be other trials to follow, and they could go on for many years to come. There’d be dozens more found guilty – it was a foregone conclusion – and they’d all be executed, which was a pity because they’d only been doing their duty. But what was the point in talking about it?
‘And they’re soon to start on the trials of the Nazi physicians,’ Fritz continued, outraged; he’d barely drawn breath. ‘Twenty-three doctors have been charged.’
Klaus’s ears pricked up at the mention of the doctors’ trial. ‘Any further news of Josef?’ he asked. Beppo was the only one he was interested in.
‘Mengele is still in Bavaria, I believe, on a farm near Rosenheim,’ Fritz said. ‘According to the underground reports, he’s relatively safe, but the sooner we can get him to Buenos Aires the better, for his own safety and for the cause. We need men like Mengele: respected leaders; Nazis who will inspire others.’
Klaus drained his glass; Fritz had lost him again. He preferred it when they discussed football – both were avid followers – or even their respective patients and medicine in general; Klaus enjoyed his work at the clinic and valued the expertise of Fritz’s opinion. But tonight the man’s mood was obviously one of ideological fervour, as it quite often was, so Klaus picked up the bottle that sat on the coffee table between them and poured himself another Cognac. He’d get a bit drunk and let Fritz rant for a while, he thought, then he’d go to Oswaldo’s and find himself a whore for the night.
True to form, Fritz did rant. The talk of Nuremberg and the mention of Mengele had wound him up.
‘It is the duty of men like us, Klaus,’ he declared, ‘men like you and me and Mengele, to fulfil the Führer’s prophecy and pave the way for the Nazi Fifth Column in the Western Hemisphere. Universal chaos will consume the world, just as Hitler prophesied, and it will emanate from right here in Argentina where they hate the United States.�
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He rose to pace the room, one hand behind his back, the other gesticulating with his brandy balloon. Klaus noted that, for all his elegance, Fritz’s behaviour on occasions was reminiscent of the Führer himself.
‘When Goebbels pronounced that Argentina had the power to form a union of the South American nations,’ he continued unabated, ‘Juan Perón, as War Minister, openly agreed, and now that he’s President, we must ensure that a South American alliance remains his personal ambition. To the Allied nations, and the world at large, Germany appears crushed, and those who believe they have vanquished us forever are relishing the publicity of the Nuremberg trial …’
Fritz skolled his Cognac in one hit, fired anew by his anger over the latest reports from Berlin.
‘… but the indignity and the wrongful retribution afforded our leaders will be of no consequence in the end. If we have Perón in our pocket and work together for the common cause, the consolidation of Allied victory itself will be meaningless. When class is set against class and nation against nation, chaos will reign as the Führer said it would, and Germany will rise again in all its military force.’
Fritz was more passionate than ever tonight, Klaus thought. Goering’s suicide and the fate of the others had obviously affected him deeply.
Klaus did not share Fritz von Halbach’s fervour. The Reich was as dead as its condemned leaders, in his opinion, and Fritz’s plans for the future meant nothing to him. He listened attentively nonetheless, interjecting now and then and nodding at all the right times. But, as he continued to study von Halbach, he wondered how a man of such gifted intellect, a man so good-looking, so elegant and sophisticated, could be such a pedantic bore.
In his mid-forties, Fritz von Halbach was a walking advertisement for his life’s work as a plastic surgeon. Fair-haired, blue-eyed and Aryan to the core, he was the handsomest of men and appeared in his mid-thirties. His body was fit, his skin unblemished, and Klaus had thought, upon their first meeting, that perhaps one of his peers had performed some expert surgical rejuvenation. He’d surreptitiously searched for any telling signs, but there were none.