Kersten was taking lunch alone at the ornate general staff dining room in the Chancellery.
He observed at a nearby table the formidable Richard Heydrich, Himmler’s deputy in charge of the Gestapo. Kersten did not recognize the other plump officer sitting with Heydrich.
It’s a common phenomenon that in a public space such as the dining hall, where various indistinct conversations are taking place at the same time, one never makes out a single word from any of the conversations...until either the overhearing individual’s name or some other such piece of identifying information is mentioned. Kersten heard nothing specific except the general buzz of lunchtime chitchat and light clanking of china. But then Heydrich spoke the word “Niederlände,” and Kersten’s ears stood at attention immediately.
Kersten had developed a liking and admiration for the hard-working, peace-loving Dutch. He was a citizen of Finland, to be sure; but he had not resided there for more than a month at a time since 1924 when he left to study Dr. Ko’s method of neurological therapy in Berlin. But Holland had been home for Kersten almost since he entered practice, and it had assumed a primary place in his allegiance.
“The Führer has his mind set on the Netherlands,” Heydrich said to his colleague.
“Does he have matters so well in hand in Poland and Czechoslovakia now that he can set his sights to the west?” the other officer inquired.
“Apparently so. I’ve heard through the grapevine that he’s looking northward as well, particularly at Denmark and Norway.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he’ll also have Russia in his crosshairs before too long. He worships Napoleon.”
“Yes, anyone who has read Mein Kampf would know Russia is his ultimate goal. A lot of Lebensraum there,” Heydrich said. They both chuckled knowingly.
“The Führer envisions hundreds of German settlements in Russia, and thousands upon thousands of Germans there,” his conversation partner added.
“But to get back to the Netherlands...” Heydrich said, virtually ignoring the other’s addenda.
“Yes. You were saying?” The man was hungrier for more information from Heydrich than for the food on his plate, which was virtually untouched.
“I have been informed that the end of April—maybe on the Führer’s birthday, or early May at the latest—is the target date to move troops into the Low Countries.”
“Seeing how easily we moved into Poland and Czechoslovakia, Hitler ought to make light work of them.”
Heydrich seemed to have remembered suddenly that they were not in a private office but in a cafeteria. His eyes quickly scanned the room for curious listeners. Kersten looked down at his newspaper to act as though he were minding his own business. Heydrich leaned his head over the table toward his dining partner, who reciprocated. Heydrich lowered his voice, but Kersten caught the gist.
“Hitler wants my boss to begin implementation of a plan to transplant undesirable Dutch citizens to new camps in Poland, forcibly if necessary.”
“Your delicate boss would have the stomach for such a messy operation?” the other officer sniggered.
“Not by temperament, certainly,” Heydrich said. “I would think the Führer would have the wisdom to assign it to someone with balls, men like you or me. But one thing I can say for the Reichsführer SS is that he is more eager to obey and impress the Führer than the Führer’s mistress is.” They joined in a salacious laughter.
~~~
Kersten put down his knife and fork on his plate with the partially eaten schnitzel, rose as nonchalantly as his seething anger permitted, and went promptly to Himmler’s office. The way was so familiar to him by now that he could find it blindfolded. It’s a good thing, because Kersten’s mind was in such turmoil that he didn’t focus the least on where he was going.
As usual, Himmler had stretched out on the divan in anticipation. He was more than ready to surrender his slender body into Kersten’s strong and skillful hands. As for Kersten, however, he envisioned the gruesome parade to the hell in the east of what Hitler considered to be Dutch slaves, some of them friends Kersten knew. No smile of greeting from Kersten. None of the usual good-natured preparatory banter before the treatment.
Somehow, by sheer muscle memory, the distracted Kersten was able to manipulate Himmler’s body sufficiently to bring about the usual relief.
“You seem unusually glum today, Kersten,” Himmler said as he raised himself on one elbow from the divan.
Kersten shot straight to the point. He asked sternly, “Herr Reichsführer, what is the exact date that you plan to begin the deportation of the Dutch Jews?”
Himmler seemed taken aback, and then smiled. “I see that information travels fast in the Chancellery in spite of all our efforts at utmost secrecy.”
“I overheard Heydrich and some tub o’ lard of an officer discussing a potential attack on the Netherlands.”
“If the officer you so disrespectfully refer to was Hans Rauter, you overheard correctly. I’m considering making him head of the SS in Holland when the time comes.”
“That time comes...when?”
“The invasion and occupation will commence as a birthday gift to the Führer. I advise you to stick around Berlin and not return to The Hague in the immediate future.”
“On the 20th of April, then? You’ve got a very roundabout way of answering my simple question today.”
“A little patience, Kersten...The Führer is incensed at the stubborn insistence on neutrality by the Dutch and their refusal to come to Germany’s aid in the Great War. He wants to make them pay a special price.”
“Occupation of the country by Germany and Holland’s humiliation is not enough for your Führer, is that it? Didn’t your Führer give a stirring speech on the radio assuring the world that Germany would not only honor, but also safeguard, the neutrality of the Netherlands, Belgium, and Luxembourg? What’s happened to that promise?”
“Well, yes your memory serves you right, Kersten. But that was in 1937. Conditions change with the passage of time. A study of history will show that treaties are made to be broken. That is the case now.”
“This doesn’t speak well for German dependability and integrity, does it?”
“Victory in war will erase any memories of broken treaties and promises. I have been commanded to begin making preparations immediately for the SS to identify, round up, and transport what the Führer calls ‘irreconcilable’ Dutch to the eastern front for resettlement there.”
“An order for you to direct the whole operation? Good Lord! How large is this group of ‘irreconcilables’?”
“The plan is to resettle eight and half million in various stages. The first stage will be to relocate some three million Jews.”
“Three million!? I don’t understand it. What have the Dutch Jews ever done to Germany to deserve this? What have the Jews done except grow businesses that bring wealth to Holland?”
“He says that the Jews are always the first ones to form cells in resistance movements. They’ll do so in Holland, too. The Jews are like a rock in the stomach of Europe. It’s impossible to digest them…”
“So you have to spit them out? Is that it? Your Führer has credible evidence to that effect? Most Jews I have known in Holland are happy to mind their own business.”
“He has classified evidence of a Jewish conspiracy in Holland.”
“Which he has shared with you?”
“No, that’s why it’s called ‘classified’.”
“The Dutch Jews, relocated thousands of kilometers?? To do what, in heaven’s name?”
“To work in the labor camps we’ve begun building in Poland. The Jews are good tailors. The women are good at the sewing machine. They’ll make uniforms for our troops.”
“I see you wasted no time building camps in Poland. You must have something you don’t want the German people to know about them that you’d build them outside the country.”
Kersten was surprised with the anger in his voice. He knew he’d
better tone it down. He continued the therapy session with the characteristically Finnish sulk and silent treatment instead.
“And, Kersten, I almost forgot to mention this. I’ve also been informed by the Führer that I will be held personally responsible to make certain that many of the Dutch Jews being transferred to the east never reach their designated destination…or any destination. I’m to recruit local men with unbridled hatred for the Jews to form Einsatzgruppen to kidnap some of them. What they do with them after that is out of our hands.”
Kersten wasn’t sure he could believe what he’d just been told. He almost despaired completely.
“That sounds like an absolutely chickenshit mode of operating.”
Himmler smiled slyly, almost devilishly. “No, it’s a rather efficient mode of operating, isn’t it? Why should the SS reserve all the unpleasant dirty work for ourselves when there are ordinary civilians in both Germany and Poland who are happy to do it for us?”
Kersten could hardly contain his contempt and disgust. “Then I must conclude that your Führer is not envisioning an increase in the number of German troops in the future since he orders you to deliver fewer tailors and seamstresses to the camps?”
Himmler said nothing. He turned onto his side on the divan and gave Kersten a look of frustration bordering on total befuddlement. Was it befuddlement at what his therapist had just said? Or as Kersten hoped, at the essential illogic of the order handed down to him from on high?
~~~
After the session, Kersten made immediate contact with friends in the Dutch resistance. He felt a keen obligation to do something to help his adopted country. He instructed them to make contact with him by addressing letters to Himmler’s private mailbox. Kersten realized some would be puzzled by such a directive, but he had learned to trust Brandt to pass on mail addressed to him unopened. Kersten was careful not to inform the queen and prince yet, lest they do something impulsively, thereby alerting Hitler that the Dutch had been forewarned of an invasion.
In the following days, Himmler’s abdominal torture grew progressively more acute. In despair, he pleaded with Kersten to do everything he could to alleviate his suffering.
Then a strange thing occurred. For the first time in two years, Kersten’s treatments on Himmler stopped working. The fingers that had been able to banish Himmler’s pain were suddenly impotent to assuage it more than slightly.
Kersten knew that there were times when the state of the therapist’s own heart and mind could nullify his skill and render his care ineffectual. For the slightest instant, the thought occurred to him that the torture Himmler was suffering as a result of his inability to perform the usual miracle was some sort of inherent justice, that the man who had been directed to perpetrate so much anguish and terror on others now deserved to suffer mightily himself. Kersten asked himself if he was deliberately underperforming as Himmler’s therapist that day as a way of inflicting punishment. Yet, Kersten’s professional conscience, so deeply ingrained, made it his absolute, almost sacred, duty to give a suffering patient, whoever he was, the best and quickest relief he could unconditionally. “First do no harm.”
Besides, Kersten was almost certain that Himmler was not suffering from any organic source in his body.
“Has your magic deserted you, Kersten?” Himmler grimaced in pain. “For God’s sake, do something about this God damned pain of mine!”
“To advance, or even just survive, in your Führer’s Reich, you find it necessary to be thoroughly and devotedly obedient to his commands, do you not, Herr Reichsführer?”
“Kersten, you know very well I do,” Himmler answered grouchily. “Why are you asking me such questions at this particular time when you know the answer?”
“Well, the same goes for our therapist-patient relationship. If you want to advance in well-being, as I know you do, you’ll have to obey your therapist’s orders strictly…or find a new therapist.”
“Nonsense, Kersten. I’ll do what you ask if you promise doing so will bring back your power.”
“Well, then, I remind you that I warned you,” said Kersten. “Your duties are too great an ordeal for your nervous system to handle. Have you ever tried to put ten amps on a circuit made for six?”
“You are full of riddles today, Kersten,” Himmler said impatiently. “No, I haven’t because it would blow the fuse and sink us all into darkness.”
“Good. You’re following my logic.”
“Where are you headed with this electricity lesson?”
“Listen, this is important, Herr Reichsführer: You’ve told me of your ambitious plan to increase the number of the SS—what did you say, tenfold? I would think that that’s more than enough work and responsibility for one man. But now you have this insane order to organize the deportation of an entire Jewish population of a country.”
Kersten controlled himself and lowered his voice. “I know your Führer has a high estimation of your abilities. But does he think you’re some kind of superman? Look, renounce the order and focus on your original project of strengthening the SS and I guarantee that then I can cure your pain.”
Kersten couldn’t believe he was advising a fortifying of the hated SS. But under the circumstances, the alterative was worse.
Through his agony, Himmler rustled enough strength to say, almost in a sob, “Impossible! It’s an order from my Führer. I cannot possibly refuse it.”
“Then, it’s absolutely impossible for me to do anything about your pain,” Kersten said angrily. “It’s either follow my order, or the Führer’s.” At that, Kersten walked over to the sink to wash his hands. He put on his overcoat, picked up his familiar felt hat, and exited the office without a word, slamming the door behind him emphatically. The consequences be damned.
~~~
Before he was awake the next morning, Kersten’s telephone rang irately. It was Himmler’s voice, no more than a gasp, interspersed with sobs.
“Come, come quickly, Kersten. I can no longer get my breath.”
Accustomed as he was to seeing Himmler in agony, Kersten was amazed when he entered the office at the violence of his suffering that morning. “Try again, Kersten. Please…try again. Perhaps today your magic has returned.”
“I will try,” Kersten said. “But I am sure it will be useless.”
And it was at first. Kersten tried mightily to shove aside his resentment at the horror of the impending deportation.
Felix, let the resentment and anger go. This is a patient on the divan in front of you, just a patient, not a monster. For this treatment, he is not even your enemy. Do for him what you know well.
Kersten took a chair, brought it close to the divan, sat down, and bent over the tormented patient until their faces were almost touching. This time, he did not argue. He did not try to chastise. In a tone that was humble, affectionate, almost imploring, he said, “Herr Reichsführer, you know that I am your friend. I only want to help you. But listen to me. I beg of you: Put off this Dutch thing until later. You will soon be better, I promise. Your suffering is of nervous origin. Usually I can keep your nerves under control, except when too great and constant an anxiety eats into them like acid. For you, the acid is your unexamined discomfort about this matter of the Dutch. You were doing relatively fine, weren’t you, until the order to see to it that a significant number of Jews die on the journey? I’m not really convinced that you really want to do that. Find a way to disregard that order. If you do, you won’t feel this pain, I swear. Remember how effective the treatments were before this order was given to you? It can be like that again…if only you would go to your Führer and ask him to postpone the deportation until the war is won.”
Kersten was expecting pushback from Himmler. Instead, Himmler grabbed one of his hands convulsively. “Yes, yes, Kersten. I really believe you are right…But what am I going to say to the Führer? What in heaven’s name can I say?” He was almost sobbing.
It was all Kersten could do to downplay his hope. “It’s very simpl
e, Herr Reichsführer. Just tell him that you cannot fulfill both responsibilities at the same time. Remind him that neither can the Wehrmacht. If the rumors are true that he is preparing a plan to attack Moscow and Leningrad, this is no time to overtax Germany’s logistical capability by mass-moving people eastward across an entire continent at the same time. Mention the fact that this superhuman work threatens your health, and that if it continues, you cannot guarantee the completion of your first priority, to reorganize the SS.”
“Yes, Kersten, you are right. Napoleon discovered the same truth. The Führer intimidates me sometimes. But I fear this pain, and Germany’s possible defeat, even more.”
“Then, you have made up your mind? You won’t change your mind when you feel better? Because I warn you: If you get cold feet, I will not be able to help you.”
“You have the word of a German officer,” groaned Himmler. “Just give me the strength.”
Never had Kersten been so confident of success. The blood flowed freely from his wrists to his fingertips. Himmler found solace immediately in Kersten’s hand. “I think…yes, the pain is going away,” he uttered exultantly.
“Only because you have decided to talk to Hitler,” said Kersten. “You must do so at once; one never knows when the cramps will return.”
“I am going immediately,” Himmler promised. “But to you, it must always be Herr Hitler, or the Führer, not just Hitler.”
Feeling elated and particularly generous at the moment, Kersten replied, “Of course, Herr Reichsführer, it won’t happen again.”
Later that evening, Himmler telephoned Kersten again at the Kaiserhof. “The Führer is as generous as he is brilliant, Kersten. He is sympathetic to my poor health. I have it in writing. The deportation will be postponed indefinitely.”
“Indefinitely? That is wonderful news to a Dutchman,” Kersten said. “But your Führer did not agree with our warning about fighting on two fronts simultaneously?”
“He said not a word about it. He is supremely confident of victory on both fronts.”
Kersten wanted to ask Himmler whether he was as supremely confident of that as Hitler. But he had accomplished at least as much as he had hoped.
Accidental Saviors Page 15