~~~
The next morning, Himmler sent word through Brandt for Kersten to report to him immediately at the Chancellery in Berlin. Brandt omitted any explanation or reason.
Kersten’s stays at Hartzwalde were becoming less frequent and of a shorter duration each time. It took increasing effort and patience on his part to interrupt his retreats from Berlin. The war had been raging for five years now. The nation was growing exhausted by the allied bombing raids every night. The carpet bombing of Hamburg the year before was a psychological blow to the whole German Volk. This was a reversal of the blitz of Britain of 1940 that they had been promised by Hitler would not occur. By the summer of 1944, however, seemingly endless streams of pitiful people left homeless by the bombings paraded through the ruins of former towns and villages—not Poles, or Jews being marched from camp to camp this time, but fellow Germans—following horse-drawn carts containing the meager belongings they had left, humiliated and reduced to the status of paupers. Their aim was to escape as far to the west away from the Russians. Despite routine assurances to the contrary emanating from Göbbels’ propaganda office, the refugees knew the Russians were advancing at a furious pace to the German-Poland border in the east.
When Kersten arrived at the Chancellery, Brandt said nothing. Rather, his anxious face served as a mute advance warning to Kersten to be ready to duck his head and take cover—figuratively, Kersten hoped. Kersten nodded that he understood, but had no idea of what might be annoying Brandt’s boss. Brandt didn’t look as though he wanted to say more.
The source of Himmler’s present ill humor could be anything at all. In recent months—in the entirety of the past year, in fact—Himmler’s emotional fuse had been unusually short. The occasions of his uncontrolled fits of rage and vicious verbal assaults on anybody who happened to be in his vicinity were increasingly frequent. Brandt told Kersten recently that if there is no one in the office with him, Himmler railed loudly at the air as though it were wholly responsible for whatever blunder had set him off. Predictably, in the aftermath of each emotional explosion came Himmler’s familiar inevitable stomach cramps.
Kersten stood a little uneasily behind the door to Himmler’s office and knocked. There was no answer. Brandt, however, gave him the signal to open the door and go in anyway. He found Himmler lying on his back on the divan, his eyes covered by a blindfold that was used to help one sleep by blocking out light on summer nights when the sun was late in descending.
“Herr Reichsführer, Brandt called me to say you wanted me to see you today.”
Himmler remained stonily silent on the divan. Kersten glanced at his chest to make sure he was breathing.
Then, without warning or so much as a “good morning,” Himmler tore off the blindfold violently and exploded immediately into an angry tirade. Kersten had witnessed Himmler aim his outsized anger at others, especially underlings whose performance of duties was not up to his standards. Himmler’s anger that day was directed at him.
Himmler opened with an indignant question. “Have you listened to the radio this morning, Kersten?”
“No, there isn’t one in my car.” But Kersten knew that Himmler wasn’t asking for information.
“You Finns really are a shitty bunch of turncoats. I’d like to know what the Russians paid those bastards, Mannerheim and Ryti, to get them to sell out.”
“Sell out? I don’t honestly know what you are talking about.”
“Don’t expect me to believe that you haven’t heard from all your contacts back in Finland. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”
“No, I haven’t. Hear what, exactly?”
“You spineless, traitorous Finns negotiated a separate peace with Stalin behind our backs. Cowards! We had a job to complete jointly. Now you Finns have left the job undone and expect us to finish it. The ingrates!”
Himmler sat up on the divan.
Kersten surmised that any effort at trying to interpret to him the Finnish logic for pulling out of the cobelligerence agreement with Germany would only add fuel to the flames of Himmler’s ire. But whenever Finland was being maligned, Kersten felt it as an attack on his own person. He couldn’t stop himself from saying something.
“Honestly, I didn’t know about yesterday’s events. But I do know that since the German disaster at Stalingrad, there’s been thought given in Finland to cutting our losses and going it alone against the Russians while they are preoccupied with pursuing Germans and pushing them back west of the Vistula.”
“A minor setback, and your leaders switch sides? That’s textbook chickenshit. What happened to the vow to be ‘brothers-in-arms,’ as you Finns euphemistically call our agreement?”
“I’ve reminded you before, and I’ll jog your memory one more time.” Kersten was gritting his teeth now. “Once our joint forces succeeded in pushing the enemy back to their territory as defined by the border that existed from 1917 to 1939, the Finns had fulfilled their part of the agreement.”
“Not only do you pull out of the agreement, but you, in essence, declare war on us as well?” Himmler was trembling with rage. “My profound regret is that I didn’t have Mannerheim and Ryti and the whole gutless bunch of them arrested when we were in Finland in 1942. And hung upside down by their balls, for that matter!”
Now it was Kersten who was growing impassioned. He tried to control the volume and intensity of his voice. “Such schoolyard bullying conduct seems to be the Nazis’ default strategy.”
“By the terms of this insane separate peace with the Russians, you Finns have been ordered by the Russians to empty your country of all German forces. Aren’t you at least minimally humiliated by that? Forced by Ivan to run his errands and muck the shitty barn for him? Kersten, I warn you: You won’t be able to turn on us and try to rout us out of your country without our exacting a bloody price.”
Kersten resignedly let Himmler rant and rave. He didn’t answer this time. Instead, he thought of his own situation should it really be true that Finland had withdrawn from the agreement with Germany. Kersten was relieved in a way that the awkward “brothers-in-arms” arrangement with this conquest-crazed country was off. It was becoming clearer with each passing day that Hitler’s goal had been to totally annihilate the populations of Moscow, Leningrad and Stalingrad so they wouldn’t have all those hungry Russian mouths to feed. As bitter as the Finnish enmity was toward the Russians, they wanted no part of any such barbaric murder of civilians.
But he was landlocked and isolated in what was now an enemy country. If he didn’t act decisively, and soon, his own fate would be inextricably intertwined with that of Himmler. When Germany would have to face the repercussions of this war, Himmler would end up going down with the Nazis. Kersten had been saving others from the Nazis; now in a bitterly ironic twist, he himself was going to need to be rescued.
Once Himmler reached the end of his rant, he put his hands on his stomach and started to rub it ferociously. “You, why are you just sitting there like a bump on a log? Do something, for Christ’s sake. Can’t you see that I am in pain?” It was not Himmler’s usual polite request.
Kersten set to work to relieve his patient’s torment. It didn’t take long for the magic, which had first helped Himmler in the first therapy session back in 1939, to disseminate throughout his body. Kersten’s technique had its usual effect. Himmler felt his nerves relax. His breathing became more easy. His pain gave way and finally seemed to recede completely. He was lost in thought about the man who was treating him.
Kersten belongs to a nation of lily-livered traitors. Kersten’s an exception, though. What a telling difference between this doctor, who treats me like no one else, and the flock of cowardly sheep who run his country. For five years, he’s been my only friend, my sole confidant. Finland might be proving to be base and cowardly and totally undependable, but Kersten remains my healer, my friend. God help the man who dares to harm a single hair on his head.
“How was your drive to Berlin?” Himmler asked rather contri
tely, a question Kersten couldn’t remember his ever asking before.
Kersten, too, had calmed down after Himmler’s angry barrage. “I had a very good drive, thank you. When I left Hartzwalde, at least I was still a free man.”
Himmler started up in his bed, as though struck with a whip.
“Do you doubt my goodwill?” he asked. “Kersten, I know I’ve just given you a tongue-lashing. I apologize. You’re in Germany; Mannerheim and Ryti are in Finland. We expected so much more from them. But I cannot blame you for their piss-headed decisions. Please accept my apologies.”
“I do, Herr Reichsführer.”
Himmler’s face lit up with gratitude like that of a little boy who’d been caught cursing by his parents, but then spared the bar of soap in the mouth.
“But I am sure you realize that given the new circumstances between our countries, I am a citizen of a nation now opposed to yours. I no longer have the right to be treating you.”
“Nonsense, Kersten. Politics have never come between us before, and they never will. Why should we let the matter of our two countries being in a state of war with each other affect our relationship?”
“I appreciate that. The Finnish legation here in Berlin, however, might have a differing opinion, however. And, I think there are some here, like Kaltenbrunner, of course, who feel differently as well?”
“Kaltenbrunner? Neither that overly-ambitious bootlicker, nor anyone else, will be allowed to lift a finger against you. I will see to it personally.”
Himmler seemed to have simmered down completely. For the time being, he had forgotten Germany’s humiliation at being rebuffed by a much smaller, less powerful nation. Kersten took the risk once again of seizing what may be an opportunity.
“Since you promise that things between at least you and me will remain the same, I am going to ask you for a favor.”
“More Jews again?”
“No, not this time. I’m thinking rather of the two or three hundred Finnish nationals living and working here in Germany. They all have families. Some have even been employed in the offices of Nazi personnel. They are now stranded in what circumstances have rendered officially a hostile country. They have worked hard and honestly here. I ask that you don’t arrest or persecute them, or do what you can to prevent others in the party from doing anything to harm them.”
“The Führer will probably be angrier than a taunted bull that the Finns have made this about-face. But I also know that he’s too preoccupied with keeping the Americans and British at bay in the west, and doing his damnedest to stop the criminal advance of the Russian rapists from the east. It shouldn’t take much to convince him to leave the Finnish civilians in Germany alone. He can’t be bothered with what he’d consider a trivial matter in the scope of things. I’m sure I can persuade him to grant them permission to return to their homeland if they wish. I’ll mention it to him when the moment is right. You can imagine he’s not himself these days.”
Kersten recalled the prescient report on Hitler’s health Himmler had shown him and Schellenberg several years ago, and their attempt to warn Himmler.
“I am most indebted to you, Herr Reichsführer.”
Kersten shook Himmler’s hand and turned around to leave the office. Before Kersten was out the door, Himmler was to have the last word.
“At least for once, Kersten, you’re not asking for the release of more Jews. I find that utterly refreshing.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Hartzwalde: August 24, 1944
Once again, Kersten received an early morning telephone call from Himmler’s lieutenant Brandt. Himmler was back at his headquarters and was sick as a result of difficult meetings of Hitler’s inner circle. Brandt said that Himmler had a desperate need for Kersten’s services as soon as possible.
“You can imagine, I’m sure, how he is after being in a closed room with a raging Führer and the fawning Göbbels, Göring and Bormann,” Brandt added.
Kersten called his driver, Markus and ordered the car for three o’clock. Markus was a Jehovah’s Witness he had hired in 1939 so that the Nazis could not deport him the way they had so many others of his people. Markus knew the route to Berlin like the back of his hand, for he had driven it umpteen times. He knew every street and turn in Oranienburg, the only town of any size they had to go through. It was there they often caught sight of the Sachsenhausen camp in the distance, not far from the SS training facility.
As they were passing the camp one day several months prior, Markus remarked, “A reeducation camp is what I hear it is, Sir.”
Kersten understood that Markus was no fool.
“Yes, so they say,” Kersten replied in a tone that Markus recognized as pure Kerstian sarcasm, “I’m sure they employ the most modern pedagogical methods.”
On this blistering hot August afternoon, Markus had just opened the door for Kersten when they heard the sound of a motor from around the bend in the private road that led to the highway. As the vehicle came around the bend, they saw a military motorcycle coming toward them at top speed, creating a cloud of dust. The SS soldier, covered with sweat and road dust, stopped at Kersten’s feet. He leapt from the motorcycle with deliberate haste and almost comical formality, and handed Kersten a letter.
“From Colonel Schellenberg, Sir,” the soldier said. “It’s very urgent.”
Kersten dug for a key from his pocket and used it as a letter opener. As he opened the sheet of official SS stationary, another letter, just a small tightly folded note, really, fell to the ground. Kersten was intent on reading Schellenberg’s letter, so that he didn’t notice the second piece of paper on the ground. If the SS soldier saw it, he gave no indication that he had.
The soldier gave a formal salute, got back on his cycle and exited the grounds the way he came, only with less speed. Kersten still felt uneasy whenever he was saluted. He had always maintained that he was a civilian employed by Himmler, but not a member of the German military at all, certainly not the SS. Never did he repeat the “Heil, Hitler” mantra. In fact, Kersten had observed a noticeable reduction in the frequency of the ritual except by those most eager to please their superiors or maintain the illusion that things were the same as they had been in 1939.
Kersten began to read Schellenberg’s letter. At first, Kersten thought the soldier had delivered it in error to the wrong recipient. The first few paragraphs seemed to be referring to official matters well beyond Kersten’s purview, and written in language that was almost gibberish. Embedded in the middle of the letter, however, was a paragraph that most definitely was addressed to him. From the first words of the paragraph, Kersten felt a surge of adrenaline rush through his body.
“Beware, Doctor...Kaltenbrunner has made plans to assassinate you. I’ll explain some other time how I came upon this information, but I believe it can be assumed to be true. He suspects you of having drugged Himmler so that he signed the release form for the two thousand Jews from Theresienstadt and their secret transfer to Switzerland. Be on high alert. The danger is imminent. Kaltenbrunner has vowed to eliminate you in spite of Himmler.”
Then Schellenberg’s letter returned in the next paragraphs to matters with which Kersten was totally unfamiliar. Kersten breathed rapidly and shook his head as if stunned by a blow. Then Markus picked up the folded piece of paper from the ground and handed it to a clearly distracted Kersten. Kersten leaned on the car and read the handwritten note.
“Don’t take your usual route back to Berlin through Oranienburg. Take the route through Templin. You risk death if you travel your customary route.”
Kersten returned to the house and took from the bottom drawer of his bedroom dresser a revolver that Himmler had given him special permission to carry. It had lain in the drawer ever since. He checked to see that there were bullets in the magazine, and then put the handgun in the pocket of his overcoat.
He paused to consider the letter and note. Should he take Schellenberg’s advice? How could he be sure this wasn’t a ruse, a trap, set u
p by Kaltenbrunner himself? Kersten and Schellenberg formed an unspoken alliance, to be sure, and they had partnered to manipulate Himmler into trying to encourage Hitler to resign because of declining health and name a successor. But he had never seen Schellenberg’s handwriting to verify if the note enclosed with the official-looking missive was actually in Schellenberg’s hand or not. The only true friend he knew of those around Himmler was Brandt. Brandt had undoubtedly seen Schellenberg’s handwriting on more than one occasion. But there was no time now to take the note and show it to Brandt.
Kersten wiped the perspiration from his brow with one hand. With the other, he checked to make sure the revolver was in the pocket of his overcoat. Markus stood waiting before him, his left hand on the handle to the passenger door of the Mercedes.
Stay calm, Felix. You must think clearly…No, you must listen to your gut.
His mind reviewed in a flash his various encounters with Kaltenbrunner, his one sworn enemy within the Nazi ranks, the one who perceived him as a deadly cancer within the Chancellery with exclusive access to the Reichsführer that he himself coveted. Now political circumstances had rendered Kersten a leprous pariah from a nation that, in Kaltenbrunner’s interpretation, had turned against Germany.
Kersten’s gut signaled an immediate decision. He went back out to the driveway and stepped into the back of the car.
“Let’s go,” he told Markus as casually as he could, “but not through Oranienburg today, OK? Let’s take the Templin route. I feel like a change today.” Markus knew to obey and not object to a slightly longer route.
~~~
Kersten didn’t read his book or write notes to himself in the back seat as he usually did on the drive to Berlin. Instead, he scanned the horizon and visually inspected the hedgerows lining the road for any signs of snipers or SS men preparing to launch an ambush. The children of local farmers rode their bicycles on the side of the road and waved as the Mercedes passed. Kersten waved back, just as farmers on their carts had back in Estonia when he and his brothers had waved to them from the side of the stony road. He was relieved that these towheaded children had not been co-opted by Kaltenbrunner to pull out hidden weapons and spray the vehicle with bullets. That wouldn’t have been beneath Kaltenbrunner.
Accidental Saviors Page 24