The Kammersee Affair

by John Holt

  He looked down on the ground to the scattered files. He bent down and picked up the dossier marked Behr, and started to flip through the papers once more, slower this time. There wasn’t much of value, but there was much about Behr that reminded Hartman of himself. Behr was ruthless, ambitious, somebody who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. He threw the file back down onto the floor.

  He walked over to the small bureau near to his bunk. He picked up the photograph of his mother. For a long time he continued to stare at the photograph. Memories of all the years past, and of what might have been, filled his mind. Suddenly he could feel a tear trickle down his cheek. Hurriedly he brushed the tear away, and placed the photograph in the suitcase. He then shut the case, and checked his watch. The Americans had been gone a little under five hours, he calculated. They must be miles away by now.

  It was now safe to go, he reasoned. One more look around the room. Then, without further hesitation, he swept out into the corridor, and quickly walked to the exit staircase. As he reached the top of the stair, he slowed down. Cautiously, he took the last two or three steps, and carefully looked outside. He saw no one; he heard nothing. He moved away from the building, and started to walk along the pathway leading back toward Kammersee. He had to recover those four bars that he had dropped earlier.

  Once the bars had been retrieved, he turned around and quickened his pace back toward Toplitzsee, and then away. As he hurried along he vowed that one day he would return.

  * * *

  He had planned his actual escape a little while ago and knew precisely what he was going to do. He would drive to the border. It was one hundred and fifty kilometres. Should take no longer than four hours, he calculated. Once there he would abandon the car. He would make his way to Munich and then take a train back to Hamburg. He had already established a presence there, mixing with the local population. Many knew him very well. Not as Dietrich Hartman of course, but as Peter Weiss. Peter Weiss had already built up a relationship with neighbours, and local shopkeepers. They had never heard of Deitrich Hartman, but for the past six months Peter Weiss had established himself. His new neighbours, and friends, knew all about his business trips, and that he was often away for long periods. They never questioned his long absences. He had rented a small house at the edge of the town, near the park. There were very few neighbours. They were more than happy to keep an eye on his place, and were very happy to see him when he returned from one of his trips. He was a model citizen, and a well-liked member of the community.

  * * *

  Hartman began to quicken his pace, walking back in the direction of the village. His car was parked at the edge of the forest. He hoped that it was still there, and that the Americans had not seen it. He knew that he would probably get through the checkpoints that were to come, a lot easier as an SS officer, but the risk of being caught by an American patrol between the test centre and the German border was now quite high. He would prefer the Yanks to capture a German businessman, rather than an SS Major.

  He knew that the whole thing was considerably risky. He did not know what lay ahead. He did not know how far the Allies had reached. They may already be in Munich, or Hamburg. He did not know what authority still existed in Germany. Would he be able to get across the border? If he survived, and actually got to Munich, would he be able to take a train to Hamburg? Were the trains still running? If so, who controlled them?

  There were so many unknowns, so many areas where the risk of capture was high. He ran the risk of being picked up the Americans. But he also ran the risk of being picked up by the German authorities. An SS Officer out of uniform, masquerading as a civilian businessman, if discovered he would be charged with treason, and certainly executed. Either way, Americans or Germans, he was dead if they discovered him. He knew, however, that he had no choice. He could not stay in Austria. The local people knew him so well, and would love to have got him in their hands. They probably would lynch him, and enjoy doing it. Italy was out of the question. It was too far to travel through Austria, and it was now in the hands of the American troops. To get to Switzerland might be a little easier, but what kind of welcome would await him was uncertain. Furthermore, it was generally in the same direction that the Americans were taking to the southern part of Germany.

  No, risk, or not, he had to get into Germany, and on to Hamburg, where he had already established his new identity. He had to face all of the risks. Somehow he must get through them, and survive.

  As he emerged from the forest he could see that the car was where he had left it a few days earlier. He walked over to the car, opened the door, and checked the fuel situation. The tank was almost empty. Close by was the test centre’s fuel store. It was still intact. Either the Americans had not seen it, or they weren’t concerned. Hartman filled the tank, and loaded additional fuel tanks into the back of the car. He stood for a while, and looked around. He was ready. He got into the car, and drove away, heading toward Salzburg, and the border, and then on to Munich.

  As he drove along he noticed a number of German soldiers seated at the road-side. Their uniforms were tattered, dirty and torn. Several of the men were wounded. Many had make-shift dressings to cover wounds to their heads, arms, or legs. Their discarded weapons were all laid in a pile some distance away. At the front of the group, nearest the roadway, he noticed a white flag fluttering in the breeze.

  Hartman suddenly realised that they were waiting for an American patrol to come by, so that they could surrender. He slowed down, and looked at the men. Deserters, he thought, traitors. At one time, as an SS officer, he would have stopped and ordered them to pick up their weapons, and march. Or he would have had them shot. Now it was of little consequence. He expected that an American patrol would be along quite soon. At least this way the troopers might actually stay alive. He was tempted to wave encouragingly, but he didn’t. He merely put his foot down on the throttle, and sped by.

  At first there was very little traffic, and he made good time. Then as he approached Salzburg, the traffic gradually began to increase. There were several military vehicles, probably from Vienna, and now heading toward Germany. He could see that they were loaded with troops. He could see the look of defeat upon their faces. In the other direction there were row upon row of refugees, slowly walking toward freedom in the guise of the advancing Americans.

  At the German border he was greeted by scenes of chaos and disorder. The way forward was blocked, and nothing was moving. Cars were lined up waiting to enter the country. Many had been abandoned, their occupants slowly making their way on foot. Hartman collected his suitcase, and joined them. From the opposite direction hundreds of people were desperately trying to leave, taking heir meagre belongings with them. There were no signs of any authority controlling matters. There were no check points, and no police patrols. People everywhere, pushing, and shoving, crammed up against the border fencing. All were trying to get somewhere. Some were trying to get into the country, whilst others were trying to escape. Caught in the middle of the turmoil was Hartman. Suddenly the border fencing collapsed, and the people streamed across in all directions. Hartman had concluded stage one of his survival plan. He had reached Germany.

  * * *

  As Hartman walked across the main concourse of Munich Station, he did not notice the two men standing by the tobacco kiosk. As Hartman passed by, one of the men turned to the other. “I’ve just seen Hartman,” he said. “And he’s not in uniform.”

  “Where?” asked the other.

  The first man pointed in the direction Hartman had taken. “There he is, at the ticket counter. Do you see him?”

  Wolfgang Behr looked over in the direction indicated, straining to see. “Watch him Walter, I’ll go and check where he bought a ticket for.” Behr quickly walked over to the ticket counter, being careful that Hartman did not see him. A short time later he returned to his companion. “He’s going to Hamburg. Back to Konigstrasse, I’ll bet.”

  Steiner looked over toward the platf
orm area, trying to see where Hartman had gone. “Why Konigstrasse?” he asked.

  “That’s where Hartman was living when the war started,” replied Behr. “I don’t know the actual house number, but that was the street, definitely.”

  Are you sure it was Hartman. It didn’t look a bit like him to me,” said Steiner. “Anyway, he’s gone now.”

  Behr stared at the train, standing at the platform, steam billowing from the pistons at the side. “Yes, he’s gone, but he hasn’t seen the last of me.”

  * * *

  The train was fairly crowded. Hartman looked for a certain compartment, one with particular passengers, the non-talkative kind, in fact the quieter the better. He had no desire for long conversations.

  Then he found what he was looking for. It appeared to be ideally suitable. It was occupied by a middle-aged couple, with two teenage boys, their sons he imagined. The fifth seat was taken by an elderly lady who was already asleep.

  He pulled over the sliding door, and entered. “Excuse me,” he said. “Could I get there?” One of the teenage boys had their feet resting on to the empty seat.

  The middle-aged woman looked up. “Take your feet off there.” The boy’s mother, Hartman thought. She glared at the boy, and then she turned her face and looked straight at Hartman. “I’m terribly sorry about that,” she said. “What can you do? He’s not really a bad lad, only a bit willful.”

  Hartman made no comment. He merely brushed the seat with his newspaper. Then she looked back to her son. “I’ve told you about that before, haven’t I?” The middle-aged man continued to read; the elderly lady in the far corner continued to sleep. Quiet returned to the compartment once again.

  Hartman placed his bags on to the overhead rack. He sat down, and took up his newspaper. He looked at his watch. It was almost seven o’clock in the evening. He glanced out of the window. People were still rushing to board the train. It was already running late, and should be leaving quite soon now. Then there was a shriek from the station-master’s whistle; and a loud hiss of steam, followed by the thunderous clanking as the wheels began to turn.

  At last, they were on their way. Hartman checked his watch, seven fifteen. He now had ten hours before the train was due in Hamburg. He turned away from the window, and started to read his paper. It was full of glorious stories of military success by the German forces. Who writes this stuff, he wondered. If these stories were to be believed, the Allied armies had been totally routed, their air force wiped out, their navy sunk, and their soldiers dropping like flies. The Third Reich should have won the war months ago.

  He put the paper down. The journey would go much faster if he slept. He laid his head up against the back of the seat, and closed his eyes, and tried to sleep. He was restless, and the seat was not very comfortable. Sleep eluded him. He picked up a book that he had purchased at the station. It was a cheap novel; some kind of detective story. It was still a better read than the rubbish in the newspaper. It would also help to pass the time.

  “I see that things are going well on the Eastern front,” the middle aged man suddenly announced, as though he were an official spokesman.

  Hartman looked up from his book. This was all he needed. The man was looking directly at him. “Oh, is that right? That’s great news,” Hartman said, and quickly returned to his book.

  The man tried once more. “I also see that the Americans are being slaughtered in Italy.” Once more he looked across at Hartman. Hartman ignored him, and continued to read his book.

  Suddenly, the compartment door opened, and a uniformed man entered. “Tickets please,” he said. Hartman looked up. He reached inside his coat, and took out his ticket. The conductor made a small tear to the ticket, and handed it back. He then went to the middle aged man. Once he was satisfied that everyone had a valid ticket the inspector left the compartment, continuing on to the next. Hartman watched him as he left, and then returned to his book.

  A short time later the compartment door opened once again. Two SS officers entered the compartment. Hartman was sure that he recognised one of them. He held his book higher, and looked down, averting his gaze. “Your papers, please,” one of the officers said. The other remained silent, watching. At that moment Hartman wished he had his uniform on, and his insignia. He outranked both of these two officers.

  No, it was best that Hartman no longer existed. The present system will be finished with quite soon now, and these two will end up in an American prison somewhere. That’s not for me. He took out his identification papers and handed them over to the officer, without looking up.

  The officer examined the papers. He looked hard at Hartman. “Herr Weiss, don’t I know you from somewhere?” he asked.

  Hartman was startled, and hesitated, perhaps a little too long, trying to compose himself. He lifted his face. “I don’t think so, officer,” he responded calmly, his heart beating rapidly.

  The officer was not so easily put off. “Yes, yes. I’m sure I know you.” He moved very close to Hartman, and in a cold, calculated manner, he simply said, “We have met before, Herr Weiss. Of that I am absolutely certain. But your name was not Weiss.”

  “You are mistaken Captain,” Hartman said quite calmly now. “Incidentally, Captain, what is your full name, and serial number? Just for the record, you understand.”

  The officer was taken aback, and suddenly felt vulnerable, nervous. He tried to compose himself, and sound assertive. “I am Captain Klaus Unger, of the SS, serial number 455914,” he replied. “I am certain that we have met, Herr Weiss.”

  “I am equally certain that we have never met, Captain,” insisted Hartman. “Unless you have attended one of the high level business functions held at the Fuhrer’s headquarters in Berlin?” The SS Officer did not expect that. “Or maybe you have been included in major strategic talks with Herr Himmler? Or maybe you have been party to major conferences with Dr Goebbels, or Heydrich?” The Officer’s companion started to pull his friend away, apologising for such a disturbance, but Hartman was enjoying himself now. He continued. “As you can see, from my papers, I am an executive director with the Krupps Corporation.” He looked at the two officers. “You have heard of Krupps, haven’t you?” The two officers nervously agreed that they had indeed heard of Krupps, the largest arms manufacturer in the world.

  Hartman decided to go for the kill. “Perhaps you would care to look at these documents?” Hartman continued, handing over three sheets of paper. The officer nervously took hold of the documents. Hitler’s signature could be clearly seen at the bottom of the first of the documents. The second had been signed by Himmler, and bore the Reichstag stamp. Both documents referred to top-level business discussions concerning military equipment. The third document was a permit allowing free passage to the bearer anywhere within the Reich. It had been signed by Reichsmarshall Goering.

  The blood had drained from the first officer’s face. He glanced back at the photograph, and then looked back at Hartman. Then without further comment he hurriedly handed the papers back to Hartman. “Everything is in order, Herr Weiss,” he said nervously. “I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you sir, my mistake. Have a pleasant journey.” Then, without further comment, he quickly moved on to the next person, the middle aged man. When they had finished the inspection the officers went to the compartment door. One officer passed into the corridor. The other stopped at the door, and looked across at Hartman. He raised his right arm in salute. “Heil Hitler,” he said, and quickly followed his companion out of the compartment. Hartman was very pleased with himself. And he was very pleased with his documents. They were excellent, perfect forgeries. Money well spent. He knew then that he would have no further trouble with regard to identity papers in the future, none whatsoever.

  Suddenly the train shuddered to a stop. Hartman looked out of the window, but could see nothing. It was pitch black. Suddenly the lights in the carriage began to dim, and then fade completely. Hartman got up and walked into the corridor. There were several people milling
around. There in the mid of the crowd he could see Captain Unger. The SS officer stared back at Hartman, still unsure. But not willing to push things any further, he gave a cursory salute, turned and smartly walked away. Then he could hear someone shouting “Close all blackout curtains. Close the compartment curtains.” Hartman pushed his way through the crowd. “What is happening?” he asked.

  “There is an air raid in progress, about ten miles down the track,” replied the ticket inspector. “We’ll stay here until it is over. The journey will resume as soon as possible.” With that the Inspector moved on.

  * * *

  The train was almost four hours late arriving in Hamburg, mainly due to the delay caused by that air raid. At last the long tiring journey was over. He was nearly home, and was beginning to feel safe. He was free. He had done it.

  Hartman had already made his way to the carriage door, ready to descend as soon as the train came to a halt. He was anxious to be off of the train now. As he stood by the door he glanced out at the passing platform. He suddenly noticed somebody standing on the platform as the train slowly went by. It was only a fleeting glimpse, but he was sure that it was somebody that he recognised. He was sure that it was Jurgen from the Test Centre. What was he doing here? He certainly did not want to meet up with him. In fact he did not want to meet up with anyone who knew him as Hartman.

  He now needed to get away from the train more than ever. He wanted to be out of the station as quickly as possible. He had to get away before he was recognised and identified to the authorities. He pulled the window on the carriage door down, and cautiously peered out. He could see Jurgen perhaps twenty metres away. He was looking directly in Hartman’s direction. Slowly he started to walk toward Hartman’s position. Hartman hurriedly retreated back into the carriage. Before the train had come to a complete stop, he opened the door and jumped out on to the platform. He stumbled. He recovered his balance, and started to walk very quickly toward the ticket barrier. As he did so he wondered if Jurgen had seen him, and more importantly had he been recognised. He did not look round, but instinctively he could feel somebody watching him.