8 November 1944
Five o’clock in the morning is not the best time to alight from a train into the cold blackness of a late autumn morning, especially when it is raining and a numbing wind is blowing from the north-east.
Schonewille was glad he had finally reached Berlin, but he would have preferred to be on the other side of the city and on his way home. His head ached and he felt dirty. The rank smell of stale sweat, cigarette smoke and over-cooked cabbage had permeated his clothing till he thought he would vomit. He shook his head in frustration and immediately regretted the action. The migraine sent flashing messages of pain through his temples and he was forced to climb back into the train’s compartment and sit down until the throbbing had subsided somewhat.
He knew there would be no car to meet him. He was almost five hours late from his already overdue schedule. The train trip back from Auschwitz had been a nightmare.
Germany’s railroad system was in such chaos that to get anywhere was a hit-and-miss affair. One of the main targets of the allied bombing was the Third Reich’s transport and communications systems and the railways were slowly being pulverised under the incessant depredations of the giant bombers that roamed the skies over occupied Europe and Germany almost without pause. Time and again on his trip back from Poland the train was shunted onto sidings to make way for supply and munitions trains heading eastwards, or was re-routed onto another track to bypass damaged sections of line.
To make matters worse, he had picked up a stomach bug and had spent much of his time in the carriage’s smelly toilet. His anus stung from the constant use and inadequate cleansing abilities of the coarse paper provided by the Reichsbahn. The desire for a bath was all-encompassing, but he knew that he first had to deliver his papers to Heger at the Reichsbank. A spasm grabbed at his bowels and he swore. He called over a porter, an elderly man with only one arm, and ordered him to carry his overnight bag. The briefcase he kept hold of himself.
The man followed him to the station’s toilets and stood outside the cubicle, respectfully waiting. Here at least the paper was softer, but the pain was still irritating and sharp.
With three hours to kill until he could gain entry to the bank. He ordered the porter to take him to the station master’s office. There he brusquely told the man in charge that he intended using his office for a few hours. The man was only the night station master and since he was clocking off in half-an-hour saw no reason to argue the point. At any rate nobody but a fool would say no to an SS lieutenant-colonel, especially one who was obviously in such a bad temper.
Schonewille had been promoted to Obersturmbannführer the previous week and the method of promotion had taken away much of the joy this advancement should have engendered. The fact was that his new rank was a gift from the mysterious third man.
On 4 November Schonewille had been contacted by Heger who informed him that a meeting with this mysterious third party had been arranged for the following day. For Schonewille this was none too soon. He had already placed the first sums of money in the spurious account, the proceeds of his visit to the Mauthausen concentration camp in southern Germany.
The meeting was arranged to be at the Reichsbank, a factor Schonewille at first found very strange. But, after a moment’s thought, he realised that at the bank there would be much more chance of keeping the meeting free of prying eyes and official records. Such an encounter at an SS establishment would mean at best the recognition and memory of personnel and at worst official entries in some duty book.
However, before this meeting actually took place he was ordered to visit another camp. So, on the fifth he boarded a train heading for the south-east, a 500-kilometre journey that normally would have taken no more than ten or eleven hours. It took almost twice that time. He was forced to switch trains at Breslau and then two hours later his train was switched onto a siding to let a munitions train through. They remained stationary for three hours while military traffic passed by, including a goods train hauling fifteen flatcars with their valuable load of King Tiger tanks.
On his trips to Auschwitz, Schonewille never went directly to either of the two main camps that made up part of the vast complex. At any rate, passenger and goods trains seldom stopped at one of the sidings directly outside. Those were generally only for the cattle trucks carrying their human cargo of misery.
The main rail line carrying Schonewille came from Katowice via Breslau and Berlin. A few miles north of the camps this line was joined by two other routes, one from the north-east, originating from Warsaw and passing through Lubin and Radom, and one from the east which came from Cracow.
As soon as his train crossed the Vistula River, Schonewille began to pack the papers he had been perusing away into his briefcase and put on his leather overcoat. A few minutes later he stepped out onto the platform of Auschwitz station.
As he suspected, there was no one there to meet him, but he managed to cadge a lift with another passenger, an industrial chemist working at the nearby IG Faben plant who dropped him off at a small inn just outside Auschwitz town. He was known here and the owner, a German World War One veteran who had been badly gassed at the Somme, greeted him effusively. The man had migrated to Poland in 1940 as part of the German lebensraum, or living space policy, which had been part of Hitler’s basic tenet ever since he penned Mein Kampf while in prison in 1923.
Schonewille returned the greeting curtly. He was tired and bad tempered. He asked to use the phone and rang the camp. His temper did not improve when he learned that Kommandant Rudolf Höss was not available, nor was his aide.
The functionary at the other end of the line apologetically explained that they were both attending to some problems and would be back later. He did not elaborate. Since it was past five o’clock, he suggested Schonewille freshen up and have an early dinner and then wait for the kommandant’s call. He took the advice and then checked with the railway station on when the next train would leave for Berlin. The one he had originally planned to use had long since gone. To his annoyance he learned there was none scheduled until 1.15pm the next day. Therefore, there was no need to visit the camp before morning, although he would have preferred to get the visit over and done with. He also contacted his office to tell them of the delay.
The phone eventually rang just after nine o’clock. The same functionary relayed a message that Kommandant Höss was very weary and would see him at 1000 hours the next morning.
By this time Schonewille did not mind in the least. He had partaken of a reasonable meal and had found a pleasant enough drinking companion, a Waffen SS captain who, after being severely wounded in the battle for the Kursk salient, had volunteered for work with one of the SS commando units that roamed the east slaughtering any ethnic group the Reich deemed to be inferior.
After much swapping of stories and much vodka and schnapps they had parted as friends, the way drunks usually do, with laughter, elaborate gestures and solicitous comments, each bidding the other “Schlafen sie gut”. Surprisingly, his hangover in the morning was slight, but he did feel exceedingly seedy. Consequently, breakfast was light, with once slice of bread and three cups of coffee. By the time his VW Kübelwagen arrived his hangover had gone, though the seediness remained.
It was raining, a slight drizzle emanating from a grey leaden sky. The water drops were mixed with a light soot and the air had the pungent odour of burning. The ovens were working full blast as usual.
They crossed over the River Sala and turned left and then almost immediately turned right but, to his surprise instead of turning left again down the road that would have taken him to the Auschwitz main camp, or Auschwitz 1 as it was officially known, the Volkswagen continued straight on towards the huge Birkenau camp, or Auschwitz 2.
Schonewille disliked this complex. Strangely, he did not have any feelings one way or another about camp one or the many other camps he visited on his rounds. Here, Birkenau’s main function was death. It was in this place that the gas chambers and ovens were situated and it was here that Sophia would have ended if she had boarded one of the notorious cattle-trains that carried those Jews to the camp. It had been relatively easy to create papers to take her from the holding centre, but from here it would have been impossible.
In a strange unfathomable way this incredibly evil charnel house touched at something buried deep in a corner of his soul and he always left it feeling depressed and slightly nauseous. Maybe it was the smell, though all the camps had an odour and he always made sure that he put on plenty of cologne before entering their confines. Or maybe it was the constant falling soot and ash that one SS officer had called the black winter of death. He did not know, nor did he try to analyse the feeling. To do so would have lifted the lid, ever so slightly, on his conscience.
They drove between the huts of the main SS barracks and turned left down a short, narrow, well-maintained road. On either side were more huts. These were the administration buildings and the office of the camp commandant. The Kübelwagen slowed down and finally halted in front of a path leading to one of the buildings. Although it had stopped raining Schonewille hurried to the front door and let himself in. The room was well-lit with three empty desks and their accompanying chairs arranged in an L formation. A shortish, thick-set sergeant with the pock-marked residue of a long-gone acne scaring his face was in the act of putting on an overcoat. He straightened at Schonewille’s entrance and immediately saluted, at the same time offering a lukewarm smile whose brilliance was dimmed further by the NCO’s lack of front teeth.
“Wo ist der Kommandant?” Schonewille demanded curtly, deigning himself to return the salute.
The man shook his head. “Ich weiss nicht, Herr Obersturmbannführer.”
Just then a door on the far side of the room opened and an SS captain walked in, calling a greeting, before stopping and saluting.
“My dear Obersturmbannführer, let me congratulate you on your new rank. A well-deserved promotion, no doubt.”
Schonewille had met the other man at a previous visit to the camp though he had no feeling about him one way or another. His greeting therefore was curt.
“Thank you, Hauptsturmführer Eicke. Now, where is the Kommandant? I want to get my business completed and be back on my way to Berlin as soon as possible. I have an important meeting there,” he added to reinforce his wish to leave as soon as possible.
The younger man shook his head. “I am sorry, Herr Obersturmbannführer. The Kommandant had to go to the Farben plant again early this morning. A problem with the standard of prisoners they have recently received. He just rang through to give his apologies. He has been delayed and it may be several hours before he returns.” Eicke shook his head apologetically and went on. “But, no matter. I have full authority to attend to the matter at hand and rest assured you will find all the paperwork in order.”
In reality Schonewille did not care who handed him the paperwork. He had little regard for Kommandant Höss and found his ponderous enthusiasm and constant acclamations of what a fine job he was doing both unnecessary and boring.
He nodded his head in agreement and the SS captain ushered him into another room before motioning him to sit in a chair in front of a large ornate desk. On the far wall underneath a portrait of Hitler was a large free-standing safe, and it was to this that Eicke crossed.
He chatted on while opening the safe and marshalling the required documents. Schonewille hardly responded. In reality he hardly heard what the man was saying, his thoughts were far away. Irritably he snapped, “Das ist unglaublich. I expected the papers to be ready and waiting.”
Eicke stopped talking and looked over enquiringly. He was a good-looking man with soft, boyish features and blue eyes. His close-cropped blonde hair heightened rather than detracted from his rather effeminate looks while his gestures and hand movements were those of an artist rather than a soldier.
He shrugged his shoulders and lifted both palms upwards in a gesture of supplication. He was unsure of Schonewille and did not know how to pander to the older man’s obvious irritation.
He spoke softly, but with an aggrieved tone. “Mein Freund. The papers are in order. Here they are. I have not kept you waiting and there is really no hurry. The next train for Berlin does not leave for almost three hours. At any rate I have a treat for you. No, it is a surprise that will keep,” he went on hurriedly as Schonewille raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth to speak.
Schonewille did not apologise, but nodded his head in agreement and held out his hands for the papers. There was silence for a few minutes as he studied the figures. The total was impressive and included four kilograms of gold. It amounted to a lot of teeth. Schonewille commented on the haul.
Eicke explained proudly that everybody had been working overtime and for the month of October just over 33,000 people had been exterminated. Schonewille asked where the dead had originated from.
“Theresienstadt, Herr Obersturmbannführer.”
Schonewille nodded his head. He had only been to the camp once. He smiled in memory. Theresienstadt had been formed as part of an elaborate hoax. It was designed as a holding camp for Jews and was used as a showpiece for observers from the neutral countries and the Red Cross. In fact a propaganda film was even made about the supposedly wonderful conditions at the camp and used to counteract the growing claims around the world that the concentration camps were being used to exterminate the Jews. Now with the Reich’s frontiers crumbling, this Czech camp was being denuded of all its inhabitants, who were being railed to Auschwitz and herded straight into the gas chambers.
After checking the figures and signing the appropriate forms, Schonewille approved the transportation of the loot and placed the papers in his attaché case.
“Gut, gut, alles in ordnung,” he nodded his head, giving the captain a thin smile.
Eicke returned the smile a trifle nervously, paused for a moment and then as if making up his mind about something slid open a drawer from the desk and extracted a thick folded piece of paper. He paused again and then pushed it across the desk. The other took the package with a questioning look.
It was actually pale green blotting paper folded to create a small oblong parcel some twelve centimetres by eight centimetres. He unfolded the paper to reveal five cut diamonds. Not one was smaller than two carats and one, a superb stone which, despite the poor backdrop and indifferent light, sparkled with a brilliant intensity, was probably just over three carats.
Schonewille looked up questioningly and Eicke with no expression on his face explained how they had been found in the anus of a dead Jewess and the Kommandant had left them for the SS colonel. The word gift was not mentioned.
Schonewille cursed inwardly. There was no doubt it was a bribe, but for what? With Höss not present, no such request could be forthcoming, so he decided to accept the gift. Nevertheless, he protected himself.
“Wonderful. They will help the Reich’s war effort. Better than on some fat Jewess, eh? I will see they are passed onto the Reichsbank. Thank the Kommandant for his diligence.” He placed the package in his tunic pocket and stood up. To change the subject he said, “Now, what about this surprise?”
Eicke nodded his head and motioned for Schonewille to follow. They left the building and passed through a number of electrified fences into the main part of the camp. They were joined by two guards armed with machine pistols. As they walked down a road between the various camps and their wooden huts he suddenly heard a muffled sound, a moaning wail heightening in intensity. He felt the hairs on his neck start to rise and after a moment asked what the noise was. Eicke answered disinterestedly. One of the guards even went so far as to give a smirk.
“Oh, that must be a gassing at crematorium five. As you know number four was put out of action by some Sonderkommando Jews during the mass escape attempt on the seventh of October. Now we’re too far away to hear anything from the other gas chambers, so it must be number five.”
As they continued to walk towards the source of the noise Schonewille began to sweat. Eicke turned and they were let through a gate into one of the men’s camps. The smell that wafted through the buildings was rank. A combination of sweat, disease and excrement, which had combined to give a powerful all pervading odour that hung about the camp like a poisonous cloud. Schonewille knew he would have to have his uniform carefully washed to get rid of the smell, which was already permeating the fabric.
They passed between two huts to a cleared area. There were five men standing to attention. Two guards, one holding a leashed Alsatian and three emaciated skeletons dressed in the striped remnants of the prisoner’s uniform. Eicke turned his head with an indulgent smile.
“There you are, Herr Obersturmbannführer. I know how you like to use your automatic on certain prisoners. Well, I have personally selected three political prisoners for you.” He surveyed the three wrecks in disgust and said vehemently. “Useless bourgeois pigs.”
Schonewille stood for a moment uncertain what to do. He was not in the mood for any killing. The noise of those choking in the nearby gas chamber had unnerved him and although it had now ended, he wanted to leave as quickly as possible. He turned away, shaking his head. Then one of the prisoners spoke in a thin quavering voice. “Friedrich. Mein Gott, is that you Friedrich?”
Schonewille swung round and peered at the man. He looked searchingly into his face, but did not recognise him, something which in the circumstances was not surprising. The man was thin and stooped with eyes sunk deep into his skull. The skin was yellow and blotchy with two festering sores under his left eye. His age was indeterminate.
“Friedrich, Friedrich Schonewille, is it you?” the prisoner repeated. His uncertainty caused his voice to drop to a whisper and a dribble of yellow saliva appeared on his lips. In the background Eicke laughed.
“He seems to know you, Herr Obersturmbannführer.”
Schonewille ignored him, but the prisoner heard Eicke’s words and said pleadingly, “Danke Gott. It is you Friedrich. It’s your old friend, Carl Wilmersdorf.”
With those words the prisoner sealed his own death warrant. Wilmersdorf had been a friend of the family, or rather a friend of Schonewille’s mother. He had been a prominent banker and had even served for four years in the Reichstag in the days of the old Weimer Republic. Though married with five children, he had a reputation as a ladies man. He had taken it upon himself to act as Inger Schonewille’s financial adviser and confidant after her divorce, and she soon repaid him by becoming his mistress.
Young Friedrich had found them one afternoon in his mother’s bedroom. The sight and sounds of his mother moaning under the thrusting form of the banker was too much for the boy and he had nursed an abiding hatred of the man ever since. Over the years Wilmersdorf had tried to ingratiate himself into the lad’s affections, but to no avail. Finally, to ease the situation, his mother refused to allow Wilmersdorf in the house if young Friedrich was home or expected for a visit.
Schonewille did not answer the man. He extracted the Walther and quickly screwed the silencer onto the barrel. Cocking the weapon, he held it at arm’s length until the snout of the silencer was only inches away from the man’s left temple. A moment’s fear and panic showed in the banker’s eyes and then with a sigh he said, “Danke Friedrich, you are going to help me escape from hell, you…”
The words were cut short as Schonewille pulled the trigger. There was a small cough from the Walther and the right side of Wilmersdorf’s head erupted as the heavy-calibre nine-millimetre bullet blew his brains out. The man standing next to him was spattered with blood, brain tissue and bits of bone, though he hardly flinched. The body fell to the ground, twitched for a second and then was still.
Still holding the smoking automatic, Schonewille swung around and snapped to Eicke, “Let us leave. You can have the rest to yourself.”
As he strode away Eicke motioned to one of the guards who nonchalantly lifted the barrel of his machine pistol and emptied the entire thirty-two-round clip into the two remaining prisoners. Eicke hurried after Schonewille. He caught up and was about to say something, but the look on the older man’s face made him stop.
They walked in silence back to the office of the camp Kommandant and it was only when they were inside that Schonewille busied himself with unscrewing the silencer and putting it and the weapon away in their respective holsters.
With a curt Dankeschön, Schonewille gathered up his briefcase and left the office, ignoring the salute of the sergeant with the pock-marked face.
Once back in the hotel Schonewille stripped, had a bath and washed his hair. As usual he had brought a spare uniform with him and he put it on, thankful of its clean smell. Unfortunately his cap still carried the odour of the camp and since he did not carry a spare there was nothing he could do about it.
The car that had delivered him back to the hotel was still waiting and after checking out he was driven to the station. Surprisingly, the train was on time. It took exactly sixteen hours before the exhausted and irritable SS leutnant-colonel alighted onto the Berlin platform.
The station master’s office was warm and the leather armchair in the corner of the room though old and cracked was supple and comfortable. He was left alone. The day shift station master did not enter the office and although the phone rang several times no one came to answer it. Schonewille let it ring. In a perverse way he was determined that as many people as possible were inconvenienced that morning.
Just after seven he roused himself from the seat and opened the office door. The corridor was deserted. Obviously everybody was keeping as wide a berth as possible to the irritable SS officer. Nobody wanted to end up on the Eastern Front.
He walked out onto the platform and looked around. It was still crowded with people and for a moment he looked in vain for a porter. Reluctantly he picked up his overnight bag and with his briefcase hanging from his other arm walked from the station. Here his luck changed. An ex-British army Humber staff car with SS number plates was just pulling away from the curb. Schonewille hailed the driver and on questioning him was told he had just dropped a General Somebody-or-Other off and was now on his way back to the underground garages behind Hitler’s bunker near the Reichskanzlei. Seizing the opportunity, he ordered the driver to take him to the Reichsbank.
On entering the bank he was shown into Heger’s office. His old friend looked tired and was obviously nervous. He scarcely returned the SS officer’s greeting and looked askance at his appearance.
“Himmel Friedrich. You look like you have slept in your uniform and you could have shaved. Our meeting is most …”
Schonewille waved his arm in irritation and cut him off. “Shut up Klaus. That is just what I have done. I’ve spent God knows how many hours in a stinking train. I’m tired, bad-tempered and I want a bath. So let us get this meeting with your mysterious man over and done with.” Heger opened his mouth, but then decided to say nothing other than a curt “Come with me, please.”
Schonewille followed him wordlessly down a number of corridors. Finally, they stopped in front of a large ornate oak door, the wood dark with age. He presumed it was the office of the bank’s senior vice-president, Emil Puhl. Heger paused for a moment and then gave a hesitant knock.
“Bitte,” a voice answered.
They stepped inside.
It was a large office, well-furnished, though with the black-out curtains still closed, a trifle dark and gloomy. The central room light was on but its glow was not sufficient to open up the whole room and the corners and walls were left in shadows. At the far end of the room, facing them, was a tall man dressed in an SS uniform. Heger edged further into the room and addressed the stranger.
“Herr Brigadeführer, let me introduce Obersturmbannführer Schonewille.”
The man stepped forward and extended his hand. Schonewille first clicked his heels and saluted before taking the proffered hand.
The grip was strong and the hand full of calluses. Schonewille’s brain, which was working overtime, found this strange since the Brigadier General’s Waffenfarbe on his shoulder straps was coloured red, which meant he was in the legal division. Therefore, he was either an SS Fachführer or Sonderführer and not a front-line soldier. With his rank it was unlikely he engaged in any manual work, so why the calluses? His uniform was immaculate and he wore the Iron Cross first class plus a number of other decorations. Schonewille put his age at about fifty and a fit, strong fifty at that.
What worried him was that he did not recognise the general.
“Brigadeführer Emil Grauwitz,” the man said formally. He looked at the lieutenant-colonel carefully, noting his rather unkempt appearance. Schonewille, interpreting the look explained the reason, while at the same time desperately searching his memory for any details of the man standing in front of him.
Grauwitz was an imposing figure. His height was backed up by a solid frame and there seemed not an inch of surplus flesh on him. He had a high forehead, accentuated by a severely receding hairline and a fine Patrician nose. The eyes in the half-light appeared black, the same colour as his hair. Schonewille mentally told himself to beware. He still could not place the officer and this fact bothered him. It put him at a grave disadvantage. He was irritated, but like the man in front did not let a trace of expression cross his face. In contrast, Heger’s face showed nervous concern as he looked from one man to the other.
Grauwitz motioned Schonewille to a high-backed lounge chair and took a seat on a similar piece of furniture opposite. After a moment’s hesitation Heger filled a third such chair, though he strategically positioned himself mid-way between the two.
Grauwitz folded his arms and lifted his chin arrogantly as he stared at Schonewille. The room went quiet as the stare continued for four or five seconds. Heger started to speak, but the general raised one wrist without unfolding his arms. Finally he spoke.
“Well, Herr Obersturmbannführer, what do you think of our little ploy?” It was a leading question and it left Schonewille with little room to manoeuvre. So, he answered just as directly.
“I think it is an interesting situation, Herr Gruppenführer. We are like a trio of mice salting away some cheese before the cat gets us. The trouble is this cheese does not belong to us and in reality we are all thieves.”
Grauwitz raised his eyebrows and gave a hint of a smile. “And how will we get our cheese out of the Reich?”
Schonewille hesitated. He was about to lie, but he had a vague feeling of being played with. He took a calculated risk and looked directly at the other man.
“I think we will have to fly the cheese out. In fact, I have already put something in motion to that effect,” he said quietly. Then he took a stab in the dark. “But of course, Herr Brigadeführer, you would be aware of that.” His intonation made it a statement of fact, not a question and it had an immediate effect on Grauwitz. For a moment he looked slightly surprised, though he attempted to hide the emotion under a thin smile. He nodded his head.
“You are much wiser than I gave you credit for, Obersturmbannführer. I was intrigued at your moves to contact your brother and now I wonder how you knew I was checking up on you. You might have guessed, but either way I now realise I will have to be very careful in my dealings with you. I’m not sure whether your intelligence is a good or bad thing.” He paused for a moment. “At any rate only time will tell.”
Heger sat in bemused silence. He again opened his mouth to speak and again Grauwitz cut him short. “In a moment, Klaus. Now, Obersturmbannführer, tell me … Where would you like to fly to?”
Schonewille shook his head. “I am not sure; at least, not yet,” he lied.
He already had a good idea of where he wanted to go, but there were three reasons why he did not want to reveal the possible destination. Firstly, he was not sure of the feasibility of his plan. Secondly, he was certain the general had his own ideas of where the plane should fly to and thirdly, he wanted to keep something up his sleeve. He did not trust Brigadeführer Emil Grauwitz.