Congratulations !
You have been awarded points.
Thank you for !
- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Novels
- Published: 12/28/2019
Gotterdammerung!
The Trial of Adolf Hitler
By Peter W. Mills
“What is history, but a fable agreed upon?”
(Napoleon Bonaparte)
“History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it!”
(Sir Winston Churchill)
“…And there are moments that I would like to know what might have happened if it hadn't happened… “
(Colum McCann, TransAtlantic)
“The two most important words in human history are; “What if…” "What if we walk upright?” “What if we rub two sticks together?” “What if we split the atom?” “What if history had been different?”
(Tinley Roquot)
Gotterdammerung in Germanic mythology is the name for the fall of Valhalla when the mighty Norse gods themselves were overthrown and the final apocalyptic day of judgement fell upon them.
-Prologue-
A telephone bell kept on ringing in a monotonously repeated summons. It rang without giving up. It was loud, for the instrument was installed within an office in a low, squat concrete military airport where there was usually a great deal of noise from aircraft landing and taking off. On this day there were other loud noises as well; the nerve-racking cacophony of mighty artillery fire rumbling almost non-stop in the distance, like continuous throbbing peals of wild thunder. The telephone’s implacable loudness seemed to be a statement – this caller was not going to give up; they were going to pedantically keep the instrument ringing through Hell and high-water come-what-may until it was answered.
Eventually a uniformed officer entered the deserted office, exasperation on his face. He strode impatiently past littered but abandoned desks, typewriters and wooden filing cabinets until he reached the irritating telephone. He snatched up the black Bakelite handset and rammed it furiously to his ear, irritably snapping two words into the mouthpiece.
“Von Greim!” A faint but authoritative voice could be heard, tinny with distance and static. “I want to speak to General Ritter von Greim!”
The officer shouted into the mouthpiece. “I told you – I am von Greim!”
“General von Greim, you are ordered to report immediately in person to the Fuhrerbunker at the Reich Chancellery!”
Von Greim was incredulous and replied as though speaking to an imbecile. “Are you mad? I am in Rechlin a hundred kilometres away – the Russian army is swarming over the landscape. Reports say they are surrounding the Chancellery area! And you want me to come to the bunker?”
“It is an order!” snapped the voice on the telephone.
“Whoever gave that order is an idiot! Put me through to them at once!”
The distant tinny voice snapped abruptly and with great temper; “The order is from the Fuhrer himself! You will have to fly in immediately! Find yourself a good pilot!” The line went dead as the caller hung up, leaving an electronic purring sound.
He found himself a good pilot, one of the best in Germany. Less than three hours after the telephone call a Fieseler Fi 156 Storch bearing Nazi insignia was in the air heading for Berlin. The small spotter aeroplane flew very low, not much more than rooftop and treetop height, and it continually weaved from side to side to make it a more difficult target for enemy anti-aircraft fire. Below, a bleak landscape slowly drew nearer – the smoking ruins of the Berlin suburbs. Occasional houses and factories were on fire amid the rubble, sending columns of dark smoke into the sky.
Without warning anti-aircraft shells started to explode haphazardly in the air near the plane, but the explosions were higher than the plane was flying. The blasts rocked the plane but the pilot knew their business and was deliberately flying below the level where the shells exploded so the little plane only received the downward blast of air turbulence and sometimes a drum-roll of fragments rattling along the fuselage as the shells burst some distance above them.
The pilot was a rather good-looking woman of 33 wearing a test-pilot’s leather clothing with a leather helmet and goggles. Her name was Hannah Reitch. In the passenger seat behind her Ritter von Greim sat in the full uniform of a Nazi general. He leaned forward to speak tensely to Hannah.
“How much longer, do you think?”
Hannah Reitch did not break her concentration. “Maybe six or seven minutes” she muttered absently.
The little spotter-plane swerved and rocked trying to evade bursting anti-aircraft shells high above. There was a sudden very loud bang and a brief flash of flame and smoke and the plane rocked violently; exploding shellfire had hit the fuselage.
Inside, von Greim screamed; “My leg! My foot!”
Staring rigidly ahead Hannah asked simply; “Is it bad?”
Von Greim groaned in agony. “I expect I’ll live. I’m losing blood.” He hunched down in his seat to grasp his injured and torn lower leg as the plane pitched and jolted.
Very soon amid the drifting clouds of noxious smoke the Tiergarten Park and Potsdamer Platz came into view below. The small plane swooped in low and touched down on a clear stretch of grass. All around, lawns and flowerbeds were pockmarked with craters, but the makeshift landing strip had been continuously repaired and shell holes had been filled. Here and there leafless trees staggered at awkward angles where shells and bombs had struck. The buildings all around were badly damaged, the majority looking like they were being demolished. Many were still ablaze.
As the Fieseler Storch touched down and taxied to a halt, four uniformed SS soldiers with metal helmets ran out of the cover of nearby bushes and met the plane. Von Greim opened the passenger door, his face grimacing, his lower leg and foot a mess of blood and soot, his uniform jodhpur shredded from the knee down. The soldiers helped him to the ground then quickly began to carry him upright between them. Hannah Reitch jumped down from the cockpit door and all of them hurried into the bushes, crouching low to keep out of sight and, hopefully, out of Russian bullets.
The small group ran warily across a wrecked street where the hollow shells of once-magnificent buildings gaped and blazed. From all directions came the incessant thunder of heavy artillery and sporadic small-arms fire. Shells whined overhead and exploded nearby. Before them lay an even bigger ruin wreathed by spiralling smoke and roaring fires – the Reich Chancellery. They hurried still stooping in fear along a pockmarked broad paved avenue through drifting clouds of acrid smoke, warily skirting shell craters and piles of fallen rubble.
Ahead of them they could now see through the smoke what seemed to be a muddy wasteland in which crouched the Fuhrerbunker, a squat building complex with an almost medieval aspect heightened by low round guard towers with conical castle-like roofs. From some distant place there sounded faintly a sudden hideous scream of protracted agony. Hannah Reitch and the four SS troopers carrying the injured von Greim scurried in fear, running in a huddled, crouched attitude.
Soon they were hurrying down a flight of concrete stairs inside the bunker, the troopers still supporting von Greim as best they could in the rather confined space. Another SS trooper began to close a vault-like armoured door at the top of the stairs while Von Greim yelped with pain as he was jolted hurriedly down into the interior.
Two hours later General von Greim was in a tiny underground clinic sitting up on the edge of a simple tubular metal bed with a thin and uncomfortable horsehair mattress. The right leg of his uniform jodhpurs had been cut off carefully above the knee, his wound had been cleaned and tended to and a kneeling uniformed orderly was gently but firmly bandaging the wound. Von Greim winced occasionally in as dignified a manner as he could achieve. A middle-aged doctor in a white coat approached the bed.
“I have put in just a few stitches to hold you together for now. I will need to do more work on you. However, that will have to wait. I have been ordered to get you capable enough to have an urgent meeting with the Fuhrer. After he has finished with you, I can repair you some more.”
The doctor raised a hand and snapped his fingers without turning his gaze from von Greim. At once an SS trooper came forward and stood by the bed. The orderly handed von Greim a crutch. “The soldier will escort you to the Fuhrer’s office,” continued the Doctor. “It is not far. The crutch will help. Try not to use your leg too much. Don’t put any weight on it.” He turned to the SS trooper. “Help him back here when the meeting is finished.”
Some minutes later the SS trooper was helping von Greim to sit down in a chair before the desk of Adolf Hitler. The trooper snapped a Nazi salute and left the room. Hitler, a pronounced nervous twitch affecting his left hand and arm, looked older than his 56 years. He raised his eyes from papers on the desk and studied von Greim. When he spoke, his tone was soft, kindly and concerned.
“I was told that your plane was hit. How are your injuries?”
“More irritating than dangerous, my Fuhrer,” replied the general. “I should make a reasonable recovery, I am told.”
“Good, good,” stated Hitler absently, collecting his thoughts. There was a silence for several seconds: then the Fuhrer spoke again. Now his voice was precise and harsh. “General Ritter von Greim, I have to tell you that your superior Reichsmarschall Goering has betrayed me! He has sent me a telegram from Berchtesgaden stating that he will be assuming the position of Fuhrer of the Reich because he believes I am militarily cut off and incapacitated here in Berlin and unable to direct the war or operate the mechanisms of government!”
Instantly he grew very angry.
“I sent him a message back!” he shouted. “I informed him he was guilty of high treason and unless he resigned all his offices immediately, I would order him to be arrested by the SS and shot!”
Hitler took a couple of quick breaths, visibly bringing himself and his rage under control.
“I have received no reply.” He waved his right hand dismissively in the air and spoke entirely casually, as though he were merely commenting about an item on a café menu. “I have stripped him of all his powers and positions, including that of Commander-in-Chief of the Luftwaffe.”
Then he paused briefly and raised his head to stare imperiously at his visitor over the rims of his spectacles.
“Generaloberst Robert Ritter von Greim, you are hereby promoted by my direct personal order, with immediate effect, to Field Marshal and Head of the Luftwaffe!”
A stunned von Greim could merely gasp: “As you will, my Fuhrer.”
Hitler did not pause. “Here are you orders. You will bring all squadrons of fighters and bombers to airfields within range of Berlin, and you will organise an airborne counter-attack to force the Russian army to retreat from Berlin, and then make them continue to retreat in a generally eastward direction until they are either destroyed or limping back to Moscow in tatters!”
Stunned by the implausibility of the order, von Greim stared at Hitler, his expression changing from absolute incredulity to blank agreement. He realised with a profound and unsettling shock that Hitler was now divorced from reality. Blankly and meekly he replied simply: “As you order, my Fuhrer.”
Hitler nodded dismissively and reached for a small brass hand bell on his desk, ringing it quietly. The SS trooper entered and assisted von Greim to rise, helping him out of the office. As he awkwardly turned his back on Hitler’s desk, von Greim noticed a faint movement out of the corner of his eye. A private door in the office had opened very slightly. He noticed Eva Braun looking out through the gap, gazing at Hitler with grave concern on her face.
A few hours later in a side room of the Furherbunker which served as a small makeshift cafeteria-come-restroom, Hanna Reitch was sitting at a simple utility table with a cup of coffee. An empty plate with knife and fork lay in front of her. On trolleys at the side of the room stood both a tea-urn and a coffee percolator. She had removed her leather flying gear to reveal fashionable slacks and blouse. Eva Braun entered and made herself a cup of coffee with saccharine, for there was no sugar available now. She brought her coffee to the table and paused.
“Do you mind if I intrude? I get lonely sometimes.”
Hanna Reitch smiled. “Please – I am feeling lonely at the moment too. And frightened.”
Eva Braun gazed at her curiously. “You? A woman who has become Germany’s leading test pilot?”
Hanna Reitch chuckled. “I love the feeling of flying – I hate the feeling of being blown out of the sky by Russian guns.”
“Yes,” agreed Eva Braun, “quite understandable.” There was a short pause, then she added: “The Russian guns are apparently already stationed in the Turmstrasse.”
Hanna Reitch smiled humourlessly. “They blew us some kisses when we arrived!”
“Of course,” acknowledged the other woman.
A further period of mutual silence was soon interrupted by von Greim entering the room assisted by an SS trooper and crutch. The trooper helped him to be seated at the table, then saluted Nazi-style and left.
“You don’t look as bad as you did a few hours ago,” observed Eva Braun smiling.
“Your surgeon put in some more stitches, stuck some ankle bones back in place, plastered my foot and told me to avoid any strenuous or sudden movements with my leg. If the Russians break in, I will have to tell them I am under doctor’s orders not to run! Perhaps they will agree to count to one hundred before they start chasing me!”
“With their eyes shut too, of course,” responded Eva Braun, smiling again.
“Of course,” repeated von Greim.
There was a long moment of awkward silence broken eventually by Hanna Reitch. “Are you permitted to tell me how your meeting with the Fuhrer went, or is it a military secret?”
Glancing sideways at Eva Braun, von Greim replied. “Well, it is not a secret matter really. It was a promotion – of sorts.”
“How do you mean?”
“I have been officially appointed Head of the Luftwaffe in place of Herman Goering, whom it appears has fallen into disgrace.”
“Congratulations, Generalfeldmarschall,” said Eva Braun in a flat voice.
“Thank you Frauline Braun – but the problem is, I am the head of the Luftwaffe, but there is no longer any Luftwaffe to be head of!”
Eva Braun stared with blank eyes at the tabletop for a moment, then spoke softly without looking up. “I know. There is no army either. Only lots of pretty little flags pinned into a map. Nothing but flags, with reserve divisions waiting in a tin box.” She seemed to pull herself together and looked up. “By the way, to keep you both up-to-date, I am not Frauline Braun any more. I am now Frau Hitler.”
Hanna Reich was genuinely delighted. “Congratulations.”
“I think congratulations are probably not really appropriate, considering our terrible circumstances.”
Von Greim’s voice became suddenly serious. “Will he not leave Berlin and go with you to Berchtesgaden or some secret military base?”
Her answer came sadly. “He refuses to leave Berlin. He refuses to acknowledge the full harsh reality of the situation.”
Von Greim’s tone became urgent. “Can he not be reasoned with? Can you not explain the facts to him gently? Surely he will listen to you – Frau Hitler.”
She looked directly into his eyes and almost whispered. “He has made an empire in his own image. No matter that the buildings become rubble, that the armies are killed, that the civilians die like trapped rats, that the Red Army tramples our ancient culture under foot or that the whole land is put to the torch – the Third Reich will not fall until the moment HE falls. Only then will it be ended.”
She paused and continued even more quietly. “Our Germany is no longer a country – it has been crafted by his brain into a creation of his will. It is the body and blood of Hitler! And as long as his will remains, so shall the Third Reich!”
Von Greim spoke very gently. “Can he not be persuaded that this means he must not stay here and perish?”
“What’s the use of trying? There is no longer any feasible way to escape. The Chancellery is entirely surrounded by the Red Army. My husband now yearns only to die in the fires that consume the world he created, like Odin at Gotterdammerung.”
“There is a way to escape!” stated Hanna Reich forcefully. “I can fly us out!”
Adolf Hitler’s new wife frowned intently. “But the risks…?”
“Frau Hitler,” stated von Greim levelly and sombrely, “ask yourself, what is the best bet? To remain here with an absolute hundred percent certainty of death, or to attempt an escape that carries perhaps only a fifty percent chance of death? And with the possibility that perhaps the odds might be even better than that.”
Frau Hitler stared at Hanna Reitch. “Could you do it? Could you fly him out to safety somewhere? Somewhere away from the Russian barbarians?”
“I could certainly do the flying,” stated the test pilot. “We would have to fly through the Russian flack, but we did that on the way in and survived. Our chances on the way out would be much the same. It’s risky, but we could make it. It’s a chance - and if we simply wait in here, there is none. In any case, I was going to fly our new Field-Marshal here out of Berlin in a few hours time. That was always the intention.”
Von Greim sighed and fixed his gaze on the blank tabletop. “I think the single question is this - can you persuade him to leave? I believe you were right - he is building an alternative reality in his own mind - a reality in which he still commands every turn of the war. Like the Roman emperor Caligula, who declared war on the god Neptune and ordered his legions to march along the coast collecting sea-shells as the spoils of war.” He paused and looked up at both women. “The Führer’s reality is much better than ours. He will never be persuaded to leave this bunker.”
Hanna Reitch mused thoughtfully. “Suppose, for his own good – to preserve his own life – he was drugged? Not much – just so that for an hour or two he would not quite realise what was happening?”
Von Greim weighed up her remark carefully. “That might work. But where could we find the right kind of drugs in this awful pigsty? Pardon me, Frau Hitler.” Frau Hitler was also thoughtful. She spoke slowly, reluctantly. “Yes… pigsty. I know another pigsty - that is what I called the office of Doctor Morell - to his face. Morell is a fat, slimy, unhygienic, unwashed pig of a man - a medical confidence trickster!” The others stared at her in surprised silence. Then von Greim spoke cautiously.
“That is the Fuhrer’s personal physician you are talking about, is it not?”
“Unfortunately yes. But… but…” She frowned, thinking for several long moments. “He gives my husband nearly thirty different pills a day, and many glucose injections - and intravenous methamphetamine every day... But I have also seen that he has some bottles of Veronal on his shelves...”
“Forgive my ignorance, Frau Hitler,” said von Greim quietly, “but what is Veronal, and what does it do?”
“It is a barbiturate manufactured by Bayer. A controlled dose can induce temporary hypnotic sedation... something like sleep-walking...”
All three stared at each other.
“He could be walked to an aeroplane…” mused von Greim in a whisper. “You could fly the Fuhrer and Frau Hitler to somewhere safer, Hanna…” Then his voice suddenly became urgent and decisive. “The Fuhrer can live to fight another day - to keep on inspiring his battered armies. To keep the Third Reich alive!”
“But I shall not go with him!” Frau Hitler exclaimed decisively, “I will remain here. I have already been provided with a suicide pill.”
Von Greim looked astonished. “But you must go! You are his wife. You cannot stay here and die! Your place is by his side!”
She snapped back in a sharply severe voice. “I will thank you, Herr Generalfeldmarschall, not to give me orders! You act above your station!”
Von Greim bowed his head. “I apologise Frau Hitler.”
She smiled at him. “Apology accepted. But you must recognise that - if I order it to be so - an order from me is tantamount to an order from the Fuhrer himself - from my husband! And I will not complicate what he has to do by requiring that he must also protect me when... when...” her face collapsed into a mask of tears. “When he is out on the run like a common criminal!” she sobbed. “He will have enough difficulties without me to add to them! I will never be a weight round his neck!”
Von Greim’s face filled with amazed respect. Painfully and awkwardly, he slowly raised himself to stand at the table without the aid of his crutch. He gave a Nazi salute and barked: “Heil Frau Hitler!”
Twelve hours later in the very early morning a small single-engine aeroplane with civilian markings and number came swooping over trees to touch down on a long grass field. At the far end of the field there was a cluster of olive-drab military tents, a few US military jeeps and other US equipment. A few groups of American soldiers were standing and staring at the incoming plane. Some of them pointed at the plane in astonishment at its audacity for trying to land on a military airfield.
Then a couple of dozen armed US troops ran from the tents towards the plane, which had touched down and was coming to a halt. All except five of them dropped down on one knee some thirty feet from the plane and raised their rifles. The other five soldiers cautiously approached the plane’s cockpit.
The highly successful commercial company I. G. Farben maintained a large industrial and office complex outside Frankfurt. At this precise time, however, the entire Farben industrial estate had recently been commandeered by the US Army to use as their operational headquarters during the final advances upon remaining pockets of armed Nazi resistance. Thus, from 26th April 1945, the Farben offices served as the Supreme Headquarters of the Allied Expeditionary Force (SHAEF). The officer commanding was one General Dwight D. Eisenhower. The Farben factory chimneys did not smoke. Men in US military uniforms went about their business in the private roads. Military police guarded the site entrances and office buildings.
A large and busy commercial office with many desks had been occupied by Eisenhower’s general staff. On a wall at the back had been placed a large map with red ribbons and paper flags pinned into place showing borders, routes and deployments. There was hustle and bustle all round with military personnel coming and going about their business. At the map stood General Eisenhower himself, attended by half a dozen senior officers, discussing logistics and tactics. At the double doors where the huge office debouched into a broad corridor leading to stairs and elevators, two white-helmeted military police stood on guard. Those in the office who were near the doors absently heard the sound of a single man marching purposefully. The footsteps grew louder.
Captain Howard Martin came smartly through the doors with a huge smile on his face which he seemed unable to control. As Eisenhower turned to look at him from the other end of the room, Captain Martin snapped to attention and saluted smartly, still grinning. Eisenhower spoke to him politely with raised eyebrows.
“Good afternoon Howard - why so formal? We don’t salute in the office, you know that. It makes people drop things.”
Captain Martin took a few steps towards Eisenhower, stopped and grinned at him in very obvious delight. Then loudly, bubbling over with great elation, he burst out: “General - guess who we just arrested?”
Eisenhower looked at him quizzically as though he were speaking gibberish.
-1-
It was now July of the year 1945. In Brandenburg, in the Berlin suburb of Potsdam, there was a magnificent late art-nouveau era palace named Cecilienhof, built as the residence of Wilhelm Hohenzollern, Crown Prince of Prussia and the German Empire. It had been constructed during an earlier war, the Great War of 1914 to 1918, and now it was part of Soviet occupied Germany. Conveniently, Prince Wilhelm no longer resided there: he had been arrested earlier that same year by the French in Austria and charged with committing war crimes during World War 1.
It was in his former palace that the victorious Powers of World War 2 decided to hold an historic meeting of heads of state in order to try to tidy up the political loose ends of the war. The meeting would become known to history as the Potsdam Conference, but its official title was the Berlin Conference. The Russians contributed a magnificent polished round table ten feet across specially manufactured in Moscow for the main proceedings, and it was installed in the large wood-panelled Great Hall of the palace.
The Great Hall was packed with seated people, and some were walking quickly here and there with papers and files. At the big round table were seated fourteen statesmen, aids and secretaries, all of whom were men. Even after an horrendous World War to eliminate the social inequality of fascism, women were yet only sparingly allowed to rise to great diplomatic or industrial heights, such were the times. At the conference table were Iosif Vissarionovich Stalin, General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union; Winston Leonard Spencer-Churchill, wartime British Prime Minister, accompanied by Clement Attlee who that very month had become Prime Minister of Britain in Churchill’s place; and Harry S. Truman, 33rd President of the United States of America.
Winston Churchill, remaining seated, banged his knuckles slowly and continuously on the table until a silence slowly descended on the room. “Who is to be Chairman at our conference?” he asked simply in his gruff voice.
Joseph Stalin spoke quietly to an interpreter seated beside him. The interpreter spoke English with a heavy Russian accent. “I propose Mister Truman.”
“The British delegation supports this proposal,” stated Churchill gruffly.
“I accept the chairmanship of this conference,” agreed Truman mildly but businesslike. “Let me put before you some of the questions that have accumulated by the time of our meeting and that require urgent examination. We can then discuss the procedure of the conference.”
Winston Churchill added cautiously: “We reserve the right to add to the agenda!”
Truman lowered his head in acquiescence. “I propose, considering the bad experience of the 1919 Versailles Conference, that we should here and now set up a special council of foreign ministers, consisting of the ministers of Great Britain, the U.S.S.R., the United States, France and China – that is, the permanent members of the Security Council of the United Nations set up at the San Francisco Conference. This council of foreign ministers for preparing a peace conference should meet as soon as possible after our meeting.”
The Russian translator spoke as Stalin muttered to him. “Agreed.”
“Agreed,” said Churchill.
“Very good,” related the translator as Stalin continued to murmur at him. “And today we must confine ourselves to drawing up an agenda with all necessary additional points, and when the agenda is drawn up, any question can be discussed on its merits.”
“I fully agree,” nodded Truman.
“I agree,” stated Churchill, “with the reservation that we must first most urgently discuss the question of what to do with Herr Hitler.”
Via the translator, Stalin said; “A firing squad – no more man, no more problem!”
“I agree with Mister Secretary Stalin,” stated Churchill. “An immediate firing squad!”
President Truman frowned slightly. “I must disagree on that. We should remember that the eyes of the world are upon us. Not only that, but the eyes of all future generations too. Yes, our reaction is to execute Herr Hitler without a moment wasted. But – gentlemen – if we do this in an arbitrary manner, it will merely be murder by decree. Our behaviour would then be equally as draconian, lawless and abhorrent as that of the very evil we seek to bring to justice! We are seeking to build a better world, not jump-start the old one again!”
“Very well,” said Stalin through the translator. “We shall have a fair trial first, then a firing squad!”
“If found guilty, he should be hanged,” argued Truman. “The firing squad is not generally employed by civilian authorities.”
“It is in my country!” came Stalin’s comment. “But the method is unimportant. Shoot him, hang him, garrotte him, shove him over a cliff – whatever is considered most desirable.”
Churchill spoke up. “I am very inclined to agree. But I suppose there must be a fair trial first, if only for the sake of appearances.”
Truman looked offended. “It is for the sake of Democracy and the Democratic Principle – it is the opposite of Nazism. So must Adolf Hitler’s bringing to justice be the opposite of the Nazi method.” He paused and looked into the eyes of the other two national leaders. “Gentlemen, if we have him executed out-of-hand merely because we command it, then we are surely not one whit different from him!”
There was a pause of a few heartbeats, then Churchill growled softly; “Reluctantly I am compelled to agree. He should be put on trial.”
“Also with some reluctance, I too agree,” relayed Stalin’s translator. “He shall have a trial.”
“And it must be a fair trial,” emphasised Truman, “else it will be an obvious sham.”
Stalin sighed wearily and muttered something quietly. “If you insist,” said the translator.
The main conference in the Great Hall had now ended for the day and the sun was setting. Elsewhere in the Potsdam palace Prince Wilhelm’s large library had been set aside as a private study for the use of the British delegation. Four respectable-looking middle-aged men were seated round a modest polished table. There was nobody else in the room. The four men were impeccably attired in the manner of very senior civil servants, complete with pin-striped trousers and wing collars. They were the Englishman Sir James Furwell, the American Clarke Brant, the Russian Valery Gedike and Charles Aubert who was French. The four of them had just sat down and all were briefly arranging papers on the table in front of them.
“I trust that you gentlemen are as worried as I am about the situation and developments?” asked Gedike in excellent English with a Russian accent.
Sir James grunted. “I am certainly disturbed by the range of implications.”
“And rightly so, Sir James,” agreed Aubert the Frenchman. “As the saying goes, a can of worms has now been opened.”
“And all the worms have landed in our laps!” exclaimed Brant the American.
Sir James looked him in the eyes across the table. “Quite so! I think we have all realised the ramifications of the path our superiors have chosen. It is our job, as senior civil servants of our respective administrations, to devise and present to them a realistic way forward.”
Valery Gedike placed his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together and staring over them. “Obviously, Adolf Hitler must receive a death sentence. If the USSR had captured him, we would have shot him and mounted him on display as an exhibition piece in the Central Museum of the Red Army.”
“But the trial must not be rigged,” murmured Sir James. “The whole world will be watching what happens.”
“Not rigged, certainly,” put in Clark Brant. “It must be a genuine trial. But we can – let us say – perhaps guide it somewhat?”
“Exactly!” stated Charles Aubert nodding. “We all know how such things as official enquiries, government policy, foreign relations and other matters of state can be given a nudge here and a quiet word there in order to keep things sensible. We have to apply our skills to this developing situation, to ensure it develops in the required manner.”
Sir James Furwell frowned as though he had a bad taste in his mouth. “I would not choose to speak of it in quite such overt terms,” he chided.
“This is no time to be prim!” snapped Aubert.
“Our French colleague is right,” put in the Russian. “We command the people who put the wallpaper in the corridors of power. We are charged with the responsibility of making certain the river of history flows in an appropriate direction.”
Clark Brant sighed and leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands together. “Very well. Let us get down to brass tacks. This is the situation as I see it. Please feel free to add your own observations and opinions.
“One. Herr Hitler must not be placed in the same jail as the other captured top Nazis. His presence there is very likely to give encouragement, or at least a revitalised sense of grandeur and destiny, to any other Nazi inmates awaiting trial, even if they are not permitted to see him or speak to him. The war crimes trials are being arranged in Nuremberg and the leading Nazis are being jailed there as they are caught, but Hitler is now under lock and key in Kassel in the American Sector and can be flown in for his trial, with no risk of encountering his former cronies, or being seen by them.”
The others nodded in agreement.
“Two. Whereas the other captured Nazi top brass will all be required to be present in the dock together, for which a huge dock is being specially built to accommodate them, this will not apply to Hitler. Again, I consider the risk of allowing his former executives to see him in the same courtroom, or even to know he is nearby, as far too great.
“Remember, these men have sworn a sacred oath to obey and serve Adolf Hitler to the death, under any circumstances. If they know he is alive and our prisoner, and especially if they set eyes upon him, the likely result would be calamitous to say the least.”
“I see what you mean…” mused Charles Aubert. “Yes… there could be a riot in court, or they could all agree to keep silent – and they would all most certainly stand to attention in the court and give the Nazi salute to Herr Hitler. That would not look good in the eyes of the world…”
“I see your point,” nodded Gedike. “We want to divide them from any mutual comfort or encouragement – not provide it for them by sending their adored Fuhrer to sit with them!”
“Precisely!” agreed Clarke Brant. “Therefore, gentlemen, we shall ensure that Adolf Hitler has a separate trial, with none of his former cronies in the same courtroom, except if required as witnesses to give testimony - during which process the individual concerned shall be kept in solitary confinement so they cannot spread word to the rest of the accused that Hitler lives. Are we agreed?”
“I agree,” stated Valery Gedike.
Charles Aubert said; “And I.”
“I too concur.” Furwell paused for a moment. “These suggestions seem eminently sensible. But this mention of testimony brings us in the direction of a particularly delicate question...”
Sir James Furwell and Clarke Brant turned their heads to stare at each other for a few silent moments.
Quietly and slowly, still staring Sir James in the eye, Clarke Brant said simply; “The defence…”
Sir James nodded very slowly. “The defence.”
All four men stared at each other in a pregnant silence.
-2-
The various United States security and intelligence departments had been relatively uncoordinated until the USA joined in World War Two following the horrendous surprise attack by the Japanese Empire on the US navy base at Pearl Harbour in December 1942. Six months afterwards, Franklin Delano Roosevelt had issued a Presidential Military Order to create a single organisation charged with the responsibility of gathering and analysing in the finest detail all types of strategic information, and also building a corps of selected individuals from all services, and even from universities and industry where appropriate, who could perform special operations, especially top secret espionage and sabotage in other countries, such as, at that time, Germany and Austria. Thus was born the Office of Strategic Services, which became better known as simply the OSS.
Although frequently spectacularly successful, the OSS was closed down towards the end of 1945, its assets transferred to the War Department together with a new name, the Strategic Services Unit or SSU. Later it was renamed again to become the Central Intelligence Group or CIG. In 1947 it was again rebranded and renamed in the National Security Act and became the Central Intelligence Agency, the CIA, which it has remained ever since.
In the immediate post-war period when the department was still designated as the SSU, Brigadier General John Magruder was the Director. At the age of 58 he was still fit and slender, with short greying hair and piercing eyes, and he did not suffer fools gladly. Some considered him brusque in manner, but in fact this was really only a strongly developed sense of logic and a West Point training in which he had honed an already razor-sharp mind and gained an awareness of the necessity of politics in all hierarchies from an anthill upward.
One of the first tasks Magruder had been handed was a matter of the greatest secrecy and diplomacy. It was so secret that he was instructed from the very highest level not to maintain any paper records. The most exalted levels of political administration referred to such phantom operations as “Paper Records Exempt, Destroy All Trace Of Remaining”, but the red rubber stamp used by the President when authorising such instructions consisted only of the initial letters of those words – P.R.E.D.A.T.O.R. Very few service personnel below the rank of general, and not many above, would ever hear of that particular designation, or of its founding ethic: believable deniability.
There soon came a day when Brigadier General Magruder sat behind his desk in his Pentagon office while General Maxwell entered and was invited to be seated.
“Now, Stephen,” began Magruder with a serious tone, “I have been asked to arrange something which requires the very greatest tact, secrecy, carefulness and even guile and unabashed deceit. My orders come direct from the very highest authority – you understand? The very highest! You have proven yourself suitably adroit in Germany, and suitably trustworthy. You’re an excellent administrator. Now I must ask you – are you prepared to take on the responsibility of organising a vital international political covert operation? And I regret that I must ask you this before I can tell you anything at all about it.”
General Maxwell did not hesitate. “You name it, Sir, and I shall give it my very best attentions. You can rely upon me, and you can rely upon my discretion.”
“I was hoping you would say something like that,” smiled Magruder across his desk. “We could do with more patriots like you.” He passed a paper over the desk. “If you sign this, then you are committed. I must emphasise, once your signature is on this paper, you cannot change your mind. I’m sure I don’t have to paint a picture. The paper merely refers to unspecified counter-espionage operations in a foreign country – there’s nothing specific mentioned in it at all. The real aim will remain a secret at present and for all time.”
Maxwell did not hesitate. Stony faced, he took the paper, glanced cursorily at the typing and immediately took a fountain pen from his pocket and signed it. Handing it back, he asked simply; “When will I be told what is required of me?”
Magruder glanced at the signature and placed the paper in a desk drawer. “Right now Stephen,” he replied. “This is a hot one! This is a difficult one! In fact, it is probably even a diabolical one! But it has to be accomplished, and it has to be accomplished in the uttermost secrecy, with the uttermost stealth and the very greatest manipulative skill and cleverness.”
“O-kay,” said Maxwell slowly, digesting what had been said. “So, give me my target.”
“It’s not that simple,” came the reply. “But – essentially – one could say that your target was Adolf Hitler!”
“Hitler?” repeated Maxwell, puzzled. “But he’s been captured and is in jail awaiting trial in Germany for all his crimes. What more is needed where Hitler is concerned? We’ve got him by the… well, I’ll be polite - we’ve got him by the seat of his pants. Haven’t we?”
“Well, yes and no,” replied Magruder enigmatically, leaning back in his chair and making a tent of his fingers to look through at the ceiling. “Yes, we have Herr Hitler in jail in Germany, and yes, a trial is being organised right now. But…” he paused, “but… well, Stephen – think about a trial. What is necessary to make a trial in a court?”
“Well, I guess, an accused, a judge, a prosecuting attorney and a defending attorney…” his voice trailed off as his quick brain came to a realisation. “A defending attorney – there must be a defence presented in any legitimate court hearing. Only the Commies hold courts with no legal defence as we know it.”
Magruder slowly nodded and held out a hand to indicate that Maxwell should continue.
“I think I get it,” stated Maxwell. “If there’s a defence presented in court… well, it would be extremely embarrassing to the Allied Powers if that defence were – shall we say – too clever. If the defence were, somehow, to succeed in legally getting Hitler off the hook there would be a lot of red faces in high offices. We – all the Allied Powers – would be made to look uncomfortable and foolish at best, incompetent and draconian at worst.”
“And what kind of insurance could be provided, do you think – purely theoretically, of course – to absolutely guarantee that Hitler’s defence in court would collapse like a house of cards?”
“Well,” mused Maxwell, “the best way, the way that would guarantee the required result without anyone being suspicious about anything, would be to appoint a second-rate defending lawyer who would end up out of his depth and floundering. He would have to come from a decent, established law firm with a bit of a reputation, to give his selection some credence. But if that defence attorney was selected because he was not really up to the task, if he fumbled his case and sank in court like the Titanic, the defence could be guaranteed to ultimately collapse and a ‘guilty’ verdict would be inevitable…”
Magruder looked directly at Maxwell, nodding very slowly. “General, there you have your mission! I have not given you any orders have I?”
“You have not,” agreed Maxwell. “We can both swear to that on the Bible with perfect truthfulness!”
-3-
A young man of perhaps 30 wearing a dark suit and waistcoat climbed the stone stairs in a very old office building. The stairs had a polished wooden balustrade atop a filigree wrought-iron support, an echo of the more formal and imperial days in which the building had been conceived. The man carried an armful of papers and files and was taking great care not to drop any of them. As the man reached the final flight of stairs before the next landing, two other elderly and dignified men in old-style suits and wearing shirts with wing-collars came to the top of the wooden balustrade, leaned over and looked down at the man coming up the stairs.
One of the dignified elderly men called down the stairwell. “Herr Becker, may we have a moment of your time please?”
The other venerable man also called down. “We have a new case which we feel you are the right man to give it to.”
Franz Becker reached the landing. The first venerable man gently but firmly took the pile of files and papers away from Becker and, without even sparing them a glance, handed them to his venerable companion. Then he took Becker by the elbow and encouraged him to walk beside them.
“This is the opportunity of a lifetime, Herr Becker. It will assure your reputation as a leading attorney.”
The other venerable lawyer added: “You are a perfect choice. Both you and your wife, I believe, speak English and French fluently…”
The three men walked away from the stairwell along a high-ceilinged corridor which retained the cornices and ornate plasterwork of the previous century. Several yards down the carpeted passage was a carved wooden doorframe on which was a polished wooden plaque bearing the name “Franz Becker” in small gold lettering. All three entered the office. One of the venerable lawyers placed a friendly arm round Becker’s shoulder.
“You must understand, Herr Becker – Franz! – the responsibility of an attorney is not to be the police, nor to make the laws, nor to pass judgement on the merit or otherwise of a client.”
The other venerable lawyer added; “The task of an attorney is to provide the professional prosecution or defence of the accused. Whichever of those duties we are contracted to undertake, it is our responsibility to ensure we do it professionally, thoroughly, expertly and - yes - if necessary, even theatrically.”
His colleague continued; “Absolutely! The professional attorney does not take sides - they represent a side.”
“And the side they represent is the side of the client for whom they have agreed to be engaged,” stated the other.
“Exactly,” agreed his colleague. “One day we prosecute someone, next day we defend someone. Whatever the circumstances, it is everyone’s right to be represented with skill in court.”
Franz Becker sat down behind his desk and gazed at his superiors. “Very well. You are going to give me a difficult case. You always try to butter me up when you give me the shit cases you don’t want to handle!”
The first venerable lawyer winced as though stung. “Franz, Franz - this case is the opportunity of a lifetime. It will secure your reputation for the rest of your career. We only wish to give you the benefit of taking-on the case of a client who has world-wide prominence - a man who is internationally well known.”
Franz Becker sighed. “All right, all right. I will do as you ask. What choice do I have anyway? You pay my salary. So tell me - who is this important client?”
“Adolf Hitler.”
Stunned, Becker repeated the name flatly. “Adolf Hitler. You are joking, of course?”
There was the sound of a key in the door latch and Franz Becker let himself into the front hallway of their reasonably affluent ground floor apartment. He walked through the farther doorway and entered the living room. His 25 year-old wife Karolin stood up from a seat beside a cradle and welcomed her husband with a hug. Together they went to the cradle and looked down into it at a baby boy about six months old snuggled there asleep.
“He’ll wake up for his father in a little while. He always wakes up ten minutes before each feeding,” said Karolin softly. Franz Becker put his arm round his wife’s waist, still admiring his sleeping son. “You’ll never guess what happened at the office today.”
“Somebody accidently smiled?” Karolin offered mischievously.
“Even stranger than that. I was offered a partnership in the firm.”
Karolin turned joyfully to face him. “Oh Franz! I always knew you were going to succeed. With a pay rise?”
“With a pay rise. A substantial one. But… there are certain… conditions.”
“What conditions?”
Franz Becker sighed deeply. “I have to take on a particular case and defend a client in an important trial.” He paused. “It will be… a difficult defence.” He looked into his wife’s eyes. “The client is Adolf Hitler!”
Karolin was astounded. “He has been captured?”
“It’s still a military secret. We must not yet tell anyone. It seems he tried to escape from the Reich Chancellery in a plane and was arrested by the Americans. He is to be put on trial, like the others who have been caught - and for some reason the firm of Abendroth, Kappel & Lang have been selected to provide a defence attorney - and for some even more obscure reason, Herr Kappel and Herr Lang have offered me the case, with a written promise that I will be made a partner in the firm if I just take it on, whether I win or lose.” Karolin adapted quickly. “‘Abendroth, Kappel, Lang and Becker.’ It sounds impressive. And the pay rise? How much?” Franz Becker was still musing half to himself. “It will be the most historic trial since Jesus Christ appeared before Pontius Pilate. It will be difficult... It will be virtually impossible! I am not sure I can manage this. I cannot understand why it has landed in my lap...”
“The pay rise – how much?” insisted his wife.
“Enough to buy a big house in the country in a few years, and keep a limousine and a chauffeur – and maids to relieve you of housework.”
“And this is whether you win or lose?”
“Whether I win or lose,” he nodded slowly.
“Then you must take the case. You must grasp it with both hands! It will secure our future.”
A great many miles away there was a prison compound behind a series of barbed wire fences. There were several shabby-looking huts. Outside the fences American soldiers and military police patrolled ceaselessly. Inside the compound, though, there was only one man, a single isolated prisoner, Generalfeldmarschall Ritter von Greim. He strolled deep in thought, hands clasped behind his back. He had a very severe limp and still wore his general’s uniform. His right jodhpur leg was still cut off just above the knee and his lower leg was heavily bandaged, his foot in a neat plaster cast. His expression was blank. He stood and watched the guards walk past for a few moments, then strolled awkwardly to a hut, hobbled up a few wooden steps and entered through an open door. Inside the hut were several simple iron beds. Beside each was a cheap wooden bedside cabinet. The room was empty and only one bed looked like it has been used. The cabinet beside it was bare except for a brush and comb set and a small, framed, cracked mirror.
Von Greim entered the room looking thoughtful. He halted for some moments, hands still clasped behind his back. He stood still, then nodded slowly to himself. He limped to his bed and sat on the edge.
He picked up the hairbrush. Using the comb as a lever, he prised off the back of the hairbrush, which came away in his hand. There was cotton-wool inside. From the cotton-wool he carefully removed a small glass ampoule. Still sitting, he held the ampoule up before his gaze. He studied it for some moments.
Then, decisively, he stood up with a little difficulty, limped to the centre of the room, placed the ampoule between his teeth, smartly gave a Nazi salute and bit down on the ampoule. There was a crunch from his mouth. He lowered his arm, standing to attention, then grimaced, choked briefly, and collapsed dead onto the bare floorboards like a felled tree.
The former I. G. Farben industrial complex had once housed Nazi chemical research facilities for producing synthetic oil and rubber, as well as processing other chemicals such as Zyklon B, a pesticide developed from cyanide which was used in death camps such as Auschwitz-Birkenau, Belzec, Treblinka and many other locations as a gas to aid extermination of some eleven million human beings, men women and children who were just ordinary innocent families, some six million of them being Jewish.
Then the complex of Farben buildings had been used for a time as the Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force. Now, following the German surrender, it had been officially taken over by the United States Government to house the headquarters of NACOM, the Northern Area Command, a function the immense building complex would serve for the next fifty years because the Germans, recently the enemy, were now friends, and the nearby Soviet Union, recently an ally, was becoming an enemy who had annexed Eastern Germany and most of Berlin except the central part which was now virtually an island surrounded by Soviet territory.
Located within the huge Farben centre was also the busy Analysis and Research Branch of the Office of the Director of Intelligence. In this section General Maxwell now maintained an office of the SSU, the Strategic Services Unit, which operated independently and covertly. Its operations were so secret that even the other offices and departments in the Farben centre were entirely unaware of who they were or what they did. On their doors were no department names nor any person’s name, merely room numbers.
General Maxwell’s superior Brigadier General John Magruder was directly responsible only to President Harry S. Truman, not even through a vice-president, for Truman did not have any vice president, as he himself had been Vice-President when his predecessor Franklin Roosevelt died and now in effect he held both offices, and the US Constitution remained unclear on this issue until the passing of the 25th Amendment in 1967. Consequently, Truman wielded absolute power until 1949 when Alben Barkley was voted-in as Vice-President, holding that office until succeeded some years later by a relatively unknown up-and-coming young politician named Richard Nixon.
It was largely due to this unusual lack of a stabilising vice-president in the immediate post-war years that the Strategic Services Unit was able to build itself into a fully “black-ops” department which illegally conducted surveillance of suspected US citizens, arranged convenient assassinations both in the USA and elsewhere in the world, and generally operated without having to obey any legislative control or legal restraint until it eventually morphed to become the CIA.
In his anonymous office, General Maxwell was studying documents when a knock came on his door. He called out: “Enter!” and a young man of about twenty-five opened the door and closed it behind him. He wore a fashionable suit of the time, which some people looking back upon those days from the present would probably consider strangely loose and baggy. “Be seated, Lieutenant Blackwell,” invited the General.
Blackwell did so. “I can report that the arrangement we wanted has been successfully carried out,” he informed the General.
“This is with the people you told me about?” demanded Maxwell.
“It is. Both of them were – shall we say – understandably enthusiastic about the proposal.”
“Have the funds been paid to them?”
“Yes sir, in US dollars, unmarked and genuine.”
“OK. And they are reliable people?”
“Yes sir.” Lieutenant Blackwell passed a plain brown folder over the desk. “Here’s all the information. The two men in question have been committing criminal fraud for years by falsifying their accounts and smuggling deutschmarks into Switzerland without paying any tax. They each have a secret deposit account in a Swiss bank. We managed to obtain the false names and account numbers, and we have obtained from the bank ten of their actual smuggled hundred deutschmark banknotes with clear serial numbers which enables us to conclusively prove a paper trail of the notes from being paid to the two men through to the arrival of the money in the bank at Zurich.” Blackwell smiled at the general. “Put simply, Sir, we got them over a barrel!”
“Excellent work,” enthused General Maxwell. “How much did it cost us?”
“I kept it inside the budget limit I was given. Both of the men in question have also been guaranteed US citizenship for themselves and their immediate family members which will become effective in four year’s time, when all of this has become history and forgotten. This is conditional on them not immigrating to the States until the four-year period is over.”
“Good, lieutenant! Who have they given the brief to?”
“To a fairly young lawyer in their firm who normally works in minor criminal cases – you know, the unsavoury underworld characters thrown up by wartime society, that kind of thing. He is very good, within his rather limited sphere of petty advocacy. He is, at one and the same time, the kind of lawyer one would expect to do his best and therefore to look genuine because he is entirely genuine, and the kind of person who will be unable to cope in the face of the impressive prosecution team and the complexity and high pressures that will evolve within such an unprecedented brief, so that the case for the defence will collapse of its own accord without further manipulation. A ‘guilty’ verdict can therefore be guaranteed. It is inevitable.” He pointed to the folder in the General’s hands. “The full details are all in there.”
“Excellent. Very good work, Lieutenant.” He waved the file. “This will ensure we obtain the required results. Hitler will be given a fair and public trial so that the democratic USA will be seen to be upholding its sacred principles of justice for all, and the Soviet Union will be made to look like a draconian dictatorship because Stalin wanted an immediate firing squad without any trial. Come to that, so did Churchill and the British! And yet, Hitler’s execution is also completely inevitable. There is no manner in which he can come out of this without a ‘guilty’ verdict hanging round his neck. And our department remains entirely anonymous. We do not exist. We win in all directions!”
Maxwell placed the file in a desk drawer and locked it. “And our orders now, Lieutenant, are to closely supervise the management of these events, without raising any suspicions, and ensure that it never goes off the rails. You will keep your eyes on it as it develops and report directly to me, as always.”
-4-
In a country road edged by hedges a dusty and dented 1940 DKW Sonderklasse 37 car motored along. It was heading in the direction of the outskirts of Kassel, a wrecked town. Until the recent defeat and surrender of Nazi Germany, it had been the headquarters of military district Wehrkreis IX and a local extension of the Dachau concentration camp had been established there to provide slave labour for the firm of Henschel & Sons, manufacturers of the Tiger tank and other major war equipment, such as the Dornier medium bomber. The town had thus become the target for twenty allied bombing raids and by 1945 most of the place had been reduced to smouldering ruins, including the house where the famous Brothers Grimm had once lived in the previous century. On April 3rd 1945 Kassel had been captured after ferocious street-to-street fighting by the 80th Infantry Division of the US First Army, who afterwards found that, out of two hundred and thirty six thousand residents, only some fifty thousand remained alive.
A few hundred yards ahead there was a military checkpoint with barbed-wire fences, a large wooden guard-hut and a red and white barrier across the road. Military vehicles were parked nearby. A US tank stood close to the road. Two field guns were placed thirty feet beyond the barrier, their barrels aimed along the road at zero elevation, pointing at arriving traffic. Several US soldiers were on heightened watch fully armed with automatic weapons. There was a large painted sign on a pole:
KASSEL
US SECTOR
ALL PERMITS MUST BE SHOWN
ZEIGEN SIE ALLE ERLAUBNIS DANGER OF DEATH! DIE GEFAHR DES TODES!
The car slowed and stopped at the barrier. Franz Becker got out and passed a sheaf of papers to a sergeant, who examined them thoroughly, then handed the papers back and ordered the barrier to be raised. Becker got back into the car and drove slowly away into the wrecked town.
There was an undamaged bullion vault deep underground beneath the remains of a shattered bank in a shattered street. In a dank passage some sixty feet in length there were pairs of armed US soldiers on sentry duty every ten feet, each pair facing each other and standing to attention. The stone walls were whitewashed and wire-caged electric lights were mounted in the ceiling above. Three men were walking briskly along the passage, their steps sharply echoing on the flagstone floor. Franz Becker was one of the men, the other two were a US Army Colonel and a US Army Major. They did not talk. At the far end of the tunnel they reached a strong steel door guarded by two more soldiers who snapped to attention. The colonel showed the guards some papers and both guards studied them meticulously.
“All is in order, SIR!” shouted one guard, stamping to attention again. “You may pass, SIR!”
The major produced a bunch of keys and unfastened a lock in the steel door. The Colonel withdrew another bunch of keys and undid a different lock in the steel door. The guard who had spoken withdrew a single tagged key from a uniform pocket and unlocked another different lock. The other guard then turned a large polished brass lever set into the door. Then he pushed the door and it opened reluctantly; it was obviously very heavy. Franz Becker took a step forward, but the colonel put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.
“Just a moment, Herr Becker.” He withdrew a folded slip of paper from a pocket and handed it to Becker. “This is for your eyes only. Please read the paper without speaking.”
Becker looked at the colonel, then took the paper and read it. The colonel took it back. “Remember that word, Herr Becker. It is a single-use password, good for this occasion only. When you want to leave, call the guards from inside. They will ask you for the word. If you do not repeat it to them, you will not be let out. Is that understood?”
“I understand,” he replied wearily.
Through the great vault door was a large inner room of whitewashed stone, once a counting chamber, an anteroom where paperwork could be compiled and filed and, maybe, gold bullion could be piled, counted and made ready for shipping out or moving in to the inner vault beyond. Now it served the function of an inner guardroom. Becker resisted the impulse to turn back and look as the immense outer vault door was swung silently closed behind him. There were several dull thuds as the complex locking mechanisms slid into place.
Within the inner room were six US soldiers, each armed, amongst lesser side-arms, with the 1944 M3A1 “Grease Gun” suppressed submachine gun, which was now state-of-the-art in small arms. It was rather unnerving for Becker that all the guns were pointing at him. A muscular sergeant stepped to confront him, keeping his machine gun aimed steadily at the visitor.
“Please remove your overcoat sir!” ordered the sergeant. Becker did so and a soldier took it and laid it upon a table. The soldier started examining the coat with meticulous detail.
“Raise your hands and arms sir!” ordered the sergeant. Becker did this and the sergeant expertly frisk-searched him, removing his bunch of keys from a trouser pocket, fountain pens from an inside jacket pocket, a wallet, identity papers, travel permit, a cigarette pack and lighter, a comb and some small change. Everything was placed in two large foolscap-sized brown envelopes which were licked and sealed.
The sergeant continued, rapping out: “Have you been given your exit password? Do not repeat the exit password at this time!”
“I have been given a password by the colonel,” affirmed Becker.
“Please remove your shoes sir!” Looking momentarily dumfounded, Becker complied. The concrete floor was cold.
“Sir, you may now proceed!” barked the sergeant. A soldier stepped smartly to another massive vault door on the far side of the anteroom. This had a large shining brass spoked wheel locking mechanism like a ship’s wheel. The sergeant turned the wheel, pulled a lever, turned the wheel again, pulled another lever, turned the wheel back the other way, then pulled hard on a mounted brass rail. The massive door slowly and silently opened.
Becker glanced nervously at the sergeant and stepped through the open vault door. Inside was a whitewashed stone-block cell with a single electric light bulb dangling overhead. He stopped and stared in utter astonishment as the vault door swung silently shut behind him, the complex locking mechanisms clicking and banging. He took a few hesitant steps forward, then stopped again in shock. He stared, transfixed with horror.
In the long subterranean whitewashed corridor down which access to the vault complex was attained, the colonel and major who had escorted Becker walked back the way they had come, hands clasped casually behind their backs, ignoring the pairs of armed guards they passed every ten feet.
“Who was that guy, Colonel?” asked the major.
The colonel snorted quietly. “Some Kraut lawyer come to talk to der Fuhrer. He’s the official defence attorney.”
“Hah! The poor bastard!”
Becker still stared with horror. In the cell-like vault before him, Adolf Hitler sat secured by many leather straps in a big, ugly, square-cut wood and metal security seat like an electric chair, its steel backrest rising sombrely some two feet above his head. He wore a standard canvass straight-jacket which forced his arms to be crossed over his abdomen, elbows at the centre, with the ends of the lengthy sleeves fastened over the blocky side arms of the chair by more leather straps and brass buckles. His trousers were US army medical corps surgical pyjamas and his feet were bare, his ankles secured in screwed metal cuffs mounted on the bottom of the front chair legs. He was almost entirely unable to move, except for his head.
Hitler’s face, however, glared out with the same fanatical fixation he had possessed in his days of power. His eyes had lost none of their drill-like hypnotic penetration. He glowered at Becker, radiating silent malignity.
Becker started to speak, but on the first attempt his mouth dried up and made only a rasping sound. He coughed and made a visible effort.
“Herr Hitler – I am your defence attorney. There are some things we need to talk about.”
The reply was surprisingly quiet, almost, he thought, dangerously quiet?
“Are you a Party member?”
Becker also spoke quietly. “I was. Almost every adult was – it was safer than not being one.”
Hitler also remained quiet. He spoke as though tired. “And now – at this present time?”
“I am no longer a Party member. There is no longer a Party.”
“Were you a good soldier? Were you army, navy or air force?”
“I was judged unfit for war service. I have a heart condition, ventricular extra systole. I remained a civilian.”
This simple statement was received as though it were the greatest of insults. Hitler instantly transformed into the terrifying, raging fanatic he had been during his most passionately worked-up speeches and rallies. He screamed in a monotone: “How dare you stand before me! You have betrayed me and betrayed the Party! You are a traitor! Six months ago I would have had you shot!” Becker did not react. He was now very calm and matter-of-fact, as he had learned to be in his profession. “That was six months ago – now it is this month. I have been appointed to defend you in court - God alone knows why! But I intend to do a thorough and professional job - with or without your approval, Herr Hitler. However, it would help matters considerably if we could converse like normal people.”
Hitler instantly became very calm and rational, switching off his emotion. He asked quietly; “What is your name, attorney?”
“My name is Franz Becker.”
“Herr Becker, can you see me?”
Nonplussed by the rather strange question, Becker replied simply and matter-of-factly; “Of course I can see you.”
“Herr Becker, does anything about what you see strike you as being even remotely like normal people?”
Becker smiled slightly. “Now that you come to mention it, no. But perhaps we can consider the bigger issues...?”
“You sound like a politician. Are you a politician?” ”No, only an attorney-at-law.” “You should be a politician. Very well. Let us both pretend to be normal
ordinary folk, and see where we may arrive at.”
Becker nodded slowly. “Perhaps my first question, then, should be; ‘how would you describe yourself?’”
“I am an artist, an idealist and a patriot,” came the proud reply.
“And a politician?”
Hitler scowled. “No! I was never a politician, nor did I ever wish to be one! Politicians make me sick! They make their corrupt fortunes riding on the backs of the ordinary decent people.” “And yet you became Chancellor of Germany – surely, a political position?”
Now Hitler became contemptuous. “I did not simply ‘become’ Chancellor. I was chosen by the ordinary folk – by the will of the people”
“And assisted by behind-the-scenes political manoeuvres!” remarked Becker drily.
. Hitler nodded and sneered. “The politicians thought they could make use of my support to conjure up the majority they required. Their plan was then to dump me when their own position was secured. They found to their cost that I was not an easy person to dump!” He lowered his voice and it became a sinister growl. “I showed them! It was I who dumped them! I have no use for politicians. They are schemers and rogues! I have never considered myself to be a politician! Never!”
Now he screamed in an instant transport of utter fury. “I am the rightful leader of Germany!” Flecks of foam sped from his mouth.
The following silence seemed to echo. Becker replied quietly and calmly. “I must correct you there - you were the leader of Germany. You no longer hold that position. You are now a prisoner awaiting trial. And I am to conduct your defence in court.”
Then Hitler became sneering, contemptuous. “I want nobody to defend me. I shall make my own defence, as I did in the Munich People’s Court in 1924. I need no lawyer. You are dismissed.”
Becker stared him in the eye, unblinking. “Have you not heard the saying: - ‘A man who represents himself in court has a fool for a client?’ I’m afraid I must be your attorney whether you approve of it or not.” He paused, then nodded slightly. “And whatever else, I promise you I shall do the very best I can.”
Hitler smiled at him slightly. In a very normal conversational, quiet voice, he stated: “That is exactly what I did. It doesn’t always meet with universal approval!”
In a residential Leipzig street in which there was considerable bomb damage Franz Becker parked his car. The house in which their apartment was situated had not been very much damaged, but farther down the street less fortunate buildings were mere devastated shells at best. Becker stepped quickly up a flight of stone steps and entered their home. Karolin, carrying their baby, walked to the opening front door to greet him.
“Here you are – kiss your son.” Franz Becker did so, tenderly, and kissed his wife. Then he straightened and stared at her. Karolin stared back into his eyes.
“Did you see him?” was all she asked.
“The Fur…! I mean, Herr Hitler? Yes – I saw him. I spoke with him. It was not a terribly pleasant experience.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Perhaps later.” They entered the living room. Karolin carefully placed the baby in his cradle and tucked him in. Her husband remained standing somewhat awkwardly. “Is something the matter?”
“You remember I said we might have a house in the country one day, with servants?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“That day is arriving much faster than I thought. We will be moving in a few days.”
Karolin was astonished. “Moving? Where?”
Her husband still seemed, somehow, ill at ease. “Let’s sit down.” They both sat down on a couch.
“Well… we have been offered the use of a country house on an estate at Tennenolher outside Nuremberg until the trial is finished. It is an old hunting lodge.”
Karolin was astonished. “Who is giving this to us?”
“From what I understand, it is by order of the joint allies. It... it is for our own safety. There... there will be a military presence to act as our bodyguards.”
“What kind of military presence?” She had a worried note in her voice. Her husband was feeling awkward and she picked this up.
“My darling,” he sounded uncomfortable, “the house is inside a fairly large American army camp. A general was using the house, but he is returning to the USA to take up a new position. We have been offered the house instead.”
His wife stared hard at him. “Offered?”
“Well, in fact, we have been ordered to move there, so that we may be protected.”
“Protected?” Her tone was incredulous. “By an entire army camp? What do they think we need to be protected from?” Becker stood up and slouched miserably, his hands now in his pockets. “Perhaps everyone in the whole world! You must bear in mind that I am about to defend Adolf Hitler in court. There are likely to be many people who want to see me fail, including some very powerful people. I am going to try to succeed - I am obliged to do so by my professional ethics as a defence attorney. I shall not throw-in the towel!” “So you think we might be in some danger?” she asked levelly.
“From lunatics, from hatred, yes.”
“Just because you have been selected to defend a man in court?”
“It is not just any normal citizen!” He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “We are not talking about any minor misdemeanour. The Bible says there was once war in heaven. It is my task to be Lucifer’s lawyer!”
Karolin reached up to her shoulders and held both his hands. She spoke softly and nodded. “Then we need protection. We will move house.” Mischievously, she kissed his cheek quickly and asked: “Will we have servants?”
Becker laughed. “I’m told we will even have a butler!”
-5-
The Bavarian city of Nuremberg had suffered massive war damage. As a climax to the Allied strategic bombing which had begun in 1943, in the closing months of the war the ancient city had suffered under almost continuous waves of RAF and USAF bombers so that most of the central city area had been entirely destroyed. In April 1945 three United States Infantry divisions, the 3rd, 42nd and 45th, had finally captured the ancient city after horrific house-to-house fighting against an unwavering and, by now, suicidal resistance from desperate Nazi troops.
Miraculously, amid all of this catastrophic destruction, the Nuremberg Palace of Justice which housed the Appellate Court, the Regional Court, the Local Court and the office of the Public Prosecutor was more-or-less untouched by the prolonged and hellish exigencies of mechanised warfare. Notwithstanding the titles of the three major courts, each of which dealt with different regional districts and different kinds of hearing, there were many more than three courtrooms within the enormous building.
Courtroom number 600 in the eastern wing had been prepared for the en-block trial of Nazi war criminals who had been captured so far. Their leader Adolf Hitler, however, had been accorded prime position, with no other prisoners present or permitted at his hearing. It had been debated whether trying him first, and alone, might send a message that Hitler was considered superior to other war criminals, for there was a worry that it might bestow upon him some kind of celebrity status. However, after some debate, it seemed an obvious and logical measure to try him first, not because he was necessarily a more important person, but because he had been the founder and architect of the entire Nazi state and all its policies and therefore could be held personally responsible at a distance for every war crime committed, on a buck-stops-here basis.
It was now April 1946 and bustling people were finding their proper places in the large courtroom. Through a double-door a team of ten legal clerks entered, carrying bulging document cases and cardboard boxes filled with files of papers. Leading them was Franz Becker. They made their way to one side of the huge room amid a general buzzing background of conversations and preparations.
Just as Becker and his legal team started arranging their files tidily on desks, a technician approached and began plugging headphone wires into sockets, handing large clumsy headphones of that era to Becker and senior members of his team. On the other side of the courtroom across a central clear avenue, the prosecution team was going through the same process with technicians. Becker stared across the courtroom. The prosecution team, with about seventy people, was noticeably much bigger than Becker’s defence team. .
There were four glass-fronted cubicles set in one wall, each not very much larger than a telephone booth. A translator sat behind a small desk in each booth with a large, clumsy microphone before them. They were all busily putting on and adjusting big padded headphones, tapping the microphones, arranging papers and – in one case – finishing a surreptitious home-rolled cigarette. Although no sound could be heard from within the booths, it was apparent that someone was speaking to the four translators over the wire system. Suddenly into the courtroom came the sound of the men in the booths one at a time, first in French, then Russian, then German, then English, with “Testing, testing, one, two, three, four!” in each language by turn. As someone at a distant consol switched the sound to earphones only, the English translator could be heard as he gradually faded away from the loudspeakers; “Testing, testing, one-two-three, testing. Can you hear me? Can you hear me? How now brown cow; how now brown cow. Can you hear me? Can you…”
There was an empty raised podium for four judges, and soon four judges entered the courtroom and took their seats. A court bailiff walked to stand before the judge’s podium where there was a desk for him. Lifting a microphone from the desk, he tapped it with a finger to attract attention. The sound was magnified in the big room by the loudspeakers and sounded like a bass drum. The background hubbub of a multitude of voices faded and utter silence fell. The bailiff spoke into the microphone.
“Please be upstanding for their honours the judges.” Everyone in the courtroom rose to their feet, even the translators in their cubicles.
The bailiff continued. “For the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, Major General Iona Nikitchenko. For the United States of America, Francis Biddle; for the Republic of France, Professor Henri Donnedieu de Vabres; for the United Kingdom, and elected President of the Tribunal, Sir Geoffrey Lawrence.” The bailiff paused for three seconds in which a pin could have been heard dropping. “Please be seated.” Most of the people in the courtroom sat down.
Sir Geoffrey Lawrence spoke into a microphone. “This trial is unique in the jurisprudence of the world, and of supreme importance to millions of people all over the globe. For this reason, there is laid upon everybody who takes any part in this trial the solemn responsibility to discharge his duties without fear or favour, in accordance with the sacred principles of law and justice.” He paused for several seconds.
“This Court finds its mandate and authority in the Joint Declaration of December 17th 1942 signed by the United States of America, Great Britain and the Soviet Union acknowledging the mass murder of European Jewry under Nazi policy and resolving to prosecute those responsible for this and for violence against any civilian population.” There was another short pause.
“We also find our mandate and authority in the Moscow Declaration of October 1943, signed by United States President Franklin D. Roosevelt, British Prime Minister Winston Churchill and Soviet Secretary Josef Stalin. This Declaration resolved that, at such a time when an armistice came into effect, those persons deemed responsible for war crimes will be returned to those countries in which they committed such crimes, and adjudged according to the laws of the nation concerned.
“However, this declaration further stipulated that those who are designated as major war criminals, whose crimes can be limited to no particular geographical location and no single national administration, would be punished under joint decision of the Allied governments.
“Our remit for today is that we should here undertake to predicate both that authority under whose aegis this court upholds its mandate to function, and that ordinance by which certain acts must be determined as bearing a specific personal level of responsibility over and above the conventional exegesis of obeying established military orders.”
At a nod from the President of the judges’ panel, the court bailiff started to speak. “The allied powers have agreed that the case for the prosecution will be presented by four joint chief prosecutors, one representing each of the allied powers.”
Across the room, four men stood up. Each one bowed slightly and sat down again as the bailiff called out their names. Surrounding the four were now over 70 seated clerks and assistant lawyers.
“Prosecuting for the United Kingdom, the Attorney General Sir Hartley Shawcross. Prosecuting for the United States of America, Supreme Court Justice Robert H. Jackson. Prosecuting for the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, Lieutenant-General Roman Andreyevich Rudenko, State Prosecutor of the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic. Prosecuting for the Republic of France, Count Francois de Menthon, Professor of Law at the University of Nancy.”
The bailiff paused for a few seconds then resumed. “The allied powers have agreed that the case for the defence will be presented by Herr Franz Becker, attorney-at-law.”
Becker turned his head to look across the aisle of the courtroom at the huge prosecution team headed by four top international legal giants and backed-up by an army of clerks, lawyers and advisers. Then he looked at his own small team of assistants. His expression was grim. Finally he bowed slightly and sat down. He felt entirely outnumbered and isolated, as though he had already been manoeuvred into a corner by some kind of private understanding he had not been a party to.
Two large covered US army trucks were parked in the street outside the Becker’s apartment. Half a dozen privates were bringing items of furniture and storage boxes down the flight of front steps and stowing them in the trucks. A US Army staff car entered the street round a far corner and pulled up close to the trucks. A young lieutenant emerged from the car and walked briskly up the steps through the open front door and into the hallway.
A few minutes later the lieutenant was politely escorting Karolin Becker down the hallway towards the front door. Karolin was carrying the baby, the lieutenant was carrying a large carpet bag for Karolin. Karolin looked rather flustered as they reached the front steps and started down for the car.
“Lieutenant Blackwell, does my husband know all about this? Has he approved of it? Will he know where we have gone?”
The lieutenant sprang to the car rear door and opened it politely for her with his free hand. “Oh yes mam, he is in court at this moment, but a note has been passed to him explaining everything. It’s from my commanding officer, General Maxwell. He has been placed in charge of security for you and your husband. I’m sure you can understand that it is not a sensible idea to inform people of such moves, you know, to secret addresses, before they take place. A casual remark might give information away.” He helped her and the baby into the rear seat and closed the door, then he got in beside the uniformed driver, who started the car.
Lieutenant Blackwell turned round to look at Karolin. He was entirely cheerful. “Don’t you worry now Frau Becker. You and your baby will be much safer with an army base as your neighbours. And it’s a beautiful house you’re going to. We’ve fixed you up with two maids, a cook and a butler. How about that?”
Karolin looked up from her baby, puzzled and worried. “Much safer…? Much safer from what…?”
The staff car moved away and turned the next corner.
Up the shallow flight of steps leading to the double doors of the courtroom a squad of ten US military police armed with sub-machine guns marched. Within the courtroom there was a growing background buzz of excited quiet talking. Court bailiffs opened the doors at the top of the stairs and the ten MPs marched through into the court. Behind them could now be seen the handcuffed figure of Adolf Hitler, dressed in an ill-fitting double-breasted suit with a shirt and a badly-knotted tie. He looked old and shrunken, but was nevertheless an unmistakable, even iconic, figure. He was being guided along by two more military policemen who each held a hand tightly either side on his shoulders. Behind marched ten more armed military police. Entering the courtroom, the escort brought Hitler to the raised accused box. This had a wooden half-door which was closed when Hitler entered the box. The two MPs whose hands had been on his shoulders entered the box with him, removed their hands and took a step backwards to stand behind him on either side, hands behind their backs.
The Court Bailiff, standing at his desk just below the judge’s box, banged a gavel which echoed loudly over the microphone. He called out: “Silence in court! Pray silence for the President of the Tribunal, Sir Geoffrey Lawrence, King’s Councillor and Knight Bachelor.” Silence fell rapidly. Somewhere somebody coughed quickly. Sir Geoffrey Lawrence spoke to the court over the microphone in front of him. In their private booths, the translators listened intently and began speaking into their microphones behind the soundproof glass.
“It is our sole purpose today to hear the reading of the indictment and receive a plea, the nature of which will determine the future course of this trial. The proceedings will be in English, and translated simultaneously into French, Russian and German, and other languages. “If my colleague Sir Hartley Shawcross the Attorney General representing the United Kingdom would like to kindly continue...? Amongst the prosecution seats, Sir Hartley Shawcross rose holding a clipboard. He bowed slightly to the President of the Tribunal. “Thank you My Lord. I will advise this Court that the prosecutors for the United States, the USSR and the Republic of France have elected to join with me in presenting a single combined dialogue of the case for the prosecution, rather than each presenting our own itemised cases, which would, we feel, clearly overlap in a great many instances and therefore lead to repetitions and an unnecessary prolonging of time.
“I therefore call upon Mister Justice Jackson of the United States Supreme Court to define the opening attributes of the case for the prosecution.”
He sat down. Robert H. Jackson stood up and looked at the President of Judges. “The Prosecution wishes it to be noted that the Defendant, Herr Adolf Hitler, has been professionally examined by psychiatric doctors during the last two weeks in order to establish his mental abilities and degree of sanity. He has been given the Rorschach test, the Thematic Apperception Test and the Wechsler-Bellevue Intelligence Test. In all cases, he was found to have above-average intelligence, and has been declared sane and mentally fit to stand trial for his actions.”
Adolf Hitler stood almost motionlessly in the prisoner’s box with the guards behind him, glowering defiantly at the President of the Tribunal and the rest of the court, but saying nothing. Time went by as Robert H. Jackson continued speaking on procedural matters. Then he elaborated on some important points.
“...In addition to the Declarations of 1942 and 1943, we have also very recently established a firm legal basis for such trials as this by the instrument of the London Charter of August 4th 1945, signed by the four Great Powers and authorising trials for the punishment of major war criminals of the European Axis countries.”
He paused and consulted his notes briefly. “The full and proper legality of this prosecution is also authorised within the Instrument of Unconditional Surrender of Germany signed in Berlin by Admiral Hans-Georg von Friedeburg on May 8th 1945. This stipulates that the governments of the United States of America, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, the United Kingdom and the Provisional Government of the French Republic from that date assume supreme authority with respect to Germany, including all the powers possessed by the German Government, the High Command, and all state, municipal or local authorities including the courts and the legal system...”
Another half hour later Robert H. Jackson was perspiring due to a very long and intricate preamble. He sat down and raised his head to stare at Adolf Hitler in the dock. Hitler still glowered straight ahead, ignoring everyone in the courtroom. There was a deafening silence in the court. Robert H. Jackson now stood up again. He looked directly at the prisoner in the dock.
“Adolf Hitler, you are to be charged with committing the following categories of multiple crimes.
“One! Conspiracy to commit crimes of peace, war crimes, and crimes against humanity!
“Two! Perpetrating crimes against peace!
“Three! Perpetrating war crimes!
“Four! Perpetrating crimes against humanity! Sir Geoffrey Lawrence stared expressionlessly at Hitler, who remained silent.
“Does the accused wish to enter a plea? You should plead ‘guilty or ‘not guilty’”.
Hitler continued to ignore the President of the Judge’s Tribunal, not even deigning to look in his direction.
Franz Becker rose to his feet. “Sir, my client will enter a plea of “Not Guilty” to each of the charges.” There was an immediate buzz of animated talking in the room.
The Bailiff banged his gavel repeatedly, calling out through the microphone standing in front of him: “Order! Order! Order in Court! Verhalten vor Gericht! Order! …”
-6-
Franz Becker drove through pleasant countryside trying conscientiously to think of his route and his road safety instead of his last couple of days in court. He passed through a quaint village hardly touched by the war. A small patch of woodland opened up before him and the road went through the belt of trees. On the farther side he saw a great long giant’s fence of coiled and straight barbed wire running across the undulating ground on high wooden posts the size of those which usually carried telephone wires. Outside this high barrier was a lower one of massed coils of barbed wire like a metallic thorn hedge.
The road ran up to a double gatehouse and many US soldiers were visible engaged in various activities. In the middle-distance there were lots of huts. The whole establishment lay in a shallow natural hollow some four kilometres wide. In the distance, on the farther side of the camp near the eves of a dark pine forest, there could be seen a rather picturesque and mansion-like hunting lodge of fair size, of the kind tourists used to like to have on the picture postcards they mailed home, back in the days when there were tourists in Germany instead of soldiers. A branch of the winding road ran to a paved courtyard surrounding the distant lodge. Becker stopped the car at the camp gate where there was a prefabricated office, a guardroom and brick storage bunkers, showed his papers and passes to the duty sergeant who rubber-stamped them, and drove under the rising barrier which he saw descending again behind him in his rear-view mirror. He followed the road in the direction of the lodge.
The large heavy front door opened into a huge hallway with wooden-posted balconies running round three walls and a carpeted staircase leading up to the balconies. The walls were covered with displays of flintlocks, swords, sabres, knives, maces, halberds and many less identifiable medieval weapons. At the foot of the stairs there was even a standing suit of armour. Along with the weapons, there were also rows of stuffed bear’s heads, boar’s heads, fox’s heads, stag heads and heads of other species of unlucky animals. Here and there were some fine paintings in ornate gilded frames. There were wooden benches, seats and other furniture including a magnificent carved hat-and-coat stand.
As Becker stepped inside and paused to look round, a man with a dignified manner came out of a passage opposite, marched to the front door and closed it. He faced Becker. “Good evening sir. I am Heinrich, the butler. Please regard myself and the rest of the staff as being at your service.”
“Thank you,” said Becker, momentarily surprised. “Is my wife here?”
“Frau Becker is in the main lounge, sir. Allow me to show you the way. You will soon find your way around the place.”
Becker followed Heinrich through the spacious hall and down a short broad corridor filled with antique tables and ornaments.
Fifteen minutes later Franz and Karolin Becker were seated at a huge polished dining table. There were lighted candles in silver candelabra. Two maids were serving dinner to them; Heinrich the butler was supervising and pouring the wine. Becker smiled at his wife. “This is a bit more like it, isn’t it my darling? A taste of the high life? Perhaps my career really is going places…?
Karolin appeared strangely nervous and wary. She followed the movements of maids and butler out of the corners of her eyes, as though watching for something. When she spoke, she sounded apprehensive. “It takes a bit of getting used to. I feel... I don’t know! I feel... awkward!”
Heinrich politely stooped over her right arm and poured wine into her cut crystal glass. He smiled politely. “Everybody will feel somewhat awkward on their first day in a new home, Frau Becker. It is only natural, if I may say so.” He moved round the table to fill Franz’s glass.
With little enthusiasm Karolin remarked to her husband: “We have a big bedroom, with huge wardrobes and a great four-poster bed! I tried it out this afternoon. A family of brown bears were glaring at me from the wall!”
“I’m sure they can be removed if you find it disturbing,” replied her husband.
She almost whispered: “I find everything disturbing!” Heinrich finished pouring wine and moved away towards the passage into the kitchen. He was smiling to himself.
There was a quiet buzz of many background conversations and some coughing as the Court Bailiff once more took his position beneath the judge’s podium for the second day of the trial. Over the loudspeakers he cried out: “Silence in court! Pray silence for the President of the Tribunal, Sir Geoffrey Lawrence, King’s Councillor and Knight Bachelor.”
Sir Geoffrey stared levelly at Hitler in the dock. “Herr Hitler, yesterday this Court heard the charges now levelled against you. These charges are conspiracy to commit, and the committal of, crimes against peace, war crimes and crimes against humanity. Multiple other charges, including authorising torture and mass murder of civilians, will devolve from these main headings.” He paused and briefly glanced at a paper he had picked up from his desk. “Your defence council has entered, on your behalf, a plea of Not Guilty on all charges.”
He dropped the paper onto his desk and leaned forward. “Today, we will hear the outline case for the defence, which will be presented by your attorney. Before I ask him to commence, is there anything you wish to say to the Court?” His voice grating with contempt, Adolf Hitler finally deigned to speak. There was a microphone suspended from the ceiling over the dock where he stood.
“I do not recognise the authority of this court! I do not recognise the authority of the judges and the officials” his voice suddenly screamed in absolute fury: “except that it is the swaggering of the victor in a contest of arms, on the basis of which you seek to fabricate nonexistent laws within a theatre of clowns and popinjays!”
Hitler lowered his head. There was a long moment of stunned silence. Sir Geoffrey Lawrence turned to look at Franz Becker and nodded slightly at him. Becker stood up to address the court.
“Thank you, Your Honour. I will advise this Court that my client’s defence will be predicated on two important and relevant issues.
“Issue one. That there is no existing law in any of the four allied powers, nor within Germany, which either defines, or else provides recognised legal guidance or precedent, or sets arbitrary rules upon, the question of whether an individual is obliged - in law - to recognise any compulsory division between what are accepted as “military orders” and orders that may result in acts that would be defined as “criminal” under a different regime
“The defence will maintain that all military chains-of-command - by the very nature of the necessary conduct of warfare and regardless of nationality - accept and require the absolute suspension of normal civil law and order when military duress demands.
”Put simply; is the High Command of any country, whether America, Britain, Russia, Germany or any other, obliged to recognise a dividing line between orders which seem necessary for accomplishing victory and orders which, under a peacetime legal system, would be considered criminal acts?
”Nor, I further submit, does one nation, or even any group of united nations, have any legal right born of their belief in their own moral rectitude, to pass a legal judgement upon the executive of any other nation who may act in a different manner or according to a different political or moral rule-book.
”Put even more simply, it is fully acknowledged with untold centuries of precedent that laws reach only to the border! No French citizen living in French territory can be prosecuted by the English court for an act which may be legal in France but illegal in England. No Russian commissar in his Moscow office obeying Soviet legislation and ordering an execution can be prosecuted for murder by a United States criminal court. No United States citizen can be prosecuted by the Soviet embassy in the USA under American law for urging people to denounce Communism, even though to do so is a crime recognised by law in the Soviet Union.
“As an exemplum exempli – an example of precedent – I ask this Court to consider a recent great crime which was not a statutory offence within the borders of the nation concerned but almost certainly would have been judged a criminal offence if it had occurred in any one of many other countries. I refer to Stalin’s purging of the Communist Party, of the Russian government, of the peasant classes and of the officers of the Red Army during the two years from 1936 to 1938, during which hundreds of thousands of people were arbitrarily shot by firing squads on Mister Stalin’s order.
“Also on Mister Stalin’s order was the forced collectivisation of agriculture in the Soviet Union, which has been unofficially named as the Holdomor, Ukranian for ‘extermination by hunger’. The best estimate of the numbers of deaths caused by this law is ten million men, women and children. I will repeat that – ten million!
“Yet, as we all know, Comrade Stalin has never been brought to trial for the crime of mass murder – he is, indeed, one of the virtuous world leaders who has instigated and contributed to the establishment of this very Court!”
His voice grew louder. “Why is Joseph Stalin not also standing in the dock over there beside Herr Hitler? Could it be simply because he is on the winning side whereas Herr Hitler is on the losing? Is it appropriate, does this Court think, to prosecute a German leader on a charge of ordering massacres of innocent people, but inappropriate to prosecute a Russian leader for the exact same crime? Does Justice punish its enemies whilst it lets its friends go free? Is the gleaming international justice this court claims to represent, as shallow, as hollow, as contrived, as that? As superficial as that? As meaningless as that? I ask everyone listening to search within themselves for the answer to that question!”
Becker paused briefly to quickly sort his papers. A susurration of animated background conversation began in the big courtroom. The Head Bailiff banged his gavel for silence. After a moment Becker resumed speaking very calmly.
“I do not need to point out to this court that there was an earlier dreadful World War between 1914 and 1918. There were atrocities committed in that war, too. May I remind this court that, for example, on 19th August 1915 the British ship Baralong, sailing under false colours by flying the American flag at a time when the United States was a neutral country and had not yet entered the war – an internationally illegal act contrary to the so-called “rules of warfare” - sank the German submarine U-27. All the German survivors were summarily executed, without trial or any legal process, on the orders of the Baralong’s captain, the British Lieutenant Godfrey Herbert. Then on the 24th September the Baralong, having sunk another submarine, U-41, deliberately rammed a lifeboat containing its surviving German crew, sinking it and drowning the occupants.
“No atrocity charges were ever brought against Lieutenant Godfrey Herbert or any member of the British high command, the Admiralty, or government.”
Again he paused, dropping a paper to his desktop. He briefly studied another sheet, then looked across the courtroom to the Prosecution. “And, if I may, I would like to respond to the opening statement made by my honourable colleague Mister Justice Jackson of the United States Supreme Court for the Prosecution.
“If we are to examine the question of morals applying to the conduct of warfare, which has been offered by the prosecution in support of this trial, I would like to draw the attention of this court to the fact that there are, to this day, elderly people still living in the United States who fought for the North or the South in the American Civil War, such as James Hard who now lives in Rochester, New York, and who remembers personally meeting President Abraham Lincoln in a White House reception and is verified by records as a combat veteran of the Union Army; and Pleasant Crump, now living in Talladega County, Alabama, who personally witnessed the surrender of General Robert E. Lee in Appomattox Courthouse and is verified as a combat veteran of the Confederate Army. In that dreadful war on America’s own soil, which is still just within living memory at this time, there were a great many atrocities which went unpunished and are today largely – one might perhaps accurately say ‘conveniently’ - forgotten by those who were born later. However, this civil war with its slaughter and atrocities was the very springboard that produced the United States of America as it is today.
“We should, perhaps, also consider the battered but victorious French Republic, represented here by the Honourable Count Francois de Menthon, Professor of Law; a series of four succeeding republics which originally came into being via a revolution in which huge numbers of men, women and children were slaughtered. A minimum of forty thousand people were executed by guillotine and some three hundred thousand men and women were arrested during the short period aptly known as ‘The Terror’. It is on record that an innocent palace cook was basted in butter and burned alive simply because they worked for the royal family.
“And yet, this series of dreadful atrocities eventually produced the Provisional Government of the French Republic of today, under the able leadership of Leon Blum, one-hundred-and-twenty-eighth Prime Minister of France and President of the Republic, which is so ably represented in this court by Count Francois de Menthon, Professor of Law.”
“And I should not forget to mention England in this context, a country which is so ably represented here in this Court by Sir Geoffrey Lawrence, Member of the King’s Bench Division and Knight Bachelor, elected President of our Judge’s Panel. It is a true, incontrovertible fact that the system of parliamentary government which rules Britain and sits under a purely figurehead monarch came into being as a result of the English Civil Wars during the period 1642 to 1651, which involved Ireland, Scotland and Wales as well, and which eventually produced what we know today as the United Kingdom. The total number of deaths in this conflict, both military and civilian, through battle, political executions and disease and famine resulting from war, was almost one million people. Statisticians have calculated that three-point-seven percent of the population of England at that time, six percent of the population of Scotland and forty-one per-cent of the Irish population died as a result of that period of internal warfare in which the administrative structure of today’s British Government, and indeed, of the British legal system, was worked out.”
He paused and looked round the court, his gaze finally stopping at the President of the Judge’s panel. “Anybody who has young children will know very well the child’s excuse that is always given when an adult has to break up a children’s fight; it consists of only three words – ‘They started it!’ No decent parent, surely, accepts this as a valid reason for their son or daughter to launch a violent attack on another’s son or daughter? Yet as adults, the nations of the world nevertheless evidently still regard ‘They Started It’ as a perfectly valid excuse for going to war. We need to ask ourselves; wherein, exactly, lies the difference? At what age does ‘They started it!’ officially cease to be a statement that adults explain is not an acceptable excuse to start a fight, and officially transform into a perfectly acceptable excuse for a nation to march to war?”
Becker paused again to draw a few deep breaths.
“My point, Sir, is that war itself is a moral atrocity, and all sides who participate in it - regardless of the apparent soundness of their reasons – are equally complicit in that atrocity. Between 1914 and 1918, on all sides, over eight million military personnel were killed; seven million were permanently disabled; fifteen million were seriously injured. This figure produces an average statistic of six thousand soldiers dying each and every day for more than four years. Are these figures themselves not atrocious? Surely, one cannot maintain that one side’s atrocities are greater than another side’s atrocities, so that the side with the highest atrocity tally is entirely guilty, while the side with the lower atrocity tally is entirely innocent and is therefore morally right to become history’s judge, jury and executioner? If one murderer kills two men and another murderer kills three men, do we regard the first murderer as being less guilty of murder, and the second as being more guilty? Do we give the first murderer a milder sentence but hang the second one?”
He paused, continuing quietly but firmly. “We do not! We treat both of them as equally guilty of the crime of murder!”
He paused, then continued in a quieter voice. “Figures are still being compiled, but it has already been confirmed that up to 1945 the British RAF and the US Air Force killed over one hundred thousand innocent civilians, men, women and children, in bombing raids over Germany. I would ask Council for the Prosecution to kindly confirm to this court, just for the record, that this atrocity was entirely validated on the legal basis of ‘They started it!’ “
He paused and looked directly at the Prosecution benches across the courtroom, but apart from a perceptible shuffling of someone’s feet and a smothered cough there came no response. Nobody looked at him. He waited for several long moments during which the silence was loud, then resumed.
“In November 1918, Kaiser Wilhelm the Second, Emperor of Germany, abdicated and was permitted to take a train into exile in the Netherlands as a private citizen. Until his death by natural causes in 1941, he lived in some luxury in the town of Doorn in the province of Utrecht and was never extradited to answer for any aspect whatsoever of the First World War, whether atrocities or otherwise.
“Does anyone in this courtroom wish to maintain that the reason why the Kaiser was not put on trial for war crimes was because that war was a more civilised war than the one we have recently endured, and it was therefore more appropriate for the winners not to legally prosecute the ruler of the losers?
“It is an amusing popular claim that everybody has a double. Do we think it is correct to apply this also to our standards?”
He paused for several seconds, slowly turning his head to look at the entire courtroom, as though listening carefully. The room was echoingly silent. One could have heard a pin drop.
“Let it be noted on the record that I hear no disagreement.”
He looked down at his papers again, shuffling them quickly. “I come now to issue two. The interesting matter of retroactive laws.” He paused.
“For those people who may be unfamiliar with the term, a retroactive law is a law which is established after a certain event has taken place, where that event was not a crime at the time the event happened, but where a legislative body has, after the event, backdated a new law so that the event becomes a criminal act some time after it has been committed. The legal term for such a law is an ex post facto law.
“In other words, such a law criminalises actions which were not criminal when they were committed.”
Becker stared slowly round the courtroom at a sea of faces which were riveted on him. There was total silence.
“In general, human civilisation has found retroactive law to be a repugnant concept. Permit me to remind this Court of a few legal facts.
“Article One, Section Nine, Clause Three, of the Constitution of the United States of America specifically forbids the introduction of retroactive laws.
“Article Two of the French Civil Code and Article one hundred and twelve, item one, of the French Penal Code also specifically forbid the introduction of retroactive laws.”
Becker again paused and looked round at the sea of riveted faces staring at him. Then he resumed.
“The German Weimar Republic also forbade the enactment of retroactive laws. The laws of the Weimar republic were replaced in 1935 by laws introduced by the Nazi Party.” Now he raised his voice.
“The Nazi legal system fully recognised and introduced retroactive laws! I quote from the Nazi Criminal Code of 1935: ‘Whoever commits an act which deserves punishment according to the principles of criminal law and to the sound feelings of the people, will be punished!’ He lowered his voice to a growl. “Please let these words from the Nazi Criminal Code burn in your thoughts: ‘According to the sound feelings of the people...!’” He paused again.
“The process of adopting a morality in which the structure of law is based on the ‘feelings of the people’ has another name as well. It is more usually called ‘Mob Rule!’ It is the legalisation of the lynch mob and of the so-called “kangaroo court!”
Becker lowered his head in silence for a few moments, then suddenly jerked upright with blazing eyes.
“I will also repeat at this juncture the statements made previously by the President of this Tribunal Sir Geoffrey Lawrence and by Justice of the United States Supreme Court Mr. Robert H. Jackson for the prosecution - both of whom I will ask to be so good as to correct me if I am in error regarding any word they stated.
“I quote Sir Geoffrey Lawrence: ‘This Court finds its mandate and authority in the Joint Declaration of December 17th 1942 signed by the United States of America, Great Britain and the Soviet Union;’ and: ‘We also find our mandate and authority in the Moscow Declaration of October 1943, signed by United States President Franklin D. Roosevelt, British Prime Minister Winston Churchill and Soviet Secretary Josef Stalin.’ I quote Mr. Robert H. Jackson: ‘In addition to the Declarations of 1942 and 1943, we have also very recently established a firm legal basis by the instrument of the London Charter of August 4th 1945, signed by the four Great Powers and authorising trials for the punishment of major war criminals of the European Axis countries;’ and: ‘The full and proper legality of this prosecution is also authorised within the Instrument of Unconditional Surrender of Germany signed in Berlin by Admiral Hans-Georg von Friedeburg on May 8th 1945.’
Becker paused a moment, then spoke clearly and firmly.
“Please correct me if I am mistaken, but the transference of the German state’s legal authority from Germany to the Allies by the signing of the document of surrender was indeed completed last year, in 1945. The other two agreements cited as providing the authority of this Court were signed in 1943 and 1942.”
Now Becker suddenly and unexpectedly shouted at the whole Court in a controlled manner, waving the papers he held in his right hand to add emphasis.
“Therefore, the legality of this Court and of any legislation or ruling it may make in this trial, is based entirely on ex post facto laws - on retroactive laws - on laws which came into force after the events they condemn - World War 2 - had already begun!”
He stormed even louder.
“Is this Court therefore not exactly and undeniably an example of: ‘Whoever commits an act which deserves punishment according to the sound feelings of the people, will be punished?’ Is this not exactly and undeniably the same principle of retroactive law banned under the United States Constitution? Banned under French law? Banned under German Law during the Weimar Republic?”
A background hubub of angry voices began to surge in the Court and grow louder as Becker continued. He shouted even louder above the rising tumult.
“Is this Court therefore not a perfect example of mob rule? Is this Court not a kangaroo court, a de facto lynch mob? Does this Court not therefore perfectly represent just another kind of Nazi law? If Adolf Hitler is here on trial at the hands of his enemies, is it not really simply a matter of a demonstration of power? Of demonstrating that a winning system of legal government is more powerful than a defeated system of government legal in its own land – of sending the message to the world that the Allied Powers are simply bigger and better Nazis than Adolf Hitler was?”
The entire court rose to its feet in sudden furious uproar. Sir Geoffrey Lawrence banged his gavel furiously, his expression utterly livid. He rose from his seat, leaning forward, and pointed a shaking finger at Becker. He shouted out above the turmoil now rising throughout the court. “Council for the defence will control his remarks! Council for the defence will pay due respect to this Court and its judges! Otherwise Council for the defence will be charged with contempt of court and only re-admitted when the contempt has been purged!”
-7-
Franz Becker emerged from his car, opened the front door of the house and entered. There were many trophies displayed everywhere around the walls of the big hunting lodge. Their glass eyes seemed to follow him as he walked to the main lounge. He found Karolin sitting in an upholstered chair cuddling their baby son on her lap. To his surprise, Lieutenant Blackwell was sitting at his ease in a chair facing Karolin. Becker paused momentarily with his hand still on the door handle, looking at Lieutenant Blackwell a little suspiciously. Then he walked over to his wife and kissed her and the baby. He drew up another armchair, placing it beside his wife, and sat, staring silently at Blackwell with raised eyebrows. Blackwell smiled at him blandly. “Hi, Herr Becker. I trust everything is to your satisfaction about this house?”
Becker answered stiffly and suspiciously, eyebrows still raised. “The house is a house. It is nothing more than an hotel while we need to be away from home. That is all that can be said about any house. It serves a purpose.”
“Well, gee, I was hoping you would kind-of fall in love with the place. We went out of our way to make it available to you both.”
Karolin spoke frostily. “Do not say ‘both!’ There are three of us in this family!” She gently bounced the baby on her knee. “Hey,” said the lieutenant, “I meant no offence. Don’t get me wrong.”
Becker stared him in the eye without blinking. “So how do we get you right? What are you doing here?” “I came to see if everything was to your satisfaction. That’s all.”
It was Karolin who responded before her husband could. “You have been here for over an hour waiting for my husband to return. I do not think ‘that’s all’ at all. I think you have some other purpose!”
Before Blackwell could reply, Franz Becker spoke to him with more than a hint of sarcasm. “Is everything to our satisfaction? Well - let me see...” He drew a slow breath. “We are Germans. We have just lost a catastrophic war. We have seen our ancient historical homeland lain waste and occupied by invaders. Many of our relatives and friends have been slaughtered. We have been ruled for some ten years by an insane regime which judged citizens by their race instead of by their abilities. My wife’s grandfather was Jewish. We have lived for ten years in imminent dread of the casual denouncement of a jealous neighbour and the loud knock on the door before dawn. Now we have been obliged to abandon our home, our apartment, which we obtained through our own hard work and in which our child was born. In its place, we have been brought into this... this dark and gloomy museum - this mausoleum - this temple to the sadistic lust for slaughtering poor dumb animals who cannot shoot back. We are guarded by an entire army camp...” He paused, then continued more calmly.
“Tell me lieutenant - where do you suppose is the difference between being protected and being contained? No, Lieutenant Blackwell, I can assure you that everything is about as far from our satisfaction as can be. Now please have the honesty to tell us your real reason for coming here this evening!”
Blackwell stared at him for a moment. His face lost its smile. He nodded curtly. “OK. I need to talk to you about today - in court.”
Becker suddenly leaned forward towards him. “What about today in court? Were you there?” he snapped. “Well, no – I guess I wasn’t...” His manner became slightly uncomfortable. Before he could continue, Becker interrupted like a panther pouncing.
“You guess? You guess? Guesses are meaningless. I deal only in facts!”
Blackwell finally showed some anger. “You know damn well that’s an American figure-of-speech. OK, I was not in the court today. Is that better?”
“Better? Possibly! More honest, certainly! So - as someone who was not present in the court, what is it that you want to talk to me about - and perhaps more to the point, who ordered you to come here and speak to me?”
Blackwell made another attempt to appear friendly. “Look, I simply heard that you provoked Sir Geoffrey into a raging outburst and almost got yourself charged with contempt. Now, you must have touched a raw nerve to have accomplished that.”
“I cannot comment on that. For one thing, it may well be sub-judice, for another it will be on the official record and available to anyone who has sufficient authority to view it. It is not a matter for casual gossip.”
Blackwell stared at Becker earnestly. “I will be frank with you. It may be the case that certain high-ranking figures do not wish for Herr Hitler’s defence in court to be too good. It may be that such figures are anxious for the defence to make a fool of itself - to collapse like a house of cards. It may be... Goddamit it, it may be the case that you, Herr Becker, were deliberately chosen to handle the defence because certain figures thought a young, unknown shyster lawyer from a tiny and obscure provincial practice would mess his case up good!” He drew breath. “Today you did not mess up your case. Today you raised such valid legal issues that the Chairman of the Tribunal himself was caught hopping! Today you started to pull the rug out from under the entire structure of the prosecution. Today you were superb.
“Today you showed yourself to the world to be an outstanding, red-hot pain-in-the-backside to the President of the USA, the Prime Minister of Britain, the Dictator of Russia, the new President of France and countless mere government ministers, officials and generals.”
Blackwell lowered his voice. “Believe me - that is not a good position to be in! This war was not won by the nicest guys. It was won by the strongest guys!” He rose to his feet. “Think about it!” Blackwell turned his back abruptly and strode quickly out of the room.
The Beckers looked at each other blankly. Karolin reached behind her to the wall and tugged at a thick tasselled cord. There was the sound of a distant chime elsewhere in the house. Her eyebrows frowned. “Franz – what’s happening? That man worries me. All of this worries me.” Her husband answered in an angry, bitter voice. “If what he says is true, it seems I have been carefully selected as a - what do the Americans call it? A patsy! A stooge! A fall-guy!” Then he looked her in the eyes and smiled. “And do you know what? I’m not going to play their game for them! Adolf Hitler may be the worst criminal in history - but they said he must have a trial. And if I can get him off on a legal technicality, I shall do so. And I will now take great satisfaction by so doing.
“You know what else? They’ve asked for it! I’m going to do my level best to bring their damned house of cards falling round their ears. I’m going to take the fight even further into the centre of the arena and make them look small. They deserve it!”
At that moment the door opened quietly and Heinrich the butler entered. “Did you ring Sir? Madam? I was just conducting the American officer off the premises.”
Karolin answered. “Heinrich, can you bring us two glasses of red wine? We both need a drink badly, I think!”
As Heinrich turned to leave the room, Franz Becker spoke to him. “Heinrich - do you know anything much about our Lieutenant Blackwell?”
Heinrich paused and turned to face Franz Becker. “I regret, sir, that I do not know much about him. I was engaged by General Adams, another American, who lived in this house before you. He was promoted, as I understand it, to a desk job in the Pentagon and had to return to the USA. All I know is that a General Maxwell replaced General Adams as commander of this camp, and Lieutenant Blackwell was attached to him and came with him.” He paused thoughtfully. “If it helps, my wages are paid by the US Army, so they are technically my employer. One could say, ‘I come with the house’.”
“Have you been here long?”
“Not really, sir. Some four months. Before that I was... well, like many German men, I served my country.”
“What did you do?” asked Karolin curiously.
“Nothing courageous, I’m afraid madam. I served as a medical orderly - I studied medicine at university in Munich before the war, you see, so I became attached to a medical unit.” He hesitated, then: “I will bring your wine.”
Franz Becker spoke quietly after Heinrich had left and closed the door. “I’m not sure I trust him. There’s something about him that makes my spine tingle.” Then he became more positive. “However, just between the three of us-” he looked fondly at their baby son – “I shall spend a little time thinking about our safety. Just in case of emergencies. I think it might be sensible to have… an escape plan.”
Karolin was worried. “Do you think that is necessary, Franz? Escape? Where to?”
“You have an uncle and aunt in Argentina, don’t you?”
“That’s right - they have a cattle ranch outside Rivadavia, only about a hundred kilometres from the Chilean border.”
Her husband pondered for a moment. “I think I will arrange to withdraw all our savings, or as much as we are allowed under the emergency currency regulations. I think we shall send a telegram to your aunt and uncle... just in case...”
The door opened and Heinrich entered quietly carrying a silver tray with two glasses of red wine on it.
-8-
Another day in the Nuremberg courtroom. Everyone was back in their same places, including the silent Adolf Hitler glaring forward under heavy guard. Sir Geoffrey Lawrence had already instructed the bailiff to bang his gavel over the loudspeakers and the big room was quickly falling silent.
“This Court will now resume hearing the outline case for the defence,” stated Sir Geoffrey. “It is to be understood that the introductory outlines of the cases for the prosecution and the defence are being given first, which commenced two days ago for the prosecution and yesterday for the defence, and when the outlines have been presented, the Court will then sit to hear the specific chapter-and-verse details of both sides. The outline case for the prosecution has already been completed. The outline for the defence was commenced yesterday and will be resumed today.”
He turned his head to stare meaningfully across the courtroom at Franz Becker. “Herr Becker. You must understand that you have been cautioned against contempt. You may proceed.”
Becker stood up. “Thank you your honour.” He paused for a moment to look round the courtroom, gathering his thoughts.
“Today I wish to continue to review the general nature of the case for the prosecution, in the light of the defence which shall be presented against it at the time when both sides are able to go into any necessary intricate detail.” He looked at papers in his hand for a few seconds.
”I will take the charges in the order they were presented. My client is first charged with conspiracy to commit various crimes which were then itemised. Since conspiracy to commit a crime can only occur if the action discussed by the conspirators is against the law, any charge of conspiracy is dependant upon whether or not the act or acts discussed by any alleged conspirators are against the law prevailing at the time and place of the discussion.
“Therefore, the Defence will concentrate on the acts said to have been the subject of such conspiracy. These acts are - as the Prosecution has itemised them - crimes against peace; war crimes; and crimes against humanity.
“I shall start with the first accusation, crimes against peace.” He lowered his head then looked up again.
“The Defence will submit that, within the context of the matter before this Court, the single possible crime against peace, as applicable to the nations who have brought this accusation, is to have declared war on them.
“Did Herr Hitler declare war?”
He raised his voice. “Actually, it is entirely provable he did not! In 1939 Great Britain and France declared war upon Germany! It was this declaration that started the ball of world war rolling!”
A background of angry murmuring started in the crowded courtroom. Becker ignored this and went on.
”If it is a crime against peace to conspire to declare war upon another sovereign state, then that crime was committed, not by Herr Hitler, but by Great Britain and France!”
There was a sudden angry uproar in the court. Both Sir Geoffrey Lawrence and the Head Bailiff banged their gavels furiously. At the same time, two of the chief prosecutors - Sir Hartley Shawcross of the United Kingdom and Count Francoise de Menthon of France - leaped to their feet. Count Francoise called out loudly in excellent English; “Your Honour, this is distortion of the facts! War was declared because both Great Britain and France were honouring the Munich Agreement which Herr Hitler signed jointly with Neville Chamberlain, Édouard Daladier and Benito Mussolini!”
A rapid silence descended. Becker spoke quietly, although everyone could hear him clearly over the microphone. “But gentlemen, is it not true that the Munich Agreement dealt only with the territories of Czechoslovakia following the German annexation of the Sudetenland which held a very large population of people of German origin, with Great Britain and France guaranteeing to support the new boundaries of Czechoslovakia against any attack or invasion by Germany?”
Calmly Becker turned to face Sir Geoffrey Lawrence. “Your Honour, I submit the plain fact that the Munich Agreement, which as my learned colleagues quite rightly state was signed by Herr Hitler, dealt solely and exclusively with Czechoslovakia and its new borderline. There is no mention of Poland in the Munich Agreement, a facsimile of which I have here and can, if required, present to the Court for inspection.”
Sir Geoffrey turned his head briefly to Sir Hartley Shawcross and Count Francoise de Menthon who were still standing in fury at the Prosecution desks. “Please be seated, gentlemen. The Prosecution will have its chance to speak more fully at a later designated time.” The two men bobbed their heads and sat down looking disgruntled. Then Sir Geoffrey nodded at Becker to resume.
“The evidence proves conclusively, Your Honour, that both Great Britain and France colluded together to launch military hostilities against Germany. The declaration of war was made by the governments of Great Britain and France purely and calculatedly to meddle in the political settlements being made within the European domain.
“One might say, with full justification, that the governments of Great Britain and France decided to wage a preventative, or at least a punitive, war against Germany just because they had, at almost the last moment, promised to do so if Germany interfered with Poland. War was declared against Germany – whose own civilian population had no say in the matter whatsoever - due to a border dispute in Europe.” He raised his voice. “It is, therefore, provable fact that Herr Hitler cannot possibly, accurately or legally be shown to have conspired to wage war on Great Britain or France, and that it can be factually and legally proven that it was Great Britain and France who conspired to wage war on Germany!”
Again the entire courtroom erupted in angry reaction and many screamed shouts of disagreement. The Chairman of Judges banged his gavel repeatedly and the Head Bailiff joined in. Franz Becker slowly sat down looking rather satisfied.
Down the same whitewashed stone passage deep beneath the surface of Kassel marched the same Colonel and Major with Franz Becker, footsteps echoing. Becker passed through the same tiresome password confirmation and search and went through the same massive vault doors. Then once again he was alone in Hitler’s cell, approaching the massive blocky chair where the former Leader was securely fastened with straight jacket and clamps between court appearances.
Becker stood before Hitler and watched him for a few moments.. The man’s eyes were closed. He hardly moved. “I understand you sent for me?” Becker said quietly.
Hitler’s hypnotic eyes opened suddenly. “I am evidently permitted to confer in private with my defence council,” he snapped.
“Yes - you are. What was it you wished to see me about?”
“Are you married?”
Becker was slightly puzzled by the question. “Yes, I am.”
“Do you have any children?”
“Yes – one boy. He is just over eight months old now. His name is Steffen.”
Hitler stared at Becker for some moments with his piercing eyes, expressionless. Then he said: “I wanted to tell you myself that you were splendid in Court. You almost caused a riot. You had the prosecution and judges gabbling in fury. That is no mean feat.”
Becker stared back silently. Hitler spoke again.
“I wanted to tell you that they will never allow you to get away with it! They will never allow you to win this case. Never. Under any circumstances.” He drew breath deeply then raised his voice. “I did not want you! I did not want a defence council! I did not ask for you! I did not need you! I still do not need you!”
His voice lowered to a growl. “But you... you, Herr Becker - you have suddenly shown me something! You have shown me that you are worthy. You are a truly worthy man. I do not like you - I do not need to like you. You do not like me - you do not need to like me. But none-the-less, I want you to know that I find you worthy in my eyes.
“We do not like each other. But you have gained my respect and some measure of my admiration. And because of that, I want to order you to resign - to abandon your brief - to quit this trial! And before you ask “why?” I shall tell you the reason I require this. It is because you are edging too close to winning!”
Becker was confused. “I... I do not understand. It is my duty to do all I can to win the case. It is an academic matter. A purely professional matter. My profession is law. Whether I represent a prosecution or a defence, I shall always drive myself to succeed, as will my opposing council, whoever they are. We never become personally involved in our cases - no lawyer should do that!
“It is a game of chess. A game of chess! Whichever side wins or loses, the lawyers presenting prosecution and defence never take the matter personally. If I win, the opposing council will congratulate me. If I lose, I will congratulate them. Lawyers are not duellists out to kill or maim their opponent! We are chess players, admiring our opponent’s move when it is clever, pouncing on them when their move is foolish.”
Hitler’s voice became contemptuous. “What a wonderful world you live in, Herr Becker. What an innocent world! What a decent, upright and well-ordered world. What a highly educated world. What a civilized world.
“But I can tell you - it is not the real world! The real world is a savage jungle full of very dangerous human animals. A courtroom does not deal with the realities of the world. A courtroom sanitizes reality. A courtroom dissects and inspects reality, like a deadly serpent is dissected and inspected in a sterile, antiseptic laboratory far removed from the stinking swamp where the serpents live. “I assure you, Herr Becker, the world of humans is a jungle. You may think I am cynical.” He raised his voice. “But I have lived in that jungle all my life - and for a time I was King of the Jungle! And you, Herr Becker, are a gazelle who thinks lions eat grass like you do.
“Herr Becker, you are surrounded by lions who eat gazelles for breakfast! And if I cannot dismiss you, I will at least tell you to watch your back, and watch your step, watch your enemies, and watch your friends even more! For that is the way the real world works!”
Then, brusquely and dismissively, he casually said: “That is all. You have my permission to leave.” Then louder: “Now!” Becker stared at Hitler for some moments, then slowly turned and walked towards the great steel door.
-9-
It was becoming a familiar if tiresome routine to have to stop at the guard-post, identify himself to an army officer, get clearance, have his entry pass rubber-stamped and wait for the red and white striped barrier to be raised by a soldier before he could drive down the gracefully twisting private road to the far hunting lodge, visible in the distance against the line of the forest on the farther side of the big military camp. This, he reflected sourly, was the price they had to pay for becoming involved in what had become an overnight international event and ongoing news story.
In the couple of miles between the guard-post and the hunting lodge the land was a shallow valley in which could be seen many lines of tents, wooden buildings, rows of field guns, rows of tanks, rows of jeeps, wooden gymnastic frameworks for exercise and practice, a distant airstrip where a couple of Bell P-39 Airacobra fighters stood, and alongside the winding road through to the lodge, a large empty grassy training area bigger than a dozen farm fields.
A US soldier handed Becker’s identity papers and permits back to him and he got back into his car. Starting up, he moved off in the direction of the distant hunting lodge. He was over halfway down the narrow road when, suddenly and with no warning, a great explosion erupted only some thirty feet away with a flash like lightning and a fountain of earth and smoke. Within a bare fraction of a second Becker’s ears were deafened and ringing from the sound of the shell burst and his car rocked sideways in the blast of the concussion. Momentarily stunned, he wrenched the wheel by accident. The car swerved in a screech of tyres then came to a halt, the engine cutting out.
He leaned against the steering wheel, gripping it tightly with white knuckles. His ears were still ringing. As he turned to stare disbelievingly at the clearing cloud of earth and smoke, a second explosion occurred about thirty feet ahead and further from the road. Then moments later, a third explosion about sixty feet away. To his horror, he realised that the continuing chain of explosions was travelling one after the other in a specific line – and that line was now heading, bang by bang, unmistakably and with a mathematical precision, straight in the direction of the hunting lodge where his wife and child were waiting for him to return.
Panic stricken, he tried to start the engine. It turned over but there was no ignition. He tried again with the same result. Screaming harshly in rage he banged the dashboard with his fists, breaking the glass on a dial. He tried the starter again and the engine coughed and roared into life. The car lurched forward at full throttle, rear wheels spinning and screeching on the tarmac. Within moments he was racing down the road towards the lodge at a rapidly increasing speed. He was in a deadly race, swaying dangerously through bends, sometimes on two wheels. His speed dial reached 90 miles per hour then the needle jammed.
Outside, he saw to his left the continuing regular impact of whooping, whining artillery shells exploding at perfectly regular intervals of five seconds, each explosion about 30 feet apart. The line of explosions was heading directly towards the lodge like giant footprints. Becker crouched forward at the steering wheel like some demented racing driver. The whoosh and roar of artillery shells was loud in his ears. He realised that he was screaming loudly in frustrated rage and effort. Slowly the speeding car pulled ahead of the advancing line of explosions.
Sliding to a handbrake stop that generated a shower of gravel like a wave on a beach, Becker leaped out without wasting time stopping the engine or turning off the ignition key. Behind him another artillery shell exploded no more than 150 feet from the house. He sprinted for the front door and into the house. Another shell exploded about 120 feet away.
On the farther side of the main hall stood Karolin cradling the baby. The baby was crying, and so was Karolin. They rushed into each other’s arms and Franz Becker looked rapidly round for the best route by which to escape from the house before the shelling reached it. But suddenly there came what could only be described as a deafening silence from outside: the artillery barrage had stopped. Franz and Karolin, sobbing with emotion, sank to their knees over their crying baby, hugging and weeping together.
General Maxwell was a middle-aged man who looked more like a bank manager than a warrior, except for his uniform and insignia. His local office was in a large US Army hut and there was a suitably large desk behind which he sat. In front of the desk stood Franz Becker, furious to the point of apoplexy. He shouted and screamed, wide-eyed and waving his hands and had been doing so for a few minutes already.
“...We might have been killed! Blown to pieces! Your fucking artillery was deliberately aiming at my car and our house! They were using live ammunition and they were trying to kill us. My poor wife was terrified! Our baby was terrified! I was terrified...! General Maxwell waved his own hands trying to calm things down. “Herr Becker, if you would please allow me to get a word in edgewise, I do not think..."
Becker shouted him down in rage. “The fucking shells were landing yards away from my car! The explosions were closing-in on where my wife and child were cowering! What the fucking hell were your men trying to do - deliberately kill us? Is that what you wanted?” He took a step towards the general’s desk and banged both fists violently down on the desktop, making pens and paperweights jump with a clatter. He leaned forward on his arms and thrust his face to a couple of feet from Maxwell’s, rasping hoarsely. “You want to murder us, is that it? You want to kill us!”
Visibly keeping his temper, Maxwell answered him. “Herr Becker, this is an army base. We have training exercises here on a regular basis. I assure you, our artillery range-finders are thorough experts. They were certainly not trying to harm you, or your wife and child.
“I am reliably informed by eyewitnesses who were involved with the exercise that no shells landed anywhere near close enough to you or your lodge to present any risk whatsoever. My men, Herr Becker, are professional experts. They know exactly what they are doing! He paused and leaned forward, still staring piercingly at Becker. “Herr Becker, was your vehicle damaged by the firing?”
Becker had to reply truthfully. “No, it wasn’t damaged.”
Maxwell continued remorselessly in the same even tone. “Did any splinters or shards strike you or your family, or did any of the shells hit you?”
“No.”
“Was the house damaged or marked in any way? Were any windows broken?”
“No.”
The general’s tone became soothing. “Well then, surely you can see that this was nothing to do with trying to harm you, or anybody? This was nothing more than a simple artillery practice, of a routine kind we conduct on this base at fairly regular intervals. The guns were laying down an advancing shellfire cover, an operation requiring great accuracy and expertise - and from everything I have been told by those involved - including you yourself Herr Becker - the gunners were doing an excellent job of keeping their firing perfectly accurate. There were no stray shells. There were no explosions sufficiently close to either you or any property to cause the slightest harm.”
Now he leaned back at ease in his chair. His tone became sincere. “Of course it can be alarming for a civilian to see artillery shells exploding in a line across the countryside, especially if you have not been warned that the practice will be taking place. I will certainly find out why you were not informed beforehand, and I will punish the person who neglected to do so, you have my assurance on that.
“But it was a safe and harmless exercise, nothing more. You and your wife happened to see it close-up and without any prior warning, that’s all, and it was understandably disturbing. I promise you, I will ensure that you receive proper advance warning of any such exercises in the future.”
Becker was still panting from his angry tirade. His face was not friendly. Without saying a word, he turned sharply and walked out of the office, slamming the door very loudly behind him.
A few moments later a rear door opened in the office and Lieutenant Blackwell entered quite casually. He did not salute. General Maxwell looked at him and nodded very slightly. “Pass my personal congratulations to the gunners. Tell them they followed their orders with great skill and precision.”
“Yes Sir,” said Blackwell with a slight grin.
Maxwell was silent for a few moments, then mused. “This man Franz Becker might pose a significant problem.” He reflected in silence for half a minute. Blackwell did not interrupt him. Finally Maxwell said; “Lieutenant, I think we need to take out some insurance. Just in case…!”
-10-
There was an old building in a dark and dingy alleyway between streets. The building was almost decrepit and looked like it had not been renovated or cleaned for at least half a century. By luck, it had entirely escaped being bombed or damaged by the war, but it looked as though it might fall down without any help in the not-too-distant future anyway. There was a large black door, beside which was fixed a row of some eight bell-pushes. Three of these boasted small cardboard inserts with business names written in pen by hand. Two of these names were those of rather exotic-sounding women. One was the name of a moneylender. It was that one which Franz Becker pressed when he had walked down the alley and stopped at the door.
An ancient, withered man who looked as though he was saving up for his own funeral opened the door. He obviously recognised Becker, for he merely nodded at him, or rather, twitched his head a couple of times on his scrawny neck, and shuffled back to a shabby armchair where he picked up a newspaper and hid himself behind it as he resumed reading. Becker trod across uneven floorboards to the foot of a bare wooden staircase and started to ascend. He reached the fifth floor and went down a dingy corridor until he came to a door with a cracked frosted glass window. On the glass was painted in black letters:
Udo Klein
Allgemeine Makler
Becker knocked once, loudly, then opened the door and strode through as though he owned the place. Inside, a tough-looking middle-aged man in a collarless striped shirt and braces was sitting behind a battered desk writing in a ledger. He smoked a cigar. A small stack of ledgers were on the desktop. There was a grimy window with no curtain. In a corner of the office was a small and stained white sink with a single cold tap dripping slowly. Next to it was a grimy and ancient gas cooker with a dented kettle on it. As Becker entered, the man glanced up scowling. His expression relaxed as he recognised his visitor.
“Well well! Herr Franz Becker. Don’t tell me you want to pawn your family heirlooms?”
Becker laughed good-naturedly. “No Udo, money is not my problem at this time.” He pulled a plain kitchen chair across the floor to sit in front of the desk.
“I should think not!” remarked Udo Klein. “I read about your exploits at the trial of old Adolf Schicklgruber in the newspapers every morning. You have become famous. There must be plenty money in it somewhere.” He held up a hand and rubbed thumb and forefinger together. Becker ignored this. “I wish to employ the skilled service of your other business.”
Udo Klein tried to look innocent. “Other business? What other business? I have no other business!”
“I’m not here to play games, Udo. Remember, it was me who fought your case in court and got you off a charge of forging identity papers and passports.”
“But I was innocent,” wailed the other theatrically, spreading his hands. “You proved to the court that I was innocent.”
“That’s right. And I can just as easily go back to the authorities and show them the evidence I ignored which proves that you were actually as guilty as sin. The only reason I defended you was because you also forged papers and passports for Jewish families to help them escape the country.” Udo Klein visibly slumped. “What is it that you want?”
“Only your exceptional talents, nothing more. I need forged identity papers and forged passports and travel permits for two adults and a baby.” He extracted a bulky sealed envelope from his coat pocket and handed it across the table. “Here are the details, plus all necessary photographs.” He paused and stared Udo Klein in the eyes. “How long?”
“Two people and a baby? Two weeks.”
“No quicker?”
“Forgery is a complex art. It takes time and care, and a secret printing works. Haste leads to mistakes.” “Very well. If you can have the perfect documents ready for me in two weeks from today, then I shall consider all my favours to you fully repaid. And I shall give you back all incriminating evidence I kept, plus two hundred genuine US dollars. You have my word.” Udo squinted at him curiously. “How the hell did you manage to get hold of two hundred US dollars?”
“Don’t ask!”
The two men shook hands across the scratched and stained desk.
-11-
After a two-day break the trial resumed in the Nuremburg Palace of Justice. Everyone was in their correct place and, after some necessary opening preliminaries, there was silence as everyone waited for the defence to resume giving the general outline of their case. Franz Becker looked unusually stern and grim when he rose to address the court.
“Today I am going to highlight for the defence some more questionable issues which, when taken in conjunction with my previous observations, are likely to result in my client being unable to receive a fair and proper trial.” Sir Geoffrey Lawrence leaned forward from the judge’s podium. “Have a care, Herr Becker. I advise you to choose your words with somewhat greater regard, bearing in mind that you are still under caution of contempt. ‘Fairness’ is a word which merely questions the skills and presentations of procedure. ‘Proper’, however, is a word that might be taken as questioning the legal standing and authority of this Court!”
Becker merely turned to face Sir Geoffrey and raised an eyebrow. “Quite so Your Honour,” he said mildly but clearly over the microphone. “You are, of course, perfectly correct in what you say, and I have the greatest respect for you for pointing these definitions out to the Court much better than I was about to do, for which the defence is indebted to you.”
Sir Geoffrey sat back in his chair in astonishment. At the same time, a quiet ripple of mild laughter ran round the court for a couple of seconds.
Becker smiled noticeably, indulging the laughter, then resumed. “Now, if I may continue, I would like to consider the matter of international politics and the Instrument of Surrender signed on behalf of Germany by Admiral Hans-Georg von Friedeburg on May 8th 1945. This document has been listed previously in this Court as one of the foundations - indeed, perhaps the only certified signed foundation - of the authority for the joint Allied powers to subsume the observation and exercise of law within Germany.
“If I recall correctly - and I will ask Sir Geoffrey Lawrence the Chairman of the panel of judges to kindly and wisely correct me if I get my facts wrong - this particular item was raised a few days ago by Mister Robert H. Jackson of the United States Supreme Court, as part of his justification of the validity of this trial. I state this, of course, simply as a verifiable fact, and certainly not as any intended disrespect to the Court.”
Sir Geoffrey Lawrence glared daggers but did not say anything. Becker went on speaking.
“This document of surrender supplies the legal basis of the transfer of political and civil authority from Germany to the Allied Control Council. It is taken as transferring sovereign powers in Germany to the Allies, thereby enabling the Allied Control Council to establish a court specifically for trying violations of international law.”
Sir Geoffrey Lawrence was now staring hard at Becker with scowling eyebrows and piercing eyes. The other three international judges sitting with him were glancing at Sir Geoffrey sideways with raised eyebrows, wondering whether he would step in and prevent Becker going any further, but Sir Geoffrey remained silent.
“It is, then, I submit, worth examining the details of this document which provides the basis for the perfect legality of this Court.” Becker slowly and deliberately looked up at Sir Geoffrey and stared him hard in the eyes. “Unless, of course, this Court wishes for any reason of its own to forbid the inspection of the chapter-and verse of its own foundation in public hearing?”
Sir Geoffrey replied in a voice as cold as ice. “Herr Becker, I must warn you that you are approaching dangerously close to committing contempt of court!” Becker’s voice was equally as cold. “Well - if it please Your Honour - so long as I am merely dangerously close to the fault and not already falling over the edge of that particular cliff, I shall be pleased to continue.”
There was a sudden silence in the huge courtroom so absolute that it seemed to echo in the ears.
“I wish to examine just a few relevant facts. I shall be quite brief. First, I shall refer to the document already mentioned, the Instrument of Germany’s Surrender.”
He paused for several moments to deliberately allow the silence within the courtroom to seem to echo. Then he resumed.
“Believing Herr Hitler to have been killed during the shelling of the bunker and the final Russian assault into its very depths, on April 30th last year Grand Admiral Karl Donitz was thought to have legally become German Head of State, President of Germany and Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces, because he had previously been appointed Herr Hitler’s official and legal successor in case of Hitler’s death.
“Karl Donitz immediately sent an order by telephone to Grand Admiral Hans-Georg von Friedeburg to begin negotiation of a truce with the British Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery at Luneburg. Resulting from this meeting with Field Marshal Montgomery, Von Friedburg signed an instrument of surrender of all German armed forces which were under his command - which comprised only those in the Netherlands, north-west Germany and Denmark - on the 4th of May. For reasons of his own, Von Friedburg has since committed suicide.
“This particular document of surrender, the Court will note, was signed by an admiral, not by any political or governmental authority representing the German State, and referred only to a cessation of armed hostilities and a surrender of German military forces. It made no reference whatsoever to the transfer of any civil law-enforcement, judicial authority, or apparatus of state, government or regional administration.
”Four days later on 8th May, following another order from Donitz, there was a wider-ranging surrender made of all German armed forces wherever they might be located. General Alfred Jodl signed the German instrument of surrender in Rheims, France, on behalf of the German High Command – a military office, not a civil administration - with Colonel General Hans-Jurgen Stumpff signing on behalf of the Luftwaffe and Field Marshall Wilhelm Keitel on behalf of the Wehrmacht. This was done in the presence of Marshal Georgy Zhukov of the Red Army and other officers of the Allies.
Becker paused. He gazed long and hard round the courtroom. Total silence still prevailed. Then he took up a piece of paper and studied it briefly before continuing in a quiet voice. It seemed the entire court was hanging upon his every word.
“It was this final surrender document which technically authorised the transfer of all executive and administrative powers from the German government to the Allies, specifically including the entire legal system and courts.”
His voice grew firmer and a slightly fiercer tone now imbued his statements.
“It is on this document authorising unconditional surrender and transfer of sovereign powers from Germany to the Allies that the authority and legitimacy of this Court is predicated - as we have all been advised at the opening of this trial by Mister Robert H. Jackson of the United States Supreme Court for the Prosecution.”
He raised his voice more. “But, although it may be a little inconvenient for this Court, I am obliged to point out that the signing of these instruments of surrender was entirely meaningless and without any legal validity whatsoever!”
A murmur of voices began in the background. Becker raised his voice again. ”The legitimacy of the Weimar Republic as the sovereign government of Germany following the armistice of 1918 is indisputable. Its legitimacy and authority was fully recognised by the League of Nations and within German law. It was a legal government.”
The murmur of voices continued in the background.
”In 1933 this fully legitimate and legal German government passed an Enabling Act authorising an amendment to the Weimar Constitution. This amendment legally authorised the Chancellor of Germany to enact laws. The legal Chancellor was Adolfus Hitler, as he is named in the baptismal registry. This Enabling Act was passed by the Lower House - the Reichstag - and by the Upper House - the Reichsrat - on March 23rd 1933. On that same day, it was made law when it was signed by the President of the fully legal German Weimar Republic, Paul von Hindenburg.”
The background hubub of voices began to grow louder. The Court Bailiff banged his gavel, which sounded like gunfire over the microphone. Loudly he cried out; “Silence in Court! Silence in Court.” The room grew quickly quiet again.
Becker continued remorselessly, like a juggernaut of speech.
“I must therefore point out, that since Adolf Hitler, the perfectly legally elected Chancellor of Germany at that time, his position legally confirmed by authority of the legal President of the legal Weimar Republic, has himself never authorised or signed any instrument of surrender or any legal document stipulating the transfer of sovereign powers to the Allies, and since he is still alive and, indeed, is present in this Courtroom...” he suddenly raised his voice to a shout “…that it is a proven plain fact that this Court has no slightest legitimately inherited or conferred legal authority whatsoever to sit, to pass any legally valid judgement, or to even exist in any legitimate form - and I must therefore demand, with the full weight of the chapter-and-verse of the law behind me, that this trial be halted at once and this Court be immediately disbanded as an unconstitutional, illegitimate and entirely illegal body!”
There was an immediate angry uproar in the Court, louder than on any previous occasion. Many people stood up and shouted, waving their arms angrily at Becker. The prosecution teams were in uproar and the four Chief Prosecutors were attempting to shout over the noise to the judge’s panel. Even their cries of “Objection!” “Objection!” over the loudspeakers in English, French and Russian were almost drowned out by the uproar. The Court Bailiff and all four of the panel of judges continuously banged their gavels. Their cries of “Silence in court” only served to increase the tumult.
In the accused box like an onlooker watching a storm, Adolf Hitler gazed at Becker with shining eyes, a slight smile on his lips. He was nodding very slightly in approval. Then, to the alarm of his guards, he suddenly stepped forward in the box so that he came under the dangling microphone. The same rasping voice which had once held vast rallies spellbound suddenly reverberated from the loudspeaker system in German.
“This is a truly worthy man! This is the worthiest man amongst all of you!”
Amidst the pandemonium the panel of four international judges rose to their feet and began to walk out of the courtroom with as much affronted dignity as they could muster.
-12-
The bare electric light bulb a long way above Hitler’s head where he sat secured to the massive seat in his cell caused the whole vault to look stark, featureless and extremely drab. Once again Franz Becker had walked with the Colonel and the Major along the whitewashed subterranean passage to the secure vault. Once again he had been handed a folded piece of paper with an exit password. Once again the great steel safety doors had opened and closed behind him. Once again he had been searched and then, finally, admitted into the incarcerated presence of the man who had once been the absolute dictator of his country. Once again he stood in the eerie presence of Adolf Hitler in his strapped-down straight-jacket and ankle clasps.
Hitler’s eyes were closed: they opened suddenly, seeming to flash fire. Then he spoke. “Have you been declared in contempt of court?”
“Yes,” answered Becker almost casually. “I must not enter the court again unless it is to purge my contempt. That requires me to make a formal public apology to the judges and make the admission that I was wrong, mistaken in what I said.”
Hitler stared him in the eye, and Becker had to glance away downwards. “And will you do this, Herr Becker?”
Quietly, Becker stated in a flat voice: “No. I will not do it.”
“And why not?” asked Hitler, equally quietly.
“Because I believe I am right.”
Hitler studied his visitor for a few moments. “Worthy man, I tell you, whether you are right or wrong is of no consequence in this world! The human world is a jungle, as much as the jungles of Africa or India. When the tiger fights the crocodile, which of them is right and which is wrong? I will tell you, only the winner is right.”
He drew breath and went on. “So it is with human beings. The Allied Powers have defeated my Germany, my empire. They did this by waging their unconditional warfare against my unconditional warfare and by killing people as I killed people. War begets war, battle begets battle, politics beget politics. In war, both sides must kill and victory is determined by which side can kill the most effectively. And the victor is always the one who writes the official history books.
“Ask yourself this question. Is the leader who has caused the deaths of twenty-eight million people a more righteous and compassionate leader than he who has caused the deaths of twenty-nine million? Is the general who has commanded the deaths of forty thousand a more righteous and humanitarian person than the general who has commanded the deaths of fifty thousand? Is the admiral who has caused the sinking of only ninety-nine ships more righteous than the admiral who has caused the sinking of a hundred?
“No! If my armies kill and rape and destroy to conquer and unite Europe, and if my enemies kill and rape and destroy more effectively so that I am defeated, then it will be my enemies who will be regarded as the saviours. That is the way of the world. That is how mankind works. The winners are always right. The losers are always wrong.”
There was just a trace of outrage in Becker’s voice. “But surely the cause they were fighting for is what is important? That is what determines who is right and who is wrong! The politics of the good must defeat the politics of the evil! That is why war was fought…”
Hitler sneered and grated. “Yet again I find myself saying - What a wonderful world you live in, Herr Becker. The question of who is right or wrong, of who is good or evil, is decided only by who is the strongest - by who wins in the end! Only the winner makes the rules. Only the winner writes the history books. Only the winner is right. Only the winner is good. Only the winner has saved the world – by ultimately slaughtering more people than the loser! ”
With some passion in his voice, Becker answered: “I cannot accept that good and evil is decided only by who wins and who loses!”
Hitler’s voice became calmer and quieter. “What you can or cannot accept will make not the slightest difference to the way the world works, to the way in which the world unfolds its future history. Would you like me to tell you an extremely accurate account of the history that is yet to happen in the next hundred years and all the coming centuries of this world? I can guarantee it will be an entirely accurate prediction. “
“Yes?” replied Becker, puzzled. Now Hitler closed his hypnotic eyes as he spoke.
“The poor and unfortunate will continue to go hungry. The rich will continue to rule. The West and the East will continue to oppose each other. Sometimes it will be with weapons, sometimes with money, sometimes with threats, sometimes merely with ideas or religious fanaticism. Soldiers will continue to die, sometimes in jungles, sometimes in deserts or mountains, sometimes in streets. The innocent ordinary people and families will continue to be killed as a by-product. The great banks will continue to control the rise and fall of the world’s money. The weapons of war will become ever more terrible as time passes. Superstitious lunatics will continue to murder, maim, torture and fight wars to prove that their god is more merciful than any other god. The powerful will remain powerful, the ordinary people will remain ordinary.”
He paused, then: “The strong shall inherit the earth. Always.”
Another pause, then: “Here endeth the lesson!”
Tears started to glisten in Becker’s eyes. Passionately he shouted: “That cannot be a picture of the future! I will not believe it! You are wrong! You are evil and you see only evil in all things!”
Hitler tilted his head back as far as the chair restraints allowed and laughed out loud in a cynical cackle. “Worthy man, there is no good, there is no evil. There is no right and there is no wrong. ‘Good’ is always everything the powerful want. ‘Evil’ is always everything that gets in their way.”
Suddenly he lowered his head and his eyes flashed directly into Becker’s eyes. “You are indeed a worthy and decent man, Herr Becker. I have immense sympathy for you. Because for trying your best to defend me, you shall be thrown to the wolves and torn to pieces.
“Do you still not understand? You cannot win! Those who appointed you did not expect you to win. They expected you to be an incompetent back-street lawyer who would automatically fail, thereby serving their purpose perfectly.
“It is your misfortune that you were so much more than they had bargained for. And perhaps it will be your family’s misfortune too! Herr Becker, you are a good man. Have you not heard the saying that the good die young?
“You are in great danger of succeeding. To prevent this, they will try to kill you. They must remove you. They have no alternative. They will make it look like an accident, or perhaps like suicide.
“I therefore now dismiss you as my lawyer. You are sacked! I shall tell the authorities that I do not want you, that I have dismissed you and that you no longer represent me - and they will be delighted and they will execute me, as they, and I, always knew they would.
“Herr Becker, giving you the sack is a great kindness. It is my gift to a worthy man and his family. I advise you to take full advantage of it. I advise you to flee, in secrecy, as fast and as far as you are able, taking your wife and child with you into another land, and remain a worthy man - but perhaps a wiser one...!”
Hitler closed his eyes and lowered his head. His voice now became low, grating and peremptory.
“You are no longer required. You can go now. Go! That is all. I have finished with you. Forever!”
-13-
The old hunting lodge was in darkness. It was now gone midnight and the world seemed to be silent, except perhaps for the occasional rustling of small animals within the sweep of forest which came near to the rear grounds of the place. The sky was cloudy and there had been a little rain earlier; no moon or stars were visible. In the distance, on a gentle slope a couple of miles away, lights were visible here and there in the army camp, but these were faint in the distance, like the lights on an ocean liner near the horizon.
Almost completely silently, with only as much noise as a hunting fox or a startled rabbit, five human figures slowly and very cautiously emerged from the edge of the forest. They were all dressed entirely in black and wore black balaclavas. All five carried drawn pistols. They moved with stealthy professionalism over a low ornamental wall only three feet high, across a large rear lawn skirting flowerbeds and the occasional statue and carefully drew near to the back of the hunting lodge. All of the figures carried small backpacks.
One of the figures reached the wall of the house, held a small flashlight up to a ground-floor window, carefully pointed it inside and flashed it quickly on and off three times.
After a minute there came the slight sound of bolts being slid back on a nearby door. The door opened. Heinrich the butler stood there, peering into the dark night. He waved the black-clad figures forward towards himself, stepping backwards out of the way as they came through the door, leaving one of their number outside to guard the exit.
The door was that of the rear kitchen of the hunting lodge. Heinrich softly closed the door without bolting it, then reached for an oil lamp and lit it. One of the four men who had entered pulled off his balaclava. It could now be seen that he was Lieutenant Blackwell. He spoke very softly in fluent German. “Heinrich – is everything in order as planned?”
“All is perfect,” the butler whispered back. “Herr Becker and his wife are soundly asleep in the master bedroom, you know, in the four-poster. The child is in the room next to them, with an open connecting door. I have found suitable foster parents who will take the baby without asking questions.”
“Excellent work, Heinrich. We shall proceed.”
He took a step forward but Heinrich placed a hand quickly on his arm. “And you will keep your part of the bargain? I will never be identified and arrested in connection with any war-crimes? I have done all that you asked.”
Blackwell answered impatiently. “Yes, yes. That is fully guaranteed. As far as the whole world is concerned, you are now Fritz Ullman, with all the necessary papers to prove it, including a passport and travel permits. The world will never know what happened to Doctor Joseph Mengele.”
He nodded, removed his hand and accompanied the four black-clad men through the kitchen with Blackwell in the lead carrying the oil lamp.
They silently came into the great atrium where a wooden-railed balcony ran round the walls at first floor height. Stealthily the five men made their way to the foot of the ornate staircase. Several fine carpets strewn over the polished floorboards helped them maintain silence. Lieutenant Blackwell tapped one of his men on the shoulder, then, as the man looked round at him, he pointed upward to the balcony, then made a motion with both hands as though tightening a rope.
The man nodded and swiftly removed his backpack. From it he withdrew two coils of thin rope. The end of each was fashioned into a perfect hangman’s noose. The man stared at Blackwell through the eyeholes of his balaclava. Blackwell nodded at him. While the others remained still, the man with the ropes swiftly and silently slunk up the broad staircase, turned left at the top along the balcony and walked stealthily along until he was standing above the others, looking down at them. They could see his dark form kneel down as he securely tied the ends of each rope around the base of sturdy carved wooden posts supporting the balustrade rail which encircled the balcony. He pushed the ropes between the supports and let them drop. The nooses dangled some six or seven feet above the ground floor, swaying slightly.
Blackwell leaned close to Heinrich and spoke in a low voice. “It will look like a double suicide. Becker has been found in contempt of the International Court and is to be removed from his brief in disgrace tomorrow. He knows it is unlikely he will be permitted to remain a practicing lawyer. His career has ended in disgrace. They both decide to make a pact to hang themselves. At six O’clock in the morning you will telephone me to report it, and I will act as though I am astonished.”
“Will a medical examination not reveal they were shot before being hanged?” queried Heinrich with interest.
Blackwell smiled evilly at him in the darkness. “The medical examination will be conducted by an army surgeon who has already written his autopsy report and issued two death certificates. There is no mention of bullet wounds. I can predict that the official verdict will go down on the record as suicide by hanging. Once they have been shot, we will take the bodies to the balcony, put the nooses on them, then throw them over. While we are doing that, your job will be to remove the bedclothes and burn them, including pillows, and clean up any traces of blood. Remember, blood can spatter over a wide area when you kill someone.”
“Oh yes,” answered Heinrich cheerfully. “I know.” Silently they all crept up the stairs to join their colleague on the balcony. Then they all edged their way carefully and silently to the door of the main bedroom suite. Heinrich placed his hand carefully on the door handle and looked at Blackwell, who nodded once. The door was opened slowly, quietly, and they all crept into the dark bedroom, the black-clad men moving with trained professional stealth. Silently they trod toward the big four-poster bed. Two of the black-clad men went to one side, the other two went to the other. Heinrich stood by the open door watching, his face expressing no emotion except, perhaps, a hint of interest.
In the dark, two forms could just be made out beneath the covers. Two heads with hair could just be seen on the pillows. There was no movement and no sound.
Blackwell’s expression was hard and professional. He might have simply been engaging in target practice. Very slowly he reached one hand out towards the motionless figures, preparing to whip off the covers. His other hand levelled a pistol at the recumbent heads. His four men also silently levelled their pistols in the same direction.
A bound body fell and a rope around its neck suddenly twanged taught. There was silence. The rope moved slowly from side to side, like a pendulum, disappearing through a square open hatch in the concrete floor.
A dozen people stood at one end of the room. There were high-ranking military men in uniforms of various nations, other men in smart suits and ties, and a Roman Catholic priest. All were motionless in the stark electric lighting, staring at the hatch in the floor and the gently swinging rope.
With a snarl, Blackwell snatched the covers away from the forms lying in the bed. They could then be seen to consist of two rolled-up bundles of blankets arranged to resemble human outlines. The hairy heads on the pillows were two trophy brown bear’s heads taken off the wall and carefully positioned.
Lieutenant Blackwell seized one of the trophy bear heads, glared at it in utter fury, then threw it with great force across the room so that it loudly smashed the porcelain Meissen ornaments in a glass-fronted display cabinet.
In London, amid the wreckage and burned-out buildings, men and women were still going to work on trains and busses. Not far from Trafalgar Square, in Duncannon Street by Charing Cross Station, there was a shop selling newspapers to the throngs of commuters who poured from the huge station entrance. On the outside wall beneath the shop window was a row of “headline boards” with bold, black wording written in charcoal.
“HITLER HANGED IN GERMANY”
“HITLER TRIAL – TRIBUNAL RULES DEFENCE INVALID”
“HITLER’S LAWYER CONTEMPT CHARGE – ARREST LIKELY”
-14-
A somewhat dented Dakota passenger plane with peeling paintwork wobbled in the air currents as it came down near the end of a runway, touched down and rolled on to come to a controlled halt. The tarmac strip and the relatively small local airport at one end of it were surrounded as far as the eye could see by rugged undulating grassland. Most of the airport buildings were little more than sheds, except for the local control tower which rose with eroded concrete above a small and equally shabby administration block. An orange windsock fluttered atop a tall wooden mast. The entire airport, including the runway, was surrounded by a chickenwire fence on wooden posts. Beyond an open gate several American automobiles with big rear wings were parked. On a large wooden signboard in peeling paint was the information: Compañía Aérea Interior.
When the Dakota had rolled to a halt, a rather battered mobile wheeled staircase was manhandled into place against it by a few men in overalls. The aeroplane door opened and several passengers emerged and began to come down the stairs. Amongst the passengers were Franz and Karolin Becker. Karolin carefully carried their baby in her arms. At the foot of the mobile steps they headed with everyone else towards the airport gatehouse office, above which was a painted signboard bearing the legend: Aeropuerto de Rivadavia.
As luggage was unloaded and sorted, the group of passengers walked out of the airfield gates, Franz Becker carrying a large suitcase in each hand. A middle-aged man and woman jumped out of a big old American Cadillac and shouted toward the small crowd, waving Franz and Karolin Becker to come to them. A few moments later they were all hugging each other and shaking hands. The middle-aged couple admired the baby.
“This must be little Steffen,” said the woman. “May I hold him? Please?”
Karolin passed the baby to her with a smile. “Aunt Hilda, Uncle Dieter, allow me to introduce you to Steffen Becker.”
“He’s a darling. You’re so lucky.” Aunt Hilda’s lined face was radiant.
Franz Becker stared meaningfully at his wife. “His name is not Steffen Becker,” he admonished. “It is Steffen Schmidt.”
The middle-aged man, Uncle Dieter, clapped Franz Becker on the shoulder. “It’s good to meet you at last, Franz. We have a small bungalow ready for you on our ranch. You will soon settle in, don’t worry. And there are plenty of opportunities for lawyers in the nearby towns – especially German lawyers.”
“German lawyers?” queried Franz in some surprise.
“Of course,” answered Uncle Dieter. “Most of the business people in Rivadavia are ex-patriot Germans. They prefer hiring other Germans to Argentinians. The language difficulties, for one thing. Argentina even publishes German-language newspapers. And you are Hans and Helga Schmidt, we understand that.”
They all walked on towards the parked Cadillac. Uncle Dieter looked at Franz. “But I don’t understand why you had to flee from the Fatherland and change your names – you did not commit any war crimes!”
Franz was philosophically bitter. “No? I committed perhaps the greatest crime of all!”
Uncle Dieter was astonished and paused in his tracks for a moment. “You did? What did you do?”
“I was a gazelle and I tried to eat the lions!”
“I don’t understand…”
“Is there a bar near your ranch?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll explain it to you there.”
“I’ll buy the first round,” said Uncle Dieter understandingly.
They all clambered into the Cadillac. Uncle Dieter started it up and they drove off in a small cloud of dust.
Elsewhere in the Argentine Republic an ocean liner had entered harbour at Buenos Aires and moored up at a quayside. A steady stream of passengers were making their way down a boarding ramp and threading their way slowly past a uniformed passport officer standing at a desk in the sun. Three policemen with side-arms stood nearby boredly watching. The passport officer briefly examined everyone’s papers as they filed past.
The man once known as Heinrich the butler was shuffling patiently forward in the long queue and eventually came to the passport checkpoint. The passport officer examined his papers and rubber-stamped them, then glanced up with a smile. “Welcome to the Argentine Republic Herr Ullman.”
The man formerly known as Heinrich clicked his heels and bowed curtly. “Danker. I shall enjoy living here.” Then he walked away and was soon lost amongst the dockside crowds.
Half a world away, in farmland outside Nuremburg, there was a minor road bridge crossing a concrete culvert through which a small river flowed towards nearby fields. A US Army jeep was parked on the bridge. Two soldiers, both privates, stood looking over the bridge. One of them held a small wooden container about the size of a large cigar box. The soldier with the box held it out over the parapet of the bridge, then paused and looked at the other with a grin. “Hey Charlie – do ya wanna say a few suitable words at this funeral?”
“Sure I do!” answered the other man. He cleared his throat theatrically. “Fuck off Adolf! See ya in Hell!”
The first soldier opened the lid and turned the box upside down over the river. A shower of ashes fell out and scattered on the running water. Then the soldier casually tossed the box into the river.
The other soldier rummaged in his tunic and produced two cigars. He offered one to his comrade and they both lit up, inhaling deeply and satisfyingly. His colleague tapped ash off his cigar over the bridge.
His companion watched and mused: “Say – d’ya think Adolf’s putting on a little weight there?”
“Naw!” stated his colleague. “He’s just gettin’ cold feet!”
They both laughed. The other man briefly stared down the river. “I guess that’s the end of it,” he said.
EPILOGUE
This “Altrernative History” story was very nearly true. Adolf Hitler committed suicide in his bunker. However, it is true fact that the last people from outside Berlin who managed to visit the bunker were Generaloberst Ritter von Greim and ace test pilot Hanna Reitch. They flew from Rechlin initially in a Focke Wulf 190, landed at Gatow in south-west Berlin and changed to a Fiesler Storch (“stork”). Hitler did, indeed, promote von Greim to Field Marshal and Commander-in-Chief of the Luftwaffe to replace Hermann Goering. Hitler was presented with the opportunity to be flown out of Berlin.
However, fate tossed a coin and Hitler remained in the bunker whilst von Greim and Hanna Reitch flew away from Berlin in an Arado AR 96 (a fighter trainer). The Soviet 3rd Shock Army was at that moment capturing the Tiergarten airstrip and Russian troops watched the plane escaping, believing that it was Adolf Hitler himself making a bolt for freedom. This could so easily have been true! If this had indeed been the case, it is certain that his pilot would have had more sense than to continue the escape flight in a trainer fighter, which bore military markings and would still be treated by the enemy as a warplane. They would have landed outside Berlin and switched to a civilian aircraft, which was no guarantee of safety but was probably less likely to be fired at.
It can be understood that a mere nudge of chance, a single feather landing on the scales of history, could actually have tilted the balance of events and produced the scenario described in this fictional novel.
In historical fact, when he was captured by the US Army, von Greim told them; “I am the head of the Luftwaffe, but I have no Luftwaffe!” He committed suicide in custody by taking a secret cyanide capsule.
Also in historical fact, Hanna Reitch was captured together with von Greim and imprisoned for eighteen months. In 1952 she won a bronze medal in the World Gliding Championships, and was the first woman to compete in this. In 1957 she broke the woman’s altitude record. In 1959 she was invited to India and asked by the Prime Minister Mister Nehru to start a flying school and centre in India. In 1961 US President John F. Kennedy invited her to visit the White House. The following year she moved to Ghana where she established the first black African national gliding school. She died of a heart attack on August 24th 1979 aged 67.
As for the legal side of the story, the following facts should be taken into consideration.
In 2006, official secret documents from the World War 2 era were made public in Britain for the first time. These included papers detailing that in 1944 the British Cabinet had debated regarding what should be done with the Nazi officers and others accused of being mass murderers when Germany lost the war. In these meetings, the Prime Minister Winston Churchill proposed issuing an Act of Attainder by which those deemed to be war criminals could be executed at once without a trial.
An Act of Attainder, or Bill of Attainder, is a legal instrument issued by a ruler or a government making it fully legal to declare a person or persons guilty of some crime and to be legally put to death without needing to be tried in any court of law. Bills of Attainder are expressly prohibited by the United States Constitution (in Article 1, Section 9). However, there is no similar ruling within British governmental procedure to prohibit Acts of Attainder, which in theory can still be enforced to this day, although none have been issued since about 1800.
At the Potsdam Conference, Churchill was dissuaded by US President Harry S. Truman and - perhaps surprisingly – by Joseph Stalin, from adopting this measure, and a trial in court was then agreed upon for all Nazis charged with war crimes.
Therefore, if Adolf Hitler had been captured alive by the victorious Allies, there can be little doubt that he would have been given a trial rather than summary execution. He would, indeed, have “had his day in court”.
But of course, this would have opened the risk – no matter how slight – of there being a “Not Guilty” verdict, or – much more likely - of some legal loophole regarding the application of law by one system of sovereign law-making government upon another system of sovereign law-making government.
After all, if Western Democracy could make mass murder by tyranny a capital offence – what would the Russian government and its executives make of that? They would either laugh out loud, or else prove by continued pogroms the utter ineptitude and ineffectiveness of Western legislation and policy, making Britain and the USA a laughing stock throughout the world. America and Britain could not arrest the Russian government for the mass murder of their own people during Stalin’s infamous purges, so how could they claim legal statute for arresting the German government for similar crimes against humanity? Far better for the Allies, then, to brush this matter under the carpet in 1945 and opt instead for a public trial – providing, of course, that it gave the required verdict whilst maintaining the illusion of fairness!
If this appears to you to be a cynical conclusion, then you must live in a more perfect world than I do.
But perhaps the final words on this subject should come from the man who was the senior judge at the Nuremburg Trials. I quote:
“…There were, I suppose, three possible courses: to let the atrocities which had been committed go unpunished; to put the perpetrators to death or punish them by executive action; or to try them. Which was it to be? Was it possible to let such atrocities go unpunished? Could France, could Russia, could Holland, Belgium, Norway, Czechoslovakia, Poland or Yugoslavia be expected to consent to such a course? ... It will be remembered that after the first world war alleged criminals were handed over to be tried by Germany, and what a farce that was! The majority got off and such sentences as were inflicted were derisory and were soon remitted…”
(Sir Geoffrey Lawrence, December 5th 1946)
“'Many are the strange chances of the world,' said Mithrandir…”
The Silmarillion
J. R. R. Tolkien.
Gotterdammerung! : The Trial of Adolf Hitler(Peter Mills)
Gotterdammerung!
The Trial of Adolf Hitler
By Peter W. Mills
“What is history, but a fable agreed upon?”
(Napoleon Bonaparte)
“History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it!”
(Sir Winston Churchill)
“…And there are moments that I would like to know what might have happened if it hadn't happened… “
(Colum McCann, TransAtlantic)
“The two most important words in human history are; “What if…” "What if we walk upright?” “What if we rub two sticks together?” “What if we split the atom?” “What if history had been different?”
(Tinley Roquot)
Gotterdammerung in Germanic mythology is the name for the fall of Valhalla when the mighty Norse gods themselves were overthrown and the final apocalyptic day of judgement fell upon them.
-Prologue-
A telephone bell kept on ringing in a monotonously repeated summons. It rang without giving up. It was loud, for the instrument was installed within an office in a low, squat concrete military airport where there was usually a great deal of noise from aircraft landing and taking off. On this day there were other loud noises as well; the nerve-racking cacophony of mighty artillery fire rumbling almost non-stop in the distance, like continuous throbbing peals of wild thunder. The telephone’s implacable loudness seemed to be a statement – this caller was not going to give up; they were going to pedantically keep the instrument ringing through Hell and high-water come-what-may until it was answered.
Eventually a uniformed officer entered the deserted office, exasperation on his face. He strode impatiently past littered but abandoned desks, typewriters and wooden filing cabinets until he reached the irritating telephone. He snatched up the black Bakelite handset and rammed it furiously to his ear, irritably snapping two words into the mouthpiece.
“Von Greim!” A faint but authoritative voice could be heard, tinny with distance and static. “I want to speak to General Ritter von Greim!”
The officer shouted into the mouthpiece. “I told you – I am von Greim!”
“General von Greim, you are ordered to report immediately in person to the Fuhrerbunker at the Reich Chancellery!”
Von Greim was incredulous and replied as though speaking to an imbecile. “Are you mad? I am in Rechlin a hundred kilometres away – the Russian army is swarming over the landscape. Reports say they are surrounding the Chancellery area! And you want me to come to the bunker?”
“It is an order!” snapped the voice on the telephone.
“Whoever gave that order is an idiot! Put me through to them at once!”
The distant tinny voice snapped abruptly and with great temper; “The order is from the Fuhrer himself! You will have to fly in immediately! Find yourself a good pilot!” The line went dead as the caller hung up, leaving an electronic purring sound.
He found himself a good pilot, one of the best in Germany. Less than three hours after the telephone call a Fieseler Fi 156 Storch bearing Nazi insignia was in the air heading for Berlin. The small spotter aeroplane flew very low, not much more than rooftop and treetop height, and it continually weaved from side to side to make it a more difficult target for enemy anti-aircraft fire. Below, a bleak landscape slowly drew nearer – the smoking ruins of the Berlin suburbs. Occasional houses and factories were on fire amid the rubble, sending columns of dark smoke into the sky.
Without warning anti-aircraft shells started to explode haphazardly in the air near the plane, but the explosions were higher than the plane was flying. The blasts rocked the plane but the pilot knew their business and was deliberately flying below the level where the shells exploded so the little plane only received the downward blast of air turbulence and sometimes a drum-roll of fragments rattling along the fuselage as the shells burst some distance above them.
The pilot was a rather good-looking woman of 33 wearing a test-pilot’s leather clothing with a leather helmet and goggles. Her name was Hannah Reitch. In the passenger seat behind her Ritter von Greim sat in the full uniform of a Nazi general. He leaned forward to speak tensely to Hannah.
“How much longer, do you think?”
Hannah Reitch did not break her concentration. “Maybe six or seven minutes” she muttered absently.
The little spotter-plane swerved and rocked trying to evade bursting anti-aircraft shells high above. There was a sudden very loud bang and a brief flash of flame and smoke and the plane rocked violently; exploding shellfire had hit the fuselage.
Inside, von Greim screamed; “My leg! My foot!”
Staring rigidly ahead Hannah asked simply; “Is it bad?”
Von Greim groaned in agony. “I expect I’ll live. I’m losing blood.” He hunched down in his seat to grasp his injured and torn lower leg as the plane pitched and jolted.
Very soon amid the drifting clouds of noxious smoke the Tiergarten Park and Potsdamer Platz came into view below. The small plane swooped in low and touched down on a clear stretch of grass. All around, lawns and flowerbeds were pockmarked with craters, but the makeshift landing strip had been continuously repaired and shell holes had been filled. Here and there leafless trees staggered at awkward angles where shells and bombs had struck. The buildings all around were badly damaged, the majority looking like they were being demolished. Many were still ablaze.
As the Fieseler Storch touched down and taxied to a halt, four uniformed SS soldiers with metal helmets ran out of the cover of nearby bushes and met the plane. Von Greim opened the passenger door, his face grimacing, his lower leg and foot a mess of blood and soot, his uniform jodhpur shredded from the knee down. The soldiers helped him to the ground then quickly began to carry him upright between them. Hannah Reitch jumped down from the cockpit door and all of them hurried into the bushes, crouching low to keep out of sight and, hopefully, out of Russian bullets.
The small group ran warily across a wrecked street where the hollow shells of once-magnificent buildings gaped and blazed. From all directions came the incessant thunder of heavy artillery and sporadic small-arms fire. Shells whined overhead and exploded nearby. Before them lay an even bigger ruin wreathed by spiralling smoke and roaring fires – the Reich Chancellery. They hurried still stooping in fear along a pockmarked broad paved avenue through drifting clouds of acrid smoke, warily skirting shell craters and piles of fallen rubble.
Ahead of them they could now see through the smoke what seemed to be a muddy wasteland in which crouched the Fuhrerbunker, a squat building complex with an almost medieval aspect heightened by low round guard towers with conical castle-like roofs. From some distant place there sounded faintly a sudden hideous scream of protracted agony. Hannah Reitch and the four SS troopers carrying the injured von Greim scurried in fear, running in a huddled, crouched attitude.
Soon they were hurrying down a flight of concrete stairs inside the bunker, the troopers still supporting von Greim as best they could in the rather confined space. Another SS trooper began to close a vault-like armoured door at the top of the stairs while Von Greim yelped with pain as he was jolted hurriedly down into the interior.
Two hours later General von Greim was in a tiny underground clinic sitting up on the edge of a simple tubular metal bed with a thin and uncomfortable horsehair mattress. The right leg of his uniform jodhpurs had been cut off carefully above the knee, his wound had been cleaned and tended to and a kneeling uniformed orderly was gently but firmly bandaging the wound. Von Greim winced occasionally in as dignified a manner as he could achieve. A middle-aged doctor in a white coat approached the bed.
“I have put in just a few stitches to hold you together for now. I will need to do more work on you. However, that will have to wait. I have been ordered to get you capable enough to have an urgent meeting with the Fuhrer. After he has finished with you, I can repair you some more.”
The doctor raised a hand and snapped his fingers without turning his gaze from von Greim. At once an SS trooper came forward and stood by the bed. The orderly handed von Greim a crutch. “The soldier will escort you to the Fuhrer’s office,” continued the Doctor. “It is not far. The crutch will help. Try not to use your leg too much. Don’t put any weight on it.” He turned to the SS trooper. “Help him back here when the meeting is finished.”
Some minutes later the SS trooper was helping von Greim to sit down in a chair before the desk of Adolf Hitler. The trooper snapped a Nazi salute and left the room. Hitler, a pronounced nervous twitch affecting his left hand and arm, looked older than his 56 years. He raised his eyes from papers on the desk and studied von Greim. When he spoke, his tone was soft, kindly and concerned.
“I was told that your plane was hit. How are your injuries?”
“More irritating than dangerous, my Fuhrer,” replied the general. “I should make a reasonable recovery, I am told.”
“Good, good,” stated Hitler absently, collecting his thoughts. There was a silence for several seconds: then the Fuhrer spoke again. Now his voice was precise and harsh. “General Ritter von Greim, I have to tell you that your superior Reichsmarschall Goering has betrayed me! He has sent me a telegram from Berchtesgaden stating that he will be assuming the position of Fuhrer of the Reich because he believes I am militarily cut off and incapacitated here in Berlin and unable to direct the war or operate the mechanisms of government!”
Instantly he grew very angry.
“I sent him a message back!” he shouted. “I informed him he was guilty of high treason and unless he resigned all his offices immediately, I would order him to be arrested by the SS and shot!”
Hitler took a couple of quick breaths, visibly bringing himself and his rage under control.
“I have received no reply.” He waved his right hand dismissively in the air and spoke entirely casually, as though he were merely commenting about an item on a café menu. “I have stripped him of all his powers and positions, including that of Commander-in-Chief of the Luftwaffe.”
Then he paused briefly and raised his head to stare imperiously at his visitor over the rims of his spectacles.
“Generaloberst Robert Ritter von Greim, you are hereby promoted by my direct personal order, with immediate effect, to Field Marshal and Head of the Luftwaffe!”
A stunned von Greim could merely gasp: “As you will, my Fuhrer.”
Hitler did not pause. “Here are you orders. You will bring all squadrons of fighters and bombers to airfields within range of Berlin, and you will organise an airborne counter-attack to force the Russian army to retreat from Berlin, and then make them continue to retreat in a generally eastward direction until they are either destroyed or limping back to Moscow in tatters!”
Stunned by the implausibility of the order, von Greim stared at Hitler, his expression changing from absolute incredulity to blank agreement. He realised with a profound and unsettling shock that Hitler was now divorced from reality. Blankly and meekly he replied simply: “As you order, my Fuhrer.”
Hitler nodded dismissively and reached for a small brass hand bell on his desk, ringing it quietly. The SS trooper entered and assisted von Greim to rise, helping him out of the office. As he awkwardly turned his back on Hitler’s desk, von Greim noticed a faint movement out of the corner of his eye. A private door in the office had opened very slightly. He noticed Eva Braun looking out through the gap, gazing at Hitler with grave concern on her face.
A few hours later in a side room of the Furherbunker which served as a small makeshift cafeteria-come-restroom, Hanna Reitch was sitting at a simple utility table with a cup of coffee. An empty plate with knife and fork lay in front of her. On trolleys at the side of the room stood both a tea-urn and a coffee percolator. She had removed her leather flying gear to reveal fashionable slacks and blouse. Eva Braun entered and made herself a cup of coffee with saccharine, for there was no sugar available now. She brought her coffee to the table and paused.
“Do you mind if I intrude? I get lonely sometimes.”
Hanna Reitch smiled. “Please – I am feeling lonely at the moment too. And frightened.”
Eva Braun gazed at her curiously. “You? A woman who has become Germany’s leading test pilot?”
Hanna Reitch chuckled. “I love the feeling of flying – I hate the feeling of being blown out of the sky by Russian guns.”
“Yes,” agreed Eva Braun, “quite understandable.” There was a short pause, then she added: “The Russian guns are apparently already stationed in the Turmstrasse.”
Hanna Reitch smiled humourlessly. “They blew us some kisses when we arrived!”
“Of course,” acknowledged the other woman.
A further period of mutual silence was soon interrupted by von Greim entering the room assisted by an SS trooper and crutch. The trooper helped him to be seated at the table, then saluted Nazi-style and left.
“You don’t look as bad as you did a few hours ago,” observed Eva Braun smiling.
“Your surgeon put in some more stitches, stuck some ankle bones back in place, plastered my foot and told me to avoid any strenuous or sudden movements with my leg. If the Russians break in, I will have to tell them I am under doctor’s orders not to run! Perhaps they will agree to count to one hundred before they start chasing me!”
“With their eyes shut too, of course,” responded Eva Braun, smiling again.
“Of course,” repeated von Greim.
There was a long moment of awkward silence broken eventually by Hanna Reitch. “Are you permitted to tell me how your meeting with the Fuhrer went, or is it a military secret?”
Glancing sideways at Eva Braun, von Greim replied. “Well, it is not a secret matter really. It was a promotion – of sorts.”
“How do you mean?”
“I have been officially appointed Head of the Luftwaffe in place of Herman Goering, whom it appears has fallen into disgrace.”
“Congratulations, Generalfeldmarschall,” said Eva Braun in a flat voice.
“Thank you Frauline Braun – but the problem is, I am the head of the Luftwaffe, but there is no longer any Luftwaffe to be head of!”
Eva Braun stared with blank eyes at the tabletop for a moment, then spoke softly without looking up. “I know. There is no army either. Only lots of pretty little flags pinned into a map. Nothing but flags, with reserve divisions waiting in a tin box.” She seemed to pull herself together and looked up. “By the way, to keep you both up-to-date, I am not Frauline Braun any more. I am now Frau Hitler.”
Hanna Reich was genuinely delighted. “Congratulations.”
“I think congratulations are probably not really appropriate, considering our terrible circumstances.”
Von Greim’s voice became suddenly serious. “Will he not leave Berlin and go with you to Berchtesgaden or some secret military base?”
Her answer came sadly. “He refuses to leave Berlin. He refuses to acknowledge the full harsh reality of the situation.”
Von Greim’s tone became urgent. “Can he not be reasoned with? Can you not explain the facts to him gently? Surely he will listen to you – Frau Hitler.”
She looked directly into his eyes and almost whispered. “He has made an empire in his own image. No matter that the buildings become rubble, that the armies are killed, that the civilians die like trapped rats, that the Red Army tramples our ancient culture under foot or that the whole land is put to the torch – the Third Reich will not fall until the moment HE falls. Only then will it be ended.”
She paused and continued even more quietly. “Our Germany is no longer a country – it has been crafted by his brain into a creation of his will. It is the body and blood of Hitler! And as long as his will remains, so shall the Third Reich!”
Von Greim spoke very gently. “Can he not be persuaded that this means he must not stay here and perish?”
“What’s the use of trying? There is no longer any feasible way to escape. The Chancellery is entirely surrounded by the Red Army. My husband now yearns only to die in the fires that consume the world he created, like Odin at Gotterdammerung.”
“There is a way to escape!” stated Hanna Reich forcefully. “I can fly us out!”
Adolf Hitler’s new wife frowned intently. “But the risks…?”
“Frau Hitler,” stated von Greim levelly and sombrely, “ask yourself, what is the best bet? To remain here with an absolute hundred percent certainty of death, or to attempt an escape that carries perhaps only a fifty percent chance of death? And with the possibility that perhaps the odds might be even better than that.”
Frau Hitler stared at Hanna Reitch. “Could you do it? Could you fly him out to safety somewhere? Somewhere away from the Russian barbarians?”
“I could certainly do the flying,” stated the test pilot. “We would have to fly through the Russian flack, but we did that on the way in and survived. Our chances on the way out would be much the same. It’s risky, but we could make it. It’s a chance - and if we simply wait in here, there is none. In any case, I was going to fly our new Field-Marshal here out of Berlin in a few hours time. That was always the intention.”
Von Greim sighed and fixed his gaze on the blank tabletop. “I think the single question is this - can you persuade him to leave? I believe you were right - he is building an alternative reality in his own mind - a reality in which he still commands every turn of the war. Like the Roman emperor Caligula, who declared war on the god Neptune and ordered his legions to march along the coast collecting sea-shells as the spoils of war.” He paused and looked up at both women. “The Führer’s reality is much better than ours. He will never be persuaded to leave this bunker.”
Hanna Reitch mused thoughtfully. “Suppose, for his own good – to preserve his own life – he was drugged? Not much – just so that for an hour or two he would not quite realise what was happening?”
Von Greim weighed up her remark carefully. “That might work. But where could we find the right kind of drugs in this awful pigsty? Pardon me, Frau Hitler.” Frau Hitler was also thoughtful. She spoke slowly, reluctantly. “Yes… pigsty. I know another pigsty - that is what I called the office of Doctor Morell - to his face. Morell is a fat, slimy, unhygienic, unwashed pig of a man - a medical confidence trickster!” The others stared at her in surprised silence. Then von Greim spoke cautiously.
“That is the Fuhrer’s personal physician you are talking about, is it not?”
“Unfortunately yes. But… but…” She frowned, thinking for several long moments. “He gives my husband nearly thirty different pills a day, and many glucose injections - and intravenous methamphetamine every day... But I have also seen that he has some bottles of Veronal on his shelves...”
“Forgive my ignorance, Frau Hitler,” said von Greim quietly, “but what is Veronal, and what does it do?”
“It is a barbiturate manufactured by Bayer. A controlled dose can induce temporary hypnotic sedation... something like sleep-walking...”
All three stared at each other.
“He could be walked to an aeroplane…” mused von Greim in a whisper. “You could fly the Fuhrer and Frau Hitler to somewhere safer, Hanna…” Then his voice suddenly became urgent and decisive. “The Fuhrer can live to fight another day - to keep on inspiring his battered armies. To keep the Third Reich alive!”
“But I shall not go with him!” Frau Hitler exclaimed decisively, “I will remain here. I have already been provided with a suicide pill.”
Von Greim looked astonished. “But you must go! You are his wife. You cannot stay here and die! Your place is by his side!”
She snapped back in a sharply severe voice. “I will thank you, Herr Generalfeldmarschall, not to give me orders! You act above your station!”
Von Greim bowed his head. “I apologise Frau Hitler.”
She smiled at him. “Apology accepted. But you must recognise that - if I order it to be so - an order from me is tantamount to an order from the Fuhrer himself - from my husband! And I will not complicate what he has to do by requiring that he must also protect me when... when...” her face collapsed into a mask of tears. “When he is out on the run like a common criminal!” she sobbed. “He will have enough difficulties without me to add to them! I will never be a weight round his neck!”
Von Greim’s face filled with amazed respect. Painfully and awkwardly, he slowly raised himself to stand at the table without the aid of his crutch. He gave a Nazi salute and barked: “Heil Frau Hitler!”
Twelve hours later in the very early morning a small single-engine aeroplane with civilian markings and number came swooping over trees to touch down on a long grass field. At the far end of the field there was a cluster of olive-drab military tents, a few US military jeeps and other US equipment. A few groups of American soldiers were standing and staring at the incoming plane. Some of them pointed at the plane in astonishment at its audacity for trying to land on a military airfield.
Then a couple of dozen armed US troops ran from the tents towards the plane, which had touched down and was coming to a halt. All except five of them dropped down on one knee some thirty feet from the plane and raised their rifles. The other five soldiers cautiously approached the plane’s cockpit.
The highly successful commercial company I. G. Farben maintained a large industrial and office complex outside Frankfurt. At this precise time, however, the entire Farben industrial estate had recently been commandeered by the US Army to use as their operational headquarters during the final advances upon remaining pockets of armed Nazi resistance. Thus, from 26th April 1945, the Farben offices served as the Supreme Headquarters of the Allied Expeditionary Force (SHAEF). The officer commanding was one General Dwight D. Eisenhower. The Farben factory chimneys did not smoke. Men in US military uniforms went about their business in the private roads. Military police guarded the site entrances and office buildings.
A large and busy commercial office with many desks had been occupied by Eisenhower’s general staff. On a wall at the back had been placed a large map with red ribbons and paper flags pinned into place showing borders, routes and deployments. There was hustle and bustle all round with military personnel coming and going about their business. At the map stood General Eisenhower himself, attended by half a dozen senior officers, discussing logistics and tactics. At the double doors where the huge office debouched into a broad corridor leading to stairs and elevators, two white-helmeted military police stood on guard. Those in the office who were near the doors absently heard the sound of a single man marching purposefully. The footsteps grew louder.
Captain Howard Martin came smartly through the doors with a huge smile on his face which he seemed unable to control. As Eisenhower turned to look at him from the other end of the room, Captain Martin snapped to attention and saluted smartly, still grinning. Eisenhower spoke to him politely with raised eyebrows.
“Good afternoon Howard - why so formal? We don’t salute in the office, you know that. It makes people drop things.”
Captain Martin took a few steps towards Eisenhower, stopped and grinned at him in very obvious delight. Then loudly, bubbling over with great elation, he burst out: “General - guess who we just arrested?”
Eisenhower looked at him quizzically as though he were speaking gibberish.
-1-
It was now July of the year 1945. In Brandenburg, in the Berlin suburb of Potsdam, there was a magnificent late art-nouveau era palace named Cecilienhof, built as the residence of Wilhelm Hohenzollern, Crown Prince of Prussia and the German Empire. It had been constructed during an earlier war, the Great War of 1914 to 1918, and now it was part of Soviet occupied Germany. Conveniently, Prince Wilhelm no longer resided there: he had been arrested earlier that same year by the French in Austria and charged with committing war crimes during World War 1.
It was in his former palace that the victorious Powers of World War 2 decided to hold an historic meeting of heads of state in order to try to tidy up the political loose ends of the war. The meeting would become known to history as the Potsdam Conference, but its official title was the Berlin Conference. The Russians contributed a magnificent polished round table ten feet across specially manufactured in Moscow for the main proceedings, and it was installed in the large wood-panelled Great Hall of the palace.
The Great Hall was packed with seated people, and some were walking quickly here and there with papers and files. At the big round table were seated fourteen statesmen, aids and secretaries, all of whom were men. Even after an horrendous World War to eliminate the social inequality of fascism, women were yet only sparingly allowed to rise to great diplomatic or industrial heights, such were the times. At the conference table were Iosif Vissarionovich Stalin, General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union; Winston Leonard Spencer-Churchill, wartime British Prime Minister, accompanied by Clement Attlee who that very month had become Prime Minister of Britain in Churchill’s place; and Harry S. Truman, 33rd President of the United States of America.
Winston Churchill, remaining seated, banged his knuckles slowly and continuously on the table until a silence slowly descended on the room. “Who is to be Chairman at our conference?” he asked simply in his gruff voice.
Joseph Stalin spoke quietly to an interpreter seated beside him. The interpreter spoke English with a heavy Russian accent. “I propose Mister Truman.”
“The British delegation supports this proposal,” stated Churchill gruffly.
“I accept the chairmanship of this conference,” agreed Truman mildly but businesslike. “Let me put before you some of the questions that have accumulated by the time of our meeting and that require urgent examination. We can then discuss the procedure of the conference.”
Winston Churchill added cautiously: “We reserve the right to add to the agenda!”
Truman lowered his head in acquiescence. “I propose, considering the bad experience of the 1919 Versailles Conference, that we should here and now set up a special council of foreign ministers, consisting of the ministers of Great Britain, the U.S.S.R., the United States, France and China – that is, the permanent members of the Security Council of the United Nations set up at the San Francisco Conference. This council of foreign ministers for preparing a peace conference should meet as soon as possible after our meeting.”
The Russian translator spoke as Stalin muttered to him. “Agreed.”
“Agreed,” said Churchill.
“Very good,” related the translator as Stalin continued to murmur at him. “And today we must confine ourselves to drawing up an agenda with all necessary additional points, and when the agenda is drawn up, any question can be discussed on its merits.”
“I fully agree,” nodded Truman.
“I agree,” stated Churchill, “with the reservation that we must first most urgently discuss the question of what to do with Herr Hitler.”
Via the translator, Stalin said; “A firing squad – no more man, no more problem!”
“I agree with Mister Secretary Stalin,” stated Churchill. “An immediate firing squad!”
President Truman frowned slightly. “I must disagree on that. We should remember that the eyes of the world are upon us. Not only that, but the eyes of all future generations too. Yes, our reaction is to execute Herr Hitler without a moment wasted. But – gentlemen – if we do this in an arbitrary manner, it will merely be murder by decree. Our behaviour would then be equally as draconian, lawless and abhorrent as that of the very evil we seek to bring to justice! We are seeking to build a better world, not jump-start the old one again!”
“Very well,” said Stalin through the translator. “We shall have a fair trial first, then a firing squad!”
“If found guilty, he should be hanged,” argued Truman. “The firing squad is not generally employed by civilian authorities.”
“It is in my country!” came Stalin’s comment. “But the method is unimportant. Shoot him, hang him, garrotte him, shove him over a cliff – whatever is considered most desirable.”
Churchill spoke up. “I am very inclined to agree. But I suppose there must be a fair trial first, if only for the sake of appearances.”
Truman looked offended. “It is for the sake of Democracy and the Democratic Principle – it is the opposite of Nazism. So must Adolf Hitler’s bringing to justice be the opposite of the Nazi method.” He paused and looked into the eyes of the other two national leaders. “Gentlemen, if we have him executed out-of-hand merely because we command it, then we are surely not one whit different from him!”
There was a pause of a few heartbeats, then Churchill growled softly; “Reluctantly I am compelled to agree. He should be put on trial.”
“Also with some reluctance, I too agree,” relayed Stalin’s translator. “He shall have a trial.”
“And it must be a fair trial,” emphasised Truman, “else it will be an obvious sham.”
Stalin sighed wearily and muttered something quietly. “If you insist,” said the translator.
The main conference in the Great Hall had now ended for the day and the sun was setting. Elsewhere in the Potsdam palace Prince Wilhelm’s large library had been set aside as a private study for the use of the British delegation. Four respectable-looking middle-aged men were seated round a modest polished table. There was nobody else in the room. The four men were impeccably attired in the manner of very senior civil servants, complete with pin-striped trousers and wing collars. They were the Englishman Sir James Furwell, the American Clarke Brant, the Russian Valery Gedike and Charles Aubert who was French. The four of them had just sat down and all were briefly arranging papers on the table in front of them.
“I trust that you gentlemen are as worried as I am about the situation and developments?” asked Gedike in excellent English with a Russian accent.
Sir James grunted. “I am certainly disturbed by the range of implications.”
“And rightly so, Sir James,” agreed Aubert the Frenchman. “As the saying goes, a can of worms has now been opened.”
“And all the worms have landed in our laps!” exclaimed Brant the American.
Sir James looked him in the eyes across the table. “Quite so! I think we have all realised the ramifications of the path our superiors have chosen. It is our job, as senior civil servants of our respective administrations, to devise and present to them a realistic way forward.”
Valery Gedike placed his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together and staring over them. “Obviously, Adolf Hitler must receive a death sentence. If the USSR had captured him, we would have shot him and mounted him on display as an exhibition piece in the Central Museum of the Red Army.”
“But the trial must not be rigged,” murmured Sir James. “The whole world will be watching what happens.”
“Not rigged, certainly,” put in Clark Brant. “It must be a genuine trial. But we can – let us say – perhaps guide it somewhat?”
“Exactly!” stated Charles Aubert nodding. “We all know how such things as official enquiries, government policy, foreign relations and other matters of state can be given a nudge here and a quiet word there in order to keep things sensible. We have to apply our skills to this developing situation, to ensure it develops in the required manner.”
Sir James Furwell frowned as though he had a bad taste in his mouth. “I would not choose to speak of it in quite such overt terms,” he chided.
“This is no time to be prim!” snapped Aubert.
“Our French colleague is right,” put in the Russian. “We command the people who put the wallpaper in the corridors of power. We are charged with the responsibility of making certain the river of history flows in an appropriate direction.”
Clark Brant sighed and leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands together. “Very well. Let us get down to brass tacks. This is the situation as I see it. Please feel free to add your own observations and opinions.
“One. Herr Hitler must not be placed in the same jail as the other captured top Nazis. His presence there is very likely to give encouragement, or at least a revitalised sense of grandeur and destiny, to any other Nazi inmates awaiting trial, even if they are not permitted to see him or speak to him. The war crimes trials are being arranged in Nuremberg and the leading Nazis are being jailed there as they are caught, but Hitler is now under lock and key in Kassel in the American Sector and can be flown in for his trial, with no risk of encountering his former cronies, or being seen by them.”
The others nodded in agreement.
“Two. Whereas the other captured Nazi top brass will all be required to be present in the dock together, for which a huge dock is being specially built to accommodate them, this will not apply to Hitler. Again, I consider the risk of allowing his former executives to see him in the same courtroom, or even to know he is nearby, as far too great.
“Remember, these men have sworn a sacred oath to obey and serve Adolf Hitler to the death, under any circumstances. If they know he is alive and our prisoner, and especially if they set eyes upon him, the likely result would be calamitous to say the least.”
“I see what you mean…” mused Charles Aubert. “Yes… there could be a riot in court, or they could all agree to keep silent – and they would all most certainly stand to attention in the court and give the Nazi salute to Herr Hitler. That would not look good in the eyes of the world…”
“I see your point,” nodded Gedike. “We want to divide them from any mutual comfort or encouragement – not provide it for them by sending their adored Fuhrer to sit with them!”
“Precisely!” agreed Clarke Brant. “Therefore, gentlemen, we shall ensure that Adolf Hitler has a separate trial, with none of his former cronies in the same courtroom, except if required as witnesses to give testimony - during which process the individual concerned shall be kept in solitary confinement so they cannot spread word to the rest of the accused that Hitler lives. Are we agreed?”
“I agree,” stated Valery Gedike.
Charles Aubert said; “And I.”
“I too concur.” Furwell paused for a moment. “These suggestions seem eminently sensible. But this mention of testimony brings us in the direction of a particularly delicate question...”
Sir James Furwell and Clarke Brant turned their heads to stare at each other for a few silent moments.
Quietly and slowly, still staring Sir James in the eye, Clarke Brant said simply; “The defence…”
Sir James nodded very slowly. “The defence.”
All four men stared at each other in a pregnant silence.
-2-
The various United States security and intelligence departments had been relatively uncoordinated until the USA joined in World War Two following the horrendous surprise attack by the Japanese Empire on the US navy base at Pearl Harbour in December 1942. Six months afterwards, Franklin Delano Roosevelt had issued a Presidential Military Order to create a single organisation charged with the responsibility of gathering and analysing in the finest detail all types of strategic information, and also building a corps of selected individuals from all services, and even from universities and industry where appropriate, who could perform special operations, especially top secret espionage and sabotage in other countries, such as, at that time, Germany and Austria. Thus was born the Office of Strategic Services, which became better known as simply the OSS.
Although frequently spectacularly successful, the OSS was closed down towards the end of 1945, its assets transferred to the War Department together with a new name, the Strategic Services Unit or SSU. Later it was renamed again to become the Central Intelligence Group or CIG. In 1947 it was again rebranded and renamed in the National Security Act and became the Central Intelligence Agency, the CIA, which it has remained ever since.
In the immediate post-war period when the department was still designated as the SSU, Brigadier General John Magruder was the Director. At the age of 58 he was still fit and slender, with short greying hair and piercing eyes, and he did not suffer fools gladly. Some considered him brusque in manner, but in fact this was really only a strongly developed sense of logic and a West Point training in which he had honed an already razor-sharp mind and gained an awareness of the necessity of politics in all hierarchies from an anthill upward.
One of the first tasks Magruder had been handed was a matter of the greatest secrecy and diplomacy. It was so secret that he was instructed from the very highest level not to maintain any paper records. The most exalted levels of political administration referred to such phantom operations as “Paper Records Exempt, Destroy All Trace Of Remaining”, but the red rubber stamp used by the President when authorising such instructions consisted only of the initial letters of those words – P.R.E.D.A.T.O.R. Very few service personnel below the rank of general, and not many above, would ever hear of that particular designation, or of its founding ethic: believable deniability.
There soon came a day when Brigadier General Magruder sat behind his desk in his Pentagon office while General Maxwell entered and was invited to be seated.
“Now, Stephen,” began Magruder with a serious tone, “I have been asked to arrange something which requires the very greatest tact, secrecy, carefulness and even guile and unabashed deceit. My orders come direct from the very highest authority – you understand? The very highest! You have proven yourself suitably adroit in Germany, and suitably trustworthy. You’re an excellent administrator. Now I must ask you – are you prepared to take on the responsibility of organising a vital international political covert operation? And I regret that I must ask you this before I can tell you anything at all about it.”
General Maxwell did not hesitate. “You name it, Sir, and I shall give it my very best attentions. You can rely upon me, and you can rely upon my discretion.”
“I was hoping you would say something like that,” smiled Magruder across his desk. “We could do with more patriots like you.” He passed a paper over the desk. “If you sign this, then you are committed. I must emphasise, once your signature is on this paper, you cannot change your mind. I’m sure I don’t have to paint a picture. The paper merely refers to unspecified counter-espionage operations in a foreign country – there’s nothing specific mentioned in it at all. The real aim will remain a secret at present and for all time.”
Maxwell did not hesitate. Stony faced, he took the paper, glanced cursorily at the typing and immediately took a fountain pen from his pocket and signed it. Handing it back, he asked simply; “When will I be told what is required of me?”
Magruder glanced at the signature and placed the paper in a desk drawer. “Right now Stephen,” he replied. “This is a hot one! This is a difficult one! In fact, it is probably even a diabolical one! But it has to be accomplished, and it has to be accomplished in the uttermost secrecy, with the uttermost stealth and the very greatest manipulative skill and cleverness.”
“O-kay,” said Maxwell slowly, digesting what had been said. “So, give me my target.”
“It’s not that simple,” came the reply. “But – essentially – one could say that your target was Adolf Hitler!”
“Hitler?” repeated Maxwell, puzzled. “But he’s been captured and is in jail awaiting trial in Germany for all his crimes. What more is needed where Hitler is concerned? We’ve got him by the… well, I’ll be polite - we’ve got him by the seat of his pants. Haven’t we?”
“Well, yes and no,” replied Magruder enigmatically, leaning back in his chair and making a tent of his fingers to look through at the ceiling. “Yes, we have Herr Hitler in jail in Germany, and yes, a trial is being organised right now. But…” he paused, “but… well, Stephen – think about a trial. What is necessary to make a trial in a court?”
“Well, I guess, an accused, a judge, a prosecuting attorney and a defending attorney…” his voice trailed off as his quick brain came to a realisation. “A defending attorney – there must be a defence presented in any legitimate court hearing. Only the Commies hold courts with no legal defence as we know it.”
Magruder slowly nodded and held out a hand to indicate that Maxwell should continue.
“I think I get it,” stated Maxwell. “If there’s a defence presented in court… well, it would be extremely embarrassing to the Allied Powers if that defence were – shall we say – too clever. If the defence were, somehow, to succeed in legally getting Hitler off the hook there would be a lot of red faces in high offices. We – all the Allied Powers – would be made to look uncomfortable and foolish at best, incompetent and draconian at worst.”
“And what kind of insurance could be provided, do you think – purely theoretically, of course – to absolutely guarantee that Hitler’s defence in court would collapse like a house of cards?”
“Well,” mused Maxwell, “the best way, the way that would guarantee the required result without anyone being suspicious about anything, would be to appoint a second-rate defending lawyer who would end up out of his depth and floundering. He would have to come from a decent, established law firm with a bit of a reputation, to give his selection some credence. But if that defence attorney was selected because he was not really up to the task, if he fumbled his case and sank in court like the Titanic, the defence could be guaranteed to ultimately collapse and a ‘guilty’ verdict would be inevitable…”
Magruder looked directly at Maxwell, nodding very slowly. “General, there you have your mission! I have not given you any orders have I?”
“You have not,” agreed Maxwell. “We can both swear to that on the Bible with perfect truthfulness!”
-3-
A young man of perhaps 30 wearing a dark suit and waistcoat climbed the stone stairs in a very old office building. The stairs had a polished wooden balustrade atop a filigree wrought-iron support, an echo of the more formal and imperial days in which the building had been conceived. The man carried an armful of papers and files and was taking great care not to drop any of them. As the man reached the final flight of stairs before the next landing, two other elderly and dignified men in old-style suits and wearing shirts with wing-collars came to the top of the wooden balustrade, leaned over and looked down at the man coming up the stairs.
One of the dignified elderly men called down the stairwell. “Herr Becker, may we have a moment of your time please?”
The other venerable man also called down. “We have a new case which we feel you are the right man to give it to.”
Franz Becker reached the landing. The first venerable man gently but firmly took the pile of files and papers away from Becker and, without even sparing them a glance, handed them to his venerable companion. Then he took Becker by the elbow and encouraged him to walk beside them.
“This is the opportunity of a lifetime, Herr Becker. It will assure your reputation as a leading attorney.”
The other venerable lawyer added: “You are a perfect choice. Both you and your wife, I believe, speak English and French fluently…”
The three men walked away from the stairwell along a high-ceilinged corridor which retained the cornices and ornate plasterwork of the previous century. Several yards down the carpeted passage was a carved wooden doorframe on which was a polished wooden plaque bearing the name “Franz Becker” in small gold lettering. All three entered the office. One of the venerable lawyers placed a friendly arm round Becker’s shoulder.
“You must understand, Herr Becker – Franz! – the responsibility of an attorney is not to be the police, nor to make the laws, nor to pass judgement on the merit or otherwise of a client.”
The other venerable lawyer added; “The task of an attorney is to provide the professional prosecution or defence of the accused. Whichever of those duties we are contracted to undertake, it is our responsibility to ensure we do it professionally, thoroughly, expertly and - yes - if necessary, even theatrically.”
His colleague continued; “Absolutely! The professional attorney does not take sides - they represent a side.”
“And the side they represent is the side of the client for whom they have agreed to be engaged,” stated the other.
“Exactly,” agreed his colleague. “One day we prosecute someone, next day we defend someone. Whatever the circumstances, it is everyone’s right to be represented with skill in court.”
Franz Becker sat down behind his desk and gazed at his superiors. “Very well. You are going to give me a difficult case. You always try to butter me up when you give me the shit cases you don’t want to handle!”
The first venerable lawyer winced as though stung. “Franz, Franz - this case is the opportunity of a lifetime. It will secure your reputation for the rest of your career. We only wish to give you the benefit of taking-on the case of a client who has world-wide prominence - a man who is internationally well known.”
Franz Becker sighed. “All right, all right. I will do as you ask. What choice do I have anyway? You pay my salary. So tell me - who is this important client?”
“Adolf Hitler.”
Stunned, Becker repeated the name flatly. “Adolf Hitler. You are joking, of course?”
There was the sound of a key in the door latch and Franz Becker let himself into the front hallway of their reasonably affluent ground floor apartment. He walked through the farther doorway and entered the living room. His 25 year-old wife Karolin stood up from a seat beside a cradle and welcomed her husband with a hug. Together they went to the cradle and looked down into it at a baby boy about six months old snuggled there asleep.
“He’ll wake up for his father in a little while. He always wakes up ten minutes before each feeding,” said Karolin softly. Franz Becker put his arm round his wife’s waist, still admiring his sleeping son. “You’ll never guess what happened at the office today.”
“Somebody accidently smiled?” Karolin offered mischievously.
“Even stranger than that. I was offered a partnership in the firm.”
Karolin turned joyfully to face him. “Oh Franz! I always knew you were going to succeed. With a pay rise?”
“With a pay rise. A substantial one. But… there are certain… conditions.”
“What conditions?”
Franz Becker sighed deeply. “I have to take on a particular case and defend a client in an important trial.” He paused. “It will be… a difficult defence.” He looked into his wife’s eyes. “The client is Adolf Hitler!”
Karolin was astounded. “He has been captured?”
“It’s still a military secret. We must not yet tell anyone. It seems he tried to escape from the Reich Chancellery in a plane and was arrested by the Americans. He is to be put on trial, like the others who have been caught - and for some reason the firm of Abendroth, Kappel & Lang have been selected to provide a defence attorney - and for some even more obscure reason, Herr Kappel and Herr Lang have offered me the case, with a written promise that I will be made a partner in the firm if I just take it on, whether I win or lose.” Karolin adapted quickly. “‘Abendroth, Kappel, Lang and Becker.’ It sounds impressive. And the pay rise? How much?” Franz Becker was still musing half to himself. “It will be the most historic trial since Jesus Christ appeared before Pontius Pilate. It will be difficult... It will be virtually impossible! I am not sure I can manage this. I cannot understand why it has landed in my lap...”
“The pay rise – how much?” insisted his wife.
“Enough to buy a big house in the country in a few years, and keep a limousine and a chauffeur – and maids to relieve you of housework.”
“And this is whether you win or lose?”
“Whether I win or lose,” he nodded slowly.
“Then you must take the case. You must grasp it with both hands! It will secure our future.”
A great many miles away there was a prison compound behind a series of barbed wire fences. There were several shabby-looking huts. Outside the fences American soldiers and military police patrolled ceaselessly. Inside the compound, though, there was only one man, a single isolated prisoner, Generalfeldmarschall Ritter von Greim. He strolled deep in thought, hands clasped behind his back. He had a very severe limp and still wore his general’s uniform. His right jodhpur leg was still cut off just above the knee and his lower leg was heavily bandaged, his foot in a neat plaster cast. His expression was blank. He stood and watched the guards walk past for a few moments, then strolled awkwardly to a hut, hobbled up a few wooden steps and entered through an open door. Inside the hut were several simple iron beds. Beside each was a cheap wooden bedside cabinet. The room was empty and only one bed looked like it has been used. The cabinet beside it was bare except for a brush and comb set and a small, framed, cracked mirror.
Von Greim entered the room looking thoughtful. He halted for some moments, hands still clasped behind his back. He stood still, then nodded slowly to himself. He limped to his bed and sat on the edge.
He picked up the hairbrush. Using the comb as a lever, he prised off the back of the hairbrush, which came away in his hand. There was cotton-wool inside. From the cotton-wool he carefully removed a small glass ampoule. Still sitting, he held the ampoule up before his gaze. He studied it for some moments.
Then, decisively, he stood up with a little difficulty, limped to the centre of the room, placed the ampoule between his teeth, smartly gave a Nazi salute and bit down on the ampoule. There was a crunch from his mouth. He lowered his arm, standing to attention, then grimaced, choked briefly, and collapsed dead onto the bare floorboards like a felled tree.
The former I. G. Farben industrial complex had once housed Nazi chemical research facilities for producing synthetic oil and rubber, as well as processing other chemicals such as Zyklon B, a pesticide developed from cyanide which was used in death camps such as Auschwitz-Birkenau, Belzec, Treblinka and many other locations as a gas to aid extermination of some eleven million human beings, men women and children who were just ordinary innocent families, some six million of them being Jewish.
Then the complex of Farben buildings had been used for a time as the Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force. Now, following the German surrender, it had been officially taken over by the United States Government to house the headquarters of NACOM, the Northern Area Command, a function the immense building complex would serve for the next fifty years because the Germans, recently the enemy, were now friends, and the nearby Soviet Union, recently an ally, was becoming an enemy who had annexed Eastern Germany and most of Berlin except the central part which was now virtually an island surrounded by Soviet territory.
Located within the huge Farben centre was also the busy Analysis and Research Branch of the Office of the Director of Intelligence. In this section General Maxwell now maintained an office of the SSU, the Strategic Services Unit, which operated independently and covertly. Its operations were so secret that even the other offices and departments in the Farben centre were entirely unaware of who they were or what they did. On their doors were no department names nor any person’s name, merely room numbers.
General Maxwell’s superior Brigadier General John Magruder was directly responsible only to President Harry S. Truman, not even through a vice-president, for Truman did not have any vice president, as he himself had been Vice-President when his predecessor Franklin Roosevelt died and now in effect he held both offices, and the US Constitution remained unclear on this issue until the passing of the 25th Amendment in 1967. Consequently, Truman wielded absolute power until 1949 when Alben Barkley was voted-in as Vice-President, holding that office until succeeded some years later by a relatively unknown up-and-coming young politician named Richard Nixon.
It was largely due to this unusual lack of a stabilising vice-president in the immediate post-war years that the Strategic Services Unit was able to build itself into a fully “black-ops” department which illegally conducted surveillance of suspected US citizens, arranged convenient assassinations both in the USA and elsewhere in the world, and generally operated without having to obey any legislative control or legal restraint until it eventually morphed to become the CIA.
In his anonymous office, General Maxwell was studying documents when a knock came on his door. He called out: “Enter!” and a young man of about twenty-five opened the door and closed it behind him. He wore a fashionable suit of the time, which some people looking back upon those days from the present would probably consider strangely loose and baggy. “Be seated, Lieutenant Blackwell,” invited the General.
Blackwell did so. “I can report that the arrangement we wanted has been successfully carried out,” he informed the General.
“This is with the people you told me about?” demanded Maxwell.
“It is. Both of them were – shall we say – understandably enthusiastic about the proposal.”
“Have the funds been paid to them?”
“Yes sir, in US dollars, unmarked and genuine.”
“OK. And they are reliable people?”
“Yes sir.” Lieutenant Blackwell passed a plain brown folder over the desk. “Here’s all the information. The two men in question have been committing criminal fraud for years by falsifying their accounts and smuggling deutschmarks into Switzerland without paying any tax. They each have a secret deposit account in a Swiss bank. We managed to obtain the false names and account numbers, and we have obtained from the bank ten of their actual smuggled hundred deutschmark banknotes with clear serial numbers which enables us to conclusively prove a paper trail of the notes from being paid to the two men through to the arrival of the money in the bank at Zurich.” Blackwell smiled at the general. “Put simply, Sir, we got them over a barrel!”
“Excellent work,” enthused General Maxwell. “How much did it cost us?”
“I kept it inside the budget limit I was given. Both of the men in question have also been guaranteed US citizenship for themselves and their immediate family members which will become effective in four year’s time, when all of this has become history and forgotten. This is conditional on them not immigrating to the States until the four-year period is over.”
“Good, lieutenant! Who have they given the brief to?”
“To a fairly young lawyer in their firm who normally works in minor criminal cases – you know, the unsavoury underworld characters thrown up by wartime society, that kind of thing. He is very good, within his rather limited sphere of petty advocacy. He is, at one and the same time, the kind of lawyer one would expect to do his best and therefore to look genuine because he is entirely genuine, and the kind of person who will be unable to cope in the face of the impressive prosecution team and the complexity and high pressures that will evolve within such an unprecedented brief, so that the case for the defence will collapse of its own accord without further manipulation. A ‘guilty’ verdict can therefore be guaranteed. It is inevitable.” He pointed to the folder in the General’s hands. “The full details are all in there.”
“Excellent. Very good work, Lieutenant.” He waved the file. “This will ensure we obtain the required results. Hitler will be given a fair and public trial so that the democratic USA will be seen to be upholding its sacred principles of justice for all, and the Soviet Union will be made to look like a draconian dictatorship because Stalin wanted an immediate firing squad without any trial. Come to that, so did Churchill and the British! And yet, Hitler’s execution is also completely inevitable. There is no manner in which he can come out of this without a ‘guilty’ verdict hanging round his neck. And our department remains entirely anonymous. We do not exist. We win in all directions!”
Maxwell placed the file in a desk drawer and locked it. “And our orders now, Lieutenant, are to closely supervise the management of these events, without raising any suspicions, and ensure that it never goes off the rails. You will keep your eyes on it as it develops and report directly to me, as always.”
-4-
In a country road edged by hedges a dusty and dented 1940 DKW Sonderklasse 37 car motored along. It was heading in the direction of the outskirts of Kassel, a wrecked town. Until the recent defeat and surrender of Nazi Germany, it had been the headquarters of military district Wehrkreis IX and a local extension of the Dachau concentration camp had been established there to provide slave labour for the firm of Henschel & Sons, manufacturers of the Tiger tank and other major war equipment, such as the Dornier medium bomber. The town had thus become the target for twenty allied bombing raids and by 1945 most of the place had been reduced to smouldering ruins, including the house where the famous Brothers Grimm had once lived in the previous century. On April 3rd 1945 Kassel had been captured after ferocious street-to-street fighting by the 80th Infantry Division of the US First Army, who afterwards found that, out of two hundred and thirty six thousand residents, only some fifty thousand remained alive.
A few hundred yards ahead there was a military checkpoint with barbed-wire fences, a large wooden guard-hut and a red and white barrier across the road. Military vehicles were parked nearby. A US tank stood close to the road. Two field guns were placed thirty feet beyond the barrier, their barrels aimed along the road at zero elevation, pointing at arriving traffic. Several US soldiers were on heightened watch fully armed with automatic weapons. There was a large painted sign on a pole:
KASSEL
US SECTOR
ALL PERMITS MUST BE SHOWN
ZEIGEN SIE ALLE ERLAUBNIS DANGER OF DEATH! DIE GEFAHR DES TODES!
The car slowed and stopped at the barrier. Franz Becker got out and passed a sheaf of papers to a sergeant, who examined them thoroughly, then handed the papers back and ordered the barrier to be raised. Becker got back into the car and drove slowly away into the wrecked town.
There was an undamaged bullion vault deep underground beneath the remains of a shattered bank in a shattered street. In a dank passage some sixty feet in length there were pairs of armed US soldiers on sentry duty every ten feet, each pair facing each other and standing to attention. The stone walls were whitewashed and wire-caged electric lights were mounted in the ceiling above. Three men were walking briskly along the passage, their steps sharply echoing on the flagstone floor. Franz Becker was one of the men, the other two were a US Army Colonel and a US Army Major. They did not talk. At the far end of the tunnel they reached a strong steel door guarded by two more soldiers who snapped to attention. The colonel showed the guards some papers and both guards studied them meticulously.
“All is in order, SIR!” shouted one guard, stamping to attention again. “You may pass, SIR!”
The major produced a bunch of keys and unfastened a lock in the steel door. The Colonel withdrew another bunch of keys and undid a different lock in the steel door. The guard who had spoken withdrew a single tagged key from a uniform pocket and unlocked another different lock. The other guard then turned a large polished brass lever set into the door. Then he pushed the door and it opened reluctantly; it was obviously very heavy. Franz Becker took a step forward, but the colonel put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.
“Just a moment, Herr Becker.” He withdrew a folded slip of paper from a pocket and handed it to Becker. “This is for your eyes only. Please read the paper without speaking.”
Becker looked at the colonel, then took the paper and read it. The colonel took it back. “Remember that word, Herr Becker. It is a single-use password, good for this occasion only. When you want to leave, call the guards from inside. They will ask you for the word. If you do not repeat it to them, you will not be let out. Is that understood?”
“I understand,” he replied wearily.
Through the great vault door was a large inner room of whitewashed stone, once a counting chamber, an anteroom where paperwork could be compiled and filed and, maybe, gold bullion could be piled, counted and made ready for shipping out or moving in to the inner vault beyond. Now it served the function of an inner guardroom. Becker resisted the impulse to turn back and look as the immense outer vault door was swung silently closed behind him. There were several dull thuds as the complex locking mechanisms slid into place.
Within the inner room were six US soldiers, each armed, amongst lesser side-arms, with the 1944 M3A1 “Grease Gun” suppressed submachine gun, which was now state-of-the-art in small arms. It was rather unnerving for Becker that all the guns were pointing at him. A muscular sergeant stepped to confront him, keeping his machine gun aimed steadily at the visitor.
“Please remove your overcoat sir!” ordered the sergeant. Becker did so and a soldier took it and laid it upon a table. The soldier started examining the coat with meticulous detail.
“Raise your hands and arms sir!” ordered the sergeant. Becker did this and the sergeant expertly frisk-searched him, removing his bunch of keys from a trouser pocket, fountain pens from an inside jacket pocket, a wallet, identity papers, travel permit, a cigarette pack and lighter, a comb and some small change. Everything was placed in two large foolscap-sized brown envelopes which were licked and sealed.
The sergeant continued, rapping out: “Have you been given your exit password? Do not repeat the exit password at this time!”
“I have been given a password by the colonel,” affirmed Becker.
“Please remove your shoes sir!” Looking momentarily dumfounded, Becker complied. The concrete floor was cold.
“Sir, you may now proceed!” barked the sergeant. A soldier stepped smartly to another massive vault door on the far side of the anteroom. This had a large shining brass spoked wheel locking mechanism like a ship’s wheel. The sergeant turned the wheel, pulled a lever, turned the wheel again, pulled another lever, turned the wheel back the other way, then pulled hard on a mounted brass rail. The massive door slowly and silently opened.
Becker glanced nervously at the sergeant and stepped through the open vault door. Inside was a whitewashed stone-block cell with a single electric light bulb dangling overhead. He stopped and stared in utter astonishment as the vault door swung silently shut behind him, the complex locking mechanisms clicking and banging. He took a few hesitant steps forward, then stopped again in shock. He stared, transfixed with horror.
In the long subterranean whitewashed corridor down which access to the vault complex was attained, the colonel and major who had escorted Becker walked back the way they had come, hands clasped casually behind their backs, ignoring the pairs of armed guards they passed every ten feet.
“Who was that guy, Colonel?” asked the major.
The colonel snorted quietly. “Some Kraut lawyer come to talk to der Fuhrer. He’s the official defence attorney.”
“Hah! The poor bastard!”
Becker still stared with horror. In the cell-like vault before him, Adolf Hitler sat secured by many leather straps in a big, ugly, square-cut wood and metal security seat like an electric chair, its steel backrest rising sombrely some two feet above his head. He wore a standard canvass straight-jacket which forced his arms to be crossed over his abdomen, elbows at the centre, with the ends of the lengthy sleeves fastened over the blocky side arms of the chair by more leather straps and brass buckles. His trousers were US army medical corps surgical pyjamas and his feet were bare, his ankles secured in screwed metal cuffs mounted on the bottom of the front chair legs. He was almost entirely unable to move, except for his head.
Hitler’s face, however, glared out with the same fanatical fixation he had possessed in his days of power. His eyes had lost none of their drill-like hypnotic penetration. He glowered at Becker, radiating silent malignity.
Becker started to speak, but on the first attempt his mouth dried up and made only a rasping sound. He coughed and made a visible effort.
“Herr Hitler – I am your defence attorney. There are some things we need to talk about.”
The reply was surprisingly quiet, almost, he thought, dangerously quiet?
“Are you a Party member?”
Becker also spoke quietly. “I was. Almost every adult was – it was safer than not being one.”
Hitler also remained quiet. He spoke as though tired. “And now – at this present time?”
“I am no longer a Party member. There is no longer a Party.”
“Were you a good soldier? Were you army, navy or air force?”
“I was judged unfit for war service. I have a heart condition, ventricular extra systole. I remained a civilian.”
This simple statement was received as though it were the greatest of insults. Hitler instantly transformed into the terrifying, raging fanatic he had been during his most passionately worked-up speeches and rallies. He screamed in a monotone: “How dare you stand before me! You have betrayed me and betrayed the Party! You are a traitor! Six months ago I would have had you shot!” Becker did not react. He was now very calm and matter-of-fact, as he had learned to be in his profession. “That was six months ago – now it is this month. I have been appointed to defend you in court - God alone knows why! But I intend to do a thorough and professional job - with or without your approval, Herr Hitler. However, it would help matters considerably if we could converse like normal people.”
Hitler instantly became very calm and rational, switching off his emotion. He asked quietly; “What is your name, attorney?”
“My name is Franz Becker.”
“Herr Becker, can you see me?”
Nonplussed by the rather strange question, Becker replied simply and matter-of-factly; “Of course I can see you.”
“Herr Becker, does anything about what you see strike you as being even remotely like normal people?”
Becker smiled slightly. “Now that you come to mention it, no. But perhaps we can consider the bigger issues...?”
“You sound like a politician. Are you a politician?” ”No, only an attorney-at-law.” “You should be a politician. Very well. Let us both pretend to be normal
ordinary folk, and see where we may arrive at.”
Becker nodded slowly. “Perhaps my first question, then, should be; ‘how would you describe yourself?’”
“I am an artist, an idealist and a patriot,” came the proud reply.
“And a politician?”
Hitler scowled. “No! I was never a politician, nor did I ever wish to be one! Politicians make me sick! They make their corrupt fortunes riding on the backs of the ordinary decent people.” “And yet you became Chancellor of Germany – surely, a political position?”
Now Hitler became contemptuous. “I did not simply ‘become’ Chancellor. I was chosen by the ordinary folk – by the will of the people”
“And assisted by behind-the-scenes political manoeuvres!” remarked Becker drily.
. Hitler nodded and sneered. “The politicians thought they could make use of my support to conjure up the majority they required. Their plan was then to dump me when their own position was secured. They found to their cost that I was not an easy person to dump!” He lowered his voice and it became a sinister growl. “I showed them! It was I who dumped them! I have no use for politicians. They are schemers and rogues! I have never considered myself to be a politician! Never!”
Now he screamed in an instant transport of utter fury. “I am the rightful leader of Germany!” Flecks of foam sped from his mouth.
The following silence seemed to echo. Becker replied quietly and calmly. “I must correct you there - you were the leader of Germany. You no longer hold that position. You are now a prisoner awaiting trial. And I am to conduct your defence in court.”
Then Hitler became sneering, contemptuous. “I want nobody to defend me. I shall make my own defence, as I did in the Munich People’s Court in 1924. I need no lawyer. You are dismissed.”
Becker stared him in the eye, unblinking. “Have you not heard the saying: - ‘A man who represents himself in court has a fool for a client?’ I’m afraid I must be your attorney whether you approve of it or not.” He paused, then nodded slightly. “And whatever else, I promise you I shall do the very best I can.”
Hitler smiled at him slightly. In a very normal conversational, quiet voice, he stated: “That is exactly what I did. It doesn’t always meet with universal approval!”
In a residential Leipzig street in which there was considerable bomb damage Franz Becker parked his car. The house in which their apartment was situated had not been very much damaged, but farther down the street less fortunate buildings were mere devastated shells at best. Becker stepped quickly up a flight of stone steps and entered their home. Karolin, carrying their baby, walked to the opening front door to greet him.
“Here you are – kiss your son.” Franz Becker did so, tenderly, and kissed his wife. Then he straightened and stared at her. Karolin stared back into his eyes.
“Did you see him?” was all she asked.
“The Fur…! I mean, Herr Hitler? Yes – I saw him. I spoke with him. It was not a terribly pleasant experience.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Perhaps later.” They entered the living room. Karolin carefully placed the baby in his cradle and tucked him in. Her husband remained standing somewhat awkwardly. “Is something the matter?”
“You remember I said we might have a house in the country one day, with servants?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“That day is arriving much faster than I thought. We will be moving in a few days.”
Karolin was astonished. “Moving? Where?”
Her husband still seemed, somehow, ill at ease. “Let’s sit down.” They both sat down on a couch.
“Well… we have been offered the use of a country house on an estate at Tennenolher outside Nuremberg until the trial is finished. It is an old hunting lodge.”
Karolin was astonished. “Who is giving this to us?”
“From what I understand, it is by order of the joint allies. It... it is for our own safety. There... there will be a military presence to act as our bodyguards.”
“What kind of military presence?” She had a worried note in her voice. Her husband was feeling awkward and she picked this up.
“My darling,” he sounded uncomfortable, “the house is inside a fairly large American army camp. A general was using the house, but he is returning to the USA to take up a new position. We have been offered the house instead.”
His wife stared hard at him. “Offered?”
“Well, in fact, we have been ordered to move there, so that we may be protected.”
“Protected?” Her tone was incredulous. “By an entire army camp? What do they think we need to be protected from?” Becker stood up and slouched miserably, his hands now in his pockets. “Perhaps everyone in the whole world! You must bear in mind that I am about to defend Adolf Hitler in court. There are likely to be many people who want to see me fail, including some very powerful people. I am going to try to succeed - I am obliged to do so by my professional ethics as a defence attorney. I shall not throw-in the towel!” “So you think we might be in some danger?” she asked levelly.
“From lunatics, from hatred, yes.”
“Just because you have been selected to defend a man in court?”
“It is not just any normal citizen!” He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “We are not talking about any minor misdemeanour. The Bible says there was once war in heaven. It is my task to be Lucifer’s lawyer!”
Karolin reached up to her shoulders and held both his hands. She spoke softly and nodded. “Then we need protection. We will move house.” Mischievously, she kissed his cheek quickly and asked: “Will we have servants?”
Becker laughed. “I’m told we will even have a butler!”
-5-
The Bavarian city of Nuremberg had suffered massive war damage. As a climax to the Allied strategic bombing which had begun in 1943, in the closing months of the war the ancient city had suffered under almost continuous waves of RAF and USAF bombers so that most of the central city area had been entirely destroyed. In April 1945 three United States Infantry divisions, the 3rd, 42nd and 45th, had finally captured the ancient city after horrific house-to-house fighting against an unwavering and, by now, suicidal resistance from desperate Nazi troops.
Miraculously, amid all of this catastrophic destruction, the Nuremberg Palace of Justice which housed the Appellate Court, the Regional Court, the Local Court and the office of the Public Prosecutor was more-or-less untouched by the prolonged and hellish exigencies of mechanised warfare. Notwithstanding the titles of the three major courts, each of which dealt with different regional districts and different kinds of hearing, there were many more than three courtrooms within the enormous building.
Courtroom number 600 in the eastern wing had been prepared for the en-block trial of Nazi war criminals who had been captured so far. Their leader Adolf Hitler, however, had been accorded prime position, with no other prisoners present or permitted at his hearing. It had been debated whether trying him first, and alone, might send a message that Hitler was considered superior to other war criminals, for there was a worry that it might bestow upon him some kind of celebrity status. However, after some debate, it seemed an obvious and logical measure to try him first, not because he was necessarily a more important person, but because he had been the founder and architect of the entire Nazi state and all its policies and therefore could be held personally responsible at a distance for every war crime committed, on a buck-stops-here basis.
It was now April 1946 and bustling people were finding their proper places in the large courtroom. Through a double-door a team of ten legal clerks entered, carrying bulging document cases and cardboard boxes filled with files of papers. Leading them was Franz Becker. They made their way to one side of the huge room amid a general buzzing background of conversations and preparations.
Just as Becker and his legal team started arranging their files tidily on desks, a technician approached and began plugging headphone wires into sockets, handing large clumsy headphones of that era to Becker and senior members of his team. On the other side of the courtroom across a central clear avenue, the prosecution team was going through the same process with technicians. Becker stared across the courtroom. The prosecution team, with about seventy people, was noticeably much bigger than Becker’s defence team. .
There were four glass-fronted cubicles set in one wall, each not very much larger than a telephone booth. A translator sat behind a small desk in each booth with a large, clumsy microphone before them. They were all busily putting on and adjusting big padded headphones, tapping the microphones, arranging papers and – in one case – finishing a surreptitious home-rolled cigarette. Although no sound could be heard from within the booths, it was apparent that someone was speaking to the four translators over the wire system. Suddenly into the courtroom came the sound of the men in the booths one at a time, first in French, then Russian, then German, then English, with “Testing, testing, one, two, three, four!” in each language by turn. As someone at a distant consol switched the sound to earphones only, the English translator could be heard as he gradually faded away from the loudspeakers; “Testing, testing, one-two-three, testing. Can you hear me? Can you hear me? How now brown cow; how now brown cow. Can you hear me? Can you…”
There was an empty raised podium for four judges, and soon four judges entered the courtroom and took their seats. A court bailiff walked to stand before the judge’s podium where there was a desk for him. Lifting a microphone from the desk, he tapped it with a finger to attract attention. The sound was magnified in the big room by the loudspeakers and sounded like a bass drum. The background hubbub of a multitude of voices faded and utter silence fell. The bailiff spoke into the microphone.
“Please be upstanding for their honours the judges.” Everyone in the courtroom rose to their feet, even the translators in their cubicles.
The bailiff continued. “For the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, Major General Iona Nikitchenko. For the United States of America, Francis Biddle; for the Republic of France, Professor Henri Donnedieu de Vabres; for the United Kingdom, and elected President of the Tribunal, Sir Geoffrey Lawrence.” The bailiff paused for three seconds in which a pin could have been heard dropping. “Please be seated.” Most of the people in the courtroom sat down.
Sir Geoffrey Lawrence spoke into a microphone. “This trial is unique in the jurisprudence of the world, and of supreme importance to millions of people all over the globe. For this reason, there is laid upon everybody who takes any part in this trial the solemn responsibility to discharge his duties without fear or favour, in accordance with the sacred principles of law and justice.” He paused for several seconds.
“This Court finds its mandate and authority in the Joint Declaration of December 17th 1942 signed by the United States of America, Great Britain and the Soviet Union acknowledging the mass murder of European Jewry under Nazi policy and resolving to prosecute those responsible for this and for violence against any civilian population.” There was another short pause.
“We also find our mandate and authority in the Moscow Declaration of October 1943, signed by United States President Franklin D. Roosevelt, British Prime Minister Winston Churchill and Soviet Secretary Josef Stalin. This Declaration resolved that, at such a time when an armistice came into effect, those persons deemed responsible for war crimes will be returned to those countries in which they committed such crimes, and adjudged according to the laws of the nation concerned.
“However, this declaration further stipulated that those who are designated as major war criminals, whose crimes can be limited to no particular geographical location and no single national administration, would be punished under joint decision of the Allied governments.
“Our remit for today is that we should here undertake to predicate both that authority under whose aegis this court upholds its mandate to function, and that ordinance by which certain acts must be determined as bearing a specific personal level of responsibility over and above the conventional exegesis of obeying established military orders.”
At a nod from the President of the judges’ panel, the court bailiff started to speak. “The allied powers have agreed that the case for the prosecution will be presented by four joint chief prosecutors, one representing each of the allied powers.”
Across the room, four men stood up. Each one bowed slightly and sat down again as the bailiff called out their names. Surrounding the four were now over 70 seated clerks and assistant lawyers.
“Prosecuting for the United Kingdom, the Attorney General Sir Hartley Shawcross. Prosecuting for the United States of America, Supreme Court Justice Robert H. Jackson. Prosecuting for the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, Lieutenant-General Roman Andreyevich Rudenko, State Prosecutor of the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic. Prosecuting for the Republic of France, Count Francois de Menthon, Professor of Law at the University of Nancy.”
The bailiff paused for a few seconds then resumed. “The allied powers have agreed that the case for the defence will be presented by Herr Franz Becker, attorney-at-law.”
Becker turned his head to look across the aisle of the courtroom at the huge prosecution team headed by four top international legal giants and backed-up by an army of clerks, lawyers and advisers. Then he looked at his own small team of assistants. His expression was grim. Finally he bowed slightly and sat down. He felt entirely outnumbered and isolated, as though he had already been manoeuvred into a corner by some kind of private understanding he had not been a party to.
Two large covered US army trucks were parked in the street outside the Becker’s apartment. Half a dozen privates were bringing items of furniture and storage boxes down the flight of front steps and stowing them in the trucks. A US Army staff car entered the street round a far corner and pulled up close to the trucks. A young lieutenant emerged from the car and walked briskly up the steps through the open front door and into the hallway.
A few minutes later the lieutenant was politely escorting Karolin Becker down the hallway towards the front door. Karolin was carrying the baby, the lieutenant was carrying a large carpet bag for Karolin. Karolin looked rather flustered as they reached the front steps and started down for the car.
“Lieutenant Blackwell, does my husband know all about this? Has he approved of it? Will he know where we have gone?”
The lieutenant sprang to the car rear door and opened it politely for her with his free hand. “Oh yes mam, he is in court at this moment, but a note has been passed to him explaining everything. It’s from my commanding officer, General Maxwell. He has been placed in charge of security for you and your husband. I’m sure you can understand that it is not a sensible idea to inform people of such moves, you know, to secret addresses, before they take place. A casual remark might give information away.” He helped her and the baby into the rear seat and closed the door, then he got in beside the uniformed driver, who started the car.
Lieutenant Blackwell turned round to look at Karolin. He was entirely cheerful. “Don’t you worry now Frau Becker. You and your baby will be much safer with an army base as your neighbours. And it’s a beautiful house you’re going to. We’ve fixed you up with two maids, a cook and a butler. How about that?”
Karolin looked up from her baby, puzzled and worried. “Much safer…? Much safer from what…?”
The staff car moved away and turned the next corner.
Up the shallow flight of steps leading to the double doors of the courtroom a squad of ten US military police armed with sub-machine guns marched. Within the courtroom there was a growing background buzz of excited quiet talking. Court bailiffs opened the doors at the top of the stairs and the ten MPs marched through into the court. Behind them could now be seen the handcuffed figure of Adolf Hitler, dressed in an ill-fitting double-breasted suit with a shirt and a badly-knotted tie. He looked old and shrunken, but was nevertheless an unmistakable, even iconic, figure. He was being guided along by two more military policemen who each held a hand tightly either side on his shoulders. Behind marched ten more armed military police. Entering the courtroom, the escort brought Hitler to the raised accused box. This had a wooden half-door which was closed when Hitler entered the box. The two MPs whose hands had been on his shoulders entered the box with him, removed their hands and took a step backwards to stand behind him on either side, hands behind their backs.
The Court Bailiff, standing at his desk just below the judge’s box, banged a gavel which echoed loudly over the microphone. He called out: “Silence in court! Pray silence for the President of the Tribunal, Sir Geoffrey Lawrence, King’s Councillor and Knight Bachelor.” Silence fell rapidly. Somewhere somebody coughed quickly. Sir Geoffrey Lawrence spoke to the court over the microphone in front of him. In their private booths, the translators listened intently and began speaking into their microphones behind the soundproof glass.
“It is our sole purpose today to hear the reading of the indictment and receive a plea, the nature of which will determine the future course of this trial. The proceedings will be in English, and translated simultaneously into French, Russian and German, and other languages. “If my colleague Sir Hartley Shawcross the Attorney General representing the United Kingdom would like to kindly continue...? Amongst the prosecution seats, Sir Hartley Shawcross rose holding a clipboard. He bowed slightly to the President of the Tribunal. “Thank you My Lord. I will advise this Court that the prosecutors for the United States, the USSR and the Republic of France have elected to join with me in presenting a single combined dialogue of the case for the prosecution, rather than each presenting our own itemised cases, which would, we feel, clearly overlap in a great many instances and therefore lead to repetitions and an unnecessary prolonging of time.
“I therefore call upon Mister Justice Jackson of the United States Supreme Court to define the opening attributes of the case for the prosecution.”
He sat down. Robert H. Jackson stood up and looked at the President of Judges. “The Prosecution wishes it to be noted that the Defendant, Herr Adolf Hitler, has been professionally examined by psychiatric doctors during the last two weeks in order to establish his mental abilities and degree of sanity. He has been given the Rorschach test, the Thematic Apperception Test and the Wechsler-Bellevue Intelligence Test. In all cases, he was found to have above-average intelligence, and has been declared sane and mentally fit to stand trial for his actions.”
Adolf Hitler stood almost motionlessly in the prisoner’s box with the guards behind him, glowering defiantly at the President of the Tribunal and the rest of the court, but saying nothing. Time went by as Robert H. Jackson continued speaking on procedural matters. Then he elaborated on some important points.
“...In addition to the Declarations of 1942 and 1943, we have also very recently established a firm legal basis for such trials as this by the instrument of the London Charter of August 4th 1945, signed by the four Great Powers and authorising trials for the punishment of major war criminals of the European Axis countries.”
He paused and consulted his notes briefly. “The full and proper legality of this prosecution is also authorised within the Instrument of Unconditional Surrender of Germany signed in Berlin by Admiral Hans-Georg von Friedeburg on May 8th 1945. This stipulates that the governments of the United States of America, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, the United Kingdom and the Provisional Government of the French Republic from that date assume supreme authority with respect to Germany, including all the powers possessed by the German Government, the High Command, and all state, municipal or local authorities including the courts and the legal system...”
Another half hour later Robert H. Jackson was perspiring due to a very long and intricate preamble. He sat down and raised his head to stare at Adolf Hitler in the dock. Hitler still glowered straight ahead, ignoring everyone in the courtroom. There was a deafening silence in the court. Robert H. Jackson now stood up again. He looked directly at the prisoner in the dock.
“Adolf Hitler, you are to be charged with committing the following categories of multiple crimes.
“One! Conspiracy to commit crimes of peace, war crimes, and crimes against humanity!
“Two! Perpetrating crimes against peace!
“Three! Perpetrating war crimes!
“Four! Perpetrating crimes against humanity! Sir Geoffrey Lawrence stared expressionlessly at Hitler, who remained silent.
“Does the accused wish to enter a plea? You should plead ‘guilty or ‘not guilty’”.
Hitler continued to ignore the President of the Judge’s Tribunal, not even deigning to look in his direction.
Franz Becker rose to his feet. “Sir, my client will enter a plea of “Not Guilty” to each of the charges.” There was an immediate buzz of animated talking in the room.
The Bailiff banged his gavel repeatedly, calling out through the microphone standing in front of him: “Order! Order! Order in Court! Verhalten vor Gericht! Order! …”
-6-
Franz Becker drove through pleasant countryside trying conscientiously to think of his route and his road safety instead of his last couple of days in court. He passed through a quaint village hardly touched by the war. A small patch of woodland opened up before him and the road went through the belt of trees. On the farther side he saw a great long giant’s fence of coiled and straight barbed wire running across the undulating ground on high wooden posts the size of those which usually carried telephone wires. Outside this high barrier was a lower one of massed coils of barbed wire like a metallic thorn hedge.
The road ran up to a double gatehouse and many US soldiers were visible engaged in various activities. In the middle-distance there were lots of huts. The whole establishment lay in a shallow natural hollow some four kilometres wide. In the distance, on the farther side of the camp near the eves of a dark pine forest, there could be seen a rather picturesque and mansion-like hunting lodge of fair size, of the kind tourists used to like to have on the picture postcards they mailed home, back in the days when there were tourists in Germany instead of soldiers. A branch of the winding road ran to a paved courtyard surrounding the distant lodge. Becker stopped the car at the camp gate where there was a prefabricated office, a guardroom and brick storage bunkers, showed his papers and passes to the duty sergeant who rubber-stamped them, and drove under the rising barrier which he saw descending again behind him in his rear-view mirror. He followed the road in the direction of the lodge.
The large heavy front door opened into a huge hallway with wooden-posted balconies running round three walls and a carpeted staircase leading up to the balconies. The walls were covered with displays of flintlocks, swords, sabres, knives, maces, halberds and many less identifiable medieval weapons. At the foot of the stairs there was even a standing suit of armour. Along with the weapons, there were also rows of stuffed bear’s heads, boar’s heads, fox’s heads, stag heads and heads of other species of unlucky animals. Here and there were some fine paintings in ornate gilded frames. There were wooden benches, seats and other furniture including a magnificent carved hat-and-coat stand.
As Becker stepped inside and paused to look round, a man with a dignified manner came out of a passage opposite, marched to the front door and closed it. He faced Becker. “Good evening sir. I am Heinrich, the butler. Please regard myself and the rest of the staff as being at your service.”
“Thank you,” said Becker, momentarily surprised. “Is my wife here?”
“Frau Becker is in the main lounge, sir. Allow me to show you the way. You will soon find your way around the place.”
Becker followed Heinrich through the spacious hall and down a short broad corridor filled with antique tables and ornaments.
Fifteen minutes later Franz and Karolin Becker were seated at a huge polished dining table. There were lighted candles in silver candelabra. Two maids were serving dinner to them; Heinrich the butler was supervising and pouring the wine. Becker smiled at his wife. “This is a bit more like it, isn’t it my darling? A taste of the high life? Perhaps my career really is going places…?
Karolin appeared strangely nervous and wary. She followed the movements of maids and butler out of the corners of her eyes, as though watching for something. When she spoke, she sounded apprehensive. “It takes a bit of getting used to. I feel... I don’t know! I feel... awkward!”
Heinrich politely stooped over her right arm and poured wine into her cut crystal glass. He smiled politely. “Everybody will feel somewhat awkward on their first day in a new home, Frau Becker. It is only natural, if I may say so.” He moved round the table to fill Franz’s glass.
With little enthusiasm Karolin remarked to her husband: “We have a big bedroom, with huge wardrobes and a great four-poster bed! I tried it out this afternoon. A family of brown bears were glaring at me from the wall!”
“I’m sure they can be removed if you find it disturbing,” replied her husband.
She almost whispered: “I find everything disturbing!” Heinrich finished pouring wine and moved away towards the passage into the kitchen. He was smiling to himself.
There was a quiet buzz of many background conversations and some coughing as the Court Bailiff once more took his position beneath the judge’s podium for the second day of the trial. Over the loudspeakers he cried out: “Silence in court! Pray silence for the President of the Tribunal, Sir Geoffrey Lawrence, King’s Councillor and Knight Bachelor.”
Sir Geoffrey stared levelly at Hitler in the dock. “Herr Hitler, yesterday this Court heard the charges now levelled against you. These charges are conspiracy to commit, and the committal of, crimes against peace, war crimes and crimes against humanity. Multiple other charges, including authorising torture and mass murder of civilians, will devolve from these main headings.” He paused and briefly glanced at a paper he had picked up from his desk. “Your defence council has entered, on your behalf, a plea of Not Guilty on all charges.”
He dropped the paper onto his desk and leaned forward. “Today, we will hear the outline case for the defence, which will be presented by your attorney. Before I ask him to commence, is there anything you wish to say to the Court?” His voice grating with contempt, Adolf Hitler finally deigned to speak. There was a microphone suspended from the ceiling over the dock where he stood.
“I do not recognise the authority of this court! I do not recognise the authority of the judges and the officials” his voice suddenly screamed in absolute fury: “except that it is the swaggering of the victor in a contest of arms, on the basis of which you seek to fabricate nonexistent laws within a theatre of clowns and popinjays!”
Hitler lowered his head. There was a long moment of stunned silence. Sir Geoffrey Lawrence turned to look at Franz Becker and nodded slightly at him. Becker stood up to address the court.
“Thank you, Your Honour. I will advise this Court that my client’s defence will be predicated on two important and relevant issues.
“Issue one. That there is no existing law in any of the four allied powers, nor within Germany, which either defines, or else provides recognised legal guidance or precedent, or sets arbitrary rules upon, the question of whether an individual is obliged - in law - to recognise any compulsory division between what are accepted as “military orders” and orders that may result in acts that would be defined as “criminal” under a different regime
“The defence will maintain that all military chains-of-command - by the very nature of the necessary conduct of warfare and regardless of nationality - accept and require the absolute suspension of normal civil law and order when military duress demands.
”Put simply; is the High Command of any country, whether America, Britain, Russia, Germany or any other, obliged to recognise a dividing line between orders which seem necessary for accomplishing victory and orders which, under a peacetime legal system, would be considered criminal acts?
”Nor, I further submit, does one nation, or even any group of united nations, have any legal right born of their belief in their own moral rectitude, to pass a legal judgement upon the executive of any other nation who may act in a different manner or according to a different political or moral rule-book.
”Put even more simply, it is fully acknowledged with untold centuries of precedent that laws reach only to the border! No French citizen living in French territory can be prosecuted by the English court for an act which may be legal in France but illegal in England. No Russian commissar in his Moscow office obeying Soviet legislation and ordering an execution can be prosecuted for murder by a United States criminal court. No United States citizen can be prosecuted by the Soviet embassy in the USA under American law for urging people to denounce Communism, even though to do so is a crime recognised by law in the Soviet Union.
“As an exemplum exempli – an example of precedent – I ask this Court to consider a recent great crime which was not a statutory offence within the borders of the nation concerned but almost certainly would have been judged a criminal offence if it had occurred in any one of many other countries. I refer to Stalin’s purging of the Communist Party, of the Russian government, of the peasant classes and of the officers of the Red Army during the two years from 1936 to 1938, during which hundreds of thousands of people were arbitrarily shot by firing squads on Mister Stalin’s order.
“Also on Mister Stalin’s order was the forced collectivisation of agriculture in the Soviet Union, which has been unofficially named as the Holdomor, Ukranian for ‘extermination by hunger’. The best estimate of the numbers of deaths caused by this law is ten million men, women and children. I will repeat that – ten million!
“Yet, as we all know, Comrade Stalin has never been brought to trial for the crime of mass murder – he is, indeed, one of the virtuous world leaders who has instigated and contributed to the establishment of this very Court!”
His voice grew louder. “Why is Joseph Stalin not also standing in the dock over there beside Herr Hitler? Could it be simply because he is on the winning side whereas Herr Hitler is on the losing? Is it appropriate, does this Court think, to prosecute a German leader on a charge of ordering massacres of innocent people, but inappropriate to prosecute a Russian leader for the exact same crime? Does Justice punish its enemies whilst it lets its friends go free? Is the gleaming international justice this court claims to represent, as shallow, as hollow, as contrived, as that? As superficial as that? As meaningless as that? I ask everyone listening to search within themselves for the answer to that question!”
Becker paused briefly to quickly sort his papers. A susurration of animated background conversation began in the big courtroom. The Head Bailiff banged his gavel for silence. After a moment Becker resumed speaking very calmly.
“I do not need to point out to this court that there was an earlier dreadful World War between 1914 and 1918. There were atrocities committed in that war, too. May I remind this court that, for example, on 19th August 1915 the British ship Baralong, sailing under false colours by flying the American flag at a time when the United States was a neutral country and had not yet entered the war – an internationally illegal act contrary to the so-called “rules of warfare” - sank the German submarine U-27. All the German survivors were summarily executed, without trial or any legal process, on the orders of the Baralong’s captain, the British Lieutenant Godfrey Herbert. Then on the 24th September the Baralong, having sunk another submarine, U-41, deliberately rammed a lifeboat containing its surviving German crew, sinking it and drowning the occupants.
“No atrocity charges were ever brought against Lieutenant Godfrey Herbert or any member of the British high command, the Admiralty, or government.”
Again he paused, dropping a paper to his desktop. He briefly studied another sheet, then looked across the courtroom to the Prosecution. “And, if I may, I would like to respond to the opening statement made by my honourable colleague Mister Justice Jackson of the United States Supreme Court for the Prosecution.
“If we are to examine the question of morals applying to the conduct of warfare, which has been offered by the prosecution in support of this trial, I would like to draw the attention of this court to the fact that there are, to this day, elderly people still living in the United States who fought for the North or the South in the American Civil War, such as James Hard who now lives in Rochester, New York, and who remembers personally meeting President Abraham Lincoln in a White House reception and is verified by records as a combat veteran of the Union Army; and Pleasant Crump, now living in Talladega County, Alabama, who personally witnessed the surrender of General Robert E. Lee in Appomattox Courthouse and is verified as a combat veteran of the Confederate Army. In that dreadful war on America’s own soil, which is still just within living memory at this time, there were a great many atrocities which went unpunished and are today largely – one might perhaps accurately say ‘conveniently’ - forgotten by those who were born later. However, this civil war with its slaughter and atrocities was the very springboard that produced the United States of America as it is today.
“We should, perhaps, also consider the battered but victorious French Republic, represented here by the Honourable Count Francois de Menthon, Professor of Law; a series of four succeeding republics which originally came into being via a revolution in which huge numbers of men, women and children were slaughtered. A minimum of forty thousand people were executed by guillotine and some three hundred thousand men and women were arrested during the short period aptly known as ‘The Terror’. It is on record that an innocent palace cook was basted in butter and burned alive simply because they worked for the royal family.
“And yet, this series of dreadful atrocities eventually produced the Provisional Government of the French Republic of today, under the able leadership of Leon Blum, one-hundred-and-twenty-eighth Prime Minister of France and President of the Republic, which is so ably represented in this court by Count Francois de Menthon, Professor of Law.”
“And I should not forget to mention England in this context, a country which is so ably represented here in this Court by Sir Geoffrey Lawrence, Member of the King’s Bench Division and Knight Bachelor, elected President of our Judge’s Panel. It is a true, incontrovertible fact that the system of parliamentary government which rules Britain and sits under a purely figurehead monarch came into being as a result of the English Civil Wars during the period 1642 to 1651, which involved Ireland, Scotland and Wales as well, and which eventually produced what we know today as the United Kingdom. The total number of deaths in this conflict, both military and civilian, through battle, political executions and disease and famine resulting from war, was almost one million people. Statisticians have calculated that three-point-seven percent of the population of England at that time, six percent of the population of Scotland and forty-one per-cent of the Irish population died as a result of that period of internal warfare in which the administrative structure of today’s British Government, and indeed, of the British legal system, was worked out.”
He paused and looked round the court, his gaze finally stopping at the President of the Judge’s panel. “Anybody who has young children will know very well the child’s excuse that is always given when an adult has to break up a children’s fight; it consists of only three words – ‘They started it!’ No decent parent, surely, accepts this as a valid reason for their son or daughter to launch a violent attack on another’s son or daughter? Yet as adults, the nations of the world nevertheless evidently still regard ‘They Started It’ as a perfectly valid excuse for going to war. We need to ask ourselves; wherein, exactly, lies the difference? At what age does ‘They started it!’ officially cease to be a statement that adults explain is not an acceptable excuse to start a fight, and officially transform into a perfectly acceptable excuse for a nation to march to war?”
Becker paused again to draw a few deep breaths.
“My point, Sir, is that war itself is a moral atrocity, and all sides who participate in it - regardless of the apparent soundness of their reasons – are equally complicit in that atrocity. Between 1914 and 1918, on all sides, over eight million military personnel were killed; seven million were permanently disabled; fifteen million were seriously injured. This figure produces an average statistic of six thousand soldiers dying each and every day for more than four years. Are these figures themselves not atrocious? Surely, one cannot maintain that one side’s atrocities are greater than another side’s atrocities, so that the side with the highest atrocity tally is entirely guilty, while the side with the lower atrocity tally is entirely innocent and is therefore morally right to become history’s judge, jury and executioner? If one murderer kills two men and another murderer kills three men, do we regard the first murderer as being less guilty of murder, and the second as being more guilty? Do we give the first murderer a milder sentence but hang the second one?”
He paused, continuing quietly but firmly. “We do not! We treat both of them as equally guilty of the crime of murder!”
He paused, then continued in a quieter voice. “Figures are still being compiled, but it has already been confirmed that up to 1945 the British RAF and the US Air Force killed over one hundred thousand innocent civilians, men, women and children, in bombing raids over Germany. I would ask Council for the Prosecution to kindly confirm to this court, just for the record, that this atrocity was entirely validated on the legal basis of ‘They started it!’ “
He paused and looked directly at the Prosecution benches across the courtroom, but apart from a perceptible shuffling of someone’s feet and a smothered cough there came no response. Nobody looked at him. He waited for several long moments during which the silence was loud, then resumed.
“In November 1918, Kaiser Wilhelm the Second, Emperor of Germany, abdicated and was permitted to take a train into exile in the Netherlands as a private citizen. Until his death by natural causes in 1941, he lived in some luxury in the town of Doorn in the province of Utrecht and was never extradited to answer for any aspect whatsoever of the First World War, whether atrocities or otherwise.
“Does anyone in this courtroom wish to maintain that the reason why the Kaiser was not put on trial for war crimes was because that war was a more civilised war than the one we have recently endured, and it was therefore more appropriate for the winners not to legally prosecute the ruler of the losers?
“It is an amusing popular claim that everybody has a double. Do we think it is correct to apply this also to our standards?”
He paused for several seconds, slowly turning his head to look at the entire courtroom, as though listening carefully. The room was echoingly silent. One could have heard a pin drop.
“Let it be noted on the record that I hear no disagreement.”
He looked down at his papers again, shuffling them quickly. “I come now to issue two. The interesting matter of retroactive laws.” He paused.
“For those people who may be unfamiliar with the term, a retroactive law is a law which is established after a certain event has taken place, where that event was not a crime at the time the event happened, but where a legislative body has, after the event, backdated a new law so that the event becomes a criminal act some time after it has been committed. The legal term for such a law is an ex post facto law.
“In other words, such a law criminalises actions which were not criminal when they were committed.”
Becker stared slowly round the courtroom at a sea of faces which were riveted on him. There was total silence.
“In general, human civilisation has found retroactive law to be a repugnant concept. Permit me to remind this Court of a few legal facts.
“Article One, Section Nine, Clause Three, of the Constitution of the United States of America specifically forbids the introduction of retroactive laws.
“Article Two of the French Civil Code and Article one hundred and twelve, item one, of the French Penal Code also specifically forbid the introduction of retroactive laws.”
Becker again paused and looked round at the sea of riveted faces staring at him. Then he resumed.
“The German Weimar Republic also forbade the enactment of retroactive laws. The laws of the Weimar republic were replaced in 1935 by laws introduced by the Nazi Party.” Now he raised his voice.
“The Nazi legal system fully recognised and introduced retroactive laws! I quote from the Nazi Criminal Code of 1935: ‘Whoever commits an act which deserves punishment according to the principles of criminal law and to the sound feelings of the people, will be punished!’ He lowered his voice to a growl. “Please let these words from the Nazi Criminal Code burn in your thoughts: ‘According to the sound feelings of the people...!’” He paused again.
“The process of adopting a morality in which the structure of law is based on the ‘feelings of the people’ has another name as well. It is more usually called ‘Mob Rule!’ It is the legalisation of the lynch mob and of the so-called “kangaroo court!”
Becker lowered his head in silence for a few moments, then suddenly jerked upright with blazing eyes.
“I will also repeat at this juncture the statements made previously by the President of this Tribunal Sir Geoffrey Lawrence and by Justice of the United States Supreme Court Mr. Robert H. Jackson for the prosecution - both of whom I will ask to be so good as to correct me if I am in error regarding any word they stated.
“I quote Sir Geoffrey Lawrence: ‘This Court finds its mandate and authority in the Joint Declaration of December 17th 1942 signed by the United States of America, Great Britain and the Soviet Union;’ and: ‘We also find our mandate and authority in the Moscow Declaration of October 1943, signed by United States President Franklin D. Roosevelt, British Prime Minister Winston Churchill and Soviet Secretary Josef Stalin.’ I quote Mr. Robert H. Jackson: ‘In addition to the Declarations of 1942 and 1943, we have also very recently established a firm legal basis by the instrument of the London Charter of August 4th 1945, signed by the four Great Powers and authorising trials for the punishment of major war criminals of the European Axis countries;’ and: ‘The full and proper legality of this prosecution is also authorised within the Instrument of Unconditional Surrender of Germany signed in Berlin by Admiral Hans-Georg von Friedeburg on May 8th 1945.’
Becker paused a moment, then spoke clearly and firmly.
“Please correct me if I am mistaken, but the transference of the German state’s legal authority from Germany to the Allies by the signing of the document of surrender was indeed completed last year, in 1945. The other two agreements cited as providing the authority of this Court were signed in 1943 and 1942.”
Now Becker suddenly and unexpectedly shouted at the whole Court in a controlled manner, waving the papers he held in his right hand to add emphasis.
“Therefore, the legality of this Court and of any legislation or ruling it may make in this trial, is based entirely on ex post facto laws - on retroactive laws - on laws which came into force after the events they condemn - World War 2 - had already begun!”
He stormed even louder.
“Is this Court therefore not exactly and undeniably an example of: ‘Whoever commits an act which deserves punishment according to the sound feelings of the people, will be punished?’ Is this not exactly and undeniably the same principle of retroactive law banned under the United States Constitution? Banned under French law? Banned under German Law during the Weimar Republic?”
A background hubub of angry voices began to surge in the Court and grow louder as Becker continued. He shouted even louder above the rising tumult.
“Is this Court therefore not a perfect example of mob rule? Is this Court not a kangaroo court, a de facto lynch mob? Does this Court not therefore perfectly represent just another kind of Nazi law? If Adolf Hitler is here on trial at the hands of his enemies, is it not really simply a matter of a demonstration of power? Of demonstrating that a winning system of legal government is more powerful than a defeated system of government legal in its own land – of sending the message to the world that the Allied Powers are simply bigger and better Nazis than Adolf Hitler was?”
The entire court rose to its feet in sudden furious uproar. Sir Geoffrey Lawrence banged his gavel furiously, his expression utterly livid. He rose from his seat, leaning forward, and pointed a shaking finger at Becker. He shouted out above the turmoil now rising throughout the court. “Council for the defence will control his remarks! Council for the defence will pay due respect to this Court and its judges! Otherwise Council for the defence will be charged with contempt of court and only re-admitted when the contempt has been purged!”
-7-
Franz Becker emerged from his car, opened the front door of the house and entered. There were many trophies displayed everywhere around the walls of the big hunting lodge. Their glass eyes seemed to follow him as he walked to the main lounge. He found Karolin sitting in an upholstered chair cuddling their baby son on her lap. To his surprise, Lieutenant Blackwell was sitting at his ease in a chair facing Karolin. Becker paused momentarily with his hand still on the door handle, looking at Lieutenant Blackwell a little suspiciously. Then he walked over to his wife and kissed her and the baby. He drew up another armchair, placing it beside his wife, and sat, staring silently at Blackwell with raised eyebrows. Blackwell smiled at him blandly. “Hi, Herr Becker. I trust everything is to your satisfaction about this house?”
Becker answered stiffly and suspiciously, eyebrows still raised. “The house is a house. It is nothing more than an hotel while we need to be away from home. That is all that can be said about any house. It serves a purpose.”
“Well, gee, I was hoping you would kind-of fall in love with the place. We went out of our way to make it available to you both.”
Karolin spoke frostily. “Do not say ‘both!’ There are three of us in this family!” She gently bounced the baby on her knee. “Hey,” said the lieutenant, “I meant no offence. Don’t get me wrong.”
Becker stared him in the eye without blinking. “So how do we get you right? What are you doing here?” “I came to see if everything was to your satisfaction. That’s all.”
It was Karolin who responded before her husband could. “You have been here for over an hour waiting for my husband to return. I do not think ‘that’s all’ at all. I think you have some other purpose!”
Before Blackwell could reply, Franz Becker spoke to him with more than a hint of sarcasm. “Is everything to our satisfaction? Well - let me see...” He drew a slow breath. “We are Germans. We have just lost a catastrophic war. We have seen our ancient historical homeland lain waste and occupied by invaders. Many of our relatives and friends have been slaughtered. We have been ruled for some ten years by an insane regime which judged citizens by their race instead of by their abilities. My wife’s grandfather was Jewish. We have lived for ten years in imminent dread of the casual denouncement of a jealous neighbour and the loud knock on the door before dawn. Now we have been obliged to abandon our home, our apartment, which we obtained through our own hard work and in which our child was born. In its place, we have been brought into this... this dark and gloomy museum - this mausoleum - this temple to the sadistic lust for slaughtering poor dumb animals who cannot shoot back. We are guarded by an entire army camp...” He paused, then continued more calmly.
“Tell me lieutenant - where do you suppose is the difference between being protected and being contained? No, Lieutenant Blackwell, I can assure you that everything is about as far from our satisfaction as can be. Now please have the honesty to tell us your real reason for coming here this evening!”
Blackwell stared at him for a moment. His face lost its smile. He nodded curtly. “OK. I need to talk to you about today - in court.”
Becker suddenly leaned forward towards him. “What about today in court? Were you there?” he snapped. “Well, no – I guess I wasn’t...” His manner became slightly uncomfortable. Before he could continue, Becker interrupted like a panther pouncing.
“You guess? You guess? Guesses are meaningless. I deal only in facts!”
Blackwell finally showed some anger. “You know damn well that’s an American figure-of-speech. OK, I was not in the court today. Is that better?”
“Better? Possibly! More honest, certainly! So - as someone who was not present in the court, what is it that you want to talk to me about - and perhaps more to the point, who ordered you to come here and speak to me?”
Blackwell made another attempt to appear friendly. “Look, I simply heard that you provoked Sir Geoffrey into a raging outburst and almost got yourself charged with contempt. Now, you must have touched a raw nerve to have accomplished that.”
“I cannot comment on that. For one thing, it may well be sub-judice, for another it will be on the official record and available to anyone who has sufficient authority to view it. It is not a matter for casual gossip.”
Blackwell stared at Becker earnestly. “I will be frank with you. It may be the case that certain high-ranking figures do not wish for Herr Hitler’s defence in court to be too good. It may be that such figures are anxious for the defence to make a fool of itself - to collapse like a house of cards. It may be... Goddamit it, it may be the case that you, Herr Becker, were deliberately chosen to handle the defence because certain figures thought a young, unknown shyster lawyer from a tiny and obscure provincial practice would mess his case up good!” He drew breath. “Today you did not mess up your case. Today you raised such valid legal issues that the Chairman of the Tribunal himself was caught hopping! Today you started to pull the rug out from under the entire structure of the prosecution. Today you were superb.
“Today you showed yourself to the world to be an outstanding, red-hot pain-in-the-backside to the President of the USA, the Prime Minister of Britain, the Dictator of Russia, the new President of France and countless mere government ministers, officials and generals.”
Blackwell lowered his voice. “Believe me - that is not a good position to be in! This war was not won by the nicest guys. It was won by the strongest guys!” He rose to his feet. “Think about it!” Blackwell turned his back abruptly and strode quickly out of the room.
The Beckers looked at each other blankly. Karolin reached behind her to the wall and tugged at a thick tasselled cord. There was the sound of a distant chime elsewhere in the house. Her eyebrows frowned. “Franz – what’s happening? That man worries me. All of this worries me.” Her husband answered in an angry, bitter voice. “If what he says is true, it seems I have been carefully selected as a - what do the Americans call it? A patsy! A stooge! A fall-guy!” Then he looked her in the eyes and smiled. “And do you know what? I’m not going to play their game for them! Adolf Hitler may be the worst criminal in history - but they said he must have a trial. And if I can get him off on a legal technicality, I shall do so. And I will now take great satisfaction by so doing.
“You know what else? They’ve asked for it! I’m going to do my level best to bring their damned house of cards falling round their ears. I’m going to take the fight even further into the centre of the arena and make them look small. They deserve it!”
At that moment the door opened quietly and Heinrich the butler entered. “Did you ring Sir? Madam? I was just conducting the American officer off the premises.”
Karolin answered. “Heinrich, can you bring us two glasses of red wine? We both need a drink badly, I think!”
As Heinrich turned to leave the room, Franz Becker spoke to him. “Heinrich - do you know anything much about our Lieutenant Blackwell?”
Heinrich paused and turned to face Franz Becker. “I regret, sir, that I do not know much about him. I was engaged by General Adams, another American, who lived in this house before you. He was promoted, as I understand it, to a desk job in the Pentagon and had to return to the USA. All I know is that a General Maxwell replaced General Adams as commander of this camp, and Lieutenant Blackwell was attached to him and came with him.” He paused thoughtfully. “If it helps, my wages are paid by the US Army, so they are technically my employer. One could say, ‘I come with the house’.”
“Have you been here long?”
“Not really, sir. Some four months. Before that I was... well, like many German men, I served my country.”
“What did you do?” asked Karolin curiously.
“Nothing courageous, I’m afraid madam. I served as a medical orderly - I studied medicine at university in Munich before the war, you see, so I became attached to a medical unit.” He hesitated, then: “I will bring your wine.”
Franz Becker spoke quietly after Heinrich had left and closed the door. “I’m not sure I trust him. There’s something about him that makes my spine tingle.” Then he became more positive. “However, just between the three of us-” he looked fondly at their baby son – “I shall spend a little time thinking about our safety. Just in case of emergencies. I think it might be sensible to have… an escape plan.”
Karolin was worried. “Do you think that is necessary, Franz? Escape? Where to?”
“You have an uncle and aunt in Argentina, don’t you?”
“That’s right - they have a cattle ranch outside Rivadavia, only about a hundred kilometres from the Chilean border.”
Her husband pondered for a moment. “I think I will arrange to withdraw all our savings, or as much as we are allowed under the emergency currency regulations. I think we shall send a telegram to your aunt and uncle... just in case...”
The door opened and Heinrich entered quietly carrying a silver tray with two glasses of red wine on it.
-8-
Another day in the Nuremberg courtroom. Everyone was back in their same places, including the silent Adolf Hitler glaring forward under heavy guard. Sir Geoffrey Lawrence had already instructed the bailiff to bang his gavel over the loudspeakers and the big room was quickly falling silent.
“This Court will now resume hearing the outline case for the defence,” stated Sir Geoffrey. “It is to be understood that the introductory outlines of the cases for the prosecution and the defence are being given first, which commenced two days ago for the prosecution and yesterday for the defence, and when the outlines have been presented, the Court will then sit to hear the specific chapter-and-verse details of both sides. The outline case for the prosecution has already been completed. The outline for the defence was commenced yesterday and will be resumed today.”
He turned his head to stare meaningfully across the courtroom at Franz Becker. “Herr Becker. You must understand that you have been cautioned against contempt. You may proceed.”
Becker stood up. “Thank you your honour.” He paused for a moment to look round the courtroom, gathering his thoughts.
“Today I wish to continue to review the general nature of the case for the prosecution, in the light of the defence which shall be presented against it at the time when both sides are able to go into any necessary intricate detail.” He looked at papers in his hand for a few seconds.
”I will take the charges in the order they were presented. My client is first charged with conspiracy to commit various crimes which were then itemised. Since conspiracy to commit a crime can only occur if the action discussed by the conspirators is against the law, any charge of conspiracy is dependant upon whether or not the act or acts discussed by any alleged conspirators are against the law prevailing at the time and place of the discussion.
“Therefore, the Defence will concentrate on the acts said to have been the subject of such conspiracy. These acts are - as the Prosecution has itemised them - crimes against peace; war crimes; and crimes against humanity.
“I shall start with the first accusation, crimes against peace.” He lowered his head then looked up again.
“The Defence will submit that, within the context of the matter before this Court, the single possible crime against peace, as applicable to the nations who have brought this accusation, is to have declared war on them.
“Did Herr Hitler declare war?”
He raised his voice. “Actually, it is entirely provable he did not! In 1939 Great Britain and France declared war upon Germany! It was this declaration that started the ball of world war rolling!”
A background of angry murmuring started in the crowded courtroom. Becker ignored this and went on.
”If it is a crime against peace to conspire to declare war upon another sovereign state, then that crime was committed, not by Herr Hitler, but by Great Britain and France!”
There was a sudden angry uproar in the court. Both Sir Geoffrey Lawrence and the Head Bailiff banged their gavels furiously. At the same time, two of the chief prosecutors - Sir Hartley Shawcross of the United Kingdom and Count Francoise de Menthon of France - leaped to their feet. Count Francoise called out loudly in excellent English; “Your Honour, this is distortion of the facts! War was declared because both Great Britain and France were honouring the Munich Agreement which Herr Hitler signed jointly with Neville Chamberlain, Édouard Daladier and Benito Mussolini!”
A rapid silence descended. Becker spoke quietly, although everyone could hear him clearly over the microphone. “But gentlemen, is it not true that the Munich Agreement dealt only with the territories of Czechoslovakia following the German annexation of the Sudetenland which held a very large population of people of German origin, with Great Britain and France guaranteeing to support the new boundaries of Czechoslovakia against any attack or invasion by Germany?”
Calmly Becker turned to face Sir Geoffrey Lawrence. “Your Honour, I submit the plain fact that the Munich Agreement, which as my learned colleagues quite rightly state was signed by Herr Hitler, dealt solely and exclusively with Czechoslovakia and its new borderline. There is no mention of Poland in the Munich Agreement, a facsimile of which I have here and can, if required, present to the Court for inspection.”
Sir Geoffrey turned his head briefly to Sir Hartley Shawcross and Count Francoise de Menthon who were still standing in fury at the Prosecution desks. “Please be seated, gentlemen. The Prosecution will have its chance to speak more fully at a later designated time.” The two men bobbed their heads and sat down looking disgruntled. Then Sir Geoffrey nodded at Becker to resume.
“The evidence proves conclusively, Your Honour, that both Great Britain and France colluded together to launch military hostilities against Germany. The declaration of war was made by the governments of Great Britain and France purely and calculatedly to meddle in the political settlements being made within the European domain.
“One might say, with full justification, that the governments of Great Britain and France decided to wage a preventative, or at least a punitive, war against Germany just because they had, at almost the last moment, promised to do so if Germany interfered with Poland. War was declared against Germany – whose own civilian population had no say in the matter whatsoever - due to a border dispute in Europe.” He raised his voice. “It is, therefore, provable fact that Herr Hitler cannot possibly, accurately or legally be shown to have conspired to wage war on Great Britain or France, and that it can be factually and legally proven that it was Great Britain and France who conspired to wage war on Germany!”
Again the entire courtroom erupted in angry reaction and many screamed shouts of disagreement. The Chairman of Judges banged his gavel repeatedly and the Head Bailiff joined in. Franz Becker slowly sat down looking rather satisfied.
Down the same whitewashed stone passage deep beneath the surface of Kassel marched the same Colonel and Major with Franz Becker, footsteps echoing. Becker passed through the same tiresome password confirmation and search and went through the same massive vault doors. Then once again he was alone in Hitler’s cell, approaching the massive blocky chair where the former Leader was securely fastened with straight jacket and clamps between court appearances.
Becker stood before Hitler and watched him for a few moments.. The man’s eyes were closed. He hardly moved. “I understand you sent for me?” Becker said quietly.
Hitler’s hypnotic eyes opened suddenly. “I am evidently permitted to confer in private with my defence council,” he snapped.
“Yes - you are. What was it you wished to see me about?”
“Are you married?”
Becker was slightly puzzled by the question. “Yes, I am.”
“Do you have any children?”
“Yes – one boy. He is just over eight months old now. His name is Steffen.”
Hitler stared at Becker for some moments with his piercing eyes, expressionless. Then he said: “I wanted to tell you myself that you were splendid in Court. You almost caused a riot. You had the prosecution and judges gabbling in fury. That is no mean feat.”
Becker stared back silently. Hitler spoke again.
“I wanted to tell you that they will never allow you to get away with it! They will never allow you to win this case. Never. Under any circumstances.” He drew breath deeply then raised his voice. “I did not want you! I did not want a defence council! I did not ask for you! I did not need you! I still do not need you!”
His voice lowered to a growl. “But you... you, Herr Becker - you have suddenly shown me something! You have shown me that you are worthy. You are a truly worthy man. I do not like you - I do not need to like you. You do not like me - you do not need to like me. But none-the-less, I want you to know that I find you worthy in my eyes.
“We do not like each other. But you have gained my respect and some measure of my admiration. And because of that, I want to order you to resign - to abandon your brief - to quit this trial! And before you ask “why?” I shall tell you the reason I require this. It is because you are edging too close to winning!”
Becker was confused. “I... I do not understand. It is my duty to do all I can to win the case. It is an academic matter. A purely professional matter. My profession is law. Whether I represent a prosecution or a defence, I shall always drive myself to succeed, as will my opposing council, whoever they are. We never become personally involved in our cases - no lawyer should do that!
“It is a game of chess. A game of chess! Whichever side wins or loses, the lawyers presenting prosecution and defence never take the matter personally. If I win, the opposing council will congratulate me. If I lose, I will congratulate them. Lawyers are not duellists out to kill or maim their opponent! We are chess players, admiring our opponent’s move when it is clever, pouncing on them when their move is foolish.”
Hitler’s voice became contemptuous. “What a wonderful world you live in, Herr Becker. What an innocent world! What a decent, upright and well-ordered world. What a highly educated world. What a civilized world.
“But I can tell you - it is not the real world! The real world is a savage jungle full of very dangerous human animals. A courtroom does not deal with the realities of the world. A courtroom sanitizes reality. A courtroom dissects and inspects reality, like a deadly serpent is dissected and inspected in a sterile, antiseptic laboratory far removed from the stinking swamp where the serpents live. “I assure you, Herr Becker, the world of humans is a jungle. You may think I am cynical.” He raised his voice. “But I have lived in that jungle all my life - and for a time I was King of the Jungle! And you, Herr Becker, are a gazelle who thinks lions eat grass like you do.
“Herr Becker, you are surrounded by lions who eat gazelles for breakfast! And if I cannot dismiss you, I will at least tell you to watch your back, and watch your step, watch your enemies, and watch your friends even more! For that is the way the real world works!”
Then, brusquely and dismissively, he casually said: “That is all. You have my permission to leave.” Then louder: “Now!” Becker stared at Hitler for some moments, then slowly turned and walked towards the great steel door.
-9-
It was becoming a familiar if tiresome routine to have to stop at the guard-post, identify himself to an army officer, get clearance, have his entry pass rubber-stamped and wait for the red and white striped barrier to be raised by a soldier before he could drive down the gracefully twisting private road to the far hunting lodge, visible in the distance against the line of the forest on the farther side of the big military camp. This, he reflected sourly, was the price they had to pay for becoming involved in what had become an overnight international event and ongoing news story.
In the couple of miles between the guard-post and the hunting lodge the land was a shallow valley in which could be seen many lines of tents, wooden buildings, rows of field guns, rows of tanks, rows of jeeps, wooden gymnastic frameworks for exercise and practice, a distant airstrip where a couple of Bell P-39 Airacobra fighters stood, and alongside the winding road through to the lodge, a large empty grassy training area bigger than a dozen farm fields.
A US soldier handed Becker’s identity papers and permits back to him and he got back into his car. Starting up, he moved off in the direction of the distant hunting lodge. He was over halfway down the narrow road when, suddenly and with no warning, a great explosion erupted only some thirty feet away with a flash like lightning and a fountain of earth and smoke. Within a bare fraction of a second Becker’s ears were deafened and ringing from the sound of the shell burst and his car rocked sideways in the blast of the concussion. Momentarily stunned, he wrenched the wheel by accident. The car swerved in a screech of tyres then came to a halt, the engine cutting out.
He leaned against the steering wheel, gripping it tightly with white knuckles. His ears were still ringing. As he turned to stare disbelievingly at the clearing cloud of earth and smoke, a second explosion occurred about thirty feet ahead and further from the road. Then moments later, a third explosion about sixty feet away. To his horror, he realised that the continuing chain of explosions was travelling one after the other in a specific line – and that line was now heading, bang by bang, unmistakably and with a mathematical precision, straight in the direction of the hunting lodge where his wife and child were waiting for him to return.
Panic stricken, he tried to start the engine. It turned over but there was no ignition. He tried again with the same result. Screaming harshly in rage he banged the dashboard with his fists, breaking the glass on a dial. He tried the starter again and the engine coughed and roared into life. The car lurched forward at full throttle, rear wheels spinning and screeching on the tarmac. Within moments he was racing down the road towards the lodge at a rapidly increasing speed. He was in a deadly race, swaying dangerously through bends, sometimes on two wheels. His speed dial reached 90 miles per hour then the needle jammed.
Outside, he saw to his left the continuing regular impact of whooping, whining artillery shells exploding at perfectly regular intervals of five seconds, each explosion about 30 feet apart. The line of explosions was heading directly towards the lodge like giant footprints. Becker crouched forward at the steering wheel like some demented racing driver. The whoosh and roar of artillery shells was loud in his ears. He realised that he was screaming loudly in frustrated rage and effort. Slowly the speeding car pulled ahead of the advancing line of explosions.
Sliding to a handbrake stop that generated a shower of gravel like a wave on a beach, Becker leaped out without wasting time stopping the engine or turning off the ignition key. Behind him another artillery shell exploded no more than 150 feet from the house. He sprinted for the front door and into the house. Another shell exploded about 120 feet away.
On the farther side of the main hall stood Karolin cradling the baby. The baby was crying, and so was Karolin. They rushed into each other’s arms and Franz Becker looked rapidly round for the best route by which to escape from the house before the shelling reached it. But suddenly there came what could only be described as a deafening silence from outside: the artillery barrage had stopped. Franz and Karolin, sobbing with emotion, sank to their knees over their crying baby, hugging and weeping together.
General Maxwell was a middle-aged man who looked more like a bank manager than a warrior, except for his uniform and insignia. His local office was in a large US Army hut and there was a suitably large desk behind which he sat. In front of the desk stood Franz Becker, furious to the point of apoplexy. He shouted and screamed, wide-eyed and waving his hands and had been doing so for a few minutes already.
“...We might have been killed! Blown to pieces! Your fucking artillery was deliberately aiming at my car and our house! They were using live ammunition and they were trying to kill us. My poor wife was terrified! Our baby was terrified! I was terrified...! General Maxwell waved his own hands trying to calm things down. “Herr Becker, if you would please allow me to get a word in edgewise, I do not think..."
Becker shouted him down in rage. “The fucking shells were landing yards away from my car! The explosions were closing-in on where my wife and child were cowering! What the fucking hell were your men trying to do - deliberately kill us? Is that what you wanted?” He took a step towards the general’s desk and banged both fists violently down on the desktop, making pens and paperweights jump with a clatter. He leaned forward on his arms and thrust his face to a couple of feet from Maxwell’s, rasping hoarsely. “You want to murder us, is that it? You want to kill us!”
Visibly keeping his temper, Maxwell answered him. “Herr Becker, this is an army base. We have training exercises here on a regular basis. I assure you, our artillery range-finders are thorough experts. They were certainly not trying to harm you, or your wife and child.
“I am reliably informed by eyewitnesses who were involved with the exercise that no shells landed anywhere near close enough to you or your lodge to present any risk whatsoever. My men, Herr Becker, are professional experts. They know exactly what they are doing! He paused and leaned forward, still staring piercingly at Becker. “Herr Becker, was your vehicle damaged by the firing?”
Becker had to reply truthfully. “No, it wasn’t damaged.”
Maxwell continued remorselessly in the same even tone. “Did any splinters or shards strike you or your family, or did any of the shells hit you?”
“No.”
“Was the house damaged or marked in any way? Were any windows broken?”
“No.”
The general’s tone became soothing. “Well then, surely you can see that this was nothing to do with trying to harm you, or anybody? This was nothing more than a simple artillery practice, of a routine kind we conduct on this base at fairly regular intervals. The guns were laying down an advancing shellfire cover, an operation requiring great accuracy and expertise - and from everything I have been told by those involved - including you yourself Herr Becker - the gunners were doing an excellent job of keeping their firing perfectly accurate. There were no stray shells. There were no explosions sufficiently close to either you or any property to cause the slightest harm.”
Now he leaned back at ease in his chair. His tone became sincere. “Of course it can be alarming for a civilian to see artillery shells exploding in a line across the countryside, especially if you have not been warned that the practice will be taking place. I will certainly find out why you were not informed beforehand, and I will punish the person who neglected to do so, you have my assurance on that.
“But it was a safe and harmless exercise, nothing more. You and your wife happened to see it close-up and without any prior warning, that’s all, and it was understandably disturbing. I promise you, I will ensure that you receive proper advance warning of any such exercises in the future.”
Becker was still panting from his angry tirade. His face was not friendly. Without saying a word, he turned sharply and walked out of the office, slamming the door very loudly behind him.
A few moments later a rear door opened in the office and Lieutenant Blackwell entered quite casually. He did not salute. General Maxwell looked at him and nodded very slightly. “Pass my personal congratulations to the gunners. Tell them they followed their orders with great skill and precision.”
“Yes Sir,” said Blackwell with a slight grin.
Maxwell was silent for a few moments, then mused. “This man Franz Becker might pose a significant problem.” He reflected in silence for half a minute. Blackwell did not interrupt him. Finally Maxwell said; “Lieutenant, I think we need to take out some insurance. Just in case…!”
-10-
There was an old building in a dark and dingy alleyway between streets. The building was almost decrepit and looked like it had not been renovated or cleaned for at least half a century. By luck, it had entirely escaped being bombed or damaged by the war, but it looked as though it might fall down without any help in the not-too-distant future anyway. There was a large black door, beside which was fixed a row of some eight bell-pushes. Three of these boasted small cardboard inserts with business names written in pen by hand. Two of these names were those of rather exotic-sounding women. One was the name of a moneylender. It was that one which Franz Becker pressed when he had walked down the alley and stopped at the door.
An ancient, withered man who looked as though he was saving up for his own funeral opened the door. He obviously recognised Becker, for he merely nodded at him, or rather, twitched his head a couple of times on his scrawny neck, and shuffled back to a shabby armchair where he picked up a newspaper and hid himself behind it as he resumed reading. Becker trod across uneven floorboards to the foot of a bare wooden staircase and started to ascend. He reached the fifth floor and went down a dingy corridor until he came to a door with a cracked frosted glass window. On the glass was painted in black letters:
Udo Klein
Allgemeine Makler
Becker knocked once, loudly, then opened the door and strode through as though he owned the place. Inside, a tough-looking middle-aged man in a collarless striped shirt and braces was sitting behind a battered desk writing in a ledger. He smoked a cigar. A small stack of ledgers were on the desktop. There was a grimy window with no curtain. In a corner of the office was a small and stained white sink with a single cold tap dripping slowly. Next to it was a grimy and ancient gas cooker with a dented kettle on it. As Becker entered, the man glanced up scowling. His expression relaxed as he recognised his visitor.
“Well well! Herr Franz Becker. Don’t tell me you want to pawn your family heirlooms?”
Becker laughed good-naturedly. “No Udo, money is not my problem at this time.” He pulled a plain kitchen chair across the floor to sit in front of the desk.
“I should think not!” remarked Udo Klein. “I read about your exploits at the trial of old Adolf Schicklgruber in the newspapers every morning. You have become famous. There must be plenty money in it somewhere.” He held up a hand and rubbed thumb and forefinger together. Becker ignored this. “I wish to employ the skilled service of your other business.”
Udo Klein tried to look innocent. “Other business? What other business? I have no other business!”
“I’m not here to play games, Udo. Remember, it was me who fought your case in court and got you off a charge of forging identity papers and passports.”
“But I was innocent,” wailed the other theatrically, spreading his hands. “You proved to the court that I was innocent.”
“That’s right. And I can just as easily go back to the authorities and show them the evidence I ignored which proves that you were actually as guilty as sin. The only reason I defended you was because you also forged papers and passports for Jewish families to help them escape the country.” Udo Klein visibly slumped. “What is it that you want?”
“Only your exceptional talents, nothing more. I need forged identity papers and forged passports and travel permits for two adults and a baby.” He extracted a bulky sealed envelope from his coat pocket and handed it across the table. “Here are the details, plus all necessary photographs.” He paused and stared Udo Klein in the eyes. “How long?”
“Two people and a baby? Two weeks.”
“No quicker?”
“Forgery is a complex art. It takes time and care, and a secret printing works. Haste leads to mistakes.” “Very well. If you can have the perfect documents ready for me in two weeks from today, then I shall consider all my favours to you fully repaid. And I shall give you back all incriminating evidence I kept, plus two hundred genuine US dollars. You have my word.” Udo squinted at him curiously. “How the hell did you manage to get hold of two hundred US dollars?”
“Don’t ask!”
The two men shook hands across the scratched and stained desk.
-11-
After a two-day break the trial resumed in the Nuremburg Palace of Justice. Everyone was in their correct place and, after some necessary opening preliminaries, there was silence as everyone waited for the defence to resume giving the general outline of their case. Franz Becker looked unusually stern and grim when he rose to address the court.
“Today I am going to highlight for the defence some more questionable issues which, when taken in conjunction with my previous observations, are likely to result in my client being unable to receive a fair and proper trial.” Sir Geoffrey Lawrence leaned forward from the judge’s podium. “Have a care, Herr Becker. I advise you to choose your words with somewhat greater regard, bearing in mind that you are still under caution of contempt. ‘Fairness’ is a word which merely questions the skills and presentations of procedure. ‘Proper’, however, is a word that might be taken as questioning the legal standing and authority of this Court!”
Becker merely turned to face Sir Geoffrey and raised an eyebrow. “Quite so Your Honour,” he said mildly but clearly over the microphone. “You are, of course, perfectly correct in what you say, and I have the greatest respect for you for pointing these definitions out to the Court much better than I was about to do, for which the defence is indebted to you.”
Sir Geoffrey sat back in his chair in astonishment. At the same time, a quiet ripple of mild laughter ran round the court for a couple of seconds.
Becker smiled noticeably, indulging the laughter, then resumed. “Now, if I may continue, I would like to consider the matter of international politics and the Instrument of Surrender signed on behalf of Germany by Admiral Hans-Georg von Friedeburg on May 8th 1945. This document has been listed previously in this Court as one of the foundations - indeed, perhaps the only certified signed foundation - of the authority for the joint Allied powers to subsume the observation and exercise of law within Germany.
“If I recall correctly - and I will ask Sir Geoffrey Lawrence the Chairman of the panel of judges to kindly and wisely correct me if I get my facts wrong - this particular item was raised a few days ago by Mister Robert H. Jackson of the United States Supreme Court, as part of his justification of the validity of this trial. I state this, of course, simply as a verifiable fact, and certainly not as any intended disrespect to the Court.”
Sir Geoffrey Lawrence glared daggers but did not say anything. Becker went on speaking.
“This document of surrender supplies the legal basis of the transfer of political and civil authority from Germany to the Allied Control Council. It is taken as transferring sovereign powers in Germany to the Allies, thereby enabling the Allied Control Council to establish a court specifically for trying violations of international law.”
Sir Geoffrey Lawrence was now staring hard at Becker with scowling eyebrows and piercing eyes. The other three international judges sitting with him were glancing at Sir Geoffrey sideways with raised eyebrows, wondering whether he would step in and prevent Becker going any further, but Sir Geoffrey remained silent.
“It is, then, I submit, worth examining the details of this document which provides the basis for the perfect legality of this Court.” Becker slowly and deliberately looked up at Sir Geoffrey and stared him hard in the eyes. “Unless, of course, this Court wishes for any reason of its own to forbid the inspection of the chapter-and verse of its own foundation in public hearing?”
Sir Geoffrey replied in a voice as cold as ice. “Herr Becker, I must warn you that you are approaching dangerously close to committing contempt of court!” Becker’s voice was equally as cold. “Well - if it please Your Honour - so long as I am merely dangerously close to the fault and not already falling over the edge of that particular cliff, I shall be pleased to continue.”
There was a sudden silence in the huge courtroom so absolute that it seemed to echo in the ears.
“I wish to examine just a few relevant facts. I shall be quite brief. First, I shall refer to the document already mentioned, the Instrument of Germany’s Surrender.”
He paused for several moments to deliberately allow the silence within the courtroom to seem to echo. Then he resumed.
“Believing Herr Hitler to have been killed during the shelling of the bunker and the final Russian assault into its very depths, on April 30th last year Grand Admiral Karl Donitz was thought to have legally become German Head of State, President of Germany and Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces, because he had previously been appointed Herr Hitler’s official and legal successor in case of Hitler’s death.
“Karl Donitz immediately sent an order by telephone to Grand Admiral Hans-Georg von Friedeburg to begin negotiation of a truce with the British Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery at Luneburg. Resulting from this meeting with Field Marshal Montgomery, Von Friedburg signed an instrument of surrender of all German armed forces which were under his command - which comprised only those in the Netherlands, north-west Germany and Denmark - on the 4th of May. For reasons of his own, Von Friedburg has since committed suicide.
“This particular document of surrender, the Court will note, was signed by an admiral, not by any political or governmental authority representing the German State, and referred only to a cessation of armed hostilities and a surrender of German military forces. It made no reference whatsoever to the transfer of any civil law-enforcement, judicial authority, or apparatus of state, government or regional administration.
”Four days later on 8th May, following another order from Donitz, there was a wider-ranging surrender made of all German armed forces wherever they might be located. General Alfred Jodl signed the German instrument of surrender in Rheims, France, on behalf of the German High Command – a military office, not a civil administration - with Colonel General Hans-Jurgen Stumpff signing on behalf of the Luftwaffe and Field Marshall Wilhelm Keitel on behalf of the Wehrmacht. This was done in the presence of Marshal Georgy Zhukov of the Red Army and other officers of the Allies.
Becker paused. He gazed long and hard round the courtroom. Total silence still prevailed. Then he took up a piece of paper and studied it briefly before continuing in a quiet voice. It seemed the entire court was hanging upon his every word.
“It was this final surrender document which technically authorised the transfer of all executive and administrative powers from the German government to the Allies, specifically including the entire legal system and courts.”
His voice grew firmer and a slightly fiercer tone now imbued his statements.
“It is on this document authorising unconditional surrender and transfer of sovereign powers from Germany to the Allies that the authority and legitimacy of this Court is predicated - as we have all been advised at the opening of this trial by Mister Robert H. Jackson of the United States Supreme Court for the Prosecution.”
He raised his voice more. “But, although it may be a little inconvenient for this Court, I am obliged to point out that the signing of these instruments of surrender was entirely meaningless and without any legal validity whatsoever!”
A murmur of voices began in the background. Becker raised his voice again. ”The legitimacy of the Weimar Republic as the sovereign government of Germany following the armistice of 1918 is indisputable. Its legitimacy and authority was fully recognised by the League of Nations and within German law. It was a legal government.”
The murmur of voices continued in the background.
”In 1933 this fully legitimate and legal German government passed an Enabling Act authorising an amendment to the Weimar Constitution. This amendment legally authorised the Chancellor of Germany to enact laws. The legal Chancellor was Adolfus Hitler, as he is named in the baptismal registry. This Enabling Act was passed by the Lower House - the Reichstag - and by the Upper House - the Reichsrat - on March 23rd 1933. On that same day, it was made law when it was signed by the President of the fully legal German Weimar Republic, Paul von Hindenburg.”
The background hubub of voices began to grow louder. The Court Bailiff banged his gavel, which sounded like gunfire over the microphone. Loudly he cried out; “Silence in Court! Silence in Court.” The room grew quickly quiet again.
Becker continued remorselessly, like a juggernaut of speech.
“I must therefore point out, that since Adolf Hitler, the perfectly legally elected Chancellor of Germany at that time, his position legally confirmed by authority of the legal President of the legal Weimar Republic, has himself never authorised or signed any instrument of surrender or any legal document stipulating the transfer of sovereign powers to the Allies, and since he is still alive and, indeed, is present in this Courtroom...” he suddenly raised his voice to a shout “…that it is a proven plain fact that this Court has no slightest legitimately inherited or conferred legal authority whatsoever to sit, to pass any legally valid judgement, or to even exist in any legitimate form - and I must therefore demand, with the full weight of the chapter-and-verse of the law behind me, that this trial be halted at once and this Court be immediately disbanded as an unconstitutional, illegitimate and entirely illegal body!”
There was an immediate angry uproar in the Court, louder than on any previous occasion. Many people stood up and shouted, waving their arms angrily at Becker. The prosecution teams were in uproar and the four Chief Prosecutors were attempting to shout over the noise to the judge’s panel. Even their cries of “Objection!” “Objection!” over the loudspeakers in English, French and Russian were almost drowned out by the uproar. The Court Bailiff and all four of the panel of judges continuously banged their gavels. Their cries of “Silence in court” only served to increase the tumult.
In the accused box like an onlooker watching a storm, Adolf Hitler gazed at Becker with shining eyes, a slight smile on his lips. He was nodding very slightly in approval. Then, to the alarm of his guards, he suddenly stepped forward in the box so that he came under the dangling microphone. The same rasping voice which had once held vast rallies spellbound suddenly reverberated from the loudspeaker system in German.
“This is a truly worthy man! This is the worthiest man amongst all of you!”
Amidst the pandemonium the panel of four international judges rose to their feet and began to walk out of the courtroom with as much affronted dignity as they could muster.
-12-
The bare electric light bulb a long way above Hitler’s head where he sat secured to the massive seat in his cell caused the whole vault to look stark, featureless and extremely drab. Once again Franz Becker had walked with the Colonel and the Major along the whitewashed subterranean passage to the secure vault. Once again he had been handed a folded piece of paper with an exit password. Once again the great steel safety doors had opened and closed behind him. Once again he had been searched and then, finally, admitted into the incarcerated presence of the man who had once been the absolute dictator of his country. Once again he stood in the eerie presence of Adolf Hitler in his strapped-down straight-jacket and ankle clasps.
Hitler’s eyes were closed: they opened suddenly, seeming to flash fire. Then he spoke. “Have you been declared in contempt of court?”
“Yes,” answered Becker almost casually. “I must not enter the court again unless it is to purge my contempt. That requires me to make a formal public apology to the judges and make the admission that I was wrong, mistaken in what I said.”
Hitler stared him in the eye, and Becker had to glance away downwards. “And will you do this, Herr Becker?”
Quietly, Becker stated in a flat voice: “No. I will not do it.”
“And why not?” asked Hitler, equally quietly.
“Because I believe I am right.”
Hitler studied his visitor for a few moments. “Worthy man, I tell you, whether you are right or wrong is of no consequence in this world! The human world is a jungle, as much as the jungles of Africa or India. When the tiger fights the crocodile, which of them is right and which is wrong? I will tell you, only the winner is right.”
He drew breath and went on. “So it is with human beings. The Allied Powers have defeated my Germany, my empire. They did this by waging their unconditional warfare against my unconditional warfare and by killing people as I killed people. War begets war, battle begets battle, politics beget politics. In war, both sides must kill and victory is determined by which side can kill the most effectively. And the victor is always the one who writes the official history books.
“Ask yourself this question. Is the leader who has caused the deaths of twenty-eight million people a more righteous and compassionate leader than he who has caused the deaths of twenty-nine million? Is the general who has commanded the deaths of forty thousand a more righteous and humanitarian person than the general who has commanded the deaths of fifty thousand? Is the admiral who has caused the sinking of only ninety-nine ships more righteous than the admiral who has caused the sinking of a hundred?
“No! If my armies kill and rape and destroy to conquer and unite Europe, and if my enemies kill and rape and destroy more effectively so that I am defeated, then it will be my enemies who will be regarded as the saviours. That is the way of the world. That is how mankind works. The winners are always right. The losers are always wrong.”
There was just a trace of outrage in Becker’s voice. “But surely the cause they were fighting for is what is important? That is what determines who is right and who is wrong! The politics of the good must defeat the politics of the evil! That is why war was fought…”
Hitler sneered and grated. “Yet again I find myself saying - What a wonderful world you live in, Herr Becker. The question of who is right or wrong, of who is good or evil, is decided only by who is the strongest - by who wins in the end! Only the winner makes the rules. Only the winner writes the history books. Only the winner is right. Only the winner is good. Only the winner has saved the world – by ultimately slaughtering more people than the loser! ”
With some passion in his voice, Becker answered: “I cannot accept that good and evil is decided only by who wins and who loses!”
Hitler’s voice became calmer and quieter. “What you can or cannot accept will make not the slightest difference to the way the world works, to the way in which the world unfolds its future history. Would you like me to tell you an extremely accurate account of the history that is yet to happen in the next hundred years and all the coming centuries of this world? I can guarantee it will be an entirely accurate prediction. “
“Yes?” replied Becker, puzzled. Now Hitler closed his hypnotic eyes as he spoke.
“The poor and unfortunate will continue to go hungry. The rich will continue to rule. The West and the East will continue to oppose each other. Sometimes it will be with weapons, sometimes with money, sometimes with threats, sometimes merely with ideas or religious fanaticism. Soldiers will continue to die, sometimes in jungles, sometimes in deserts or mountains, sometimes in streets. The innocent ordinary people and families will continue to be killed as a by-product. The great banks will continue to control the rise and fall of the world’s money. The weapons of war will become ever more terrible as time passes. Superstitious lunatics will continue to murder, maim, torture and fight wars to prove that their god is more merciful than any other god. The powerful will remain powerful, the ordinary people will remain ordinary.”
He paused, then: “The strong shall inherit the earth. Always.”
Another pause, then: “Here endeth the lesson!”
Tears started to glisten in Becker’s eyes. Passionately he shouted: “That cannot be a picture of the future! I will not believe it! You are wrong! You are evil and you see only evil in all things!”
Hitler tilted his head back as far as the chair restraints allowed and laughed out loud in a cynical cackle. “Worthy man, there is no good, there is no evil. There is no right and there is no wrong. ‘Good’ is always everything the powerful want. ‘Evil’ is always everything that gets in their way.”
Suddenly he lowered his head and his eyes flashed directly into Becker’s eyes. “You are indeed a worthy and decent man, Herr Becker. I have immense sympathy for you. Because for trying your best to defend me, you shall be thrown to the wolves and torn to pieces.
“Do you still not understand? You cannot win! Those who appointed you did not expect you to win. They expected you to be an incompetent back-street lawyer who would automatically fail, thereby serving their purpose perfectly.
“It is your misfortune that you were so much more than they had bargained for. And perhaps it will be your family’s misfortune too! Herr Becker, you are a good man. Have you not heard the saying that the good die young?
“You are in great danger of succeeding. To prevent this, they will try to kill you. They must remove you. They have no alternative. They will make it look like an accident, or perhaps like suicide.
“I therefore now dismiss you as my lawyer. You are sacked! I shall tell the authorities that I do not want you, that I have dismissed you and that you no longer represent me - and they will be delighted and they will execute me, as they, and I, always knew they would.
“Herr Becker, giving you the sack is a great kindness. It is my gift to a worthy man and his family. I advise you to take full advantage of it. I advise you to flee, in secrecy, as fast and as far as you are able, taking your wife and child with you into another land, and remain a worthy man - but perhaps a wiser one...!”
Hitler closed his eyes and lowered his head. His voice now became low, grating and peremptory.
“You are no longer required. You can go now. Go! That is all. I have finished with you. Forever!”
-13-
The old hunting lodge was in darkness. It was now gone midnight and the world seemed to be silent, except perhaps for the occasional rustling of small animals within the sweep of forest which came near to the rear grounds of the place. The sky was cloudy and there had been a little rain earlier; no moon or stars were visible. In the distance, on a gentle slope a couple of miles away, lights were visible here and there in the army camp, but these were faint in the distance, like the lights on an ocean liner near the horizon.
Almost completely silently, with only as much noise as a hunting fox or a startled rabbit, five human figures slowly and very cautiously emerged from the edge of the forest. They were all dressed entirely in black and wore black balaclavas. All five carried drawn pistols. They moved with stealthy professionalism over a low ornamental wall only three feet high, across a large rear lawn skirting flowerbeds and the occasional statue and carefully drew near to the back of the hunting lodge. All of the figures carried small backpacks.
One of the figures reached the wall of the house, held a small flashlight up to a ground-floor window, carefully pointed it inside and flashed it quickly on and off three times.
After a minute there came the slight sound of bolts being slid back on a nearby door. The door opened. Heinrich the butler stood there, peering into the dark night. He waved the black-clad figures forward towards himself, stepping backwards out of the way as they came through the door, leaving one of their number outside to guard the exit.
The door was that of the rear kitchen of the hunting lodge. Heinrich softly closed the door without bolting it, then reached for an oil lamp and lit it. One of the four men who had entered pulled off his balaclava. It could now be seen that he was Lieutenant Blackwell. He spoke very softly in fluent German. “Heinrich – is everything in order as planned?”
“All is perfect,” the butler whispered back. “Herr Becker and his wife are soundly asleep in the master bedroom, you know, in the four-poster. The child is in the room next to them, with an open connecting door. I have found suitable foster parents who will take the baby without asking questions.”
“Excellent work, Heinrich. We shall proceed.”
He took a step forward but Heinrich placed a hand quickly on his arm. “And you will keep your part of the bargain? I will never be identified and arrested in connection with any war-crimes? I have done all that you asked.”
Blackwell answered impatiently. “Yes, yes. That is fully guaranteed. As far as the whole world is concerned, you are now Fritz Ullman, with all the necessary papers to prove it, including a passport and travel permits. The world will never know what happened to Doctor Joseph Mengele.”
He nodded, removed his hand and accompanied the four black-clad men through the kitchen with Blackwell in the lead carrying the oil lamp.
They silently came into the great atrium where a wooden-railed balcony ran round the walls at first floor height. Stealthily the five men made their way to the foot of the ornate staircase. Several fine carpets strewn over the polished floorboards helped them maintain silence. Lieutenant Blackwell tapped one of his men on the shoulder, then, as the man looked round at him, he pointed upward to the balcony, then made a motion with both hands as though tightening a rope.
The man nodded and swiftly removed his backpack. From it he withdrew two coils of thin rope. The end of each was fashioned into a perfect hangman’s noose. The man stared at Blackwell through the eyeholes of his balaclava. Blackwell nodded at him. While the others remained still, the man with the ropes swiftly and silently slunk up the broad staircase, turned left at the top along the balcony and walked stealthily along until he was standing above the others, looking down at them. They could see his dark form kneel down as he securely tied the ends of each rope around the base of sturdy carved wooden posts supporting the balustrade rail which encircled the balcony. He pushed the ropes between the supports and let them drop. The nooses dangled some six or seven feet above the ground floor, swaying slightly.
Blackwell leaned close to Heinrich and spoke in a low voice. “It will look like a double suicide. Becker has been found in contempt of the International Court and is to be removed from his brief in disgrace tomorrow. He knows it is unlikely he will be permitted to remain a practicing lawyer. His career has ended in disgrace. They both decide to make a pact to hang themselves. At six O’clock in the morning you will telephone me to report it, and I will act as though I am astonished.”
“Will a medical examination not reveal they were shot before being hanged?” queried Heinrich with interest.
Blackwell smiled evilly at him in the darkness. “The medical examination will be conducted by an army surgeon who has already written his autopsy report and issued two death certificates. There is no mention of bullet wounds. I can predict that the official verdict will go down on the record as suicide by hanging. Once they have been shot, we will take the bodies to the balcony, put the nooses on them, then throw them over. While we are doing that, your job will be to remove the bedclothes and burn them, including pillows, and clean up any traces of blood. Remember, blood can spatter over a wide area when you kill someone.”
“Oh yes,” answered Heinrich cheerfully. “I know.” Silently they all crept up the stairs to join their colleague on the balcony. Then they all edged their way carefully and silently to the door of the main bedroom suite. Heinrich placed his hand carefully on the door handle and looked at Blackwell, who nodded once. The door was opened slowly, quietly, and they all crept into the dark bedroom, the black-clad men moving with trained professional stealth. Silently they trod toward the big four-poster bed. Two of the black-clad men went to one side, the other two went to the other. Heinrich stood by the open door watching, his face expressing no emotion except, perhaps, a hint of interest.
In the dark, two forms could just be made out beneath the covers. Two heads with hair could just be seen on the pillows. There was no movement and no sound.
Blackwell’s expression was hard and professional. He might have simply been engaging in target practice. Very slowly he reached one hand out towards the motionless figures, preparing to whip off the covers. His other hand levelled a pistol at the recumbent heads. His four men also silently levelled their pistols in the same direction.
A bound body fell and a rope around its neck suddenly twanged taught. There was silence. The rope moved slowly from side to side, like a pendulum, disappearing through a square open hatch in the concrete floor.
A dozen people stood at one end of the room. There were high-ranking military men in uniforms of various nations, other men in smart suits and ties, and a Roman Catholic priest. All were motionless in the stark electric lighting, staring at the hatch in the floor and the gently swinging rope.
With a snarl, Blackwell snatched the covers away from the forms lying in the bed. They could then be seen to consist of two rolled-up bundles of blankets arranged to resemble human outlines. The hairy heads on the pillows were two trophy brown bear’s heads taken off the wall and carefully positioned.
Lieutenant Blackwell seized one of the trophy bear heads, glared at it in utter fury, then threw it with great force across the room so that it loudly smashed the porcelain Meissen ornaments in a glass-fronted display cabinet.
In London, amid the wreckage and burned-out buildings, men and women were still going to work on trains and busses. Not far from Trafalgar Square, in Duncannon Street by Charing Cross Station, there was a shop selling newspapers to the throngs of commuters who poured from the huge station entrance. On the outside wall beneath the shop window was a row of “headline boards” with bold, black wording written in charcoal.
“HITLER HANGED IN GERMANY”
“HITLER TRIAL – TRIBUNAL RULES DEFENCE INVALID”
“HITLER’S LAWYER CONTEMPT CHARGE – ARREST LIKELY”
-14-
A somewhat dented Dakota passenger plane with peeling paintwork wobbled in the air currents as it came down near the end of a runway, touched down and rolled on to come to a controlled halt. The tarmac strip and the relatively small local airport at one end of it were surrounded as far as the eye could see by rugged undulating grassland. Most of the airport buildings were little more than sheds, except for the local control tower which rose with eroded concrete above a small and equally shabby administration block. An orange windsock fluttered atop a tall wooden mast. The entire airport, including the runway, was surrounded by a chickenwire fence on wooden posts. Beyond an open gate several American automobiles with big rear wings were parked. On a large wooden signboard in peeling paint was the information: Compañía Aérea Interior.
When the Dakota had rolled to a halt, a rather battered mobile wheeled staircase was manhandled into place against it by a few men in overalls. The aeroplane door opened and several passengers emerged and began to come down the stairs. Amongst the passengers were Franz and Karolin Becker. Karolin carefully carried their baby in her arms. At the foot of the mobile steps they headed with everyone else towards the airport gatehouse office, above which was a painted signboard bearing the legend: Aeropuerto de Rivadavia.
As luggage was unloaded and sorted, the group of passengers walked out of the airfield gates, Franz Becker carrying a large suitcase in each hand. A middle-aged man and woman jumped out of a big old American Cadillac and shouted toward the small crowd, waving Franz and Karolin Becker to come to them. A few moments later they were all hugging each other and shaking hands. The middle-aged couple admired the baby.
“This must be little Steffen,” said the woman. “May I hold him? Please?”
Karolin passed the baby to her with a smile. “Aunt Hilda, Uncle Dieter, allow me to introduce you to Steffen Becker.”
“He’s a darling. You’re so lucky.” Aunt Hilda’s lined face was radiant.
Franz Becker stared meaningfully at his wife. “His name is not Steffen Becker,” he admonished. “It is Steffen Schmidt.”
The middle-aged man, Uncle Dieter, clapped Franz Becker on the shoulder. “It’s good to meet you at last, Franz. We have a small bungalow ready for you on our ranch. You will soon settle in, don’t worry. And there are plenty of opportunities for lawyers in the nearby towns – especially German lawyers.”
“German lawyers?” queried Franz in some surprise.
“Of course,” answered Uncle Dieter. “Most of the business people in Rivadavia are ex-patriot Germans. They prefer hiring other Germans to Argentinians. The language difficulties, for one thing. Argentina even publishes German-language newspapers. And you are Hans and Helga Schmidt, we understand that.”
They all walked on towards the parked Cadillac. Uncle Dieter looked at Franz. “But I don’t understand why you had to flee from the Fatherland and change your names – you did not commit any war crimes!”
Franz was philosophically bitter. “No? I committed perhaps the greatest crime of all!”
Uncle Dieter was astonished and paused in his tracks for a moment. “You did? What did you do?”
“I was a gazelle and I tried to eat the lions!”
“I don’t understand…”
“Is there a bar near your ranch?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll explain it to you there.”
“I’ll buy the first round,” said Uncle Dieter understandingly.
They all clambered into the Cadillac. Uncle Dieter started it up and they drove off in a small cloud of dust.
Elsewhere in the Argentine Republic an ocean liner had entered harbour at Buenos Aires and moored up at a quayside. A steady stream of passengers were making their way down a boarding ramp and threading their way slowly past a uniformed passport officer standing at a desk in the sun. Three policemen with side-arms stood nearby boredly watching. The passport officer briefly examined everyone’s papers as they filed past.
The man once known as Heinrich the butler was shuffling patiently forward in the long queue and eventually came to the passport checkpoint. The passport officer examined his papers and rubber-stamped them, then glanced up with a smile. “Welcome to the Argentine Republic Herr Ullman.”
The man formerly known as Heinrich clicked his heels and bowed curtly. “Danker. I shall enjoy living here.” Then he walked away and was soon lost amongst the dockside crowds.
Half a world away, in farmland outside Nuremburg, there was a minor road bridge crossing a concrete culvert through which a small river flowed towards nearby fields. A US Army jeep was parked on the bridge. Two soldiers, both privates, stood looking over the bridge. One of them held a small wooden container about the size of a large cigar box. The soldier with the box held it out over the parapet of the bridge, then paused and looked at the other with a grin. “Hey Charlie – do ya wanna say a few suitable words at this funeral?”
“Sure I do!” answered the other man. He cleared his throat theatrically. “Fuck off Adolf! See ya in Hell!”
The first soldier opened the lid and turned the box upside down over the river. A shower of ashes fell out and scattered on the running water. Then the soldier casually tossed the box into the river.
The other soldier rummaged in his tunic and produced two cigars. He offered one to his comrade and they both lit up, inhaling deeply and satisfyingly. His colleague tapped ash off his cigar over the bridge.
His companion watched and mused: “Say – d’ya think Adolf’s putting on a little weight there?”
“Naw!” stated his colleague. “He’s just gettin’ cold feet!”
They both laughed. The other man briefly stared down the river. “I guess that’s the end of it,” he said.
EPILOGUE
This “Altrernative History” story was very nearly true. Adolf Hitler committed suicide in his bunker. However, it is true fact that the last people from outside Berlin who managed to visit the bunker were Generaloberst Ritter von Greim and ace test pilot Hanna Reitch. They flew from Rechlin initially in a Focke Wulf 190, landed at Gatow in south-west Berlin and changed to a Fiesler Storch (“stork”). Hitler did, indeed, promote von Greim to Field Marshal and Commander-in-Chief of the Luftwaffe to replace Hermann Goering. Hitler was presented with the opportunity to be flown out of Berlin.
However, fate tossed a coin and Hitler remained in the bunker whilst von Greim and Hanna Reitch flew away from Berlin in an Arado AR 96 (a fighter trainer). The Soviet 3rd Shock Army was at that moment capturing the Tiergarten airstrip and Russian troops watched the plane escaping, believing that it was Adolf Hitler himself making a bolt for freedom. This could so easily have been true! If this had indeed been the case, it is certain that his pilot would have had more sense than to continue the escape flight in a trainer fighter, which bore military markings and would still be treated by the enemy as a warplane. They would have landed outside Berlin and switched to a civilian aircraft, which was no guarantee of safety but was probably less likely to be fired at.
It can be understood that a mere nudge of chance, a single feather landing on the scales of history, could actually have tilted the balance of events and produced the scenario described in this fictional novel.
In historical fact, when he was captured by the US Army, von Greim told them; “I am the head of the Luftwaffe, but I have no Luftwaffe!” He committed suicide in custody by taking a secret cyanide capsule.
Also in historical fact, Hanna Reitch was captured together with von Greim and imprisoned for eighteen months. In 1952 she won a bronze medal in the World Gliding Championships, and was the first woman to compete in this. In 1957 she broke the woman’s altitude record. In 1959 she was invited to India and asked by the Prime Minister Mister Nehru to start a flying school and centre in India. In 1961 US President John F. Kennedy invited her to visit the White House. The following year she moved to Ghana where she established the first black African national gliding school. She died of a heart attack on August 24th 1979 aged 67.
As for the legal side of the story, the following facts should be taken into consideration.
In 2006, official secret documents from the World War 2 era were made public in Britain for the first time. These included papers detailing that in 1944 the British Cabinet had debated regarding what should be done with the Nazi officers and others accused of being mass murderers when Germany lost the war. In these meetings, the Prime Minister Winston Churchill proposed issuing an Act of Attainder by which those deemed to be war criminals could be executed at once without a trial.
An Act of Attainder, or Bill of Attainder, is a legal instrument issued by a ruler or a government making it fully legal to declare a person or persons guilty of some crime and to be legally put to death without needing to be tried in any court of law. Bills of Attainder are expressly prohibited by the United States Constitution (in Article 1, Section 9). However, there is no similar ruling within British governmental procedure to prohibit Acts of Attainder, which in theory can still be enforced to this day, although none have been issued since about 1800.
At the Potsdam Conference, Churchill was dissuaded by US President Harry S. Truman and - perhaps surprisingly – by Joseph Stalin, from adopting this measure, and a trial in court was then agreed upon for all Nazis charged with war crimes.
Therefore, if Adolf Hitler had been captured alive by the victorious Allies, there can be little doubt that he would have been given a trial rather than summary execution. He would, indeed, have “had his day in court”.
But of course, this would have opened the risk – no matter how slight – of there being a “Not Guilty” verdict, or – much more likely - of some legal loophole regarding the application of law by one system of sovereign law-making government upon another system of sovereign law-making government.
After all, if Western Democracy could make mass murder by tyranny a capital offence – what would the Russian government and its executives make of that? They would either laugh out loud, or else prove by continued pogroms the utter ineptitude and ineffectiveness of Western legislation and policy, making Britain and the USA a laughing stock throughout the world. America and Britain could not arrest the Russian government for the mass murder of their own people during Stalin’s infamous purges, so how could they claim legal statute for arresting the German government for similar crimes against humanity? Far better for the Allies, then, to brush this matter under the carpet in 1945 and opt instead for a public trial – providing, of course, that it gave the required verdict whilst maintaining the illusion of fairness!
If this appears to you to be a cynical conclusion, then you must live in a more perfect world than I do.
But perhaps the final words on this subject should come from the man who was the senior judge at the Nuremburg Trials. I quote:
“…There were, I suppose, three possible courses: to let the atrocities which had been committed go unpunished; to put the perpetrators to death or punish them by executive action; or to try them. Which was it to be? Was it possible to let such atrocities go unpunished? Could France, could Russia, could Holland, Belgium, Norway, Czechoslovakia, Poland or Yugoslavia be expected to consent to such a course? ... It will be remembered that after the first world war alleged criminals were handed over to be tried by Germany, and what a farce that was! The majority got off and such sentences as were inflicted were derisory and were soon remitted…”
(Sir Geoffrey Lawrence, December 5th 1946)
“'Many are the strange chances of the world,' said Mithrandir…”
The Silmarillion
J. R. R. Tolkien.
- Share this story on
- 7
COMMENTS (0)