The White Knight

By JJ Toner

1936. A threat hangs over the Berlin Olympic Games.

In Munich, detective Kommissar Saxon is living alone. His wife and son are out of harm’s way in Austria, but she is desperate to be reunited with her husband. Saxon is summoned to Berlin to oversee the ‘cleansing’ of the city streets. But when a subversive calling himself ‘The White Knight’ threatens Jesse Owens, the US world record runner, Saxon must protect the athletes, while holding the line with an unhappy wife in Austria.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JJ Toner
• Release date: Apr 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9781908519658

JJ Toner

Full time writer since 2007. So far (2022) I have published two Irish detective thrillers, six historical fiction spy novels, two young adult science fiction books, and a substantial number of short stories: I live in Ireland with my wife and youngest son under a giant copper beech tree.

Book preview

Munich, December 1935

Saxon stood by the window watching a light flurry of snow descend on Piper Strasse. Orange, red and yellow Christmas lights from the windows of the houses opposite gave the scene a magical look. Ruth sat by the fire, mending a toddler’s coat that she’d picked up from a street market.

Isn’t there anything we can do? she said.

Nothing. He looked at her. He loved her and he would have given his right arm to take away her distress. Even German citizens have no right to question the law.

That’s ridiculous. I’m just as much a German citizen as you are. I was born here. My parents were Germans. My grandparents on both sides were German.

I know, my darling, but these new laws have brushed all that aside. Jews are no longer citizens.

She bit a thread and turned the garment over on her knee. What about Samuel? Surely they can’t deny him his birthright.

They’d had a bruising argument over Samuel’s circumcision shortly after he was born. Neither of them wanted to dredge all that up again, but he knew it was on her mind. He made no reply, but settled into his armchair by the fire.

And what are we going to do when he reaches school age? Where can we send him?

There are Jewish schools…

The nearest one is half-way across the city. How am I supposed to get him there?

They’d had these discussions several times since September when the first of the laws had been passed. He lit a cigarette, filled his lungs, and blew smoke into the fire.

"And what about this ban on marriages between you Aryans and us Jews? What will that mean to us?"

We are legally married. Nothing can change that.

She held up the coat to show him a torn pocket. Look at this. How on earth does a toddler tear his clothes? The line of her jaw told him the conversation was far from over.

She arranged the coat on her knee and began working on the torn pocket. What makes you think we’d be better off in Austria?

There’s no Nazi Party there. It’s the perfect place to go.

She dropped her hands in her lap and looked at him. "Why can’t you do something? You’re a highly regarded police Kommissar, surely you can get them to make an exception for your family."

I’ve told you, Ruth, there’s nothing I can do. It’s hopeless.

She busied herself with her needle and thread. There was a long pause.

Very well, have it your way. I’ll write to Cousin Rudolf. Assuming he agrees to take us, we’ll leave after Samuel’s birthday, but only on one condition. She folded the coat on her knees. Their eyes locked through the smoke from his cigarette. You must come with us.

Part 1

Chapter 1

Six months later: June 1936

Kriminalkommissar Saxon lingered in his office. It was well past the end of the working day, but he was reluctant to abandon his familiar desk and his comfortable chair. He preferred the gloom of the police station to the glaring evening sunshine. A cold half-chicken was the only comfort waiting for him in his apartment.

For two years the streets of Munich had been calm, the sounds of rampaging SA squads and the screams of their victims replaced by raucous laughter from the beer cellars. He preferred the creak of familiar floorboards and the ticking of the clock on the wall to Bavarian oompah music.

He still had plenty of work to keep him busy. Arson was a continuing problem. The most serious recent case had cost the lives of four members of one family; only the father had survived, and he was being held in a cell as the primary suspect.

Glad I caught you, Kommissar. The skeletal figure of Kriminalrat Glasser hovered in the doorway. What are you working on?

The Kluge fire.

Any progress to report? Glasser’s position was complicated. Having been promised a position with the Gestapo, he had assumed the vacant role of Kriminaldirektor as an interim measure.

None. I’m hoping the father will confess if we hold him overnight.

Glasser smiled his rictus smile. And if that doesn’t work, you can always beat him to a pulp.

Saxon straightened his back. He would never tolerate strong-arm methods in his police station.

Glasser swayed toward him, waving a palm. Joking. I was joking.

Glasser must have been at the schnapps. He never joked.

Reaching the safety of Saxon’s desk, Glasser used it to prop himself up. I’ve had a call from the SS.

What do they want this time?

Glasser responded with a shake of his head. Not the Munich SS, Berlin headquarters.

The dreaded Gestapo office! He had never been there, but every policeman had heard the horror stories. Are congratulations in order?

Sorry to disappoint you, Saxon. They want you up there for a special job.

The SS in Berlin want me? What for?

They didn’t say. They asked for you by name, so it must be important.

His immediate reaction was to resist. But his mind went numb. He needed time to think, to formulate a rational objection.

Glasser turned to leave. You’re to report to SS-Standartenführer Karl Ulman.

How long will the posting last?

Would I have to move out of my apartment? He thought.

Ask the Standartenführer when you arrive. They want you on station by Monday 8:30 am sharp. Leave the arson file on my desk. And Glasser was gone.

He had four days! His mind was racing now. The thought of his name being bandied about at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse gave him goosebumps. And what could be so urgent that they needed him in Berlin at such short notice?

#

Piper Strasse was a playground that evening, full of laughing children enjoying the warm evening, many on bicycles. The apartment was unbearably hot. He opened both windows. Then he took the cold chicken from the larder, added two slices of yesterday’s bread and sat down to his meal. A couple of bluebottles flew in through a window, heading straight for the chicken. He swore and flapped at them to keep them away. They backed off but hung around.

The food disappeared quickly. He tidied up and lit a cigarette. Then he steered the flies back outside before closing both windows.

Watching the children in the street below, it struck him that he had few ties in Munich. A trip to Berlin might be just the tonic his flagging career needed. What would it matter to Ruth and Samuel where he was stationed?

He found some paper and pen, took a photograph of Ruth and Samuel from his wallet, placed it on the table, and began to write.

Piper Strasse, June 18, 1936

Dear Ruth,

I hope you and Samuel are well and enjoying the Austrian summer. I miss you both, of course.

I have been assigned to Berlin. I won’t know what the job is until I get there on Monday next, but I’m hoping I’ll be able to return to Munich before too long.

I will write again as soon as I can.

Take care. Kisses for Samuel.

Your loving husband,

Roland

Chapter 2

Sunday June 21

He posted the letter on his way to the train station on Sunday evening.

The last train from Munich to Erfurt was packed with families returning home after their holidays. He found a seat by the door of a second-class carriage. From the moment the train lurched into life, he kept his nose in a book, doing his best to ignore the children running up and down the corridor, opening and closing the compartment door and tripping over his feet.

One frazzled mother apologised to him. I do what I can to keep order, but it’s impossible. I hope you understand, sir. Do you have children?

No, I’m not married. He lifted his hat and gave her a smile before returning to his book.

His sole intention was to discourage further discussion, but he hated the lie. He had denied Ruth and Samuel, and he hated himself for it.

The train rattled through the countryside at an alarming pace, its carriages juddering and rocking from side to side. The window provided a small measure of relief from the heat. The other passengers kept it open, despite an ingress of eye-smarting soot from the locomotive. The cattle in the fields, standing like statues under lone trees or in clusters around water troughs, looked every bit as miserable in the unrelenting heat as the occupants of the train.

They had to change trains at Erfurt. He took the opportunity to buy a newspaper and scoured it for anything that might explain the reason for his reassignment. There was nothing. The whole newspaper was peppered with news about German athletes and the upcoming Olympic Games.

The fast train from Erfurt to Berlin made the journey in good time, stopping only at Leipzig, and arriving at Anhalter Bahnhof at 11:32 pm, three minutes ahead of schedule.

He found a small hotel in Bernberg Strasse, within easy walking distance of Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, and asked for a room for the night.

The young man at the reception desk recognised his Bavarian accent and adopted an officious tone.

How long will you be staying?

I’m not sure. I’ll take the room for one night and let you know if I need it for longer. He signed the registration book and handed it back.

The receptionist peered at the book. Will you require breakfast, Herr Saxon?

Yes, I think so.

That will be seven Reichsmarks, payable in advance.

Saxon paid him the money.

The man snapped his fingers. Let me have your identity papers. We are obliged to notify the police whenever anyone takes a room.

Of course. He handed over his identity card and flashed his Kripo badge. What is your name?

The man blanched. M… Manfred Püttner.

Saxon flipped open his notepad and made a note. You have a key for me, Herr Püttner?

Püttner gave him a key. Saxon thanked him and set off with his suitcase to find his room.

The room was on the second floor, a faulty street lamp casting a strange, flickering light through the window. He barely had time to shed his clothes, slide his case under the single bed and climb into it before exhaustion overcame him and he fell asleep.

#

Monday June 22

It wasn’t until he saw it in daylight the next morning that he realised how small the room was. There was just enough room for the bed, a kitchen chair, and a rickety card table with a jug of water and basin on top. He dressed quickly and pushed his case back under the bed. There was no time for breakfast; it was after 8 am.

The Gestapo building on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse was an impressive structure, its 20-foot high portico topped by two statues of seated figures. Inside, a broad hall sported an elaborate crystal chandelier hanging over an ornate staircase. Male and female figures in grey or black uniforms bustled about carrying files and bundles of papers.

He was surprised at the low level of security. A man at a desk was all the security he could see. Once past this desk, the whole building would be open to him. Even in his modest police station in Munich, they had a desk sergeant behind a counter to handle visitors.

Herr Saxon? He turned to find a middle-aged woman, with grey hair in a bun and a matching field grey uniform, smiling up at him. Follow me, Kommissar. She strode toward the stairs.

In spite of the heat outside, the corridors were as cool as an icehouse or an undertaker’s parlour. They stopped on the third floor at a door with a frosted glass panel. She pushed it open, and he stepped inside. He was in an anteroom occupied by a young adjutant, who scurried into the inner office before emerging to usher Saxon inside.

A cleanshaven man bald as a billiard ball, with heavy grey eyebrows sat at a desk. He wore the black uniform of the SS, an Iron Cross pinned to his breast pocket.

Herr Ulman?

Come in, Saxon. Take a seat.

He sat facing the massive oak desk flanked by two swastika flags. The desk was covered in a chaos of papers and folders. More papers sat in piles on top of a file cabinet in a corner. A framed picture of a stern Adolf Hitler glowered down at them from over the doorframe.

Do you have any questions before we start? You came up last night, I presume? You found somewhere to stay?

Saxon crossed his arms. He was aware of the negative signal this conveyed, but the journey had been tiring and he hadn’t had a lot of sleep on the lumpy mattress in his hotel room. May I know why you’ve brought me here, sir?

You will be taking command of a troop of uniformed officers on a special task. Their previous kommandant has been relieved of his duty.

There were two red flags right there. First, command of a troop of uniformed officers was no job for an experienced criminal investigator, and second, what had the previous man done to lose the job?

Ulman reacted to the look of alarm on Saxon’s face. Don’t look so worried, man. It’s merely a temporary assignment. And there will be much to be gained from making a success of it. Reichsführer Himmler has a personal interest in the matter. He himself was responsible for removing your predecessor.

A classic double-edged sword. No one in Berlin wanted to take this on. How many men in the troop, sir? And what is this special task?

Twenty men, all highly experienced. I will explain the task in due course.

Why was I chosen for this position?

Kriminalrat Glasser recommended you. He tells me you’re his finest officer.

So Glasser lied. He wasn’t surprised. No doubt Glasser recognised it for the poisoned chalice it was and relished throwing him into the snake pit.

May I ask who my predecessor was, and why he was dismissed?

Ulman waved a hand to brush off the trivial query. His name was Zimmermann. As for the reason why he had to be reassigned, that need not concern you. Let’s just say he fell short in his duties.

Chapter 3

Ulman got to his feet and led him back down the stairs to the front of the building, where a black Mercedes was waiting, its engine running. The SS-man opened the back door and climbed in. Saxon circled the car and got in on the other side.

The interior of the car was uncomfortably warm. Ulman opened his window and Saxon did the same, but with little effect.

They drove west. He was unfamiliar with the city, but he recognized the Tiergarten and the entrance to the zoological gardens. Increasing numbers of signs on the lampposts told him where they were headed.

You must have guessed where we’re going by now, said the SS-man.

The car drew up on the vast concourse directly in front of the Olympic Stadium. Ulman allowed him a moment to admire the twin towers at the entrance. Saxon used the opportunity to peel his pants from his sweaty legs.

Magnificent, isn’t it? The Olympic rings will hang between the towers. They are 50 metres high. The clock tower behind the Stadium is still under construction. It will be even higher, at 77 metres. Apart from that, the building programme is nearing completion. All but a few minor details remain. Come, time is precious. I’ll explain as we walk. He strode forward, his boots beating a hollow tattoo on the paving stones. Saxon picked up his pace to fall into step.

As you can imagine, the Games represent a huge challenge to all of us. By the first day of August, Berlin will host 4,000 athletes as well as an untold number of spectators from all around the world. My job is to ensure the security of the athletes and visitors.

A feeling of dread was already invading Saxon’s bones.

Your first job will be to sanitize the city. It is most important that these visitors experience the very best that our city has to offer. They must see a clean, safe, free city, and go home with the best possible impression of us – and of the Third Reich. His chest swelled with pride. Let me be clear: the streets must be completely cleansed of undesirables.

A poisoned chalice indeed! And as distasteful a job as he could imagine.

Saxon hung back, and the SS-man slowed. Is there something the matter?

This is not something I will be any good at, sir, he said.

Nonsense. You are an experienced policeman are you not? Your men will pick up every homeless vagabond, pickpocket, prostitute and beggar and put them under protective custody. What could be simpler? I’m sure you will do an excellent job.

How will we identify these people? And where do we move them to?

No need to worry about that, the city police know how to find them. And we are planning to open a small camp in Oranienburg.

Oranienburg? Saxon had only a vague idea where that was.

Yes, to the north of the city. It should be open within two or three weeks. You will need to coordinate your operations with the kommandant there. In the meantime, the cells within the city police stations will suffice to hold the prisoners.

Ulman strode onward and Saxon increased his pace once more, to keep up.

His first view of the interior of the Stadium gave the lie to Ulman’s contention that the building was close to completion. The oval superstructure was in place, but half the seating was stacked in piles at various locations in the centre, and the running track had not yet been laid. Workers swarmed everywhere. He watched a tall crane lifting a massive spotlight to the highest point on the rim above the spectator area.

"The track area is 86 metres by 100. Rim to rim, it’s 100 metres