The Steinhauer Conspiracy

By Alfred Balm

“When a student inherits a leather briefcase containing documents detailing horrible experiments his grandfather Dr. Steinhauer was involved in during World War Two, his life drastically changed.
The appalled part-time journalist takes a sabbatical from his PhD studies, to find evidence necessary to publish the long hidden secrets. To him his grandfather was just a nice doctor, nothing of his past was ever discussed, neither did Maurice Steinhauer know that his grandfather had been a Nazi, and one of the worst.
Together with a team of handpicked Nazi scientists, the evil group succeeded in manipulating the DNA of certain selected individuals sent to them from concentration camps, aiming to create biologically enhanced sub-human beings, ideally preordained to be unscrupulous murder machines fighting Hitler’s war.
But the monsters succeeded in interbreeding with German women and unless stopped, the spread of the manipulated DNA could ultimately lead to disastrous consequences for Homo Sapiens.
Together with two trusted friends, Dutch resistance fighters during the war, he embarks on a life-threatening expedition to East Germany, where in the Harz forest hidden in tunnels deep
under the mountains, the experiments took place.
The German government, regaining its position in post war Europe, considers the publicity of yet another unthinkable crime against humanity, detrimental to its carefully rebuilt reputation.
The ODESSA the powerful organization of former SS members, as well as a growing number neo-Nazi’s within ultra-right groups, are combining efforts to stop Maurice from gaining access to the site, and publish his findings.
They narrowly escape with their lives, after finding proof and being confronted with the crossbreed descendants of the monsters his grandfather created.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665554312

Alfred Balm

Alfred Balm is an architect, entrepreneur, adventurer and art historian. After building a multinational business conglomerate, he followed his passion and earned several art history degrees. Balm and his wife have two sons and live in Canada. This is his sixth novel.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

14 September 1960.

A date that would forever live in Maurice Steinhauer’s memory. As a young journalist and art historian, he was in the third year of studying for his PhD. His chosen subject was the book-burning at German universities during the Second World War. He intended to quantify the magnitude of loss to Germany’s cultural heritage. During the research, he discovered thus far unknown documents with detailed information of appalling Nazi crimes still to date endangering the future of humanity, decennia after the end of the cataclysm. The information, if published, would be extremely embarrassing to the present German government.

His grandfather, Professor Steinhauer, whose family name he carried, bequeathed him a sum of money and numerous documents. Among the inheritance was a worn leather briefcase with, in vague golden letters, the name Professor Steinhauer, above some German words and below it an Adler holding a swastika.

Having obtained Dutch nationality, Maurice Steinhauer had disassociated himself from most things German, and when he received the inheritance, being in his final exams and for the moment uninterested, he put the documents in an old suitcase in the attic.

That changed with his chosen thesis subject, the book burning. Curious now if opening the suitcase and reading if whatever it might contain could add to his knowledge on the subject, he carefully removed the yellowing paper documents and started reading. It sickened and horrified him like nothing before; that date, 14 September 1960, totally changed his life and altered the plans he had made for his future.

The first document was a letter dated April 12th 1949.

In it, the writer pleaded that ‘whomever it may concern’ would seek to publish the documents contained in the briefcase, all in their original form, without exception. It registered experiments of unimaginable cruelty undertaken during 1942 until the end of 1944 in World War II by Nazi scientists, including the writer. Secret experiments of a scale so large and potentially disastrous to humanity that successive post-war German governments have gone to extremes to avoid their publicity.

I beseech the reader to find it in his heart to do everything possible to let the world know about these experiments and the detrimental impact of which has been imbedded in the cells of present and future generations. It will be dangerous; there will be strong but secret opposition against publishing the truth. When you read these documents, it means they will no longer be in my possession or under my control; I will have passed away. I can only hope they will end up in the right hands.

CHAPTER 1

When Professor (emeritus) Heinrich von Steinhauer passed away on an inconsiderate colourful sunny autumn day of the year 1960, no one paid special attention. Honouring his last wishes, he spent the weeks prior closing his eyes in a charming German ‘Fachwerkhaus’ on the outskirts of Schmalkalden, a small provincial town in the state of Thüringen. Professor Steinhauer died at the age of 68 of natural causes, according to a short eulogy in the local paper written by a young ignorant reporter born years after the Second World War had ended. The old professor survived his morose arthritic spouse Gertrude by nearly twenty years, though he’d have preferred it to have been closer to forty. His only son, Karl Heinz, at least had the courtesy to develop dementia early, so he did not know the difference between his father and the pigeon-crapped bronze statue of Kaiser Wilhelm, pièce de milieu in the town square. Steinhauer had never liked his son, who took too much after his voluptuous deceased wife, developing over the years a similar bovine figure while carrying the voice of a seven-year-old spoiled infant.

His thirty-two-year-old grandson Maurice, a miraculously late conceived gift to the professor in the autumn of his life, was the apple of his eyes. He simply adored the young recalcitrant rapscallion, in which he recognized so much of himself in his younger years. The occasional visits from his grandson were the highlights of his life; they softened the frightful memories that kept him awake at night, tormenting him relentlessly from dusk till dawn.

The old man reached with great effort for the key he kept on a chain around his neck and opened the drawer of his heavy oak bedside table. He withdrew a notepad and, with trembling hands, carefully spelling each word, wrote the short note of confession to his grandson.

Schmalkalden.

12 September 1960.

Dear Maurice,

From the visits you honoured your grandfather with, you know that although my body slowly deteriorates, my mind is blissfully undamaged, and my memories are painfully clear. As a preamble, let me say that I have loved you with all my heart from the day you were born, and I dare say that I feel this love was reciprocated. However, if I deserve anything now that my life ends, it certainly is not love. In the drawer, you will find a briefcase containing original documents and my detailed journals covering unfathomable crimes against humanity that I regrettably was involved in.

It may seem incomprehensible that brilliant minds can be so corrupted that scientific curiosity silences morality; it was not then, it is not now.

In the back of our minds, we recognized Hitler’s brawling speeches of those early days for what they were. Still, we eagerly joined ranks and raised our arms to welcome restored respectability among the nations and to help build a thousand-year Germanic empire.

After reading these documents, please ensure that the world learns about the horrible experiments that I, and many of my colleagues, were knowingly and willingly involved in and took way too far. Do not withhold anything for my sake. If humanity will survive, it needs to know about the timebomb we implanted in the genes of future generations. The world needs to be told how we played with God’s creation to satisfy the insane demands of a degenerate Führer. The products of our misdeeds are still around us today but have been hidden from the public domain by successive German governments so as not to add to the national shame of the Holocaust.

You will find these documents convincing, but documents are just that and are easily and convincingly denied by strong but anonymous sources. I am also leaving you a significant amount of money, details of which are in the briefcase. Use it. Go find the physical remnants of the facilities where our experiments took place, find proof of what you learn from the content of my briefcase and may you, my grandson, be instrumental in preventing the spread of what may otherwise inevitably lead to the ultimate demise of homo sapiens.

Your grandfather.

Liselore found him the next morning.

Rigor mortis had set in, and she could hardly free the note from the old man’s frozen hand. She read it twice then put it back between his stiffened fingers. Then, several hours later, she took her pay from the cash box in the kitchen, grabbed her jacket and left the house, never to return.

Liselore was in her late twenties. She was slightly obese, with a complexion as white as her starched apron and blonde hair, done in braids high on her head like a large bird’s-nest. She was a member of the ultra-secret right-wing organization NBDM (Neue Bund der Deutscher Mädel), modelled after the WWII Nazi organization for young female party members.

She started her career as a student nurse in the local hospital, but when she discovered at the sight of his circumcision that the patient she was supposed to bathe was a Jew, she quit. She was damned if she was going to touch a dirty Jew.

When she met and interviewed with the kind Herr Professor, he offered her a job as caretaker and nurse, and she accepted. When she found his SS number tattooed under his arm, she admired and respected him all the more and worked nearly seven years for him until she found him dead.

His grandson found him next.

After noticing a note in the frozen bony hand of his deceased grandfather the following day, the thirty-two-year-old journalist withdrew a well-used briefcase from the drawer beside his bed. On it, in fading embossed golden letters, he read.

Professor Dr. Heinrich von Steinhauer.

Zentralstelle der SS Erforschungs Abteilung IV.

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Under it, a wing-spread eagle held a swastika in its talons. By now, it was late, almost one-thirty in the morning, when Maurice put the documents carefully back in the briefcase. Trying to read them for the third time, they still shocked him to the core that he could not read them all. Trying in vain to stop gastric acid from working itself up his oesophagus, he poured himself another glass from the nearly empty bottle of red wine on the desk, cru misérable. It had the opposite effect.

He stared at the dark window of the bedroom. Large raindrops were sweeping against the glass announcing the end of a balmy autumn, tears from heaven he could not shed himself but that he felt welling up from deep inside him. His grandpa, the most inspiring, endearing, loving grandpa, a monster? How could it be?

But the undeniable awful, hideous truth was spelt out with typical German punctuality and precision in his grandfather’s meticulous handwriting. It spelt out the gradual progress of scientifically defined abominations on a scale that put the world’s population at risk of annihilation. The many original documents, a cache of instructions from the upper echelons of the SS and Hitler himself, the reports on progress from his grandfather and other researchers participating in the experiments; it was the most frightful account Maurice had ever read.

But what to do with it?

Find the facts, his grandfather had implored, and he left him a significant amount of money, enough to give up his job or take an extended sabbatical. As a journalist, he realized this information and its documents were dynamite, but he understood the warning, powerful anonymous forces would kill to prevent it from being published.

Yet he was also painfully aware that now they were in his possession, the documents and the information could no longer be hidden, or it might have catastrophic consequences for generations to come, and he would be guilty by association.

He took off his shoes but remained in his clothes as he lay down on the king-size bed. Maurice was an attractive athletic bon vivant. Women easily fell for his blue eyes and black curly hair; he resembled an Italian young man more than a blonde German ‘Aryan’.

In the dark room, he kept his gaze on where he knew the ceiling to be. What the hell was he going to do?

How was he going to live with the image of that hero of his youth, his grandfather, as a Nazi? Having worked on many an article about Nazis and their atrocities, Maurice knew his grandfather’s Nazi membership number, as detailed in the documents, was low, indicating he had been an early voluntary member. How did he keep his horrible secrets with him for so many years? They often talked about the past, but never in detail, and grandpa always said he was just a scientist, not a warrior. Maurice felt betrayed, and it hurt like being hit by a bus; the shock was just as sudden.

He had learned to love his new country, Holland, and sympathized with their suffering during the German occupation; he detested any form of resurrected fascism. Was he now the grandson of a war criminal? He, Maurice von Steinhauer, the journalist who wrote so vehemently against the resurgence of ultra-right movements and fanatics parading again with swastikas singing again Die Fahne Hoch?

With the support of his grandfather, he’d spent a year in Paris as a young student, then went to Amsterdam, where he lived happily for three years becoming a journalist. He made his first money with a well-researched article for Het Parool about the lingering antipathies among the elderly Dutch generation towards the now thriving post-war nation Germany had become. Maurice was pleasantly surprised by the absence of resentment among the younger generation. He was welcomed by men and women alike in the pubs around the Rembrandt square in Amsterdam and at the academy. That’s when he decided to become Dutch.

During a research session at the municipal library, he met Bob, who became a great friend. Bob and his lovely wife Suzan became an important source of information; they had both been active in the Dutch resistance and actually visited Germany during the war. They appeared surprisingly young and physically in prime condition.

Maurice suddenly sat up straight in bed.

Bob, that was it! He was going to contact Bob.

CHAPTER 2

What do you think, Suze?

The question was rhetorical. Both read the note several times. It was clear that Maurice wanted to discuss something of great importance with them, but his letter had been cryptic. ‘Please do not call or write to me on the subject’, it read, but there was very little about the subject. ‘I prefer to come to Amsterdam as soon as you can see me’. Bob did not need more.

Tell him to come as soon as he can, Suzan said while about to leave, we insist that he stays with us, it’s been too long! I’m off; let’s go out for a bite later, I didn’t cook. Bye! she kissed his cheek.

Bob went back to his drawing board, but he could no longer concentrate on the intricacies of the public library he was designing for a city in Spain.

Bob was a successful architect and an enthusiastic sportsman. Tall and not really handsome but with an easy, charming smile from perfect white teeth, he used to be a soccer player, scuba diver, avid swimmer, and excellent skier. He would compete skating on the canals of Holland. Bob also held a 4th dan in karate and practised weekly.

What would his friend’s concern be? Because obviously, he was concerned about something. If anything, that was as much as could be deduced from his cryptic letter. Did he find another Nazi criminal that escaped Nuremberg? They had previously worked on several cases together and brought a number to justice, but way too few. Maurice’s interest as a journalist despising what Nazism did to the country he loved was understandable. Bob’s interest and the many, often risky, hours he and Suzan spent chasing Nazi mass murderers found their origin in their work within the Amsterdam unit of the Dutch resistance.¹

See: The Fake Rembrandt

Suzan was a still slender and pretty woman; her auburn hair, highlighted by some natural grey strands, enhanced her beauty. She held a BA in languages and a black belt in karate. She quickly fell in love with Bob during the years of German occupation when as a team, they were sent on missions. However, she’d postponed acting on her feelings out of necessity until after Holland’s liberation. If caught by the Germans, the pain inflicted on a partner to extract information made a resistance fighter vulnerable. When the war was finally over, and Canadian troops liberated the village of her youth, Bob and Suzan married and emigrated to Calgary in West Canada. But a non-specific longing and daily mood swings that she refused to call homesickness brought the couple back to the city they loved, Amsterdam.

Frugal as always, Maurice was scheduled to arrive back on Friday at 11:45 a.m. by train from the Deutsche Bundesbahn departing Berlin very early that day. Bob decided to take a taxi as parking near the central station would be virtually impossible. He asked the driver to drop him off at the Dam square, across from the grotesque WWII National Monument in front of the famous Krasnapolsky hotel and adjacent to the Bijenkorf, a century-old multi-story elegant department store, built with classical baroque elements inspired by a wing of Le Louvre in Paris.

Bob, as always, enjoyed this walk along the Damrak and Rokin towards the Central Station. It was a pleasant sunny autumn day, and the terraces were already fully occupied, mainly by tourists flocking to his city as pigeons to the park. As fashionably dressed female shoppers strolled at a leisurely pace, serious-looking men were busy hurrying, and both were moving in either direction on the narrow sidewalk. Bob passed a copiously carved street organ. The man beside it routinely turned the wheel to almost achieve the correct rhythm for Carmen’s Habanera. He dropped some coins in the copper cup. A feeling of happiness exuded from the colourful moving multicultural mass, the heartbeat of the old metropole.

He walked towards the central station, presenting itself arrogantly at the end of the promenade, spreading its wings wide as if to purposely prevent a view of the busy harbour behind it.

Bob loved the central station of Amsterdam, designed when aesthetics were still an essential element in the process of developing our built environment before functionality killed it. Central stations were monumental exponents of a time when railroads bridged cities before highways did. They visually connect to a rather recent past when carriages dropped off men wearing top hats, their women in long dresses, followed by