Dr Volkisch and the Stempelhorst Legacy

By Rob Atenstaedt

Used as a vehicle to explore the brutality of the Nazi regime, this is a fast-paced thriller set in the period immediately after the reunification of Germany in 1990. Dr Kurt Volkisch, a senior ex-SS doctor who has somehow escaped being brought to justice, is reactivated to perform a duty entrusted to him in the dying days of the German Third Reich.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Y Lolfa
• Release date: Sep 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781847715906

Book preview

Dr%20Volkisch%20and%20the%20Stempelhorst%20Legacy%20-%20Rob%20Atenstaedt.jpg

First impression: 2012

© Rob Atenstaedt, 2012

This book is subject to copyright and may not be reproduced by any means except for review purposes without the prior written consent of the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. Any views or opinions expressed by characters or otherwise within this book are not those of the author.

Cover image: Chris Iliff

ISBN: 9 781 84771 428 2

E-ISBN: 978-1-84771-590-6

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Published and printed in Wales

on paper from well maintained forests by

Y Lolfa Cyf., Talybont, Ceredigion SY24 5HE

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website www.ylolfa.com

tel [phone]

fax 832 782

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This book is dedicated to my great aunt, Ilse, who was murdered by the Nazis in June 1941 at the age of forty. The world must never forget the brutality of the Third Reich, and the atrocities that this regime perpetrated. It is my hope that this book will serve as a poignant reminder.

Prologue

1 May 1945

Berlin, Germany

The Third Reich, engineered to last a millennium, was in its death throes. Dog-tired German troops had been pushed back in the eastern territories by the Soviet Forces and in the former Western democracies by the British and their American cousins. Many of the major German cities lay in ruins: burnt out buildings jostling with the victims of carpet bombing. Hundreds of thousands of dispossessed citizens roamed the country, terrified and desperate, trying to move towards the American lines, away from the Russians, who they knew would show no mercy. The Nazi Führer, Adolf Hitler, had committed suicide after shooting his mistress, Eva Braun, and his cherished pet, the German shepherd named Blondi. Many other prominent NSDAP members had followed the Führer’s example, including Joseph Goebbels and his wife, Magda. The murder of their six children before they killed themselves had been particularly gruesome.

Berlin – planned as the capital of an empire stretching from the North to the Baltic to the Mediterranean to the Red seas – was surrounded by Marshal Georgy Zhukov’s battalions. The invaders were moving into the city in great strength, pummelling the defenders to pieces. The Allied Forces had already occupied western Germany, rounding up party officials for Entnazifizierung (denazification). The capital was left defended by a rag-tag army of old men and teenagers, inexperienced in the art of war, lightly armed and low on ammunition. Even the fanaticism of the Hitler Youth, defiant in their patchwork uniforms, could not stop the relentless onslaught of the conquering army, which swarmed into Berlin, hungry for rape and plunder.

In the middle of the city, in an area called Wedding, as yet not overrun by the enemy, the sound of approaching battle was unmistakable. Two lonely men moved quickly through the grimy back streets, peering round every street corner to check for any sign of approaching enemy soldiers. Both carried Sturmgewehr 44 assault rifles, and the shorter of the two also had a Panzerfaust anti-tank weapon slung over his right shoulder. The taller soldier clutched a small, battered, black leather attaché case in his left hand. The streets were empty of people, who were most likely hiding in their cellars, fearful of the approaching battle. The two men were careful not to run into any of their own units or the Wehrmacht, as there might have been difficult questions to answer as to why they were not defending the city. However, the task that they were undertaking was far too important for distractions.

They took a short break in the doorway of a large brick-faced town house with blown-out windows, careful to keep themselves concealed. SS-Standartenführer Heinz Stempelhorst, accompanied as always by his loyal adjutant, SS-Sturmscharführer Dieter Hagen, briefly scanned a plan of the city that he had removed from the pocket of his leather overcoat. Both men bore the physical and emotional scars of battle: neither had slept properly for weeks and this showed in their haggard faces, deep-set eye sockets and weary motions.

Heinz turned to his friend, a look of grim resignation on his face. Things look desperate, Dieter: the barbarians truly are at the gates. I fear that our glorious Reich is nearly at an end.

The Sturmscharführer weighed these words for a moment, surveying his commander’s handsome but gaunt features, the Prussian nose and piercing grey eyes, which seemed to be burning with a fire that he had only ever seen in the heat of battle. His superior was dressed in the uniform of a colonel in the Waffen-SS, Leibstandarte division. He eventually replied. "Yes, Herr Standartenführer. I cannot see any hope for Germany. We are finished, for sure. When our leader died, all hope perished for our fatherland." He was referring, of course, to the suicide of Adolf Hitler a few days earlier, which they had both heard announced on the state radio station.

Heinz refolded the map methodically and put it in his left breast pocket. They left the shelter of the doorway and moved warily down the street. The Standartenführer dragged his right leg as he progressed, the result of a bullet that he had taken in the battle for Stalingrad in 1943. Even with this injury, he managed to keep his back ramrod straight, as befitting a senior officer in one of the combat divisions of the SS. Heinz had been one of the lucky ones: he had been airlifted from the Stalingradskaya flight school, the last functioning runway in the combat zone, before the Russian bear had closed its death grip on the German 6th Army under General von Paulus.

As they neared the next street corner, they began to hear a rumbling sound ahead. Like a swollen river, it gradually built up to a crescendo, and the cobblestones started to vibrate under their feet. Heinz ducked into a doorway quickly, joined soon after by Dieter, with his Panzerfaust at the ready.

It must be a T-34, Heinz hissed into Dieter’s ear. I would have never believed that the Bolsheviks would manage to reach this far so soon. We can’t go round it. There is no time. Our task is too important.

Dieter grimaced, knowing what he needed to do: he drew the anti-tank weapon even tighter in to his shoulder, at the same time unlocking the safety mechanism with his thumb. With only one charge available, he knew that his aim would have to be deadly accurate, or they were both finished. He bent closer to his commander and smiled. "Just like the old days, Herr Standartenführer. We’ll go round on the count of three. He added nonchalantly. I would appreciate it if you would cover me.

Heinz nodded, checking that he had a full clip loaded in his rifle.

On the count, the pair crawled round the street corner on their hands and knees, lacerating their palms on broken glass from one of the many blown-out buildings. As they had predicted, there was a small Russian infantry detachment approaching and a T-34 tank following close behind. The four enemy soldiers did not seem in any way wary of being in the German capital. To Heinz and Dieter, they seemed to be marching as if they were on parade, as befitting conquerors. This was their ultimate undoing, as they failed to spot the two SS men until it was too late. Heinz took out the men’s officer, almost before the Russians knew what had hit them. A second soldier followed in quick succession. The other two enemy soldiers began to fall back as Dieter aimed and fired his Panzerfaust. Both of the Soviets were blown to smithereens as the Russian tank exploded, its turret lifted many feet into the air. Dieter’s skill with the weapon, honed on the eastern front, had fortunately not deserted him.

After they had kicked the prone Russians with their leather jackboots to make sure that they were indeed dead, the two Germans pressed on with their task. After a few minutes, they reached Stubenrauchstrasse and the old neoclassical post office, grimy with soot. Heinz was overjoyed to see that it had been largely untouched in the nightly bombing raids on the city by the British. Hastily taking an iron key out of his pocket, he unlocked a side door; they found themselves in a dusty lobby. After consulting his map once again, the same key unlocked a small storeroom.

Turning to Dieter, Heinz pressed a concealed lever. Here goes.

Automatically, an unlocking mechanism was triggered, revealing a small, blast-proof door. Punching in a numbered combination above the door handle, they heard a click and the steel door slid noiselessly upwards. Heinz felt gingerly for a light switch on the other side which he switched on; they both proceeded to descend a flight of concrete steps. The entrance behind them closed automatically, completely concealing their entrance point.

At the bottom of the steps was another doorway, this time hewn from solid rock. Above the lintel an eagle entwining a Swastika had been carved into the wall – the symbol of the Nazi state. Both men surveyed this with deep satisfaction: it evoked within them a feeling of great pride of what had been achieved, but also a deep feeling of loss at what might have been.

They found themselves inside a small room containing a desk, two chairs and a portrait of Hitler. They continued into a much larger cavern, carved out of rock, lit from a single, naked light bulb.

Both men gasped as they marvelled at the riches that lay before them. The walls of the room were covered with row upon row of paintings, hanging frame to frame; these were not artworks from the great classical masters such as Manet, Monet and Titian, looted from the museums and galleries of conquered Europe. Instead, these were paintings from artists that Hitler had publicly branded as ‘degenerate’ in his infamous art exhibition in Munich in 1937, and then had secretly hoarded. These were artworks from Marc Chagall, Pablo Picasso and Vincent van Gogh.

As well as these paintings, the earthen floor was stacked with about one hundred roughly hewn wooden crates. On a signal from his commander, the Sturmscharführer prised open the nearest: it contained a large, beautifully fashioned metal casket, which he picked up; the name on the outside of the container was ‘Izabella Czartoryska’. Attached to this was a label, which he read out loud to his superior. Polish Royal casket, containing priceless relics; recovered from Sieniawa, Poland, September 1939. Satisfied, Heinz ordered his subordinate to replace the casket and re-seal the crate. They then came upon a series of numbered crates, marked on the outside as ‘Panels of Bernsteinzimmer [Amber Room]; recovered from Tsarskoye Selo, October 1941’. Heinz did not disturb these, as he had heard that they were in a fragile state, after their recent transport from Königsburg. They decided to open one more box; the Standartenführer reached in and pulled out what looked to be a long spear with a bronze tip. He turned to Dieter. I have seen this before; it is the Lance of Longinus, though you may know it as the Spear of Destiny; it is reputedly the lance that pierced Christ’s side as he hung on the cross during the crucifixion. He smiled. It looks as if my friend Volkisch did return it to the Führer after all."

Delaying no more, Heinz put his leather case on his knee, undoing its solid brass clasp. He slid his right hand in and pulled out a heavy, jewel-encrusted, medieval cross. He turned it over, marvelling at the intricate carvings of saints picked out in pure gold. His unit had looted the trinket from the castle of Countess Elzbieta Deminski in the Ukraine, during their retreat from Russia the previous summer. He placed it on top of one of the crates.

Heinz sighed, his eyes bright. The treasure contained within this vault must not fall into the enemy’s hands, Dieter.

For sure, Roosevelt must never feast his Yankee eyes on this, his subordinate responded. Yes, the loot here is for Germany, and Germany alone. It will help us rebuild a nation of iron.

Their quiet reflection was rudely interrupted by the whistling of a shell overhead, no doubt fired from the Russian lines. It must have landed close by, as they were momentarily thrown against each other, the floor shaking underneath them. However, the bunker, constructed by stout Gypsy slave labour, stood firm. The Standartenführer remembered how one of his fellow officers in the SS had reminisced to him one day, describing how he had dispatched these labourers with a bullet to the head, after they had finished their task.

To the SS, the Gypsies were Untermenschen (subhuman) and their lives were worthless. Dr Stern, the leading authority on the Gypsies in the Third Reich, wrote in March 1940:

Meticulous research has now proven beyond doubt that the Gypsies, 90 per cent of whom are of mixed race, are a primitive people in an ethnological sense. Furthermore, their mating with non-Gypsy criminal elements to form a ‘Yenish-Gypsy lumenproletariat’ of roving vagabonds of low mental capacity costs the Reich huge amounts in welfare terms. I, therefore, recommend that the Gypsies are placed immediately in labour camps to prevent further inter-racial mixing.

During the winter of 1940–1, Dr Stern attended a government-sponsored symposium on the Gypsy issue at the Reich Research Institute in Berlin. One of the ideas brainstormed was that the fatherland’s 30,000 Gypsies could be sent out into the Mediterranean on a flotilla of ships and then drowned en masse.

Heinz and Dieter left the strong room, swinging its heavy steel door shut. Then, acting completely out of character, Stempelhorst removed his cap and embraced his fellow combatant. Hagen, visibly moved by this action, clapped his friend on the shoulder. They both knew that they had done well. The Führer, had he lived, would have been very pleased with their work.

Heinz, who had regained his composure, sat down on a wooden chair, intricately carved with the death’s head symbol of the SS, and beckoned his subordinate to follow suit. They both relaxed, pouring themselves a small glass of peach schnapps from a bottle that they have brought with them in the briefcase. They drank quietly, reflecting on their past adventures. Theirs was a friendship forged in the heat of battle: they had fought together for almost five years and on three fronts, including France, Russia and North Africa; they were now tired of conflict. Neither of them had families still living: Heinz’s wife had died in an Allied bombing raid on Dresden; Dieter’s wife and three children had perished when a factory near their house in Bitterfeld had been blown up by the Russians. Both men were gladdened by the sanctuary that they had discovered in this place under the ground, as they could only imagine the hell that was going on above them.

The Standartenführer eventually spoke, his voice solemn but determined: The time has come, my friend. We have fulfilled our task as our glorious leader had instructed. The Reich is in ruins but it will rise again. The riches that we hold here will one day provide the fuel that will power the engine of a new Reich. Dieter listened, enraptured by the senior officer.

With no more to be said, the men took their Luger pistols out of their holsters, checked that they were loaded and placed them in each other’s mouths. On a collective shout of Heil Hitler, they simultaneously pulled the triggers. They seemed almost happy as the bullets ripped out the backs of their skulls, spilling their brains over the cavern’s walls. The retort from the pistols was drowned out by the sound of battle, raging fiercely in the streets overhead.

1

3 October 1990

Berchtesgaden, Bavarian Alps

Sitting on an old battered brown leather armchair in the sitting room of his small picture-postcard cottage on Joachim-Schneiderstrasse , Egon Fromme sat up straight as he watched the pictures on his black and white TV. A small sigh left his lips; this was not one of sorrow or of joy, but of quiet satisfaction from an individual who knows that his job will soon be accomplished.

Egon brushed back his mop of greasy grey hair and adjusted his round gold-rimmed spectacles so that he could get a better view of the screen, positioning the TV set, tottering on an old gunmetal table, closer to him. He also turned up the volume, knowing that he would not disturb any neighbours, as the walls of his stone-built dwelling were very thick. Since he had passed his seventy-fifth birthday the summer before, his hearing had not been too keen, and he was struggling to listen to the commentary on the ZDF news programme.

He had watched the same TV set less than a year before when the Berlin Wall had been breached, and German youths had started to demolish it brick by brick. Now he was seeing before him the culmination of the process of die Wende or German unity, with an announcement by Chancellor Helmut Kohl that at the stroke of midnight, the western and eastern zones of Germany would be officially whole again.

He reflected how much he had longed for this very moment. In fact, he had been waiting most of his adult life for this announcement. Born himself in the east, in the great trading city of Leipzig, he had been stranded in the western zone in 1945, and had never been able to return to his birthplace.

A small and unassuming man who has spent the war as a minor functionary in the Führer’s personal staff, he had never really understood why he had been selected to perform the task that had been entrusted to him. He could only imagine that it was because he was both loyal and unobtrusive. Many of Hitler’s inner circle had been forcibly removed to Russia at the end of the conflict, never to return to the fatherland. But he had never been important enough for the Bolsheviks, who had left him to continue his drab life in Bavaria.

However, the SS had not counted on one thing. Although Egon had been assessed for both physical and mental hardiness by their medical service, they had never predicted the death of his wife and children in April 1945 at the hands of an American bomb. This was not something that could have been foreseen, even by Hitler’s soothsayers. Subsequently, Egon had suffered from repeated bouts of depression. Sometimes these episodes had been so severe that he had felt like ending it all. He had played possible methods in his mind many times over: jumping from one of the mountains in the German Alps, steering his car off the road or shooting himself with his war service revolver, which he still kept in the bottom drawer of his desk.

But what had stopped him carrying this out was his duty. This was something that the Allies who, in his opinion, were devoid of honour, would never understand. Egon was an NSDAP golden party badge holder, awarded to the first 100,000 members of the Nazi Party; this meant that honour and duty were at the core of his beliefs. He would not allow himself the relief of death until he had fulfilled the role which the Führer had personally bestowed on him.

He stood up and brushed off a few stale biscuit crumbs which had accumulated in the folds of his jersey. Slowly, and with difficulty (as he suffered from the early stages of Parkinson’s disease), he shuffled across his lounge towards the far wall, stopping next to a pine bookcase. In front of him was a fairly amateurish painting of his home town in the springtime; he removed this gingerly from the bronze hook it was attached to. Underneath the picture was what looked at first impression like a metal safe. Recalling the numbered combination that he had memorised half a century before and entering it with shaking hands, he heard an audible click as the safe’s door sprung open. The strongbox, installed by SS engineers in January 1945 (who had also made various alterations to the cottage before handing the keys to Egon along with deeds made out in his name), concealed no money, jewels, papers or anything of monetary value. But what it did contain, a single metal switch, was priceless.

His instructions, given personally by Reichsführer Himmler, were simply to flick this lever when Germany had been reunified.

After elevating the switch, Egon carefully closed the safe, before replacing the picture and biting into a glass capsule containing cyanide salts, his preferred method of suicide. His smile said that he would be rejoining his darling family very soon.

There was a second switch in the house, which had been concealed from Egon. It was only to be flicked when the newly united Germany was threatened with invasion. Another guardian would be arriving soon to attend to Egon’s body and to take over the running of the house on Joachim-Schneiderstrasse.

2

The same day

Llandudno, north Wales

March came in like a lamb.

Pale primrose sunlight beamed gently upon our snug valley. On the lawns and verges daffodils shouldered their way through the carpeted snowdrops. In the woods, through which the drive winds down, there was a stirring of fresh life. And in the evenings thrushes sang again.

It was warm and it was dry. The brook down at the bottom of the meadow grew quiet. The roar and crash of winter water was gone. The temperamental stream now tinkled discreetly over the great boulders.

It was time of clear, sweet days and of silent, starlight nights. Only the frost, white in the mornings down by the meadow bottom, only the ice on the sides and summits of the mountains that pen us reminded us of harsher days.

Kurt Volkisch had just started to read a short story by the renowned Welsh author, Group Captain Leslie Bonnet, when the alarm had sounded. He had thought, at first, that it was simply a guest’s car alarm going off in his car park, or a new electronic gizmo that one of the younger visitors at the charity auction that he had just held had left behind. He tried to fix the source of the sound in his large rented house on Ocean Drive in Llandudno, which had been built sometime in the 1920s in the art deco style. He adored the original features that the house still retained, such as the wooden floors, fireplaces and stained glass windows. His home also commanded wonderful views over Puffin Island and the Isle of Anglesey. The gardens were extensive; this allowed him to keep a flock of Welsh Harlequins, the only truly Welsh breed of duck, and one of the national symbols of Wales.

He had moved to Wales a decade before, after it had become too dangerous for him to remain in Mexico. It had been an emotional wrench for him to leave his semi-tropical hideaway. His home in the city of Guadalajara had been a large hacienda, constructed in 1888 and previously owned by one of the Mexican aristocracy, until the family had been disenfranchised by President Lázaro Cárdenas in his agrarian reforms of the 1930s. Cárdenas had managed to distribute nearly twice as much land to Mexican peasants than all his predecessors combined, so that by the end of his administration over half of the country’s cultivated land was held by previously landless citizens. This had been a continuation of the reforms brought about by the Mexican revolution of 1910–20. Volkisch had always thought that this conflict had caused needless suffering, as the Mexican Republic had swapped a good (albeit autocratic) ruler in Porfirio Díaz for a series of weak ones