Brandenburg (45 page)

“You’re familiar with DSE, Herr Busch?”

“I’ve heard about it, yes.”

“You were with the Gehlen Organization after the war. You were an intelligence officer.”

“That is correct, yes. But what’s this got to do with—”

“During the war, you were also an officer in the Abwehr.”

Busch’s watery blue eyes became suddenly wary. “That was a very long time ago. Maybe if you tell me what this is about?”

“A case I’m working on. I hoped you might be able to help me.”

Busch seemed to mellow slightly. He half smiled. “Herr Volkmann, I retired from intelligence work many years ago. I don’t understand why you’d want my help.”

Volkmann explained about Hernandez’s murder. When he told Busch about the house in the Chaco, he saw the confusion on the old man’s face and said, “Herr Busch, the man who owned the house joined the Nazi Party in Munich in 1929. His party number was six-eight-nine-six. Twelve numbers away from yours.”

The look on Busch’s face went from puzzlement to understanding. “I see. How did you find me?”

“I had the Nazi Party membership files cross-referenced with the WASt. There are only two men still alive in Germany who had party numbers relatively close to the number of the man I spoke of. You’re one of them.”

The heat in the conservatory was stifling, and Busch shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “You said this man in Paraguay was dead. I don’t understand. What relevance has he got to the journalist’s murder you spoke of?”

“None, obviously, Herr Busch, but his past is very unclear, and someone related to him may be implicated in the murder.” Volkmann paused. “For some reason the man who once owned the
Chaco property received large sums of money from Germany, both before and during the war. Your party number was close to his. I was hoping you might remember him and help me to shed some light on the matter.” Volkmann looked at Busch. “I realize it’s unlikely, but right now you’re the only connection I have.”

Busch half smiled and shook his head. “Herr Volkmann, we’re talking about a long, long time ago.”

“I realize that. All I ask is that you just look at the photograph and tell me if you recognize the man.”

Volkmann removed the photograph of Erhard Schmeltz from his wallet.

The old man took the photograph. He looked down at it, then back up, shook his head.

“The face . . . I’m sorry, I can’t remember. Besides, my eyes are not what they used to be. I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time.” He went to hand back the photograph. “What was the man’s name?”

“Erhard Schmeltz. He came from Hamburg.”

Something flickered in the old man’s watery eyes, and he stared down at the photograph again. When he finally looked up, Volkmann saw the look of disbelief on the wrinkled face.

“You remember him?”

Busch said slowly, “Yes, I remember him.”

“You’re certain?”

Busch’s yellow skin had turned pale. “I met him many times.” He paused for a moment. “And the name, yes . . . I remember. Erhard Schmeltz. From Hamburg.”

Volkmann said, “Can you tell me anything about him?”

Busch suddenly looked very uncomfortable. He turned back and his tone softened.

“Would you mind if we stepped out into the garden, Herr Volkmann? The heat . . . I . . . I need some air.”

When Volkmann nodded, the old man stood up shakily, and when they put on their overcoats he led the way to the door.

•   •   •

They sat facing each other on the wooden chairs at the picnic table. Busch looked down at the photograph in his hand. His voice sounded shaky.

“Erhard Schmeltz, from Hamburg. Yes, I knew him.”

“What sort of man was he? How did you meet? Anything at all may help.”

Busch looked back as if he were still lost in reverie. “He knew my father. Schmeltz served in the First War, so he was much older than I. He and my father worked together for a time. The kind of man Schmeltz was? Physically, he was a big man. Tough and dependable. But a peasant, not an intellectual. The type who takes orders, not gives them.”

“How did you two meet?”

“It was the summer of 1929, just before I joined the party as a youth. In those days, the Nazi movement was gaining ground. Germany had come out of a war with nothing.” Busch stared at Volkmann. “People say things are bad now, but in the old days it was worse, believe me. Do you know what it’s like to see a man wheeling a barrow full of banknotes to the bakery shop to buy a loaf of bread? Crazy. But that’s how it was in Germany in the Depression.

“Every day there were riots and protests and armed anarchists roaming the streets. No one could find work. And when people saw university professors reduced to selling trinkets and matches on street corners, they knew they were lost.” Busch removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes. “My father was a soldier in the First War, like Schmeltz. After the war there was nothing for him but a long list of badly paid jobs. We went from lodging house to lodging house, barely eking out an existence, never enough bread in the house to feed a hungry family.

“And then came the Nazis. They promised prosperity, work, hope. To make Germany great again. Drowning men will grasp at straws, and we Germans then were drowning, believe me. There was a price to be paid, of course, but that came much later.”

Busch stopped rubbing his eyes. “You might ask what all this has
got to do with Erhard Schmeltz? Nothing, except that I want you to understand the background and how we came to meet.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Schmeltz worked in the same factory as my father. One day in the autumn of 1929, the factory closed down. That evening my father and his colleagues went out to get drunk to forget their sorrows, and later my father brought some of the men home to meet my family.”

Busch paused. “My father’s friends were very drunk. One of them was Erhard Schmeltz. They all sat around the table in our kitchen having soup and bread. They talked of Germany’s hopelessness. I sat with them. Schmeltz had been a factory foreman. The loss of his position had upset him completely. At the table, he brought up the subject of the Nazis. Most of the other men present were communist or socialist party supporters. My father wasn’t political. But Schmeltz declared that he was going to become a Nazi Party member. He said they were the only hope for Germany and suggested that my father and the others do likewise. Schmeltz even tried to interest me. I was a youth, easily impressed when Schmeltz said he served with Hitler in the First War and knew the top Nazis. A week later, I applied for membership and was accepted.”

“How often did you meet Schmeltz?”

Busch shook his head. “After that night, I didn’t see him again for at least another year. We were not close friends, but I got to know him.”

“You say he knew some of the top Nazis personally. Who did he know?”

Busch looked out at the bare winter trees. “Himmler, Bormann. And he and Hitler were old army comrades. But I didn’t hear Schmeltz mention his connections again after that night. He was really a very private man.”

“What was Schmeltz’s function in the party?”

Busch shrugged. “He helped at elections and played bodyguard. Many times I saw him at party rallies or in the Munich beer halls
with some of the Nazi bigwigs. He was more brawn than brain, but a loyal and trusted party man.”

“Did you know that Schmeltz emigrated to South America?”

“No, I didn’t. And by telling me, you solved an old mystery.”

“How?”

“Sometime in 1931, Erhard Schmeltz disappeared. No one knew where he had gone. But if what you say is true, now I know.”

Volkmann paused, looked at the garden, then back again. “Do you know of any reason why a loyal Nazi like Schmeltz left Germany for Paraguay?”

The old man turned back, and said solemnly, “Why is this so important? All this happened so many years ago. What relevance has it to now, to the present?”

“I don’t know how exactly, but I believe it has. Do you know why he ended up in Paraguay?”

“No, I don’t. But I do remember there were rumors after he disappeared.”

“What rumors?”

Busch shrugged. “But there were so many rumors. That he had been sent away on a mission. That he had got into someone’s bad books and been forced to leave the country. But which story is true, I cannot say.” Busch hesitated. “You said there was a photograph . . . of a woman? May I see it?”

Volkmann removed the photograph from his pocket. Busch squinted down at the image.

“Do you recall ever having seen that woman before?” Volkmann asked.

The old man looked up. “At my age, faces are difficult to remember. The young woman could be anyone. And my eyes . . . they’re not the best. You know her name?”

“No. There was just a date on the back of the original photograph. July 11, 1931.”

Busch peered at the image again, then shook his head. “I’m afraid she’s not familiar to me.”

“Could she have been a relative of Erhard Schmeltz’s?”

Busch studied the photograph more closely, then shrugged, handed it back. “It’s possible. I thought perhaps his sister. I met her several times, but it’s not her.”

“What about his wife, or a girlfriend?”

Busch smiled. “No, most definitely not. Schmeltz wasn’t a womanizer. He was a big, awkward countryman always ill at ease around women.” He paused, began to say something more, then appeared to change his mind.

As Volkmann replaced the photograph in his pocket, Busch said, “You’re not telling me everything, are you, Herr Volkmann?”

The light was fading to gray now, the sun gone behind clouds.

Volkmann said, “Erhard Schmeltz emigrated to Paraguay in November of 1931. According to records in Asunción, he had with him his wife, Inge, and their child, a boy named Karl. Schmeltz also had five thousand American dollars in his possession. At six-month intervals afterward, he received bank drafts of five thousand American dollars from Germany. At first the drafts were sent privately. But after the Nazis came to power, they were sent secretly by the Reichsbank, right up until Schmeltz died in Asunción in 1943. After that, his wife received the money, until February of 1945, when the drafts ceased.” Volkmann paused. “I’d like to know why Schmeltz received that money, Herr Busch. It may or may not have relevance to the case I’m working on, but I’d like to know. It’s part of the puzzle.”

Even in the fading light, he saw that the old man had turned pale again, and he stared into Volkmann’s face. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.

Volkmann said, “Is something the matter? Did something I said surprise you?”

“Everything you have said so far about Erhard Schmeltz has surprised me.” Busch looked away, stared out into the fading light. His face was as white as chalk. “Do you know who sent him the money from Germany?” he asked.

“I don’t. But I’d guess it had to be someone with authority if the Reichsbank was involved.”

“Why do you think the money was sent?”

“I’ve no idea.” Volkmann looked at Busch. “But it surprises you that Schmeltz was sent such large sums?”

“Of course. He wasn’t a wealthy man. At least not while I knew him. And I can’t think of a reason why he would have received such amounts.”

“You think it’s possible Schmeltz was helping someone to put away money secretly? Someone high up in the party?”

Busch shrugged. “It’s possible. After the war, Germans abroad helped Nazis set up secret bank accounts. But that happened toward the end of the war, when defeat was inevitable. Not before. And most of those accounts were kept in Switzerland.”

Something seemed to be troubling Busch, but he remained silent, his brow furrowed.

Volkmann said, “Did you ever hear of something called the Brandenburg Testament?”

Busch’s wrinkled face came up sharply. “Has this got something to do with what we’re discussing?”

“Let’s just say it came up in conversation. Why? You’ve heard of it?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of it. It’s just old Nazi propaganda, Herr Volkmann.”

“What do you mean?”

“In February 1945, two months before the war ended, a meeting was held in Hitler’s bunker, near the Brandenburg Gate. It was supposed to be top secret, but we heard rumors about it afterward in the Abwehr. Hitler’s most loyal SS were present. Mostly Leibstandarte SS, his bodyguard. Even they knew defeat was imminent, but none would dare admit it publicly. Instead, they talked about regrouping to carry on the war. The Testament was said to have been a legacy sanctioned by Hitler.”

“What kind of legacy?”

“Herr Volkmann, it was really only propaganda nonsense, I assure you.”

“Tell me anyhow.”

“In the event of the Reich being defeated, gold and bullion held by the Reichsbank and SS were to be secretly shipped to South America and also hidden in parts of Germany. The belief was that when the time was right again, the party would be resurrected. You could say it was a blueprint to secretly reestablish the Nazi Party.” Busch paused. “When we heard about the plan in the Abwehr, we laughed. It was the foolish hope of desperate men. The Testament came to nothing. Certainly gold and other bullion made its way to South America after the war. It was often used simply to keep a chosen few in comfort and security for the rest of their lives. But the amounts of money Schmeltz received and when he received it, that would eliminate him from any connection, surely?”

Volkmann nodded.

For a long time, Busch was silent. It was growing cold in the garden; he finally looked at his watch and stood. “I’m afraid I must take my leave of you. I have things to attend to.”

Volkmann rose. “Thanks for your help.”

Busch led him to the front door. “The smuggling operation you spoke of, you think it’s gold?”

“I really don’t know.”

Busch hesitated. “There is one more thing you should know. I don’t know if it’s relevant, and I meant to say it earlier, but our discussion was somehow deflected.” The old man paused. “According to your information, Erhard Schmeltz went to South America with his wife and child, is that correct?”

“That’s what the records in Asunción say.”

“The boy’s name again?”

“Karl.”

“And when was the boy born?”