Heritage (38 page)

‘Yes, I gathered that.' She'd noticed the priest's cassock draped over the chair and had seen the identity papers lying openly on the desk; he hadn't bothered to hide them. So Klaus Henkel was going into hiding in the guise of a priest, she thought, how ironic.

His departure appeared to be of little concern to her, he realised, but surely he deserved her thanks – he'd preserved her life for a whole eighteen months. Perhaps she would show a little more gratitude when he told her of the plans he'd made for her own safety.

‘There is a transport of workers departing for Bergen-Belsen tomorrow,' he said. ‘You will be one of them; I have had you listed.'

‘Why are you sending me to Bergen-Belsen? Auschwitz will be liberated any moment now.'

He didn't know which irritated him most, her arrogance or her prescience. How did she know that the enemy was on their doorstep? Inmates were not privy to news from the outside world. But he refused to demean himself by asking how she'd come by such information.

‘And exactly who do you think will “liberate” Auschwitz, Ruth?' he sneered. ‘Your friendly allies, the Americans?' He rose from his hardback chair by the table and crossed to the gramophone. ‘No, no, it will be the Russians who will enter Auschwitz.'

The familiar melody flooded the room, ‘Barcarole', the harmony group singing softly, unobtrusively, but he didn't sing along with them this time. He walked silently to stand behind the armchair and ran his fingers through her hair.

‘And you know what the Russians will do to a beautiful woman like you?' He was no longer annoyed. The feel of her hair soothed him. It was shoulder length now, and like flaxen gold – how he loved her hair. ‘They will defile you, Ruth. I will not let that happen.' He encircled her skull with his hands. ‘I would kill you myself before I would allow the filthy Bolshevik pigs to defile you.'

His fingers strayed to her neck and her throat, and she remained quite still as he slipped the bathrobe from her shoulders.

‘But you will live, Ruth,' he said, massaging her gently, tracing the bones of her spine and her shoulder blades. ‘You will go to Bergen-Belsen, which will be liberated by the Americans. And for the rest of your days, you will remember that you owe me your life.'

He waited for her to say something; he deserved some expression of gratitude, surely. But none was forthcoming.

‘Get up.'

She rose.

He circled the chair to stand in front of her. He looked at her breasts, then untied the belt of the robe. It slid to the floor and she stood naked before him.

‘Surely I deserve some thanks, Ruth.'

‘Yes. I'm sorry. Thank you.'

‘Thank you who, and thank you for what?' he asked, irritated by her lack of respect.

‘Thank you, Klaus, for saving my life.'

There was no animation in her: she spoke the words like an automaton, and he felt a sudden flash of rage. Then he saw that there appeared no hatred in her either; her face was a mask. He curbed his anger and reached out a hand to caress her.

‘Ah well,' he said, his fingers tracing the curve of her breast, ‘actions speak louder than words, do they not?' He pulled her gently to him, her body compliant. ‘There are other ways you can show your gratitude.' He kissed her, and her lips obediently parted.

‘Love me,' he whispered.

Just as obediently, she embraced him.

‘Love me, Ruth, love me.'

Her hands were caressing his back. She wanted him, he could sense it in her touch, she had never caressed him like this before.

‘Love me, love me,' he repeated over and over, his excitement mounting as he felt her respond.

He fumbled with his trousers, freeing himself, kneading her breasts, his tongue seeking hers, his desire stronger than it had ever been. She was his, she was offering herself to him, he could feel it. Her thighs were parting as he thrust himself at her. He could feel her breath, she was panting; soon she would moan, he wanted to hear her voice.

‘Love me, Ruth, love me.'

There was no time to undress or to take her into the bedroom, his need was too urgent, he would have her here on the floor, and he would hear her, lost in pleasure. He broke away from the embrace, ripping at his trousers, then he made the mistake of looking at her.

Her eyes held nothing but pure contempt.

At the sight of her undisguised loathing, his rage exploded and he struck her across the cheek with all the force he could muster, sending her reeling across the room and smashing into the table.

‘Whore!'

He threw himself upon her.

‘Filthy whore!' He covered her body with his, pinioning her wrists to the floorboards. ‘You think you're different from the others?' he screamed, in insane rage. ‘You think because I grant you favours you can look at me in that way? You belong in the ovens along with the rest of your tribe …' He spat in her face. ‘You filthy Jew whore!'

She made no attempt to struggle free, but her chest was heaving, she was gasping for air. He could see she was terrified and the insanity of his rage lessened a little. Good, at last she knew her place – a Jew was meant to feel terror.

‘Would you like to know what the Russians would do to you, Ruth?' He slapped her face. ‘Would you like that? I'll show you, shall I?' He slapped her again and she whimpered with fear. He felt a stab of pleasure. He rolled her over on her belly.

‘Kneel,' he said, taking off his trousers. ‘Kneel and spread your legs.'

‘No,' she begged, ‘please, Klaus …'

But he hauled her to her knees. It was too late to beg for favours. He pushed her head to the floor, ripped her buttocks apart and forced himself into her. She screamed with the pain.

‘Do you like being taken by the Russians, Ruth?' he panted. ‘They're animals, the Russians, pigs, every one of them. And this,' he grunted as he sodomised her, ‘this is what they do to Jew whores.'

When it was over and he was dressing himself, he watched her crawl on her hands and knees to cower in a corner of the room. She was bleeding, he noticed: a thin trickle of blood ran down her thigh. He crossed to the gramophone which was making scratching noises; the record was probably ruined now.

It had not been the way he'd wished, but she'd brought it upon herself, she had pushed him beyond his limits. He rarely lost his temper, he preferred to remain in control at all times. It was most regrettable that she had so angered him.

‘Wash and dress yourself,' he said.

He must put her out of his mind, he thought. He would be leaving the camp the next day. All had been arranged and he must concentrate on his escape plan. Mengele had already left Auschwitz, and the Russians could arrive at any moment – he was running out of time.

Several minutes later, she returned from the bathroom wearing her faded striped uniform.

‘Come here,' he said.

She approached him fearfully, and she flinched when he put a hand to her face.

‘No, no,' he assured her, ‘I am not going to hurt you any more.' Tenderly, he touched the cut on her temple where she had struck the table. ‘You will be safe in Bergen-Belsen,' he said. Then he ran his fingers through her hair for the last time. ‘It was not meant to happen like this. You should have loved me, Ruth.'

In 1944 a secret meeting of top German industrialists and bankers was held at the Maison Rouge Hotel in Strasbourg. It had become clear that the Third Reich would not survive the war, and their new aim was to ensure the safety of their Nazi leaders, along with Germany's wealth. The future resurrection of the party depended on safeguarding the nation's assets, much of which had been acquired through plunder, and aiding Nazi officials in their escape to havens outside the country, where they would be safe from prosecution for war crimes.

The meeting led to the genesis of a highly efficient organisation which, following the war, would be called the Organisation Der Ehemaligen SS-Angehörigen, or ‘the Organisation of Former SS Members', but which would become widely known as ‘Odessa'.

The organisation's basic plans were quickly set in place. By the end of the year, funds were arranged, safe houses set up, false identities available, and escape routes devised.

 

Klaus Henkel had opted to escape rather than remain hidden in Germany and, as a highly valued doctor and committed Nazi, he'd been among those to receive preferential treatment. He had obtained funds, the false identity of Catholic priest Father Paul Brummer and explicit instructions on the two principal escape routes.

He was to make his way to a major Italian seaport, he'd been informed, and he could get there by either Switzerland or Austria. Once in Italy he would be relatively safe, but he would have to remain there under an assumed identity until his passage to South America had been arranged.

Klaus had chosen his escape via Austria, deciding that, if he was to be captured en route, he would prefer it to be by the Allied Forces advancing from the south, rather than by the Russians. The Austrian route, he'd been told, was through the small Bavarian town of Memmingen. From there he was to make for Innsbruck, then over the Brenner Pass into Italy and south to the port of Genoa where a sea passage would be arranged for him.

 

It had all been ludicrously easy, Klaus thought. The priest's cassock, which he'd at first detested, had proved the perfect disguise. People didn't look at a priest, he'd discovered, all they saw were the robes, not the man.

‘Good morning, Father,' they'd said as he stepped onto the train.

‘Good afternoon, Father,' they'd said as he alighted at his destination several hours later.

He'd smiled beatifically and waved small blessings at them; he'd found it rather humorous. A war was in progress, he'd thought, and yet it appeared he could travel the whole of Europe unquestioned, simply because he was a man of the cloth. How extraordinary.

But he'd had a rude awakening in the alpine town of Innsbruck.

He arrived in the afternoon. It was late December, the height of the skiing season, and the township was crowded.

Again, Klaus was amazed. Holiday-makers, in the midst of a war? And not just locals either – he could hear other dialects and accents. He didn't approve at all. He considered it improper.

He booked into a modest hotel, their last room. He was lucky, the girl told him.

‘It's the height of the season, Father.'

‘Is it indeed?' he said archly, and the girl gave him a strange look, so he waved her a blessing and said, ‘Thank you, my child.'

The following morning was bitterly cold. An icy wind swept down from the mountains and, to the disappointment of the skiers, the chairlifts were closed due to the unseasonal gale which was expected.

Klaus lounged over a newspaper and mid-morning coffee and cake in one of the cosy cafes before he was to catch the midday train. Soon he would be in Italy. How easy it had been, he thought. But as he was crossing the square on his way to the railway station, he heard his name called.

‘Klaus! Klaus Henkel!'

The voice was coming from behind him, and he curbed his instinct to run. Then a hand patted him on the shoulder, and he turned.

‘Klaus, I was sure it was you, I saw you in the cafe, but I couldn't believe it. I didn't know you'd embraced the priesthood …'

The man was in his early thirties and Klaus recognised him. Koenig, he thought, although he couldn't remember the first name. Koenig had been at university with him in Munich in the early thirties. An insignificant young man, he vaguely recalled, one who'd tried too hard, and unsuccessfully, to be liked.

Klaus decided that his best option was to bluff it out. He looked at Koenig blankly.

‘… I mean, you of all people,' Koenig continued with a comradely chuckle. He was still trying too hard, Klaus noted. ‘You cared for nothing but athletics and politics, if I recall.'

‘I am sorry,' Klaus said in Italian, his expression one of bewilderment. ‘Do you perhaps mistake me for someone else? I do not understand you.'

Koenig was dumbfounded by the response. It was also apparent that he did not speak Italian.

‘Forgive me.' Klaus smiled apologetically, then added in stumbling and heavily accented German, ‘
Ich kann nicht Deutsch sprechen
. I am afraid I can be of no assistance to you,' he said, again in Italian.

‘Oh.' Koenig backed away in his confusion. ‘I'm sorry, Father, but you look so like someone I once knew.' Embarrassed though he was, he continued to study Klaus quizzically, as if he couldn't quite believe what he saw. ‘Please excuse me.'

Klaus smiled again, benignly this time. ‘God bless you, my son,' he said in Italian and, with his by now well-practised priestly wave, he walked off, leaving Koenig staring after him in amazement.

But he did not go to the railway station – he did not dare. He'd been too complacent, he realised, he could no longer afford to travel the easy way, leaving an identifiable trail behind him.

It had become difficult after that. Cutting across country by foot, avoiding the larger towns as he headed south, stealing food where he could and sheltering in farmhouse barns. He was strong and in peak physical condition, but the weather was not kind, and once, in Chiusa, desperate for warmth and sustenance, he'd stayed overnight in the small village inn. He had been prepared to kill the innkeeper should there be any show of suspicion, but there had been none. The innkeeper had been honoured to have a priest staying under his roof.

Nonetheless, Klaus knew that when he reached the major cities of Milan and, more importantly, Genoa, where he might have to bide some time awaiting his passage to South America, he would need a new identity. The encounter with Koenig had shaken him and he doubted whether once the man had overcome his surprise, he had believed the case of mistaken identity. It was only a matter of time before Klaus Henkel would officially be a wanted man, and when he was, Koenig, who had no loyalty to the party, would most certainly report his sighting.

Then he had come upon the remote and secluded peasants' hut, several miles from the village of Tirano. The timing had been perfect: he'd been exhausted and in need of a safe house where he could rest and see out the worst of the winter. He'd noted, too, that the peasant goatherd was approximately his own age and height and, once he got to know the family, that his papers were in order and easily accessible. It was a heaven-sent opportunity.

They were simple people, devout and trusting, and when they'd served their purpose he dispatched them with ease – all but the boy, whose absence had been an irritating glitch. Not that the boy constituted a threat, he'd thought as he'd set off on his long trek to Milan. The boy was ill, an epileptic, he would no doubt perish up there in the snow without the support of his parents. But Klaus would have preferred to have finished it all off tidily; he didn't like loose ends.

He'd reached the sprawling outer suburbs of Milan on the first of May, and had been shocked when he'd heard the news. Adolf Hitler had committed suicide in his Berlin bunker just the previous day. Klaus had mourned the death of his Führer as he'd skirted the city and headed south to Genoa. Then, barely a week later, when Germany had unconditionally surrendered, he'd mourned the death of the Third Reich.

Upon reaching the city of Genoa, he'd found it easy to disappear. There, in the tough, seething seaport, life was cheap and people cared little for the business of others. He had sought out the contact he'd been given and then he'd booked into a small
pensione
not far from the docks, and become just a part of the mass of humanity as he'd awaited his passage to South America.

 

More than one third of Argentina's population lived in or around the sprawling metropolis of Buenos Aires on the south-eastern coast of the continent. The vibrant and cosmopolitan city stood apart from other Latin American cities because of the diversity of its architecture, which reflected its European heritage. In the
barrios
of El Centro and La Recoleta, parks and boulevards lined with palatial mansions evoked Rome. In Palermo and Belgrano, the plazas were reminiscent of those in Paris, and in the
barrios
of San Telmo and La Boca, the cobblestone streets and rows of bars, cafes and
cantinas
had a distinctly Italian feel.

The Buenos Aires locals, predominantly of Spanish and Italian extraction, referred to themselves as Portenos, their predecessors having originally settled in the port area following their arrival from Europe by boat. But the Portenos had long since created new
barrios
, each with its own character and history, and it was here that the true identity of the city existed. The essence of Buenos Aires did not lie in the beauty or diversity of its architecture, but in the fierce Latin spirit of its people. The Portenos were intensely passionate, and the very air of the city was charged with their restless energy.

For Klaus Henkel, Buenos Aires had proved far more than a temporary safe haven. He had discovered a whole new life in this vibrant city, in this country which so differed from his German homeland. The months became a year, and he wallowed in the sensuality of Buenos Aires. He loved the heat of its climate, the slow fire of its music, the spiciness of its food and its hot-blooded women. He embraced a newfound hedonism, frequenting nightclubs in San Telmo and entertaining prostitutes at his lavish apartment in La Recoleta. Having quickly assimilated the language, he felt that he'd become one of the locals in this city so given to pleasure, where he could be free from the Teutonic discipline that had governed his existence from the earliest days of his childhood.

During the day, he maintained the respectable facade of Doctor Umberto Pellegrini, the identity supplied for him by the now well-established and highly efficient organisation known as Odessa – and the cover provided for him had proved to be impeccable. Doctor Pellegrini was a dedicated practitioner who worked at the Rosario Medical Clinic, a charitable institution offering medical assistance to the disadvantaged.

The clinic, in the port area of La Boca, was to all intents and purposes funded by the Catholic Church, and indeed, had the Bishop of Buenos Aires been questioned, he would have affirmed the authenticity of such a claim in accordance with his instructions from Rome. In reality, the clinic was not funded by the Catholic Church, but by Odessa, and although the treatment on offer was bona fide, the centre itself served a purpose far broader than medical assistance for the neighbourhood poor.

An escape route for German war criminals known as ‘The Monastery Route' had been operating successfully for the past twelve months. Odessa smuggled the fugitives across the unpatrolled Swiss borders into Italy, after which they were moved by Roman Catholic priests from one monastery to the next until they reached Rome. There, Bishop Alois Hudal, the Rector of the College of Santa Maria dell' Anima, had created a virtual transit station for escaping Nazis. New identities and Red Cross passports were supplied, and from Santa Maria dell' Anima the fugitives were dispersed around the globe, particularly to South America where German agents, industry and commerce were well established.

The German General Staff, driven by imperialism, had set up operations in South America many years before Hitler took power in Germany. New industrial plants had been established throughout the Americas, especially in Argentina, which had become the chief focus of German intrigue in South America. By the end of the war, German agents had gained control of mines, banks, railroads, aviation lines, and chemical and steel works. By 1946, under the leadership of its new pro-Nazi president, General Juan Perón, Argentina's munitions industry was virtually controlled by the German industrial conglomerate I.G. Farben. The German war strategists had planned well ahead, and with the vast accumulation of Nazi wealth safely deposited in Swiss bank accounts, they could steadily build their underground network in preparation for the future rise of the Fourth Reich.

As an Odessa centre, the Rosario Medical Clinic served an important purpose in the overall scheme, and its dedicated director, Doctor Fritz von Halbach, had welcomed Klaus Henkel's arrival in Buenos Aires. Henkel, one of the first of the SS to escape, was a committed Nazi and a qualified doctor and would prove a valuable member of the team. Furthermore, the man's ease with the Italian language was most convenient, as it enabled the director to choose a non-German alias for Klaus. Fritz von Halbach believed the image of the clinic should be that of an international body of dedicated people working for the common good of the poor.

Klaus had not previously met von Halbach in person, but he'd known of him by reputation for years. Everyone in Berlin society did. Doctor Fritz von Halbach was an eminent plastic surgeon who, prior to the war, had catered to film stars and the moneyed elite. His picture had regularly appeared in the press: urbane, handsome, wealthy and feted, he was of unimpeachable character and had never been associated with the SS. But among the hierarchy Fritz von Halbach had been well known as an avid Nazi supporter. It had been a lesser known fact that, mingling as he did with the rich and famous, he'd been a valued agent of the German General Staff. And he'd proved his loyalty by abandoning his highly successful practice in Berlin to set up a clinic in Buenos Aires which would serve as part of the underground network a full year before Germany's final defeat. Fritz was a man with the future in mind, and a man who believed that the power of the Fourth Reich would emanate from Argentina.