CHAPTER ONE
At three-fifty on Tuesday morning, June 6th 1944, a lone Luftwaffe captain was scanning the horizon from the top of a pill-box on the shore of Normandy.
Oberstleutnant Werner von Brecht had just returned from Ankara and was now officially on sick-leave since May 25th.
He had been ordered to return to Berlin by Generalfeldmarschall Rommel personally but as it happened, his Messerschmitt ME-109E became unserviceable on that particular day and a spare magneto was not available.
Von Brecht had insisted upon returning in his own aeroplane and was granted permission to wait until the spare part arrived from Cologne. The CO of the airbase twenty miles from the coast, had been impressed by his war record and the heavily decorated veteran was treated with respect which slowly diminished when word got out he spent all his days at the beach, watching the sea.
"A harmless loony," the beach battery Commander had said, after verifying a few details, including his recent medical status.
"Just don't let him get near the guns."
Von Brecht had been screening the empty horizon since three-fifty, but it was at precisely four-thirty three, the moment of terrestrial morning twilight on June 6th in Normandy, that von Brecht first became aware of a minor change in his visual field. With slowly increasing disbelief Oberstleutnant von Brecht observed how the flat horizon transformed into a Galaxy of growing mushrooms, fully extending from north to south.
"Four thousand ships . . . ," von Brecht whispered quietly to himself. "They have them . . . The greatest amphibious force ever seen. Exactly as the Ankara-agent had said."
Oberstleutnant von Brecht took a flimsy drawing for his chest pocket and looked at the allied invasion plan. Two weeks ago he had shown a similar but more perfect drawing to Generalfeldmarschall Rommel, prin-cipal chief of operations Atlantic Wall. The 5th, 6th or the 7th, von Brecht had said. He had then been given the choice between sick-leave or a court martial for spreading false rumours.
When von Brecht learned Rommel had left for Berlin on the 4th of June to celebrate his wife's birthday on the 6th, he had made his decision.
He would wait at the beach.
If the ships came as predicted, the war was lost and he would fly straight to Berlin to help organise a putsch, the only way to prevent Germany's total destruction, and the death of millions including his young sons, Günther, Axel and Martha his wife.
After a final, convincing glance at the slowly growing mushrooms, smoke from four thousand ships, von Brecht decided it would take at least half an hour before pandemonium would break loose. Time enough to get his 109E airborne for his sick-leave in Berlin.
Quietly he descended from the pill-box's roof, waking a young private in his morning slumber.
"Some coffee, Oberstleutnant?" the boy asked lazily, smiling at the man they called 'Don Quichotte'.
Von Brecht looked sadly at the boy that had to die that day. He knew with certainty there was nothing he could do to save this one.
The boy watched von Brecht taking off the Knight's cross with Oak Leaf Cluster, the highest award for bravery in the field.
Sleepily it occurred to him the ribbon slipped over his sixteen year old head.
As von Brecht did his after take-off checks and four thousand ships commenced a fleet bombardment on the fortifications at the shore of Normandy, a small freighter under the Brazilian flag steamed peacefully across the equator on its way to Rio.
In one of the few luxury cabins a twenty-three year old American missionary was enjoying a quiet breakfast, wondering when news about operation "Overlord" would reach the ship.
Taped behind the lining of his frock were 7,500 five pound notes that had been collected in Ankara on May 15th. A separate bundle of 500 similar notes, now concealed in his suitcase, would see him easily through customs, no questions asked. The money, superior counterfeits, had been with different owners but only for short times. Five days ago the American had quietly acquired it on a warm tropical night.
The ship had lost six hours whilst searching for the missing passenger, a servant from the British Embassy in Ankara. The young American missionary had then said a prayer on the aft deck. "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh... "
In less than three months Werner von Brecht's most pessimistic predictions had come true. Towards the end of August the French and Americans had conquered the south of France, Paris was liberated from the west, Canadian and British troops stood at the gates of Brussels and Antwerp, and Berlin was in total chaos after the putsch that failed on July 20th. By the end of August 1944, nearly fifteen thousand arrests had been made and five thousand men were in the process of being massacred.
It was the 26th of August in Berlin, when 23-years-old Paul Räder adjusted the diaphragm of a 35mm Ariflex camera to match the light in the execution room of Plötzensee prison. Four spots were beamed at a central square, just below one of eight shining meat hooks that were firmly welded to a T-girder made of iron, let into the ceiling above.
This was Monday morning just after nine.
"Why the fuss? It's only von Brecht's son," 27-years-old Hauptsturmführer Taurig said.
"The Führer was not satisfied with some of the films," Räder answered. "With the lights all pointing to the central area you get grotesque shadows on the wall behind. Better stand under the hook, Schmidt. Taurig, adjust the spots to get rid of his shadow."
The youngest of the four men in the room moved and stood under the fourth hook from the left. He stood with his back toward the bright light, thus facing the white wall.
"Better rehearse the whole procedure. If we take up our positions now we get the best final check on the shadow," Räder said. He moved between Schmidt and the wall, thus facing Schmidt and Gotha. Räder bent down a little and clasped Schmidt around the hips. Gotha gripped him under the armpits. They lifted him until his head was just below the hook. Then they lowered him again.
"It'll do," Taurig said irritably. "We're wasting time. Schmidt, Gotha, to his mother. And remember, I want the man, not the boys damn it!"
That Monday afternoon Martha von Brecht stared in horror at the men occupying the most comfortable chairs of her elegant house in Berlin's Goethestrasse. Obersturmführer Schmidt had just placed a series of photographs before her, taken at the interrogation and execution rooms at Plötzensee prison a few days earlier.
"Your husband is dead . . .," the older man, Hauptsturmführer Gotha, said. "We have not caught him yet but he can not escape us."
Martha looked at Gotha with a vacant gaze. She had heard of men like Gotha and Schmidt. Men that bore the stamp of methodical torture, mass murder and had access to copious files on almost every German alive.
What frightened her even more than the pictures she had just seen, was how ordinary the men looked. Even at their work they looked casual, methodical, like desk clerks at a post office.
Only the other men on the pictures looked different.
Men hanging on meat hooks, their bodies horribly mutilated, nude men, tied on chairs or tables with leather straps, electric wires on hands and feet, coming out of the ears, the anus, the penis . . . , eyes bulging out of their sockets in agony. Old men, young men, boys like their own sons, women, shaven and horse whipped . . . "Have another look at the pictures Martha, take your time, have a good...good look," Gotha said softly.
Martha gazed into the eyes of the young Hauptsturmführer. The eyes were bleak, cold - unemotional.
"Of course it would help if you were co-operative. Surely you would know how to contact him . . . ?"
"Nein . . . ," she whispered. "He went to the east front five weeks ago . . . I don't even know if he's alive . . . ," she lied.
"Günther has been condemned to death. We'll have to . . . er . . . speak to him first of course . . . they are always very co-operative . . . after a while... oh yes, we know he's innocent, but then again . . . how innocent can one be . . . with a father who conspired against the Führer's life? And Axel . . . only fourteen . .. a Kameradschaftsführer already . . . we know he's staying with his group . . . so far we have left him out of this . . . but then of course . . .," Gotha said warmly, as if trying to comfort the terror-struck woman.
"I'm certain there must be a mistake," Martha whispered desperately. "I'll try to contact General Pauli in East Prussia . . . Werner is stationed in his area . . . I know his wife . . . ," she said confused.
"Good, very good, you do that . . . and if we hear from you before tomorrow morning we'll send Günther home at once. But don't forget the hanging is at six . . ."
When the old Empire clock on the mantlepiece in von Brecht's house chimed five the next morning, Martha was sitting alone, exhausted, in the large living room where the family had spent so many happy hours together. It was Tuesday, the 27th of August.
They would be waking him now, she thought. How she had always enjoyed doing that herself, tip-toeing to his room in the early morning, then softly opening his door and sitting on the sleeping boy's bed ever so gently.
How happy she had always been, sitting there, observing the handsome youth, remote and untouchable in his morning slumber. Then the soft kisses to wake him. First Günther, then Axel in the next room. With Werner gone for years, it had become quite a ritual. And always that background pain, gnawing at her, that it could not last. That in the end she might be alone.
She looked at the clock: 5.30am. Who would wake him on the last day of his short life? She thought of him in his cell, getting ready for that final walk.
Günther von Brecht was lying on a mattress in a whitewashed cell in the execution block at Plötzensee. He was wearing a blue airforce uniform that was clearly tailor-made. It had been his mother's gift for his nineteenth birthday which had been modestly celebrated in the family home only a week ago. In the corridor men approached but young Günther was sound asleep and there was a faint smile on his lips. His fresh complexion resembled a child's in its innocence, contrasting grimly with the atmosphere of the death cell. When the steps grew louder the young man turned over.
His blond hair fell across his face in a thick silken fringe. He opened his eyes which were large and blue. The time was 5.35am on Tuesday, August 27th. When the men halted at his door Günther woke up.
He stretched himself and smoothed his uniform. If they released him now he would not file a complaint. These were busy times and one had to make allowances.
Suddenly the door opened and four men entered the cell.
"Your time is up kid," the big man said. "Better take it easy. Makes it nicer for us all."
Günther looked quizzical. Though the words were noncommittal in themselves, he sensed hidden menace.
"I take it you are referring to my release?" he demanded.
The man seemed truly surprised. "Don't you understand?" Gotha said. "You have been condemned to death. We have come to hang you!"
"You don't understand," he said with confidence. "I am a loyal officer of the Luftwaffe and have been brought here erroneously."
It was not until Menke grabbed him and the big man started to jerk off his clothes that he realised the mistake was his.
"Better calm him down a little," Gotha said. "No good upsetting the other prisoners."
A quick glance of understanding passed between the men. Menke suddenly grabbed the boy from behind. He slipped his strong arms between the boy's arms, then pulled them backwards and upwards with great force. Günther let out a hoarse scream as his arms were almost dislocated. He kept completely motionless, each movement causing a fierce pain in his joints.
"It would help if you told us where we can find your illustrious father," Taurig said. The boy did not react.
Menke bent backwards.
Paul Räder stepped between his legs, spreading them apart. Automatically Schmidt grabbed the boy's hair twisting his head backwards and to one side. Holding the head rigidly, he firmly placed a large hand over Günther's mouth. They held him like that when Räder's hand went up between the legs. He coiled his middle finger behind his thumb. Then he let it snap out quite forcibly against Günther's testicles. The boy's eyes bulged outward. The young marble white body began to undulate and twist. But the scream remained caught behind the large hand. Räder repeated the process until he fainted.
When the excruciating pain finally brought him back to consciousness and Günther opened his eyes he saw a meat hook above his head.
Flying low over the prison's roof, a Junkers masked the screams of young Günther as the executioner did their work. The sub-human scream that was the last sound to come from Leutnant von Brecht's throat was heard by no one outside the damp walls of the execution room.
The coffin arrived at 10.17pm in an SS truck. Two SS-Oberscharführer dumped the simple wooden crate on the doorstep and left, precisely as Menke had ordered. To deter, Menke had sniggered.
Martha dragged it towards the living-room, ignoring the air alarm that had just sounded.
She looked at the Gestapo seals. Then she went to the kitchen to get a few tools and stayed with him during the alarm, hoping the bombs would kill her. But there were no direct hits, just chalk from the ceiling when the bombing got close and broke glass all around the house.
The lights went out but the fires from the city and the neighbouring houses gave a deep red twilight glow.
Martha returned to the living room with pliers and a big knife, lit a few candles and, after breaking the seals, took off the coffin's lid. The face alone looked a little bluish but it was hardly noticeable in the exotic light. He lay there quite peacefully, serene and dignified. The young man, nude in the bare wooden crate, resembled a Michelangelo statue. Martha thought of the statue of The Holy Mother with Christ's body she had seen in Saint Peter's Cathedral. The Pietà it was called. With great effort, Martha took Günther out of the coffin and carried the nude, marble white body to the couch.
She washed him tenderly.
After an hour, Martha had finally managed to dress him in a clean uniform. With her last strength she laid him back in the coffin and closed the lid. Finally, she went to the kitchen and meticulously returned the tools to their places.
Then she quietly gassed herself.
The medieval ceremony that had taken place in Plötzensee prison was only one of a series of similar events that occurred daily in the period following the 20th of July 1944. The extraordinary cruelty of the hanging procedures was especially ordered by the Führer himself.
So was the order to have the act accurately filmed and recorded for posterity. It was designed to put a definite end to the conspiracies against Adolf Hitler . . .
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