Checkmate: The Enigma of Reinhard Heydrich

Paul The Clairbouyant / Psychic Octopus Picks Spain over Germany

2010-07-10T03:31:00.000-07:00

A "psychic" octopus in Germany, which appears to have correctly predicted every World Cup game involving the national team so far, has picked Spain over Germany in the semi-final.

Paul, from the Sea Life Aquarium in the western city of Oberhausen, chose a mussel from a jar with the Spanish flag instead of one with a German flag.

The two-year-old cephalopod has become a national celebrity.According to his owners, he has a record of predicting German results.They say Paul chose the winner in nearly 70% of Germany's games during the 2008 European Championship.He correctly predicted all five of the team's previous World Cup games - including a shock defeat by Serbia in the group stages.His prognosis ahead of Wednesday's World Cup semi-final was broadcast live on German TV.

Once Upon A War There Was a Truce

2009-12-24T00:01:00.000-08:00

In Prague castle, General Reinhard Heydrich of the SS. SD. RSHA, Interpol as well as Reichsprotector of Bohemia-Moravia recounted the following story of the Christmas truce to the assembled guests on the morning of the 24th of December 1941. In attendance were Prime Minister Emil Hacha and his entire cabinet as well as distinguished members of the business, industrial and cultural elite in the protectorate of Bohemia-Moravia. High-ranking members of the SS. SD. RSHA, Interpol also were present.

Heydrich then mounted his motorcycle and alone and unescorted rushed to his estate Panenske Brezany, just outside Prague to be with his family. That meant Lina, his wife; children Klaus, Heider and Silke; mother, Elizabeth; sister, Maria with her husband and family; brother Heinz with his wife and brood of five. It was 1941. He never lived to see another yule.

In December 1914, the western front became the most dangerous and bloodiest place in the history of the world. Death struck someone every two seconds. For the first time, industrially advanced nations, Britain France, Russia and Germany fought to the death. Two armies stretched 600 miles, from the north sea to the Swiss border - the famous Western Front - immortalized by German writer, Erich Maria Remarque in his book "All Quiet On The Western Front" and by Lewis Milestone, the director of the film by the same name.

Remarque won the Nobel prize for literature and Milestone the oscar for best director. Millions wept in movie theaters at the horrors of war.

As I write this, the eve of Christmas 2007 is fast approaching. More than 50 million books of Remarque’s "All Quiet On The Western Front" have been sold, second only to the Bible.

Back to reality. Young soldiers lay cramped in trenches one meter wide, the opposing armies were thirty meters apart. They attacked each other with a savagery they did not know they possessed. They used high explosives, grenades, poison gas, machine guns, bayonets, and daggers. They discovered their hands could gouge an enemy soldier's eyes out. Their teeth could ferociously tear into flesh.

The Germans and the British were shocked as well as disgusted by the hundreds of thousands of dead. Their youth in the flower of manhood blown to pieces, sliced in half, mangled or abandoned to bleed to death slowly in the mud, snow, and cold. Wounded soldiers returned home blind, burnt, crippled, and drug addicts with shattered lungs and souls. They raged at their impotence, helplessness and humiliation. This was a new type of war, with new kinds of suffering. The young soldiers in the battlefields became tough and hard. They forced themselves to step over the corpses of their friends, towards the enemy in an orgy of killing. They turned into automatons with no hearts and no souls.

Then came Christmas. Since the guns of August 1914, over 800,00 young corpses had been mourned, buried, abandoned, denuded, despoiled of clothes and boots, and totally ignored in the heat of hellfire.

On the 24th of December at midnight, German time, an eerie silence settled over the Western Front. There was no hissing, cracking and whining of artillery. No screams, moans, and gasps rent the air. Tannenbaum appeared on the parapets of German trenches. The tannenbaum is a special fir tree sacred in teutonic lore.

The Germans began to sing in cracked and tremulous voices "stille nacht, heilige nacht" (silent night, holy night). It is now universally accepted that the German fighting men led by junior officers initiated the famous truce on the western front. On that Christmas eve, these young men found their hearts and souls, which they though they had lost forevermore. Without realizing it, the British soldiers joined in singing "silent night" in English.

A young German officer, lieutenant Kurt Zermisch, gifted with a fine baritone voice stepped out of his trench, alone and unarmed. He turned to face his comrades in the trenches, and sang as loudly as he could in Latin "Adeste Fidelis". The climax was all the German and British soldiers singing and crying out "Adeste Fidelis" together in Latin.

On Christmas day, the German officers invited their British counterparts to meet in no man's land (the space between the trenches). The British refused. No comment needed. Three German officers, including Zermisch, the baritone who sang "Adeste Fidelis" on Christmas eve, walked weaponless, into no man's land, under the sight of British guns. A few Germans fell mortally wounded on the orders of English officers to fire. There were too many young German soldiers coming at them, singing, arms outstretched. The British tommies disobeyed orders and rushed to meet them.

“Criminy! It’s Christmas! Stop firing!” Foes no longer, just men celebrating Christmas.

No man's land quickly filled with mortal foes, swapping cigars, photographs, cigarettes, and beer. They sang happy songs for Christmas and mournful songs for their dead. They buried German and British soldiers together, held hands and recited prayers in their respective languages. In no time, football matches were organized in a spirit of sportsmanship. Where there were no balls, they improvised. Bundles of clothes were tied into balls, branches and twigs twisted into circlets.

The British and German commanders ordered their men to fight, on the 26th of December, on the feast of steven. They sang instead:

“Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the feast of Steven,

brightly shone the moon that night,

though the frost was crue-l,

When a poor man came in sight,

gathering winter fu—el.”

Their respective generals were outraged, as generals so often are when the soldiers dared to ignore orders. For once, their political leaders, in Berlin and London, safely enconsed in their warm and luxurious settings agreed. “God damn! Herr gott!" the killing must continue immediately! These orders are unequivocal!"

And so under threat of immediate executions, the young men reluctantly resumed their slaughter. But some refused and in some areas of the Western Front, peace continued for up to six weeks.

The majority of German and English soldiers who participated in the Christmas truce were Christians, of all denominations. Almost all the assimilated Jews joined the truce. An Austrian corporal, who took great risks and was noted for his constant\bravery under continuous fire, loudly protested the truce.

“The English are going to defecate and urinate on us when they get the chance.”

The world would know him as Adolf Hitler.

Eighteen-year-old Alfred Anderson, a Scotsman, died on the 21st of November 2005, at the age of 109. He was the last survivor and witness of that moving truce on Christmas eve of 1914.

"In the midst of the horror, I remember the silence, and then the Germans sang Silent Night and all of us joined in, not caring if we were enemies. Ever since that night, I no longer believe in war," said Anderson.

The Christmas truce proved to the soldiers who had all become killers by now, that the spirit of joy, love and peace: the spirit of Christmas, can be felt everywhere by men of goodwill.

Violence is not imprinted on the DNA of man. That is a deception of the most malevolent kind foisted on us by the dogs of war and the money men who reap riches from military and civilian casualties.

Fifty million human beings died in the so called great war - World War I. Millions more left homeless, destitute, mutilated, blind and hopeless. Seventy million souls perished in World War II. I hasten to add there were many holocausts. The shoah was but one.

How many of humanity will be left in World War III?

It is up to us to carry the torch of hope, pronounced by the angel on the birth of Jesus.

"Glory to god on high ... And on earth … peace to men of Goodwill!"

Gloria in excelsis deo et in terra pax hominibus voluntatis.

Author’s Note:

Heydrich was a Catholic. He had been a diligent altar boy. In 1936 he left the church. The Bishop who listened to him felt a mixture of regret and sadness, when Heydrich told him,

“I can no longer and in good faith remain a good Catholic as a high ranking member of the NSDAP.”

The popular historical view is that Heydrich was a monster. Was he? In my upcoming book "Checkmate" I look at the enigma of Reinhard Heydrich.

For many men in those trenches in 1914 - this was the most special Christmas.

Chapter 9: The Gift

2009-12-17T00:40:00.000-08:00

Chapter 9: The Gift

Inside the Halle Communal Pawn Shop. Reinhard Heydrich and his father are at the teller’s window. While they wait for the teller to fetch the wristwatch, he and his father are chatting.

“This is very kind of you, Papi, to redeem Professor Siegfried’s wristwatch. He really didn’t need to do that. I mean, it is my duty to help him and all defenseless Germans.”

“Still, one must admit, it’s a lovely gesture. Many are ungrateful,” answers Bruno.

The teller comes back with a small brown paper package. “Sign here,” he points to a yellow piece of paper.

Bruno comes forward. “I’ll sign. My son’s underage.”

The teller looks blank and indifferent.

“Open the package, Reinie. It isn’t safe outside. We might find ourselves mugged or worse.

Reinhard Heydrich opens the package, taking care not to tear at the paper needlessly.

“Your mother has plenty of wrapping paper,” Bruno reminds him.

“Could I have it?” asks a woman anxiously, overhearing what Bruno has just said.

Reinhard smiles. “Here it is,” and stretches out his hand towards her while he opens the small, black rectangular box. In it is the most beautiful wristwatch he has ever seen. Gold. Sleek. Classic. A Patek Philippe. “Look, Papi! There must be some mistake. This is a Patek Philippe!”

Bruno turns to the teller. “This is a Patek Philippe. Are you sure this belongs to the slip we just gave you?”

“Ja. Ja. We don’t care what it is. We lend money only on the gold carats. Right now, horseshit’s worth more than gold,” replies the bored looking teller.

Before going outside, Reinhard puts the watch carefully into his pocket, admiring it one more time before he does. Outside the store, he thanks his father one more time, and then sets off to Prof. Siegfried’s home. As he approaches, he notices There are workmen and painters in the place.

“Is Professor Siegfried home?” Heydrich asks.

None of the workers turn around.

A jolly and portly gentleman answers for them. “They don’t speak German very well. They’re Polish refugees. I’m the landlord. Professor Siegfried left for England yesterday. Who might you be?” He takes a closer eyepiece examination of Heydrich.

“Heydrich. Reinhard Heydrich.”

“I see. Professor left this for you. He thought you might come. I live next door. My name’s Solomon Freberg.”

“Thank you, Herr Freberg. Did Professor Siegfried leave an address?”

“You can write to him care of the University of Oxford.”

One of the workers plastering over a wall asks Herr Freberg something in what might be Yiddish, or so thinks Heydrich.

“I’m sorry for the disturbance, Herr Freberg,” Heydrich apologizes, taking the letter. For the first time he sees two fingers are missing from Herr Freberg’s right hand. Indeed, most of his hand is a stump. Heydrich’s eyes remain impassive but he can’t help himself. “Where?” he asks painfully.

“In Flanders (Belgium).”

“War is horrible, especially for the vanquished,” declares Heydrich.

“Ah, youth! There are no victors in war,” replies Herr Freberg, turning abruptly away.

A disbelieving young Heydrich takes his leave. “Auf wiedersehn, Herr Freberg.” Reinhard Heydrich goes down the same way he comes up, taking the steps two at a time and heads to the Halle Conservatory.

Bruno Heydrich is rehearsing his students for a recital. During a pause, Reinhard joins him. “Professor Siegfried’s gone. He left a letter for me with his landlord, Solomon Freberg. Papi, it was terrible. Freberg had most of the fingers of his right hand blown away in Flanders.”

Bruno has consternation written all over his face. “So that’s why Solomon Freberg stopped giving concerts. Odd he should be living in Halle.”

Reinhard slaps his forehead. “How stupid and insensitive of me. Are you sure it’s the same Solomon Freberg?”

“One of my colleagues said he was injured in Flanders and would never perform again. Mind you, Freberg volunteered to fight. What did the professor say?”

Reinhard replies sadly, “I haven’t opened his letter yet.”

Bruno Heydrich says nothing, pats his son gently on the shoulder and tells his students, “Back to the Bach cantata.”

Heydrich eases out of the studio and heads back home. The watch in one pocket, the letter in the other. Taking his time he heads toward the river. There is one more thing to take care of before leaving town, something he doesn’t want his parents to know about.

. . .

The boats sailing down the Saade River are hooting back and forth. The street he is watching faces the river. A motorcycle noisily snorts up the street. A young man in his early twenties is on the motorcycle. He is alone. He stops the motorcycle and chains it to a post in the garden which belongs to his family. He moves arrogantly and cockily. Heydrich pounces. “If it isn’t Jurgens. Remember me?”

Jurgens squints and orders, “Come closer. I don’t know you.”

Heydrich dwarfs him by a good seven inches, although Jurgens is built like an ox. He jumps up and crouches next to Jurgens. He’s so close, he can smell his breath. It stinks of beer and sauerkraut.

“Who are you?”Jurgens shouts.

“I’m Heydrich. Reinhard Heydrich. The naaaany goat, the Paganini, the 13-year old you used to beat and torment with four other rogues. To be continued, you said. Five years ago in the classroom. You were going to crush all my fingers one by one. Remember now?”

Jurgens looks momentarily terrified. “But… that was a long time ago.”

“That’s right, But I see you’re still the same, maybe a killer now, shooting at unarmed civilians, riding on bicycles from a first story window?”” taunts Heydrich.

Jurgens has to look up at Heydrich. “You wouldn’t be so high and mighty if my men were with me. They’ll be here soon.”

“No, they won’t. My men have intercepted them.”

“So you’re the son of a bitch who ruined it! I should have known. The little Jew Paganini, the blonde Moses, wants to get even.”

“Worse than that, Jurgens. I am challenging you to a fight. I’m going to show you how much I can hurt you even without using my hands.”

At that exact moment, Heydrich pulls out a small flashlight, signals towards the front. From a harmless looking milk cart, seven men in various states of disability emerge accompanied by a black, snarling Doberman on a leash.

Jurgens steps back. “You big Jew bastard…”

“Shut up, Jurgens. Thanks to you and your ilk, words have no effect on me. My friends are war heroes. They are here to search you inch by inch. This is going to be a fair fight.”

The legless wonder in a crude cart examines Jurgens’ legs and boots, removing two stilettos. He grins and shows them off to Heydrich and his friends. Another one knows just where Jurgens keeps his guns. Two, oops, no, three Berettas. 22 caliber.

“No picking off the helpless tonight from first story windows.”

From behind his neck, another friend in crutches unearths a shiv. The sleeves of his jacket reveal a Swiss Knife each. “Mein Herr,” the soldier with one missing arm bristles. “Bitte, The cap off your head.” As Jurgens moves his arm, the black Doberman gives him a slow, vicious snarl. “Sorry. I’ll remove the cap myself. Nothing here.”

“Let’s see those legs wide open. Good. Nothing here. From the look of your trousers, you couldn’t be hiding anything near your teeny weeny.”

“Feel his back. Remove his belt. That buckle is a deadly weapon. Check the soles of his boots again.”

“Are you ready, Jurgens?” asks Heydrich in a cold voice, which makes the hardened war veterans tremble.

“That kind of anger is very dangerous,” one of them whispers.

“The slow, seething, day after day, year after year kind of anger,” says Heydrich. “Have you read the Count of Monte Cristo?” he asks Jurgens.

No reply.

“Your kind don’t read Alexandre Dumas. The Count of Monte Cristo waited twenty-five years to exact his revenge. I’m seventeen; it’s been five never ending years. Almost a third of my life,” he tell Jurgens in the same cold, icy demeanor.

“I’m ready. Bastard!” Jurgens spits on the ground violently.

The Doberman lunges towards him. Jurgens jumps back, naked fear in his face.

“So am I, coward. So am I.”

His seven friends turn away. They enter the milk cart slowly and then leave the scene as quickly as the old nag will carry them. Heydrich lifts both his arms and waves wordlessly. That is the precise moment Jurgens chooses to attack. Heydrich expected it. He jumps lithely backwards and than sideways. “The rules are… look Mutti, no hands for me. You can use your hands and any other part of your body.”

Jurgens is enraged. The veins on his thick neck are distended. He comes after Heydrich like a raging bull. Heydrich runs, then without warning he turns, jumps into the air and slams both of his legs into Jurgens’ solar plexus. Jurgens falls flat on his back, gasping for air. Heydrich edges closer but safely out of reach of either Jurgens’ arms or legs.

“Get off the ground as soon as you recover your breath. I’m waiting.”

Jurgens tries to talk. It is impossible.

“Take your time. We’ve got all night.” Heydrich delivers these lines as if he were talking to a friend.

This infuriates Jurgens even more. He forces himself to get up; he can’t quite do it. He crawls on all fours, then leans against the wall for support, his chest heaving with the effort to breathe regularly.

“Really, Jurgens. I didn’t hit you that hard. I’m saving that for later.”

“I hate you,” Jurgens utters in between gasps and cries. “I’ve always hated you… you… pretty face.”

“This is the night of reckoning. I’m giving you a chance to bash my pretty face in, Jurgens. Come on! Do it!”

Jurgens stumbles but he’s slowly but surely on his feet.

“Now, don’t rush at me, you dumb ox. I refuse to fight with the handicapped.”

That really gets to Jurgens who rasps, “I’ll kill you, Yid!” and goes after Heydrich.

As his punches fly, Heydrich dodges, crouches and somersaults. Then Jurgens stops. His motorcycle is in front of his eyes. If he can get to it, remove the chain or yank it, in the mood he’s in, he can run over Heydrich and turn him into mincemeat. But Heydrich knows all about what he’s thinking.

“Jurgens, did I win all those prizes for excellence because my father bought the school authorities? I won because I worked hard to be the best. Idiot! You’ll never get to your motorcycle. Why?”

Jurgens is really ferocious now. A few blows just miss Heydrich’s stomach and kidney. Heydrich’s reaction is to keep reciting in a soft, almost caressing tone of voice which baits Jurgens even more.

“Why, Jurgens? Why?”

“I hate you. I’ll kill you, Heinz and Maria.”

“You’d better be lying about my brother Heinz and my sister Maria,” Heydrich says, dropping to the ground. Something about the way Heydrich is coiled, poised to strike, alarms Jurgens but he does not reply to Heydrich. Then Heydrich goes behind a large, black car parked on the street.

“Where are you? Come out.”

“Voila!” replies Heydrich, kicking Jurgens so ferociously in the back of his waist, Jurgens falls down in great pain. Blood from his broken nose begins to flow onto the ground.

“You disgust me, Jurgens. I refuse to fight. You’re in terrible shape. In a few days I’m leaving for the Naval Academy. Keep away from my family. Stay out of our lives. I haven’t cut out your tongue. Speak!” Heydrich turns Jurgens over with his boot. “Just nod for yes.” Jurgens is choking on his own blood. Heydrich rolls him over again on his stomach, removes his handkerchief, stances the flow of blood from his broken nose. “I take it that’s a yes. Stay calm. I’ll call the hospital. Remember, I didn’t use my hands. What’s more,” Heydrich laughs a little at the thought, “you didn’t even touch me. If we never meet again, it will be too soon. So long, Jurgens.”

Without a backward glance, Heydrich slowly walks away. At the corner of the street, there is a telephone booth. He enters, places a few coins, surprised it has not been vandalized. He dials the number for the Emergency Hospital of the Franciscan priests.

Chapter 8: Swinemunde, 1922

2009-12-14T00:31:00.000-08:00

Chapter 8. Swinemunde, 1922.

On holiday with his family. Reinhard Heydrich is watching the maneuvers of the German Navy. “It’s beautiful and exciting to watch,” says Reinhard firmly. They are walking by the harbor, on their way to a trolley. Posters throughout show Admiral Graf von Luckner. “Our great hero,” say the posters. “He’s my hero too,” declares Heydrich. “His best selling book, ‘The Sea Devil’ is falling apart. I’ve read and underlined it so much.”

“We have a surprise for you Reinie. Admiral von Luckner invited us all for dinner tonight. You can hear all his adventures first hand,” says Bruno Heydrich. “He wants to meet you.”

Admiral Graf von Luckner has the physique du role of what people expect from a national hero. Tall, perfectly chiseled nose, high cheekbones, cleft chin, wavy black hair, brownish yellow eyes, beautifully formed mouth. Charismatic. Admiral von Luckner is the most highly decorated war hero in Germany. Even the Allies, his former enemies, admire him.

After finishing the best meal they have had in nearly four years, and hearing truly inspiring stories of daring do, Heydrich is on the edge of his seat. Bursting with excitement, he looks around the table first his parents and finally settling his eyes on Admiral Graf, who looks straight back at him. “I am determined to be just like you, Admiral Graf. I want to become a great and famous Admiral,” declares Reinhard.

Bruno Heydrich chokes on his glass of apple cider. Elizabeth Heydrich gasps. When he finds his voice, Bruno protests. “Musical success is assured for you!”

“And what about your ambition to become a scientist?” asks Elizabeth.

“In biochemistry,” states Bruno. “This is unbelievable, Reinhard,” he states in disbelief.

Admiral von Luckner, who is also an aristocrat and looks the part, replies serenely, “What do you have to say to that, young man?”

“Germany’s defeat crushed both my dreams, that of becoming a Maestro on either the violin or the piano. Regarding a scientific career, I shall always remain a biochemist at heart but I am unshakeable in my resolve to embark upon a naval career.”

Admiral von Luckner presses his point. “It is very prestigious. Even my mother who was very status conscious approved of my choice many years ago.”

Elizabeth is showing signs of softening her stance. “Well, if Reinhard is so determined…”

“Admiral von Luckner adds, “After ten years, Reinhard will be guaranteed a full pension.”

“He’ll only be 28!” marvels Bruno. “A steady, good income in these terrible, uncertain times.”

“With great reluctance,” says Elizabeth Heydrich.

“and reservations,” adds Bruno Heydrich, “you have our blessing.”

Admiral von Luckner smiles contentedly, having accomplished the objective of the dinner. He passes out cigars to Bruno and Reinhard Heydrich. “Well?” he asks the young man.

“I joined the Frei Korps when I was 15 years old, then the Volk movement. I’ve been in a leadership role ever since, but it’s just too depressing to see what’s become of us all. It’s time for a change. This is definitely what I want to do. How soon can I start.”

“I’ll put in a good word and see what I can do. The German Navy needs bright and determined young men like you.” Admiral von Luckner aspirates on his cigar heavily, while handling one to Heydrich and his father.

The taste of a Romeo y Julieta adding to his joy and pride at Heydrich’s determination, but as the smoke dissapates in the air, he tries to imagine what it will be like without Heydrich around every day.

Reinhard chokes a little but they pretend not to notice.

. . .

Reinhard Heydrich’s bedroom. On the wall are posters of his father’s operas, “Amen” and “Peace”, Mozart’s “Magic Flute” and Wagner’s “Das Rheingold”. Dozens of books are on his desk. His violin has a place of honor, on a small, separate table. He is in bed reading “The Black Mask Magazine,” an English magazine which publishes detective and spy thrillers. A discreet knock on the door. He doesn’t hear it as “The Black Mask Magazine” absorbs him. Louder raps. He says, “Enter please,” in English without looking up from the magazine.

“Son, could we talk a bit?” It’s his father and mother.

Heydrich puts the magazine down, jumps out of bed, wraps himself in a silk robe and carries the armchair next to his desk closer to where his mother is.

“Mutti! Papi! I thought it was Heinz.”

Elizabeth Heydrich takes the armchair. Bruno Heydrich eyes the matching armchair covered with “Popular Mechanics” and “The Economist” magazines. They are so high, he would not have seen the chair but for its legs. He sits on Reinhard’s bed.

“We know you’ve made up your mind,” Elizabeth begins.

“And you won’t go back on your decision about a career in the Navy,” continues Bruno.

“However, we are in shock over your choice because it came without warning tonight over dinner,” Elizabeth says calmly.

“We were not going to argue in front of Admiral Graf von Luckner, even if he is our dear friend,” declares Bruno.

“And we are not going to do it now, are we, Bruno?”

“No, Elizabeth.”

Both his parents wait tranquilly for their son to speak up. Reinhard is still standing up. “May I?” he asks, gesturing a place on his bed next to where his father is sitting.

“Oh, Reinie! We’re so sorry. Of course, you can sit down.”

He does. “Consider this, Mutti and Papi. Half, if not more, of our grand concert halls in Germany are closed for lack of money. The after effects of the war are worse than the war itself. Things are not much better in the rest of Europe, other than Britain with all her colonies and America.”

“We agree. For the sake of a rational argument, you could be making good money playing the piano or the violin in a world class cabaret in Berlin,” observes Bruno.

“Or you could compose musical scores for films, maybe even play the music at the UFA Film Studios in Berlin,” agrees Elizabeth.

“I’m not afraid or ashamed of hard work. Somehow playing in a cabaret or nightclub seems small, petty stuff. Working for UFA Films would be like prostituting myself. I’m too ambitious.”

Elizabeth and Bruno exchange surreptitious glances. Bruno shifts position. “What about…”

“Papi, hear me out. I haven’t finished,” a serene, almost fire and ice Reinhard says.

Bruno nods a “go ahead, we’re listening” expression.

“I wouldn’t mind owning a cabaret or a string of them. Run properly, they’re good cash cows. Also people talk too much when they’re under their cups. One can obtain unimaginable sorts of information. Films are a marvelous invention. Good moneymakers. I wish we owned a studio instead of a music conservatoire. Information is a powerful tool and will only increase in our century and beyond.” Reinhard folds his long, tapered hands gracefully over his lap.

Bruno clears his throat several times. “I was going to say, what about biochemistry?”

Reinhard mournfully shakes his head, taking his father’s hands into his own. “Oh, Papi, Papi!” He pauses and swallows to keep his emotions under control. “You know many faculties of prestigious universities are operating part time. The prices are so astronomical even the fabulously wealthy are having second thoughts about paying for their children’s education.”

“The papers are full of stories of ghost classrooms, professors committing suicide, emigrating to Great Britain or America,” Elizabeth joins in, her voice breaking.

“Let’s consider my studies in the Naval Academy an excellent detour towards my dream and, as a consequence, your dreams for me as well.”

Bruno breaks down completely into his son’s arms. “I’ve failed all of you. Especially you, Reinhard. Forgive me.”

“Papi, there is nothing to forgive. That’s life and mostly that’s war and the aftermath of war.” Reinhard strokes his father’s thick mane of dark brown hair, tears spilling down his face.

Elizabeth too has tears in her eyes. “So many injustices. I always pray that these inequalities and inequities be removed. Not enough of us pray and I suppose I’ll need to pray more.”

“It makes me angry,” sobs Bruno. “Look at the Krupp family or other millionaires. Their sons are dribbling idiots or outstanding mediocrities.”

“That is a reminder from God that no one has everything,” Elizabeth declares firmly, leaving the armchair to sit next to Bruno and Reinhard to comfort them.

“How soon do you plan to leave, son,” Bruno finally asks.

“There’s one thing I’d like to do before I go, for a scientist I met. After that, I guess the sooner the better, as it means more money for the family.”

Chapter 7: On Patrol

2009-12-11T01:26:00.000-08:00

“There’s something wrong. It’s too quiet,” Heydrich whispers. “Let’s spread out.”

His men take cover accordingly, moving behind parked cars, vans, tall garbage cans.

An elderly man, white wavy hair, muscular and fit, pedals by them on a bicycle. He stops a few houses down and steps down. His bicycle is filled with bread loaves, fruits, bottles of sauerkraut, wurstel and bright red apples. As his hands touch the loaves of bread, a gunshot rings out from the first floor of a building across the old man. The loaves of bread scatter as the old man crumples on the muddy and wet street.

“Get the bicycle and the food, you idiots!” a harsh voice orders from inside the open window.

Heydrich yells, “Cover me,” as he zigzags, crouching and dodging bullets to help the old man. “He’s alive!” he tells his men as he begins to pull the old man behind the carcass of a car.

A gun battle breaks out between his G.O.D. League and the band of lawless men.

“They want the food,” gasps the old man. “I pawned my gold watch to buy this food.”

“Don’t talk. We must get you to a hospital!”

The bullets are going ping! ping! ping! against the car.

“I’m a doctor. Save the food and the bicycle. My wife and grandchildren need it. Keep this.” Heydrich feels a piece of paper thrust into his hand. Distractedly, he puts it in the pocket of his trench coat. “Please!” pleads the old man. Heydrich nods “All right.”

Heydrich looks up. The shooting is coming from several young men in the balcony on the first floor of the building. “Go up there but don’t enter until I join you,” he shouts to his followers. He takes advantage of this momentary lull n the shooting as the hooligans confer on what to do next to grab the bicycle full of foodstuff and drag it behind the broken down car where the old man can see it.

“Strasser, stay with the old man.” “Can you use this?” Heydrich puts a gun into the old man’s hand.

“Yes, but not well,” replies the old doctor.

“Shoot if anyone tries to steal the bicycle with your food,” he instructs the doctor. Heydrich runs across and enters the building. Hinkel is waiting for him in the courtyard. “They’re holed up in the apartment to your right.”

“Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll explode the firecrackers in the courtyard, yell a lot, then run back towards the old doctor, help him get to a hospital. One of you see that the food gets to his family.”

“We’re not going to have a gun fight?”

“We’re here to defend the defenseless, not be killers. Let’s go.”

Hinkel hesitates.

“Hinkel, listen to me. You won’t be sorry,” Heydrich says sincerely.

Later in the evening. Reinhard Heydrich and a few of his men are back at the building where the man on a bicycle was shot. His leg is bandaged and he seems to be quite comfortable though shaken.

“The bullet only grazed me. If you look carefully in the street, you’ll find the empty cartridges. But for you, my family might have been without any food for who knows how long?”

“You said you’re a doctor,” Heydrich reminds him.

“I have a Ph. D. in physics but I’ve also studied medicine,” he says very matter-of-factly.

Heydrich’s men exchange an “It’s going to be one of those conversations” expressions. One of them volunteers, “We’ll see what turns up on the street while you and the doctor talk shop.”

“This is fascinating. I had dreams once of becoming either a pianist, violinist or a biochemist,” Heydrich says sadly, checking to make sure they’re alone.

“These are tragic times when young men like you speak of broken dreams,” the doctor declares with real sorrow in his eyes.

“Germany’s defeat, the economic situation, the non-existence of law and order, the lack of money for scholarships in Science, my father’s temporary financial setback, everything has made me reflect on a different path.”

“Which is?” asks the kindly looking scientist with concern.

“Perhaps a career in the Navy. I haven’t the courage to tell my parents. Especially my mother. She’s been my music professor while my father’s been my mentor.”

“How ironic. Until the shooting incident, you and I were strangers. Now we are exchanging confidential matters. I am leaving Germany in a few weeks for Great Britain. Professor Alan Turing is my sponsor in Oxford University.”

“Germany’s losing someone like you? I can’t bear it! Professor Turing is a genius,” exclaims Heydrich. Then he says emotionally, “I don’t even know your name.”

“Franz Siegfried,” he declares in a very hushed voice.

“The Professor Franz Siegfried of light and time travel?”

Before Siegfried replies, Heydrich says, “Someday, I’ll bring you back to Germany. Even the sky won’t be a limit.” He gazes into the Professor’s eyes and realizes that his hair is prematurely white.

Professor Siegfried picks up Heydrich’s flashing pupils. “We were gassed,” he says quietly. “All my comrades in the trenches around me died. When I reported back to my commanding officer, my brown hair had turned white.”

“Keep well, Herr Professor. Believe me. Believe in Germany. I’ll see that you and others like you return.”

Professor Siegfried might have doubted the words spoken so sincerely by the young man sitting before him if he had not seen the determined qualities of a leader during the shooting on the street. “There is something about you which makes me believe you. At any rate, I owe my life to you. So does my family.”

Loud clatter of footsteps in the hallway.

“Till we meet again, Herr Professor Siegfried.” Heydrich bows respectfully and heads for the door.

“Wait! What is your name?”

Heydrich pauses briefly with his hand on the doorknob. “Heydrich. Reinhard Heydrich.”

“God keep you, Reinhard Heydrich. I’ll remember the name. When you send for me, I’ll come back.”

Heydrich laughs a little. “I’m 17 years old. Give me 10 to 12 years please.”

“Then God keep me, Heydrich,” Professor Siegfried laughs back.

Chapter 6

2009-12-06T05:21:00.000-08:00

Halle, Germany after WWI

Heydrich and his Merker Frei Corps walk down a deserted, rundown street. He is leading his group. “Follow me,” he says. “Don’t hug the walls. Anyone can grab, stab or strangle you. Avoid walking in the middle of the street. We can be shot at. Step off the pavement and walk next to it. As I lead you forward, you, Hinkel and Strasser, walk backwards facing those parts we have just passed, in case of snipers.” Strasser does as he is told, but he takes out a lighter to light a cigarette dangling from his mouth. “No smoking,” Heydrich says categorically.

The smell of something cooking coming from an alleyway leads Heydrich to investigate. Some paces ahead, a one armed man, several men in crutches, in wooden legs, one man only with torso and arms pushing himself on a crude cart are around a fire of sorts, roasting a couple of huge black rats.

“Greetings, soldiers,” he says respectfully. “Is there anything we can do?”

There is unalloyed hostility all around him. Heydrich quickly says, “We haven’t come to take you away or steal your … some strong instinct makes Heydrich avoid the word food … what passes for a meal in these disastrous times.”

A soldier on crutches, still wearing the tattered uniform of the German Army, comes forward. “Merker Frei Corps? How about some decent cigarettes?”

Heydrich opens the flap of his shirt and walks over to the man. He gives him the whole pack.

“What about you?” he asks, tearing the paper open.

“I rarely smoke. I have it for soldiers like you.”

“Danke. Come into our parlor anytime. We’re always at home,” says the soldier with the crutches, in a sardonic grin.

One of the members of Heydrich’s unit asks tactlessly, without thinking things through, “What battles were you in?”

There is another hostile silence.

“He didn’t mean it like that,” Heydrich tries to explain.

The legless man on the wooden cart replies in a full, rich voice, “Hell. We were all in hell.” He spits on the ground.

Heydrich remains silent. He gathers his men, salutes the handicapped war veterans. “We’ll build a new Germany, with more principles, power and wealth.”

As he walks away, the soldier in the cart shouts, “Hey! What’s your name?”

Heydrich freezes. What to do or say? “These men come from hell. They are still in hell,” he tells his men softly. Heydrich turns around and says casually, “The name is Heydrich. Reinhard Heydrich.”

. . .

In City Hall. The Mayor and General Merker are handing out commendations and citations. Reinhard Heydrich has received the most. “You are hereby promoted to the German Offensive and Defensive League of the German People (Deutschvol Kischen Schutz und Trutzbund). His brother Heinz, sister Maria, mother Elizabeth and father Bruno are radiant with pride.

“As usual, Reinie gets the most medals,” comments his mother.

“They’re not medals, Mutti; they’re commendations,” daughter Maria corrects her.

“They are honors just the same.” Reinhard, accepting the medals, thinks back on the legless soldiers he saw earlier that week and wonders why they give him awards, and let the legless soldiers go hungry. At least Heydrich’s family is eating thanks to him.

Chapter 5: Easter 1921

2009-12-05T03:29:00.000-08:00

Easter 1921

St. Elizabeth’s Church in Mauerstrasse

Reinhard Heydrich knocks at the priory next to the Church. “Good morning, Reinhard. Thank you for coming so early.” Father Strauss opens the door. It is still dark outside.

“You said it was important, Father,” replies Reinhard.

“Indeed.”

Father Strauss leads the way. Reinhard follows closely behind. An east wind chills their bones. Father Strauss shivers. Heydrich does not react. They reach the church. Father Strauss walks through the sacristy rather than through the entrance of St. Elizabeth’s. Heydrich casts an eye on the huge bronze doors, firmly shut. No words are exchanged. Father Strauss is hunched over, his cassock threadbare, his hands gnarled and swollen. His leather shoes worn out.

Heydrich gasps.

Inside the church, every available pew has a human being sleeping on it. Overhead, ropes have been strung across in order to hang diapers and other clothes. Bundles of clothes, sacks of cabbages and fruits are littering the priceless marble floor. The smell of sweat, urine and feces sears Heydrich’s lungs. He covers his mouth for a few seconds.

Father Strauss explains, “They’re homeless German refugees from Poland, France and Czechoslovakia, driven out by the Treaty of Versailles.” As if reading Heydrich’s mind, Father Strauss adds, “No. Not all are Catholics. To us they’re simply human beings.”

“Father, I helped you with the Mass three days ago…”

“The people arrived that same night. They have nowhere else to go.”

Heydrich walks an obstacle course down the aisle of St. Elizabeth’s, looking coolly to his left and then to his right. Father Strauss now follows him. Heydrich takes out a small notepad and begins jotting down things and details. He turns to Father Strauss. “Few old men, even fewer young men. Mostly women and children.” Without waiting to be asked, Heydrich plunges in. “The first thing to do is a proper head count, divide the people into ages, pool their food together, organize proper sanitation, remove the… clotheslines, hang everything outside the church.

“I see, the wet clothes only increase the dampness inside the church. Several people already have racking coughs,” agree Father Strauss.

“Then we have to look into the possibility of temporary housing for these people. Other churches, schools, orphanages, families might take them in,” says Heydrich.

“The Church has already authorized funds for all that. What do we do right now, Reinhard? We are overwhelmed. In a few days we are going to celebrate Easter Sunday. Your father is directing Handel’s Messiah.”

“To begin with, the women could organize cleaning brigades in the church. All the schools are closed for Lenten holidays. They have more toilets and sanitary facilities, as well as mess kitchens. My boys in the Schutzund Trutzbund League can oversee that,” Heydrich comments.

“One of the elderly men used to be on the city council of Prague. Another one was the leading lawyer in Lodz. One has a fine baritone voice and speaks French and Russian,” Father Strauss tells Heydrich.

“I’ll ask my parents if we could take in the political leader from Prague, maybe all three of them.”

“Thank you, Reinhard. I knew I could count on your organizational abilities,” says Father Strauss.

“Is there is a scientist among the lot, Father?”

“I’m not sure; the men would have said so.”

“What about the women?” asks Heydrich swiftly.

Father Strauss looks puzzled. “The women?” he repeats.

“Marie Curie received the Nobel twice, one for chemistry and another in physics. Yes, women,” stresses Heydrich.

“Look at these poor, harassed, traumatized women,” Father Strauss points out sadly.

Heydrich is greatly adamant. “Appearances can be deceiving. Would anyone take me for a musician or a biochemist?”

Father Strauss smiles. “I’m convinced me, I’ll make discreet inquiries.”

Heydrich smiles back. “I’m attending a rally with my brigade in an hour. In the meantime, the women should use diluted vinegar to wash the marble tiles. It’s cheaper and a better disinfectant than alcohol.”

Father Strauss throws back his head and laughs. “Well, listen to the chemist.”

Chapter 4: After WW I Has Ended

2009-12-01T05:20:00.000-08:00

Halle Germany, After the War has Ended

Reinhard, his mother, father and sister Elizabeth are waiting for the tram. “It’s half an hour late. Maybe we should have taken the car to go to church,” Elizabeth Heydrich comments bitingly. “These tickets cost as much as a pair of shoes.”

“And have the mobs burn our car?” replies Bruno Heydrich, loudly protesting to his wife.

“Here it comes. Quick! Jump in!” Elizabeth orders her family as an ugly crowd starts marching down the street two blocks away from them. The tram screeches. The driver yells, “Get in!”

Bruno Heydrich is a tall, heavyset man. He climbs up with great effort. Reinhard assists his mother and his sister Maria. His brother Heinz looks frightened. Reinhard looks around quickly. All the passengers are afraid. The driver is too nervous. The tram shudders and slows almost to a stop. “Mein Gott!” he cries. The mob is closing in, heading straight for the tram.

“Can’t you drive this contraption?” asks an impatient passenger.

This only causes the driver to shift the tram into the wrong gears, causing sparks to fly on the wires. Gasps are heard.

“You’re going to get us all killed,” wails another passenger.

Some of the angry mob now begin banging on the sides and doors of the tram. “Open!” Their tone is ugly. A few people begin sitting down on the tracks directly in front of the tram.

The driver looks desperate. “We’re short of drivers. So many of us have lost our jobs.”

“What do these people want?” asks Bruno Heydrich.

“They want to ride in the tram without paying. I can’t let them do that,” replies the driver defensively.

“Why not?” demands Bruno. “There’s only ten of us in here. Thirty could sit here comfortably and another thirty could stand.”

“You’re all paying passengers,” the driver insists stubbornly.

“Sir, those people out there have no money to pay. They’ve been fired without notice and without severance,” calmly observes Reinhard, approaching the tram driver so easily, without a hint of aggression in his body language. The driver does not have the time to react as Reinhard presses the driver’s carotid artery enough to make his head spin and cause him to lose consciousness for a few seconds.

Bruno Heydrich springs into action and presses the levers close to the driver’s seat, which automatically opens the doors of the tram. “Don’t panic. Enter with order,” Bruno yells loudly as men, women and children start running to climb the steps of the tram.

Meanwhile Reinhard has relaxed his hold over the driver’s neck and is comforting him. “Look. If your trolley car is damaged or burnt, the big shots won’t care if you were following their orders. You’ll be out on the street. Relax. Live to work another day.”

The driver leans back, lets the situation take place. “You’re right.” Then he frowns, peers at Reinhard closely. “Who are you?”

“The name’s Heydrich. Reinhard Heydrich.”

. . .

Back home sitting in the study. The family is having a heart to heart talk.

“Inflation is skyrocketing. Many students are dropping out of our conservatory. The government is powerless to improve the economic situation of Germany,” a grave Bruno Heydrich says. “We’re going to have to close the Conservatory and find other ways to survive.”

Elizabeth Heydrich looks at her tapered, manicured hands. “I have decided to keep only one full-time domestic. This is only possible because Frau Roth has begged to stay on even without a salary. All the members of her family are out of work and there isn’t enough food to go around.”

“I am swallowing my pride and I’m writing a letter to the Mayor of Halle begging him to use what connections he still has left with the new government to postpone the bankruptcy proceedings against our Conservatory of Music.”

Elizabeth takes Reinhard’s hand in hers. “ We need your help, son.”

“Just ask me, Papa and Mama. What can I do?”

“The Mayor has a great deal of correspondence and documentation in English and in French. He needs the best translator but there’s no money in the city’s budget. He suggested you would be the most suitable to work in his office, after school.”

Reinhard turns to his mother. “Why can’t I work from our house?”

“Of course, you can. It’s just that the Mayor receives calls on Saturday from French officials and there is no one there to take the calls and explain to the Mayor so action can be taken right away,” explains Elizabeth.

“Doesn’t anyone speak German?” asks Reinhard curiously.

“Yes, they do.” Bruno Heydrich bangs his closed fist in the air. “This is one of the ways the French are humiliating us.”

“I’ll do it. You know I’m not afraid of work,” Reinhard reassures both his parents, even though he had his heart set on going to University to study Chemistry and mathematics.

. . .

Stores and shops in parts of Halle have gave gone out of business. Steel shutters give it a sinister air. Many streets look forlorn and dismal. Rubbish is everywhere.

Reinhard, along with the rest of his classmates of the Upper School are members of the Halle Volunteer Corps. Because he is the most accomplished student in academia, athletics and sports, the Mayor has named him the leader of the Corps.

“Communists, Anarchists and plain criminals are roaming and ravaging our countryside, to say nothing of our towns, doing whatever they please,” says the Mayor to the young Heydrich, personally giving him a membership card with a photograph of the teenager in his late teens.

Heydrich signs his name slowly and puts a flourish on the H.

“Gott, Heydrich. Even your handwriting is beautiful. Is there something you don’t do well?”

Heydrich does not reply. He looks awkwardly at the Mayor.

“Street fighting is so common, the people need protection.” The Mayor is a little unsteady on his feet. “We lost millions of men in their 20’s and in their 30’s. Thus, we are now reduced to depending on 17, 18 and 19 year olds for our civil defense protection.”

Chapter 2

2009-05-05T01:32:00.000-07:00

Halle, Germany – June, 1918

The entire student body of the Reform Gymnasium School without exception, are looking up at their school building. Two boys are trying to race up to the roof. There is an awed silence. Suddenly, gasps en masse are heard. One of the boys slips, rolls, grabs a hold of a railing, jumps on a balcony, goes through the open door.

“Immerman’s giving up,” some of the school kids say sadly.

“There’s only Heydrich,” the others say. “Come on, Heydrich. Come on.”

The Headmaster is in the street. Parents are starting to arrive to pick up their children. “What’s going on?” he asks a group of Heydrich’s classmates. They point upwards. “Heydrich’s up there.” Sure enough. Reinhard Heydrich is about to reach the roof of the school building through the most circuitous, impossible routes. Climbing, swinging, scaling the building. “Oh, dear God!” the Headmaster closes his eyes unable to watch.

“He’s doing it,” the members of his class say. “One more tug. Heydrich’s done it!” they scream and screech. “Heydrich! Heydrich!”

From the ledge of the roof, Heydrich looks down and waves at all the people below.

The Headmaster does a rough head count. Between the entire student body and their parents, about five hundred people are watching. “What is he doing?” he asks.

“Well, Sir, Heydrich’s coming down the same way he got up.”

“Heydrich’s just getting his second wind,” another student informs him.

“Oooh! There he is,” squeals another group.

“I can’t bear this. Inform Master Heydrich I expect him in my office the moment he touches ground. Is that clear?” the Headmaster walks away, pale and shaken.

Each time Heydrich moves, the crowds below go “One! Two! Three!” and so on. “Yes! Heydrich. Go! Heydrich.”

Heydrich’s parents show up terror stricken. “He told us he had an errand to do in school so he asked us to pick him up later.”

“Aren’t you proud?” asks the athletic looking father of a scrawny looking kid.

“My son’s a pianist and violinist,” cries Elizabeth Heydrich “God in heaven.”

“Never mind his career. What about his life?” a desperate Bruno Heydrich asks. He leads his wife out of there gently.

“Where are we going, Bruno?”

“I need a drink, Elizabeth. We are going to a tavern.”

“Dear, you never drink. Neither do I.”

“We are now, Elizabeth.”

“What about our son?”

“He’s climbing down four stories, for the love of God. He’ll either do it or he’ll fall. Can we do anything about it? No.”

“We can pray, Bruno.”

“We’ll do that, Elizabeth. In the tavern.”

Meanwhile in the office of the Headmaster are several members of the school board.

“This is a first,” says one. “It’s exciting.”

“A first,” says another.

“Not exactly. Some crazy kid tried it ten years ago.”

“And?”

“The crazy kid broke his neck and died. We got a lot of grief over that let me tell you.” The Headmaster shuts his eyes and in quivering voice. “Heydrich is giving me ulcers, is he down yet?” he asks, gulping down a blue bottle of some anticolic. I can’t take much more of this.”

An incredibly triumphant roar goes out on the streets.

“Sir, it sounds like Heydrich made it down safely.”

Cheers and songs ensue from the school grounds, rebounding to the corridors.

“He’s going to be in trouble as soon as he enters my office,” declares the Headmaster, exasperated beyond words.

“Don’t let’s be too hard on him. He’s our best student and our best athlete. He didn’t hurt anyone. He hasn’t broken any rules.”

“Heydrich! Heydrich! First! First!” chant the students, tramping down the hall, accompanying Heydrich to the Headmaster’s office.

The Headmaster gets an idea. “At the next meeting of the board, I am going to propose that any student who climbs the roof as if he’s scaling the Matterhorn will be suspended for 60 days.”

“A severe reprimand for Heydrich?” asks one of the board members in the Headmaster’s office.

“Tomorrow. I don’t dare scold him in front of the entire school today,” replies the Headmaster.

“Ja. We might be lynched.”

“Immerman, the other student, attends the Kaiser Gymnasium School. Did you know?”

The Headmaster shakes his head. “I’m beginning to see. Immerman must have challenged Heydrich. The Kaiser Gymnasium has more land than we do, but it’s a piddling two stories. The bloody cheek!”

Heydrich suddenly appears on the doorway surrounded by masses of students. “We beat the hoity toity Kaiser Gymnasium.”

“That was very dangerous, Heydrich,” the Headmaster begins.

There is a tense silence.

“Congratulations. You beat them in a most daring feat.”

“Hurrah!” the students agree.

Dinner at the Heydrich home. Herr Bruno Heydrich on one end of the table, Frau Elizabeth Heydrich on the other. Reinhard on his father’s right, Heinz and Maria on their mother’s like usual.

“Whose turn is it to say grace?”

“Mine, Mama,” replies Reinhard contritely. He makes the sign of the cross slowly. “Bless us, oh Lord, for these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

Frau Heydrich signals the uniformed domestic to serve the wiener schnitzel to Herr Professor Bruno Heydrich.

“I’m so sorry, Mama and Papa. I didn’t mean to upset you by climbing the roof. It will never happen again. I promise.”

“Reinie, your father and I both think your guardian angel must be close to a nervous breakdown by now.”

At Elizabeth Heydrich’s witty comment, the family all laugh and proceed to enjoy their dinner with evident relief and thankfulness.

Chapter 1:

2009-04-13T02:05:00.000-07:00

Halle Germany – June, 1916

In the student auditorium at the Reform Road Gymnasium School, prizes are being awarded. Reinhard Heydrich is twelve years old and already taller than many of the older boys. Both lapels of his dark maroon jacket are brimming with gold medals. He is sitting at the back of the auditorium. His closest friend Karl, four years his senior, is seated next to him. “Congratulations, Reinhard. You’re sweeping up all the gold medals,” he says, unable to restrain his awe.

Up on the stage the Headmaster and the Mayor of Halle are about to announce the gold medals for academic excellence, all around sports, and mastery of the arts. Both officials confer quietly, whispering back and forth into their ears. Then the announcement, “This is most unusual. All three awards for the entire school this year go to Reinhard Heydrich.”

His parents clap wildly. His father Bruno jumps in the air. “Bravo!” he cries out. The student body erupts in thunderous applause.

Reinhard Heydrich remains as still as a statue. As the clapping continues, his friend Karl urges him, “Go on. Collect them.” One of the older boys sitting in front of Heydrich turns to look at him and mimics a goat softly. Heydrich smiles at him beatifically and gives him the appropriate hand gesture for “Up yours.” As he walks down the aisle, another boy suddenly sticks out his leg but Heydrich is expecting it so he jumps over the outstretched leg. His right arm pirouettes him just in front of the muscular, heavyset boy. “Ha! Ha!” he hisses. “Jerk.” Heydrich continues walking. Cheers and cries of “Sehr Gut” accompany him as he climbs the steps to the stage. Somewhere near where the boy had tried to trip him, the unmistakable voice of a much older boy, someone whose voice has changed to a more masculine tone, shouts “Up and at them, pretty face.”

The Mayor and the Headmaster show consternation. There is an ominous silence in the auditorium. Reinhard Heydrich is unflappable. He holds his head high, walks unconcernedly towards the podium where the Headmaster and then the Mayor give him the three gold medals. Heydrich walks over to the microphone which is adjusted to his height by the Headmaster. “Thank you,” he says in the still high-pitched voice of a child. “I’m not afraid of work, I’m not afraid of anything or anyone. I’m also happy to be rewarded for my hard work.”

Bruno Heydrich cries out, “Bravo! Reinhard.” The Headmaster and the Mayor take up the cry and another thunderous applause follows.

After the ceremonies, there are refreshments and light snacks being served on the school grounds. Sacher torte. Apfel strudel. Fresh apple juice. Beer for the parents. Heydrich’s parents and Karl’s are conversing gaily. Karl is also a bright student, good in sports, an excellent cellist. He has several gold medals on his lapels.

“I still have books and papers I need to collect from my classroom,” Heydrich tells his parents.

“I’ll come with you,” offers Karl.

“No. I have to do this alone, Karl,” he murmurs.

As soon as Heydrich enters his classroom, he hears the deep masculine voice of Jurgens who is waiting for him. “Hello there, pretty face,” he repeats acidly.

“What do you want, Jurgens,” Heydrich says in disgust, stooping to gather up his things.

Five tall young men, all Seniors, all eighteen years old, surround Heydrich. Kurt, who lives in the shadow of Jurgens and imitates him in all his bullying, grabs Heydrich by the collar and sends him sprawling against the desk. Blood tickles out of Heydrich’s nose.

“Oh, that’s too bad. Blood is ruining that pretty face,” moans Kurt.

Jurgens takes over. “I’m fed up with you. Beating you up is too boring. You don’t cry.”

“It doesn’t seem to hurt you,” yells young man #3.

“I know what will make you kiss my ass. Lick this floor clean. Pa-ga-ni-ni,” Jurgens declares in short, staccato tones.

The other boys laugh in anticipation. “Tell him, Jurgens. Don’t keep him in suspense.”

Meanwhile Heydrich is still sprawled on his desk. Two boys are pressing his body down against the wooden desk with all their strength. The full significance of what Jurgens alludes to frightens Heydrich. By calling him Paga-ni-ni, Jurgens has told him what he intends to do. Heydrich starts repeating over and over. “Listen. Listen. Listen.”

“Shut your silly mouth, nanny goat,” Kurt slaps him on the head.

“Hey, let’s hear him beg for mercy,” Jurgen decides. “Turn him over, Kurt. That’s it. Spread out his fingers.”

“Let’s see Pa-ga-ni-ni play his violin without fingers,” says Jurgens. All the thugs crack up.

Heydrich sits up straight. He makes no attempt to wipe the blood flowing steadily out of his nose, staining his lily-white shirt. Heydrich looks at them defiantly. “I am going to say this just once in my nanny goat voice. If you are thinking of breaking all of my fingers, you had better have the goddamn balls to kill me here and now or I shall hunt you down one by one and kill you.”

This announcement is something Jurgens and his gang did not expect. It is food for thought. In the ensuing pause, Heydrich goes on. “I can think of a dozen ways to kill you pieces of scum without the use of my fingers. Go ahead. Kill me.” At that instant, Heydrich jumps on the floor, pulls out a whistle and blows on it. The shrill sound startles the boys. Jurgens glares at Heydrich. “To be continued,” shouts Heydrich coldly. He continues blowing on the whistle.

At the sound of the whistle several people converge on the classroom. “What were you doing in here?” asks the assistant headmaster. “You boys are nothing but troublemakers. Thank the Lord you’re not coming back next year.”

Karl Schutze and Bruno Heydrich rush into the classroom. Heydrich is coolly gathering his books and papers into a large briefcase. “Son! You’re hurt!” his father cries out, removing his handkerchief and gently wiping the blood off his face.

“This is supposed to be a school for the upper classes,” comments Heydrich’s mother, Elizabeth.

“Mama,” Heydrich says gently, “bullies and thugs come in all sizes, colors and classes.”

“Let’s go home,” Bruno Heydrich tells them.

“Thanks, Karl.” Heydrich gives him an invisible, affectionate upper cut.

The assistant headmaster sees the bleeding Heydrich emerge from the classroom. Jurgens, Kurt and the other boys are being questioned in the hall by the police and school authorities.

“We are going to need your testimony,” one policeman apprises Heydrich.

“Testimony? What for?” asks Heydrich.

“To press charges for assault and battery,” he replies indignantly.

“They’re protozoans. They ridicule me, bully and taunt me and those others. I’m their prime target because I’m always winning prizes but they did not attack me in there. I slipped and stumbled.”

“What about the S.O.S. message you blew on the whistle?” asks the policeman and the school authorities.

“But – I don’t understand,” pipes in the Mayor.

“Neither do we,” insist Heydrich’s parents.

“I didn’t realize that was an S.O.S. message. I was just experimenting with different sounds and tempos. I’m really sorry,” Heydrich apologizes to one and all.

As he passes Jurgens, Heydrich sibilates “One of these years, you will have an unexpected visit from me.”

Later that evening the family sits down at the family table. Bruno Heydrich is at one end of the table, Elizabeth Heydrich at the other. Reinhard, the eldest son, is seated on his father’s right; his younger brother Heinz and his elder sister Maria are on their mother’s right hand side. “Let us say grace. Reiner? Would you do the honors?”

Reinhard Heydrich makes the sign of the cross. “Bless us, oh Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive, etc. etc. etc. Amen. Thank you, Jesus.”

“Reiner?” asks his mother sharply.

“Forgive me. I have a mental blackout. I just can’t remember the words.”

Bruno and Elizabeth Heydrich look with comprehension at their eldest son. “So many things happened today. God bless this family.” Elizabeth Heydrich clasps her hands in prayer and then signals for the uniformed domestic to begin serving the roast beef to Herr Professor Heydrich.

Focus of this Book

2009-03-31T01:32:00.001-07:00

Checkmate: The Enigma of Reinhard Heydrich is a fictionalized, yet historically accurate story about the plot and assassination of Reinhardt Heydrich in May, 1942. Reinhardt Heydrich was the founder and head of the Nazi SS and Hitler’s designated successor. This was the only successful assassination of a high-ranking Nazi officer during WWII).

The focus of my story is Heydrich, specifically why he was so vitally important to Hitler and Nazi Germany - and why the British Intelligence plotted to have him killed.

Although there have been excellent films about Heydrich's assassination by the Czechs in black and white and a Czech German co-production in color for Cable TV Network, most of the scenes focus on the role played by the Czechs and the terrible price paid by them to carry out the assassination. These movies retell the actual assassination and what happened to the four partisans who carried out the actual assassination, hiding in the Cathedral of Saints Cyril and Methodius, as well as the brave deaths of the priests who sheltered them. It also tells the story of how they were betrayed by one of the Czech partisans who eventually sold the information about their whereabouts to the Nazis. Another prominent part of these stories tells about the Nazi response. The town of Lidice was wiped out from the face of the earth, all its inhabitants slaughtered, its buildings and houses burnt to the ground, tons of salt tossed over the land, the name of Lidice removed from all the maps of the Third Reich and the site replanted with trees.

What these movies don't explain is why Heydrich was so important ... and what has fascinated me the most - how did Heydrich get to become so important. What I found out during my research was that he wasn't killed because of actions he took towards the final solution (in fact he had very different ideas about this than Hitler did) - it was about France - his next posting after Prague.

Young, handsome, cultured, very-intelligent, brave, ambitious and very efficient Reinhardt Heydrich was the real prototypical James Bond - a man of action who wanted to be the best at whatever he did. Heydrich was an accomplished athelete, violinist, pilot, fencer, a master of disguises and languages - who went on many missions personally - even escaping from Russia when his plane was shot down.

For more about the two sides of Heydrich go to: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rV25qUZcZt8

Heydrich was smart - not just intelligent - but as a strategic thinker. Heydrich’s creation and running of the SS and masterminding the Roehm massacre cleared the way for Hitler to assume the chancellorship and his masterminding the takeover of Poland and Czechoslovakia helped solidify his position as Hitler’s favorite, and designated successor. His brilliant strategy resulted in Stalin killing off more than two-thirds of his Generals before Hitler's invasion, and his strategy with the British opened the door for the invasion of the Benelux countries - and bypassing the Maginot Line.

The death of Heydrich in May, 1942 dramatically changed the Third Reich and quite probably the course of history. A strong argument could be made that this single action was even more important to the long-term war effort then cracking the Enigma code. Even if Hitler had been killed or committed suicide after the defeat of Nazi Germany, a diabolical Heydrich somewhere in the world in a safe haven could have redirected the course of events – and of history.

My story starts with the telling of Heydrich's life, expands during the war years and ends with the on the planning of the assassination in London by British Intelligence, and the behind-the-scenes intrigues.

Most of all it will profile Reinhardt Heydrich in Prague and why he was such a serious threat to the Allies. A series of laboratories conceived by him are conducting tests on time travel and their experiments are showing more and more promise. British scientists, Czech scientists and physicists in London have been able to piece together enough from the bits of information decoded by Dr. Alan Turing and his team at Bletchely Park to be so alarmed they have threatened to leak this to the Press unless they are taken seriously by the Prime Minister Winston Churchill.

The information which was being decoded and decrypted at Bletchely Park led the Allies to believe Adolf Hitler, evil as he was, was a lesser malevolence than Heydrich. Hitler was intelligent but Heydrich was a many faceted genius. He was young – in his mid-thirties at the most. He supported the sciences and saw their strategic importance - unlike Hitler. His rise had been meteoric and his political and scientific insights were uncannily accurate.

Yet Reinhard Heydrich thought himself invincible and invulnerable. That would be his Achilles’ heel. That is where the English mastermind in the British Secret Service will concentrate. On Heydrich’s sense of immortality. Like Alexander the Great and other dominant characters of history Heydrich acted like a God – or so he thought. The Eastern Europeans, Slavs, the gypsies, the political prisoners, the Jews were so cowed they went meekly to their deaths. Who would dare to kill him? He rode in an open Daimler convertible, sitting arrogantly in the back seat looking very much like a Norse god. He never used escorts or bodyguards. Heydrich had his Walther 38; he carried two. He could shoot a match in two at a great distance. They were holstered. It ruined the line of his attractive uniform and that of his tall, elegant Aryan frame to leave the flaps of his holster open.

The assassination plot was brilliantly masterminded from London by the British Secret Service, with the participation of the Czech Resistance. The hero of our story is the fictional British Intelligence chief “Sir Branwell Swift” who masterminds the plot and recruits the two members of the Czech team who were trained in England to carry out the kill.

The title “Checkmate” reflects Sir Branwell’s Swift goal to kill the opposing king – but unlike a normal chess board game, the moves and counter-moves cause the deaths of millions. The outcome on the war may just depend on whether or not Sir Branwell Swift can achieve the checkmate the allies so badly need.

Extensive research has been done to date regarding Reinhardt Heydrich – which will be used to create a compelling story of why the killing of Heydrich was even more important to the long term war effort then the more publicized decoding of Enigma.

The fact he was important to Hitler and the German's was clearly evidenced during the largest German funeral during WWII - see: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AtyWAf2xCq0

Focus of this Book

2009-03-31T01:32:00.000-07:00

Checkmate: The Enigma of Reinhard Heydrich is a fictionalized, yet historically accurate story about the plot and assassination of Reinhardt Heydrich in May, 1942. Reinhardt Heydrich was the founder and head of the Nazi SS and Hitler’s designated successor. This was the only successful assassination of a high-ranking Nazi officer during WWII). The focus of my story is Heydrich specifically, why he is so vitally important to Hitler and Nazi Germany, and the British Intelligence plot to have him killed. Although there have been excellent films about the assassination by the Czechs in black and white and a Czech German co-production in color for Cable TV Network. Most of the scenes focus on the role played by the Czechs and the terrible price paid by them to carry out the assassination. These movies retell the actual assassination and what happened to the four partisans who carried out the actual assassination, hiding in the Cathedral of Saints Cyril and Methodius, as well as the brave deaths of the priests who sheltered them. It also tells the story of how they were betrayed by one of the Czech partisans who eventually sold the information about their whereabouts to the Nazis. Another prominent part of these stories tells about the Nazi response. The town of Lidice was wiped out from the face of the earth, all its inhabitants slaughtered, its buildings and houses burnt to the ground, tons of salt tossed over the land, the name of Lidice removed from all the maps of the Third Reich and the site replanted with trees. Young, handsome, cultured, very-intelligent, brave, ambitious and very efficient Reinhardt Heydrich was the prototypical ubermench and arch villain. Heydrich’s creation and running of the SS and masterminding the Roehm massacre cleared the way for Hitler to assume the chancellorship and his masterminding the takeover of Poland and Czechoslovakia helped solidify his position as Hitler’s favorite, and designated successor. The death of Heydrich in May, 1942 dramatically changed the Third Reich and quite probably the course of history. A strong argument could be made that this single action was even more important to the long-term war effort then cracking the Enigma code. Even if Hitler had been killed or committed suicide after the defeat of Nazi Germany, a diabolical Heydrich somewhere in the world in a safe haven could have redirected the course of events – and of history. Our story will concentrate on the planning of the assassination in London by British Intelligence, and the behind-the-scenes intrigues. Most of all it will profile Reinhardt Heydrich in Prague and why he was such a serious threat to the Allies. A series of laboratories conceived by him are conducting tests on time travel and their experiments are showing more and more promise. British scientists, Czech scientists and physicists in London have been able to piece together enough from the bits of information decoded by Dr. Alan Turing and his team at Bletchely Park to be so alarmed they have threatened to leak this to the Press unless they are taken seriously by the Prime Minister Winston Churchill. The information which was being decoded and decrypted at Blatchely Park led the Allies to believe Adolf Hitler, evil as he was, was a lesser malevolence than Heydrich. Hitler was intelligent but Heydrich was a many faceted genius. He was young – in his mid-thirties at the most. His rise had been meteoric and his political and scientific insights were uncanningly accurate. Yet Reinhardt Heydrich thought himself invincible and invulnerable. That would be his Achilles’ heel. That is where the English mastermind in the British Secret Service will concentrate. On Heydrich’s sense of immortality. Like Alexander the Great and other dominant characters of history Heydrich acted like a God – or so he thought. The Eastern Europeans, Slavs, the gypsies, the political prisoners, the Jews were so cowed they went meekly to their deaths. Who would dare to kill him? He rode in an open Daimler convertible, sitting arrogantly in the back seat looking very much like a Norse god. He never used escorts or bodyguards. Heydrich had his Walther 38; he carried two. He could shoot a match in two at a great distance. They were holstered. It ruined the line of his attractive uniform and that of his tall, elegant Aryan frame to leave the flaps of his holster open. The assassination plot was brilliantly masterminded from London by the British Secret Service, with the participation of the Czech Resistance. The hero of our story is the fictional British Intelligence chief “Sir Branwell Swift” who masterminds the plot and recruits the two members of the Czech team who were trained in England to carry out the kill. The title “Checkmate” reflects Sir Branwell’s Swift goal to kill the opposing king – but unlike a normal chess board game, the moves and countermoves cause the deaths of millions. The outcome on the war may just depend on whether or not Sir Branwell Swift can achieve the checkmate the allies so badly need. Extensive research has been done to date regarding Reinhardt Heydrich – which will be used to create a compelling story of why the killing of Heydrich was even more important to the long term war effort then the more publicized decoding of Enigma.

Operation Nemesis: Day One

2009-03-20T00:37:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER ONE

Operation Nemesis: Day One

May, 1940 - Chartwell Estate: In the Afternoon

“Hitler has millions who chant his name, but the man who makes Germany such a successful enemy is Reinhard Heydrich. He is personally behind every major success the Germans have achieved so far, including the disastrous Venlo affair, which caused us a severe loss of face. It will take us years to recover the loss of all our intelligence operatives in Europe, if ever we can,”

Sir Branwell Swift, Chief of British Secret Intelligence Service ( SIS ) also known as C to his staff informs Sir Winston Churchill in an acid tone which would reduce men’s livers to pulp, except that the Prime Minister has no liver because brandy, whisky and champagne at every hour of the day has taken its toll.

Churchill receives him in Chartwell, his estate in the country. Sir Branwell Swift places Heydrich’s dossier into Churchill’s hands. The loose bathrobe opens to reveal the plump, naked flanks of the Prime Minister. Sir Branwell is unfazed. He is used to this careless exhibitionism of the PM. The Prime Minister pauses to re-light his cigar.

Sir Branwell says softly, “Allow me, Sir.”

“Thank you, dear boy,” booms Churchill.

Sir Branwell clears his throat. Churchill settles himself into a leather armchair. There is the ever-present bottle of Bollinger Champagne surrounded by ice in a silver champagne cooler sitting on the table next to the brown leather armchair. On a silver tray are six Waterford flute glasses.

“Feel like pouring two of those?”

Sir Branwell fills two glasses and hands one to Churchill. The Prime Minister is reading the dossier intently. He takes a big swig out of the glass. Sir Branwell has poured himself half a glass. He is watching Churchill fixedly. He has no inclination and no intention of interrupting the PM. The dossier is too portentous, too vital. The dossier cannot be left overnight at the PM’s estate. Sir Branwell has all the time in the world. He has made the time. In his mind the key to winning the war is to neutralize Heydrich. The usually articulate PM is at a loss for words as he reads through Heydrich’s dossier. Sir Branwell waits. He will not be the first to break the silence. The PM pauses, drinks more champagne, continues reading. He is serene. It seems the PM needs to be sure he has read Sir Branwell’s suggestions correctly. He has.

The PM looks straight at C, then he shatters the silence with the softest whisper Sir Branwell has ever heard. “We have been targeting the wrong chap.”

“Sir, if anything should happen to Hitler, Reinhard Heydrich will succeed him. It’s well known he is the designated successor and it would make our task more than twice as hard if he is in charge of everything. The man is not human – he makes no mistakes.”

“Swift, how do we proceed?” the PM inquires as he places the dossier back into the hands of the chief of the SIS later known as MI-6.

Sir Branwell plunges in. “The first thing we do is stop trying to kill Hitler as long as Heydrich is alive. I suggest we avoid any contact with German Resistance to kill Hitler. We can’t help them until we know Heydrich is dead. He has to be our priority.”

Churchill looks at Sir Branwell with piercing eyes. “Go on,” he replies in the same low voice, which surprises the Chief of Intelligence.

“We must do a 180º turn and target Heydrich. It’s going to be very difficult as his staff is fiercely loyal to him, and the people of Czechoslovakia are both afraid of him and grateful to him for providing stability and prosperity in the Protectorate. They are much better off than Germany, no doubt Britain as well as a result of Heydrich’s leadership. It will be very difficult to find people willing to take the risk and support our efforts” states Sir Branwell, keeping his tone as low as the PM’s.

‘’Everything has to be ultra top secret as Heydrich’s intelligence network is the best the world has ever seen. We can’t count on the Irish operatives for support. I can’t even be sure he hasn’t compromised our own organization.’’

“I see,” repeats the Prime Minister. “The two of us are the only ones aware of this plan?”

Sir Branwell nods and takes a sip from his glass. A heavy wall of silence divides them although the PM is unaware of it.

There is no way in hell I can keep a portentous Operation like this between the two of us. Are you dotty? Or are you just playing at being naïve yet again? I hate it when political leaders play these pretend games with their Chiefs of Intelligence. I need to advise my Soviet people of the assassination we are planning. Without their active participation we haven’t got a Chinaman’s chance of succeeding. Bloody Hell, we need Stalin to help us win this war. For all the American money and braggadocio, without Uncle Joe they haven’t got a prayer- unless they send millions of soldiers to die in Europe. The Secret Intelligence Service is stuffed with Soviet moles; our very own English dupes except perhaps for Sir Anthony Blunt. Their loyalty lies with Stalin and his New World Order.

Churchill drains his champagne, puffs deeply on his cigar, and tucks in his black bathrobe. “So be it. Let the chips fall where they may.’’

“I can’t stress enough that this mission could be one of the most important keys to winning the war, Mr. Prime Minister. It has to succeed.”

“Quite. I have the utmost faith in your talents. Do what ever it takes to eliminate Heydrich. Remember, His Majesty’s Government does not and will not engage in political assassination hence if you and members of your team fail, I will feed you to the tigers.’’

“Iacta alea est, Sir.” Sir Branwell replies in a monotone. Inwardly he tells himself’ ‘’I never considered Churchill a teddy bear, unlike some who did and have come to rue the day. His whole being is bathed in blood, as is mine.’’

“Let the dice fly,” declares Prime Minister Churchill, “Julius Caesar’s favorite expression”.

The Chief of Intelligence gathers the papers of the Heydrich dossier, places them into a thick black leather briefcase, which carries only the dossier. “I must be going, Sir.”

“Indeed. It’s the usual wet drive back to London, and the sooner we start the operation the better.”

“What do you plan on calling this operation C?”

“Operation Nemesis, as that is exactly what he is- our Nemesis.”

“A good choice. I wish you good night. I fear we might have nightmares for as long as Heydrich is still in charge,” Churchill declares in his unique gravely voice.

“Our duty is to eliminate the world’s nightmares,” he agrees tonelessly.

“Good night, Swift, and Godspeed.”

“Good night, Mr. Prime Minister.”

Sir Branwell was not sure if there was a God, even if he attended Church on Sundays when he was in residence in his estate in Buckinghamshire. It aided his camouflage. Invoking God’s name when one was planning to commit a series of foul deeds, like a political assassination at the highest levels of German Power, did not seem quite right to him. On the other hand, killing one or many to protect the interests of your country erased any misgivings.

"It’s either Heydrich or us.’’

Back in his lair in Buckingham Gate, Sir Branwell Swift burns the entire dossier on Reinhard Heydrich in his massive granite fireplace, feeding the papers one by one into the fire. He does so in gelid rage. As a result of the Venlo disaster he doesn’t even know whom he can trust in his own organization. His SIS organization is completely compromised. His anger intensifies as he thinks of all those good agents, captured or killed, on the orders of Heydrich.

“He has bested not only me, I hate to say, but all the leading intelligence services of the Allies. He has cost me valuable men. They must be avenged. I must be avenged.”

He runs his eyes slowly around the salon. This is his secret space. No one comes here. Not even a cleaning woman. He does this distasteful if necessary job himself.

“Operation Nemesis. That’s the beginning of the end of you, Reinhard Heydrich. We shall never meet again. A pity! You are the best – but you have flaws, and I will find them, and then you will be no more,” says Sir Branwell loudly.

He paces the floor, like a caged cheetah, smoking out of a long jade cigarette holder.

“This will be a contest like no other – and the fate of millions upon millions will be affected by the outcome, whether they know it or not. I shall do everything in my power to bring you down, whatever it takes.

The BBC Radio and Berlin Radio are both on day and night. English and German voices babble on continuously. Sir Branwell pays no attention.

I am challenging you, Reinhard Heydrich, to a duel to the death. I’ll find a way to kill you. I have to. Let the world fear Adolf Hitler, the perfect actor. You are the thinker, the Ideatore, the Super Man. I fear you. Just as I know you are curious about me, I will learn everything about you.

Sir Branwell arranges a chess game for two. Since the death of T.E. Lawrence (of Arabia) he has not played chess. It would have been too boring and too tedious. Easy victories cannot be savored in such a manner.

White or black? Oh! Most assuredly black for you. If for no other reason than your particularly cold-blooded efficiency. I’ll take the white. Oh! Have no illusions. I am too ruthless myself to do honor to the color white, but somebody has to take the white color. The first move is mine. For the moment I am advancing one square forward. You are unaware of Operation Nemesis.

Sir Branwell continues his musings; in a harsh voice he keeps on talking to himself.

We lost two of our best agents in the Venlo Affair, to say nothing of the hundreds of our agents inside Germany. Because of Venlo, which you planned and successfully executed, Hitler was able to invade the Netherlands, Belgium and Luxembourg and nearly captured our entire army in Dunkirk.The Dutch violated their neutrality by conspiring with us – and you caught us by throwing us the bait of a plot to kill Hitler, which we fell for. You fooled me, one old enough to be your father. You’ve won the first round, but now the game gets a great deal more dangerous. One more for you. What?

Sir Branwell moves a black knight. In the immense panorama of war, Germany now occupies most of Europe. Only the small British Isles continues to defy Germany.

Now it’s up to David to slay the giant Not that the David of the Old Testament was an example of virtue. If he ever even existed. Never mind. It makes for a good story. He was a murderer, polygamist, liar and cheat. He betrayed his Generals and massacred children. He rid himself of an uncomfortable husband and General by placing him on the front lines where he knew he would be killed. In this way he bedded General Uriah’s beautiful widow Bathsheba and made her his concubine.

Sir Branwell sighs. “Few people are aware of King David’s vices. So, we must go on with the charade of David.”

He leans his head back across the chintz armchair, and then rises quickly. He is of average height but walks in such an imperious manner; he appears much larger than he actually is because of the force of his personality. He is slim but his muscles are well formed from boxing and wrestling which he enjoys naked as the ancient Greeks and Romans did. He has brown eyes with specks of gold, a fine aquiline nose, rather thick lips and a strong chin. A high forehead, topped by wavy dark hair. His graceful hands are at home holding and shooting any gun. Yet he is also an accomplished pianist, especially jazz. No doubt about it, he is a dashing man. He is a ladies man. With a handicap of seven in Polo he is also the envy of his male companions, some of whom he has bedded.

As Head of the SIS, Secret Intelligence Service, Sir Branwell has perfected his camouflage skills. He is endowed with an intense personality, which he continuously dissimulates. Indeed the masks he puts on continuously thrill him. He is now the quintessential grey personality. Grey coat, grey suits, and grey persona. He wills himself to become invisible to the common people, the working people and what one might call the average bloke. At the same time, he remains highly visible to those who hold the reins of power. He himself is one of them.

He gazes intensely across the chessboard at the life-size waxen figure of Reinhard Heydrich who sits and stares back at him in defiance. C is looking for the fatal flaw that will allow him to win the day primarily for Britain. He wasn’t sure if America would gain from Heydrich’s death. He sure as hellfire did not give a toss about the rest of the world, and never gave much attention to the pretty speeches of the PM.

Wild Bill Donovan’s good but he is not well, he’s had a very rough life as a soldier and as a spy. He’s also getting on in years. The OSS will surely surpass us with someone like Heydrich at the helm.

Sir Branwell trembles at the possibility that his rambling thoughts might become a fearsome reality. In the spy business one had no friends, only people with the same objectives for a limited period of time.

Heydrich, it has been a costly enterprise to commission your waxen figure from the artists working for Madame Tussaud

“Lord Swift, it is more difficult to create the likeness of a man sitting down than standing regally. This is a most interesting young man. I have never seen him before,” said Monsieur Mirabeau of the Wax Museum, Madame Tussaud’s principal artist, as he studied the photographs of Reinhard Heydrich.

His agents in Berlin had secretly obtained photographs of Heydrich taken during the various receptions and dinner parties held in honor of the athletes and the VIP guests who had attended the Berlin Olympics of 1936. As a spokesman for the German Olympic Committee he had worn bespoke grey and tan suits. He was in disguise. This was perfect for re-creating his likeness, for no one would be the any the wiser.

“I am not concerned about the cost. Don’t cut any corners, Mirabeau. This young man is too important. Take your time. I prsonally will bring you the SS uniform of a General whenever you are ready.

All color drained off the artist Mirabeau’s face. Until today he hadn’t a clue that Lord Swift was a deadly man.

“I need not remind you that this is a matter of National Security. Breathe one word of this to anyone and I swear I shall have to kill you myself much to my chagrin,” Sir Branwell rasped softly even as he laid his hand sottly over Mirabeau’s.

Mirabeau could only nod for his throat was too constricted with terror to reply. Sir Branwell ignored it. He continued his explanation as if no threats on his person or anything serious had occurred between the two.

By the way, dear boy, he is at least six feet and four inches tall and weighs about one hundred and eighty pounds of hard muscle. A champion swimmer, aviator, horseman, duelist, boxer, shootist and marathon runner. You can calculate the width of his arms and legs from my tenuous description can you not?’’

Mirabeau continued his examination of the photographs. “As I said Lord Swift, this individual will be a most challenging and intriguing subject.”

Laughter and the sound of running feet on the street of Buckingham Gate startles him. The sound is muffled because of the steady London rain. He opens the black curtain and peers down cautiously.

“It’s nothing. Two huddled figures are coupling against the wall of his building, A man and a woman? A man having a go with another man? He can’t distinguish well, but he can hear the sounds being carried up, up, up towards his window. This time it’s hetero, last night it was homo.”

A painful hardness presses against his tailored trousers. Swift is a sexual creature and he enjoys indulging his sexuality.

“Heydrich. Listen to me. You stood out during the games and events held at the Berlin Olympics. It was not only because you headed the International Sports Committee. There was something feral about you. I sensed something else too. Men respected you even if they did not like you. Your youth and your Nordic good looks called attention to yourself. You are an artist of invisibility and so far, also of invincibility. Passing yourself off as just a good sportsman was elegantly cunning. Oh I had my suspicions that you actually ran the SS, not Heinrich Himmler. When we shook hands at the reception hosted by Hitler at the Chancellery, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt. What’s more, I was certain that you knew that I knew.”

The vibrant turquoise eyes of Heydrich and his flaxen hair strike a sexual chord. He has not allowed himself to be reminded of it, but it has bowled him over.

By Jove I am attracted only to individuals like you - blonde, fair and blue eyed young men and boys. You obsess me beyond belief, which is why I must kill you. Something tells me you are aware of my pedophilia, my secret weakness. Some might call it a vice, don’t be so disdainful about it. You do not tolerate homosexuality much less pedophilia in the SS or the SD. But I would not be so high and mighty. The Wehrmacht and the Abwehr has quite a few closet homosexuals and pedophiles that secretly keep catamites.

Damn! He could not rid himself of the need to fondle a young man’s genitals. In London it was risky and imprudent. His boys “came for a visit” only on weekends to his estate in Buckinghamshire. He was a generous patron. The boys kept silent. It behooved them for deep down they knew that Lord Swift was more dangerous than many nests of vipers in one basket.

Handsome Heydrich remains impassive to his mental masturbatory thoughts. Then Lord Branwell begins to remove his clothes, never taking his eyes off his enemy who had suddenly and capriciously become the object of his desire.

“You see how hard my cock is. I’d like to ram it into you, as you lie dead before me. Then I will piss and defecate on your perfect Nordic face. But I want you alive for now to hear you gasp and moan for more thrusts from me.”

Nothing but a disdainful silence emanates from Heydrich.

This arouses him even more. ‘’Heydrich, Heydrich, Reinhard, Reinhard, Reinhard,” he moans, fondling and clasping his rock hard penis.

“You are so beautiful. Your cock’s a dream to suckle. Plunge it into me, Do it! Kill me with delicious fucks. Nothing moves you. I can’t pleasure you. I don’t care.”

His strong fingers hold his penis in a vise like grip as he pumps faster and faster in a frenzy of lust and fury.

Droplets of blood stain his fingers“ I must have broken a small blood vessel, never mind, I can’t stop now,” Ah! AH! Yes, yes, yes. Release me.”

Ejaculation. Semen, more drops of blood, urine and saliva. Pants and gasps. Hands soaked with semen and urine. It runs down his legs and around his ankles. He looks down at his penis with admiration. It is still hard and overflowing with his juices.

The Teutonic God remains motionless across from him. ‘’Heydrich, I can’t resist doing this. It is so satisfying, I don’t want to stop.”

Sir Branwell smears his hands covered with his sperm on Heydrich’s countenance. He sticks his penis onto the slightly open lips of his prey. Up and down, left and right. Yes! That’s it. Aah!

And then the calm surrounds him after the tempest. “You are an unfeeling and solitary work of art. Soon you will be stone cold dead. Let’s start at the beginning. How did such a talented and sensitive musician from a good family become the most feared and powerful man in the Third Reich in such a short time? How can we defeat you? We will have to, in order to win this war. I know the answer is there. God and the Devil can both be dammed! I will find your weakness and use it against you.

But first I must cleanse myself of my bodily fluids. We must do this more often, by the way. It’s a form of deliverance for me. Yes. Let’s do it, after each chess game. I will wait for these moments with bated breath. If you must know, you are the reason for the best manipulation my cock has ever had. My orgasm was eternal. I am almost sorry we are enemies and that I must kill you. Fuck it man, you are one gorgeous piece of ass. If only you had been more Socialist and less of a Nationalist, we could have had the most rapturous sex together.”

He took a very long and deep breath and expelled it slowly and sadly.

“There’s no doubt about it. Life is shit,” stated Sir Branwell Swift.

Author's note: for more details regarding Churchill and his Chartwell Estate check out:
http://books.google.com/books?id=ahdvfllYnIgC&pg=PA155-IA16&lpg=PA155-IA16&dq=chartwell+estate&source=bl&ots=PesTA0VuVI&sig=INjAxXcl38ziQ61awv4fZ_Ha77w&hl=en&ei=W0jDSa3KNZiU_gbOkP2ACw&sa=X&oi=book_result&resnum=5&ct=result#PPP1,M1

Introductory Remarks

2009-03-11T07:28:00.000-07:00

POLITICS IS THE ART OF GOVERNING MANKIND BY DECEIVING THEM. NOWHERE IS THIS MORE EVIDENT THAN IN THE EVENTS AN INCIDENTS LEADING UP TO, DURING, AND AFTER A WAR. REVISIONIST HISTORY TRIES TO EXPOSE AND EXPLODE THESE DECEPTIONS.

My goal is not to revise history – but to expand it to give the reader a clearer panorama, and to do so while telling a compelling story. When I begun delving into the life of Reinhard Heydrich, to better understand his decisions and his actions, it became clear to me that I couldn’t tell his story without expanding it to include the cultural and historical context in which he acted.

If you are expecting me to agree with the more widely held opinion in certain prejudiced media that Heydrich was a monster, than you will be disappointed. Yes, many of the things he did led to the death of hundreds of thousands, if not millions – and I don’t ignore this. However, if making decisions that led to the deaths of others were the only criteria for deciding who was a monster, then all generals and political leaders would be so named, but yet, as we all know some are held in high esteem as heroes to their people. Moreover, if you were to judge by the funeral given to honor him after his assassination, you would have to conclude that to the Germans and the Czechs whom he governed as Reichsprotektor of Bohemia – Moravia – Heydrich was a hero in the traditions of the Norse Sagas and the Nebelungenlied.

So which was he – Hero or Monster? I think both. I am intrigued and fascinated in human destinies such as Heydrich’s, which are played against the backdrop of the transformations, tragedies and torments in Germany and in Europe after the end of the so called Great War in 1918, He was a young man who did extraordinary things during a period of great upheavals – some produced good results, some, proved to be bad. These feelings and opinions were based on how they affected the side you found yourself in during the war.

This is the reason why I entitled my story: CHECKMATE: THE ENIGMA OF REINHARD HEYDRICH.

Politically biased historians have dominated most of our global history. Official history is what remains in the public record after the voices of the dissidents have been stilled or suppressed. Consequently, to gain the insights I gleaned to my story, I had to take the view of an alien being, endowed with a different set of eyes and ears.

I have no intentions of objectivity, if it means avoiding an opinion. Anyone telling a story – historian, journalist or writer, is forced to choose from an infinite number of facts, what to omit, what to narrate and what to distort. That decision consciously or not, reflects the self-interests of the writer.

“In war, truth is the first casualty,” wrote Thucydides, 2,500 yeas ago. Even he admitted that he found it difficult to be impartial!

“Just the facts mam” is a ridiculous statement. What are ”facts?”

Everything in life, even facts, is interpreted. Behind every “fact” is a ”judgment”. Judgments are made from some perspective. In the case of Heydrich ... are the judgments from his peers, his opponents, his countrymen, the "enemy", the winners of the war, the victims of the war ... who?

The most widely held belief is that Heydrich was a monster. These are ‘’facts.” Do the people who make these judgments they know what they are saying? Are they, like Pavlov’s dogs, just reacting to a mass indoctrination? An individual, a group or cabal, decides for “the people” which “facts” are essential and should be revealed. The opposing views are frequently omitted from books, articles, motion pictures and television, to say nothing of schools and universities. This was brought home recently by widespread protest by the Chinese who objected to Japan’s view of history as it related to China during WWII.

Voltaire, philosopher, writer and one street-smart chap, reminds us ”all our history is no more than “Accepted Fiction.”

CHECKMATE is revisionism with flair and a large dose of individual thinking. My long research regarding the life and times of the enigmatic and (why not say it?) the glamorous Reinhard Heydrich, has not been an impetus for neutrality in writing the book - CHECKMATE.

Sixty-seven years after the death of Reinhard Heydrich in 1942, it is time to clear up the misinformation, disinformation, and omissions regarding his life and his work. Prominent among these will be the Wannsee Conference, which he chaired and coordinated, and his role as the alleged author/executor of the Final Solution of the Jews.

Without the continual laments about the wrongs committed, it is easy to forget there were several Holocausts, which took place during the Second World War. We are more aware of the Shoah because many Jews and Christians, with just cause, have seen to it that the world must never forget the death of so many Jews. In the world of MTV and sound bites the prevailing opinion (partially or totally uninformed) is that the SS were generally evil and especially so to Jews.

Most of us have not been informed about The Transfer Agreement of 1933, (also known as the Haavara) in which the SS, in secret dealings with Zionist groups in Europe and Palestine, sent over 60,000 Jews to Palestine accompanied by $100 million worth of goods, materials and cash payments. There are close to 51 documents, which show a close collaboration between Heydrich, the Haganah, the Irgun and the Mossad.

Nor are we aware that the SS offered to pay travel expenses and even a reward to any country that would accept Jews – which were turned down by the United States, Great Britain, and most western countries. These arrangements continued until the death of Heydrich in June 1942, even as millions of Jews were being driven into the ghettos of Warsaw and Lodz, and into labor and concentration camps, to say nothing of the death camps.

One of Heydrich’s creations, the Einsatgruppen; had their hands full, deep inside Russia, executing / slaughtering not only the Soviet partisans but also hundreds of thousands of Jews who may or may not have been Communist/Bolshevik sympathizers.

Historians have avoided telling us that the English, the mandated Masters of Palestine, bombed the Nazi ships carrying Jews to Palestine, aware that the ships carried no armaments. Oil was the reason for their constant sinking of these ships. Since 1905, the Arab world had reacted in anger and increasing violence to the settlement of thousands of Jews in Palestine.

Nor do they tell us that the SS, under Heydrich offered to pay transportation costs and a resettlement fee to any country that would accept Jews. The United States agreed to take only a couple of thousand, all young males, involved in rabbinical studies. The United Kingdom followed suit with even less Jews.

We should not remain in denial. War is never clean, no matter who participates. War is an orgy of killing and destruction and in WWII more than any other previous war – civilian populations, not just the military were targeted by all sides.

Pope Benedict XV, a lone voice, begged for peace with Russia, Germany, Austria, Britain, America, France and Italy, as they stood on the precipice of World War One.

“WAR IS USELESS SLAUGHTER,“ he pleaded, on bended knees. In the Soviet Union, Lenin and Trotsky laughed and mocked the Pope’s initiatives towards Peace.

Ironically, Heydrich instead of being associated with the Final Solution might better be regarded as the first father of the state of Israel. He wrote in Schwarz Korps, the magazine of the SS.

“The racial and genetic uniqueness which the Zionists ascribe to, is one and the same with our own Aryan belief in our own racial purity.”

Heydrich was wrong. The only true Aryans, if ever there were any in the planet, are probably the Iranians and some tribes of Afghanistan. Indeed, Iran means Aryan. Their language Farsi, is neither Indo - European nor Semitic, but Aryan.

We have forgotten or don't want to remember or perhaps, few have enlightened us that over a hundred million people died as a result of World War II.

But for 50 million Russian corpses, there would not have been a D-DAY in Normandy in June of 1945.

We celebrate Columbus Day ... but have conveniently forgotten that the landing of Columbus in the New World initiated a genocide in which 70 million indigenous people were annihilated. Or that the expansion of the United States involved the violent expulsion of Native Americans from every part of the continent, until there was nothing to do but herd them into desolate reservations where nothing grew except despair and suicide. Where are the holocaust memorials that celebrate these mass genocides?

A hundred and fifty thousand Jews served in the SS. The Nuremberg Laws explicitly forbade membership of Jews in the National Socialist Deutsche Arbeit Partei. What then, are we to think? Were they coerced? Did the Jews join voluntarily? If so, why did Heydrich make so many exceptions to the Law? So few of us have been informed of these occurrences.

Usually, those who deceive have reasons for doing so. No one was perhaps as adapt at deceit as Reinhard Heydrich, Chief of Intelligence of the SS, SD, and RHSA AND INTERPOL. He was the most skillful practitioner of espionage and intelligence from 1931 until his death from blood poisoning after a bomb attack in Prague in 1942, at the age of 34. One of his primary tools was Deception, which he turned into an Art.

Heydrich saw the media around him as Masters at portraying a false picture of the world. Images and words thrown upon a lighted screen in a darkened room, so that what we think of as the “real world” is not seen or heard.

Heydrich bested Sir Branwell Swift, his much older counterpart and Nemesis in the SIS - the British Secret Intelligence Service - in several jousts between the services. I created Sir Branwell out of a collage of three ruthless British Spy Masters. Sir Stuart Menzies, Lord Stephenson and the most fascinating and cold-hearted of them all - Sir Victor Rothschild.

Lavrenti Beria, master of terror in the Soviet Union, a fellow Georgian like Josef Stalin, considered Heydrich his only dangerous enemy in the spy business. Beria ran the NKVD with cruel and merciless efficiency.

As Chiefs of Intelligence - it would never occur to me to doubt the brutality of Heydrich, Swift, and Beria. But the fact that a young Heydrich, starting with nothing but a broken down kitchen table and the part-time use of a typewriter was able to build an Intelligence Service that frequently outfoxed the two best in the world at that time, is a gripping story.

I will not comment on the American Intelligence Services, because in the late 30’s and early 1940’s, the British SIS trained them.

“The Intelligence business is not for those who are religious,” declared a candid Heydrich within the confines of his office in frequent meetings with those SS officers he dubbed “My Brainstormers”.

CHECKMATE is about unaccountability in high places - in Germany, Britain, Russia and the United States.

The young Heydrich is mostly regarded today as a murderous villain, for a variety of reasons. Germany lost the war. America and Britain were filled with Communist/Socialist/liberal intellectuals who wrote and declared whatever they felt like it so long as it was anti-Nazi, Anti-German and anti-Fascist.

The human beast is found everywhere, and Jews are no more immune than any other human group. That may be correct, but beside the point of my argument – which is that the Mass Mind, during World War II, was given a false picture of a SOLELY JEWISH PERSECUTION conducted by Non – Jews, Germans (GENTILES).

In the late 1920’s the Media in general wrote” The Nazi persecution of POLITICAL OPPONENTS AND JEWS”

By 1938 we saw “The Nazi persecution of Jews and political opponents“.

This became “The Nazi persecution of Jews“ in the early 40’s.

Please! Just look at the numbers. Over 100 million souls perished. A minority were Jews. That is true of the Death camps as well. We must mourn ALL the dead. ALL. Their religious beliefs as well as lack of them cannot come into play. They must not. That would be an abomination.

Heydrich’s assassination in 1942 ensured that every crime attributed to the Reich was reinforced by the Allied Prosecutors as well as by the Nazi war criminals on trial at Nuremberg and laid at the feet of a dead man.

Senator Robert Taft refused to serve on the Judgment at Nuremberg because most of the high-ranking Nazis on trial had been tortured. Why has this news not been disseminated? Are we allowed to think it might have been suppressed? Do we run the risks of being branded Anti–Semitic by asking these questions?

One could only assume that the Allies had an unquenchable thirst for Revenge. An old Testamentary vengeance. Only the Death of high-ranking Nazis could stanch the rivers of blood, which had flowed in World War ll. That most of the mutilated and the dead were German and Russian civilians was never considered.

Indeed Prime Minister Churchill had pondered on several occasions the possibility of exterminating 30 million German civilians – the elderly, the women and the children.

I quote Benjamin Disraeli “I protest against meeting atrocities by more atrocities. It is justice we seek, not vengeance. I have heard things said and seen things written of late which would make us almost suppose that the religious opinion of the people of England had undergone some sudden change and that instead of bowing before the name of Jesus, we were preparing to revive the worship of Moloch. ‘’

Disraeli is referring to the Indian Mutiny of 1847. The English Army considered savage reprisals for the killing of English military and civilians. He was then Prime Minister, and the quotes above contain parts of a speech he gave before the British Parliament.

It was expedient for the Allies to ignore as well as allow this duplicity in Nuremberg to take place. There was a pressing need to hide the vital importance the Allies had played in the Jewish and German Holocausts.

“One of the prerogatives of Power is the ability to write and rewrite History, with confidence that there will be little challenge.” Noam Chomsky tells us in his book HEGEMONY OR SURVIVAL.

Since the world began, the victors have always been the so-called good guys. They write the books, concentrate on the crimes of the vanquished, whitewash their own, and define the memories. I call them Harlequin Narratives, because they are a patchwork of black and white. The blackest villains are always the vanquished, while the pristine qualities belong only to the victors. It has ever been thus. Perhaps, in the 21st century, we should reconsider this arrogant ‘’forma mentis ‘’ of those few Moneymen and War industrial complexes that proclaim themselves the Winners.

The “Masses” and the “ Public” never consciously work for the triumph of anything. They are pushed around, manipulated, thrashed and duped by whatever highly organized and powerful group obtains “POWER” over them.

The solid compact of “workers“ never works for a general strike, but general strikes are proclaimed in their name.

This applies even more to soldiers; the cannon fodder of powerful cabals and groups. War is declared on their behalf, but soldiers have never had the right to any opinions, other than about what is happening to them as they are maimed, blasted, or killed along with their comrades.

“The truth is more complex and rarely simple, if ever truthful,” one who should know what he is talking about … Oscar Wilde ... tells us.

Reinhard Heydrich served as a model for all future spymasters in the CIA, KGB, MI6, Stasi, Boss and the MOSSAD. That is, if they aspired to be the best in the high stakes game of total and almost infallible Intelligence. It is ironic that he was the prototype for “James Bond”, not those he fought against.

CHECKMATE also deals with the web of lies perpetrated by the Axis and Allied Powers in WWII.

For the sake of clarity, Germany, Japan and Italy formed the Axis Powers. Britain, the Soviet Union, and America, were known as the Allied Powers. Its leaders - Hitler, Stalin, Churchill, and Roosevelt, deceived their people often and without qualms.

“In wartime, truth is so precious that it must be attended by a bodyguard of lies,” wrote Churchill years after the end of the Second World War.

The use of government for class purposes, to serve the needs of the wealthy and powerful permeated British, European, American and Germany society and therefore Heydrich. It was camouflaged in words, which suggested that all the people, rich and poor and middle class had a common bond. DECEPTION. This thought survives to this day.

For example: Historians, politicians and the media in particular, had/have created a myth that the United States is a classless society with one common interest - the Preamble to the Constitution, which declares that ”We, the People” wrote this document. More Deception.

The Founding Fathers were fifty-five rich, white, Anglo-Teutonic Protestant, Masonic men - slave owners, merchants, bond holders and plantation owners - who built a strong central government that would serve their class interests. Everything and everyone who were part of “The People” would serve their interests.

This class interest was well hidden by impenetrable walls known as “the national interest” Thus, we have not only a distorted view of World War II, we are for the most part unaware of the important role the American government, Wall Street, and the country’s tycoons played in the rise of the National Socialist Deutsch Arbeit Partei - the Nazi Party and its leader Adolf Hitler, in particular the ascent into Power of the SS, as embodied by Reinhard Heydrich.

Benjamin Disraeli, British Prime Minister, statesman and novelist in the late 19th century, possessed an excoriating tongue equal in scope to his counterpart in the United States, Mark Twain, whom he admired. He took transparency and candor in high political office to heights rarely ever seen before or since.

Benjamin Disraeli is important to CHECKMATE, my story of Reinhard Heydrich, because the adolescent Reinhard read his novels and biographies and was inflamed, that was his first impact in the labyrinths of realpolitik. He would never meet anyone quite like Disraeli again.

For this writer, the acquaintance with Benjamin Disraeli is a rare privilege. In our present world of mediocre, blood thirsty, lying Leaders, Disraeli stands out as the rarest of diamonds.

‘’The World is governed by very different personages from what is imagines by those who are not behind the scenes," reveals Disraeli.

This occurred even as the ten-year-old Reinhard witnessed at first hand the humiliation, hyperinflation, degradation and Civil War, which Germany suffered as a result of her defeat in World War I.

“It is otherwise known as the Great War, great, I think because of the number of dead,” Heydrich often reminded his “Brainstormers in the SS and SD, when he was their Chief of Intelligence.

Disraeli was of Sephardic Jewish descent, a fact that seems to have disturbed neither Heydrich nor his parents who no doubt paid and consented to all his reading material.

I would venture to say that Disraeli had as much influence on Heydrich as Aristotle exerted on Alexander the Great, which is to say very little.

The Heydrich who emerged at age 23 to create the SS out of a broom closet with no money, to the vast organization of over 300,000 agents and a budget of hundreds of millions of pounds sterling, was a different being from the upper class child who had never had a childhood, the idealistic adolescent, who dreamed of becoming a bio-chemist as well as a concert violinist and the brilliant naval officer whose career was ruined by the unstable, daughter of a corrupt, defense contractor, who bought and paid high ranking officers in the German Navy.

Some historians claim Bruno Heydrich, Reinhard's father, a gifted tenor and composer, admired by Richard Wagner’s widow, the fearsome Cosima, was anti-Semitic and imparted this feelings to his son. Bruno Heydrich chose the best musicians to sing and play in his operas, regardless of religious beliefs. He had strong feelings of nationalism, which was shared by millions of Germans, including assimilated German Jews,

Please note: The word Semitic is a linguistic not a form of racial distinction. It is derived from Shem or Seem, one of the sons of Noah. Both Arabs and Jews claim descent from Shem/Sem. Indeed, Sumerian, Phoenician, Babylonian, Hebrew, Aramaic and Arabic are Semitic tongues, unlike Sanskrit, Latin, English and German which are Indo-European.”

Reinhard would immerse himself in Niccolo Machiavelli’s, The Prince, at the age of 23, when Heinrich Himmler, with the approval of Adolf Hitler appointed him Chief of the nascent SS - the SCHUSTAFFEL. He would have delighted Machiavelli. In some quarters, Heydrich is considered a Renaissance man. And I would concur.

His unique Zeitgeist in dissecting human emotions and desires, then attuning himself to those ingrained instincts, made him the most powerful figure in the shadows of the Third Reich. He had a thorough knowledge of all the secrets within the Reich, starting with the Fuhrer himself.

Through Richard Sorge, a highly paid German double agent for the SS as well as Stalin’s NKVD, Heydrich was able to keep count of the gastric attacks, which afflicted Stalin. Heydrich went to extraordinary and expensive lengths to pay the extravagant Sorge. This significant information, which was sold to Heydrich, meant that poisonous plants, flowers, reptiles, even fish and mollusks could be used to poison Stalin … at the time of Heydrich’s choosing. Toxins from these substances, if placed in Stalin’s vodka, or chai, would take effect more quickly in one suffering from gastric disturbances. There are some poisons, which do not leave any traces during a forensic examination. A bio- chemist like Heydrich would have known and cultivated that.

He was kept apprised as to the medications Prime Minister Churchill’s doctors were using to treat his frequent attacks of debilitating Depression as well as his see – saw hypertension.

President Franklin Delano Roosevelt ‘s condition fascinated Heydrich. What pills, drugs, painkillers, and diet were his doctors using? Nothing was a secret to Heydrich.

He thought the doctors looking after the Fuhrer were charlatans and quacks. Since 1934, Heydrich knew the Fuhrer’s terrible secret. Parkinson’s Syndrome. The Spy Master in minute detail knew every amphetamine, tranquilizer, fruit and vegetable cocktail given to Hitler.

Tens of millions of pounds rained upon Research and Technology. Heydrich made sure of that. The never – ending funds came from lucrative joint ventures the SS had with American bankers, industrialists and financiers. Famous names like Henry Ford, IBM, J.P. Morgan, Union Bank of New York, John D. Rockefeller, Alex Brown, Averell Harriman, Paul Warburg, and Prescott Bush all helped to finance SS activities. Does the general public know these things? Are they interested enough to ask questions?

Heydrich had several maxims, which he used as guides throughout his career as Chief of Intelligence and later in his political appointment as Reichsprotektor of Bohemia - Moravia. I am quoting just a few which are relevant to CHECKMATE:

BRAINSTORMERS! WHAT USE IS GADGETRY AND WEAPONRY IF YOU ARE UNABLE OR INCAPABLE OF USING YOUR BRAINS?

FINALITY IS NOT THE LANGUAGE OF POLITICS.

CHANGE IS CONSTANT.

THE DESTINIES OF THE ENTIRE WORLD ARE IN THE HANDS OF DISTURBED MEN AND THEIR CRONIES. .

MOST OF THE PRESS IS ORGANIZED OPINION.

WE ARE INEFFICIENT, HENCE WE HAVE NO ECONOMY.

MAN IS TRULY GREAT WHEN HE ACTS FROM PASSIONS.

THE RICH AND THE POOR FORM TWO SEPARATE NATIONS IN THE WORLD.

THERE ARE THREE KINDS OF LIES: LIES, DAMMED LIES AND STATISTICS.

N.B. This was quoted from Benjamin Disraeli, the great British Prime Minister, who advised the young Queen Victoria. It has often been attributed to Mark Twain. It is inexact. Disraeli and Twain held each other in affectionate esteem. But the quote is Disraeli’s.

THE POWERFUL ARE NOT SAFE WHEN THE POOR ARE HUNGRY AND WITHOUT WORK.

ASSASINATION HAS NEVER CHANGED THE COURSE OF HISTORY. Again, this is a quote from Benjamin Disraeli.

Those statements are deep thoughts for any man let alone a Puppet master, and spymaster turned politician, such as Reinhard Heydrich.

That is the challenge I give the reader.

To enter with me, into dark and enigmatic areas during the turbulent times of the 30’s and the 40’s: where knowledge has been suppressed, and information twisted, Where the temple of Silence is considered so holy only a few should be privy to it.

Where the lines between Truth and Deceit are indistinguishable.

Where independent thought is a rare and precious commodity.

Where heroes and monsters are on the same razor’s edge.

That is what CHECKMATE is about. It is a carefully prepared lens through which to see the world from a slightly different perspective.

If Heydrich is the monster the world thinks he is ... how did he become this way?

How I Was Introduced to Reinhard Heydrich

2009-03-10T07:14:00.000-07:00

I first learned about the importance of Reinhard Heydrich from Count Otto von Skorzeny. The following is the tale of this meeting, and my recollections of our conversation.

I scrutinized the invitation. It was elaborately handwritten in sepia gold with a goose quill pen. A tall, good looking Berber clad in a red military uniform from the Moroccan Embassy in Madrid had politely insisted to Felix, our majordomo, “Tengo el deber de entregar este sobre en las manos de la Señora Condesa de Vacani. It is my duty to deliver this envelope to the Countess Vacani in person.”

The invitation was in French. I read it aloud in Castilian to the assembled members of my family that had gathered around the chestnut paneled library, enjoying churros and hot, thick chocolate for breakfast.

“His Excellency, Jacobo Bendahan, Minister and Privy Councilor to His Majesty King Hassan ll of the Royal Kingdom of Morocco, respectfully requests the pleasure of the company of Her Excellency Señora Condesa Isabel de Vacani to a dinner at Casa Tangiers, Puerta de Hierro, on the 27th day of May 1968. In honor of Her Royal Highness, Princess Lalla Aisha. Attire: Formal. Time: Eleven o’clock in the evening. R.S.V.P.”

“A dinner party at Jacobo Bendahan’s villa. He’s so fascinating. I’m bowled over!” I remarked, turning towards my mother Camilla and placing the invitation in her outstretched hand.

“Hmmm. He’s the famous Francoist financier. He is a cosmopolitan and a sophisticated man of the world,” observed Mother, passing the thick card to Uncle Matthias, her eldest brother.

“Jacobo is one of Madrid’s most important social arbiters as well,” he said, giving the card to Aunt Allegra.

“Ha! This has Nini’s fingerprints all over it,” she declared emphatically
.
Aunt Dahlia took the card and studied it carefully. “You all know he’s a Sephardic Jew. That means he and Jaime Pardo de Tavera are very close. Which means they both sent pots of money to Israel, especially during and after the Six Day War of 1966 ‘’

“Jacobo and Jaime are adept at navigating the tempests of Life and those of War,” opined Uncle Matthias taking a large sip of chocolate slowly.

Trust Aunt Dahlia to provoke people, thought I.

“Some say he’s a libertine,” added Aunt Allegra.

“That settles it, I’m going to accept the invitation. I’ll meet the most divine and dangerous individuals there. Ay! Por Dios! Do you realize I only have two weeks to think about the may-I-die-in-it gown I am going to wear?” I exclaimed, unable to contain my excitement.

“Just a minute, cariño. You’re eighteen years old. This invitation sounds like most of the guests will be at least twice your age,” declared my mother.

“That’s perfect. At the moment, I’m bored with people my own age. When the boys are not silly and sophomoric, they are dirty and revolutionary,” I retorted.

“She’s right, Camilla. I wouldn’t worry if I were you. It isn’t as if she can’t handle the likes of Jacobo or his guests. I’d consider it from another angle.”

All eyes were now on Uncle Matthias as he chuckled. “Do you think Jacobo and his guests can handle our Maribel?”

I prevailed. Aunt Nini (who was considered an adventuress by my family) had power and influence in Franco’s Spain. Her friendship with Generalissimo Francisco Franco dated back to the savage Civil War, which ravaged Spain from 1936 to 1939. Two million corpses haunted the land. They claimed that Nini had spied for the Nationalists while her sister Sissy opted to assist the Reds (the Communists) just to insure the survival of the family come what may.

“I am an old confidante of Jacobo, I have indeed maneuvered the invitation for you. We are living in very ambiguous times. I think you should immerse yourself in it as much as you can. This will restrain you from making rash judgments and pronouncements,” said Nini

“I am ever so grateful for this opportunity,” I murmured.

“There will be many more,” she announced.

An imperious Aunt Nini, in a black silk taffeta gown coutured by the Maestro Cristobal Balenciaga walked beside me. Ruby pendants three inches in length hang from her slender neck. I towered over her in spite of her spike heels but Nini had self-confidence to sell at any auction. We entered the foyer of Jacobo Bendahan’s mansion, “Casa Tangiers.”

“It could easily pass for a palace!” I remarked to Nini, as my eyes swept the Moorish inspired architecture, the fountains, arches and indoor courtyards.

’’Queridita, where do you think the Arabs or Moors who conquered Spain come from?”

‘’They came from Morocco,” she told me before I could open my mouth to reply. “You are to address me as Nini in all the High Society soirees. We’re supposed to be cousins,” she reminded me hastily.

I suppose calling her Auntie ages her in some way. "So be it,” I sighed softly and nodded in her direction.

“Hola! Nini. Que Tal?” Hola, guapa!” exclaimed Jacobo all in one breath.

He strode towards us, elegantly clad in a silk caftan embroidered in gold. His arms enfolded Nini. They kissed each other the Arab way. Right cheek, left cheek, then again on the right cheek. The number three was sacred to both Moroccan Arabs and Sephardic Jews. It appeared frequently in Cabalist and Sufi writings.

“Hola,” I replied, giving him my right hand to kiss. There is an art to this ritual. A man’s lips must never touch an unmarried woman’s skin. A gentleman accorded harlots this act of chivalry as well.

Jabobo was a spellbinding personality. Magnetism flowed out of his five foot four frame. He spoke in a resonant and soft voice. You had to concentrate on nothing and no one to hear what he had to say. He positioned himself between us and lightly guided us into the inner courtyard of Casa Tangiers where the guests were reclining on low divans or large and plump silk cushions.

A giant, well-muscled yet graceful man rose from the soft, yellow cushions and was alongside us in one stride. He clicked his heels softly, bowed ever so slightly at Aunt Nini as he kissed her hand.

That was smooth, I thought. I’ve seen many men emerge with a soft, red indentation on their right cheek after executing the besa mano. Aunt Nini was never parted from her 37-carat diamond, which had been a gift from Eva Peron. In the presence of strangers, she never referred to her as Evita.

“It is a desecration,” she claimed.

I almost didn’t catch the giant’s name because I was struck by the panache with which he carried a faint, long dueling scar on his left cheek.

“Count something von Skorzeny,” Jacobo had said. Then it struck me. THE Count von Skorzeny. ’That’s him!’ The colonel in the SS who had masterminded the daring rescue of Il Duce, Benito Mussolini from the perilous Mount Sasso and had flown the plane to Germany. On D-Day and its aftermath, General Dwight Eisenhower had called him “the most dangerous man in Europe.”

Every detail was still fresh in my mind. A few weeks ago, I had finished reading William Shirer’s powerful book, The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich.

“I can’t believe a beautiful, coquettish eighteen year old would let the world pass her by and stay up night after night reading heavy stuff like that,” my mother declared despairingly.

“You don’t understand. It’s like Tolstoy’s War and Peace, Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago, Nietzsche’s Anti-Christ. Parties and beaus can wait. If they don’t, tant pis,” I had replied irritably because I had been forced to take my eyes off Shirer’s book.

“After twenty years that book will be so outdated, you’ll ever wonder how you could have placed it in the same breath as Tolstoy and the like,” chuckled my mother.

“Should I give him my hand to kiss?” I hesitated but only for a second. Jacobo had invited von Skorzeny. That made the circumstances mysterious and puzzling. Jacobo and his rich collection of nephews and nieces were cultured Sephardic conversant with the Torah, Quran and the Bible. Some served in the Israeli Army and others in the Moroccan Armed Forces.

I thought of Uncle Matthias’s remark, “Jacobo is adept at navigating in perilous waters.’’

Skorzeny bent towards my hand wordlessly. Wavy, brown hair with no grey stragglers. Dark blue eyes, full lips. Rugged good looks. Middle-aged with nary a wrinkle and exuding sex appeal from every pore. His movements were natural, his smile disarming.

I decided to let myself be swept by the flow. ’’En boca cerrada, no entran moscas ‘’ goes a popular Spanish aphorism meaning; Flies cannot enter a closed mouth. So, think rather than speak.

“A very good evening to you, Herr Graf von Skorzeny,” I murmured in the best Hoch Deutsch I could muster. Did I detect an amused twinkle in his eyes? A flash of attraction towards my youthful good looks and poise? I could not ponder it further because Jacobo steered my elbow towards a dusky youth in a golden caftan. I liked him instantly. We locked eyes

“Marhaba, Je suis Moulay Ali,” I am Moulay Ali. he declared in a low, seductive whisper.

Ah! King Hassan’s youngest brother. An unselfish hearted youth, I decided. Time and tragic events years later would prove me right.

“That was thoughtful and cunning of Jacobo to invite a group of young people,” I told myself.

The larger than life figure of Skorzeny kept intruding on my thoughts. William Shirer’s book had made me feel horror, revulsion, fascination and curiosity. Shirer’s book was a best selling book. Yet his persona was dwarfed by the larger than life swashbuckling figure of the SS pilot/spy/financier.

Something Jacobo had said to Baron Robert de Boisseson, Ambassador of France, caught my attention.

“You are aware, I’m sure, that we Sephardic are totally different from our Eastern European brethren. We came from Judea. When the Roman Emperor Titus ordered the Diaspora, we settled in Morocco, Iraq, Syria and Lebanon, eventually traveling to Spain with the invading Arabs as administrators and officers in their army. We are Semites. We would not put our hands in the fire for the Ashkenazim. They, according to legend, are of Turkic Mongol origin and came from Central Asia.”

I glanced quickly at von Skorzeny who was sitting across Jacobo at the long, low, oak banquet table. He was listening in rapt attention and made no attempt to dissimulate

I think it was my questioning mind that first drew me to Otto von Skorzeny. Why was Spanish aristocracy courting him? The Franco regime was his host. He lived in splendor in Puerta de Hierro, the ghetto of the super rich. Doris Duke, Barbara Hutton, Bobo Rockefeller, Perle Mesta, Doris Fondren, American heiresses all, swimming in millions and millions of money, vied for Skerzany’s attention and financial contributions to their favorite charities and balls in New York and Washington D.C.

In Paris, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor feted Skorszeny at their gay parties. Pauline Rothschild and Baron Philippe de Rothschild were frequent guests. That puzzled me. Philippe’s first wife had perished in a concentration camp. Dachau, I thought.

Then there was the attention Aristotle Onassis showered on Skorzeny. He had married Jacqueline Kennedy a few months earlier, so I thought his attention now was very intriguing. I asked Aunt Nini for clarification.

“Men who possess that kind of wealth don’t bother to have political convictions, scruples or ideologies. Lucre is their god. Onassis has always done business with Nazis, Fascists, Jews and Arabs, He has no prejudices and he is right in that attitude of business is business. The ancient Romans used to say that money has no odor,” she explained patiently.

“The rules are that there are no rules,” Onassis often remarked.

”I reflected that this reasoning applied to Otto von Skorzeny as well, and to society in general.

I decided to cultivate Skorzeny. I soon discovered we belonged to the same fencing academy. Would I be a good enough fencer to engage him in a match? Probably not. I was a fresh, new presence in society. Young, intelligent, talented and full of curiosity. I was well read for someone my age, spoke and wrote articles in English and Castilian.’ ’People and Places. News and Notes” was my byline in the Spanish Daily News, an English language newspaper, widely read by the international community throughout Spain. It was entirely financed by the C.I.A. but I would not be apprised of this until I became Head of Gucci Public Relations, in Rome and New York a few years later.

Quite a few men said I was intellectually brilliant. There was also a financial disinterest Skorzeny would appreciate. No begging bowls would be passed to donate money to my favorite charities. At least not yet. At that age I was narcissistic enough to believe that I should be the recipient of gifts and largesse from men. That was another point in my favor. My extreme youth and the history of my clan gave me a great deal of face. They were unabashedly friendly with Madame Chiang Kai Shek, General MacArthur, Ryoichi Sasakawa, a Japanese war criminal, Lady Chichibu of the Japanese Imperial family, the Baron Okura, who was Chief of the Kempeitai, the Japanese Imperial Secret Service, during the war in the Pacific, the Kadourie clan (Iraqi Jews in Hong Kong), the Pardo de Taveras, Masonic and Sephardic Jews in Manila, Marrakech and Madrid.

My grandmother Esperanza, who was in Sagaro, with her wealthy Catalan cousins in the Costa Brava, never cared much for the opinion of so called society. She cultivated friendships with men and women on the basis of realpolitik and heart, with equal blends of both.

“I’m thinking of writing someday when I’m much older and I have lived... about... a spectacular figure of Nazism,” I told Skorzeny, accosting him at the arched entrance of La Academia Real de la Esgrima.

He broke his steps. With clenched jaws, he studied my face. I did not play the blushing maiden or the cute coquette. I observed his face as well. A slight grin appeared. It was plain to him I must have made inquiries about his schedule, and that I had planned this with care.

“My partner has the grippe (influenza). If you concur, why don’t we practice some thrusts and feints?”

Was I adroit enough to duel with him? I reflected. I was much younger and swifter. He was older and more experienced. He was an accomplished SS.officer, close to the final chapters of his book of life. I was just opening mine.

“Perhaps I’ll be good enough to interest you to teach me the mechanics of some thrusts,” I ventured to comment, injecting some humility into my voice

Then he threw his head back and roared with laughter. “The cheekiness of youth,” he said.

“Is that a yes, Herr Graf von Skorzeny?”

He was still smiling when he chuckled, “Let’s get ready Condesa de Vacani. I try never to keep ladies waiting, especially when they are young.”

The liveried server padded quickly and gently towards us. The irony was too stark. Outside the salon, the clash of foils, sabers and rapiers was electrifying. Count von Skorzeny and I were drinking Lapsang Suchong black tea, the Austro-Hungarian way, out of small glasses with gold handles.

“Firstly,” he said, with a level expression and tone, “the word Nazi is incorrect. It is Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei . The English diplomats used National Socialist Deutsche Arbeit Partei, that’s close enough. We never used that word - Nazi. We referred to ourselves as National Socialists, or NSDAP. The English media for reasons of practicality probably coined the word. Nazi takes up less space in the headlines. Mind you, I am giving them the benefit of the doubt. It was psychological as well. By shortening our name NSDAP to Nazi, it was a form of degradation.”

“Thank you for the clarification. It is gracious of you to spend time explaining some portentous events in the early twentieth century,” I replied.

“It is difficult to write about events historical or personal while you are living it. You can’t really see the panorama. Time is the best and the worst comrade of history. Too much disappears yet many things also come to light as time goes by. The victors always write the books. Their opinions are those that prevail. Let there be no equivocation. They take the spoils and define the memories. It has ever been thus.”

He emptied his glass of tea. I had been so intrigued that I had ignored mine and it was cold. He ordered two more glasses. I resolved to enjoy the Lapsang Suchong and drink it this time around.

“Time is not kind to the victors. I am not referring to twenty or even fifty years. Any serious observer of history will tell you that,” he gazed at me and scrutinized my face. “Have you considered which figure in the Germany of the Reich of the twentieth century you find the most compelling?”

“I’m not sure. I can tell you which ones I will not tackle. Hitler... Himmler...Goering...Rosenberg...Goebbels, Perhaps even the grey Borman,” I declared.

“Ach! That’s smart. Everyone will write about the Fuhrer and,” he paused as he waited for the server to bring the tea on a gilded tray covered with a linen doily over to us. When he was out of earshot, von Skorzeny said, “The others don’t matter. They were appointed to their posts because they were the Fuhrer’s cronies. You must not underestimate them and think that they were stupid, only that they were unsuited for their jobs Hitler was not unique, Most leaders stuff their cabinets with their cronies and friends.”

There was a long pause. I sat still, thinking, The scent of the tea is sensuous. I must not let it get cold again. That would be a sin. I lifted the glass with the gold handles and took several sips slowly.

He kept studying me even as he lifted his glass towards me, drank the tea and put it down. The muscles of his face were soft but there was a hard glint in his eyes.

“You are going to need cojones for what I’m about to tell you. Most men and women think they have it, but it’s not true.”

As he lifted his glass, I followed suit. This time he clinked it against mine.

“Concentrate on Heydrich: my Chief,” he declared almost as ‘an aside except that his voice suddenly went wobbly. ‘’Heydrich.’’ He repeated for emphasis, ’Reinhard Heydrich.’ That is the way he introduced himself. Always.”

“He was a sort of Renaissance man, was he not? Gifted with every conceivable talent by the Gods,” I observed.

“He was that indeed. There was a man who never depended on cronies. He always sought out the best and the brightest. He even had Jews in the SS and in the SD, personally handpicked by him. That is a great quality in any man who is born to lead.”

“We are talking about Heydrich, the young head of the SS and the SD? I thought Himmler was the Chief. That’s what Shirer’s book says.”

“Himmler was an old crony of Hitler. He headed the SS in name only. Heydrich ran it. Heydrich ran everything. After his death in 1942, Himmler had to really take over and he botched it. Hitler appointed four men to take over Heydrich’s duties after he died. That gives you an idea just how valuable and tireless Heydrich was,” affirmed Skorzeny.

“I saw several photographs of Heydrich in William Shirer’s book when he was Head of the Eastern European provinces. He seemed so young,” I said.

“He was young, in his early thirties. By the way, the correct term is Reichsprotektor of Bohemia-Moravia. Remember, the vanquished are often ashamed, and stunned in defeat. Especially if their country lies in ruins as far as their eyes can see and there is famine everywhere. The people are broken in spirit. That’s another important component in war. They allow distortions and falsehoods to spread, much as they themselves once did. That’s the nature of men and of war.”

“Did you ever get to know Heydrich?’’

“He frequently visited the SS Academy to talk to us and sound us out on different topics. Almost all the cadets had a large photograph of the Chief in their rooms. That was taken when he won the Pentathlon for the SS.”

“Did you love him”?

“Heydrich never allowed anyone to get close enough to love or like him. We all admired and respected him. That’s what it was all about – Admiration and Respect. He did not want to be liked. Respect was what he sought. Believe me, he got it, even from Hitler.”

“Shirer refers to him as The Butcher of Prague. Is he mouthing propaganda?” I asked boldly.

Skorzeny smiled, took a last sip of tea and told me. “You are a beautiful debutante, Wait about thirty years. Live a constructive life. Study human beings. Learn to read them like books. Ask questions about everything. Don’t take the word of any government, writer or journalist. Think, and then decide. Heydrich did wonders in Bohemia/Moravia now called Czechoslovakia. His political success was spectacular. That’s why he had to be assassinated. Prague will not remain Communist forever. I give those Bolsheviks twenty to twenty five years at the most. I will not be alive. But please remember me and my statement.”

Then Skorzeny abruptly changed the subject. “What is your opinion of Oriana Fallaci’s interview of Ava Gardner?”

“She savaged and brutalized her. It’s almost as if she resented the beautiful, independent spirit of Ava Gardner and had to attempt to crush her. Only a woman could do that to another woman,” I declared angrily.

“Perhaps. It is not easy for any woman journalist to interview someone as beautiful as Ava Gardner. I think a man might have been worse. It is still a man’s world after all. If you want good journalism and reporting read Martha Gelhorn. She is brave, bright and beautiful. She knew Heydrich. If you ever meet her, ask her for her opinion.”

I hesitated’’ How did she and Heydrich come to meet? I was an enthusiastic admirer of Martha Gelhorn even if she claimed to dislike Germans. I wondered why Hollywood did not do a movie about her life.

“Martha Gelhorn used to be married to Ernest Hemingway, but I’m sure you are aware of that. She knows Spain much more profoundly than he.’’

“No”, I lied. Choosing not to show all I knew.

The Duke and Duchess of Windsor had dealings with Heydrich. Charles and Anne Morrow Lindbergh are more conversant, certainly more intelligent than either of those party loving aristocrats. Your aunt Nini might have met the Chief, perhaps during the Civil War in the thirties. She knew Himmler surely. He was often entertained by Grandees of Spain at Horchers Restaurant or the Jockey Club, both still very elegant, with exquisite food,” declared Skorzeny.

“I think I should also talk to Jews who might have had dealings with him,” I said.

“You must talk to as many people as you can, friends, enemies and detractors. Keep diaries, notes, make observations. Live your life to the fullest and wait. Regretfully, I don’t think I’ll be alive if and when you decide to write about my enigmatic chief: Heydrich. Time will truly give you many surprises about him. And not only about him,” he exclaimed.

That is an equivocal statement. What a mysterious man. He strikes me as one who loves his country. I wish I could plumb all his secrets. He’s telling me in between the lines that I must dig them out by myself.

All I could think of saying was “thank you, I’ll remember what you’ve said”.

“I travel frequently on business but whenever I am in Madrid, remember that I am at your disposal. You can leave a message with my wife if you call while I am away.”

He handed me a cream colored calling card embossed in brown letters. They contained his private telephone numbers.

“Auf Wiedersehen. I am sure we shall meet at Jacobo’s diffas and at other events,” I said trying to act with nonchalance.

A few months after the encounter at the Fencing Academy, Jacobo Bendahan invited me to a Grand Gala honoring Christian Dior. Baron Robert de Boisseson hosted it, the suave and worldly wise Ambassador of France. Jacobo and his party of 12 guests had ringside seats as the snooty models galloped down the runway. The movie star and legend Ava Gardner was also one of his guests. Her escort was none other than Count Otto von Skorzeny. It was now clear why he had asked me about Oriana Fallaci’s interview with her.

‘’But Jacobo’’ I asked, turning to look at him squarely in the face in his Rolls Royce, as his driver took the lane towards the Avenida de la Castellana, where I lived, ‘’I thought the S.S. exterminated millions of Jews and not only Jews.’’

‘’Hija, the truth is much more complicated and rarely as simple as others would have us believe’’ replied Jacobo. He then leaned back, closed his eyes for a few seconds. When he opened them he asked his driver to turn on the radio. They were playing Richard Strauss’ “Thus Spake Zarathustra”. It was clear Jacobo did not wish to elaborate on his sibylline statement. Good manners and prudence stopped me from probing any further.

London, May 27, 2001

I was gathering up my voluminous notes and books for my own book and screenplay “Checkmate” when one of my notebooks fell and accidentally hit the ‘’ON’’ button of the remote control. My husband and I watched the History and Biography channels frequently. Some of the documentaries shone by their impartiality. Others failed by the slant they chose to emphasize. Enough material fell between the cracks that it was useful if you knew how to distill what you heard, especially what you did not hear.

”Ooh, a program is just beginning’’ I cried out. It was on the Odessa File.

“The brains behind it was Colonel Otto von Skorzeny of the S.S.,” said the announcer.

“The news did not stun me. I looked at the Madrid diaries. The date of Jacobo’s Diffa in Marrakech had remained indelibly imprinted on my hippocampus.

The calm and confident manner he possessed, the affectionate way he had discussed Heydrich, his generosity regarding charitable events, his closeness with the Vatican Curia even with Pope Paul VI himself and his endless largess to the Red Cross as well as Unicef, it is to be expected that Skorzeny organized and ran the Odessa File.

I smiled at my husband with a conspiratorial air. He nodded. We sat down on the white leather sofa.

“Amore, don’t forget to tell me about Skorzeny after the documentary is over. You said you knew him in your dancing days in Madrid.”

Wordlessly, I showed Stevan the dates in my agenda

27 May 1942: Bomb attack on Reinhard Heydrich in Prague, Czech Republic.

27 May 1968: Diffa in Tangiers – Jacobo Bendahan’s villa Casa Tangiers, Madrid.

27 May 2001: In the morning, Documentary film on the Odessa File and Otto von Skorzeny. London.

27 May 2001: In the evening, I begun the first page of Checkmate: The Enigma of Reinhard Heydrich.

A quartet of mere coincidences? Yes and No.

I am now well past 800 pages, and can say I believe I fully understand and agree with Count Skorzeny when he told me he was the the most important man in the Third Reich.

Author's note: For more about Otto Von Skorzeny check out http://greyfalcon.us/Otto%20Skorzeny.htm

Checkmate: The Enigma of Reinhard Heydrich

Paul The Clairbouyant / Psychic Octopus Picks Spain over Germany

Recommended Reading On Women in the Third Reich

Once Upon A War There Was a Truce

Chapter 9: The Gift

Chapter 9: The Gift

Chapter 8: Swinemunde, 1922

Chapter 8. Swinemunde, 1922.

Chapter 7: On Patrol

Chapter 6

Chapter 5: Easter 1921

Chapter 4: After WW I Has Ended

Chapter 2

Chapter 1:

Focus of this Book

Focus of this Book

Operation Nemesis: Day One

Introductory Remarks

How I Was Introduced to Reinhard Heydrich