Retribution

Excerpt #1 from Retribution

Munich, Germany

Monday, November 18th, 1946, 7:41 p.m. 

The cold was more bone-chilling than Stefan remembered. But then again, until the war ended, he had the advantage of heavy woolen winter coats rather than the threadbare gray Wehrmacht tunic he’d worn since he’d been captured. Thaler spent the equivalent of a day’s pay when he bought the heavy woolen sweater he was wearing, and it still wasn’t enough to ward off the December cold. Every shiver reminded Thaler of his winters on the Russian front.

Thaler kept his distance from his fellow laborers, who for the most part, respected his privacy. Like them, he was unsure of what the future would bring. Now, 18 months after the war ended, the Allies hadn’t figured out that Stefan Thaler was SS-Standartenführer Mattias Schopp. The passage of time increased Schopp’s confidence, yet the fear of being exposed made him cautious.

The manual labor of moving debris was just a means to pay for the necessities – eating, a place to sleep, and, when needed, clothing. What little was left over went into Thaler’s savings account at the recently opened Deutsche Bank branch in Munich.

Thaler had a bed in an eight-man bunkroom in a building repaired with the help of the Americans that had heat and hot and cold running water. Each man had a locker to store whatever he thought was valuable. This was, Thaler thought, a major improvement from the POW camp.

As soon as the Munich branch of Deutsche Bank opened a vault, Thaler paid for the largest box available and, over eight weekends, moved the gold bars from his stash to the vault. Left in the ground were his pistol and SS papers.

Once a week Thaler treated himself to the large servings of bratwurst, potatoes, and sauerkraut at the Hofbräuhaus on Bräuhaus Strasse. He waited patiently in line until the waitress led him to a small table against the wall. Thaler folded his grey Wehrmacht winter coat devoid of all insignia in thirds before putting the folded garment next to him. Issued to him by the Americans, it was not the warmest in the world, but it was the warmest he had.

Thaler put his copy of Die Neue Zeitung – a paper the Americans allowed to be published right after the war ended – next to his beer as the waitress put a plate of bratwurst, sauerkraut, and potatoes in front of him. The tangy smell of the sauerkraut increased his hunger. To read while he ate, he folded the page in half and then in half again to center the article on how the American Army defused unexploded bombs in German cities.

He was absorbed in the story when two men slid into the empty chairs opposite him. Thaler looked up and didn’t say a word. His menacing stare asked, “What are you doing at my table?”

The older man took off his black leather coat, which Thaler suspected once had the silver buttons of the SS, and placed it in his lap. He leaned over the table with his hands clasped and spoke in a commanding, but soft voice. “Good evening, Standartenführer.”

This was the first time since he walked out of his office at Buchenwald that anyone addressed him by his SS rank. Thaler forced himself not to react but wasn’t sure he was successful. Better not to say anything. These men could be policemen.

“Relax, Herr Standartenführer. We are comrades. The tables around us are filled with our comrades so we are not worried about being overheard.” The speaker pointed to the man next to him with an ugly scar running from the corner of his cheek all the way to his chin. He is not using names as his way of telling me that he, too, is being careful.

Thaler sat back. “Would you like some wurst?” He pushed the oblong bowl toward the man who was speaking.

“No, thank you. You are very kind to share your meal, but we have eaten.”

Forcing himself to control his breathing, Thaler still had not acknowledged that he was Standartenführer Schopp. The silence allowed him to cut another piece of his bratwurst and twirl sauerkraut around his fork before he put the morsel in his mouth. Hopefully, the tight knot growing in his gut from fear won’t cause him to throw up. If nothing else, he was putting the onus on speaking to his two visitors.

“We’re from an organization called ODESSA that stands for Organization Der Ehemaligen SS–Angehörigen. Our comrades formed ODESSA in 1944 when the war was going badly, and our leaders wanted to help those most wanted by our enemies to leave Germany.”

Thaler never thought he was senior enough to interest ODESSA. “How did you find me?”

“That was easy. A clerk who processes work permits recognized you from your days in Ukraine. We have agents all over Germany and Austria. If you want, we can get you out of Germany and away from any war crimes trials.”

“Interesting, but why would the Americans be interested in a Feldwebel who did his duty?”

Both men chuckled at Thaler’s attempt to maintain his cover. “Look, the Americans and British are poring over the SS’ records. Your personnel file shows you were assigned to Buchenwald. That automatically puts you on their wanted list.”

Thaler looked back at the two strangers as if to say, “That’s not good enough. Tell me more.”

The younger man reached into his overcoat, and Thaler reached across the table and grabbed his wrist. The stranger put up his other hand, palm out as if to say, “Please, I am not reaching for a weapon.” He took an envelope out of his pocket and placed three photos in a neat row.

On the left was Schopp’s official SS photo taken when he was promoted to Standartenführer. The second was a picture of him firing a pistol into the forehead of a man standing on the edge of a mass grave. The photographer managed to capture the victim’s body reacting to the bullet spraying blood and bone as it slammed into his forehead. Thaler recognized the photo from Babi Yar.

The third photo was of him in the mottled camouflage fatigues given to elite SS units. Schopp was firing his Schmeisser machine pistol into a row of men whose hands were tied behind their backs. In the black-and-white image, one can see the arc made by six brass casings being ejected from the gun.

“Herr Standartenführer, these are very good pictures, and the Americans have the negatives. Whoever printed the original photos noted down who was in the photo, what was happening, and the date and location in the Ukraine. We are sure the Soviets have these pictures, too. If I were you, I wouldn’t visit the East Zone anytime soon because the Russians have issued an arrest warrant for you. If the Americans and British find you, they are obligated to turn you over to the Soviets. I imagine that it would not be a pleasant experience. Based on your time on the Eastern Front, I think you would agree with me.”

Unmoved, Thaler used his forefinger to pull the second then the third picture in front of him so he could see them better in the dim light. As he slid them back, he forced the memories of his time in Ukraine back into the recesses of his mind.

“Interesting. Please tell me why you are here besides to warn me that I am on a Soviet wanted list?”

“To offer help if you want to escape Europe. We can get you to a country where you will be safe, so you can start a new life.”

“I don’t have any money to pay for this.” I have gold bars that I am not going to tell you about, nor leave behind. And, I do not have much cash.

“ODESSA has plenty of money.”

“I don’t want to leave. I have official papers stating that I have been vetted and am Feldwebel Stefan Thaler from Dresden. They have worked so far. Are you about to turn me over to the Americans for a bounty?”

“Oh no. We wanted to make contact and tell you that you have friends who can, if you wish, help you escape.”

“You said your organization has plenty of money, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Before the war, I wanted to go to law school. Once I am a member of the bar, I can do legal work for your organization as a way of paying you back.”

“You’ll need a transcript to go with your application.”

“My transcript from the University of Berlin would have to be….” Thaler stumbled for a word. “… slightly modified.”

“Where do you want to go?

“University of Innsbruck in the French occupation zone in Austria.”

The speaker’s eyebrows raised noticeably. “We’ll get back to you, Herr Standartenführer.”

“Please do.”

The two men walked out. One by one, the eight men, four at each table next to Thaler’s, finished their mugs of beer and left. The next time we meet, I want more proof of their identities.

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Excerpt #2 from Retribution

Tel Aviv

Tuesday, August 24th, 1948, 7:34 p.m. 

As he waited in the darkness of the apartment in Cairo, Dov played back the meeting three weeks ago that set in motion the flight to Athens, then to Rome, followed by another to Cairo. On each leg, Brodsky had a different identity and entered Egypt as SS-Oberführer Gert Appfel, formerly of the 14th SS-Infantry Division, also known as the Galicians. The division was made up of Ukrainians who wanted to fight the Bolsheviks, and in return, the Germans promised a Ukraine free of the Soviet Union.

If the Egyptians had access to the division’s records, they’d would have learned that Appfel was thought to have been taken prisoner by the Soviets. Dov’s cover story was that he had been wounded when captured but managed to escape. Across the aisle from him was Captain Emil Abend of the Israeli Defense Forces, whose passport said he was SS-Sturmbahführer Uwe Bauer.

When Dov walked into the conference room at Shai headquarters three weeks ago, the table was covered with surveillance photos. In some, the man’s face was so enlarged that the image appeared painted with grains of sand.

When Dov sat down, a photo was slid across the table to him. “Who are these guys?”

“Nazis advising the Syrian and Egyptian armies.”

“Where were they taken?”

“Some in Egypt and some in Damascus. All were taken less than a week ago.”

Dov studied the face in front of him and picked up another photo. After a few seconds, he exhaled visibly.

The head of Israeli military intelligence tapped one of the photos. “Dov, do you know anything about these men?”

“I do. And, if we took these to Simon Wiesenthal, he could tell you a lot more than I can.” Dov picked up the first photo. “This is Eric von Tromar, who was a member of Einzatgruppe I in Poland. He finished the war as an SS-Brigadeführer, equivalent to a brigadier general. Tromar bragged that he liked to execute people from the front so he could watch their eyes as he aimed his pistol.”

Dov tossed the picture on the table and pulled another one toward him. “This is SS-Oberführer (senior colonel) Otto Bierbrich. He’s ruthless, will follow orders to the letter, and enjoys killing. Von Tromar is wanted in the Soviet Union and the United Kingdom. If a partisan killed or wounded one of his men, he had his men kill every man, woman, and child in the partisan’s village before burning the village to the ground. After Normandy, he stood 40 captured British soldiers in line and put a bullet into the head of every one of them. He is not, as the Americans like to say, a nice guy.”

He dropped the photo and pulled several more toward him. “I’ve researched these bastards, too. Again, they all have extensive combat experience against the Allies and the Red Army. So, I’d like to suggest two things. One, I take a few of these photos to Simon Wiesenthal and see what he can tell us about these men. Second, let’s kill as many as we can.”

Dov was and wasn’t surprised by the next question. “After you go to Linz, how do you propose to assassinate these men?

A week later, he was in Cairo with Emil, who now spoke fluent Arabic. Brodsky picked him because Emil, an experienced officer, came highly recommended.

They followed four German officers from where they lived to a local restaurant, and then, once they knew they were going to stay for a meal, Dov and Emil picked the lock on their apartment and waited.

Neither Emil nor Dov said much as they searched the apartment and found documents that would help Shai trace their movements from the end of the war to their entry into Egypt. Dov hoped that, with further study, the papers would provide them with insight into how ODESSA operated.

The sound of a key in the lock momentarily froze both men. Dov’s nod sent Emil to a position against the wall and behind the door. Dov waited until Bierbrich found the light switch as the four men filed in before he commanded, “Alle vier von Setzt Euch auf der Couch! Jetzt.” All four of you sit on the couch! Now!

Von Tromar took a step forward. “Wer sind Sie? Sie haben mir nicht zu sagen was zu tun!” Who are you? You don’t tell me what to do!”

Dov stood up and pointed the suppressed Walther PPK at von Tromar’s chest. His voice was equally authoritative. “Herr Brigadeführer, ich kann und ich werde.” Herr Brigadeführer, I can and I will.”

The fourth man, Dov recognized from the surveillance photo as Hauptsturmführer Dieter Grenz, started to reach for a gun. Emil shoved the end of the suppressor on his PPK into the back of Grenz’s neck and took the SS officer’s pistol, which was another PPK. “I wouldn’t do that.” Emil’s Bavarian accent was evident when he spoke.

Dov waved the pistol with its long suppressor toward the couch. “Sit with your comrades.”

The four German SS officers did as they were told.

Dov stood in front of the four SS officers. “So, we have Erich von Tromar, wanted by the British and Russians for war crimes; Otto Bierbrich wanted by the Poles, Russians, Romanians, and Ukrainians for murder. Dieter Grenz, I believe you killed several American POWs, and then there is you, Sturmbahnführer Gregor Kassel. If memory serves, you were an SS penal battalion commander under SS-Oberführer Oskar Dirlewanger. The Americans, Russians, and particularly the Poles would all like to spend time with you.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Von Tromar was clearly angry.

“A person who must make a difficult decision. Do we turn you over to the Allies and let them try you for war crimes? Or do we turn you over to the State of Israel, whose prosecutors will make sure you listen to witnesses describe your crimes in detail before they hang you. Or maybe, you’d like to try breathing a little Zyklon B? Or do we just shoot you now?”

Bierbrich piped up. “You can’t do that? You don’t have the authority. You’re not the police, and the Egyptians will never extradite us.”

“Oh, we’re prepared to kidnap you. We don’t have time for the legal niceties of extradition. So, we’ll give you a taste of what you did to others.” Dov lifted his PPK and enjoyed the wild-eyed stares that betrayed the growing fear inside the four men. “Who wants to be first?”

No answer. “I didn’t think any of you would volunteer.” The PPK spat a bullet. Bierbrich’s head jerked back. Emil’s gun fired, and Grenz died.

Dov held up his hand and leaned forward so his face was just a foot or so from Von Tromar’s and then from Kassel’s. “We’re both Jews, and we’re from Israel. My associate, Emil Abend’s family was gassed at Dachau, and my name is Illya Radek. My family was one of thousands killed at Babi Yar. Von Tromar, you son-of-a-bitch, I know you were there along with your good friend Mattias Schopp because I’ve seen the photos.”

Dov stood back up, and as soon as the Germans processed what he just said, both Israelis fired. After they took photos, they left the four Germans sitting on the couch, blood leaking from the holes in their heads.

Two days later, the fishing boat Dov and Emil had boarded in Alexandria pulled into Haifa. When he returned home, after being gone for two weeks, Dov told Keren, “Four more Nazi SS war criminals are dead.”

“Good. I hope they rot in hell.”

Coming soon