Hitler's peace

Schellenberg knew Stockholm well and liked it. In late 1941 he had spent a lot of time in Sweden when Himmler had sent him there to encourage the dissemination of Hitler’s racial ideology.

Although a neutral country, Sweden was effectively enclosed by German-held territory and secretly allowed the passage of German troops on Swedish railways. It also sold Germany more than 40 percent of her iron-ore requirements. Nevertheless, while showing a congenial face to Germany, Sweden was proud of its independence-the Nazi Party had never achieved representation in the parliament-and guarded this independence jealously. Consequently, when Schellenberg arrived at Stockholm’s airport, despite his diplomatic cover, he was obliged to answer a number of questions regarding his business before being allowed into the country.

After clearing immigration, he was met by Ulrich von Geinanth, the first secretary at the German Legation and the senior representative of the SD in Stockholm.

Was it Schellenberg’s suspicious imagination or had the first secretary been just a little disappointed to see him?

“Good flight?” asked von Geinanth.

“They’re all good when you’re not shot down by the RAF.”

“Quite. How is Berlin?”

“Not so bad. No bombers this week. But they’ve had it pretty bad in Munich, Kassel, and Frankfurt. And last night it was Stuttgart’s turn.”

Asking no more questions, von Geinanth drove Schellenberg to Stockholm’s harbor area and the Grand Hotel close by the old town and the Royal Palace. Schellenberg disliked staying at the embassy and preferred the Grand, where, largely, he was left alone to take advantage of the excellent kitchens, the wine cellars, and the local whores. Having checked in, he left a message with the concierge for Dr. Kersten and then went up to his room to await the chiropractor’s arrival.

After a while there was a knock at the door and, always careful of his personal security, Schellenberg answered it with a loaded Mauser hidden behind his back.

“Welcome to Sweden, Herr General,” said the man at the door.

“Herr Doctor.” Schellenberg stood aside and Felix Kersten entered the suite. There was, he thought, a Churchillian aspect to the doctor: of medium height, he was more than a little overweight, with a double chin and a large stomach, which had helped earn him the sobriquet Himmler’s Magic Buddha.

“What’s the gun for?” frowned Kersten. “This is Sweden, not the Russian front.”

“Oh, you know. One can’t be too careful.” Schellenberg made the automatic safe and then returned it to his shoulder holster.

“Phew, it’s hot in here. Would you mind if I opened a window?”

“Actually, I’d rather you didn’t.”

“In that case, with your permission, I’ll take off my jacket.” Kersten removed the coat of his three-piece blue pinstriped suit and hung it on the back of a dining chair, revealing arms and shoulders that were the size of a crocodile wrestler’s-the result of more than twenty years of practice as a chiropractor and master masseur. Until 1940, when Germany had invaded the Netherlands, Kersten’s most important clients had been the Dutch royal family; but thereafter his chief client (Kersten had had little choice in the matter) was the Reichsfuhrer-SS, who now regarded the burly Finn as indispensable. At Himmler’s recommendation Kersten had treated a number of other top Nazis, including von Ribbentrop, Kaltenbrunner, Dr. Robert Ley, and, on a couple of occasions, Schellenberg himself.

“How is your back, Walter?”

“Fine. It’s my neck that’s stiff.” Schellenberg was already removing the stud from the collar of his shirt.

Kersten came around the back of his chair. “Here, let me have a look.”

Massive cold fingers-like thick pork sausages-took hold of Schellenberg’s slim neck and massaged it expertly. “There’s a lot of tension in this neck.”

“Not just my neck,” murmured Schellenberg.

“Just let your head go loose for a moment.” One big hand grasped Schellenberg’s lower jaw and the other the top of his head, almost like a Catholic priest giving a blessing. Schellenberg felt Kersten turn his head to the left a couple of times, experimentally, like a golfer teeing up a big drive, and then much more quickly, and with greater power, twisting it hard so that Schellenberg heard and felt a click in his vertebrae that sounded like a stick breaking.

“There, that should help.”

Schellenberg rolled his head around on his shoulders a couple of times, just to make sure that it was still attached to his neck. “Tell me,” he said. “Does Himmler let you do that?”

“Of course.”

“Then I wonder why you don’t break his neck. I think I would.”

“Now, why would I want to do that?”

“I can think of a million reasons. And so can you, Felix.”

“Walter, he’s attempting to make peace with the Allies. Surely, in that, at least, he deserves our support. What I’m doing in his name could save millions of lives.”