He had also never been a member of the Nazi Party, though it was true that most of the German population had also not been members of the party.
Which left only the question of the flight out of Berlin. Obviously, von Berger mentioned nothing to them of his interview with the Führer. Indeed, he had put together a reasonable story with Ritter, while they were still together.
The story was this: Ritter had been ordered to Berlin in the Storch as a backup plane in case there were problems with the Arado assigned to fly out the new Luftwaffe commander, von Greim. There had been no problems, however. Von Berger, as one of Hitler’s aides, knowing that the plane was languishing in Goebbels’s garage and that the end was only hours away, had seized the opportunity to get out and had taken two of his men with him.
It was a perfectly simple explanation. There was no reason not to accept it, and Ritter backed it to the hilt, and so, in the end, that was that. As prisoners of war, they were disposed of in various ways. Many were sent to England for farm work. Amongst them was Max von Berger, who was posted to a camp in West Sussex. The regulations were minimal and each day he was allocated to a local manor house and its home farm, along with several other prisoners. There was nothing unusual in this. Officers up to the level of general found themselves working in such a way.
The truth was that the other prisoners deferred to him, called him “Herr Baron” with respect, and the owner of the estate, an aging lord, soon realized he had someone special on board, and not only that, a countryman by nature.
Before long, he was running things. The war was over, the villagers in Hawkley were decent people, and gradually the Germans were accepted, even for a pint in the pub. And then, at the end of 1947, German prisoners began to be returned home, and amongst them was Max von Berger.
It was snowing when he arrived in Neustadt off the local bus. It drove away and, a bag in his hand, he went up the steps and entered the inn, the Eagle. Local men were in there drinking beer, some eating, and he saw old Hartmann by the bar and Karl Hoffer and young Schneider at a table nearby eating stew. Someone turned and saw him.
“My God, Baron.”
Everyone turned, the entire room went still. Hoffer moved first, jumping up, running to meet him, in an excess of emotion, embracing him.
“Baron, we wondered where you were. I’ve been back six months and brought Schneider with me. His entire family was killed in the bombing in Hamburg.”
Von Berger put an arm around Schneider, who was actually sobbing. “Come on, boy, we got out of Berlin, didn’t we? There’s nothing to cry about.”
He called to the landlord, “The bill’s on me, my friend, let the beer flow.”
He turned to Hoffer. “I’m so pleased to see you. Let’s sit down.”
In a corner booth, they talked, young Schneider listening. “We’re getting by,” Hoffer said. “It’s mainly subsistence farming, but we’re all in it together. Everyone is taken care of.”
“And you?”
“Well, I act as bailiff. It gives me something to do.”
“You haven’t…”
“Found someone? No, Baron.”
“What about the Schloss?”
“We had the Americans for two years, so it’s in good condition. The thing you don’t know about is the… situation with Holstein Heath.”
“And what would that be?”
“When the border between the East and West was agreed on by the Allies, we should have been inside the Eastern zone, and Communist.”
“I thought we were in the Western zone?”
“Well, no, that’s it. We aren’t there either. The whole of the estate isn’t in either of the zones. Someone made a mistake drafting the map.”
Max von Berger was astonished. “You mean we’re a kind of independent state?” He laughed out loud. “Like Monaco?”
Hoffer, an intelligent man, said, “Well, not exactly. The police are technically West German. However, they’re all local boys, mostly ex-army or SS, so they see things our way.”
“Excellent.” Von Berger drained his beer and stood up. “Show me the Schloss.”
Hoffer did, and he’d been right. It was run-down, but the Americans hadn’t kicked it to pieces. Finally, they approached the chapel. It was dark in the early winter evening, but candles flickered close to the mausoleum. Von Berger stood and looked and noticed some winter roses.
“Who are those from?”
“Village women. They like to keep things right. It’s the same at the church for the others, my wife, the girls.”
Von Berger said, “That day, Karl, those final killings. It wasn’t that I was leaving it to you. I felt you had a greater right.”
“I know that, Baron.”
“Do you ever regret what we did?”
“Never.”
“Good. Now, pay attention. We were comrades then and comrades now, and I am going to share my greatest secret with you.”
He went behind the mausoleum and pressed the hidden catch. The statue groaned and moved. Von Berger reached in and took out the briefcase.
“This is the true reason we left Berlin.” He opened it and extracted the blue book. “This is Hitler’s diary, Karl.”
“My God in heaven,” Hoffer gasped. “Can this be true?”
“Yes. I’ll tell you later what’s in it, but right now we’ll put it back.”
He pressed the catch and the statue reversed into place. He fastened the briefcase and held it up.
“And in here is the solution to all our financial problems. I’ll explain it to you as we go. The first thing we must do is visit Berger Steel. We’ll need decent suits and some sort of vehicle.”
“I’ve still got a Kübelwagen from the war, Baron.”
“Excellent. Stuttgart then, but Geneva first. That’s where the money is.”
Geneva was amazingly easy. At the bank, the passwords and codes from the material given him by the Führer inspired immediate compliance. The rather ordinary-looking banker indicated how immense the resources were at his disposal, and he transferred ten million into a liquid personal account, thus establishing his name and status. The bank, in effect, jumped to attention.
His next move was to contact Berger Steel’s lawyers in Munich, leading to a meeting on-site at the Stuttgart factory. They toured it with the general manager, Heinz. It was working, of course, but in a low-key manner, a certain amount of steel-making, but not much more than that.
“As you can still see, we had bomb damage, but on the whole we were lucky and we’ve an excellent workforce,” Heinz told him.
The lawyer, Henry Abel said, “Cash flow and investment, that’s the trouble. We don’t have enough of either.”
“Not anymore.” Von Berger turned to Heinz. “I’m transfering five million into the company accounts tomorrow.”
“Dear God, Baron,” Heinz said, “I’ll guarantee you results with that kind of money.”
And so it proved. Over the years, the company contributed more than most to the miracle that became West Germany. As they developed into one of the most important steelworks, von Berger diversified into construction, hotels, the developing post-war leisure industry.
Soon his tentacles moved westward to the United States, his hotel interests burgeoning, and an ex-Airborne Ranger officer turned New York attorney named James Kelly proved more than useful, eventually becoming head of legal affairs for the American branch of Berger International.
At an early stage, he sought out Colonel Strasser, as he had promised, and Strasser became an adept troubleshooter, eventually overseeing all personnel matters for Berger. Ritter had been a different case. As usual with many wartime pilots, Ritter had been unable to go without the adrenaline rush, so though Berger had kept him as a personal pilot, it was never enough, and one day in 1960, Ritter, performing at an airshow in an ME109, stalled for the last time and plunged into the ground. At the funeral, they stood together, the Baron, Schneider, Hoffer, Strasser and Kelly, who had flown over from the States.