You would never think there was a war, Bethwig mused as he drove along the Charlottenstrasse past the well-dressed crowds. An amazing number of soldiers filled the streets, eyeing equally large numbers of girls clad in summer frocks. The mood was certainly not what one would have expected in the capital of a great nation at war. There were few signs of bomb damage visible, but air-raid shelters were conspicuously marked. Shop windows, although taped, were as full of goods as ever; and with war production in full swing, people had plenty of money to spend. Hitler’s promises were coming true, Bethwig thought, even though, by virtue of his father’s position and wealth, he tended at times to look upon the Austrian as a fool and a buffoon. Yet one had to admit that he had drawn the German people so solidly together after the disillusionment of the 1920s that the country was totally unified, and willing and able to meet the final Allied offensive against it. This time it will be different, he thought in a sudden burst of grim determination.
Opportunity enough, after the war was won, to clean out the scum that invariably worked its way to the top during periods of conflict. If only the Führer did not show so distinct a predilection for such men.
At the SS headquarters in Prinz Albrechtstrasse an elderly porter checked his credentials against a huge appointment ledger, and an unarmed corporal orderly then escorted Bethwig through quiet oak-panelled hallways to a tastefully furnished outer office where a receptionist offered him tea and telephoned through to announce his arrival.
He was made to wait less than five minutes – a gesture of high respect in Berlin these days, he realised – before an aide stepped through a side door, shook his hand, and in a flurry of meaningless small talk ushered him directly into Himmler’s office. A vast expanse of carpet stretched away to the far end of the room which, although the sun was bright outside, was shut into deep gloom by close-fitting curtains. So the rumours that Himmler expects to be killed by the British are true, he thought. Heydrich’s death must have sent him into a near panic.
A recessed ceiling lamp shone directly on to a single hard-backed chair set squarely before a large walnut desk. A smallish man bent over a single sheet of paper.
As Bethwig approached, Heinrich Himmler looked up, then removed his gold-rimmed pince-nez, and studied him.
The man does have a weak chin, Bethwig thought in surprise. Everyone said so, and it was rumoured that the Reichsführer kept it disguised by forbidding photographs from low angles. But in person there was no hiding it. Dark, nearsighted, and paunchy, Himmler was hardly the propagandist’s classic Nordic. No wonder Hitler had preferred Heydrich.
‘Ah, young man. You are the son of Johann Bethwig.’ Himmler had neither risen nor offered to shake hands. He inclined his head towards the chair, his manner making it quite clear that he was seeing Bethwig only in deference to his father – a politician storing up small favours.
But Himmler surprised him. He studied Franz from pop eyes for a moment, then flicked the sheet of paper so that it shot across the desk. Franz had to lunge forward to catch it. ‘I suppose you have come to see me about that?’ He pronounced the word that as if it contained all that was contemptible.
Bethwig began to read the sheet of double-spaced typing, but the accusations were so absurd that he had to start over again and read each sentence deliberately, like a lawyer. It bluntly accused von Braun of complicity in the plot that had resulted in the murder of Reinhard Heydrich by English espionage agents. Further, von Braun was accused of diverting scarce raw materials to his own ends, and establishing liaison with an enemy foreign power to destroy the German Reich. When he finished reading, he placed it back on the desk.
‘These charges are patently ridiculous. This entire document is the work of an incompetent ass.’ Bethwig was both calm and assured, and Himmler was clearly surprised, having expected either fearful denial or indignant argument.
‘An ass?’ He pushed his chair back and half swivelled away, only to spin back immediately. ‘That indictment was prepared by an officer of the Gestapo. How dare you call him an ass?’
‘Because he is.’ Bethwig stared at the Reichsführer, thinking of what had happened the last time he had challenged a high security official. ‘Wernher von Braun is one of the brightest and most loyal scientists in Germany. There is not one shred of truth in these accusations. Perhaps, Herr Reichsführer, the man who composed this is your real traitor.’
Himmler’s face flushed. ‘How dare you insult one of the finest officers of the State Police…?’
‘How dare he insult one of Germany’s finest scientists?’ Bethwig shot back. ‘Your man has disrupted a carefully thought out plan of research that can make Germany impregnable. The very man Doktor von Braun is accused of murdering commissioned this project and took an active interest in its development, with the express permission of the Führer.’
Himmler stood up and came around the desk. Bethwig could see that he was barely controlling his temper. ‘And that, Herr Bethwig, is the only reason I agreed to speak with you at all. Reinhard Heydrich was a close personal friend of mine. I was aware of his interest in the work being done at Peenemunde. I do not mind saying that he was so excited by it that I was obliged to counsel him against overeagerness. He, of course, was convinced that his plan was correct and chose to ignore my counsel.’ Himmler turned away then and paced around the desk.
‘That was his choice. But he is dead now, murdered in a conspiracy organised and directed by British intelligence. In a routine review of the circumstances the name of your friend von Braun came up. It was noted that he travels freely about Europe in a private aircraft, has access to the highest state secrets, and, in the past, has had contact with a British secret agent. As recently as 1938, if memory serves.’
Himmler held up a hand to forestall Bethwig’s protest. ‘You should know that less than eighteen months ago this same British agent was active at a factory in Liege, Belgium, which produces parts used in your experiments at Peenemunde. We know that this agent had direct contact with the criminal Belgian underground, members of which were also employed at the factory. Our investigations show that your von Braun has visited this factory several times.’
Bethwig felt his temper rising and drew a deep, if concealed, breath. Himmler was watching his reaction, his bright, protruding eyes staring fixedly.
‘Of course Wernher visits the factory. As I do. When Wernher last met this man, we were not aware that he was a British spy. I say “we”, as I also met the man. We learned his identity from a Gestapo officer a day later. That officer, the man who arrested von Braun, was sitting in the same room that night and did not think it important enough to warn us at the time. In fact, he waited until the man had slipped away before doing so. Now he claims – and I have no doubt that the one who prepared this indictment is that same officer – the encounter was of sufficient importance to implicate Doktor von Braun in a plot to murder his sponsor, Reichsprotektor Heydrich. I say it is nonsense and would not be permitted in any German court of law!’