The first travel opportunity for a nice trip came with Erich Kuby, a journalist with
Stern
, who of all people had been sent to a concentration camp by the SS as a young man, and because of his horrible experience viscerally hated anyone who had worn the Nazi uniform. Kuby was a fairly leftist intellectual who saw himself more as a writer than a reporter. The chief editor and later publisher, Henri Nannan, gave him the assignment to write about the life and death of Clara Petacci in a long report. Some years before
Stern
had already published a rather touching account about her, but Nannen felt that they had not done justice to Mussolini’s lover and that the fascination surrounding her fate would certainly grip the readers. As a war journalist in Italy, Kuby had observed, from a distance, her final years with the Duce with a great deal of sympathy, and he empathized with the tragedy of her life. Kuby traveled to Italy in 1977, and Heidemann was assigned to him as an investigator. He also took along the former Highest SS and Police Führer and SS General Karl Wolff as an informant. The anti-Fascist Kuby was able to overcome his feelings and got on with his work.
He did not write the Petacci story. His book,
The German Betrayal
, was published instead. The article did not appear in
Stern
, even though it had financed the trip with salaries, advances and expense accounts, and the book was even published by another company. Kuby and Nannen had a falling out and their enmity went so far that the journalist called his former employer a pig in a pamphlet he wrote. In his book Kuby writes that the Italians did not betray Germany by changing sides in 1943, breaking away from the Axis and switching to the Allies, but rather that Hitler had permanently betrayed and deceived his friend Mussolini and the Italians. In the end, according to Kuby, Wolff also betrayed the Duce and his people by negotiating the surrender with the enemy without consulting the Italians and without their agreement. Even if Kuby did not say it explicitly in his description of those events, he additionally blamed the general as responsible for the execution of the Duce and Clara Petacci in a cloak-and-dagger operation. Wolff did nothing to protect either one because the Duce was now in his way.
In some respects, Kuby was right—in politics and war, basic morality always plays a role. But if the topic is morality, did the SS general by any chance find out during the trip to Italy what he had gotten himself into with Kuby?
Without Wolff’s information, the author would not have written his book that way. At one point he also called his traveling companion a “charming old man” who had “made himself available for those investigations with his candid recollections.” Blinded by his vanity, Wolff told the
Stern
journalist about all the various stages of important and intimate events. Wolff was in high spirits due to the local memories, and recounted his proconsular splendor; of big and small intrigues while unwittingly being, at the same time, the object of critical observation by the author. “We hear,” Kuby writes, “utterances from him that lead one to think of a sovereign authority.” Or, “We could also be speaking to Napoleon at St. Helena.” He often uses the corporate “we” and writes how “Wolff’s friendly courtesy” was not dampened by any bad memories because of his return to the same locations. The journalist sees the former general “as typical of our entire people, in a way”; that he developed the ability to “shake off an era of crime like a raindrop sliding down oilskin.”
Kuby had seen through Wolff’s attempts to avoid blame, so that his descriptions of his work become “belated embellishments, after-the-fact inventions” and patently false recollections. He views the account about kidnapping the Pope in a dubious light, as he is generally of the opinion
that Wolff’s “good deeds” in Italy, including the surrender, were basically an alibi to forget earlier and more disgraceful deeds. In Italy “the elegant Wolff became the Wolff who knew all the tricks.” Was he not like that long before? Apparently Kuby had not thoroughly investigated the background of his traveling companion.
The book was published in 1982, and Wolff appears in the index with the most page numbers; he couldn’t have found much joy in that, however, despite the strong attention. He therefore did not like to remember that his and Kuby’s names appear next to each other with a meaningful text in the guest book aboard Heidemann’s yacht. Heidemann captured that contemplative moment with his very odd friends in a snapshot. They are together at a table on deck, sitting and talking in front of glasses, with the riverbank, buildings and trees in the background. When the militant anti-Fascist was questioned about this text many years later, he said, “That is a dig at Herr Wolff; I find it very nice.”
The yacht was Heidemann’s favorite toy, but at the same time it worried him the most. He bought it in the mid-1970s in a dilapidated condition. The price, the renovation and maintenance went far beyond his own resources. He named the ship “Karin II” just as its first owner, Göring, had named it after his dead wife, who was Swedish. The new owner’s ambition was to put the ship back in the same condition as when it belonged to the Reich marshal. He hoped to get his money back in two ways, and make a good profit. Some mogul would buy the ship as a historical relic, laden with tradition, for a fantastic price. Until then, it would serve as a meeting place of former prominent Nazis who wanted to talk about the past in a confidential setting aboard those historical planks “to allow the glorious Third Reich to rise again.” He would eavesdrop with a microphone and tape recorder, and their conversations would then be published under the title “Conversations on Board” in
Stern
, and as a book. Before he even got started, he was already cashing in on the advances.
His friend Karl Wolff, whom he already addressed with “Du” for a long time, served as bait. Who from the old comrades could resist the temptation of meeting with Himmler’s right-hand man and Hitler’s special favorite? Several of the old guard had already met—for example, Wilhelm Mohnke from Hamburg, Brigadeführer of the Waffen SS (Major General) and the last commander of the Führer bunker beneath the Reich Chancellery until the bitter end on May 1, 1945. When Heidemann married for the fourth time on December 1, 1978, he got the two old warriors from the SS involved as best men. As usual, Wolff was asked
about his profession for the record by the Hamburg registrar. He proudly answered, “Retired General.” Mohnke, on the other hand, answered the same question with a simple, “senior citizen.” With that, the scene was no longer befitting his rank. Loudly and as a reprimand, Wolff cried out, “Wilhelm! You were also a general!”
The honeymoon took the newlyweds to South America, and was partially paid for by
Stern
because it also served as a business trip for Heidemann to pick up the trail of the Nazis hiding there. He was looking for Klaus Barbie, former SS officer and Gestapo official in France, known as the “butcher of Lyon”; the other SS and concentration camp doctor, Joseph Mengele; Eichmann’s Dutch friend Wim Sassen; and, strangely enough, Martin Bormann, Reichsleiter of the NSDAP, the secretary to the Führer and according to official certificates, already dead since May 1, 1945, as a result of suicide in Berlin.
*
Wolff was allowed to accompany the happy couple and
Stern
also paid for this. His task was to give lectures about his “glorious time” in war and peace for the members of the German Clubs in the South American capitals. Heidemann counted on the fact that Party comrades and the SS would appear out of curiosity. He wasn’t mistaken. Several dark figures showed up who avoided Germany because they would be called to account for their crimes. Barbie was among them. They needed several trips, however, and Wolff was therefore able to see a lot of the new world as an older man.
Until 1981, the Wolff-Heidemann team was out and about in Latin America. On August 22 of that year, the reporter wrote a letter to Klaus Barbie, in which he apologized because he had caused the addressee some difficulties in Bolivia with his articles. “I truly regret losing a friendship because of this stupid situation.” He was successful in “acquiring the majority of Hitler’s possessions—highly interesting sketches, watercolors and oil paintings, the pistol with which the Führer took his life in the bunker (a handwritten letter from Bormann guarantees its authenticity), cases of files from the Reich Chancellery, and most importantly the “Blood Flag.” Hitler used to consecrate the flags of new units with that swastika cloth at Party conventions by touching them with the old banner. The Blood Flag had supposedly been present on the day of the putsch on November 9, 1923, in Munich, when many National Socialist marchers were shot as revolutionaries during their demonstration in front of the Feldherrnhalle.
In that summer of 1981, Heidemann and Wolff were already busy with a project that would make the journalist well known throughout the world, and be more spectacular than all their other successes and investigations. They also hoped for profits in the millions, to avoid the bankruptcy Heidemann got himself into with the ship and the purchases of the National Socialist memorabilia. His speculations were only partially correct in that he did come into a large sum of money, which took him to prison.
The whole thing began when, through Mohnke, he met a wealthy businessman from the Stuttgart area who had bought up an unbelievable amount of National Socialist memorabilia—handwritten documents, sketches, watercolors, all by Hitler, but unfortunately, as it was later ascertained, all forgeries. Further this collector owned such dubious utensils as the supposed first flag of the National Socialist Party, the medals, watch and camera belonging to Adolf Hitler, as well as his tuxedo and top hat.
The Stuttgart military dealer Konrad Kujau had acquired these Nazi relics and many more. A purported diary kept by the Führer was also in his possession. It was a handwritten notebook, in the A4 size of regular writing paper; the book cover made of black material was decorated with a red cord and a red seal. Heidemann introduced himself to the owner of these splendid items as a collector who wanted to buy or trade, and also because he thought that this obviously rich man could arrange some interested parties for his yacht. However, when he saw the diary, he sensed it was a journalistic sensation.
The whole grotesque affair need not be told here—how Heidemann, after much talk back and forth, bought sixty such notebooks from Konrad Kujau in the course of time; how
Stern
announced its discovery in May 1983 with great fanfare, published the first report; and how one of the chief editors, Peter Koch, loudly announced that according to the newly discovered diaries, the entire history of the Third Reich had to be rewritten. German readers were spared this entire work because all sixty notebooks plus several addendums, for which the publishing company
of Stern
paid more than nine million marks (over five million U.S. dollars) to Heidemann, who passed it on to an alleged unknown supplier, proved to be forgeries when tested by experts. In May 1983 Konrad Kujau and Heidemann were taken into custody while awaiting trial on the suspicion of fraud, and the former confessed to being the forger.
Due to the investigations of the Hamburg prosecution, it became known how Heidemann wanted to use the coming to terms with the
German past to overcome a mountain of debt from his own past. Even more than that, he wanted this coup to ensure that he would be taken care of for the rest of his life. His publisher paid as a premium another 1.5 million marks for his difficult (and, according to his description, dangerous) acquisition of the diaries, was just icing on the cake. He had actually given a small portion of the nine million to the forger Kujau and had started other businesses with his easily earned working capital.
He had rented rooms for a “Gallery” in the chic Hamburg section, not far from the Outer Alster, where he wanted to present and sell his National Socialist junk. To expand his stock, he bought, for more than a quarter of a million marks, more old material from the Nazi period from Munich military dealers Wolff usually sold his clothing to. He then bragged about rarities, like a blue double-breasted suit from Hitler’s closet, a Göring uniform and objects allegedly dug from the rubble of a plane that crashed in the Erz mountains; and the diaries in Hitler’s possession, for example sketches he made and a wandering stick belonging to Friedrich the Great. He also bragged about a pistol that he had supposedly come across in Berlin during his own dogged research, with a piece of paper and a handwritten note: “30.4.45—Our Führer shot himself with this pistol. The situation is hopeless. Heil Hitler. Martin Bormann.” The paper was not removed. An old acquaintance of Wolff’s, SS Sturmbannführer Otto Günsche, Hitler’s valet at that time, visited Heidemann and determined that it was indeed the wrong weapon, since he was the first person to pick up the suicide pistol from the floor of the Führer bunker; it was different, made by a German manufacturer. (How could such a lapse get passed Heidemann? After all, a German Führer would also remain true to his Fatherland in death, and would prefer a weapon made of German steel.)
Wolff also benefited from Heidemann’s windfall. He received cash, bundled in 500-mark bills, as the publisher delivered them for the purchase of more diaries; 30, 000 marks for the honorary rapier, which Himmler usually bestowed upon deserving SS officers. It could only be worn at his side on celebrations. The piece of steel was certainly not worth that much, according to the market price; unquestionably there were also premiums included for services rendered. Wolff had, after all, also participated in Heidemann’s other speculative businesses.
The two had also looked for South Tyrolean hotel owner Franz Spögler during their trips to Italy working with Kuby. Despite his Italian citizenship, he was admitted to the SS under Wolff’s regency. As SS Untersturmbannführer and member of the SD, he had to protect and
guard Clara Petacci at Lake Garda. Aside from that he supervised a phone tapping operation in the basement of Mussolini’s office, which stenographically wrote down every telephone conversation of the Italian Head of State. Wolff and Heidemann had also spoken with him about the last days of the Fascist regime and about the fabulous treasure of Dongo. Discovered in the baggage of the Duce and his last loyal followers, the horde was thought to have ended up at the bottom of Lake Como. As a result of this conversation with Spögler, in August 1983 two of Heidemann’s diver friends tried to find the treasure. The unsuccessful venture cost almost a half a million marks.