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“One of the first things ol’ Harry did after FDR died in Georgia—in the arms of his girlfriend—was fire Edward Stettinius Junior, the secretary of State, and Francis Biddle, the attorney general. The story I get is that ol’ Harry was pissed, and I think justifiably so, because nobody had told him about the atom bomb.
“Or he might have been pissed with Biddle on general principles. Biddle is a Groton-Harvard-Philadelphia lawyer WASP. They tend to look down the noses at ex–Missouri National Guard colonels and their wives. Harry may have caught him looking down his nose at Bess.
“Anyway, he canned him. And almost immediately realized that was a mistake. Biddle has a lot of friends. So Harry threw him a bone and appointed him chief judge of the Tribunal. And then appointed his crony Bob Jackson as chief U.S. prosecutor to keep an eye on him. Getting the picture?”
“I think so. He wanted to make sure they got a fair trial before we hang them?”
“Not quite. As everybody in Washington is learning, Harry isn’t nearly as stupid as thought. Harry always thought that just shooting the bastards, as Churchill proposed, was a bad idea. He also thought t
hat just hanging them after a quick trial was a bad idea.”
“Why?”
“The Germans were just about one hundred percent behind Hitler. Hanging the bastards would make them martyrs. Unless the German people could be shown what bastards they really were. Hitler and Goebbels had them pretty well convinced that people of my religious persuasion were not only responsible for Germany’s problems, but controlled the world, including the United States.
“So, the Jewish-controlled United States won the war, assisted by the German generals and admirals who had betrayed the Führer, and as the dirty Jews could be expected to, promptly hung the nice people who had nobly defended Western civilization and Gemütlichkeit to the bitter end.
“Thus making Göring, Goebbels, Himmler, and company martyrs to the noble cause of National Socialism. Germany had been on its back before, after World War One, when the French took twenty percent of its territory and otherwise really screwed them. But, under the leadership of Der Führer, had risen from the ashes. Why couldn’t that happen again? You ever hear of Operation Phoenix?”
“Actually, I know a lot about it.”
“How come?”
“Well, I’ve been to Argentina, where the next thing I have to a big brother ran OSS there, and is now running DCI–Southern Cone.”
Krantz gestured for him to go on.
“I don’t know whether Göring was involved—he might have been—but I do know that Goebbels and Himmler sent huge amounts of money and gold—”
“Much of which had been gold teeth taken from the mouths of people murdered at Treblinka and other such places after they had been gassed and before they were fed to the crematoria.”
Cronley, nodding, continued: “Over there to buy property and influence so the big-shot Nazis could go there, to bide time and eventually rise from the ashes.”
“Which is what Phoenix means, resurrected from the ashes. So you’re not completely ignorant.”
“Only ninety-five percent.”
“I suspect that’s false modesty,” Krantz said. “Okay, so Harry Truman decided the Germans had to be taught what bastards their leaders were. How to do that? A show trial. The courtroom was rebuilt, including extensive provisions for newsreel cameras, and broadcasters. To make the press feel welcome, they took over this place. The trials would be broadcast over the German radio stations, and the newsreels shown over and over in German movie theaters. If it works, and it may, the Germans will learn what bastards their leaders were.”
“May work?”
“Bob Jackson is not doing a great job. Göring has made a jackass of him several times.”
“How?”
“Let me tell you about Hermann. Did you ever hear about his surrender?”
Cronley shook his head.
“He was on his private train. With his wife, Emily, and other members of his family, four aides, a nurse, two chauffeurs, two Mercedeses, a five-member kitchen crew, and several boxcars loaded with art—stolen art—that he had decided not to blow up when he blew up Carinhall—”
“Blew up what?”
“Unser Hermann was not only Reichsmarschall Göring but Reichsjägermeister—hunting master of the Thousand-Year Reich. He had his own private hunting grounds, two hundred hectares in the Schorfheide Forest northeast of Berlin. On it he built a mansion—Carinhall—which he then stuffed with stuffed deer and boar heads, and the best of the art he’d stolen from Europe’s better museums. When the Russians got close, he blew everything up except his favorite art pieces, and sixty-two cases of the best French champagne, which he took with him on his train. It went to Austria, where he surrendered to we Americans.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“It gets better. They loaded him in one of his Mercedeses and brought him here. One of the 1st Division generals—a one-star, I forget his name—walked up to the car. Göring got out, in full uniform, including the Blue Max. He had his Reichsmarschall baton in one hand, and a framed photograph of himself in the other.
