The Test of Courage: (A Biography of) Michel Thomas (45 page)

The ‘specialist’, backed by the regional commander, insisted that he accompany Michel to the next meeting of the Grossorganisation, posing as Dr Frundsberg’s deputy. ‘I could not indulge him. If the “specialist” was so determined to serve in this capacity, he would have to do it without me. I became very upset. Up to that point, CIC knew exactly who I was and what I was doing. They may not have known the details, but they were happy with the results. And suddenly here’s a man intent on running intelligence operations by the regulation book in the chaotic, complicated world of that time. I could not carry on.’

Michel promptly resigned from CIC and was out of the office within days.

The Grossorganisation came to an anti-climactic and disappointing conclusion. The new agent sent to oversee the operation unwisely took up the challenge to go ahead on his own. Abandoning the Teutonic set of the hunting lodge and its Nazi paraphernalia, he arranged a meeting with the SS men at a beer hall, and even allowed wives and girlfriends to be present. ‘This immediately broke the psychological pattern of making the men journey blindfolded to Frundsberg’s HO. The ritual of the trip, the sense of awe at being summoned by the commander, and the physical impact of the Nazi hunting lodge were all gone.’

At the meeting, the SS Commando leaders submitted a ten-point terror programme for immediate action. High on the list was the bombing of the Bavarian Diet, planned to be executed within ten days. This unnerved the new agent and his performance wavered badly. Inexplicably, Dr Frunds-berg’s right-hand man seemed indecisive and unsure of himself. Instead of expressing enthusiasm and resolve over the ambitious attack, he appeared on the edge of panic.

The SS men sensed something was wrong and suspected foul play. Fearing for the safety of Dr Frundsberg, they demanded to be taken to him. Tempers flared, and the agent was accused of betraying the commander. Schelkmann angrily demanded proof of the man’s affiliation to the Grossorganisation. The CIC officer lost the little composure he had left and pulled a gun. There was pandemonium as other undercover CIC agents present in the beer hall were given no alternative but to move on the group. After a brief struggle, the unarmed SS men were arrested. ‘There was nothing left to do but for CIC to roll up those SS organisations already known through the deception, and pick up whatever SS men they could.’ Only a fraction of the potential haul of Nazis active in the underground was caught.

The High Military Court of Würtenberg-Baden, in Göppingen, sentenced Schelkmann to fifteen years in prison; Laufer, his deputy, received eight years. Four other associates were given lesser sentences. (Michel later investigated Schelkmann’s fate: he served twelve years in prison, moved to Dortmund on his release, changed his name and ran successfully for political office.) Passing sentence, the judge declared: ‘The primary object of the occupying powers in Germany is to keep Nazism down. The schemes of the SS underground might easily have had disastrous consequences for the occupying forces as well as for Germany. Every Nazi movement has to be mercilessly crushed and the occupation army is going to stay in Germany until this is done.’

Fine words, but they expressed the objectives of a policy that in reality had already been abandoned. Michel had suppressed his own desire for revenge at the end of the war and had sought a moral reckoning. He had believed that the Allied military authorities of occupation genuinely intended to work to prevent Nazis from entering new government positions, and that war criminals would be prosecuted. In this he was to be bitterly disappointed, as Nazi Party members returned to positions of power throughout the country. German scientists who had held senior SS rank and employed slave labour had their records rewritten and sanitised to make them eligible for US citizenship, while war criminals not only went unpunished but were recruited by western intelligence.

Michel understood that the original mission of CIC had gone awry. ‘If I want to be kind, I’d say that CIC became incompetent. A mess. It did not know what it was doing. It was naive. Period. But out of that incompetence and ignorance, out of that naivety, came a betrayal of everything those brave young men of the Thunderbirds fought for, and some two hundred thousand Americans died for. It is a shameful legacy.’

Michel’s entire family had disappeared in the course of the war, along with his world. He had adopted so many identities and lived so many lives since Hitler came to power in 1933 that it seemed as if he had passed through eternity. He could scarcely remember anything but war, and although he was still a young man with everything ahead of him, he found it difficult to imagine a world at peace. It seemed that Europe was in moral as well as physical ruin, and he felt isolated and powerless amid the wreckage.

Inspired by American friends he had made in the war, he contemplated working for the United Nations and turned away from the catastrophe surrounding him. In July 1947 he took a ship from France - together with Barry, the SS dog - and crossed the Atlantic to the New World and the future.

VIII - Disconnected

One weekend, after Michel had been in America for almost a year, he arranged to go to the beach with friends. It was a beautiful summer’s day and the top was down on the convertible as they drove north on the Pacific Coast Highway towards Malibu. Somebody made an amusing remark and everyone laughed. Michel joined in. A sudden, awkward silence fell and an uneasy atmosphere enveloped the group. After a pause, one of the friends explained gently that no one had ever heard him laugh.

It was only then that Michel realised that at some time during the war he had lost the ability to laugh or cry. The insight shocked him. And while the gift of laughter had returned, he feared surrendering to the sadness within him. ‘I realised I was filled with unhappiness and yet I was unable to cry. It was as if inside of me I had a chest filled with tears. As long as the chest remained closed I could have fun and be happy. But if it was opened, even a little, it would not be a release but disintegration. My fear was that there would be an explosion of tears. It would be a flood, and I would drown.’

The prosperity and ease of post-war life in southern California lacked reality, and Michel felt detached and remote in the comfortable world of peace. ‘I identified with Gulliver, from
Gulliver’s Travels
, moving alone through a strange land. But at least for Gulliver there was a visual difference when he looked about him. I was a Gulliver who looked like everybody else, but I was utterly different and removed from the people around me because of what I had been through.

‘After the action of war, life was very dull. There was no real connection. As a young man I had often been in danger and always felt in charge. I was used to swimming in shark-infested waters, and I knew how to survive in that hostile environment after years in camps and in combat. It was natural to me. Suddenly, I had come from a cold, shark-infested ocean into a warm, calm lagoon and found it difficult. It was not just the adjustment from military to civilian life, which is quite an emotional upheaval, but the sense that nobody understood, or tried to understand, who I was or what I had been through. I was different and alone - Gulliver in an alien world. It took years to reintegrate.’

Michel had set sail from Le Havre in July 1947 for the USA with a wad of signed letters in his pocket from senior officers in the US Army recommending him for citizenship.
[195]
But although he had served and fought in the American uniform, the process was complicated because he had been unconventionally taken into the army during combat, rather than signed up on US soil. He remained stateless.

His departure from Europe had been delayed when he learned that he could not take his dog, Barry, on a military transport plane. ‘They would have taken him in the hold, but I didn’t want that.’ He went from one shipping company to another in Paris in search of one that would agree to take the dog. Almost all of them had rules forbidding animals, but one that carried a mixture of freight and cargo agreed, subject to the captain’s consent. Michel travelled to Le Havre and went to see the captain. ‘I showed him Barry’s glowing recommendations from the US Army and he agreed to take him as long as he remained in a certain section of the ship and did not enter the passenger cabins or the dining room. When I brought Barry on board the captain was amazed to see this giant of a dog.’

Suzanne also made the journey to Le Havre to see Michel off at the dockside, an emotional moment for both of them. The couple had met on several occasions after the war on a friendly basis. Suzanne sought rapprochement, while Michel denied the love, which remained buried. ‘The truth is that I did not realise how much in love with her I was. I had a conflict within myself over how I felt, which I tried to remedy. But it was impossible.’ They would remain close for the rest of their lives, in a friendship that was held in a state of love suspended, and Michel visited Suzanne whenever he travelled to France. Suzanne married the Cuban diplomat who became consul in Nice. ‘But people do not remain the same and our characters went in different directions. Even if the world had collapsed, I remained positive and optimistic. Suzanne became bitter. She had everything - money, houses, diplomatic cars - but became a habitue of casinos.’ On the quay in Le Havre, Suzanne gave Michel a photograph of herself. On it was written,
‘Avec tout mon coeur - je reste toujours, ta Suzanne’
- With all my heart - I remain for ever, your Suzanne.

There were only a dozen or so passengers on board ship and, apart from Michel, they were all French war brides sailing to the States to join the American soldiers they had married in Europe. Despite the demanded proscription on Barry’s movements, he soon took up position under the captain’s table, where he was fed illicit titbits. The young brides were a happy, lively group, excited about the future, and Michel enjoyed listening to them talk about their lives. One of the women spoke of an anti-Nazi German officer she had met in Paris who had impressed her. ‘I asked her to tell me about him. It was very curious. She said he was from Breslau, and called von Waldenburg, and I realised as I listened that he was the son of my aunt’s closest friend, Mia.’

Later, in the United States, Michel’s shipboard companion sent him Mia’s address in Hamburg. He began a circumspect correspondence under an assumed name, both hoping and dreading to receive news of his aunt. ‘She wrote me letters about her close friend, my aunt, and mentioned the nephew who went off to France. That was me.’ But as the letters began to describe the fate of German Jews unable to escape Hitler, Michel stopped writing. ‘I never revealed my true identity. I realised I did not want to know what she knew.’

Michel landed in the United States at Galveston, Texas, and was met at the dock by his friend, Colonel Wilson Gibson, the tank commander from the Thunderbirds who had given him a Silver Dollar as a token of friendship. Wilson received him like a brother, installed him in his house and introduced him to his wife and three small children, the youngest of whom had been named after Michel. He stayed for a number of weeks and Wilson persuaded him to settle in New Orleans, study law and join the legal practice he had set up. Michel was convinced by his friend’s arguments and promised to return once he had made a duty visit to family living in Los Angeles. The men parted the best of friends and shook hands as potential partners.

Michel’s uncle, Abraham - his mother’s brother - had left Poland for New York before the First World War, and had finally settled in Los Angeles where he built up a successful wholesale cutlery and silverware business. His five children were Michel’s first cousins, and he was warmly received.

An unspoken agreement came into being between uncle and nephew not to discuss the fate of the family in Europe. The subject was too painful for both of them. Abraham handed him a bundle of the last letters received from Germany and Poland. Michel took them without a word. His inability to accept the murder of his family, particularly his mother and aunt, was absolute. He knew deep within himself that they were dead, wiped from the earth, but he could not bear to face the awful truth. He was unable to say Kaddish, the Jewish prayer of mourning that is one of the most ancient and solemn in Judaism. Traditionally, the prayer is believed to help the souls of the dead find lasting peace, and is recited over the grave of the deceased for eleven months, and on the anniversary of the death ever after. ‘I could not say Kaddish.
Could not!
Knowing is one thing, accepting is another. I did not feel guilty for not saying these prayers - I would have felt guilty if I
had
said them. I would have felt a party to their deaths.

‘The world’s Jewish community regards the six million men, women and children who died in the Shoah as martyrs. I say No! My parents - my whole family - were not martyrs for their religion. They were slaughtered because of their race. There was no choice - that is not martyrdom.’

As Michel was preparing to return to New Orleans he received terrible news. Wilson Gibson had been taken ill with acute appendicitis and had died suddenly before he could be operated upon. It seemed unbelievable that this soldier who had landed in Africa, then battled across Sicily and up through Italy, France and Germany, could die in such a way after returning home safely to American soil. Michel’s sense of himself in the New World, fragile at best during this period, was shaken.

He decided to remain in southern California and rented a house in Beverly Hills. Barry seemed to find it as difficult to adapt to peacetime life as his master, but eventually became familiar all over town. ‘He learned to cross streets - I think he looked at the lights. He drove with me everywhere in the car and if he felt I had stayed too long somewhere he would put his great paw on the horn.’ Man and dog had always been close, and now they became inseparable. ‘He was a strong and wonderful companion to me in those years of feeling like Gulliver. I learned so much from Barry about communication with non-human animals. If I worked late in the evening he would lie down and wait for me. And he always seemed to know when I was finished and jump up in anticipation. I wondered how he did this. I thought perhaps I made some slight move or gesture that signalled my intention. I decided to test him. I made no move and did absolutely nothing except have the thought, “I’m ready to leave”. And he jumped up.’ There was only one thing that could make Barry revert to his previous incarnation as a dog of war, and that was the sight of someone in a uniform. He would bark and snarl in his old SS manner at the police and mailmen of Beverly Hills, who learned to give him a wide berth.