“The craving for power becomes
insatiable and limitless when
it gets hold of a soul that
is not master of itself.”
Andrzel Frycz-Modrzewski
“Any sign yet?”
“No, Oberstfuhrer, not yet,” answered the soldier,
dropping his binoculars and standing at attention.
“Carry on,” said Strass. The Oberstfuhrer gazed down
between the columns of the parapet wall but could see only
the tops of trees clouded in the early morning mist rising
from the valley below. The air was crisp and filled with the
fragrant smell of pine. Ascending on the horizon was the
yellowish-orange glow of a new day. Even from here the faint
rattle of mortar fire and enemy bombs could be heard from
hundreds of miles away.
All of Germany was under siege. It was on this day, the
morning of April 30, 1945, that Colonel Otto Strass and a
small band of German soldiers watched and waited for the
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T h e L e b e n s b o r n E x p e r i m e n t
arrival of the man they had sworn to live and die for, the man who had lifted the entire German nation from the abyss of
economic despair and political disgrace. To them, as well as
to most of their county men, Adolf Hitler was not a man at
all; he was the Messiah, their Fuhrer—God.
Strass walked about the open rampart of the tower,
occasionally peering down in the direction of the road. His
hands were cold, yet sweat dotted his brow as his heart raced.
He strained to concentrate, pacing back and forth, constantly
checking his watch. It was five o’clock in the morning. Soon
it would be daylight. He hurried away to inspect the Fuhrer’s
sleeping quarters again for the fourth time.
The room was as large as a ballroom with walls covered
in light blue silk. A white marble fireplace dominated the east wall. Strass walked about the room, scrutinizing everything.
He had rearranged the chairs more than once. Three times he
had removed the full length, cheval glass dressing mirror from the corner opposite the gold-trimmed bureau chest and placed
it beside the Louie XIV bed. Now he put it back again. This
time he left the room finally convinced that everything was
perfect. Just in case Eva Braun, Hitler’s mistress, accompanied the Fuhrer, an adjoining suite had also been prepared. He had
planned everything down to the smallest detail.
With his promotion to colonel and chief administrator of
the Lebensborn Society just five weeks ago, Strass dreamed
of becoming a member of the “inner circle” and one of
the men Hitler confided in and trusted with his life, men
like Heinrich Himmler, Head of the Gestapo and Joseph
Goebbels, Minister of Propaganda. This was Otto’s chance
to prove himself worthy and he was determined that nothing
go wrong.
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J o y c e Y v e t t e D a v i s
Returning to his own quarters, Strass paced the floor,
rehearsing and re-rehearsing his welcome speech. To think
that in an hour or so from now he would be in the presence of
the Fuhrer. Hitler himself would be sitting across from him
at the breakfast table, and tonight the boy would awaken and
a new era in German history would begin.
Last year all seemed lost when American and Allied
troops landed on the shore of Normandy. Many of the
Lebensborn Homes had been abandoned. Since mid-January,
Hitler had been barricaded inside his concrete bunker in
Berlin, fifty feet underground.
Strass contacted Hitler’s command post via radio link just
before he arrived four days ago. Despite the advancement of
Allied troops, the Fuhrer’s secretary had given his word that
Hitler would be here to witness the birth of the new world
order. It was all arranged. As a safety precaution, Hitler,
escorted by his aides, would travel at night and make their
way incognito through the back roads, forests and fields to
arrive here this morning. Dr. Weiss had prepared a full report of his experiments which Strass would present to the Fuhrer.
To celebrate Germany’s Annual Day of National Labor, as
well as a tribute to the Fuhrer, the two American Negro
soldiers captured in January on the battlefield in France
would be executed.
As Strass looked down upon the forest from his bedroom
chamber off the west wing, his eyes beamed. In his mind,
he saw a vision of himself bedecked in a shimmering black
uniform. On his sleeve was a white swastika, the symbol
of the Nazi Party. Outside, the entire German army was
assembled. For miles and miles, every member in the military
lined the streets of Gendarmenmarkt Square in Berlin. They
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T h e L e b e n s b o r n E x p e r i m e n t
stood in salute in front of the magnificent Schauspielhaus
Theater to watch as Hitler decorated him with the party’s
highest honor, the Star of the Grand Cross of the Iron Cross.
Soon he would be a general.
Pleased with himself, Strass watched from his balcony
as the first rays of sunlight sprinkled its soft, yellow glow
over the valley. He never dreamed his life would turn out
so well. He never thought he would rank so high in the
most feared and powerful army in the world, having only
completed intermediate school. When the Nazi Party was
elected into office in 1933, he was sixteen-years-old and in
prison for stabbing and robbing a wealthy Jewish banker.
He still had nightmares about his time in prison.
Forever etched in his memory was the morning he woke
up to the beady eyes of a huge black rat sitting on his chest, staring him in the face, while another rat was biting into
his leg. He screamed and the rat on his chest sunk its sharp
teeth into the side of his nose and wouldn’t let go. A guard
heard his cries and rushed into the cell and knocked the
rats away with his night stick before shooting them. He
almost lost part of his nose and had to get twenty stitches.
The following year, his prison sentence was cut short. In
a secret mandate, Hitler released all Germans sentenced
for killing Jews. The killing of a Jew was no longer to be
considered a crime.
A month after his release, on May 1, 1934, young Otto
swore an oath of allegiance to Adolf Hitler and became a
member of the Nationalwast Sozialwastwasche Deutsche
Arbeiterpartie. He enlisted into the Schutzstaffel, Hitler’s
internal security force, the feared SS. Unlike other boys his
age who first became a brown-shirted Hitler youth, Strass
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J o y c e Y v e t t e D a v i s
had already spilled Jewish blood and was considered worthy
to become a full-fledged Nazi.
As an SS soldier, Otto had found his niche. He felt his
life now had direction and purpose. He liked being a Nazi
and the power and authority that came with it. He often
submitted ideas to his superiors on how to eliminate the Jews, but he earned his reputation for being able to spot physical
characteristic of Jewish ancestry among his fellow Nazi
brethren. He was so successful that he was feared and avoided
by other SS soldiers and had no friends. Otto didn’t care. He
liked being feared. It made him feel important and in control.
It catapulted him up the ranks and he became a sergeant
by the age of eighteen. A week after turning twenty, Otto
accused thirteen soldiers of being Jews and was promoted to
lieutenant one month later. In a report addressed to Himmler,
Otto gave evidence of the soldier’s Semitic heritage by noting their high foreheads, long hook noses, and large-lidded
round eyes.
The next incident resulting in his promotion could have
ended badly for Otto, but he got lucky. Out of jealousy, he
stabbed a fellow officer, Lieutenant Gooding, in the back
and was made a captain when he claimed the officer was a
British spy. It just so happened, unbeknownst to Otto, the
officer’s mother was British and the soldier had spent several years in an English boarding school. That was proof enough
for the Gestapo.
Preibus Gooding was a well-liked lieutenant and almost
as tall as Otto. Gooding had piercing green eyes, thick wavy
black hair, a square cleft chin, and a muscular physique. He
was the handsomest man Otto had ever seen. Otto envied
everything about him, from the lieutenant’s high-brow air
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T h e L e b e n s b o r n E x p e r i m e n t
and polite manners, to the crisp tailored fit of his uniform.
Gooding survived the stabbing to the back of his shoulder.
But after a brutal interrogation by the Gestapo, the lieutenant confessed and was executed three months later.
Executions had become routine and usually done in a
nearby town in public view. A narrow trench leading to a
much deeper and larger ditch was dug in an open field. Otto
remembers that day well because it was on June fifth, his
twenty-second birthday.
It was a breezy, overcast morning. Otto remembered
thinking it was going to rain and regretted not riding in a
covered vehicle. He sat proud and smug in his jeep with his
chin out and his peak cap positioned on his head straight
and even. On his collar was the captain’s insignia—a black
and silver-piped patch with three silver embroidered gilded-
metal pips with silver Litzen. He looked at no one. Sat
tall, grinning with an air of self-importance. He waited
eagerly like a kid anticipating the start of an outdoor puppet show, the kind he loved to watch as a child. A group of ten
prisoners were usually executed together. Today there were
to be only three.
A military truck transporting Lieutenant Gooding drove
up and stopped in front of the ditch. If it wasn’t for his green eyes, Otto wouldn’t have recognized him. The lieutenant
stumbled out of the back of the truck wearing a dirty, blue
and white striped prison uniform with an inverted red
triangle sewn on his shirt. Printed on the triangle was the
letter B for British. Gooding’s thick, wavy black hair had
been shaved. His face and bald head were covered with red,
purple and black bruises. Dried blood stained his swollen lips.
The Lieutenant walked bent over like a decrepit old man as
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J o y c e Y v e t t e D a v i s
he hobbled down the narrow trench, stopping frequently,
swaying back and forth and from side-to-side.
“Run!” ordered Senior Lance Corporal, Alf Gundersen,
in charge of the execution. He pushed Gooding and the two
other prisoners down the trench with the butt of his rifle.
The three of them ran. The other two prisoners made it to
the large trench and jumped in. But Gooding tripped and
fell to his knees before he reached the ditch. Gundersen,
a huge burly fellow, a prizefighter before the war, raised
his large-booted right foot high off the ground and kicked
Gooding in the butt, propelling the lieutenant several feet
through the air. The lieutenant’s body hit the dirt wall on
the far side of the ditch and dropped into the six-foot hole
like a swatted fly.
Otto laughed, as did the other soldiers.
Gasps came from the on lookers. Forty-five civilians were
present consisting mostly of men.
“Let’s get on with it!” shouted a man in the crowd. Otto
glanced over at the old man who looked to be in his sixties.
The husky German held a rifle and wore a black patch over
one eye. Standing beside him were two more civilians with
rifles about the same age. It was customary for several of the town’s people to join in the execution. It was considered an
honor to rid the fatherland of its enemies. It was a way for
those unable to fight in the war to contribute to the cause of the Third Reich and show their allegiance.
Once Gundersen gave the command, the husky old man
fired first. The two other men to be executed were Polish
political prisoners as signified by the inverted red triangle and the letter P printed on their prison shirt. The husky old man
shot one of the Polish prisoner’s dead center between the eyes.
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T h e L e b e n s b o r n E x p e r i m e n t
He stepped aside to let the other two civilians shoot. The next Polish prisoner was shot once through his heart.
The last executioner stepped forward to shoot Lieutenant
Gooding. He lifted his rifle and aimed, but didn’t fire.
Lieutenant Gooding was still on his knees with his back to
the crowd, leaning against the far wall of the ditch where
he fell.
“Stehen Sie Sie schmutziger britischer Schaum auf.
Stehen Sie auf!” yelled Gundersen. The senior lance corporal
called Lieutenant Gooding British scum and ordered him to
stand.
Gooding dug his fingernails into the dirt wall. After
several attempts, he pulled himself up and turned towards
the crowd, trembling.
“Ich bin nicht britisch. Ich bin deutsch. Ich bin ein Nazi.
Hitler ist mein Fuhrer. Ich bin nicht ein Spion. Bitte! Bitte!
Ich bin deutsch.” The condemned lieutenant spoke in a raised,
cracked voice, proclaiming his innocence and his allegiance
to Hitler.
Gooding then lifted his arm and pointed at Otto, shaking
his finger at Captain Strass with red teary eyes.
A loud bang suddenly rang out, and then another and
another in rapid succession, but the civilian executioner hadn’t fired his rifle. The executioner’s eyes, along with everyone
else’s in the crowd, were fixed on Captain Strass now standing in his jeep with his arm raised and smoke curling from the
gun in his hand.
“Ha, ha, ha,” Lieutenant Gooding stood crouched over.
“You missed!” he shouted, wagging his finger at the captain.
You Fool! The voice inside Otto’s head screamed. You know you can’t shoot!
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J o y c e Y v e t t e D a v i s
Otto’s face shined with perspiration. He knew he had to
shoot again and dared not miss again. He hesitated.
“Shoot! Kill him!” shouted Gundersen, looking at
Captain Strass with a stern gaze as was everyone else.
Otto inhaled. Stop shaking! Hold your hand steady and aim
at his head. Otto wiped the sweat from his cheek with his coat sleeve. Slowly now, slowly, press your finger against the trigger.
That’s it. Go ahead. Shoot!
As soon as Otto pulled the trigger he fell backward. This
time the loud bang made him tremble and he immediately
dropped his pistol and collapsed on the car seat. He placed
his hands over his ears to muffle the excruciating sound of
the gun shots still ringing in his ears.
“Gutless,” Gundersen grumbled underneath his breath.
The lance corporal shook his head, spit then cocked his rifle.
The other officers turned their heads away from Otto as
well. Many in the crowd wondered what was wrong.
“He acts like he’s never fired a gun before,” said the old
man with the patch over his eye.
Otto heard the murmurs and remained slumped down
in his car. He couldn’t stop shaking. He poked his head up
slightly. He saw Gooding. The lieutenant was still standing
and laughing even louder now. Another shot was fired. Otto
flinched. The laughter stopped.
“Done,” he heard the gruff voice of Gundersen say.
Suddenly it began to rain. Within seconds, the ground
was saturated. With haste the crowd dispersed. Otto took
off his cap and let the rain drench his face in the hope that it would hide the tears in his eyes. He wanted to leave quickly
too, but his fingers wouldn’t obey his head and start the
engine. He sat there, instead, until the bodies were covered
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T h e L e b e n s b o r n E x p e r i m e n t
with wet, muddy dirt and every officer departed. Only then
did his fingers regain the dexterity to start the engine and
drive away.
That was five years ago. Otto thought he would never be
promoted again. Now, at the age of twenty-seven, he was a
colonel, the youngest officer of such high rank in the entire
Wehrmacht. He was often mistaken for being much older
than he was—a misconception due partly to his rank, but
mainly to his looks.
Otto looked like a forty-year-old man. The deep creases
in his forehead and tiny lines around his mouth told the story of his life, a life filled with worry and strife. Since the death of his father, Otto had been plagued with doubts and unsettling
thoughts. Hatred of the Jews was what occupied his thinking
most. It was a relentless hatred that consumed his reflections doing the day, and his dreams at night.
His animosity toward those considered God’s “chosen
people” developed early in his life. As a boy he despised
the rich Jewish businessmen whom his mother entertained
nightly. His father died of pneumonia when Otto was only
eight-years-old, leaving his mother to care for him and his
two-year-old sister, Greta. Those were desperate times.
“Why do you let them hurt you, Mother?” he’d often
asked.
“It’s not what you think, Otto. Someday you’ll
understand,” was his mother’s reply. Otto never understood.
He ran away at twelve, leaving the shame of his mother’s
life behind for good. He quickly adjusted to his wretched
existence combing the German countryside as a petty thief.
“But just look at me now,” Otto whispered to himself
grinning with pride.
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J o y c e Y v e t t e D a v i s
The sun was high in the sky when Otto glanced down at
his watch again. It was a quarter to seven. Quickly, he rushed to the rampart.
“Do you see him? Are they coming?”
“No, Oberstfuhrer. There is still no sign,” said the soldier
holding the binoculars. Strass grabbed the binoculars from
the soldier’s hands and looked for himself.
The road leading to the castle and beyond was vacant of
even local vehicles. He then turned to his second in command,
Lieutenant Strompf. At 36, Lieutenant Strompf was a man
of average height and weight with a long, angular face, dark
brown eyes and hair, and a mustache identical to the shape
and size of the Fuhrer’s.
“Has there been any word from Berlin?”
“No, Oberstfuhrer. There has been no contact from
any command post for two days, not since I reported the
communications malfunction. Our altitude may be interfering
with the radio transmission.”
Strass let out a frustrated sigh. What if the Fuhrer
doesn’t come? All his plans would be ruined. He could feel a
headache coming on. The rats were biting again.
“I suggest we send some soldiers down to the village. The
reception will be a lot better there, and maybe they will be
able to contact Berlin,” suggested Lieutenant Strompf.
“Yes! Yes! That’s a good idea. Send three men. And as
soon as there is news, one should travel ahead with word.”
Lieutenant Strompf saluted with a click of his heels
before hurrying away.
It was late afternoon before a soldier returned.
Colonel Strass was sitting in the dining room eating
lunch. Seated to his left was Dr. Weiss. Lieutenant Strompf
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T h e L e b e n s b o r n E x p e r i m e n t
and Private First Class, Arnulf Kragen, entered and saluted.
Private Kragen, 20, had broad shoulders and long arms. His
sandy blonde hair was slicked down and parted on the side.
Before the war, Kragen had been training to compete in the
Javelin competition for the Olympics.
Colonel Strass immediately sensed that there was
something wrong. There was a gloomy, stoic look on the
faces of both Lieutenant Strompf and Private Kragen.
“Well?!” asked Strass.
Private Kragen hesitated, passing a glance between the
colonel and the doctor.
“Hit-Hit-Hitler is dead, sir,” said Kragen, finally forcing
the words out. “It was announced over the radio. The Russians
have invaded Berlin and taken over the city. Hitler’s body was found burned outside his bunker. It’s reported that he took
cyanide.”
Complete horror shaded Otto’s brow and the face of Dr.
Weiss. The two of them jumped up out of their seats at the
same time.
“It’s a lie! It’s a dirty lie!” Strass shouted. “It’s Russian
propaganda, that’s what it is! Hitler’s not dead. He-he can’t
be dead! The Fuhrer is invincible, indestructible!”
Otto threw the glass of brandy in his hand against the
fireplace mantel, shattering the gold-framed mirror above it.
Dr. Weiss collapsed back down in his seat, shaking his
head. “What’s going to happen to me? To my experiments?”
asked the doctor. “I must hide the serum and burn the
formula,” he said to himself, again jumping out of his chair.
“No one must know; no one must know what I’ve done!” he
screamed as he hurried out the room.
“How many of the men know Hitler is dead?”
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J o y c e Y v e t t e D a v i s
“Just the two other soldiers who went to the village with
Kragen, sir,” responded the lieutenant. “As you commanded,
Private Kragen traveled ahead with the report. The other
two soldiers have yet to arrive. But they should return within the hour.”
“Good, when they do return make sure they don’t spread
the news. None of the other soldiers are to know. There has
been no cease-fire or negotiation for peace, so as far as we’re concern, the war is still going on and we’re still German
soldiers fighting it. So act like nothing has changed, because it hasn’t. Do you understand lieutenant, private?”
“Yes sir,” they both replied in unison.
“Dismissed,” said Colonel Strass. As soon as his men left,
Strass began pacing the floor.
I’m never going to be a general now. What’s going to happen to Germany? Who will lead us? No one can replace Hitler, not even Heinrich Himmler, who is now rumored to have secretly tried to negotiate surrendering to the British. The German army is the most feared and disciplined army in the world. They need someone strong in stature as well as in speech to lead them, but who?
As Otto walked toward the fireplace, bits of broken glass
crunched beneath the soles of his highly-polished black boots.
He looked down and caught sight of his reflection in one of
the large pieces of broken mirror. He stood a dominating
six feet, four inches tall. Strass had always been proud of his height. It was the one thing he truly liked about himself. As
his heart pounded in his ears, his right eye began to twitch.
A plan was forming in his mind; a vision was emerging
and he started to reason: was not his life and Hitler’s almost identical? Had not he and the Fuhrer served time in the
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T h e L e b e n s b o r n E x p e r i m e n t
same prison in Landsberg? Had not he and the Fuhrer
risen up from humble beginnings through the ranks of the
Wehrmacht? And, even more importantly, were not he and
the Fuhrer Austrian-born Germans? Yes, yes, yes. So what
was to stop him from succeeding Hitler as Chancellor of the
Third Reich?
With a renewed sense of purpose, Otto hurried to his
quarters. He had to think. What would the Fuhrer do?
Everything must proceed as planned. Time was his enemy.
Otto summoned Dr. Weiss to his chamber.
“Dear Doctor Weiss, tell me. Is there any way to hasten
the process of the serum?”
“You mean speed up the resurrection? Well, I suppose if
I increase the dose. But I’m almost certain that would cause
permanent death.”
“That’s a chance we’ll have to take. Once the boy has
awakened tonight, I want you to proceed to give the serum to
me and my men, enough to awaken us the next day.”
“The next day, Mein Got! That’s murder! Besides I don’t
have enough for all your men. Making the serum takes time.
I only have enough serum on hand to inject thirteen soldiers
and increasing the dosage is far too risky.”
“I assure you, it’s the only way to save the Reich. Now that
Hitler is dead, German defeat is a certainty.” Strass pointed
to the map of Austria and Germany on his desk.
“The word from high command is that Allied Forces
are advancing from all directions. From the Western Front,
American troops have broken through our west wall defensive
positions along the Siegfried line and have penetrated as far
as Bavaria, no doubt working their way toward Austria to
meet the Russians. Your serum is the only thing that can save
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J o y c e Y v e t t e D a v i s
us now. It’s estimated that it will take the Americans at least three to five days, maybe six to meet up with the Red Army.
If the serum works and the process can be sped up, once my
men and I have been revived, we will travel to Austria and
will be ready and waiting for them by the time the Allied
Forces arrive on May fifth. My soldiers and I will then be able to halt the Allied Forces momentum, snatching victory out of
the hands of defeat.”
“That’s not a real plan and I don’t think it will work,”
said Dr. Weiss. “What if you’re unable to reach Austria in
time?”
“The serum assures us the victory. Even if we should lose
the war, it would only be temporarily. For what authority
does the dead have over the living?”
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” said Colonel Strass.
Lieutenant Strompf entered and saluted. “I have informed
the men per your instructions,” said Lieutenant Strompf.
“Good! Good!” said Strass.
“What about the American schwarze soldaten?” the
lieutenant asked.
“Black soldiers! They’re black soldiers here?” Dr. Weiss
looked nervously about the room.
“No need to be frightened, doctor. They are secured in
the keep. I had planned a grand execution with the Fuhrer
looking on, but things have changed. Now perhaps you would
like to perform one of your mind-altering experiments on
them. It should prove very interesting.”
Colonel Strass turned to the lieutenant.
“Bring the soldiers to the tower at sundown.”
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