Return to the Reich Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Prologue

  A German Boy

  Enemy Alien

  The Cloak-and-Dagger Brigade

  The Third Man

  The Drop

  The Glacier

  “Franz Weber Sent Me”

  The Führer’s Bunker

  Photos

  The Birth of a Frenchman

  “Take Innsbruck”

  The Water Treatment

  A White Flag

  Epilogue: After the Fall

  Author’s Note & Acknowledgments

  Notes

  Photo Credits

  Index

  About the Author

  Connect with HMH

  Copyright © 2019 by Eric Lichtblau

  All rights reserved

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  hmhbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Lichtblau, Eric, author.

  Title: Return to the Reich : a Holocaust refugee’s secret mission to defeat the Nazis / Eric Lichtblau.

  Description: Boston : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2019. | Includes bibliographical references and index.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019009834 (print) | LCCN 2019011526 (ebook) | ISBN 9781328529909 (ebook) | ISBN 9781328528537 (hardback)

  Subjects: LCSH: Mayer, Frederick, 1921–2016. | Spies—United States—Biography. | United States. Office of Strategic Services—Officials and employees—Biography. | Jews—Germany—Freiburg im Breisgau—Biography. | World War, 1939–1945—Secret service—United States. | World War, 1939–1945—Underground movements—Austria. | Espionage, American—Europe—History—20th century. | Freiburg im Breisgau (Germany)—Biography. | BISAC: HISTORY / Military / World War II. | HISTORY / Holocaust.

  Classification: LCC D810.S8 (ebook) | LCC D810.S8 M337 2019 (print) | DDC 940.54/8673092 [B]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019009834

  v1.0919

  Photo credits appear on page 276.

  Cover design by Christopher Moisan

  Cover photographs: mountains, Andifo / Shutterstock; parachute, courtesy USAMHI

  Author photograph, taken in Oberperfuss, Austria © Daniel Jarosch

  Images taken from the interviews of Frederick Mayer (1997) provided by USC Shoah Foundation. For more information: http://sfi.usc.edu/.

  Excerpt from the poem by Hans Wynberg originally appeared in an email to Marjorie Bingham dated March 9, 2009. Lines reprinted with permission.

  To the “Zollers”—Leslie, Matthew, Andrew, Elliot, and Harold . . . who inspire me every day

  Introduction

  This book grew out of an impromptu discussion about heroism and the Holocaust. I was meeting at a Washington coffee shop a few years ago with Eli Rosenbaum, a dogged Nazi hunter who was a critical resource for my last book. Skimming the day’s news that morning, I came across the obituary of an obscure European man who hid countless Jews from the Nazis seven decades earlier. I mentioned the obituary to Eli, admitting with some embarrassment that I had never heard of this man before. How was it, I asked, that so many anonymous people did such heroic things during the Holocaust, yet we only learned about them after they died?

  Eli had no ready response. “Okay,” I continued, “so tell me someone that I’ll wish I had heard about before they die.” This time Eli had an immediate answer. “You should meet Fred Mayer,” he said. “A Holocaust survivor and a war hero. He lives in West Virginia. Well into his nineties now.”

  So began my introduction to Freddy Mayer, as Eli gave me a brief recap of his remarkable life: from Jewish teenager in Germany to Holocaust refugee in America to spy and war hero in Nazi-occupied Austria. After all these years, there was a campaign going on to award him the vaunted Medal of Honor, Eli said.

  I wanted to meet Freddy. I had been writing about villains for years—Nazis in World War II, modern-day scoundrels in the US capital—and his story seemed like an inspiring respite. Eli helped me get in touch with him, and in February 2016 I drove the ninety minutes from Washington, DC, to Mayer’s cottage in the woods of West Virginia, not far from a casino and a racetrack. I spent a moving afternoon with him. At the age of ninety-four, he had trouble with his hearing—the lingering effects of his treatment by the Nazis, I learned—but otherwise he seemed remarkably spry. Living by himself, he was still driving, still shoveling snow, still delivering Meals on Wheels to less independent elderly neighbors. And he could still tick off the names and dates associated with his war story in rapid-fire succession. He struck me as ageless.

  We talked about what it was like for him to grow up as a Jew in Germany, a pleasant childhood turned toxic by the Nazis. He told me about his father’s resistance to leaving a country where he had fought proudly as a decorated officer in World War I. We talked about his life as a teenage immigrant in Brooklyn, and of course we talked about his Nazi spy mission.

  I had already read a bit about the three-man espionage team he led into the Austrian Alps. I told him how inconceivable it seemed that he managed to pose undetected as a German officer on the ground in a Nazi stronghold for more than two months, gathering valuable intelligence on military operations. He smiled and gently corrected me. The Nazi officer was just one of his disguises; he had also transformed himself into a French laborer at a Nazi factory—simply changing the pronunciation of his name to Freh-deh-REEK May-YEHR, he told me in an exaggerated French accent. He laughed as he said it, flashing the wide grin that I would come to learn was a personal trademark.

  He turned deadly serious, though, as he recounted for me in wrenching detail his eventual capture by the Gestapo. Standing up from his chair slowly but determinedly, he showed me how Nazi interrogators hoisted him onto poles and tortured him for hours. In slow motion, he demonstrated the roundhouse punch delivered to his chin as he reenacted the gruesome scene. Then he revived his French accent to describe how he had kept his mouth shut, telling his Nazi interrogators that he was just a simple workman who knew nothing about any American spy operations. “Je ne sais rien!” I know nothing!

  Telling reminders of the war dotted the house. On a kitchen wall was a large photo of an airborne B-24 Liberator, the aircraft on which he’d flown back into the Reich; it was signed by the members of his mission. By the door was a three-foot statue of William Donovan, founder of the Office of Strategic Services, the wartime intelligence agency that dropped him into Austria. And in a glass-enclosed frame were a half-dozen medals he had been awarded. Freddy wanted me to see another medal, too: the “golden eagle of Tyrol,” which the Austrian embassy had given him four decades after the war. He rummaged through a dresser in his bedroom looking for it, then gave up in frustration. The medal, like his story, seemed to have been stashed away somewhere and largely forgotten.

  I told Freddy I’d like to write about him—maybe for a book, or maybe for the New York Times, where I was an investigative reporter based in Washington. He shrugged, as if to say, What’s the big deal? I would learn that the shrug, like his smile, was another of Freddy’s trademarks. “Eh, what more is there to say?” he asked me. Over the last forty years, there had been several books and documentaries about his mission and other notable OSS spy operations targeting the Nazis. He pulled out one book from the 1970s to show me.

  I explained that I thought there was still a lot left to say. Many people remained sadly unfamiliar with the wartim
e heroism of refugees like him, I said, and it seemed like a particularly ripe time to remind them. During the 2016 presidential campaign, then-candidate Donald J. Trump was vilifying immigrants as the central plank of his platform. At the same time, he had triggered a mystifying debate about the meaning of heroism when he said that Senator John McCain, who had spent more than five years as a POW in Vietnam, was “not a war hero”—because he had been captured. Freddy’s story, from war refugee to war hero, fascinated me: too often it seemed that America had forgotten its true heroes and their origins.

  At the end of a conversation that could have lasted all night, Freddy asked me to come visit with him again soon. Just two months later, in April 2016, he died after a sudden decline. As it turned out, I did write about Freddy’s heroism for the New York Times, but unfortunately, it was for his obituary. “Frederick Mayer, Jew Who Spied on Nazis After Fleeing Germany, Dies at 94” read the headline. Like the obituary I had read on my way to meet Eli Rosenbaum, it was a story of wartime courage long forgotten.

  As I was writing up Freddy’s obituary, I called John Billings, the pilot who flew him and his team over Nazi-occupied Austria and dropped them into the Reich. “I was in awe of him,” said the ninety-two-year-old veteran, his voice emotional at the passing of his longtime friend. “He was born without the fear gene. He feared nothing.”

  A fitting epitaph for a man who fled the Nazis, only to return to help defeat them.

  Prologue

  AIRBORNE OVER THE AUSTRIAN ALPS

  February 25, 1945

  The snow-capped Alpine Mountains looked deceptively quiet, even peaceful, as Freddy Mayer, crouched in the back of a B-24, gazed down at the majestic peaks whizzing by in the frigid night air. Close your eyes and you could almost forget there was a brutal war being waged on the ground ten thousand feet below. Peering one last time through the narrow “Joe hole” on the floor of the plane’s bomb bay, Freddy waited for the final signal from the cockpit.

  Seven years earlier, when Freddy had fled Nazi Germany as a teenager, a return trip to the hellfire Adolf Hitler had made of Europe would have seemed unthinkable. Yet here he was now, at the age of twenty-three—a parachute on his back and a bulky bag strapped to his leg with a pistol, ammunition, and supplies inside it—preparing to dive back into the Nazis’ stronghold in Austria. And he was doing it for the Americans, no less, on an improbable spy mission aimed at thwarting Hitler’s feared “last stand” in the Alps.

  This was the life-on-a-tightrope adventure that the barrel-chested refugee had been craving for months, pitting him against men he had once called countrymen. Somewhere below him, unseen amid the rugged mountain terrain, were Nazi soldiers armed with antiaircraft weaponry designed to shoot down planes just like this one. The chances of success for Freddy’s tiny, three-man spy team were one in a hundred, an officer had told him glumly. That was good enough for Freddy. Anything to defeat the fascists, he said.

  He had waited so long for this chance, and he was desperate to make the jump. The mission had already been scuttled twice in the last five days because of bad weather, and less than half an hour earlier the flight crew had almost been forced to turn back yet again for Italy. Freddy was determined to make this the night. The moonlit skies that separated him from the Nazis on the ground below now looked calm, even inviting. Gorgeous, he thought to himself. An odd feeling of tranquility washed over him.

  The cockpit relayed the signal. “Ready, ready, ready, go!” the crewman yelled. Seated at the edge of the Joe hole, Freddy pushed away and jumped.

  1

  * * *

  A German Boy

  FREIBURG, GERMANY

  Spring 1933

  Freddy’s world, nestled in the lush foothills of Germany’s Black Forest, was collapsing around him.

  The signs were subtle at first: a slight from a classmate, a sneering glance across the neighborhood pool, as if to say, Stay on your own side. Then the noxious changes in the air became too blatant to ignore, even for a rambunctious boy focused mostly on cars and girls. There were the venomous speeches spewing from loudspeakers in Freiburg’s sun-splashed town square. The laws establishing Germany’s “Aryans” as supreme. The mandatory salutes, the fervent shouts of “Heil Hitler!” from the boys of the Hitler Youth, the red-and-black flags emblazoned with the crooked arms of the Nazi swastika fluttering from balconies across the city. It was hard for Freddy—“Fritz,” as everyone called the eleven-year-old—to look away. A place that had once seemed tolerant, even welcoming, was growing ever more menacing for his family and the other Jews of Freiburg, a tiny minority of scarcely a thousand scattered throughout the largely Catholic city.

  One of Freddy’s best pals in town had already fled the country for Switzerland with his family. The book burnings and Nazi boycotts of Jewish businesses had just begun in April of 1933, and his friend’s father didn’t want to wait to see what would come next; Freddy’s boyhood playmate was gone in a matter of weeks. Other Jewish families were leaving as well. No one knew where this would all lead, or how much worse it might get.

  Freddy’s father assured him and his three siblings, again and again, that things would be okay for them. Heinrich Mayer was a decorated veteran of the Great War, after all, and he clung to his Iron Cross medal as a bulwark against anyone who might question his German patriotism. The cross, bestowed by the Kaiser two decades earlier for Heinrich’s valor in World War I, became his shield. “They’ll never come for me,” Heinrich would say. “I was a Frontkaempfer”—a German combat soldier. “Nothing is going to happen to us.”

  The “gathering storm,” as Winston Churchill later described the dark forces at work in prewar Europe, was already beginning to breach Germany. Heinrich, a dapper dresser with a bushy mustache and thin, round spectacles, spent his days focused on the family hardware business, keeping his head down and wishing the storm away. He wasn’t about to let outsize fears lead him to toss away everything that he—and his father before him—had built over the better part of a century in Freiburg, in his home country of Germany.

  Freddy’s mother, Hilda, who kept the books for the hardware business, wasn’t nearly so confident. They were Jews, after all, and Germany had a long and ugly history of turning against its Jews. They wouldn’t get any preferential treatment, Iron Cross or not, she warned Heinrich. In Hitler’s eyes, she feared, they would always be Jews first: inferior, subhuman. She was anxious and fretful, looking for a way out of a place that was turning increasingly hostile. Freddy could hear the fear in her voice. But that was a mother’s job, wasn’t it? To worry about her family. Freddy knew his father would protect them. That was a father’s job.

  Freddy himself was not the nervous type, but still, it was hard not to worry about the changes in the air. He was a scrapper, a mischievous boy who spoke with his fists. He wouldn’t be pushed around. His ever-present smile—so wide that it seemed his ears might snap off from the strain—belied a fighter’s spirit. One day a classmate on the playground called him “a stinking Jude,” a phrase now heard with chilling regularity in the hills of Freiburg. The other Jewish kids would simply look away when the epithet was used. Not Freddy. Short but stocky, with lightning-quick hands, he slugged the name caller on the chin and readied himself for a round of fisticuffs as the boy hit the ground. A teacher sent Freddy to see the dean—a big, hulking Nazi official named Friedrich Ludin, who would walk through the hallways in his German uniform. Freddy braced for his punishment. “He called me a stinking Jew. I didn’t like that,” he explained matter-of-factly. Ludin eyed the boy. “I can understand that,” he answered finally. Much to Freddy’s surprise, the dean sent him back to class without even a reprimand. Nobody in class dared talk to him that way again.

  Freiburg hadn’t always been so hostile to its Jews. Freddy remembered a time—not that long ago, it seemed—when the city, in the southwestern German state of Baden, hugging the French and Swiss borders, was a place that seemed to have accepted his people as its own. In the early 193
0s, not long before Hitler, it was the kind of place where a few dozen boys from a Jewish fraternity at the local university, dressed in their best blazers and ties, could take their girlfriends for an outing and pose for photos in the town square with no one bothering them. They didn’t have to fear anyone knowing they were Jewish. The grand Gothic cathedral at the center of town, with a giant spire towering in the sky, seemed less a religious threat to nonbelievers than an architectural point of pride.

  With the city’s picturesque tree-lined hills as their backyard, children—Christian and Jewish alike—skipped across the tiny inlets that ran through town, where merchants’ pushcarts rumbled along the centuries-old cobblestone streets. It was an idyllic childhood for Freddy: dinners with his family, with their own maid to serve them dumplings, goulash, and other delicacies; weekends at the movie theater, watching the new black-and-white films; trips deep into the Black Forest to go hiking or skiing with school clubs. As a boy, he led a life that had all the warm serenity of a landscape painting by Renoir or one of the other French impressionists whose works had become so popular across the border just twenty-five miles to the west of Freiburg.

  Yes, Freddy knew that as Jews they had always been different, but they were Germans, too; proud Germans, as his father would often remind him. His family could trace its roots in the region back more than five hundred years, all the way to the thirteen hundreds, when the surrounding state of Baden was still in the hands of dukes and monarchs. In the 1860s his grandfather had started his own business, Julius Mayer Hardware, and became the first Jew since the Middle Ages allowed to purchase his own home in Freiburg: a handsome three-story brick townhouse in a leafy part of town known for its linden trees. That same year, in 1865, Julius and the other Jews in town formed a synagogue to call their own, the first in the city in generations. After centuries of rampant anti-Semitism in the region, a new era had begun.