Lucas Delattre - A Spy at the Heart of the Third Reich

The train left Berlin punctually at 8:20. Fritz did not sleep, or barely. The car was full throughout the journey through Germany, but few travelers were going as far as the Swiss border. The night passed without incident. Apart from routine verification of tickets on leaving Berlin, there was no checking on the passengers. Fritz watched stations go by throughout the night. Halle, 10:35. Erfurt, 12:25 A.M. Frankfurt am Main, 4:34. Heidelberg, 6:27. Karlsruhe, 7:22. Freiburg im Breisgau, 9:40. During the trip, there were several long halts; this was not because of air raid warnings but because the locomotive was changed several times. Finally, they arrived in Basel, German station (Basel DRB, for Deutsche Reichsbahn ), close to the scheduled time, 11:11. It was Monday morning, August 16, 1943.

The “German station” in Basel was an enclave of the Reich in Switzerland. Fritz had heard that this border station was a favorite observation post for the Nazis and a nest of German spies. As he left the train, Fritz looked around him, not very reassured. At a bank counter, he was given the regulation ten marks (no more) to which every German leaving the Reich had the right. Then he approached the border post, where he managed more or less to conceal his nervousness as he presented his papers. His heart was beating like mad. If there had been a body search, he would have had no hope of escape.

Fritz Kolbe’s papers were in order: he had an authorization to stay for four days (until Friday, August 20). As could be verified inside his passport, he had a German visa furnished by the Foreign Ministry (visa no. 4235), and a Swiss visa, provided by the Swiss legation in Berlin (visa no. 519). The German customs officer, with a look as cold as a statue, signaled him to move on. The hardest part was over. Fritz was in Switzerland. He felt an immense relief.

After taking a shuttle to the Swiss station in Basel (Basel SBB), Fritz got on another train, for Bern. He took a deep breath. Perhaps he had seen in the Basel station German trains full of coal or military materiel moving slowly toward Italy through the Gothard tunnel (the route connecting Rome and Berlin). But he suddenly felt transported into another world. Switzerland was a strange country, both very close to and very far from Germany. A country where you could find German political refugees, Jews, resistance fighters from around Europe trying to lie low, German, Italian, and Austrian deserters, escaped prisoners of war, Allied airmen who had survived missions in Germany…

Bern, Monday, August 16, 1943

On his arrival in Bern, Fritz was immediately picked up by a diplomatic vehicle that took him to the German legation in fifteen minutes. He was astonished by the beauty of the site and at the same time surprised to discover the modest size of the Swiss capital. He soon noticed that Bern had absolutely no road signs and that it was thus very easy to get lost if you didn’t know your way around. He found out that the road signs had been removed because of the prospect of a German attack: Everything had to be done to make the invader lose his way. He also noticed that the car in which he was riding did not display a Nazi flag.

On leaving the station, Fritz had had the time to leave his personal belongings at his hotel, which was not far from the station. This was the Hotel Jura (on Platz Bubenberg), a modest hotel, but quite comfortable. He had taken the opportunity to hide the documents he had concealed beneath his pants. The day passed in consultations with his colleagues in the German legation, which was located in a villa in the Brunnadern district, in the southern part of the city (Willadingweg 78). Perhaps Fritz had a brief conversation with Otto Köcher, head of the legation, whom he had known well since Spain.

Crossing through the city by car, he had seen the handsome residences of the Kirchenfeld district. All the diplomatic missions of the world were there, to judge from the flags decorating the façades. What was striking, coming from Berlin, was the idyllic nature of the place. There was a liveliness and an apparently gentle way of life, which was no longer known in Berlin, even if Fritz was a little disappointed by the absence of chocolate and pastries from the store windows in the center of town. Getting out of the car that deposited him in front of the German legation, he felt surrounded by calm and silence. Just the sound of the wind in the trees and the “pock” of tennis rackets hitting a ball nearby.

That evening, Fritz was invited to a diplomatic reception. He had the time to go back to his hotel to change, and it was probably then that he managed to reach his old friend Ernst Kocherthaler from a public telephone. Kocherthaler had been living in Switzerland since September 1936. After fleeing the civil war and the Falangists (who suspected him of having supplied arms to the Republicans), he had settled with his family in Adelboden, a little mountain village in the Alps near Bern, an hour and a half south of the capital. Fritz knew his telephone number (“146 in Adelboden,” he said to the operator). This was the first time that the two men had spoken in eight years. They were moved by the reunion, but the poor quality of the telephone line made it impossible for them to speak for long. They arranged to meet in Bern the next morning.

Bern, Tuesday, August 17, 1943

No one knows the name of the restaurant or café in Bern where Fritz Kolbe and Ernst Kocherthaler met. All the newspapers of the day carried the headline that Sicily had come entirely under Allied control. For Fritz, this was good news. But Ernst Kocherthaler greatly feared that this event would lead to the German invasion of Switzerland. Despite worries about the future, the two friends were happy to see each other again. Kocherthaler was delighted to rediscover Fritz’s outspokenness and good humor. He immediately questioned him about rumors he had heard from an industrialist friend in Berlin: “There is talk of plans of a coup d’état against Hitler, a suggestion of a military government headed by Rommel. What is Himmler doing about it? They say he’s more powerful than ever.”

Fritz told Ernst about the atmosphere in Berlin, about the bombing, and about the general feeling of extreme lassitude (“Many Berliners,” he said, “have only one wish: to sleep”). In the summer of 1943, more and more Germans were becoming pro-Russian, because of a very simple argument: At least the Russians were not bombing German cities.

After a few minutes, the two men began to speak in lower tones. Fritz informed his friend of the reason for his coming to Bern: He wanted to transmit information to the Allies. “Ernst, you can certainly help me meet someone, I’m sure you know names and addresses.” Ernst Kocherthaler started, taken aback. He had been expecting anything but that. He had already met the head of the British legation, Clifford Norton, at a reception. Would he remember? There was nothing to keep him from trying, but he would have to act quickly because Fritz was going back to Berlin on Friday. “What do you have to offer?” asked Ernst. It was then, after furtively looking around to make sure that no one was watching them, that Fritz took from his briefcase a little bundle of secret documents he had taken from Wilhelmstrasse. “Here, see if that may interest someone and tell them that I have other things with me.”

What happened next has given rise to many different versions. After 1945, the facts were reconstructed by the principal protagonists on the basis of often foggy memories. The truth suffered from more or less conscious or voluntary approximations. Indications of dates are often contradictory and most of the time false. Only Fritz Kolbe’s passport makes it possible to locate fairly precisely the unfolding of events in the week from August 17 to 20, 1943. According to a version frequently reported, Fritz went himself to see a member of the British legation. He is said to have told him that he had information to offer and that he was prepared to collaborate with the Allies without compensation. The English diplomat, still according to legend, showed him out with the following words: “You’re probably a double agent, or else some kind of cad!”