Within two years Klaus Winzer had been taught by his charges everything they knew, and that was enough to make him a forger extraordinary. Towards the end of 1944 the project in Block 19 was also being used to prepare forged identity cards for the SS officers to use after the collapse of Germany.
In the early spring of 1945 the private little world, happy in its way when contrasted with the devastation then overtaking Germany, was brought to an end.
The whole operation, commanded by a certain SS-Captain Bernhard Krueger, was ordered to leave Sachsenhausen and transfer itself into the remote mountains of Austria and continue the good work. They motored south and set up the forgery again in the deserted brewery of Redl-Zipf in Upper Austria. A few days before the end of the war a brokenhearted Klaus Winzer stood weeping on the edge of a lake as millions of pounds and billions of dollars in his beautiful forged currency were dumped in the lake.
He went back to Wiesbaden and home. To his astonishment, having never lacked for a meal in the SS, he found the German civilians almost starving in that summer of 1945. The Americans now occupied Wiesbaden, and although they had plenty to eat, the Germans were nibbling at crusts. His father, by now a life-long anti-Nazi, had come down in the world. Where once his shop had been stocked with hams, a single string of sausages hung from the rows of gleaming hooks.
Klaus’ mother explained to him that all food had to be bought on ration cards, issued by the Americans. In amazement Klaus looked at the ration cards, noted they were locally printed on fairly cheap paper, took a handful and retired to his room for a few days. When he emerged it was to hand over to his astonished mother sheets of American ration cards, enough to feed them all for six months.
‘But they’re forged,’ gasped his mother.
Klaus explained patiently what by then he sincerely believed: they were not forged, just printed on a different machine. His father backed Klaus.
‘Are you saying, foolish woman, that our son’s ration cards are inferior to the Yankee ration cards?’
The argument was unanswerable, the more so when they sat down to a four-course meal that night.
A month later Klaus Winzer met Otto Klops, flashy, self-assured, the king of the black market at Wiesbaden, and they were in business. Winzer turned out endless quantities of ration cards, petrol coupons, zonal border passes, driving licences, US military passes, PX cards; Klops used them to buy food, petrol, truck tyres, nylon stockings, soap, cosmetics, and clothing, using a part of the booty to enable him and the Winzers to live well, selling the rest at black-market prices. Within thirty months, by the summer of 1948, Klaus Winzer was a rich man. In his bank account reposed five million Reichsmarks.
To his horrified mother he explained his simple philosophy. ‘A document is not either genuine or forged, it is either efficient or inefficient. If a pass is supposed to get you past a checkpoint, and it gets you past the checkpoint, it is a good document.’
In October 1948 came the second dirty trick played on Klaus Winzer. The authorities reformed the currency, substituting the new Deutsch-mark for the old Reichsmark. But instead of giving one for one, they simply abolished the Reichsmark and gave everyone the flat sum of 1000 new marks. He was ruined. Once again his fortune was mere useless paper.
The populace, no longer needing the black marketeers as goods came on the open market, denounced Klops, and Winzer had to flee. Taking one of his own zonal passes, he drove to the headquarters of the British Zone at Hanover and applied for a job in the passport office of the British Military Government.
His references from the US authorities at Wiesbaden, signed by a full colonel of the USAF, were excellent; they should be, he had written them himself. The British major who interviewed him for the job put down his cup of tea and told the applicant:
‘I do hope you realise the importance of people having proper documentation on them at all times.’
With complete sincerity Winzer assured the major that he did indeed. Two months later came his lucky break. He was alone in a beer-hall, sipping a beer, when a man got into conversation with him. The man’s name was Herbert Molders. He confided to Winzer he was being sought by the British for war crimes and needed to get out of Germany. But only the British could supply passports to Germans, and he dared not apply. Winzer murmured that it might be arranged, but would cost money.
To his amazement, Molders produced a genuine diamond necklace. He explained that he had been in a concentration camp, and one of the Jewish inmates had tried to buy his freedom with the family jewellery. Molders had taken the jewellery, ensured the Jew was in the first party to the gas chambers and against orders had kept the booty.
A week later, armed with a photograph of Molders, Winzer prepared the passport. He did not even forge it. He did not need to.
The system at the passport office was simple. In Section One, applicants turned up with all their documentation and filled out a form. Then they went away, leaving their documents for study. Section Two examined the birth certificates, ID cards, driving licences, etc., for possible forgery, checked the war criminals wanted list, and if the application was approved passed the documents, accompanied by a signed approval from head of department to Section Three. Section Three, on receipt of the note of approval from Section Two, took a blank passport from the safe where they were stored, filled it out, stuck in the applicant’s photograph and gave the passport to the applicant who presented himself a week later.
Winzer got himself transferred to Section Three. Quite simply, he filled out an application form for Molders in a new name, then wrote out an ‘Application Approved’ slip from the head of Section Two and forged that British officer’s signature.
He walked through into Section Two and picked up the nineteen application forms and approval slips waiting for collection, slipped the Molders application form and approval slip among them and took the sheaf to Major Johnstone. Johnstone checked that there were twenty approval slips, went to his safe, took out twenty blank passports and handed them to Winzer. Winzer duly filled them out, gave them the official stamp and handed nineteen to the waiting nineteen happy applicants. The twentieth went into his pocket. Into the filing-cabinet went twenty application forms to match the twenty issued passports.
That evening he handed Molders his new passport and took the diamond necklace. He had found his new métier.
In May 1949 West Germany was founded, and the passport office was handed over to the State Government of Lower Saxony, capital city Hanover. Winzer stayed on. He did not have any more clients. He did not need them. Each week, armed with a full-face portrait of some nonentity bought from a studio photographer, Winzer carefully filled out a passport application form, attached the photograph to the form, forged an approval slip with the signature of the head of Section Two (by now a German) and went to see the head of Section Three with a sheaf of application forms and approval slips. So long as the numbers tallied, he got a bunch of blank passports in return. All but one went to the genuine applicants. The last blank passport went into his pocket. Apart from that all he needed was the official stamp. To steal it would have been suspicious. He took it for one night, and by morning had a casting of the stamp of the Passport Office of the State Government of Lower Saxony.
In sixty weeks he had sixty blank passports. He resigned his job, blushingly acknowledged the praise of his superiors for his careful, meticulous work as a clerk in their employ, left Hanover, sold the diamond necklace in Antwerp and started a nice little printing business in Osnabrück, at a time when gold and dollars could buy anything well below market price.
He would never have got involved with the Odessa if Molders had kept his mouth shut. But once arrived in Madrid and among friends, Molders boasted of his contact who could provide genuine West German passports in a false name to anyone who asked.
In late 1950 a ‘friend’ came to see Winzer, who had just started work as a printer in Osnabrück. There was nothing Winzer could do but agree. From then on, whenever an Odessa ma
n was in trouble, Winzer supplied the new passport.
The system was perfectly safe. All Winzer needed was a photograph of the man and his age. He had kept a copy of the personal details written into each of the application forms by then reposing in the archive in Hanover. He would take a blank passport, and fill in the personal details already written on one of those application forms from 1949. The name was usually a common one, the place of birth usually by then far behind the Iron Curtain where no one could check, the date of birth would almost correspond to the real age of the SS applicant, and then he would stamp it with the stamp of Lower Saxony. The recipient would sign his new passport in his own handwriting with his new name when he received it.
Renewals were easy. After five years the wanted SS man would simply apply for renewal at the state capital of any state other than Lower Saxony. The clerk in Bavaria, for example, would check with Hanover: ‘Did you issue a passport Number So-and-So in 1950 to one Walter Schumann, place of birth such and date of birth such?’ In Hanover another clerk would check the records in the files and reply, ‘Yes.’ The Bavarian clerk, reassured by his Hanoverian colleague that the original passport was genuine, would issue a new one, stamped by Bavaria.
So long as the face on the application form in Hanover was not compared with the face in the passport presented in Munich there could be no problem. But comparison of faces never took place. Clerks rely on forms correctly filled in, correctly approved and passport numbers, not faces.