The Odessa File

Only after 1955, more than five years from the original issuing of the Hanover passport, would immediate renewal be necessary by the holder of a Winzer passport. Once the passport was obtained, the wanted SS man could acquire a fresh driving licence, social security card, bank account, credit card, in short an entire new identity.

By the spring of 1964 Winzer had supplied forty-two passports out of his stock of sixty originals.

But the cunning little man had taken one precaution. It occurred to him that one day the Odessa might wish to dispose of his services, and of him. So he kept a record. He never knew the real names of his clients; to make out a false passport in a new name it was not necessary. The point was immaterial. He took a copy of every photograph sent to him, pasted the original in the passport he was sending back and kept the copy. Each photograph was pasted on to a sheet of cartridge paper. Beside it was typed the new name, the address (addresses are required on German passports) and the new passport number.

These sheets were kept in a file. The file was his life insurance. There was one in his house, and a copy with a lawyer in Zürich. If he were ever threatened for his life by the Odessa, he would tell them about the file, and warn them that if anything happened to him the lawyer in Zürich would send the copy to the German authorities.

The West Germans, armed with a photograph, would soon compare it with their ‘Rogues Gallery’ of wanted Nazis. The passport number alone, checked quickly with each of the sixteen state capitals, would reveal the domicile of the holder. Exposure would take no more than a week. It was a fool-proof scheme to ensure Klaus Winzer stayed alive and in good health.

This then was the man who sat quietly munching his toast and jam, sipping his coffee and glancing through the front page of the Osnabrück Zeitung over breakfast at half past eight that Friday morning when the phone rang. The voice at the other end was first peremptory, then reassuring.

‘There is no question of your being in any trouble with us at all,’ the Werwolf assured him. ‘It’s just this damn reporter. We have a tip that he’s coming to see you. It’s perfectly all right. We have one of our men coming up behind him and the whole affair will be taken care of within the day. But you must get out of there within ten minutes. Now here’s what I want you to do …’

Thirty minutes later a very flustered Klaus Winzer had a small bag packed, cast an undecided glance in the direction of the safe where the file was kept, came to the conclusion he would not need it and explained to a startled housemaid, Barbara, that he would not be going to the printing works that morning. On the contrary, he had decided to take a brief holiday in the Austrian Alps. A breath of fresh air, nothing like it to tone up the system.

Barbara stood on the doorstep open-mouthed as Winzer’s Kadett shot backwards down the drive, swung out into the residential road in front of his house and drove off. Ten minutes after nine o’clock he had reached the clover-leaf four miles west of the town where the road climbed up to join the autobahn. As the Kadett shot up the incline to the motorway on one side a black Jaguar was coming down the other side heading into Osnabrück.

Miller found a filling-station at the Saar Platz at the western entrance to the town. He pulled up by the pumps and climbed wearily out. His muscles ached and his neck felt as if it were locked solid. The wine he had drunk the evening before gave his mouth a taste like parrot-droppings.

‘Fill her up. Super,’ he told the attendant. ‘Have you got a pay phone?’

‘In the corner,’ said the boy.

On the way over Miller noticed a coffee automat and took a steaming cup into the phone booth with him. He flicked through the phone book for Osnabrück town. There were several Winzers, but only one Klaus. The name was repeated twice. Against the first entry was the word ‘Printer’ and a number. The second Klaus Winzer had the abbreviation ‘res.’ for residence against it. It was 9.20. Working hours. He rang the printing works.

The man who answered was evidently the foreman.

‘I’m sorry, he’s not in yet,’ said the voice. ‘Usually he’s here at nine sharp. He’ll no doubt be along directly. Call back in half an hour.’

Miller thanked him and considered dialling the house. Better not. If he was at home, Miller wanted him personally. He noted the address and left the booth.

‘Where’s Westerberg?’ he asked the pump attendant as he paid for the petrol, noting that he had only 50 marks left of his savings. The boy nodded across to the north side of the road.

‘That’s it. The posh suburb. Where all the well-off blokes live.’

Miller bought a town plan as well and traced the street he wanted. It was barely ten minutes away.

The house was obviously prosperous, and the whole area spoke of well-to-do professional people living in comfortable surroundings. He left the Jaguar at the end of the drive and walked to the front door.

The maid who answered it was in her late teens and very pretty. She smiled brightly at him.

‘Good morning. I’ve come to see Herr Winzer,’ he told her.

‘Oooh, he’s left, sir. You just missed him by about twenty minutes.’

Miller recovered. Doubtless Winzer was on his way to the printing works and had been held up.

‘Oh, what a pity. I’d hoped to catch him before he went to work,’ he said.

‘He hasn’t gone to work, sir. Not this morning. He’s gone off on holiday,’ replied the girl helpfully.

Miller fought down a rising feeling of panic.

‘Holiday? That’s odd at this time of year. Besides,’ he invented quickly, ‘we had an appointment this morning. He asked me to come here specially.’

‘Oh, what a shame,’ said the girl evidently distressed. ‘And he went off so sudden. He got this phone call in the library, then upstairs he goes. Tells me, “Barbara” – that’s my name, see? – “Barbara, I’m off on holiday in Austria. Just for a week,” he says. Well, I’d never heard of him planning no holiday. Tells me to ring the works and say he’s not coming in for a week, then off he goes. Not like Herr Winzer at all. Such a quiet gentleman.’

Inside Miller the hope began to die.