Klaus Barbie

The Butcher of Lyons

Tom Bower

GLOSSARY

PREFACE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For fifty years Klaus Barbie has worked for governments – both officially and unofficially. He has served both democracy and dictatorship. The governments which hired him for his skills were never disappointed. Manipulation, interrogation, extraction, torture and murder were the services he offered, and they were purchased in the full knowledge that Barbie had considerable experience of his trade. Invariably, it is the same kind of politicians and officials as those who hired him, who now pay sanctimonious homage in mighty-sounding phrases to the cause of justice. Yet, since the end of the Second World War, they have, both implicitly and explicitly, protected him.

The return of Klaus Barbie to France on 5 February 1983 to be tried for his wartime crimes was the victorious culmination of an extraordinary campaign by Serge and Beate Klarsfeld against sceptical, lethargic and downright hostile government officials and politicians. With enormous effort, Serge Klarsfeld discovered many vital documents and eyewitnesses which revealed Barbie’s miserable career and which convinced governments finally that his continued freedom insulted too many people and ideals. Beate Klarsfeld devoted months, despite discomfort and hardship, to protest against what they both saw as the immorality of protecting a notorious criminal. Whether the course of justice will reward that effort remains to be seen. In writing this book, I am very grateful for all the help they have given me.

My investigation of the postwar treatment of Nazi war criminals began in 1978, when Christopher Capron, then editor of BBC Television’s Panorama programme, encouraged me to pursue what proved to be an unexplored area. The result has been several programmes on the subject which have been shown in more than twenty-five countries. He is now the head of the BBC’s Current Affairs group and generously gave me permission to pursue this present saga. With equal goodwill, George Carey, then editor of Panorama, allowed me the time and gave me the necessary support to make two programmes about Barbie. The second (first broadcast in July 1983), revealing his American connections, was reported by Margaret Jay. She gave me important help and good advice. To all three, and to many other colleagues in Lime Grove, I am very indebted.

This type of book cannot be written without the friendship, help and unqualified generosity of many people. It is their professionalism and enthusiasm which has made this report possible. Foremost is Bob Fink in Washington, whose extraordinarily meticulous research has won him not only my gratitude but the respect of many American officials and former US intelligence agents. In France, I owe a special debt to Janet Thorpe; in Germany to Stefan Aust; in South America to Peter McFarren and Jan Rocha; in London to Caroline Wolfe and Isobelle Daudy, who helped me full time on all aspects of the project.

Others who helped me at various stages are David Bernouw at the Dutch Institute for War Documents, Hero Buss, Phillipe Daudy, Professor James Dunkerley, Jean-Claude Gallo, Elke Gerdener, Dr Josef Henke at the Federal archives in Koblenz, Dr M. Koenigsberg, Fred Kufferman, John Loftus, Henri Nogueres, David Pryce-Jones, Marcel Ruby, Jacques de la Rue, Fay Sharman, Daniel Simon at the Berlin Document Center, Tulla Skari, Lucien Steinberg, Paul Tarr, and Dr Hans Umbreit at the Federal archives in Freiburg. A special thanks also to Chris Bates who rapidly taught me the delights of a word processor.

More than two hundred people were interviewed in the course of research for this book. I am grateful to all those who are quoted, but also to those who have had to remain anonymous. Much of the material in this book has come either from classified government archives or from government officials who wanted an authoritative version told, but could not be quoted. I am naturally very grateful to them all. The editing and production of the book was managed at record speed thanks to the hard work and skill of my editors.

Finally I owe a special debt to my parents for their support and friendship, and to Nicholas and Oliver, who were always interested but, more important, always patient.

THE CONSPIRACY

Lawyers do not usually contemplate murder, but this was a special case. For eleven years, Parisian lawyer Serge Klarsfeld and his German wife Beate had battled in vain to bring a vicious Nazi torturer and mass murderer back to Europe to face his victims. With guile and contempt he had frustrated their most dedicated efforts. Ever since he had been discovered hiding in Bolivia in 1971, Klaus Barbie had boasted provocatively about his love for Adolf Hitler, his undying devotion to Nazism, and how he had humiliated the French Resistance in Lyons. His scornful defiance of the French had wounded his surviving victims and the Klarsfelds were determined on revenge.

In late summer 1982, the Klarsfelds feared that he was about to disappear forever into the impenetrable South American underworld of fugitive Nazis, that haven which had nourished and protected so many of the architects and executioners of Hitler’s Reich. They were, quite simply, determined that ‘The Butcher of Lyons’ was not going to have the pleasure of joining them. Their options were crude, perhaps, but were, they felt, inevitable. If Barbie could not be brought back to Europe alive to stand trial for his massive crimes as Gestapo chief of Lyons during the Occupation, he would have to be killed.

Seven thousand miles away, on the high plateau of the Andean mountains, Bolivian politicians and generals were struggling through a more than usually turbulent political crisis to settle the fate of the country’s 191st president. Waiting in exile to become the country’s next leader was the liberal president-elect, Hernán Siles Zuazo. In July 1982, Zuazo had told reporters that the protection and friendship which Klaus Barbie and his family had enjoyed from Bolivian generals since 1951 would end once he took over in La Paz. Zuazo did not explain his intentions, but no-one missed the important new ingredient: this was the first time that any Bolivian politician had even suggested that Barbie was not a fully protected Bolivian citizen. Yet, Zuazo’s statement contrasted sharply with events in the capital: at that very moment, the grey-haired tubby figure of Klaus Barbie was seen emerging from the presidential palace. He had just spent one hour paying his compliments to his good friend, the new President. The significance of that visit was clear. Klaus Barbie was the first civilian to be received by the new President since taking office – confirmation, if it were needed, of his importance in the country.

In Paris, the Klarsfelds warily monitored developments. Although experienced and successful Nazi-hunters, they could not predict his tactics on this occasion. In such a volatile climate they could only guess at their prey’s reactions to political change. At the beginning of October, Bolivia was reported to be preparing itself for yet another president. Siles Zuazo was finally sworn in on 10 October and now the Klarsfelds feared that Barbie would flee the country. Exactly three days later, Serge Klarsfeld bought a one-way ticket for a young Bolivian to fly to La Paz (via Barcelona and Buenos Aires, ‘so as not to raise suspicion’) to see if Barbie was preparing to escape. Beate Klarsfeld is unashamedly honest about their intentions and motives had the report been positive:

Barbie would have been killed. Serge and I felt responsible for the mothers of the children he had murdered. It was inconceivable to us that the mothers would one day die, having suffered terrible anguish for forty years, and Barbie would still be enjoying life. We always told the mothers that killing would be an act of despair, a defeat, but that we had to be prepared to kill him if we couldn’t find a legal solution. It would still have been a success.

The Klarsfelds’ agent reported from La Paz that, posing as a businessman, he had actually met and spoken with Barbie and there was no immediate indication that the German was planning a swift escape. Instead, he was sticking to his regular routine of drinking coffee in his favourite bar, the Confiteria La Paz, and visiting his dying wife in hospital. His faithful Bolivian bodyguard, Alvaro de Castro, was by his side, but then Barbie had been protected thus for ten years. Asked by a journalist a few days after Zuazo became President whether he feared extradition, Barbie replied, ‘I doubt if President Zuazo will extradite me. The war has been over for thirty-seven years. I was doing nothing but defending my people when Germany and France were at war.’ The only outward sign of the Nazi fugitive’s concern about his safety, was that he had relinquished his favourite table in the middle of the café and now sat at the side, with his back to the wall. Serge Klarsfeld asked his associate to keep Barbie under observation and decided to see whether the French government was prepared to renew its 1972 request for Barbie’s extradition. He telephoned an old friend at the Elysée Palace, Régis Debray, a special assistant to President Mitterrand. Debray had more than a passing interest in both Bolivia and Barbie.

In 1967, Debray had become internationally famous as a French Marxist and journalist. He had joined the legendary Cuban guerrilla leader, Che Guevara, on his historic but futile attempt to encourage the Bolivian peasants to revolt against the country’s dictatorial landowners and generals. Guevara was soon killed and Debray arrested. In the late Sixties, the young Frenchman became a martyr. His whole cause – books, the trial, and the imprisonment – aroused passionate sympathy among student radicals around the world who were demonstrating against the Vietnam war. In 1970, with the help of President de Gaulle, he was reprieved of his thirty-year sentence. Inevitably, on his return to France, his anger against the repressive and murderous Bolivian juntas and their ‘security advisers’ had not disappeared. Klaus Barbie was one of those advisers. In early 1972, the Klarsfelds had masterminded an aggressive international campaign to force Barbie’s extradition from Bolivia, but it had failed. Bitterly disappointed, the Klarsfelds immediately recruited Debray into an audacious plot.

Using a false passport, Serge Klarsfeld flew to Chile in December 1972 to meet Debray, who at the time was living in the capital. Renting a small plane, they flew together from Santiago to Chile’s north-eastern border with Bolivia for a prearranged meeting with Bolivian guerrillas who were keeping Guevara’s cause alive. The Frenchmen’s plan was for the guerrillas to kidnap Barbie and bring him, drugged, across the border, whence he would be flown down to Santiago and loaded onto a ship bound for France. The plan agreed, Klarsfeld returned to France, leaving the guerrillas to arrange the safe houses, cars and other necessary ingredients of a kidnap. Their plan depended on the sympathetic cooperation of Chile’s Marxist President, Salvador Allende. But in early 1973, the CIA’s sudden destabilisation of the Allende government plunged Chile into crisis. After weeks of planning, there was no alternative but for Klarsfeld and Debray to abort their mission.

They had kept in touch over the next decade, so when Serge called Debray at the Elysée Palace on 26 October 1982, asking to see him urgently, he was given an appointment the following afternoon. For an hour, Klarsfeld and Debray discussed the new conditions in Bolivia and the chances of a successful request for Barbie’s extradition. The legal hurdles seemed, as ever, insurmountable: Barbie had Bolivian nationality, he seemed to be an intimate friend of many important Bolivians, and France had no extradition treaty with Bolivia. Yet Klarsfeld and Debray agreed that they could never hope for better conditions. Bolivia’s new President was a socialist, very friendly towards France and a personal friend of several French cabinet ministers. He was also anxious to improve Bolivia’s image and wanted French help. A week earlier he had told the New York Times that he favoured Barbie’s extradition. When the French ambassador in La Paz read the report, he had discreetly reminded the new President that the West German government had officially requested the Nazi’s extradition the previous May. To ensure Zuazo’s complete cooperation, Klarsfeld and Debray agreed that they now needed the personal prestige and authority of the French President.

There was a strong Jewish contingent in President Mitterrand’s cabinet and many of their fathers, including the President’s, had been members of the French Resistance. Mitterrand’s and Klarsfeld’s fathers had been members of the same Resistance group. Everyone knew that President Mitterrand was always anxious to ennoble the memory of the Resistance. To emphasise that commitment, the President had on the day of his inauguration, paid a special solemn visit to the tomb of the Resistance leader, Jean Moulin, in the Pantheon, the resting place of many French heroes. Moulin had been tortured to death by Barbie and the fortieth anniversary of his death was approaching. The catalogue of Barbie’s other alleged crimes in Lyons would make the prospect of his arrest, in Debray’s view, very attractive to the government. It would be a national homage to his victims – 4,342 murdered, 7,591 deported to German concentration camps and 14,311 arrested.

Debray had good access to the President and had soon explained the chances of extracting Barbie from South America. Predictably, the President was immediately interested, and not just to satisfy his own feelings. It is in the nature of politics that governments seek any device to increase their popularity: Mitterrand was not averse to a project which might cost little but produce so much. His government had won a spectacular election victory in May 1981 but it was already under pressure to compromise and sacrifice many of its election promises. The opinion polls showed that support for France’s first socialist government to be elected since 1936 had declined sharply. Any opportunity of winning overwhelming national approval and boosting the government’s prestige was not to be missed.

Mitterrand cautioned Debray about the need for utmost secrecy, not only to avoid alarming Barbie, but also to protect the government in the event of failure. Both men knew that success depended on a sensitive approach and on delicate negotiations with both West Germany and Bolivia. The West Germans had to be consulted because, since 1975, they were empowered to prosecute Germans who had committed war crimes in France. President Zuazo had to be convinced that he should accept Germany’s recent request for Barbie’s extradition. There was no doubt in the President’s mind that Bonn would be agreeable, and France, which had always prided itself on its special understanding of Latin America, could help diplomatically.

Not all the news from La Paz in early November was encouraging. Barbie was reported suddenly to have disappeared, probably to another country. Paraguay, the reputed refuge of Josef Mengele, the infamous Auschwitz ‘doctor’, was mentioned as his likeliest destination. The Elysée was not deterred. Common sense dictated that even Nazi murderers do not abandon their dying wives. Quietly, the operation was launched. Only a handful of ministers and officials with a ‘need-to-know’ were to be alerted and included in the special team which was to be masterminded by Jean Louis Bianco, the head of the President’s personal staff. Others in the select group were the Foreign Minister, Claude Cheysson, a courageous Resistance veteran, and the Minister of Justice, Robert Badinter, whose father had been arrested in Lyons by Barbie personally in 1943, and had never returned from Auschwitz.

The first to leave for Bolivia was Antoine Blanca, France’s roving ambassador on the continent. When he arrived at the end of November, his access to Zuazo was guaranteed: the French ambassador in La Paz, Raymond Césaire, had given the Bolivian President sanctuary when his life was in danger during a coup in 1980. Blanca was immediately assured of Zuazo’s sympathy but cautioned that there were many problems. Zuazo’s reaction was telexed to the Elysée.

In Lyons, a town covered with plaques and statues commemorating the victims of Barbie’s reign of terror, Christian Riss, a thirty-six-year-old examining magistrate, had been slowly sifting through the Barbie files since February. Serge Klarsfeld had discovered, to his astonishment, in late 1981, that, because of bureaucratic incompetence, there were neither charges nor a warrant outstanding against Barbie in France. As the Elysée prepared its Barbie operation, Robert Badinter advised Riss to find, discreetly but urgently, a list of new charges and formally issue a warrant for Barbie’s arrest.

At the beginning of December, the French ambassador in Bonn called at the West German Foreign Ministry. After briefing senior officials about the French government’s assessment of the new situation in Zuazo’s Bolivia, and of its strong interest in securing Barbie’s extradition, he asked the German government to press their case immediately in La Paz. Neither he nor his government in Paris was prepared for the reply. With the authority of Hans-Dietrich Genscher, the Foreign Minister, the German officials explained that, although they had requested Barbie’s extradition, Germany felt distinctly lukewarm about his return and a trial. According to one of the French ministers, ‘When we heard the news from Bonn, we were very surprised, but when Zuazo heard about it in Bolivia, he was stunned and embarrassed. He wanted to get rid of Barbie; but it was a new, democratic government, and he wanted it done legally. Unless the Germans changed their minds, it was going to be very difficult.’

Barbie had just celebrated his sixty-ninth birthday. If he was brought back to Europe, the worst he could expect was life imprisonment. Germany had abolished the death penalty after the war and President Mitterrand’s own government had just passed the unpopular legislation dismantling the guillotine. When Barbie finally returned, outraged, to Europe, he protested not at his unjust imprisonment but at his illegal expulsion from Bolivia. After nearly fifty years of serving tyranny, the outlaw was criticising democratic governments for failing to obey the letter of international law.

THE NAZI

Nikolaus ‘Klaus’ Barbie was born on 25 October 1913 in Bad Godesberg, a small quiet town next to the Rhine, just south of Bonn. Although both his parents were Catholic, they did not marry until three months after his birth. The ceremony was held in Merzig, in the Saar, where the Barbie family had lived since the French Revolution. According to Barbie himself, his forefathers were probably called Barbier, and left France as refugees during the reign of Louis XIV.

His father, also called Nikolaus, was first an office worker and later a primary school teacher at the Noder school where Barbie himself was a pupil until the age of eleven; he died in 1933, aged forty-five, the late victim of a First World War bullet wound. Barbie claimed that his father was wounded at Verdun and, in anger at French occupation of the Rhineland, had joined the German resistance movement. Naturally, he claimed that his father’s activities were, unlike those of the French Resistance, both legal and justified. That occupation undoubtedly coloured his feelings about the French. Those who knew Barbie after the war say that he was very fond of his mother, Anna Hees. Her second son had died at eighteen, of a heart disease, and she was proud of her surviving son’s distinction although probably quite ignorant of his activities.

Barbie’s relations with his father were very strained. A heavy drinker, whose developing illness was sharply cutting into his income, his father increasingly subjected his young son to disciplinarian tirades which Barbie himself admits had a very detrimental effect on his whole life and personality. It was therefore a considerable relief when, in 1923, Barbie moved away from his family to the Friedrich-Wilhelm grammar school in Trier, initially as a boarder. ‘I was finally independent,’ is how he described his feelings in a revelatory essay written when he left in 1934. He felt liberated from the pressure of being the schoolteacher’s son: ‘It was a major aspect of my education.’ In 1925, however, the whole family moved to Trier. Once again, ‘I had to live with my mother and father. I was happy, but I was also disappointed.’ He clearly felt the effects of his unhappy home life: ‘The terrible hardships which I suffered during [those years] will be my secret forever, and have repercussions on my future … Those years made me a wise man, teaching me how bitter life can be, and how terrible destiny.’

In 1933, both his father and brother died. The Barbie family was plunged into depression and tumult at the very moment that Adolf Hitler became Germany’s Chancellor. The deaths were ‘a terrible blow for my mother and myself,’ wrote Barbie. ‘I must say that destiny, through the death of my father, has completely destroyed my most cherished hopes.’ After several attempts, Barbie finally passed his graduation exams in 1934, but with just average marks. ‘This year’s events,’ he wrote, ‘have left me restless. Like every other true German, I am attracted by the powerful national movement, and today I serve alongside all the others who follow the Führer.’

By this time, Hitler had been Chancellor for more than a year. All the alternative political ideologies had been radically suppressed. German schoolchildren had become the victims of relentless indoctrination, resisted only by those whose parents were outright opponents of the Nazis. Even then they usually had to join the Hitler Youth movement. Only those who emigrated were spared. Barbie was by then twenty. Too old for the excuse of political naivety, he positively discriminated in favour of Nazism, and was not only a member of the Hitler Youth movement but also the personal assistant of the local Party leader.

University was barred to him after graduation. With his father’s death the family had no money to finance further studies. Unemployed and without the prospect of a secure professional career, he went instead for six months to a Nazi Party voluntary work camp in Schleswig-Holstein. Willingly enthralled by the intense ideological atmosphere, he emerged a fully committed supporter of the Third Reich. He relished the life-style, comradeship and self-importance that attachment to the Party gave. As he admitted forty years later in Bolivia, he became a life-long Nazi dedicated to Hitler and German supremacy, and learnt a violent contempt for those who failed the racial and moral tests which the SS state immortalised.

On 26 September 1935, after submitting to tests for his racial and medical purity, Barbie joined the SS. Member no. 272,284, he was destined for the Sicherheitsdienst (SD), that elite corps within the SS whose life was devoted to enforcing Nazi ideology and protecting the Party. Very few emerged from that training course as anything less than resolute Nazis.

It was during those early days of the SS that Barbie says he saw Himmler and Heydrich close up. In 1979, Barbie met Himmler’s adjutant General Karl Wolff in Bolivia and for one week reminisced about his life: ‘I once played handball with Himmler in the headquarters courtyard. He seemed very stiff, shy but very polite. One could have a normal conversation with him. He knew how to command respect. Heydrich was the intellectual. Very different.’ After he left Berlin, Barbie saw neither of his chiefs again.

His first attachment was in Berlin, as an assistant in department IV-D of the SD main office. Within weeks he was posted to police headquarters in Alexanderplatz to start that training as an investigator and interrogator which was to be so admired and exploited by different governments over the next forty-five years. After a few weeks’ attachment to the murder squad, he was transferred to the vice squad, headed, as Barbie affectionately remembered him, by ‘Uncle Karl’. It was Barbie’s first taste of power, and it left a memorably strong impression.

Berlin at this time was corrupt, corpulent, seedy, debauched and overwhelmingly decadent. As it struggled to survive the approaching inferno, the capital was a wonderland for the self-appointed morality police, and a revelation for the schoolteacher’s son. Every night, ‘Uncle Karl’ took his team out to raid bars, brothels and nightclubs:

One evening, Uncle Karl, who knew every pimp in the city said, ‘OK, lads, tonight we’re going to raid the Usambara bar.’ I’ve never experienced anything like it in my life again. We sat around the bar in plain clothes. At three in the morning, all the whores from the Friedrichstrasse and Puttkamerstrasse came in with their pimps to settle the night’s accounts. I had never seen such rows or heard such language. And then the unbelievable fights which started when the pimps began to hit the whores. It was a bizarre dream show. In the middle of it, Uncle Karl went outside and called up the blue police maria, and everyone was arrested and carted off.

On other nights, Barbie would play the innocent punter looking for a prostitute: ‘They would say to me, “Come on, titch. Two marks for a moll.” Once inside, I’d pull out my ID card and shout, “Criminal police.”’ Just reliving those moments forty years later reduced Barbie to tears of laughter. ‘I’d arrest them. They had to serve special punishment when the Olympics were on, and they didn’t like it. Nebe, the police chief, ordered them all to peel potatoes for the sportsmen. He called it, “Peeling for the Fatherland.”’

When he was not pursuing whores, Barbie was already persecuting Jews, especially those involved in the fur trade, or homosexuals. He remembers with relish an assignment with an SD squad after his transfer to Düsseldorf in 1936. Their destination was an unique homosexual club. As usual, they entered the club in disguise and sat around waiting until the chief stood up and all the men realised they were caught in a raid. Barbie was staggered by what followed. Each homosexual admitted to being a senior officer in the Nazi Party, the Hitler Youth movement, or even the SS. To Barbie’s approval, their punishment was swift and severe. All of them were physically beaten by Barbie and the other SD officers, and then jailed. ‘If I think of all those homosexuals in Germany today,’ said Barbie forty years later, ‘I think I’d hand my German passport back, if I had one.’

By the end of 1938, Barbie’s career in the security services was assured. When Party membership lists were reopened in 1937, he automatically joined, as member no. 4,583,085. In the same year he passed through the SD school at Bernau and was sent to the exclusive leadership course in Berlin’s Charlottenburg. For those chosen few, military service was a mere formality. For three months, from September 1938, he served with the 39th Infantry Regiment, before returning to Charlottenburg for his final training and exams. The first test was boxing, an experience he never forgot. His opponent was a full 30 cms taller. ‘He beat me so hard that I was sick everywhere. But I had to quickly pull myself together and do a leapfrog over eight men, and I was still feeling sick.’ He was, by his own account, not a physically tough man. On 20 April 1940, he graduated and was promoted to SS Untersturmführer (Second Lieutenant).

Five days later, he was married. The bride was Regine Willms, a stocky twenty-three-year-old daughter of a postal worker from Osburg. She had left school early, trained as a cook and then worked as a maid in Berlin. In 1937 she joined the Party and began working in Düsseldorf in a Nazi Women’s Association children’s nursery. When they met, Barbie did not have a permanent home. Unusually for the times, he moved into her apartment before they were married.

Within days of the ceremony, Barbie rejoined his SD detachment and was thrown into von Rundstedt’s two-million-strong army invading the Low Countries and France. At this time Barbie was not a member of the Gestapo, which was section IV in the SD, but was assigned to section VI, intelligence. According to Barbie, his unit got as far as the outskirts of Dunkirk, arriving some time after the last British soldiers had scurried for survival across the Channel. With the port overcrowded, the unit was ordered back to the Hague in Holland, to await ‘Operation Sealion’, the invasion of Britain. Two weeks later, in early May, the channel crossing was postponed. Barbie’s unit was put under the direct command of Willy Lages, the SD commander in the Hague, and then shortly afterwards transferred to the Zentralstelle in Amsterdam, the ‘Central Bureau for Jewish Emigration’. His responsibilities included rounding up German emigrés, freemasons and Jews.

Holland’s 140,000 Jews proved to be the most vulnerable Jewish community in Europe. Sixty per cent were concentrated in Amsterdam and after the occupation found it extremely difficult to leave the country. Only 30,000 were to survive the war. Educated and comparatively wealthy, in 1940 they were already well aware of Nazi policy towards the Jews. More than in any other European country, the Dutch Jews actually understood the full implications of the German promises to deal with the Jews. But with considerable subtlety, the Zentralstelle moved quickly to dampen those fears and gave assurances which Jewish leaders enthusiastically accepted. It was only a temporary lull; some were not deceived and there was a rash of suicides.

Barbie was at the forefront of these activities, excited by the responsibility but even more excited by the licence to manipulate and deceive. The first personal report written about him in October 1940 reflected his flair: sent from Holland to his commanding officer in Germany, it said that he had ‘thrown himself energetically and intensively into SD work’. According to his commanding officer, Barbie was a ‘disciplined, hardworking, friendly and honest officer, a faultless comrade, who was excellent at his work and an honour to the SS’. A month later, his hard work and loyalty was rewarded and he was promoted to Obersturmführer (First Lieutenant).

The Germans imposed the first of a series of discriminatory measures against the Dutch Jews in October. Jewish businesses were subjected to compulsory purchase for trivial compensation, and Jews were summarily dismissed from state employment. Soon after Christmas, anti-semitism escalated from bureaucratic harrassment to physical assault. Acting on the orders of the Zentralstelle, organised groups of Dutch Nazis began attacking Jews on the streets in Amsterdam. It followed the by then customary pattern which had been established in other European cities – humiliation followed by beatings. There was outrage, but little more. In February, the Zentralstelle ordered Dutch paramilitaries to increase the pressure.

Groups of uniformed Dutch stormtroopers began attacking Jewish homes and businesses. To their utter surprise, instead of cowed submission they met with fierce resistance. Not only did the Jews protect themselves, but non-Jews joined in the fight. The glorious defence was short-lived, but during a running battle, a stormtrooper was wounded and died. On 12 February 1941, the German command used his death as a pretext to seal off Amsterdam’s Jewish quarter. Barbie and the SS were mobilised. Early that morning, all but one of the bridges across the canals were raised; the SS had effectively created a Jewish ghetto. ‘Three hard weeks followed,’ is how Barbie remembers the ‘raging’ battle, as the Germans and Dutch paramilitaries rampaged along the canals and through the narrow streets. ‘The Jews were upstairs in their houses, and we were in the streets.’ The intense fighting lasted for just two days and the unrest for two weeks, but the climax for Barbie occurred on 19 February, in the south of the city.

Two Jewish refugees from Germany, Cahn and Kohn, had opened a popular ice-cream parlour called Koko. Using improvised weapons and with the help of friends, they had beaten off several attacks in previous days. Their ebullient confidence and evident self-satisfaction was enough to provoke a counter-attack. Barbie and his team arrived at the parlour with strict orders, on Barbie’s own admission, only to arrest the Jews, and not to harm them. With the brazen initiative which was to characterise all his exploits throughout the war, Barbie led the charge.

As the first man to burst through the barricaded door, he threw a bicycle into the doorway to prevent anyone barring it behind him. As he turned, one of the defenders squirted ammonia into his face. Although stunned (later he was to need treatment), he rushed forward. Among the twelve Jews inside the bar, he saw Cahn. ‘He had a nice bald head. I still had enough strength to pick up an ashtray and smash him on his head. He was badly wounded.’ Everyone inside was then arrested.

In the immediate aftermath, on 22 February, SS troops stormed through the Jewish quarter with appalling brutality. Four hundred and twenty-five Jews were arrested, most of whom were subsequently deported to Mathausen concentration camp where, after considerable suffering, they died. The arrests were followed by a strike which was ineptly handled by Barbie’s commander, Sturmbannführer Wilkens; he was reprimanded and transferred. This was of little concern to Barbie, who was finding life more pleasant than he had imagined possible. The SS had, after all, won the battle, and they celebrated in royal style with members of the Dutch Nazi Party and senior police officers: ‘We drank until eight in the morning. An amazing party, marvellous comradeship. Unrepeatable. And that’s what one survives on when one’s exiled like this.’

After three days’ leave, Barbie returned to duty and claims that he was ordered to finish the job. Cahn and his friends had been condemned to death. ‘I was put in charge of the firing squad. One of the condemned asked to hear an American hit record, and then we shot them. I really felt quite ill seeing their brains squirting out all over the place.’ For his services, on 20 April, Barbie was awarded the Iron Cross, second class.

Pressure on the Jews increased. On 14 May, a bomb was thrown into a German officers club in the Jewish quarter of Amsterdam. Although the evidence suggests that it was thrown not by Jews but by a resistance group, the Germans decided that the Jews should suffer the reprisals; this time they adopted a more subtle approach. On the morning of 11 June, Barbie arrived at the offices of the Jewish Council, the organisation set up by the Germans to represent Dutch Jews. To the astonishment of the two co-presidents, Abraham Asscher and David Cohen, Barbie politely introduced himself and shook both of them by the hand. Barbie confessed that the Germans had a problem, although he confided that it would be relatively easy to find a solution. Three hundred Jewish apprentices had been forced to leave their training camp, the lieutenant explained; but, after reconsideration, the Germans had decided that the boys should be allowed to return. Rather than collecting the boys by driving around the streets, the Germans wanted to write individually to the boys and advise them of the good news. Barbie therefore needed a list with the boys’ addresses. Faced with so polite and reasonable a man, Cohen handed over the list and Barbie, still the soul of courtesy, bade his leave.

That afternoon, Cohen and Asscher were called down to police headquarters. To both it seemed to be a routine summons, except that they were kept waiting endlessly. At 6.00 p.m., Asscher was allowed to phone his home: paralysed with horror, he listened to the news that the Germans had just completed a massive round-up of young Jews. An hour later, the two numbed leaders were taken to SD commander Lages’ room. The boys had been arrested, said Lages, as a reprisal for the bomb attack. Cohen and Asscher’s pleas for mercy were curtly ignored. To complete their misery, they were taken out of the building past the Jewish boys, who were standing in long rows. Both whispered despondent words of comfort, but soon found themselves alone and miserable on the street. All the boys were deported to Mathausen and were dead before the end of the year, some of them used for early gas experiments in summer 1941.

Just days after that coup, Barbie’s daughter, Ute Regine, was born in Trier. His notification of this fact to headquarters in Berlin on 4 July was from Amsterdam, but it is unlikely that he stayed for much longer in the city. Although it does not appear on his official service record, he travelled east via Königsberg and was attached to a special commando group whose mission was to support the German invasion of Russia. During the initial weeks of that ferocious advance, Barbie was employed fighting Russian partisans with a Gestapo unit. It was an introduction to cruder methods of interrogation and to the low value that Germans placed on their enemies’ lives. Homes were needlessly destroyed, women and children murdered and men brutally tortured to extract information. If Barbie is a sadist, it was during those months in Russia that he recognised the possibility of satisfying his pleasure.

In spring 1942, he was recalled to Berlin and assigned a delicate mission which needed a French speaker. He was sent as security chief to Gex, a French town on the Swiss border now under German occupation, to kidnap Alexander Foote, an agent working for Moscow with Leopold Trepper. Foote was living in Geneva. Barbie’s brief was to arrange his kidnap and bring him back to occupied France. Barbie’s base in Gex was a house which actually stood on the Franco-Swiss border. During the preparations for the kidnap, Barbie walked into the house in France, changed his clothes and walked out the other side into Switzerland. Fundamental to the success of the mission was a successful border-crossing by car. Barbie claims that he solved this problem by befriending the chief of the Swiss customs post in Gex. In return for helping him to meet his girlfriend in France, he was promised that he could drive through the border without a search. Headquarters in Berlin gave the green light, Barbie put the rehearsals into practice, but Foote suddenly disappeared. Barbie’s next posting, in June, was to Dijon.

France in summer 1942 was still a very pleasant command for German soldiers. The French were relatively benign, there was good food and the occupiers enjoyed a privileged existence; Dijon was quiet, with very few partisan attacks. But at German military command headquarters there was a firm sense that the days of sympathy were drawing to a close. The unoccupied southern part of France, ruled by the collaborationist French government, was hosting too many anti-German groups. Lyons, France’s second largest city, had become in name at least the capital of the nation’s resistance. Plans were drawn up to occupy Vichy France. It just needed an excuse to implement them and that was conveniently provided by the Anglo-American invasion of French North Africa. On 11 November, the German army crossed the demarcation line. Klaus Barbie, recently transferred from section VI to section IV, arrived in Lyons as head of the Gestapo.

THE BETRAYAL

With hindsight, France in 1940 was in no state either to oppose the invading armies, or to organise an effective underground resistance to German occupation. Over the previous decade, deep political divisions, aggravated by a spate of public scandals, had resulted in the chronic series of weak governments that characterised the last days of the Third Republic. The mood of the country was one of despondency and exhaustion. The government’s reluctant declaration of war in September 1939 was, to the majority of the French, an ominous harbinger of chaos – instant bloodshed and devastation seemed inevitable.

Instead, the first eight months of the war were comparatively uneventful, and when the invasion finally came in May 1940, a dispirited, disorganised, even mutinous French army was no match for the outstanding military tactics of the Wehrmacht. There was scant enthusiasm to defend the ‘rotten’ Third Republic, and with considerable relief, France capitulated on 17 June at the end of a campaign that had lasted only six weeks. Her proud military reputation in ruins, her government divided, her people so paralysed by confusion that some even welcomed the swift victory of the invaders, it seemed impossible to believe that France would ever be able to produce a resistance force capable of troubling Barbie’s Gestapo in Lyons.

The German army had reached the outskirts of Lyons on 1 June. Terrified by the ferocious bombardment of Bron airport, about half the city’s population of 500,000 immediately fled south. Only a few disparate army units, including a company of Senegalese troops, patriotically stood their ground waiting to defend the town. Contemptuously, the Germans held back until 19 June, two days after the government’s formal surrender, and entered the city virtually unopposed. Barely any townspeople were on the streets to see the conquerors march in, watch the Swastika replace the Tricolour, and witness the handful of brave but futile acts of resistance. ‘What silence,’ commented an awed but melancholy observer. ‘One could sense the flow of the Rhône.’

The occupation of Lyons lasted less than three weeks. Suspicious of the French, Hitler was as uncertain then as he remained throughout the war about the role France should play in the Thousand Year Reich. Total occupation seemed an unnecessary liability and since France had, unprompted, delivered a government which seemed more than willing to collaborate, dividing the country was an ideal solution. Paris and the north would be ruled by the German army while below the demarcation line Marshal Pétain and Pierre Laval, based in the spa town of Vichy, would head an ostensibly independent government of fourteen million people. Hitler’s solution produced a very uneasy peace but it momentarily silenced most anti-German feelings.

The German army pulled out of Lyons on 7 July. In the cellars of the Prefecture lay twenty-six rotting corpses of black Senegalese soldiers who had been captured outside the city, the first victims in Lyons of German racialism. News of the massacre provoked no demonstrations of anger or resentment. The German withdrawal was simply greeted with relief and the city, like the rest of the country, resumed life as if little had changed. Only those who were determined to oppose both the Germans and the armistice faced an unenviable dilemma. To stay meant acceptance of the defeat, to answer de Gaulle’s ambitious call to join him in London would be akin to betrayal, even treason. Most decided to stay. If they were soldiers, their only act of resistance was to hide their weapons in the hope of using them in the impenetrable future.

For those very few Frenchmen who, in summer 1940, instinctively felt that they could neither live nor collaborate with the Germans, Lyons was a natural destination. South of the demarcation line, it was the nearest ‘free’ city to the capital. Politically conservative and without the pretensions of Paris, it stood at the crossroads of the nation’s transport system, divided by the rivers Rhône and Saône with rail and road connections to every city. Its sheer size and its warren-like network of passages and streets made it, in the early years of the war, an ideal refuge for those seeking anonymity. The former capital of Roman-occupied Gaul became the ‘natural birthplace’ of the French Resistance.

Resistance in the early months meant little more than a discreet and seditious discussion of opposition to the government. Among those who had emigrated to the south were many of the nation’s leading journalists, who felt unable to write for Paris’s censored press. Some managed to print a handful of primitive pamphlets appealing for support and opposing the collaborationist government. Others scrawled slogans on walls. But the popularity of the First World War hero, Pétain, seemed indestructible. When he visited the city on 18 November, he was greeted by no fewer than 150,000 people. De Gaulle’s answer to this was an appeal from London for the streets to be deserted for one hour on New Year’s Day. The response appeared to be overwhelming but in fact meant very little.

A lack of political leadership frustrated the immediate growth of the Resistance. The dismay and disillusionment with pre-war politicians persisted into the occupation. None of them became leaders of the underground movement and none of the violent pre-war animosities ever disappeared. France’s defeat provoked a bloody civil war between pro-Armistice and Resistance factions which the Germans skilfully and ruthlessly exploited. It took more than a year for some of the antagonists even to consider temporarily setting aside their differences to face the common enemy. Lyons was the setting for the sensitive negotiations and vital compromises which led to the creation of the national Resistance movement. But it was a difficult and hazardous birth, repeatedly thwarted after Barbie’s arrival.

During the first year, three distinct, non-communist resistance movements developed, all based in Lyons but each determinedly independent of the others because of the political views and personalities of their leaders. Henri Frenay led the largest group, ‘Combat’, Emmanuel d’Astier de la Vigerie headed ‘Libération’, and Jean-Pierre Lévy founded ‘Francs-Tireurs’. They were an incompatible trio. Frenay was a diligent, methodical ex-officer, an organiser who was simultaneously careful and brave, yet aggressively ambitious to become leader of the whole secret army. Equally brave, Astier had the opposite temperament: a swashbuckling, hot-headed charmer, he found Frenay lacklustre and unattractive. Levy was at neither extreme and tried to act as conciliator.

The groups had different specialities and strengths among various professions in different areas of the country. In theory they had