The Intelligence Page

Don Angel Alcazar de Velasco

Escape to Switzerland and Spain

by Don Angel Alcazar de Velasco


The garage owner refused to supply me with gasoline. I became concerned. I told him no one at this time could run a car unless he were on government business. But he refused to be persuaded.

Fortunately luck was on my side; an SS detachment had just turned into the street and was marching toward me.

I waited until they drew abreast of me and I stepped out to speak with the sergeant in charge. I took the risk of confiding in him that I was on an extremely important secret mission which necessitated my traveling on forged papers. Had he not believed my story, I could have been thrown in prison and days might have passed with communications as they were, before Wagner could have arranged my release.

Fortunately, the man accepted my story and came with me into the garage owner’s office. The sergeant, a huge crop-haired brute, threatened the cowering man with instant arrest unless he filled the tank of my car. The man did so; and I can’t blame him.

The further towards Switzerland I traveled, the more obvious it became that the Third Reich was defeated. I began to meet groups of refugees - old men, women and children, trudging hopelessly away from the tide of battle. I questioned some of them, but they did not appear to know where they were going. They were just running away. The adults appeared thin and badly clothed, and I noticed that many of the children were without shoes. To one group, I tossed a few tins of meat and vegetables which had been stacked in the back of my car. They snatched them greedily without a word of thanks.

I stopped at a small roadside inn and asked inside for a cool lager, but the landlord shrugged and offered me the only thing he had in his cellar - a glass of water. I pressed them to look again and this time I produced a piece of butter, half the size of a matchbox. The landlord’s wife accepted eagerly and moments later, a liter of foaming chilled beer was mine. Two miles further along the road, I discovered what price I really had to pay.

The car shuddered and stopped! My host had siphoned off my whole tank of petrol. In a fury, I considered having the man arrested, but common sense made me realize I would be wasting precious time. Instead, I filled a case with food and a blanket - and a spare pair of shoes, and walked.

In just over an hour, I arrived at a small railway station where I was amazed to find that trains were still running. But there was no question of buying a ticket.

"Are you mad?” asked the porter. “Nobody buys tickets any more. When the train stops, you just get on if you can.”

When it arrived, the train consisted of freight wagons and open coaches, but at least it took me to the outskirts Garmisch where, after a three hour delay, I was able to get a train through to Innsbruck.

The town was swarming with troops and the station itself was littered with stretcher cases and walking wounded. I decided to eat before continuing on the last stage of my journey to Feldkirch. I walked away from the station and threaded my way down a little side street until I came to a tiny coffee house away from the crush of field grey uniforms. I sat at a table near the cafe’s entrance. It was dim in the blackout and at first, I did not notice the couple sitting adjacent to me.

I could scarcely believe my eyes when I turned to study them more closely and recognized the man. I had last seen him in the Führerbunker, exhorting us to the final defense of the Third Reich. It was General SS Zimmermann!

He must have recognized me at the same instant and a flicker of disbelief crossed his face. He beckoned me over. I hardly sat down when he began to talk quietly and rapidly.

“This lady is my wife. I want you to take care of her. See that no harm comes to her, because I intend to kill myself.”

I was speechless. This man was a comparative stranger, an influential SS officer who did not even know my name. He who a short time ago had been full of optimism now proposed to commit suicide, and thrust the responsibility of his wife’s safety onto my shoulders.

I begged him to reconsider, but despite my pleadings, he explained that he could never leave Germany and since he had no intention of serving anyone but the Führer, the only course open to him was suicide. Seeing that it was pointless to go on arguing, I told him that I had been ordered back to Spain and would take his wife with me if he insisted.

Suddenly, as if fearing I might change my mind, Zimmermann stood up. He kissed his wife on the forehead, shook me firmly by the hand and without saying a word, walked out into the night. Frau Zimmermann, her name was Maria, half rose from her chair, then slumped back. She simply said:“God help him, wherever he goes”

Two years after the war I discovered that General Zimmermann had indeed carried out his promise and committed suicide.

Maria Zimmermann and I, the following night, made contact with our agent, a Catholic priest in Fendkirch named Father John. We decided it would be best if we traveled as man and wife, and Father John promptly forged an appropriate wedding certificate. We stayed with the priest for three days and it was in his house on May 1st that I heard the German radio announcement that Hitler “....had died at the head of his troops.”

I was confused by this announcement, for I felt it could not be true. I knew of Bormann’s instructions to transport the Führer to a safe place, away from the battle and the advancing Red Army. I had seen for myself the carefully planned escape of every other top Nazi, and I refused to believe that Hitler had been allowed to remain behind.

On the night of May 3rd, I crossed safely back into Switzerland, knowing that scores of high-ranking Nazis had preceded me through similar escape routes and countless others were to follow.

In Switzerland we presented ourselves to the authorities as Angel Donate Reca and Maria Pinto, man and wife, and asked for repatriation to Spain. Both of us were extensively questioned and passed from camp to camp until at last we were dumped in the refugee camp for Spanish nationals at lePlaine near the French border.

I was in this ghastly place on May 7 when I heard that the war was over. Germany had surrendered unconditionally. The misery of the filth at lePlaine almost defied description. We lived in unheated huts and slept on wooden bunks thinly covered with straw. The toilet was a hole in the ground at one end of the hut, and the stench was indescribable.

On the second day there, I was lucky enough to find a pro-Nazi Swiss guard who agreed to pass on a message to a certain Father Ramon, whose name had been given to me by the Catholic priest who assisted us in Feldkirch. This monk took my case to the Spanish consul in Geneva, and shortly afterwards, I was visited by the Spanish Consul, one Senór Albazor. He pulled a great many strings and arranged with the Allied authorities on the Inter-Allied Commission for the Repatriation of Refugees to have Maria and I transferred to a hotel in Geneva under police supervision. From here it was a simple job to arrange a passage for the two of us to Barcelona.

I had cabled my wife when we were arriving, and she was waiting for us with a car when we docked late in July. After hearing our story, she insisted on Maria Pinto going back to live with us in Madrid. Maria stayed with us for three years before returning to Germany. Later I learned that she was working for the German Government in South America. Now Maria is once again settled in Germany, at Köln, and got engaged to an Englishman. but now she lives under the name of Maria Danneworth.

By the time I reached home, the Allied nations were celebrating the crushing of Nazi Germany. But I knew that their had not been complete. Even as they rejoiced, scores of men, capable of keeping the spirit of Nazism alive, were being assisted to safety by those who still believe in their cause. I was one of those who assisted in these escapes.

Two men came to me for help.....the first stands convicted for the murder of millions.

I met him the first time in 1946. In June of that year, a monk from a Swiss order, called at my home in Madrid asking me to give assistance to a German refugee who had sought sanctuary with his brotherhood. The man’s name he said, was Climents. He was described by the monk as: “A good man who wishes to start a new life in the Argentine.”

I said I might possibly be able to help, but first I would like to meet him. I accompanied the monk to the college of his order a few miles from Freiberg in Switzerland. I thought it possible that I might recognize Climents, but I did not. At that time he told me simply: “I am an officer of the SS, and I am being hunted by the Allies. Will you help me?”

I agreed.

Climents returned with me to Madrid on a special passport issued to him by the Vatican. These passports were issued to many refugees after the war, but were valid for travel only inside Europe. I noticed that this passport was made out in the name of Didier. However, I asked no further questions and obtained an Argentine passport for him in the name of Climents. On the third day of July, 1947 I drove him to Madrid Airport to catch a plane for Buenos Aires.

As we waited together in the departure lounge, I asked if he could tell me his real name.

“My name in Eichmann.” he replied. It meant nothing to me then. But now, all these years later, all the world knows what the name Eichmann means.

Who was the other man who came to me for help? It was Martin Bormann.

More Don Angel Alcazar de Velasco

Note:

After we have run this long letter from DON ANGEL, we will then publish what formerly (and CURRENT) SECRET files our SHARKHUNTERS S.E.I.G. Agents have dug up; and in certain situations, we mean this quite literally!

Please remember that we ask you to keep these facts in mind while reading this incredible story by DON ANGEL.

    1) DON ANGEL was an ardent NAZI throughout the War and up to the time of his death. This is obvious from time to time in the text of this letter, so don’t let it bother you.
    2) Spies and agents usually tend to embellish their feats and DON ANGEL was no different, so we must ‘add a grain of salt’ to some of these revelations.
    3) There are twists and turns in this long letter; some HARD facts in our files we’ll print after this letter. DO NOT FORM AN OPINION until you have read all the amazing facts you’ll see here on our INTELLIGENCE PAGE.

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© Copyright 1999 by Harry Cooper, Sharkhunters International, Inc.
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