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Chapter 1: The Aryan

The first snow was surprisingly early this year in the city of Vancouver located in the only Canadian Province bordering on the deep blue Pacific. The heavy black Mercedes was moving at a slow pace out of the village of Horseshoe Bay going east on Marine Drive past West Vancouver Yacht Club where the driver’s beautiful white thirty-nine foot Swan Ocean Cruiser was moored. The winding road was getting quite slippery and called for the utmost attention of the driver. On the other side of the Burrard Inlet the driver noticed the flickering lights from UBC, the University of British Columbia, and from the dozen freighters from faraway countries anchored just offshore on the UBC side waiting for a permit to enter the busy harbor. Snow in the lower mainland and in West Vancouver at the end of November was quite unusual. Usually, it rained heavily at this time of the year.

The driver, a heavyset man in his early sixties, had all his attention on the road. He had a hard streak around his gray-blue eyes, a rather thin aristocratic nose and narrow lips. His grayish hair was thinning. He had an unmistakable German accent and gave the impression of being a man accustomed to take and give orders at high levels.

His wife Dee, an attractive blond woman in her mid-thirties, was improving on her makeup with the help of the visor mirror. Her warm brown eyes complemented in a nice way her sensual lips and cute little nose.

While keeping his eyes on the road, he turned slightly in her direction, “As always, remember to avoid talking about my past. You know how explosive that subject could be. I just hope your brother hasn’t disclosed anything to the host that could be embarrassing.”

She turned to him, “Of course, you know you can trust me; it’s in my interest as much as in yours. I am absolutely sure Don wouldn’t dare to say anything about your past to anybody. Please drive a little slower. It’s getting awfully slippery.”

They were on their way to Capilano Golf & Country Club in British Properties, an exclusive subdivision of West Vancouver, for a wine tasting party given by the Trade Commissioner for Sweden.

He reminisced the exciting years in Germany at the side of the Führer. How brilliant the outlook had been when he was appointed to become one of Hitler’s aides-de-camp as of September 1939, and what a disaster it had been when he left Germany in ruins, for good, in April 1945 - almost a quarter of a century ago. He recalled how close to death the Führer had been when the bomb brought by Stauffenberg had exploded in Wolfsschanze on July 20, 1944, and how lucky he had been to have escaped with light wounds. Fortunately, the Führer had survived without serious injuries. He also remembered receiving the Wound Badge from the Führer some time afterwards when the conspirators had been properly taken care of.

It was good that he had burned his diaries in April 1945 covering that first so magnificent and later so disastrous period, so that he wouldn’t have incriminated himself for any advice he had given the Führer during the war. Why hadn’t he been able to convince the admirals and generals that the invasion of the Allies would come over Normandy and not Calais. The Führer initially had been of the same opinion as he was but had later reluctantly been swayed over to the opinion of the OKW, Ober-Kommando-Wehrmacht. Damn Jodl, Krancke and the others! How could they have been so wrong? If he only had been able to convince them, he and the Führer may not have lost the war after all.

He recalled how he quickly had gotten out of Germany to Switzerland after the Führer had committed suicide in the Berlin bunker. There had only been time to say a quick farewell to his 12-year-old son who was attending a Swiss private boarding school close to Zurich. How lucky he was to have been able to bring Dee, who had started working as a governess in his home, with him from Germany to Argentina. He recalled the time together with other German officers in Buenos Aires, and how deeply shocked they all were that the war had been lost. However, most of them had been able to amass a fortune during the war years to guarantee a comfortable retirement.

The political unrest in Argentina and the economic chaos had later motivated him to move north and settle down in Canada. A quid-pro-quo deal with the Americans had made that possible. He had contacted them through his lawyer in Buenos Aires and had given them the information they wanted. Of course, he had withheld anything self-incriminating. Finally, he had been sailing free with all the money he had been able to put aside during the war years.

He had found a great, interesting life on the Canadian west coast. He now owned the racehorses he had wanted for so long and could participate with them in races throughout North America. What a great feeling it had been when he succeeded to acquire a vast area of land north of Horseshoe Bay for a mini-submarine project he had in mind.

In order to avoid any attention, he had cached his noble heritage behind a new name, Jesse Putter. His few friends in Vancouver just called him by his first name. His new surname was a not unusual American name, but it was, anyway, a kind of joke relative to his distinguished family name.

After a twenty minute drive on Marine, he reached Park Royal Shopping Mall and lined up in the left lane for the turn into Taylor Way leading to the British Properties and Capilano Golf & Country Club. The snowfall was getting heavier. He drove up Taylor and then took Southborough until he saw the big wooden sign for the Club. He turned right at the sign and followed the driveway leading up to the impressive main entrance of the half-timbered Club House.

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