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  Both men stared at Schumann. “We are making progress, Herr General,” Heisenberg finally said.

  “You are making progress on the blackboard, Werner. Our Fuhrer and our nation expect results…tangible results. Something we can see or measure soon!” said Schumann.

  “Yes, Herr General. Right now our research is theoretical, but in time—”

  Schumann interrupted him. “ In time…” Schumann paused. “That’s the problem, Werner, we don’t have much time. And from our reports, the English and Americans have begun their research programs in this area,” said Schumann. “We need results, Professor. I can’t stand before the Fuhrer month after month reporting that we’re continuing to work on theory. He’ll cut off funding of your research altogether! I believe that this research is essential to our success, but the Fuhrer is a practical man and interested in what he can see. Right now we are winning the war. Our armies are marching through our enemies like a knife through butter. So with the Army having so much success, regular and conventional weapons are proving to be all we need to achieve our goals. There doesn’t appear to be a reason right now to spend money on research and development of this new theory that could lead to an imagined superweapon. So unless we can show something…I’m afraid our funding will be eliminated.”

  “We have made progress, Herr General. There are several small obstacles we must overcome. Without going into much detail, my research team believes the source of incredible bursts of energy lies in the development of enriched uranium or even plutonium. For this, it will be necessary to build a sizeable reactor to house these nuclear explosions. And as you know, these reactions must be controlled as we perform our research. This is where the water from Norway comes in. We use the heavy water in our reactors to modify and even slow the fission reactions down. If we didn’t have use of the heavy water, these reactions would be out of our control. But if we learn how to harness this massive power, we will someday be able to provide cheap energy in many forms for our people and cities,” replied Heisenberg.

  “May I remind you, Professor, that it is the Ministry of War that is supporting your research!”

  “Yes, I know, Herr General. If we can break through with our research, the potential for tremendous unleashed amounts of energy will have no bounds. There would be no challenge to the Reich’s power and dominance then,” said Heisenberg.

  “Werner, we have faith in you and your colleagues and therefore will deliver you the water from Norway you have requested from the Norsk Hydro plant in Vemork. We may also be able to aid your research in other ways,” said Schumann. “So we will meet every three weeks, here at my office from now on, Professor…and you will provide me with specific updates on your progress in practical terms I can explain to the Fuhrer. I must be able to convince him that your research is not just theory and years away from development—that your research will result in the kind of power the military and the Reich can use!”

  “Herr General, we are so grateful to you and our Fuhrer for your continued support, and let me say again that my team and I are close to a breakthrough in this science, which will provide a magnitude of unharnessed energy never before even imagined in this world.”

  “Werner, you have made Germany so proud of you before with your other scientific achievements. We are counting on you now for another great breakthrough and discovery. Do not let us down…please!”

  Also in August 1939, another physicist helped set into motion the events to develop and use theoretical physics to create a superweapon…an atomic bomb. Dr. Albert Einstein, the Jewish scientist who had defected from Germany, wrote a letter to President Franklin D. Roosevelt warning the President of the incredible potential power of enriched uranium. Einstein also warned President Roosevelt that Nazi Germany was aggressively moving to research and develop its atomic program. Einstein’s letter convinced Roosevelt of formally declaring America’s intentions of developing atomic energy in October of 1941…two months before the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor and America’s entry into World War II.

  Chapter III

  It was a warm and sunny morning when Edmond and Julia Ballon from Toulouse, France, woke up in March 1941 to the pounding on their front door. Edmond Ballon, head of the family, was a Jewish doctor who had lived his entire life there. He had amassed money from his medical practice and investing in the shipping industry. He was a respected doctor and his family was well-known in the local community. “Monsieur Ballon, open up now!” yelled the ranking French policeman.

  The Ballon family had also acquired a significant art collection. They had paintings from Renoir, Monet, Chagall, and Gauguin. They were French-Jews, and the entire family had to register with the prefect of police and obtain special documents and new passports after the Nazis invaded in July of 1940. Since the Nazis had invaded, Ballon and his family were restricted step by step, from living their normal lives and being part of the citizenry of France. This was due to a series of ordinances proclaimed by the Germans and Vichy French. First, the Ballon’s had to turn over their radios, and then their telephones were disconnected. They were forbidden from patronizing local French businesses and entertainment venues. This included going to certain movie houses, libraries, theatres, and public swimming pools. Then came the ordinance that forbade them to move from one residence to another. After that came curfews that restricted them to their homes during specific times of the day and night.

  When Ballon opened the door that day, he saw eight policemen staring at him…several had their guns drawn. “Monsieur Ballon,” stated the tall Frenchman, “I have a warrant signed by our Prefect to search your house for illegal material. Stand aside, please, and allow us in.”

  Ballon had no choice but to comply. These unannounced searches of Jewish families were becoming more and more frequent. And most of the time valuable property of the party being searched was confiscated, eventually ending up with the Germans. Many of France’s Jewish population had fled prior to the German invasion in the summer of 1940. Ballon’s children had been smuggled out of France with fake passports with their uncle to Canada only weeks before—but Ballon and his wife remained in the hopes of keeping their house and belongings intact through the German occupation.

  Unfortunately, Edmond Ballon would find out that he and his wife had made a big mistake. He had heard rumors about the harsh and unfair treatment of Jews in Poland since September 1939, but he didn’t believe the same could happen in France. After all, he was well known and was a respected doctor. He had owned property here for many years.

  The French police and Germans scoured his residence, which was his father’s and one of the nicest examples of red brick classic Toulouse architecture in the village. They caught him off guard. When they were done, they loaded up several boxes of items from his home, including two paintings by the French painter Marc Chagall, that he had displayed. Anything in his home was ripe for the taking. “Monsieur Ballon, thank you for your cooperation,” said the policeman in charge. “Please be advised that we will be conducting a complete census of all citizens in the near future. You will be advised when to have all family members present here at your home for the census count. Obviously, this means that neither you nor any family members may leave the local area without express permission from the prefect office.”

  There was little civility or emotion shown at all by the police in this visit except at the end. The tall lead policeman displayed a slight show of guilt as he couldn’t look Ballon in the eye, and instead diverted his look down while saying, “Thank you for your cooperation, Monsieur.” This was as his officers loaded their truck outside with the Ballon family artwork and other valuable property they had confiscated.

  The Ballon family wasn’t the only one to lose their belongings. Before it was all over, hundreds of thousands of works of some of the world’s great artists would be stolen or sold off, never to be returned to the rightful owners. If the Nazis could hide or make the stolen art disappear, and if the owners of the art disappeared as
well, then it might be possible to conceal that crimes were never committed against these people on such a massive scale in the first place.

  Chapter IV

  At 5:30 in the morning two months to the day after his home had first been raided, Edmond and Julia were awakened by the screeching of tires and shouting outside in the front courtyard. Next they heard yelling and pounding on their front door again. “Monsieur Ballon, your house is surrounded. By order of The Prefect of Police, I have a warrant for your arrest and that of your family,” said the same tall French gendarme from two months before.

  Ballon answered the front door. “Is your entire family at home now?” the policeman asked.

  “No, my children have not yet returned from abroad,” Ballon answered.

  “You and your wife have thirty minutes to collect your personal belongings and report to the front of your residence. You may take the following items with you: the clothes you are wearing, one normal-sized suitcase and one suit for men and one dress for women. You must be able to lift and carry all items yourself, Monsieur,” the gendarme said.

  “Where are you taking us?” Ballon asked.

  A German officer answered him. “Everything will be explained in the due course of time, Monsieur. Now please hurry, Monsieur and Madame, as we have a schedule to keep,” said the well-groomed and impeccably uniformed German officer who spoke perfect French, even to the extent of using the local dialect.

  Thirty minutes later the Ballons were ushered outside, leaving their front door wide open. Their house and its belongings would be searched and confiscated by the authorities. Eventually, a German SS officer and his family would end up living in Ballon’s home.

  Edmond and Julia Ballon were placed in the back of a German Army truck with a canopy. It was summertime and nearly one hundred degrees inside. Their luggage was thrown into another truck in the convoy. They were transported with the others to an internment camp near Toulouse. Saint-Sulpice-la-Pointe was a French internment camp that had been established several years earlier and had housed political prisoners, gypsies, Russian prisoners of war, and now in 1941, French Jews. This was a holding camp meant to house prisoners for a short period of time. For most of the Jewish detainees housed at Saint-Sulpice-la-Pointe, their eventual destination would be Auschwitz or Buchenwald.

  From the Nazis’ point of view, Edmond Ballon and his wife were doomed, as were the other Jews in France when the Germans occupied their country. Those who foresaw this tragedy and made efforts to get out before the Germans arrived may have been lucky enough to make it to a free country that would accept them, but that wasn’t easy or guaranteed. From 1940 to 1945, most countries turned away Jewish refugees; including the United States of America. Many refugees who left by ocean liners could not find a safe harbor that would allow the ships to dock. Many refugees on large ships that could not dock or unload returned to where they had departed from in Nazi-occupied Europe. For these refugees, this meant immediate arrest, transport, and imprisonment in a concentration camp, and, in many cases, death.

  For Edmond Ballon and his wife…the outcome would be different only because of Ballon’s wealth and notoriety. The Ballon’s were known to be well off financially. They had stashed plenty of jewelry and cash away before their arrest, and had smuggled some jewelry and cash with them into the camp. They therefore had a way to pay for better treatment at the camp and eventually a way out. They were still forced to wear the dirty, disease-infested prisoner black-and-white striped dungarees with the yellow star, and “Juis” plainly written inside; and they both were forced to work at the camp. But Ballon could buy and barter for extra food and privileges that more unfortunate Jewish victims couldn’t buy. Eventually, Ballon bribed a camp official to arrange their escape from Saint-Sulpice-la-Pointe. A guard looked the other way, and Mr. and Mrs. Ballon jumped into the back of a laundry truck and stowed away as the truck rolled out of camp. Eventually they made their way to the coast and stowed away again on a ship to Lisbon. From there, they paid off another official and procured safe passage to New York where they were allowed to stay. This came only two weeks before they were scheduled for deportation to one of the notorious concentration camps in Poland, where in all likelihood they would have perished.

  Chapter V

  While in the early months of 1941 many people in Europe were coming to grips with the occupation of the Nazis, several thousand miles away and across an ocean Quinn Chase contemplated his static life at a bar in Albuquerque, New Mexico. It was a cold winter’s night. Quinn slowly sipped his bourbon and soda. Quinn loved Old Forester Kentucky Bourbon, and was enjoying some that night. Quinn was 40 years of age, slightly overweight but still with a full head of sandy blond hair and light blue eyes. That night the jukebox was playing a Glenn Miller band tune as airmen from the nearby Kirtland Army Airfield laughed and slammed their mugs of beer on the table in an attempt to impress their dates. Quinn sat quietly at the bar and peered at his drink in the glass in front of him. He wasn’t concerned with impressing anyone that evening. The ice in his glass shifted on its own and made a clinking noise. Quinn wasn’t an alcoholic by definition…well, that depended on how the term alcoholic was defined. But in the winter and grey days of early 1941, drinking, smoking, and a monthly poker game occupied most of his attention. Work…well, work was just a place where Quinn would spend his days. He had learned to tolerate work. Once again he had been demoted by the Albuquerque Police Department. So his work had now become boring; a real chore. But he found solace at the bar.

  Hell, no one at the department seemed to notice. As long as Quinn was there during normal hours, and didn’t show signs of being intoxicated…everything was fine. He was a veteran police officer of over 14 years and a pretty good detective in his day. Quinn had even solved some serious crimes. He had reached the rank of lieutenant and was doing what he did best—solving crimes on the streets—only to find himself demoted back to sergeant and doing desk work after several accusations of excessive force by Quinn with suspects. Those accusations had never been proven. Nonetheless, it was obvious to Quinn he had progressed as far as he would ever go with the Albuquerque PD. Now as an administrative supervisor, he had a desk job handling citizen complaints. His daily workload normally consisted of minor thefts or property damage, complaints about barking dogs and other neighborhood disturbances.

  The bar that Quinn frequented was appropriately named The 9:15. The bar got its name due to the train that left from the main Albuquerque station at 9:15 every Wednesday and Friday night for the three-day trip to Chicago, by way of Kansas City. Because the station was only a block away, The 9:15 was a welcome shelter for train travelers who didn’t want to wait outside in the cold during winter months along the tracks. The bar provided a warm break for travelers in cold weather, so the Union-Pacific paid for the bar’s sign outside and on the waiting platform of the train station. Quinn just looked forward to when he could leave work early and slip away to his retreat. At The 9:15, Quinn felt comfortable and was part of the scene. There was always good drink, and friendly conversation came most of the time. He was known by name, and always greeted with a smile. And in the overall scheme of things at that time in his life…that’s all that mattered to Quinn.

  The general attitude of the public at large in early 1941 was that America was headed for war. The Germans had ramped up their aggression…they had marched into Poland, Czechoslovakia, and Holland, and had annexed neighboring Austria without firing a shot. In the summer of 1940, within a two-week period they had attacked and conquered France, and inflicted heavy casualties on the British Expeditionary Force, while the British soldiers barely escaped from Dunkirk making it across the English Channel. The Japanese were showing aggression in parts of China, and in other parts of Southwest Asia. Their army was now over two million strong, and the Japanese were building a massive modern naval fleet.

  It was obvious Nazi Germany wouldn’t be satisfied with the status quo. Hitler seemed to be stirring the pot and always de
manding more. In Central Europe, Adolf Hitler was an icon and a demagogue. Two hundred thousand cheering and starstruck Austrians in Vienna knocked barricades down and struggled with security police just to get a closer glimpse of their new Fuhrer as Hitler made a short speech and waved to the throngs of people in the city square from the balcony of a building in Vienna. The Austrians in attendance that day went crazy with enthusiasm. Hitler was more popular over there than any entertainer or public figure in America at the time. A million people lined the streets of Berlin and threw rose petals as his motorcade returned from Austria. They idolized and cheered for their Fuhrer like the Romans idolized Caesar. That was the way it was in early 1941.

  So Quinn sat at the bar that night, sipped his drink and contemplated his mundane life at the Albuquerque Police Department. He couldn’t help divert his attention from the loud conversation emanating from the third booth down. One soldier was becoming increasingly obnoxious in an argument with a young lady. The soldier was visibly upset. “You two-timin’ hussy!” yelled the soldier as he stood up from his chair. “Find your own way home tonight…!”

  The blond girl said nothing, obviously embarrassed, and just stared down. Quinn thought for a moment about intervening as a cop, but he was content on being by himself that evening. He didn’t want to get involved. His days of jumping into other people’s domestic disputes were over, unless things got completely out of hand. The soldier did an about-face and stormed out of the establishment, flinging the door open with such force that it swung repeatedly back and forth on its hinges. Everyone in the bar was silent. Quinn returned to his original purpose at The 9:15 that evening. He ordered another drink.

  It was his third that hour…and the bourbon was goin’ down smooth. About 20 minutes after the angry soldier left, the young blond woman got up and made a quiet exit out of the front as well. The Andrews Sisters were singing a lazy ballad on the jukebox as she walked out, and the whole place had a melancholy feel to it. Everyone was either engrossed with their partners or the drinks they consumed. The young woman was visibly upset, but Quinn knew there was nothing he could do at the time other than take note of the incident and feel a little sorry for her.