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Guten Morgen, Alice. Hiya. You alright? I'm good. Das ist gut, bitte. And yourself? Are you talking in German? I'm talking how I always speak. This is gut, ja? Is there going to be a reason for this? I mean, imagine there wasn't. Monday, the 25th of April, 1983. Hamburg, West Germany. At the headquarters of Stern magazine, hundreds of reporters are crammed into the small canteen.
Watching them from behind the long table where he sits waiting to speak, Hugh Trevor Roper feels a bead of sweat form on his brow. He loosens his tie, then raises a glass of water to his lips. His hand trembles as he takes a sip. Trevor Roper inwardly winces. The cameras are bound to have picked that up. He is, after all, the star of this show.
They are all here for a press conference to mark what's being billed as the most exciting journalistic scoop of the century: the discovery of the diaries of Adolf Hitler. Wow. Looking out at the sea of excited faces, Trevor Roper understands only too well the significance of this event. These are the innermost thoughts of the century's most monstrous dictator laid bare.
The contents of these diaries could literally change history. You can only imagine what they would contain. And, as one of Britain's most distinguished historians and its biggest expert on the Third Reich, the 69-year-old seal of approval means everything. Master of Peterhouse College, Cambridge, close friend of former Prime Minister Harold Macmillan and Lord Dacre of Blanton, few academics are as revered as Trevor Roper.
his career has been nothing short of faultless. When you say things like that, it just puts me on guard. That's why his opinion was crucial in authenticating the diaries. Because of Trevor Roper, media magnate Rupert Murdoch has just shelled out over a million dollars to run the diaries in the Sunday Times.
It's also why Stern magazine, the publication that originally tracked down the diaries, needs Trevor Roper to reiterate his belief that they are real. The trouble is, Trevor Roper isn't so sure anymore. In fact, after what he's seen over the past few days, he fears that authenticating these diaries was a terrible mistake, one that could end his 45-year career. With just moments until he is due to speak,
The sweat is now dripping from his brow. He fumbles for a handkerchief, quickly dabs it dry, but that doesn't stop the rising panic he feels inside, the quickening beat of his heart, the throbbing migraine that's taking hold in his head.
I fear he's at what we call the British scandal crossroads. One way, which I think is a very obvious path, which is course correct, you know, tell the truth or realise you've made a mistake and come clean. The other, much more twisty, dark and sort of dangerous looking road is the one that we like to take on the show. Yes, and bearing in mind that this is the start of episode one, I think you can potentially guess where this is going to go. He weighs up his options...
If he stands by his initial statement and the diaries are later proved to be fake, it will ruin him. It would mean that one of the most important and exciting discoveries in history was no more than a hoax, and he'd have put his good name to it. But to backtrack now will make Rupert Murdoch a laughingstock and seriously damage the reputation of the Sunday Times, a newspaper Trevor Roper is himself a director of. And what if his doubts are unfounded? What if the diaries are genuine?
One of Stern's executives starts to address the crowd. Trevor Roper realises he's being introduced. Focusing back on the matter in hand, he gazes into the glare of the lights, taps his microphone to check it's working and clears his throat. Trevor Roper knows he has to speak, but he still has no idea what he's going to say.
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From Wondery, I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Ford. And this is British Scandal.
The show where we bring you the murkiest stories that ever happened on these odd little isles. British scandals come in many shapes and sizes. Some are about money, some are about sex. They're all about power. But when we look at scandals a little bit closer, they turn out to be stranger, wilder and just plain weirder than we remember. So we're journeying back to ask who's to blame for what happened. And when the dust settled, did anything really change? MUSIC
Alice, what would you say if I told you we're doing a story this series where the first episode is not about Britain at all? I would say you have the wrong podcast and you must leave. Well, I'm in charge and I'm afraid we're doing this story whether you like it or not. And the first episode is not in Britain. Wow. OK. The mood has changed in the studio. I mean, I know that you're not fast and loose with the rules, so there must be some British connection. OK, we do get to Britain in the second episode. Right.
Right. We need to draw up some rules because it can't just be a British scandal because somebody once went on holiday to Cornwall or they've seen Mary Poppins three times. No, although, I mean, I think those things would qualify. As I said them, I thought, that's actually fine. I think that would make you more British than most of the people on this island. Okay then, but before we get to Britain, what's happening? We're in Germany and it's an incredible story about fake news, fake documents, greed, the fooling of experts...
Adolf Hitler and a scandal that eventually engulfed Britain's most establishment newspaper and that man, Rupert Murdoch. It's getting a bit creepy now. He crops up nearly every episode. I actually have no idea what this story is, but it does sound very compelling. Well, obsessing about major figures is at the centre of this. This is the crazy story of the Hitler Diaries. And this is episode one, Operation Green Vault.
It's 1970, Bardoi, East Germany. At the checkpoint to cross the inner border into West Germany, Konrad "Conny" Cujau plays it cool. How could you not with that name? The small, slightly balding 32-year-old's car is full of Third Reich relics bought from East German collectors. Maybe not such a cool guy. Taking in the unreadable expression of the border guard, Cujau finds himself sweating. He reminds himself that all he needs to do is hold his nerve for a few more moments.
Kuzhau only recently realised the value of these items. Daggers, helmets, paintings, medals and rare documents. In communist-controlled East Germany, Nazi memorabilia is held in contempt and can be bought for a pittance. But in West Germany, there's a thriving market for this stuff. Kuzhau can sell it for ten times what he paid. What's Connie doing these days? Oh, import-export stuff. Smuggling is a serious offence, punishable by imprisonment.
So today, like every other time, Kujau is doing his best to look casual and innocent. The guard hovers over his car for a little longer than Kujau would like, but he remains calm. He even manages a polite smile. After double-checking his identification, the guard ushers Kujau on his way. Driving across the border, Kujau's smile morphs into a cocky grin. This is not his first foray into crime, and he enjoys the familiar buzz of cheating the system.
An adored child and a teacher's pet at school, Cujiao scored high marks in all his subjects. We chose such different paths, me and Cujiao. Total teacher's pet, did fine in my exams, but how have our lives turned out so differently? And you do allow yourself a cocky little grin at the end of every record. He could have done anything he wanted.
But what thrilled him the most was taking risks. At the age of 19, he stole a microphone from the local club where he works as a waiter and avoided arrest by fleeing East Germany. The freedom he felt was electrifying. He hasn't always been so lucky. Since then, he's been in and out of jail for everything from robbery to forging luncheon vouchers. He even tried settling down with his girlfriend Edith a decade ago, tried living a more normal life. The pair set up a cleaning business, but it's never made much money.
So when Cujo stumbled on this little earner, he grabbed it with both hands. Back in Stuttgart, he drives over to his regular buyers, easily offloading each item. Collectors are so hungry for this stuff, they barely even question its authenticity. Buying up his latest haul of medals, one customer literally begs him for more. "I will pay double, treble even, whatever it takes!"
Returning home to his tiny apartment, Kuzhau shares the day's events with Edith. While glad of the extra income, the stress of his latest enterprise is clearly getting to her. Sooner or later you'll be caught, Connie. Maybe you should quit now, while you're ahead. Where's your sense of adventure? This is just the beginning. Edith turns away, brushing a tear from her eye, fumbles for the cleaning materials for her next job.
We've been here before. He writes down everything. He finds it soothing.
Kuzhau taps the pen on his desk, thoughtful, Edith's words still on his mind. He thinks about his buyers, so hungry for more, so willing to buy anything he can sell. Kuzhau finds himself placing the pen back on his notepad and writing the words Adolf Hitler. Then he writes it again and again. Wait, what, like a teenage girl writing the name of their crush in their diary and putting a star over the eyes? An idea forms in his head.
If he could make his own memorabilia, he could reduce his trips to the border, he'd still be making money and he'd be placating Edith. He's never forged historical artefacts before, but how hard can it be? It's six years later, October 1976, Hamburg. Gerd Heidemann feels his heart thud as he rises to his feet and prepares to pitch. The 44-year-old reporter is in Stern Magazine's weekly editorial meeting and he's uncharacteristically nervous.
Having worked for the German publication on an ad hoc basis for over 20 years, Heidemann should have no trouble getting his ideas through. His tenacious style has earned him the nickname "Der Spurhund" - "The Bloodhound". He's certainly earned his stripes. He's covered stories in several war zones including the Congo, Iraq and Beirut. But since Stern's latest editor, Peter Koch, took the helm, Heidemann has received an increasingly icy reception.
He knows Koch believes he has a problem staying objective and becomes too immersed in his subjects. Heidemann would rather see it as having passion for his stories, and normally he would shrug off such concerns. But as a freelancer, he does need commissions. They've dwindled under Koch, as have Heidemann's finances. And right now, he has lots of bills to pay. He has to win him over today.
He finishes polishing his thick, black-rimmed glasses, puts them back on and puffs his chest in an effort to assert his authority. Commissioned! I propose a series of features based on conversations with former Nazis, such as Hitler's architect, Albert Speer, Hitler's deputy, Rudolf Hess... Koch interrupts with a derisive snort. Heidemann's back immediately goes up, but he reigns in his annoyance as he turns the editor's way, forcing a polite smile.
Koch sits back, awaiting an answer. Looking at him and the rest of Stern's youthful editorial team, Heidemann is reminded he was bound to meet with resistance. In modern West Germany, memories of Nazi rule are fading.
A whole new generation wants nothing to do with that era of German history and find any talk of it distasteful, to say the least. But Heidemann holds a different view and won't give in so easily. I simply have an interest in German wartime history, not some obsession with Nazism. Heidemann addresses the whole room now, speaking passionately. As a left-wing publication, Stern should be championing free speech and public debate, should it not?
We cannot learn from our past, good or bad, unless we scrutinise it. That would be the purpose of these features. I mean, that's quite convincing. I don't really know where to stand on this. There's obviously lots to be learnt from the unsavoury, the horrific moments in history. I'm still not sure of his motivations, but that's quite compelling. Yes, it's a compelling argument when it's theoretical. You go, well, of course we should scrutinise the past and think about these things. When you then say, but we're talking about the Nazis and we're in West Germany...
then it does feel a bit different. And when he's coming in week after week to the editorial meeting and pitching something very similar every time. Yeah, this is the sports desk, mate. Chill out. Heidemann thinks he's made a good argument, but Koch won't be swayed. Meeting over, Heidemann goes to his desk, kicks the chair with frustration. He deserves more respect. Hours later, Heidemann is dining with an old friend who also happens to be an editor at a West German book publisher.
He pitches him the same idea he pitched to Stern, but in book form. "It's a chance to really get under the skin of the Nazis, understand what drove them, what made them do what they did." The editor, while more open-minded than Koch, seems unsure. Heidemann gives him the hard sell, his bloodhound re-emerging with a vengeance.
This won't be some Nazi love letter. This book could be an important historical document. Won over, the editor agrees to finance the book and give Heidemann an advance of 60,000 marks. Heidemann couldn't be happier. Not only has he been handed a financial lifeline, but he has also clawed back some credibility. He's going to show Peter Koch and all those young reporters at Stern how it's done. Show them just how much they have underestimated Gerd Heidemann.
I think if your ambitions are built on foundations of resentment and vitriol, it can only go right. It's three years later, January 1979, Stuttgart. In the shop underneath his new, larger flat, Kujau stands back and admires his latest display. Large swastika flags adorn the walls. Several medals hang in a glass cabinet. Military uniforms cover a long table nearby. Kujau knows these relics won't be here for long.
Since he opened the shop last month, Kujo has been flooded with buyers. It's really awful to think there's such a market for this. And also to want to willingly profit from hateful stuff.
Popping into the back room, Kujau picks up a weathered World War II helmet and carefully scratches the initials A.H. inside. Then he writes an accompanying note of authentication. He's just transformed a very ordinary object into a priceless historic treasure, and it's taken him no more than a few minutes.
He goes back out front and places the helmet next to a few new paintings he's produced by Hitler. Wait, what? I mean, I've obviously heard of him. Yes, Adolf Hitler liked to paint. Really? Oil on canvas, yeah. As did Winston Churchill, so they were rivals not only in geopolitics and in war, but also on canvas.
Not everything he sells here is fake. In fact, by Kuzhau's reckoning, he now owns West Germany's largest collection of Third Reich souvenirs, including medals, flags, uniforms, helmets and books. By mixing these items in with his own forged works of art, letters and documents, Kuzhau has increased the value of everything he sells.
At this rate, he's confident he can expand, maybe into the international market. I thought there would be way more to forging than just scratching some initials into a helmet and typing up a lovely little letter of authentication. Also, the irony of a Hitler dealer wanting to expand across Europe. Edith is still complaining about the risks he's taking at the border. He has to admit he's tired of the constant trips too.
But Cujo dared not stop going to East Germany for real relics. To fill a whole shop with fakes is, even in his mind, a step too far. He has some professional pride. Closing up, Cujo heads down to the basement and takes out a handwritten manuscript entitled Mein Kampf, then a copy of the original book by Hitler. He then takes out a sample of the Führer's handwriting. It's identical to the writing in the manuscript.
Cujo long ago mastered Hitler's signature and he spent the last few months copying the book in his handwriting. Now he's confident he has the Gothic script down perfectly. There's something so chilling about that. Yeah, it's not like forging David Beckham's signature. Cujo puts away Mein Kampf and adds another book on the shelf. A weighty two-volume edition of Hitler's speeches and proclamations 1932 to 45. It's a daily chronology of the Führer's activities.
A grin forms on Kuzhau's lips as an audacious idea takes hold. He digs out an old blank copy book and begins to write 23rd of March, 1932. Stop. Kuzhau reasons that if he forges a Hitler diary or two, he won't have to return to the border at all. The money he'll make from these alone will be enough. More than that, he'll be making an unrivaled historical document, bigger and better than anything his customers have been offered before.
Hitler's private thoughts up for grabs for the first time. This will go beyond the average collector's interest. It will be sought after the world over. Okay, so this is such an outrageous plan. Obviously, a man with...
No morals. But on a practical level, there's loads of traps to fall into here. Historical inaccuracies being one, I mean, he's obviously going to use these books as source material. But what about tonally? I mean, what would he have sounded like in his private journal? Dear Diary, today has been The Pits. It's December 1979.
In Frankfurt, Gerd Heidemann asks the caller on the other end of the phone to repeat what he's just said. Hanging up, Heidemann places a hand on his chest. His heart is beating so hard he thinks it might burst. He takes a moment to try and process the news: that a diary written by Adolf Hitler exists. What's more, it's right here in West Germany. Can this really be true? The most intimate thoughts of the Führer lay bare for the first time?
If Heidemann plays this right, he could be the first reporter to get his hands on it. It's the break he's been waiting for his whole career. He goes to the sitting room and shares the news with his wife, Gina. She throws her arms around him. I knew you'd find us a way out of our troubles, mein Spurhound!
Their troubles are a growing mountain of debts. While Heidemann's book pitch was successful and his research has been tireless, he hasn't managed to convince a single former senior Nazi to speak to him. Which feels essential for what he's pitched. Six months ago, his publisher, Growing Impatient, issued an ultimatum. Return the advance or produce the promised pages before the year is out. With the deadline looming, if Heidemann can't do either, he'll face court action.
Once Stern hears about that, he has no doubt the small amount of work he gets from them will dry up too. But what the book has done is brought him into contact with others who share his interest in the Third Reich, including collectors. That's how he got this tip-off. If he can get hold of this diary, Heidemann knows the money it will make will cover his debts and then some, plus his professional reputation will remain intact. All he lacks is the upfront funds to secure it.
With banks off limits, there's only one option open to him. A few hours later, Heidemann is in a meeting room with Peter Koch and several other senior members of Stern's staff. Koch eyes him with disdain. It's been a while since we heard from you, Gert. To what do we owe the honour? Heidemann can barely wait to wipe the smile of Koch's smug face. He proudly announces his exclusive. There's a moment of silence. Then Koch bursts out laughing.
The other editorial staff quickly follow his lead. Heidemann is stunned, as comments like, What new fantasy is this? And why would we invest in that Nazi shit? are exchanged. He can't believe that these so-called journalists could be so obtuse. This is the diary of Adolf Hitler. If we bring it to the world, it's not just a journalistic exclusive, it's a major moment in history. Koch suddenly starts firing questions at Heidemann.
Where is this diary then? How does Heidemann know it's real? Has he seen it? Heidemann is forced to admit he doesn't have all the answers, yet. Cutting him off, Koch announces there's no point going on then. He turns away from Heidemann and signals for the next reporter to pitch. Heidemann storms from the room, slamming the door behind him. The muffled sound of mocking laughter rings in his ears. He collapses, utterly dejected on a chair beside a broken water cooler.
A moment later, he hears someone call his name. Heidemann turns to see a young man running after him. Herr Heidemann, I'm Thomas Walder. I recently joined the team here as a senior researcher. If you don't mind, I'd like to know more. It's widely believed Hitler never kept a diary. Why are you so convinced this is real? Heidemann eyes Walder suspiciously, unsure whether to trust him. Is he just opening himself up to more ridicule?
But he has nothing left to lose, so he takes a chance. I haven't fully looked into the provenance of this diary yet, but my contact doesn't deal in fakes. If he thinks the diary is real, it's at least worth investigating. Walder nods, looking swayed. Heidemann seizes his opportunity. How about we research this together? If the story behind the diary stands up, you can help me convince Stern that it's worth pursuing. Heidemann holds his breath. Walder hesitates, then holds out a hand to shake on the deal. No!
Heidemann feels a surge of adrenaline. He just knows these diaries are real. They are going to change his life forever. One of those statements is true. Ryan Reynolds here from Intmobile. With the price of just about everything going up during inflation, we thought we'd bring our prices down.
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It's nearly a year later, November 1980, Bernersdorfer, near Dresden. In a small tea room, Heidemann reads over the questions he's scribbled on his notepad. As Thomas Walder races in, Heidemann looks at him hopefully, the suspense killing him. Tell me you have something. Walder breaks into a grin. I found a man who was here when it happened. He's meeting us here in half an hour. Heidemann can hardly believe it.
The pair have spent the last few months investigating the provenance of the diary, which is what's brought them to this tiny village. They've managed to confirm that a Nazi plane crashed and burned here in April 1945. They've even visited the graves of those on board who died. They've also confirmed, through speaking to the surviving pilot, that the plane was carrying several boxes of documents that were valuable to Hitler. It is believed, though has never been proved, that amongst these documents was the Führer's diary.
What isn't certain is whether that precious cargo survived. Heidemann knows that without proof of that, strong doubts about the diary's provenance will remain. But as Walder explains now, the 80-year-old peasant he's tracked down has promised to fill in the gaps. Heidemann looks up as an elderly, rather bedraggled-looking man enters the tea room. Walder beckons him over. He offers to buy him lunch. Before long, the man is regaling them with memories of the aftermath of the crash, including the rumour that an iron chest full of papers was found.
The chest was hidden in a barn loft on the other side of the village, but it must have been moved recently. The barn is now empty. That fits in with everything Heidemann's contact told him about how the diary had come to appear after all this time. Bidding the peasant farewell, Heidemann can hardly believe they have the last piece of the puzzle. Walder nods towards a nearby payphone. It's time, Gerd. Taking his cue, Heidemann rises from the table and walks to the payphone.
His hands tremble as he takes out his contacts book and finds the number of the dealer who has the diary. Heidemann slowly dials it. After a few rings, a gruff male voice answers. Heidemann clears his throat. "Oh, hello! My name is Gert Heidemann. I believe you're in possession of a diary that holds great interest to me. A diary that belonged to Adolf Hitler."
There's a long pause. Then the man speaks. There is not just one diary. There are 27 volumes. I'm currently in possession of three. I'm currently writing all three. I'm currently in possession of all three. There's a plot twist at the end of the fourth that will leave you a real cliffhanger. Heidemann tries to speak, but his voice leaves him. His throat is so dry he can't even swallow. He's literally been rendered speechless. He's thought about this moment for nearly a year. Now it's surpassing all his expectations.
He quickly regains his voice, which rises an octave. I would very much like to buy them from you, as would my employer, Stern Magazine. There's another pause. The man's tone changes. I won't deal with that rag. Too left-wing, and the media are too indiscreet. People have risked their lives for these tigers. It's too dangerous. The man hangs up, as Valder looks his way expectant. Heidemann could kick himself for blundering in so thoughtlessly, but he has no intention of giving up.
He's determined to make this deal, and he knows how to do it. By convincing Stern to put up more money than anyone in their right mind could possibly turn down. It will mean going over Peter Kotcher's head and straight to Stern's top brass. That could be career suicide. But for these diaries, it's a risk Heidemann is willing to take.
I'm just trying to imagine his excitement because we do have this cultural obsession and fascination with diaries. And here he is thinking that he's going to get this insight into history's greatest monster. He's on the precipice of that. Talking of which, do you keep a diary? Get on with it. It's two months later, January 1981, Hamburg. On the ninth floor of Stern's HQ, Manfred Fischer wraps his fingers impatiently on the large conference table.
Why am I here and why all the subterfuge? I'd love to start meetings like that.
He listens in stunned silence as Heidemann and Walder run through a detailed account of all the research they've done into the existence of a set of Adolf Hitler's diaries.
He can hardly believe it, as he's then told that for a substantial sum, Stern can acquire all 27 volumes. I would ask to see them first because having kept a diary as an adolescent, some of those volumes might be three entries, January 1st, January 2nd, January 3rd, and then it might just drop off, might just be blank notebooks. Fisher has so many questions, he's not sure where to begin. But Heidemann and Valder deal with them all deftly, taking him through the diary's provenance and even showing him photos of the crash victim's graves.
Trust that instinct. Yay!
As if reading his mind, Heidemann goes on. Thomas has been a great help with the research, but the contacts that led to these diaries are mine alone. And, as a freelancer, I can always take this to another publisher, one in the US or UK maybe. Fisher may not like Heidemann, but he likes the idea of losing what could be the scoop of the century even less. He feels he has no choice but to throw caution to the wind. All right, Kurt, we'll buy everything your contact has. How much money do you need?
It's the following day, January 1981, Stuttgart. At his home in Aspergstrasse, Kujau is starting to feel like a recluse. Holed up in his cellar day and night, creating more diaries, what keeps Kujau going is the thought of what he'll do with the cash once he makes his fortune. He may even make enough with the diaries to turn his dream of a Third Reich museum into a reality. Oh, please. Let's go to the beach, mate.
Kuzhau doesn't have much personal interest in the Nazis. Beyond a boyhood dalliance with Hitler youth, he's never involved himself with politics. I would argue that that's more of an interest in the Nazis than most people. But since he's had to spend so much time living and breathing Hitler, he has to confess to a certain admiration for what the man achieved. A museum would be recognition of that, and a great money spinner to boot. BELL RINGS
The ringing phone snaps Cujiao out of his fantasy. When he answers, he recognises the desperate voice on the other end immediately. "It's Gerd Heidmann from Stern. I am standing in a telephone booth 20 metres from your house. Can we talk?" Cujiao feels his frustration rise. He thought he was clear about his refusal to sell the diaries to Stern. The simple fact is, Cujiao has no wish to court the attention a big publishing company will bring.
Before printing anything, Stern will insist on forensic and historical experts authenticating the diaries. If they were exposed as fakes, it would open up his other forgeries to scrutiny. He's simply got too much to lose. But Heidemann won't take no for an answer. Who's he hoping to sell to? Some little old lady that just wants to have them on a bookshelf? I will stay in Stuttgart and call every day until you agree to see me.
Fifteen minutes later, his cellar of secrets securely bolted, Kuzhau is showing the moon-faced man around his shop. Kuzhau has never met anyone like him. He's barely stopped talking since he walked in, and it's clear he thinks he has some sort of divine right to the diaries. As if to prove he's not left-wing like his employers, Heidemann lists all the Nazi leaders he's personally acquainted with. This doesn't act in Heidemann's favour as proof of him only having an academic interest in Nazis, does it?
You have a choice. A bankrupt business or more riches than you can possibly imagine. I do not know how many ways I can say this, Herr Heidemann. My answer is no. I have other interested buyers. Cujo goes over to the door, flings it open, waiting for Heidemann to leave. Instead, he takes out a small valise. Within it, there is a secret drawer. When the reporter opens it, a shower of 500-mark banknotes explodes into the air, like ticker tape at a parade.
Kuzhau stares open-mouthed as the cash falls around him. There are 100,000 marks here that are yours in return for a promise of the diaries you have in your possession. If you can provide all 27, Stern will pay two million. Jesus, that sounds good. Yes, in modern money, that is millions and millions and millions of pounds. Yes, please. Kuzhau can barely take it in. It's ten times what he'd make from his best customer. But can he really take the risk?
If I were to sell to you, do I have your word that you would protect my anonymity? Of course. As a journalist, I would never reveal my source. Would that raise your suspicions? Because surely he would want the press from this as he's selling other memorabilia. It would be good for him, wouldn't it, to have his name attached to this discovery? Yes, but I guess Heidemann is so desperate to get his hands on them, he's not thinking critically. Cujo weighs it up. Yes, it's risky.
But if the diaries are exposed as fakes, he can tell Heidemann it was his East German contacts who must have forged them. That's quite a good get-out. The reporter doesn't even know his surname. He can make one up. Kuzhau realises there's no reason why he can't come out of all of this unscathed. OK, you and Stan have a deal. Kuzhau shakes hands with his new business partner, then shows him out, promising delivery of the first three diaries imminently.
The others, he tells him, must be smuggled across in small quantities from East Germany, so as not to put his supplier at risk. Sitting in his cellar, Kuzhau counts the marks. Then he ponders his next problem, how to produce another 24 Hitler diaries in the timeframe Stern demands, when it's taken him a year to forge just three. I mean, logic would say impossible. Has he promised more than he can possibly deliver? In a word, jaaah.
It's 10am on the 18th of February 1981, Hamburg. There's a palpable buzz in Manfred Fischer's office as he waits with Walder and three of Stern's other senior executives. A hush falls as Heidemann enters, secure suitcase in hand. Fischer never expected to be so excited by this moment. But as Heidemann opens the suitcase, takes out a Hitler diary and places it carefully on his desk...
Fischer feels an almost religious solemnity. Can you imagine they put them on the desk and Fischer's like, oh, shit, pink leather bound. They're not real. Fischer carefully picks up the diary and stares at its cover, which is A4-sized, stiffly bound in black and about 1.5 centimetres thick. It's a little battered, but still makes an impressive sight, with Hitler's initials at its centre and a red wax seal in the form of a German eagle. Inside, the pages are lined.
Fisher can't read the old Germanic script, but he has no doubt that the item is genuine. He just feels it. This is one of the greatest moments of his life. He's holding actual history in his hands. Fisher imagines his face on the cover of Time magazine, underneath a headline praising him for the scoop of the century. Stories like this are the reason he got into the publishing business.
And hubris like that is the reason that stories like this make it to us. Yes, hubris like that is what got us into the podcasting business. While his senior colleagues pore over the diaries, similarly awed, Fisher forces himself to be practical. Now we have this in our possession, the first thing we must do is consult a handwriting expert, historian and a forensic scientist to properly authenticate it. To Fisher's surprise, Heidemann darkens at the suggestion.
I know what I said before, but that would be a mistake at this stage. The more people who know of the diary's existence, the more chance of this leaking to the rest of the press.
It's a good point. And Valder takes Heidemann's side, begging Fisher to wait a while. I'm not sure I agree that it's a good point, because if the rest of the press find out that's fine, they own them now. Yes, but if someone splashes it first, if you're waiting to publish the whole thing, it's whoever gets the story first, isn't it? So they've got it, and they're obviously going to wait, they're going to run the checks. If your rival says, Hitler diary's found, you've missed out on the most important day of the story. OK, fine. But Fisher won't be swayed so easily. This is too important.
We must run the appropriate checks. Heidemann takes a deep breath. Then you must be aware that if my contact panics and holds supply, we may lose the chance of getting the whole collection. Fisher senses the panic gripping his colleagues. He looks back at the diary, realising what everyone else is thinking. That if there is even a 10% chance these diaries are genuine, they must do whatever it takes to secure them. They can put them under detailed scrutiny later. OK, no checks for now.
The relief in the room is palpable. Soon, Fisher and his colleagues are making plans to keep their mission as secretive as possible. There will be a special suite of officers set aside for the Diaries Project. Thomas Valder will be given a research assistant. Heidemann will deal with all matters relating to Third Reich history and expertise, and personally oversee handovers with his contact. They all agree on a codename. Operation Green Vault. It suddenly strikes Fisher that with Peter Koch and the rest of Stern's editorial team out of the loop,
The few men in this room are now bound together in a conspiracy, for better or worse. Fisher can only hope that ultimately history, if not his staff, will thank him. This season, Instacart has your back to school. As in, they've got your back to school lunch favorites, like snack packs and fresh fruit. And they've got your back to school supplies, like backpacks, binders, and pencils. And they've got your back when your kid casually tells you they have a huge school project due tomorrow.
Let's face it, we were all that kid. So first call your parents to say I'm sorry, and then download the Instacart app to get delivery in as fast as 30 minutes all school year long. Get a $0 delivery fee for your first three orders while supplies last. Minimum $10 per order. Additional terms apply. It's three months later, May 1981, Hamburg. In an office on the ninth floor of Stern HQ, Peter Koch feels the color drain from his face.
The company's finance director, Jan Hensman, has just told him that for the past five months, a team of senior executives have been overseeing a secret operation to buy Hitler's lost diaries. Now the senior executives want Koch and his team to start preparing the ground to publish them. You'll have help from a familiar face. The reporter in charge is... Koch sighs. Gerd Heidemann, right? Hensman nods. Koch takes a sharp intake of breath. What if I say no?
We're aware you'll dismiss this when Heidemann first brought it to you, but he's come up trumps and he's the beating heart of this operation. The only person in direct contact with the diary supplier. He's not disposable. You are. Koch hasn't had a day this bad in a while. And it gets even worse when he breaks the news of the diaries to his team.
As he suspected, they all react with horror. Why would we want to publish the rantings of a monster like Hitler? This isn't news. It's Nazi propaganda. I don't want my name attached to this. Since when did Stern promote fascism? Have you even read the diaries? Now it's Koch's turn to get tough. I'm sorry, my hands are tied. There are murmurs of dissent. One reporter slams out in anger. All Koch can do is tell everyone to get back to work.
Later, in his office, he grits his teeth as Heidemann saunters in, smiling smugly. Koch forces himself to congratulate him, then offers to help wherever possible. Clearly enjoying the reversal of power, Heidemann smirks. That won't be necessary. I just need the odd staff member for admin purposes. Koch feels his fists clench in anger, but he smiles through the pain. He'll have to find a way to live with this. He still doesn't trust Heidemann, and nothing is going to change that.
Koch vows to keep an eye on him. If the man has anything to hide, Koch is going to find it. It's a year later, summer 1982, Stuttgart. In his cellar, Cujau kisses Edith on the cheek as she delivers his morning coffee. Then he quickly returns to work. Cujau now has a strict routine in place to ensure he can deliver the diaries within Stern's timeframe. But today he's struggling. His forging skills aren't the problem, it's the endless content required.
Kuzhau's only halfway through the latest volume, and he's already stuck for anything to write beyond the most basic information. Still using just one history book as his main source, Kuzhau flicks through it, desperately scanning for interesting entries. He finds a few official engagements Hitler attended, some Nazi party announcements, and dutifully writes them down.
But there's nothing else. Cujiao slams the book shut, frustrated. He'll just have to add a few lines of fluff to pad the day out. But what do you mean by that? Like, met up with the girls, had some cocktails, or what? I guess food, music, global fascist domination. Sure, that's Tuesday.
After a little thought, he decides to have Hitler comment on Eva Braun's mood that morning. Go on. Finishing the paragraph, he feels a buzz he hasn't felt in a while. That frisson from bending the rules. He's actually rewriting history. But he reminds himself he'll have to limit these flights of fancy. The dull content doesn't seem to bother Stern anyway. They're as keen on the diaries as ever. In fact, Kuzhau has got so used to the regular cash flow, he's determined to keep the gravy train going.
That's why he told Heidemann he's recently discovered an additional 35 diaries. Shut up. The new total is 62. Get out. Get out now. What are you doing? That evening, with the latest entries finished, Kujau gets dressed for dinner with Edith and Gert and Gina Heidemann. They're in town to collect the latest volumes.
Sitting in the restaurant of the Holiday Inn near Munich's motorway exit, Kujau tries to hide his boredom as Heidemann boasts about his two new houses. Beaming at her husband, Gina then turns to Kujau, tears in her eyes. You're so much, Conrad! Kujau laps up the praise. When Heidemann asks if Kujau can supply him with more of the Führer's art, he has to suppress a grin.
He's already sold Heidemann a few pieces of Nazi memorabilia, like some of Hitler's faked watercolours. OK, another red flag as to Heidemann's position on all of this. Not only does he want these historical documents, perhaps fair enough, but he also wants Hitler's artwork to put on his walls at home. Yeah, and they're not even good. It's not like you go, oh man, I just really like the painting, but it happens to be by Hitler, but...
The painting's so good, I think maybe I'll just have to buy it despite the artist. Of course, my friend. As you know, I have a very good supply chain. Kujau risks a wink at Edith after he says it. She glares at him, disapproving. But he really can't help enjoying the deception. I meant to tell you, Conrad. Stern has finally ordered a forensic examination of a page from the first diary. Kujau dabs his upper lip with a napkin, hoping the reporter hasn't noticed he's started to perspire.
He makes sure his voice remains casual. I thought they were going to wait until they had all the diaries. It's just the top brass being jumpy. Anyway, their authenticity is merely a formality. Heidemann clearly isn't worried, but Cujo is. Obviously. He was counting on delivering every last diary and pocketing every last bit of cash before any experts laid eyes on them. He's made plans for his museum. He's promised Edith a new house and endless holidays. He doesn't have enough money for all that yet.
And if the diaries are exposed as fakes now, he never will. He decides to take another look at his schedule. They're going to get shorter and shorter, aren't they? As Heidemann lifts his wine glass for a toast, Cujau paints on his trademark grin and raises his beer in kind. He reminds himself that all he has to do is hold his nerve. Soon, he'll be home and dry. It's nine months later, March 1983, Hamburg.
At police HQ in Weisbaden, Heydermann sits in horrified disbelief. In front of him are nine documents, all samples of Hitler's handwriting that Stern gave the local forces forensic team to authenticate. Heydermann is struggling to take in the news that six of them are probably fakes. Mistakes must have been made. This simply isn't possible. To Heydermann's immense relief, the forensics chief doesn't dismiss that.
It's always a possibility with the most basic checks. What we need to do is test more vigorously, but the results will take a little longer. Heidemann's certain these tests will be proved wrong. But if Stern's executives hear the preliminary results, they may be spooked into pulling the plug on the whole project. Further checks will give him time to obtain the rest of the diaries, and the money Stern is handing over for them. It's not just his emotional investment in the diaries driving Heidemann now.
He's become accustomed to using Stern's funds as his own personal cash machine. The money has allowed him to furnish both his houses, buy hundreds of historical artefacts and lavish Gina with expensive gifts on a weekly basis. This doesn't sound legit. He's also handing over less cash to Cujo than Stern agreed, skimming some off the top for himself. Heidemann thinks of it as a commission for all the risks he's taking to bring these diaries to the world.
But to Heidemann's horror, Walder wants to come clean to Stern about today's results. They have a right to know, Gerd. It's their money being pumped into this project. If there's any chance these diaries aren't authentic, of course they are! There will always be some differences of opinion on these things. After everything we've learnt, everything we've seen, can you honestly tell me you don't think these diaries are genuine? Heidemann holds eye contact with Walder. At last, Walder shakes his head. Heidemann pats him on the shoulder, supportive.
He knows Valda is as invested as he is, as Stern is. The magazine's outlay so far is over two million marks, and with more diaries discovered, it's set to rise even higher. Valda agrees to say nothing.
But when they enter Stern's editorial floor later, Heidemann is thrown to find Manfred Fischer and Peter Koch in a state of excitement. Ah, Heidemann! We've agreed on a publication date! Heidemann glances at Valder, who pales as Koch outlines plans to publish their first instalment next month.
Heidemann scrambles for excuses about why that's a bad idea. They don't have all the diaries yet. Early publication could endanger the lives of the smugglers, jeopardise supply lines. Walder shouts agreement, but it's no use. Koch is adamant. To Heidemann's growing despair, the publishing director of Stern's parent company, Gruner & Jahr, arrives. Having been told of the plan by Fisher and Koch, he confirms the decision to publish.
Heidemann realises it's no longer up for debate. He can only sit back impotent as Stern's executives discuss their syndication strategy. To get the maximum return on their investment, they will target a media mogul who has publications in Australia, the US and the UK. The most powerful media mogul in the world. Fisher calls out to his secretary. Get me Rupert Murdoch on the phone. Now!
This is the first episode in our series, The Hitler Diaries. A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but all our dramatisations are based on historical research. If you'd like to know more about this story, you can read Selling Hitler by Robert Harris, The Hitler Diaries, Fakes That Fooled the World by Charles Hamilton, or the Diary of Diaries article from Die Zeit magazine, 4th April 2013 by Felix Schmidt.
I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Ford. Wendy Grandeter wrote this episode. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Our sound design is by Rich Evans. Script editing by James Magniac. Our associate producer is Francesca Gilardi Quadrio Corzio. Our senior producer is Joe Sykes. Our executive producers are Jenny Beckman, Stephanie Jens and Marshall Louis for Wondery. Wondery.
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