Half Buried Hatreds

Ever after these years, the face - the name and the recorded voice of Adolf Hitler are still sufficient to stir half-buried hatreds and unforgettable fear in the hearts of millions who suffered and fought in the last war. Yet to those who shared his beliefs - and I was one of them - he was considered a genius. The memory of the madness of those last weeks I spent with him in the Berlin bunker are still vivid in my mind, and I still remember as if it were yesterday the words of the Führer’s deputy, Martin Bormann as we fled the shores of Europe in the Spring of 1946.

“Only under Hitler can Germany ever hope for real spiritual and geographic unification.”

But the image that springs to my mind at the mention of Hitler’s name is not that of the dynamic, dominating dictator. It is of a grotesque cripple, a man feebly clinging to life in the deathly wastes of the South Polar ice cap.

The most macabre adventure of my career as a professional espionage agent began one July day in 1952. I had left Spain to live with my wife and family in Mexico three years before and settled in Cuidad Juarez, a small town close to the U.S. border.

Ostensibly, I was working for the CARCIA VALSECA newspaper group as Literary Editor of a weekly supplement. But as always, my real work was with the Nazis - helping establish, for the expanding Party in Central and South America, a communications system for their intelligence service. It was a routine job with little travel and no risk. I began to think that my usefulness to the Nazi cause had passed its peak.

That is, until the day in July 1952 when I received a routine message ordering me to report to an isolated region on the southern tip of South America where I would be taken to see a ‘most important person’. I naturally assumed that this most important person referred to in my orders would be my old friend, Martin Bormann. But I was wrong. Even now, after years of self-interrogation, I am forced to the conclusion that the man I met was no less a person than the Führer himself - Adolf Hitler.

I felt the old excitement as I drove to the airport. Once again, I was called to serve my Nazi masters. I wondered what mission they had in line for me. I was still wondering when, after several changes of aircraft and many hours of frustrating delay, I finally arrived at the airfield named in my instructions. The airstrip was in wild, forbidding country in the southernmost part of the Argentine. I had been expected and when I entered the only building, a rough wooden shack in one corner of the field, I was greeted by a blond Aryan type who turned out to be a former Luftwaffe pilot.

Our transport, a twin-engined freight plane, was parked, already fueled, at the far end of the runway. Without further delay, the pilot told me to follow him and we boarded the aircraft. To me sitting in the co-pilot’s seat, it seemed impossible that the big plane could take off from the tiny strip. But my pilot coaxed her into the air and within an hour, we were crossing the coast five thousand feet below.

I had asked him where we were bound, but was not surprised when he refused to discuss our destination. He simply explained that there was no difficulty involved in our flight, since there had been none of the usual formalities at the airstrip we had used. The only clue to our ultimate destination was that the aircraft was fitted with skis as well as wheels and now as we flew, I noticed that our compass was bearing steadily southeast. Incredibly, we were flying towards the South Pole!

For several hours we flew over endless wastes of ice with never a sign of life or vegetation. My pilot seemed to know our route well, for he made few references to maps or navigational aids. Finally, after the briefest check on the, to me, meaningless and patternless terrain below, he eased back the twin throttles and dipped towards the ground.

We came to land on a smoothed tract of snow, and it was not until the aircraft was almost stationery that I picked out the angular outlines of a snow covered hangar and a cluster of buildings grouped a hundred yards further on. We taxied towards the main hangar and, with a final burst of power from the engines, slid to a halt. After the continual roar of the motors alongside me, the silence of that Arctic waste was unearthly. I hardly expected to find other human beings in what seemed a ghost town in the snow, but as soon as our aircraft stopped, a party of well-muffled men left the shelter of the hangar and walked towards us. They greeted my pilot as an old friend and welcomed me in polite German. One of them provided me with a heavy, fur-lined topcoat and urged me to hurry to the nearest house, one hundred paces away.

EDITOR NOTE – We believe that either Don Angel made an incorrect assumption that he flew to Antarctica or that he is deliberately giving mis-information, not an uncommon thing for ‘spooks’ to do. We are quite certain that he landed far to the southwestern part of Patagonia and we have been at the complex where Hitler lived for some years after the war.

This is the main house of the complex which consisted of several small guest cottages, a small building for power generating, another small house for cooking and a boat house where boats and float planes were kept. This area is totally blanketed in white over the hard Patagonian winters and this complex could only be reached by boat or float plane. More photos available at There were also several guest houses. The complex was built in the closing moments of the War with German money, allegedly for the chief executive of a well-known German auto maker but in reality, it was for Adolf Hitler.

Once in the house, a wooden single-story affair, I was handed a steaming hot drink and shown to my quarters. My room was hardly bigger than a normal sized bathroom, but there was a comfortable bed and a chest of drawers, which was quite sufficient for my needs. I found there were similar rooms in the building, plus a larger room where all the occupants ate their meals together. At that time, there appeared to be only myself and the three men who met me, and a white-jacketed servant who cooked and served our food.

Dinner that night found me no nearer the solution to the mystery of this desolate settlement. No one had volunteered why I, or anyone else for that matter, was here. My few attempts at questioning my companions had brought me stares as blank as our surroundings and an infuriating stone wall response.

EDITOR NOTE– The abandoned boat house. When we returned in 2009 and were walking across the expansive lawn, our Argentine boat captain began goose-stepping with his right arm extended in the air. We asked what he was doing, he said,

“I know who lived here. I lived here in my childhood. My father was the caretaker – I know who lived here!”

During the meal, I was excluded almost entirely from the other’s conversation and was thankful to excuse myself on the grounds of tiredness, and retreat to my room. I lay on the cot that night with a thousand questions buzzing around my brain. Why was I here? Where was I going? And - most important of all - who was I to meet? And what were the connections between this God-forsaken outpost and the photo of two teen-age children I had been instructed to bring with me?

I took the photos from my briefcase and studied them again. I knew these children well. In the past six months, I had received repeated instructions to check on their well-being. Several times I had visited their hometown of Las Cruces, New Mexico. I understood they had been brought over from Lisbon, Portugal in 1951. Often I had watched them from a discreet distance and taken photographs of them on their way to and from school. In what way were they linked with this mystery man I had flown three thousand miles to meet?

It was nearly mid-day August 10th when one of the men who I had met, came to my room and announced,

“Señor Gomez, today you are going to meet the Führer.”

He mentioned the title so matter-of-factly that at first I did not grasp what he meant.

“The Führer?” I asked.

“Who do you mean when you say the Führer?”

The man stared at me as if I was mad.

“There is only one,” he replied. “Adolf Hitler.”

Abruptly, he motioned me to follow him and turned on his heel. Dumbfounded, I let him lead me out of the house and across the snow to another, larger building. Just inside, he stopped and knocked on the door of a room leading off from the hallway. A muffled voice answered his knock. He threw open the door and ushered me in. There were four men in the room. Three of them were standing. But these I scarcely noticed. My attention was riveted on the fourth man, who was seated behind a large wooden desk facing the door. I knew instantly that this must be the man I had heard referred to as the Führer.

But if this was Hitler, then he was barely recognizable as the man whom I had seen leaving the Berlin bunker in April, 1945. To recognize in this person the Hitler who had dominated Germany for twelve years, it was necessary to have a willing imagination.

Compare for yourself. Left 1940; right in the 1960’s

This man had no mustache. He was completely bald and the skin of his cheeks and temples had been stretched out of shape and left taut across the cheekbones. Yet his forehead and chin were heavily wrinkled and lined, and an inch-long scar showed white on his left temple. This sinister face was framed against a huge scarlet and black Nazi banner which hung on the wall at his back.

One of the three men standing to my left led me forward and introduced me to the figure behind the desk. I came to attention and gave the Nazi salute. The man behind the desk smiled fleetingly and acknowledged me with a slight wave of the right hand.

Hitler, if Hitler it was, received me sitting down and later I learned that he had difficulty in standing. I could see that his left arm was semi-paralyzed and useless. His face was grey and every few moments, he had to wipe a trickle of saliva from his sagging chin. When he did this, I noticed that his thin, wrinkled hand trembled violently. He looked like a man from whom most of the life had been wrung and his eyes were dull and almost devoid of spark. He wore a dark blue double breasted suit with a Nazi Party emblem in the lapel. The suit fit badly and hung limply from his narrow shoulders.

The man who ushered me to the desk now bade me sit down and produced a file of papers which he set in front of the old man before me. After a brief glance at the papers, he began to ask me questions in a thin, hesitant voice; questions about South America, and the political and economic states of various countries of that continent. But he spoke as if not really interested, and I had to lean forward in order to catch his words properly. I was gripped with such a strong feeling of dream-like unreality that I had to concentrate hard to answer intelligently.

He continued to ask questions, now about the strength of the Nazi movement in South America and about my work for the cause of National Socialism. Yet only once did he show any signs of life and real interest, when with a sudden clench-fisted movement of his right arm, he asked me

“Have you the pictures of the two children?”

It was as ‘the children’ or ‘that boy’ that he referred to them throughout, never giving a hint of his relationship to them, if any. I only knew the boy’s name was Adolfo and he was then about sixteen. The girl’s name was Stern; German for Star.

When he asked, I produced a pack of some fifty or sixty photographs of the children. I told the Führer that they seemed well and happy. As I spoke, he pored eagerly over the pictures and when I had finished, the questioning ceased. Without further sign from the old man behind the desk, the interview was over. One of the others in the room stepped up and tapped me on the shoulder, motioning me silently to leave. I rose, bowed slightly to the man at the desk, and left the room. The following day, I was flown back to Argentina.

I never again saw the man they called the Führer.

Throughout the flight, I cast my mind continually back to the macabre meeting with the hunched, shriveled man sitting in a Swastika decorated room in that little hut on the South Polar ice cap; the man his companions referred to as ‘the Führer’. Could this shrunken old man have been the one-time ranting, dominating dictator whom I had last seen in the Berlin Führerbunker during the collapse of Nazi Germany?

Was this poor creature, now presiding over a million square miles of nothing, the same as he who had conquered a continent? Was this Hitler? I remembered the long conversations I had had with Hitler’s deputy Martin Bormann, during our long flight together out of Europe six years before. Then, Bormann told me how he had planned the escape of the Führer from the flaming hell of Berlin and how he planned to keep him hidden away until Nazism was again strong enough to lead Germany to freedom.

Now, as our aircraft droned on towards South America, I was filled with excitement. It seemed likely that all Bormann had told me was perfectly accurate, and that the Nazi Party would indeed prove strong and resilient enough to re-emerge.

Upon my return to my home in Cuidad Juarez, a little Mexican town close to the U.S. border, I settled down to await orders from the Nazi underground movement which I still served. My task - under the guise of working for a newspaper group - was to organize and seek contact with Nazi sympathizers in Central America, and to this end I received orders on a radio receiver-transmitter which I kept in the bedroom of my house.

It was just strong enough - it had a range of some 100 miles - to keep me in touch with the next link in the chain of Party workers strung the length of South America. But the days of waiting for the big news stretched into weeks; the weeks into months; and the months into years. The messages I did get were trivial. There was no sign of a call to arms from Bormann or any of the other high-ranking Nazi Party chiefs who had escaped to the sub-continent.

In early 1957, I decided to quit working for my Nazi masters. I yearned to return to my native Spain and settle there once more with my wife and children, and spend the rest of my life making up to them the time I had spent on the Nazis. But my plans were delayed.

On June 6th, 1957 my radio receiver brought me news which was to send me chasing through South America for yet another meeting with Martin Bormann. At first I balked at the uninformative order to proceed to Panama City and await further contact with another Nazi agent. Instead of following my orders as I had done for so long, I decided to take the bold step of flying direct to Germany to make contact with the men at the heart of the Nazi cause.

Here I hoped to get more definite instructions. If I did not, I resolved to quit the organization altogether and move back to a quiet life in Madrid.

To cover my trip, I proposed to my newspaper boss that I fly to Europe for a series of interviews. I managed to arrange one with General Franco, and this was sufficient to justify my journey, and I duly left. But immediately after my audience with Franco, I set out across Europe to the German town of Köln. Köln had replaced München as the new shrine of Nazism and it was here, I knew, that men such as Bormann came from all over the world for top-level talks on the Nazi situation at least once a year.

The way I made contact with the Nazi underground movement was to insert a specially worded advertisement in a Köln newspaper, giving my whereabouts. The day the ad appeared, I took a telephone call at my hotel and was instructed to attend a rendezvous at a certain cafe in the city.

There I was met by a man I had known during the war - a former SS officer, who is now among the group of highly important men who control the new Nazi party in Germany. This man took me to his home on Wagner Straße where I stayed for two days. I explained my feelings to him and asked him to be more explicit about the trip I was supposed to make from Panama City, but he refused to be drawn. He simply said that the High Command had requested me to attend one of their meetings somewhere in South America. He only added that when I got there, I would appreciate the reason why I had been sent for.

This news reversed my pervious decision not to go. I resolved that I would make one more journey into South America, for I guessed that a request from the High Command could only lead to a meeting with Martin Bormann - the Nazi fugitive I had not seen since the day we stepped from a ‘pirate’ U-Boat off the coast of Argentina ten years before.

I returned immediately to Mexico and laid plans for my last journey at the bidding of Nazi Intelligence. First, I packed my wife back to Spain and told her I would rejoin her quite soon. Then, with my eldest son Angel, I moved to Chihuahua.

The next step was to shake off the American counter-espionage agent of the C.I.A. who had me under observation. This was not difficult since I had passed on considerable information about the activities of a Communist cell in Mexico to the U.S. military attaché in Mexico City. The CIA agents who kept tabs on me did not seem unduly interested when I let it be known that I was to embark on a tour of Latin American countries with a bullfighting circus. I had great fun setting up my traveling bullring. I’d been a pretty good bullfighter myself in the arenas of Spain in the early 1930’s and I looked forward to the trip as a pleasant holiday.

As I say, I took my son with me and also recruited a young woman who was trying to make a name for herself in the somewhat crude bullfights of Latin America. It would be useful to have her along, I thought. Having her in the show gave it an attraction and made my travels appear to be a serious business venture. I bought all the equipment we needed in Mexico City. We set out for Panama, traveling via El Salvador, Nicaragua and Costa Rica. All the way down, my little show and the woman bullfighter, whom I had christened ‘Lola Montez’ proved a big attraction.

EDITOR NOTE – Is it possible Conchita Cintron was the lady bullfighter DON ANGEL meant? She was the only well-known female bullfighter in the western hemisphere at the time.

Just outside Panama City, in a little town called Davis, I met my contact agent. He was a German named Karl who had taken up cattle breeding. He had apparently been in the business since about 1947. I guessed his story. Anyway, he informed me that I was to travel to Ecuador, and he gave me the location of a farm in the state of Cuenta in that country where, he said, the High Command meeting was due to take place.

I plodded on with my traveling bullring. It was hard work, since I found myself having to go into the ring myself to rouse the bulls sufficiently to make a show of it for the now deadly efficient Lola. It was usual when we arrived in any town, for me to travel around searching for reasonably impressive bulls, which were hard to come by. Consequently, when we finally got to Cuenta, I hired a truck and gave the driver the address of the farm, as told to me by Karl.

Unfortunately, the truck was unable to go the whole way and I had to resort to hiring a mule, which picked its way towards the farm, nestled in the foothills of the Andes. The journey on the back of a mule proved as hair-raising as any I had ever made. Some of the ravines we were forced to cross here were spanned by planks of wood, no more than 18 inches wide, and I found myself hanging on terrified to the neck of the mule.

Worn out but thankful that I had not come to any great harm, I reached the farm. It was a large, splintery wooden house with several smaller cabins dotted around, and as I walked across the dusty ground towards the house, I was approached by the apparent owner, an Ecuadorian, and a posse of about fifty Indians. Quickly, I explained that I had come for the meeting.

“Meeting?” he said without emotion.

“There is no meeting here.”

Mystified and more than a little annoyed, I turned to go. But the man called me back and said that since I had obviously come a long way, he would be pleased if I would join him in a drink. He led me into the house and poured me a glass of the local spirit, a rather fierce drink rather like brandy to taste but with twice the kick. We talked in Spanish about nothing very much for a minute or two at the end of which, I drank up and made my farewell. I was just about to leave the house when a sunburned but obviously European man appeared in the doorway.

“Are you Don Angel Alcazar de Velasco?”

He asked in German.

“Yes.” I replied.

“Then come this way.” he said, and led me through a door and up a flight of narrow wooden stairs. At the top of the stairs, he hesitated a moment, then threw open the door and bade me enter.

I walked into a very large room where seven men were seated around a long, cloth-covered table. And there, smiling a welcome from the top of the table was Martin Bormann. I recognized him instantly, but ten years had left their mark on his features. He was now almost completely bald and had deep pouches on his cheeks, but in his eyes and smiles there was no mistaking the man I had brought out of Europe.

I made the Nazi salute as I entered the room and the group responded immediately by rising and answering, “Heil Hitler!”

Martin was first to speak, “Man, you’ve grown old, Angel.”

“And the years have made a difference to you, too Martin.”

I countered with a chuckle. Bormann invited me to sit down at the table and join himself and the others for coffee. He made no attempt to introduce me to these men, mostly Germans, and I recognized none of them.

He ladled my coffee out from a large bowl on the table and as he did so, he remarked,

“I have been keeping track of you ever since we parted, Angel. I have seen plenty of reports about your good work for us, plus a few reports which you have made out yourself I wanted to tell you personally how pleased I am with the work you have done for the Party.”

I sipped my coffee, thanked him, and went on,

“I myself have thought often about you and of the trip we made together.”

Bormann insisted then that I should go downstairs and wash the dust from my body and rest before joining him at dinner. As I left the room, I nodded curtly to the other men at the table, each of whom had a pile of papers in front of him, as if each had been given an agenda for an important board meeting.

I went downstairs and was shown to a room where I lay down on a single bed and slept for about an hour. I was woken and invited upstairs again, where Bormann and his friends were preparing to dine. A place for me had been laid on the rough wooden table on Bormann’s right-hand side. During dinner, thick soup eaten from heavy earthenware bowls, Bormann talked earnestly to me, questioning with great enthusiasm. He wanted to know everything I had learned about Central and South America in the years I had lived there since last we met.

Further, he wanted to know who I knew in South American politics and what the situation was, as I saw it, with the organization of underground Nazi agents in the continent. He listened intently while I outlined the social, political and economic affairs of those agents I knew personally. Then he pressed me for my views about certain Latin states and their ripeness for revolutionary take-over. On this subject, the other men began interjecting with their own questions; about armaments, finance and the structure of various governments until at the end of an hour, I felt like a well-squeezed lemon.

I did not mention that I had recently been to Europe and they did not mention that part of the world.

Bormann did not tell me too much about himself and his life in South America, but I gathered that he had been well employed and dug his fingers into many different political pies, but he did mention that he had been successful in setting up a number of youth movements along the same lines as the old Hitler Youth; those children who had proved their worth in the battle-scared streets of Berlin in 1945.

EDITOR NOTE - The Reich certainly was deeply entrenched in South America. This is one grave marker in a remote cemetery in Brazil. Many grave markers are the same, with swastika and a German name. They are dated 1936.

But there was one thing above all that I wanted to tell Bormann; and one question above all, that I wanted to ask.

First, I informed Bormann that I had decided to end my work for the Nazi cause and return to Madrid and my family. He did not seem surprised, but asked me to think again.

“This is not the time to think about leaving us,” he said fiercely.

“After all we have fought for over the years, now we can see the chance of realizing our ambitions. Our party is now the strongest in South America and the revival of Nazi Germany is only a matter of a short time, a few years at the most. It has taken longer than planned I know, but soon we shall be in a position to put Germany back on the road to triumphs such as the Führer dreamed of in 1939.”

He paused after this speech.

“It seems silly for you to leave us,” he concluded,

“when everything you have been working for is about to take on some meaning.”

But I would not be persuaded.

“I am glad that things are turning your way, Martin” I answered. “but I have lost much of my energies. I do not feel up to taking on further work. In a word, I am tired.”

Bormann accepted my decision without further comment and changed the subject. I waited for my opportunity during the meal before asking my million-dollar question.

“What of the Führer?”

The question brought dead silence from all around the table. Bormann answered slowly.

“I don’t follow. What about him?”

“Is he still waiting?” I asked.

“I planned to bring the Führer back into Germany at the correct psychological moment,” said Bormann.

“That plan has now been abandoned.”

“Does that mean Adolf Hitler is now dead?” I asked.

Bormann shrugged. He refused to answer me, but turned the subject quickly and pointedly. Bormann’s last question during that strange meal was to ask me an out of character inquiry for this once publicity-hating man. He wished to know if people in Europe still talked about him.

“The people, yes. They are still talking about you. But you are rarely named in the press these days.” I told him.

“That is good; that is good.” came his reply.

I left Bormann the next morning. We parted solemnly, both expressing the wish and hope that we would meet again some time, some place and in more happy circumstances. The last words he ever spoke to me were these.

I promised you once that I would return to Germany and that is still my promise. The destiny of the Fatherland lies with the National Socialist Party and its Führer. Heil Hitler!”

I clambered onto my mule and without looking back on the group of men standing near the farmhouse at the foot of the Andes, I returned to Cuenta. As soon as I could arrange a booking, I returned at the first opportunity to my home in Madrid. I had finished serving my Nazi masters. I had given them two decades of my life; two decades in which I had risked my life and made myself prematurely old with worry.

I do not work for them now, but thousands of others are helping to keep the Nazi cause alive and I am sure of that. However hard the democratic powers try to delay it, the re-emergence of the Nazi creed in Europe is bound to occur.

I know. I have seen the men who are working for that end. They have power. They have influence. They have the financial determination to put Germany back on top of the heap. They also have Martin Bormann. While men like him live, Nazism will never die.


This is the end of the file sent to Sharkhunters International by the Spanish spy, DON ANGEL ALCAZAR de VELASCO who worked for the Reich. It was typewritten, single space and 114 pages in length.

Now we read authoritative comments on Hitler, his escape and the hierarchy of the Reich who also escaped the crumbled Europe and for the most part, lived out their lives in relative safety thanks to their benefactor, Perón.

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