As any historian of the Third Reich will tell you, requests to contribute to television programmes about Nazi gold come about twice a year. My favourite was from the producer who asked whether I knew where I might find some Nazi gold. I gently explained that if I knew, I would be talking to her from my private island in the Indian Ocean.
My normal response includes the disappointing revelation that it is highly unlikely that there is any Nazi gold submerged in Alpine lakes or hidden on trains buried in Polish mountainsides, and if they really want to have a serious look for it, they should break into just about any bank vault under the streets of Zurich.
However, last week saw me doing something I would have previously scorned.
Accompanied by my son Will and his friend Magnus, I drove with a pickaxe, fork and a shovel all the way from Wiltshire to the centre of the Netherlands, where we started frenziedly digging for Nazi treasure at the side of a path in a public park.
Last week, the National Archives of the Netherlands released 1,300 pages of documents as part of its annual Public Access Day. Among them are papers telling the tale of how a group of German paratroopers who were fighting the British in Arnhem in September 1944 took unscrupulous advantage of an explosion at a bank in the centre of town and stuffed four ammunition boxes with gemstones, jewellery, watches, coins and other valuables — which hopefully included some actual gold. According to one of the soldiers, Helmut Sonder, the boxes were buried just south of a village called Ommeren, 25 miles west of Arnhem.
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After the war, the Dutch, who understandably wanted to restore the valuables to their owners, interrogated Sonder. The German was taken to the spot where he claimed the treasure was buried, but he could not find it. He suspected that perhaps his senior NCO, Eduard Kastel, had already taken it, but the Dutch were not convinced, and concluded that Sonder was either lying or the treasure had already been found. A few more attempts were made over the next couple of years by the police, locals and some American troops, but to no avail.
Since then, the story of the loot had been all but forgotten. Until last week. Among the Dutch documents was an item that was manna to any hunter of Nazi gold: a treasure map with a red X marking the spot. Better still, the map also included sketches of precisely where the loot was buried.
I had to go. I spent hours comparing the map — which was presumably sketched by Sonder — with current maps and satellite imagery from Google Earth. As I set off at 5am on Thursday morning, I was confident I knew almost exactly where to dig. But would others beat me to it?
What we encountered was like something out of Detectorists. The first group we met consisted of a trio of young men, one of whom, called Sill, was hacking away at the roots of a hedge at the corner of a garden owned by a bemused woman who proudly owned many chickens. Sill had a metal detector, but something about the way he was using it told me that he was no expert. I feared for the lady’s hedge, and besides I had a strong feeling he was digging in the wrong place.
As we made our way to our suspected spot, complete with our tools, we encountered Jan van Nieuwamerongen, a retired software entrepreneur. We sniffed around each other suspiciously, until it emerged that we both thought the treasure was in the same place. We informally decided to join forces, and agreed to split any proceeds 50-50.
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En route, we encountered two detectorists who looked eerily like Toby Jones and Mackenzie Crook, the stars of the TV comedy. Clearly strangers to personal hygiene and communication skills, they tetchily denied that they too were looking for the Nazi loot. Yeah right, I thought, not least because I recalled I had seen their knackered VW on the way into town — complete with metal detectors in the back.
Jan and I paced out where we thought the spot was, and the boys and I set to work. Victims of a culture of instant gratification, we were disappointed not to strike gold within minutes.
On my way to fetch water and sandwiches — digging for Nazi gold is hard work — I came across yet another detectorist, this time waist deep in a muddy hole and with a grin on his face. His name was Thomas Loeven, and not only did he have a brace of serious-looking detectors, he also revealed that he had the counsel of a psychic friend who had told him where to dig.
What the psychic had clearly failed to foretell was the presence of the local constabulary, who by now were taking a dim view of so much public land being excavated willy-nilly. A local bobby — if that’s what the Dutch call them — appeared near Thomas’s trench, and told him to fill it back in and hop it. Did he not know that digging was forbidden here, as there was a danger that he could excavate some wartime ordnance and vapourise himself and anybody nearby?
Thomas did as he was told, but what I negligently failed to do was to relay the message to Will and Magnus. When I returned with lunch, I was relieved to see they hadn’t blown themselves up, but they had been given a rocket by a policeman, who had ordered them to stop digging, and had taken down their details from their driving licences.
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This was frustrating to say the least, because another friendly detectorist had revealed that our spot did indeed seem to have something metal buried there.
So that was that. We had come so far and had got so close, only to be stymied by the powers that be. If I were a conspiracy theorist, I would have my suspicions.
I may not have found any Nazi gold — not this time — but I have learnt a valuable lesson. Even the most rational and cynical historian like me needs to acknowledge that you just never know. The truth may indeed be out there, buried, of all places, next to a Dutch footpath. Mark my words, I’ll be back.
