(Very long but essential investigative report on a neo-Nazi in the
German military.)
NYT, Dec. 29, 2020
A Far-Right Terrorism Suspect With a Refugee Disguise: The Tale of Franco A.
By Katrin Bennhold
OFFENBACH, Germany — At the height of Europe’s migrant crisis, a bearded
man in sweatpants walked into a police station. His pockets were empty
except for an old cellphone and a few foreign coins.
In broken English, he presented himself as a Syrian refugee. He said he
had crossed half the continent by foot and lost his papers along the
way. The officers photographed and fingerprinted him. Over the next
year, he would get shelter and an asylum hearing, and would qualify for
monthly benefits.
His name, he offered, was David Benjamin.
In reality, he was a lieutenant in the German Army. He had darkened his
face and hands with his mother’s makeup and applied shoe shine to his
beard. Instead of walking across Europe, he had walked 10 minutes from
his childhood home in the western city of Offenbach.
The ruse, prosecutors say, was part of a far-right plot to carry out one
or several assassinations that could be blamed on his refugee alter ego
and set off enough civil unrest to bring down the Federal Republic of
Germany.
The officer, Franco A., as his name is rendered in court documents in
keeping with German privacy laws, denies this. He says he was trying to
expose flaws in the asylum system. But his elaborate double life, which
lasted 16 months, unraveled only after the police caught him trying to
collect a loaded handgun he had hidden in an airport bathroom in Vienna.
“That was really a shocking moment,” said Aydan Ozoguz, a lawmaker who
was commissioner for refugees and integration at the time. “The asylum
system should identify cheaters, no doubt. But the bigger story is: How
could someone like this be a soldier in Germany?”
The arrest of Franco A. in April 2017 stunned Germany. Since then his
case has mostly slipped off the radar but that is likely to change when
he goes to trial early next year.
When he does, Germany will go on trial with him — not only for the
administrative failure that allowed a German officer who did not speak
Arabic to pass himself off as a refugee for so long, but also for its
longstanding complacency in fighting far-right extre
Franco A.’s case spawned a sprawling investigation that led the German
authorities into a labyrinth of subterranean extremist networks at all
levels of the nation’s security services — a threat that, they
acknowledged only this year, was far more extensive than they had ever
imagined.
One group, run by a former soldier and police sniper in northern
Germany, hoarded weapons, kept enemy lists and ordered body bags.
Another, run by a special-forces soldier code-named Hannibal, put the
spotlight on the KSK, Germany’s most elite force. This summer, after
explosives and SS memorabilia were found on the property of a sergeant
major, an entire KSK unit was disbanded.
I interviewed many members of these networks over the past year, Franco
A. included. But the story of his double life and evolution — from what
superiors saw as a promising officer to what prosecutors describe as a
would-be terrorist — is in many ways the tale of today’s two Germanys.
One was born of its defeat in World War II and reared by a liberal
consensus that for decades rejected nationalism and schooled its
citizens in contrition. That Germany is giving way to a more unsettled
nation as its wartime history recedes and a long-dormant far right
rousts itself in opposition to a diversifying society. Germany’s postwar
consensus teeters in the balance.
When I first met Franco A. more than a year ago at a restaurant in
Berlin, he came equipped with documents, some of them notes, others
extracts from the police file against him. He seemed confident then. A
Frankfurt court had thrown out his terrorism case for lack of evidence.
But several months later, the Supreme Court restored the case after
prosecutors appealed. Franco A. called me on my cellphone. He was
shaken. If convicted, he faces up to 10 years in prison.
Even as his trial was pending, he agreed to a series of exclusive
recorded interviews and invited me and two New York Times audio
producers to his childhood home, where he still lives, to discuss his
life, his views and aspects of his case. I went back several times over
the next year, most recently the week before Christmas.
Sometimes he’d show us videos of himself in refugee disguise. Once, he
led us down a creaky stairwell, through a safe-like metal door, into his
“prepper” cellar, where he had stashed ammunition and a copy of Hitler’s
Mein Kampf before they were confiscated by the police.
Franco A. denies any terrorist conspiracy. He says he had posed as a
refugee to blow the whistle on Chancellor Angela Merkel’s decision to
allow more than a million refugees to enter Germany, which he considered
a threat to national security and identity. The system was so
overwhelmed that anyone could come in, he said.
If anything, he insisted that he was upholding the Constitution, not
undermining it. He never planned to do anything violent — and he didn’t,
he said. “If I had wanted it, why wouldn’t I have done it?” he would
tell me later.
Prosecutors would not speak on the record, but their accusations are
outlined in the Supreme Court decision. They point to the loaded gun
Franco A. had hidden at the Vienna airport, to an assault rifle they say
he kept illegally and to a trip to the parking garage of a presumed target.
Then there are the numerous voice memos and diaries Franco A. kept over
many years that they have used as a road map for his prosecution. I have
read those transcripts in police reports and evidence files.
In them, he praises Hitler, questions Germany’s atonement for the
Holocaust, indulges in global Jewish conspiracies, argues that
immigration has destroyed Germany’s ethnic purity, hails President
Vladimir V. Putin of Russia as a role model and advocates destroying the
state.
Franco A., now 31, says these are private thoughts that cannot be
prosecuted. The most extreme views in his recordings are no doubt shared
by neo-Nazis and are popular in far-right circles. But his baseline
grievances over immigration and national identity have become
increasingly widespread in the Germany of today, as well as in much of
Europe and the United States.
In his generation, which came of age after 9/11, during the wars that
sprang from it and in an era of global economic crisis, the distrust of
government, far-right messaging and the embrace of conspiracy theories
not only entered pockets of the security services. They also entered the
mainstream.
“Far-right extremist messages have shifted increasingly into the middle
of society,” Thomas Haldenwang, the president of the domestic
intelligence agency, the Office for the Protection of the Constitution,
told me in an interview.
They can even be heard in the halls of Parliament, where the far-right
Alternative for Germany, or AfD, leads the opposition.
Mr. Haldenwang’s agency considers the AfD so dangerous that it may place
the entire party under observation as early as January — even as the
AfD, like Franco A., claims to be the Constitution’s true defender. Such
is the tug of war over Germany’s democracy.
Over the time I’ve interviewed Franco A., senior defense officials have
gone from humoring my queries about extremist networks to publicly
sounding the alarm. It was March 2019 when I first asked a defense
ministry official how many far-right extremists had been identified in
the military.
“Four,” he said.
Four?
Yes, four. “We don’t see any networks,” he said.
Until this year, the German authorities had turned a blind eye to the
problem. Franco A.’s superiors promoted him even after he detailed his
views in a master’s thesis. He became a member of extremist networks
containing dozens of soldiers and police officers. And he spoke publicly
at least once at a far-right event that was on the radar of the security
services.
But none of that tripped him up the way a janitor at the Vienna airport
would.
An Obscure Plot
It was the janitor who found the gun.
Black, compact and loaded with six bullets, it was hidden inside a
maintenance shaft in a disabled restroom in the Vienna airport.
The Austrian officers had never seen a gun like it: a 7.65-caliber
Unique 17 made by a now defunct French gun-maker some time from 1928 to
1944. It turned out to be a pistol of choice for German officers during
the Nazi occupation of France.
To find out who had hidden it, the police set an electronic trap. Two
weeks later, on Feb. 3, 2017, they got their man.
Within minutes of Franco A. trying to pry open the door to the wall
shaft using the flat end of a tube of hair gel, a dozen police officers
swarmed outside the restroom door, guns at the ready.
Two officers in civilian clothes walked in and asked him what he was doing.
“I said, ‘Yes, I hid a weapon here,” Franco A. recalled. He said he had
come to retrieve it and take it to the police.
“And I think someone started laughing,” he said.
The story he told the Austrian police that night as he was questioned
was so implausible that he hesitated to retell it when we met. But in
the end he did.
It was ball season in Vienna. He had been there two weeks earlier for
the annual Officer’s Ball, his story went. Barhopping with his
girlfriend and fellow soldiers, he had found the gun while relieving
himself in a bush. He put it into his coat pocket — only to remember it
in the security line at the airport. He hid it to avoid missing his
flight and then decided to return to hand it in to the police.
“I feel so ridiculous by telling this,” he told us. “I know no one
believes it.’’
Franco A. was released that night. But officers kept his phone and a USB
stick they had found in his backpack. They took his fingerprints and
sent them to the German police for verification.
The match that came back weeks later startled officers who thought they
were doing a routine check on Franco’s identity. He had two.
His ID had said that he was a German officer based with the
Franco-German brigade in Illkirch, near Strasbourg. But his fingerprints
belonged to a migrant registered near Munich.
Investigators were alarmed. Had Franco A. stashed the gun to commit an
attack later?
He was caught the night of the annual fraternity ball, hosted by
Austria’s far-right Freedom Party, which tended to attract militant
counter-demonstrators. One theory was that Franco A. had planned to
shoot someone that night while pretending to be a leftist.
Once the German authorities took over the investigation, they found two
documents on his USB stick: the “Mujahedeen Explosives Handbook” and
“Total Resistance,” a Cold War-era guide for urban guerrilla warfare.
His cellphone led them to a sprawling network of far-right Telegram chat
groups populated by dozens of soldiers, police officers and others
preparing for the collapse of the social order, what they called Day X.
It also contained hours of audio memos in which Franco A. had recorded
his thoughts over several years.
On April 26, 2017, in the middle of a military training exercise in a
Bavarian forest, Franco A. was arrested again. Ten federal police
officers escorted him away. Ninety others were conducting simultaneous
raids in Germany, Austria and France.
In a series of raids, the police found over 1,000 rounds of ammunition.
They also discovered scores of handwritten notes and a diary. When they
started reading, they began to discover a man who had harbored radical
thoughts from the time he was a teenager.
In our interviews with Franco A., he went back further in time,
recounting his childhood and a family history that grafts almost
perfectly onto Germany’s own.
Echoes of History
Franco A. was 12 or 13 when he bought his first German flag, he said. It
was a small tabletop banner he picked up in a souvenir shop during a
family holiday in Bavaria.
The purchase would be innocuous in any other country. In postwar
Germany, where national pride had long been a taboo because of the
nation’s Nazi past, it was a small act of rebellion.
“Germany has always been important to me,” Franco A. said as he showed
us photos of his childhood bedroom, the flag in the foreground.
He did not see many German flags growing up in his working-class
neighborhood, which was home to successive waves of guest workers from
southern Europe and Turkey who helped rebuild postwar Germany, and who
transformed its society as well.
Franco A.’s mother, a soft-spoken woman who lives upstairs from him,
recalled having only a handful of children with a migrant background in
her class as a student in the 1960s.
By the time Franco A. went to school, she said, children with two German
parents were in the minority.
Franco A.’s own father was an Italian guest worker who abandoned the
family when he was a toddler. He refers to him only as his “producer.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s my father,” he said.
In one of his audio memos, from January 2016, Franco A. would later
describe the guest worker program as a deliberate strategy to dilute
German ethnicity. He himself, he said, was “a product of this perverse
racial hatred.’’
He told me that his grandfather was born in 1919, the year of the
signing of the Treaty of Versailles, which sealed Germany’s defeat in
World War I.
The treaty gave rise to the “stab in the back” legend — that Germany had
won the war but was betrayed by a conspiracy of leftists and Jews in the
governing elite.
The propaganda helped fuel anti-democratic cells in the military that
hoarded arms, plotted coups and eventually supported the rise of Nazism
— much the same things prosecutors accuse Franco A. of today.
He said his grandparents often cared for him, serving him soup after
school and telling him stories about the war. His grandfather regaled
him about his adventures in the Hitler youth. The copy of Mein Kampf
that the police confiscated once belonged to him.
He said his grandmother was 20 when she and her sister fled the advance
of the Red Army in what is now Poland. She told the boy a story of how
their wooden cart had broken down, forcing them to rest in a field
outside Dresden.
That night, she said, the sisters watched the city burn in a devastating
shower of bombs that killed as many as 25,000 civilians and has since
become a symbolic grievance of the far right.
Years later, Franco A. would record himself enacting a fictional
conversation in which he raises the “bomb terror in Dresden” and asks
whether Jews had the right to expect Germans to feel guilty forever.
His teachers encouraged him to challenge authority and think for
himself. They came of age during the 1968 student movement and sought to
transmit the liberal values that sprang from it — a distrust of
nationalism and atonement for the war.
None of his teachers that I spoke to detected any early hints of
extremism but rather recalled loving his contrarian and inquisitive nature.
What they didn’t know was that around that time he had entered a
boundless world of online conspiracy theories that would influence him
for years to come. Those views began to take shape — in the privacy of
his teenage diary.
Franco A. described the entries as experimenting with ideas, not
evidence of a hardened ideology or any intention. They included musings
on the ways he could change the course of German history.
“One would be to become a soldier and gain an influential position in
the military so I can become the head of the German armed forces,” he
wrote in January 2007. “Then a military coup would follow.”
Unheeded Warnings
In 2008, just as Lehman Brothers imploded and the world descended into
the biggest financial crisis since the Great Depression, Franco A.
joined the army. He was 19.
In no time, he was selected as one of only a handful of German officer
cadets to attend the prestigious Saint-Cyr military academy in France,
founded in 1802 by Napoleon.
His five years abroad included semesters at Sciences Po in Paris and
King’s College London as well as at Sandhurst, one of the British Army’s
premier officer training schools, and a summer session at the University
of Cambridge.
In 2013, he wrote a master’s thesis, “Political Change and Strategy of
Subversion.”
Over 169 pages, Franco A. argued that the downfall of great
civilizations had always been immigration and the dilution of racial
purity brought about by subversive minorities. Europe and the West were
next in line if they did not defend themselves, he said.
Ethnically diverse societies were unstable, he wrote, and nations that
allow migration were committing a form of “genocide.”
His final section posits that the Old Testament was the foundation of
all subversion, a blueprint for Jews to gain global dominance. It might
be, he said, “the biggest conspiracy in the history of humanity.”
The French commander of the military academy was aghast. He immediately
flagged it to Franco A.’s German superiors.
“If this was a French participant on the course, we would remove him,”
the commander told them at the time, according to German news media reports.
The German military commissioned a historian, Jörg Echternkamp, to
assess the thesis. After just three days, he concluded that it was “a
radical nationalist, racist appeal.”
But it was also combined with “an insecurity due to globalization’’ that
made it socially more acceptable, he said — and therefore “dangerous.”
But Franco A. was not removed from service. Nor was he reported to
Germany’s military counterintelligence agency, whose remit is to monitor
extremism in the armed forces.
Instead, on Jan. 22, 2014, he was summoned to a branch office of the
German military in Fontainebleau, near Paris.
An officer from the military’s internal disciplinary unit told him that
his thesis was “not compatible” with Germany’s values, according to the
minutes.
Franco A. defended himself by saying that as the No. 2 student in his
year he had felt pressure to create something “outstanding” and had
gotten carried away.
“I isolated myself completely in this newly created world of thoughts
and no longer looked at it from the outside,” Franco A. told the
interviewer.
After three hours of questioning, the senior officer concluded that
Franco A. “had become a victim of his own intellectual abilities.”
He was reprimanded and asked to submit a new thesis.
When Franco A. returned to Germany later in 2014, it was as if nothing
had happened. His superior in Dresden described him as a model German
soldier — “a citizen in uniform.”
In November 2015, he received another glowing report, noting how he’d
been placed in charge of ammunition, a responsibility he fulfilled with
“much joy and energy.”
Prepping for Action?
Prominently displayed on Franco A.’s bookshelf is “The Magic Eye,” a
volume containing colorful images that, if stared at long enough, give
way to entirely different ones.
Franco A. is like that. Throughout our interviews, he cast himself as a
peace-loving critical thinker who had become a victim of a political
climate in which dissent was punished. But records and interviews with
investigators and other people familiar with his case portrayed a very
different person.
After he returned from France, Franco A. gravitated toward soldiers who
shared his views. As it turned out, they were not hard to find.
A fellow officer and friend introduced him to a countrywide online chat
network of dozens of soldiers and police officers concerned about
immigration.
The officer who had set up the network served in Germany’s elite special
forces, the KSK, based in Calw, and went by the name of Hannibal.
Hannibal also ran an organization called Uniter, which offered
paramilitary training. It has since been put under surveillance by the
domestic intelligence service.
Franco A. attended at least two Uniter meetings. Badges of the group
were found among his belongings. He was “known as intelligent” on the
KSK base, police interviews suggest. “Several soldiers knew him,” one
soldier said in a witness statement.
Franco A. attended meetings of Uniter, a private network that organizes
tactical defense training workshops.Credit...Laetitia Vancon for The New
York Times
Many of the chat members were “preppers” anticipating what they believed
would be the collapse of Germany’s social order.
Franco A. himself began stockpiling a “prepper” cellar with food rations
and other supplies. He also began obtaining guns and ammunition
illegally, prosecutors say.
Russia had recently invaded Ukraine. A febrile period of Islamist
terrorism had just begun in Europe.
In August, Ms. Merkel welcomed hundreds of thousands of mostly Muslim
asylum seekers from wars in Syria, Iraq and Afghanistan. The threat of
war or civil unrest within Germany felt real, Franco A. recalled.
At this point, prosecutors say, he began contemplating violence. The
fight of the state against terrorism was a “fight against us,” he said,
according to the indictment against him.
But the “gift of truth” would have to be “well-packaged.” To lead people
to it, a “trigger event” was necessary.
That was when he started his search for a number of possible triggers,
or targets, prosecutors say.
He denies this. But at the end of his Christmas break in 2015 — 10 days
before he would take up his first assignment in the Franco-German
brigade near Strasbourg — he donned his refugee disguise.
The Phony Refugee
As he sat waiting at the police station for his first interview as David
Benjamin, his refugee alter ego, Franco A. studied a world map on the
opposite wall. He was trying to decide whether Damascus or Aleppo would
make a more credible birthplace.
Over time, he would invent a sprawling family history. Fluent in French
after his military training in France, he told his interviewers that he
was a Syrian Christian of French descent.
He said he had attended a French high school and then worked as a fruit
farmer in Tel al-Hassel, a small village outside Aleppo.
“I tried to be prepared the best I could,” Franco A. recalled. “But in
the end, it was not necessary at all.”
He said his story was never questioned by the German authorities,
overwhelmed at the time. Two days after showing up at the police
station, he registered as an asylum seeker and was then bused to a
series of temporary group shelters.
Eventually he was assigned to a small residence in Baustarring, a
Bavarian hamlet 250 miles west of his army base.
The farm in Baustarring where Franco A. spent time when he disguised
himself as an asylum seeker.Credit...Laetitia Vancon for The New York Times
Franco A. filmed several videos of his shelters on his cellphone camera.
He was clearly unconvinced of how needy the asylum seekers were. Many of
the Syrians, in particular, had fled formerly middle-class lives in
cities destroyed by fighting. They looked “more like tourists” than
refugees, he said.
“I decided to take a bad telephone, because I didn’t want to stand out
with a good telephone,” he said. “In the end, I had the worst.”
The system was overly generous and conspicuously forgiving, he said.
Even as he turned down job offers, he continued to receive his monthly
stipend. He showed up at the shelter perhaps once a month, and missed
two dates in a row.
In Franco A.’s view, Ms. Merkel’s government had helped create its own
humanitarian crisis by joining wars in the Middle East. It was like a
case study from his disgraced master’s thesis materializing before his eyes.
“Millions of people came from a destabilized region that in my eyes
could have been kept stable,” he said.
The Moroccan interpreter in his asylum hearing later testified that she
had doubts he spoke Arabic. But because of his Jewish-sounding name she
did not dare speak up. As a Muslim, she worried about sounding anti-Semitic.
Franco A. was ultimately granted “subsidiary protection,” a status that
allows asylum seekers with no identity papers to stay and work in Germany.
Parallel to his refugee life, his reputation in far-right circles grew.
Franco A. said he attended debating events in bars. After one such
event, he was invited to speak.
On Dec. 15, 2016, he said, he spoke at the “Prussian Evening,” an event
organized at Hotel Regent in Munich by a publisher run by a Holocaust
denier. His topic that night: “German conservatives — diaspora in their
own country.”
Throughout that year, his voice memos sounded increasingly urgent. Those
who dared to voice dissent had always been murdered, he said in one from
January 2016, three weeks after registering as a refugee. “Let’s not
hesitate, not to murder but to kill,” he said.
“I know you will murder me,” he added. “I will murder you first.”
A Possible Target
Franco A. had been living his double life for almost seven months when,
in the summer of 2016, he traveled to Berlin, prosecutors say.
On a side street near the Jewish quarter, he went to take four photos of
car license plates in a private underground parking garage, they say.
Investigators later retrieved the images from his cellphone.
The building housed the offices of the Amadeu Antonio Foundation, an
organization founded and run by Anetta Kahane, a prominent Jewish
activist. The daughter of Holocaust survivors, she has been the target
of far-right hatred for decades.
Judging from notes they confiscated, prosecutors believe that Ms.
Kahane, now 66, was one of several prominent targets Franco A. had
identified for their pro-refugee positions.
Others included Foreign Minister Heiko Maas, who was justice minister at
the time, and Claudia Roth, a Green lawmaker who was then Parliament’s
vice president.
Ms. Kahane’s name appears at least twice in the notes, once at the end
of a bullet-pointed list of seemingly mundane items such as “fridge” and
a reminder to call the bank where his refugee alter ego had an account.
Franco A. showed them to me. He said it was an ordinary to-do list.
On one page, he noted Ms. Kahane’s background, age and work address. He
also drew a detailed map of the location of her parking garage. On the
same piece of paper, he wrote: “We are at a point where we cannot yet
act like we want to.”
Before the trip to Berlin and in the days after, prosecutors say, Franco
bought a mounting rail for a telescopic sight and parts for a handgun,
and was seen at a shooting range trying out the accessories with an
assault rifle.
He also traveled to Paris, where he met the head of a pro-Putin Russian
think tank with links to France’s far right and is believed to have
bought the French handgun that was later found in Vienna.
In all, prosecutors say there is “probable cause” that Franco A. was
preparing a killing.
Franco A. disputes virtually every part of the accusations. None of what
the prosecutors say amounts to an intention to harm Ms. Kahane, he said.
“There are pictures on my phone, but then this doesn’t prove I was
there,” he said during a tense six-hour interview one night.
“I can’t talk about this at all,” he said, citing his upcoming trial.
But then he did anyway, in “hypothetical terms.”
If he had gone, it would have been to have a conversation, Franco A.
said. He would have rung the bell but found that Ms. Kahane was not
there. Then he might have gone to the parking garage, thinking, “OK,
maybe you can find out something out about the car.”
“And then you could maybe find, through whatever lucky circumstance,
find this person,” he said.
Even if he had planned to kill Ms. Kahane — which he asserted was
“definitely” not true — and even if he had visited the garage, “at worst
it would be the preparation of an assassination” and not terrorism, he
argued.
How does this endanger the state? he asked. “This person’s not even a
politician.”
I visited Ms. Kahane to ask what she thought. The day we met, another
neo-Nazi threat had just landed in her email box. She gets them all the
time.
“We will cut a swastika into your face with a very sharp ax,” the
message read. “Then we will cut your spine and leave you to die in a
side street.”
But scarier almost than the threats, she said, was the naïveté of the
German authorities.
She recalled the day the police came to tell her they had caught a
neo-Nazi soldier and a couple of others who planned to kill her. They
were referring to Franco A. and two of his associates.
She had laughed and said, “So you got them all, all three of them?”
“They always think it’s just one or two or three Nazis,” she said.
Whose Constitution?
There is a provision in the German Constitution, Article 20.4, that
allows for resistance. Conceived with Hitler’s 1933 enabling act in
mind, in which he abolished democracy after being elected, it empowers
citizens to take action when democracy is at risk.
It is popular among far-right extremists who denounce Ms. Merkel’s
administration as anti-constitutional. That Constitution has pride of
place in Franco A’s library. He quotes from it often.
The week before Christmas, I went to see him one more time.
He was upset that I had transcripts of his voice memos. I challenged him
on some of the things he had said — for example, that Hitler was “above
everything.”
How could he explain that?
He had meant it in an ironic way, he said, and played that section of
the recording for me. The tone is casual and banter-like, two voices
chuckle.
But it is not obvious that it is all a joke.
I asked him about another recording, from January 2016.
Anyone who contributes to destroying the state was doing something good,
Franco A. had said. Laws were null and void.
How could he say that and say he defends the Constitution, too?
There was a long silence. Franco A. looked at his own transcript. He
leafed through his lawyer’s notes. But he did not have an answer.
Lynsea Garrison, Clare Toeniskoetter, Kaitlin Roberts and Christopher F.
Schuetze contributed reporting.
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