Fascists and Fellow Travelers

Perón, a Budding Fascist

IN

1939, Juan Domingo Perón was an ambitious young Argentine army colonel, recently bereft of his first wife, dispatched to Italy on military training. It gave Perón the chance to see his idol, Fascist dictator Benito Mussolini, up close.

In those years, Mussolini gave booming speeches from the balcony overlooking Piazza Venezia, and Perón stood among the rapt masses. “The day Benito Mussolini declared war on the plutocratic and reactionary democracies of the West, I was there in the crowd, listening intently,” he later recalled.

Perón even secured a personal meeting with Il Duce. “Seeing him in person, immaculate and courteous in his military uniform, he had all the bearing of a Roman demigod,” he wrote in his memoirs. “I told him so and admitted I was both moved and overwhelmed — though I left out the part about my knees trembling.”

This was the Perón who returned to Argentina: a soldier with grand political ambitions. He hoped to build a system that mirrored Italian fascism while catering to Argentina’s unique needs.

Perón was intrigued at how Fascism mobilized popular organizations to participate in national life. “Until Mussolini came to power,” Perón would later say, “the nation was on one side and the worker on the other, excluded from participation. I studied the resurgence of the corporations in depth and was fascinated.”

In 1943, with World War II raging, Colonel Perón participated in the coup that ousted President Ramón Castillo. He rapidly consolidated power by forging alliances with Argentina’s labor unions. By 1944, Perón was vice president and minister of war, a position from which he reshaped the country’s political landscape.

On March 27, 1945, Argentina declared war on a nearly defeated Germany. To many, this seemed baffling — Perón and much of the military hierarchy were avowed admirers of fascism and had nurtured cordial relations with the Nazis. How could Argentina suddenly turn against Germany?

It would be years before Perón himself explained the maneuver. In 1967, he remarked: “Although it may seem contradictory, Germany benefits from our declaration of war. By becoming a belligerent nation, Argentina gains the right to enter Germany when the war ends. That means our ships and planes will be able to render great service. That is how so many people were able to come to Argentina.”

Toward the end of his life, exiled in Spain and awaiting his return to Argentina in 1973 — where he would once again become president, only to die a few months later — Juan Domingo Perón recorded tapes that were intended to form the basis of his memoirs.

On them, he elaborated on his sympathy for Germany: “At Nuremberg, something was taking place that, in my personal view, was an outrage and a disastrous lesson for humanity’s future. And it wasn’t just me — every Argentine felt the same. I became certain that the Argentine people also saw the Nuremberg trials as an infamy, unworthy of the victors, who were behaving as though they hadn’t won at all. Now, we are realizing that they deserved to lose the war.”

This statement captures the reality that Perón idolized Nazi war criminals and was determined to provide them sanctuary. Like the United States, Argentina sought to exploit the expertise of Nazi scientists and military strategists. But unlike the Americans, who saw this as a pragmatic decision, Perón genuinely admired the criminals he sheltered.

The majority of the Nazi fugitives would arrive in Argentina after 1946 — the year Perón was democratically elected president. With Perón firmly in power, Argentina became a safe haven for Nazis fleeing justice.

Yet one question remains: Why Argentina?

Franco Plays Hard to Get

It’s a peculiar image — Adolf Hitler, who reveled in the grandeur of Berlin, standing at the remote Hendaye train station on the French-Spanish border in 1940. The Führer had come in person, believing only a direct appeal would sway Francisco Franco to join the Axis. Franco, Spain’s cunning dictator, understood the stakes. Officially aligning Spain with the Axis would threaten his fragile regime, victorious in its civil war but badly wounded. Yet refusing outright would snub the very powers that had propped him up.

Franco’s response was a masterclass in political gamesmanship. He pledged support to Hitler but set impossible conditions: German backing for Spanish control over Gibraltar, parts of Morocco and Algeria, and sections of Cameroon, along with vast quantities of food, fuel, and arms. The terms were a diplomatic labyrinth designed to be unacceptable.

Hitler, frustrated and incredulous, would later tell Mussolini, “I would rather have three or four of my own teeth pulled out than talk to that man again!”

While Hitler and Mussolini cast long shadows, Francisco Franco, self-styled El Generalísimo, ruled Spain with an iron grip from 1936 until his death in 1975. Though he officially remained neutral during World War II, his sympathies were no secret. Fascism had paved Franco’s path to power — Hitler’s Condor Legion had bombed Guernica to rubble, and Mussolini had sent boots on the ground. Franco’s regime mirrored those of his Axis benefactors, but the Spanish dictator’s survival instincts kept him from fully committing.

From 1944 to 1946, Spain seemed briefly poised to become a refuge for fleeing Nazis. The regime’s fascist sympathies made it a natural sanctuary. High-ranking officials and war criminals passed through, hoping Spain would shield them. But by 1946, Franco sensed that if he wished to remain in power, he would need the goodwill of the United States. The dictator began distancing himself from the Nazis, making Spain less hospitable for Nazis on the lam.

The fugitives needed a new sanctuary, and Juan Domingo Perón was building one across the Atlantic. Franco had kept his regime afloat through cunning diplomacy, but the cost was a gradual estrangement from his wartime allies. Meanwhile, Perón’s Argentina became the only possible haven.

Vatican Connections

The willingness of fascist-leaning South American governments to harbor Nazi criminals was a necessary but insufficient condition for their escape. After all, Western powers were determined to hunt down collaborators and bring them to justice, particularly in countries newly liberated from Nazi control. Local courts were eager to pander to the Allies by prosecuting the losers.

Much ink has been spilled over Pope Pius XII and his role in the Holocaust — a vast and contentious subject beyond the scope of this article. What remains undeniable, however, is the Church’s involvement in facilitating the escape of Nazi war criminals to South America. The man who bridged the gap was a priest named Antonio Caggiano.

In 1946, Caggiano was the bishop of Rosario, Argentina’s third-largest city, when Pope Pius XII appointed a cardinal in Rome. Yet as the Argentine journalist Uki Goñi meticulously documents in his essential book The Real Odessa, the Church’s true objective was to secure Argentina’s cooperation in providing documents to war refugees. And while the list of recipients certainly included genuine refugees, it also featured Nazi war criminals.

Starting in mid-1946, Argentina’s embassy in Rome began receiving visa applications from suspected war criminals. The task of stamping these permits fell to consul Emilio Bertolotto. He routinely checked in with Caggiano, and when given the green light, he rarely hesitated.

But Caggiano was not the only cleric who helped Nazis reach Argentina. Austrian bishop Alois Hudal, an outspoken Nazi sympathizer, was another critical cog in the machine, providing diplomatic cover to fleeing war criminals. According to the Italian historian Matteo Sanfilippo, Hudal even asked Perón for 5,000 visas — 3,000 for “German soldiers” and the remaining 2,000 for “Austrian soldiers.”

A third Church figure who played a role in the ratlines was Croatian priest Krunoslav Draganović. He was instrumental in securing safe passage to Argentina for Ante Pavelić, the dictator of the Nazi puppet state in Croatia.

Besides Cardinal Caggiano, the Argentine government established a team to dedicated to bringing over Nazis. Some claim US intelligence referred to this organization as ODESSA — an acronym for Organisation der ehemaligen SS-Angehörigen or “Organization of Former SS Members.”

Facilitators and Other Fiends

Horst Carlos Fuldner

IN December 1947, a peculiar gathering unfolded in the Casa Rosada, Argentina’s presidential palace. General Juan Domingo Perón told attendees that Europe was hunting down Nazi “military officers,” and Argentina had a “duty” to provide them shelter. To Perón, the expertise of German scientists and military technicians was a prize worth any controversy — a ticket to modernity and power. And if they happened to be Nazis, all the better; after all, ideologies aligned.

Among those present was a young man whose past was as murky as the arrangement itself: Horst Carlos Fuldner. Born in Argentina to German parents, Fuldner had served in the SS before being expelled — a curious detail, given that he remained well-connected with Nazi hierarchs.

Perón, pragmatic to a fault, saw in him the perfect candidate to oversee a clandestine migration scheme. Fuldner would secure safe passage for war criminals, navigating bureaucracy with the finesse of a diplomat, forging travel documents, and even setting up fictitious travel agencies to mask the true nature of their voyages. Official channels were bypassed; discretion was paramount.

It mattered little that Fuldner’s personal finances had been rocky — Perón was interested in results, not moral character. And Fuldner delivered. Allegedly, he was instrumental in smuggling cash and art from Germany, assets that would bankroll the fugitives’ escapes. In this underworld of forged papers and whispered promises, he flourished. The Nazi pipeline to Argentina would become his lasting legacy — a shadow cast over the nation’s postwar ambitions.

Charles Lescat

In February 1941, the extreme-right newspaper Je Suis Partout (“I am everywhere”) reappeared in German-occupied Paris after a two-year ban. In that issue, Charles Lescat, the Franco-Argentine director and shareholder, penned an incendiary editorial titled “When Israel Takes Vengeance.” The piece railed against Zionist forces, which Lescat claimed had orchestrated his arrest in 1940. For Lescat, a fervent anti-Semite, the Nazis had returned his freedom and control of his publication. Gratitude demanded loyalty, and Lescat was more than willing to oblige.

An Argentine who spent most of his life in France, Lescat became an ardent supporter of the Nazi occupation of Paris. By 1944, exiled in Spain, he was already plotting escape routes for war criminals, establishing the infamous ratlines that would soon funnel collaborators to South America. After the war, France condemned him to death in absentia for his collaborationist fervor, but Lescat had already slipped away. Argentina, under Juan Domingo Perón, became his sanctuary — another chapter in a dark story of complicity and escape.

Pierre Daye

In the tumultuous aftermath of World War II, Belgium was determined to bring its own Nazi collaborators to justice. Among the most notorious was Pierre Daye, a journalist and political propagandist whose prose had extolled the cause of Adolf Hitler.

Daye’s career as a writer had always carried the sheen of a frustrated intellectual seeking recognition. The strident columns he penned for Nouveau Journal and Je Suis Partout cemented his infamy. His words, dripping with contempt for democracy and adulation for authoritarianism, proved to be the ink of betrayal.

But when the war ended, Pierre Daye was nowhere to be found. Frustrated Belgian authorities issued a death sentence in absentia on December 12, 1946, branding him a Nazi collaborator and traitor. The search continued, a hunt for a man whose pen had been as dangerous as any weapon. It was then that a whisper emerged — Daye was not dead, nor even in hiding. He had fled to Spain, and from there, he was making his way to Argentina.

On May 21, 1947, Daye landed in Buenos Aires, fresh from Madrid. Belgium promptly dispatched an arrest warrant, urging Argentina to extradite the condemned man. The request was direct: “Argentina must make Pierre Daye available to Belgian authorities.” The address provided was precise, and European officials were hopeful that justice would soon be served.

But the wheels of Argentine bureaucracy turned slowly, and two more urgent requests went unanswered. When the third request was met with silence, it was clear: Daye’s newfound sanctuary was more than luck. It was state-sponsored protection. He was untouchable under the Perón regime.

Daye himself would later marvel at his improbable escape. In his unpublished memoirs, he mused, “What would they have thought if they knew that while they sought my arrest, I was on the brink of being received by General Perón?” It was no idle boast. Daye quickly ingratiated himself into Perón’s orbit, an admiring acolyte of the Argentine strongman.

Back in Europe, Daye had been instrumental in establishing networks that smuggled collaborators and war criminals to South America. His expertise in propaganda, political maneuvering, and clandestine operations made him a valuable asset to Perón, who welcomed fugitive Nazis and fascists as a means of bolstering Argentina’s military and scientific expertise.

Though Daye’s condemnation in Belgium remained a death sentence, Argentina’s hospitality made it a mere piece of paper. He was one of many who escaped justice, protected by a regime eager to harness the skills of Europe’s most wanted men.

Rodolfo Freude

IN

Argentina’s General Archive, there are countless photographs of Juan Domingo Perón and his wife Eva, striding confidently through crowds. Yet in many of these images, a third figure lingers in the background — a man with a sharp, enigmatic gaze, always a few paces behind. The photographs capture neither the distrust Evita reportedly harbored toward him, nor the deep trust that Perón himself seemed to place in him.

That man was Rodolfo Freude — son of a wealthy German family whose fortune was rumored to be tied to Nazi assets. Perón’s faith in him was absolute. Freude wasn’t just the president’s private secretary but also the director of Argentina’s powerful Division of Information, a post that made him a gatekeeper of secrets, a broker of influence, and the country’s de facto spymaster. His control over the nation’s intelligence apparatus and his whispered connections to exiled Nazis made him one of the most influential figures in Argentina’s murky postwar landscape.

It was said that the Freude family, along with other affluent Germans, had bankrolled Perón’s rise to power in 1946. Whispers of Nazi gold funneled into Argentina — anecdotal but persistent — clung to the Freude name. Rodolfo himself was suspected of facilitating the infamous ratlines, the clandestine escape routes that helped Nazi fugitives slip away from Europe to South America. In Buenos Aires, these men found refuge, and in some cases, new lives. And behind the scenes, it was Rodolfo Freude who ensured the doors remained open.

The rumors, however, never quite solidified into accusations. In the Argentina of Juan Domingo Perón, the lines between sanctuary and complicity were often blurred. Rodolfo Freude was an operator in this twilight world — a man who wielded power without fame and influence without accountability. To the public, he was a shadow; to Perón, an indispensable ally. And for the Nazis seeking new lives in Argentina, he was a savior in a dark suit.

Rats & Ratlines

The Gas Chamber Pioneer

IN

1943, Dr. Gerhard Bohne’s patience had reached its breaking point. Though deeply committed to the mass extermination plan he was orchestrating, the physician was deeply frustrated by the corruption and theft rampant among SS men involved in the Reich Working Group for Sanatoriums and Nursing Homes (RAG), the organization he directed.

Bohne decided to report these transgressions to his superiors, a decision that was met with more than just displeasure. The Nazi leadership was irked by two things: first, that Bohne had failed to keep secrets; and second — and far worse — that he dared question German efficiency, a trait the criminals prided themselves on. Calls for Bohne’s removal soon reached Hitler, who not only ordered his dismissal from the RAG but also expelled him from the SS.

The decision left Bohne deeply unsettled — he even feared for his life — but it would later prove to be his salvation. Excluded from the highest echelons of the Reich, Bohne was not considered a high-profile target by the Allies. That would be his ticket to escape.

Few have heard of Dr. Gerhard Bohne. The director of the RAG played a pivotal role in the program known as “Aktion T4” — the extermination of anyone the Reich deemed “disabled.” The sinister Bohne, overseeing all medical facilities, decided which patients were “disposable.” According to official figures, at least 62,273 people were killed in what is now regarded as a dress rehearsal for the Final Solution. In these facilities, patients were taken to the showers “for examination” and murdered in gas chambers.

Bohne’s failure to be sufficiently discreet in complaining about corruption led to him being sent to the front and later captured by American forces, who, unaware of his crimes against humanity, released him.

At the war’s end, Bohne realized it was only a matter of time before his atrocities were uncovered. Carlos Fuldner — a member of the Argentine ratlines — was then roaming Europe in search of war criminals “worth rescuing.” It was Fuldner who helped Bohne slip away.

Fuldner transported Bohne from Germany to Italy, but securing the necessary papers took longer than anticipated — Argentina was then prioritizing individuals with military expertise. On January 7, 1949, the Argentine consulate in Genoa finally issued his “landing permit.”

Bohne lived peacefully in Argentina until 1955, when Perón was overthrown. Bereft of the president’s protection, Bohne returned to his homeland, believing his deeds had faded from memory. He was mistaken. Bohne had been indicted in Frankfurt for his roles in the Aktion T4 program.

Yet he managed to post bail and quickly got out of Germany. He again set sail for Argentina, this time under the name “Alfred Rudiger Kart.”

But Bohne failed to grasp the changed landscape. Argentina had become an international embarrassment — first in 1959, when it refused to extradite Josef Mengele, and then again after the Mossad’s capture of Adolf Eichmann. The Argentine government, eager to demonstrate energetic opposition to Nazism, made Bohne its first concrete example. In 1964, Argentine officials arrested him.

Bohne’s lawyers did everything in their power to avoid extradition, even accusing Argentina’s Supreme Court of “collaborating with the Zionist interests of Israel.” Their efforts were in vain, and in 1966, Bohne was deported to Germany.

By then, Bohne was a shell of a man. The German judiciary deemed him “unfit” to stand trial. Half-blind, suffering from prostate cancer and heart complications, he would die a few years later.

The Butcher of Przemysl

ON

Yom Kippur, September 21, 1942, Jews in the Rozwadow forced-labor camp went to great lengths to honor the sanctity of the day. The Nazis were aware of this. This was made clear by camp commandant Josef Schwammberger. Acting on a murderous whim, he began searching for a rabbi. Judge Herbert Luippold, when delivering Schwammberger’s sentence, called the crime one of his “most despicable and reprehensible.”

Born in Brixen in 1912, Schwammberger joined the Austrian Legion of the SS in 1933. He was notorious for his particularly visceral hatred of Jews. In 1942, Schwammberger was assigned to the Rozwadow camp. The following year, he was transferred to a forced labor camp within the Jewish ghetto of Przemysl. There, he would commit numerous massacres.

Survivors remember him as a sadistic killer who ordered the deaths of hundreds simply for his own satisfaction. He was personally responsible for the massacre of 500 Jews on September 2, 1943. Before leaving the camp, he arranged for the last trainload of Jews from Przemysl to be sent to Auschwitz, allowing him to boast, “I am the man who cleansed this city of Jews.”

In 1944, Schwammberger arrived in Mielec. As the war neared its end and the Red Army closed in — less than 200 kilometers away — Schwammberger decided he needed to expedite his task. Only a handful of Jews from the thousands in the area would survive to recount the atrocities committed by this Nazi, who prided himself on burning Jews alive or smashing children’s skulls, reasoning that they were not worth a bullet.

When the war ended, Schwammberger fled to Innsbruck, where he was caught — along with eight suitcases filled with gold, jewelry, and money stolen from his Jewish victims — and sent to a camp for suspected war criminals in France.

Schwammberger knew the investigations would not end well for him. Poland had already issued an extradition request. But luck was on his side. Carlos Fuldner, the Argentine agent responsible for “rescuing” Nazis, had already made contact.

How Schwammberger was able to escape from France remains unclear, but Fuldner’s connections undoubtedly played a role. From France, Schwammberger made his way to Italy, where Fuldner secured a “landing permit” for him from the Directorate of Migrations in Buenos Aires. On February 28, 1948, Schwammberger set sail for Argentina.

Once in South America, feeling secure, Schwammberger did not even bother to change his name. He simply declared his profession as “mechanic,” common among SS criminals — Josef Mengele did the same.

Schwammberger lived comfortably in Argentina. In 1954, he even obtained a passport from the West German embassy in Buenos Aires and later acquired Argentine citizenship.

However, the Nazi hunters at the Simon Wiesenthal Center continued to track him. Years later, they confirmed Schwammberger was alive and in South America. International pressure prompted the German government to offer a $300,000 reward for his capture. Despite this, he remained elusive.

Finally, in 1990, when many had long given up hope, Schwammberger was arrested and extradited to Germany.

In 1992, in a highly publicized Stuttgart trial, Schwammberger was convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment for crimes against humanity.

Perhaps too late, this criminal would die behind bars in a Mannheim prison in 2004, at the age of 92.

Don Erico

T

he Deutsche Schule in Bariloche, a city in Argentina’s southern Río Negro province, boasts an impressive building of over 5,000 square meters. The school’s website proudly describes it as an “educational model,” but notably omits the name of the man who ran it for many years — a businessman, honorary citizen, and president of the German-Argentine Cultural Association of Bariloche, known to all simply as “Don Erico.”

The Deutsche Schule catered to the needs of the city’s growing German community, dating from the mid-19th century. But the community saw a significant influx in the mid-20th century, and Don Erico was among the new arrivals. Their customs were peculiar; most striking was the celebration of April 20 as a “festive day.”

It all becomes clear when you know Don Erico’s true identity: former SS officer Erich Priebke.

Erich Priebke joined the SS in 1936 at 23, after working in various European hotels. His hospitality background would later prove useful: he spoke several languages, a valuable asset for the Reich’s expansionist ambitions. Priebke was assigned to liaise with foreign police forces. His fluency in Italian earned him a place in the personal guard of Benito Mussolini during his 1937 visit to Germany and made him Hitler’s translator on his 1938 trip to Italy.

In 1940, Priebke was dispatched to Rome as part of the German diplomatic corps. In reality, he was responsible for communications with fascist operatives and between Berlin and the Vatican. In 1943, after Mussolini’s fall from power, Hitler ordered Nazi forces to occupy Rome. Priebke was part of the occupation command and was soon promoted to SS captain. Under his command, around 7,500 Italian Jews were deported to various camps — only about 600 survived. But what earned Priebke the most notoriety was the massacre in the Ardeatine Caves.

In 1944, the Gestapo was abducting and torturing anyone suspected of opposing the regime. The resistance, primarily Communist partisans, carefully observed German movements, planning an attack. On March 23 of that year, as a company of Nazi soldiers paraded through the streets of Rome, Communist fighters detonated a bomb, killing 33.

Years later, Priebke would recount how the attack wounded Hitler’s pride. The Führer ordered: “For every German soldier, ten Italians must die — within 24 hours!”

The quota was filled with whomever could be found: suspects, prisoners, even 73 Jews awaiting deportation. On March 24, 100 soldiers escorted 335 prisoners to the Ardeatine Caves, an old quarry outside Rome. Priebke read the names from a list in groups of five, while a squad dragged the condemned into the cave’s depths, where they were bound and shot. The horrors were revealed only after Rome’s liberation on June 4, 1944.

Priebke fled to Verona. In May 1945, British forces captured him and held him at the Rimini prisoner-of-war camp in Italy. Strangely, Priebke escaped trial for the Ardeatine massacre. One night, taking advantage of drunk guards, he slipped away. He later recounted how a Franciscan friar offered sanctuary.

“He told me he could help,” Priebke said. “He explained that Germany was no longer an option, but he could arrange my passage to Argentina.”

Argentina’s Directorate of Migrations, under orders from Carlos Fuldner, provided Priebke with a “landing permit” under the alias “Otto Pape.” The Pontificia Commissione di Assistenza in Rome handled his documents, and on the same day, he received a Red Cross passport. Alois Hudal, the infamous bishop who facilitated Nazi escapes to South America, played a crucial role.

In late 1948, “Pape” arrived in Buenos Aires and found work in the hospitality industry. In 1949, President Perón declared a “general amnesty” for foreign nationals, granting them the opportunity to obtain Argentine documentation. The process was ludicrously lax — almost any foreigner could acquire legal papers. Priebke was one of many criminals who benefited, reclaiming his real name that same year.

In 1954, Priebke moved with his family to Bariloche, a haven for Nazis who shunned the spotlight. “Don Erico,” as he was known, blended in seamlessly. He opened a successful deli called “Viena,” became director of the German-Argentine Cultural Association, and headed the local German school. Priebke was seen as a model citizen — until he was found out.

The American news program Primetime Live on ABC was hunting for another Nazi criminal hiding in Argentina. Living under the alias “Juan Maler,” Reinhard Kops had been an SS officer who helped Bishop Hudal smuggle Nazis to South America.

ABC’s Sam Donaldson confronted Kops in Bariloche. Panicked, Kops blurted out: “You don’t want me. I can give you Erich Priebke, a true war criminal.”

Priebke was unfazed when Donaldson cornered him, saying, “At the time, an order was an order, young man. You understand?”

The footage triggered a global outcry. In November 1995, Priebke was extradited to Rome, indicted for the Ardeatine Caves massacre. Convicted in 1998, he was sentenced to life imprisonment, but due to his age, he served under house arrest. He died in 2013 at the age of 100, in his home in Rome.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1057)