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COMMENT: We not­ed the alleged dis­cov­ery of a Nazi trea­sure train in Poland, that some have spec­u­lat­ed may con­tain the fabled Amber Room. The alleged train was detect­ed in a mas­sive series of tun­nels in Low­er Sile­sia, now part of Poland and part of Ger­many dur­ing World War II.

Many observers feel that World War II loot of con­sid­er­able val­ue is stashed in the tun­nels.

A recent New York­er sto­ry dis­cuss­es:

• The pres­ence of vast amounts of wealth, accord­ing to many long-time searchers and res­i­dents of the area.
• The pos­si­bil­i­ty that pro­to­types of disc-shaped Nazi fly­ing machines may be stored in part of the com­plex. For more on the sub­ject of so-called UFO’s, see FTR #‘s 66, 67, 68, 167, 178, 588, 639, 873, 874,  as well as L‑1 and L‑2.
  
• The pres­ence of “guards” main­tain­ing secu­ri­ty for the tun­nels, viewed as suc­ces­sors to SS/ODESSA per­son­nel charged with pro­tect­ing the valu­ables for future use by what we call “the Under­ground Reich.”
• Might the “guards” be “mind­ing the store” until the Bor­mann cap­i­tal net­work can gain access to the wealth and use it?

“The Nazi Under­ground” by Jake Halpern; The New York­er; 5/09/2016.

. . . . When I vis­it­ed Wałbrzych, this win­ter, I spoke with Tomasz Jurek, the pres­i­dent of the Low­er Sile­sian Research Group. Jurek, who is fifty-nine, is slight, with a reced­ing hair­line, a broad fore­head, and a bushy mus­tache. When we met in the lob­by of my hotel, he glanced around ner­vous­ly and eyed my tape recorder. He told me that there were shad­owy oper­a­tors who were inter­est­ed in the same trea­sures. I asked him for more details. “There is some log­i­cal expla­na­tion, but it’s for you to fig­ure it out,” he said. “I can­not offi­cial­ly say.” . . . .

. . . . Jurek’s biggest con­cern, and Boczek’s, was being fol­lowed. Both wor­ried that they were being watched by a gang of clan­des­tine agents known as “the guards.” Oth­er trea­sure hunters voiced sim­i­lar con­cerns. Piotr Kop­er, the man who claimed to have found the train at the 65th Kilo­me­tre, said that he feared for the safe­ty of his fam­i­ly.

There is an exten­sive mythol­o­gy around the guards. By most accounts, they are a glob­al net­work of for­mer Nazis, sim­i­lar to the leg­endary ODESSA unit. ODESSA was alleged­ly found­ed at the end of the war in order to help for­mer S.S. mem­bers avoid cap­ture and escape to coun­tries like Argenti­na and Brazil. His­to­ri­ans doubt whether ODESSA units ever exist­ed. Boczek con­ced­ed that most of the orig­i­nal guards were like­ly dead, but he sus­pects that their secrets have been passed along to sub­se­quent gen­er­a­tions, who have been charged with watch­ing over the old home­land and its buried trea­sures.

Boczek and Jurek told me that they had been spy­ing on a par­tic­u­lar man, a sus­pect­ed guard, who walked the same route through the woods every day at the same time. “I find it very inter­est­ing, espe­cial­ly because this guy is not a Slav,” Boczek said. “He looks more like a typ­i­cal Ger­man or Aus­tri­an. I have pic­tures of him on my com­put­er at home. We have checked his back­ground and this guy is . . .” Boczek stopped and shook his head. “I can­not tell you more.” . . . .

. . . . But dur­ing my vis­it with Andrzej Boczek, at his cot­tage club­house, he scoffed at the notion that there was a trea­sure-laden train buried at the 65th Kilo­me­tre. “It was made up to get atten­tion from world media,” he said. This “train tale” was sim­ply a ruse devised by trea­sure hunters to dis­tract from “what is real­ly hid­den under­neath.” I asked him to elab­o­rate. What was the real trea­sure, if not Klose’s gold? Boczek reached into his coat pock­et and pulled out a creased piece of paper. He unfold­ed it and waved it in the air briefly, allow­ing me a fleet­ing glimpse. The image on the paper was unmis­tak­able: it was a fly­ing saucer.

I wasn’t entire­ly sur­prised to see it. Tomasz Jurek had also men­tioned to me that he was look­ing for a space­ship that the Nazis had alleged­ly built and hid­den under­ground in Low­er Sile­sia. Igor Witkows­ki, a Pol­ish jour­nal­ist and author, has writ­ten a book about Nazi “won­der weapons” and notes that “round­ed, exper­i­men­tal fly­ing vehi­cles” were seen at Książ Cas­tle dur­ing the war. . . .

. . . . . Jerzy Cera, a Pol­ish author, doc­u­ments a sim­i­lar sto­ry in his 1974 book, “The Mys­ter­ies of the Wal­im Under­grounds.” He quotes a let­ter, writ­ten toward the end of the war, from a Pol­ish par­ti­san who was liv­ing near Wal­im. In the let­ter, the par­ti­san recounts meet­ing a local for­est war­den who described a con­voy of trucks that drove into a tun­nel near Wal­im and nev­er came out. After­ward, Ger­man sol­diers blew up the entrance­way and cam­ou­flaged it with soil and veg­e­ta­tion. The par­ti­san made plans to vis­it the site with the war­den, but before this could hap­pen the war­den was mur­dered. . . . .

. . . . I met one min­er, in his six­ties, who con­fid­ed that a wealthy patron, who hap­pened to be a trea­sure hunter, had recent­ly hired him to exca­vate an old tun­nel, which, he was told, was like­ly part of Riese. The min­er, whose name was Janek, was reluc­tant to say any­thing fur­ther or even to give his last name. He sus­pect­ed that his patron was oper­at­ing ille­gal­ly, because he didn’t intend to report what he found to the author­i­ties, as Pol­ish law requires. I pressed for details, but he wouldn’t say much more. Then he changed his mind and offered to take me to the place where he’d done his work. . . .

. . . . Even­tu­al­ly, at a seem­ing­ly ran­dom spot on the side of the road, Janek instruct­ed me to pull over. We left the car, and he led me up the side of a steep moun­tain, into a pine for­est. The day was cold and driz­zly, and ten­drils of mist float­ed through the tree­tops. Janek most­ly ignored my ques­tions. He point­ed out sev­er­al moss-cov­ered stone struc­tures jut­ting up out of the earth, which looked like buried chimneys—air vents, he said. I got the sense that there was a siz­able world beneath our feet.

As we walked, Janek spoke in a mum­bling solil­o­quy. He no longer worked for the wealthy trea­sure hunter, but the job had paid very well. His patron had told him lit­tle beyond where to dig: a shal­low depres­sion where a stream began. Janek led a crew of four min­ers. As they dug into the depres­sion, they uncov­ered the entrance to a tun­nel that bored direct­ly into the side of the moun­tain. Janek and his men repeat­ed­ly encoun­tered great piles of crum­bling rocks, which they had to remove. They also found scraps of paper that Janek believed had been used to wrap dyna­mite. Some of the wrap­pers had writ­ing in Ger­man, oth­ers in Russ­ian. It was puz­zling, but one obvi­ous expla­na­tion was that the Ger­mans had buried some­thing here and the Rus­sians had exca­vat­ed it. Even­tu­al­ly, Janek told me, the crew dis­cov­ered a cham­ber off the main tun­nel. Inside were three green wood­en chests, two embla­zoned with swastikas. It was exact­ly what any­one chas­ing Klose’s gold would hope to find. But when the lids were opened the chests were emp­ty. . . .