Franco A.
in his ‘‘prepper’’ basement in Offenbach, Germany.Credit...Laetitia Vancon for
The New York Times
A still
image taken from a video provided by Franco A. shows him disguised as a
refugee.
Credit...Franco
A.
A Far-Right Terrorism Suspect With a Refugee
Disguise: The Tale of Franco A.
A German officer is facing trial on terrorism charges.
At a volatile time for Western democracy, his story mirrors the story of
Germany itself.
By Katrin
Bennhold
Dec. 29,
2020
Updated
7:05 a.m. ET
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 extremism.
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 goup,
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 memoabilia 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.
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.
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.
Katrin
Bennhold is the Berlin bureau chief. Previously she reported from London and
Paris, covering a range of topics from the rise of populism to gender. @kbennhold
• Facebook
Sem comentários:
Enviar um comentário