Fire and Steel, Volume 6

by Gerald N. Lund

  Two weeks later, the Nazi Party held its annual congress at a massive stadium in Nuremberg. Thirty thousand people rose to their feet and thunderously roared their approval of their new supreme leader. On that day, Hitler made it clear what his future goals were:

  The German form of life is definitely determined for the next thousand years. The age of the nineteenth century has come to a close. There will be no other revolution in Germany for the next thousand years!

  Chapter Notes

  Two primary sources were used in writing the chapter: Shirer’s Rise and Fall, 218–24; and Spector’s World without Civilization, 233–39.

  It could never be completely determined how many actually died in the three-day purge known as the Night of the Long Knives. In giving an official accounting for his actions to the Reichstag a few weeks later, Hitler named sixty-one who had been summarily shot for treason, thirteen more who were killed while “resisting arrest,” and three who had committed suicide before they were arrested, making a total of seventy-seven. Yet Shirer says that at least a hundred and fifty were executed by the SS firing squad in Berlin alone. A white paper published some years later in France cited 401 deaths, but only documented 116 of them. In later war crimes trials, it was stated that “more than a thousand” were killed. Spector estimates about 2,000 but said it could have been more than that. How many of those were innocents caught up in the murderous moments, as was Willi Schmid, has never been determined.

  For all of its brutality, the Night of the Long Knives accomplished its purpose. Within two months, Hitler was the acknowledged supreme leader of one of Europe’s most influential states and had launched a Third Reich that he promised would see the German people through the next millennium.

  July 14, 1934, 3:28 p.m.—Chalet, Adelboden, Switzerland

  Hans and Emilee turned as the front door to the chalet opened. Alemann and Richelle entered, smiling brightly, their arms full of grocery sacks.

  “We’re back!” Richelle sang out.

  “Any news?” Hans asked.

  “Lots of talk on the streets of Bern about what is happening in Germany,” Alemann said. They all moved into the kitchen. After setting his sacks down, Alemann reached into one of them and withdrew a folded newspaper. “Guess what I found?” He handed it to Hans, who unfolded it.

  Hans gave a low cry. “Münchner Neueste Nachrichten.” That was a pleasant surprise. Munich’s Latest News was the city’s largest daily newspaper and the one that Hans and Emilee preferred, even though they still subscribed to the party’s newspaper.

  “There is some news in there that we need to discuss,” Alemann said.

  Richelle nodded. “There’s nothing here that can’t wait to be put away. Let’s go out in the great room. I’ll put the groceries away later.”

  As they left the kitchen and moved into the main room of the house, Hans was struck once again with this unique relationship his family had with the Zeidners. He had no idea how much Alemann’s salary was. The university didn’t make such information public. But he was sure it wasn’t enough to buy and furnish a house like the one they lived in, or buy a new car every other year, or travel abroad for eight to twelve weeks every other summer, or keep eight or nine thousand marks in your safe in case of emergency, or . . . keep a chalet like this in the Swiss Alps and hire year-round caretakers.

  When Alemann had offered the chalet as a safe place for them to hide, Hans had assumed it would be nice. What he hadn’t expected was a chalet with beds enough to sleep eighteen, a kitchen with the latest electrical appliances, indoor plumbing, electricity throughout the house, a massive rock fireplace, and a spectacular view of snowcapped peaks.

  Emilee and Hans took their seats on the large divan against the back wall. Richelle and Alemann sat in the chairs facing them. Alemann had brought the newspaper in with him. Now he unfolded it as they got settled.

  “Hitler spoke to the Reichstag yesterday,” he said without preamble. “This was his official report to Parliament on Operation Hummingbird.”

  “What a harmless sounding name for something so horrible,” Richelle murmured.

  “And did the Reichstag give him the approval he was seeking?” Hans asked. “I mean, with no other political parties, who’s to object?”

  “Of course. The paper said that his report was well received and when he was finished, everyone leaped to their feet and broke into several minutes of applause. After all, why wouldn’t they? The generals and President Hindenburg had already officially declared Hitler’s action to be perfectly legal, even though it violated our constitution in more ways than we can count.” Alemann lifted the paper. “After reminding the deputies of that notable point, Herr Hitler said this: ‘If people reproach me and ask why we did not turn these traitors over to the courts of the land, I say only this. In that crucial hour, I and I alone was responsible for the fate of the German people, and therefore I became der oberster Gerichtsherr.”

  “Supreme judge?” Emilee cried. “Is he saying that he is the highest judge in the land now?”

  Alemann nodded grimly. “Judge, jury, and executioner.”

  They fell quiet, each contemplating the news, which was both good and ominous.

  “So,” Alemann said finally, “with that resolved and things going pretty much back to normal, that brings up the question at hand.”

  “Which is?” Emilee asked.

  “What about America?”

  Hans’s head snapped up. “What about America? Surely you’re not still thinking of going?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you were supposed to come home from Russia and leave immediately for Boston to do those lectures. I thought you called your former student at Harvard and told him that you couldn’t make it.”

  “I did. I said I couldn’t make it for the lectures but that we still plan to stop there and do some research. The lectures will have to wait until next year. Besides, I surely don’t want to go back to Munich and try to explain to Dean Eberhardt why the research I fought so hard to get approved is suddenly not important.”

  “Or,” Richelle said quietly, “have the dean suggest that with two months of Hitler Youth Camp still left, we should enroll Leyna and Erika.”

  “I. . . .” Hans’s face was flushed. Evidently, he hadn’t thought of that.

  Emilee turned to him. “I’ve been thinking about that too, Hans. Lisa hasn’t said a word about it because she knows we were in the midst of an emergency, but if this America trip falls through, she will be crushed.”

  “It means she won’t get to see Benji,” Richelle said. “Once again. I think ‘crushed’ doesn’t begin to describe it.”

  “And if we go back to Germany, we have the same problem,” Emilee added. “Our girls will have to go back to camp too.”

  Hans exhaled slowly and looked at their friends. Then he thought of something else. “You said you had to cancel your original travel arrangements when we came here.”

  “Yes, I did,” Alemann answered. “But when we reached Bern, I rescheduled them, and for all of us, including your daughters. We still have every intention of bringing them as companions for our girls.”

  Emilee had turned and was looking out the window. “Oma and the girls are coming back from the village, Hans. Will you tell them that the trip is back on?”

  Richelle laughed aloud at his woeful expression. “Hans, I think the proper answer to that question is yes.”

  August 5, 1934—Oriental Star,

  Somewhere West of Hawaiian Islands, Pacific Ocean

  This will be my first entry in the record of my life as a sailor. I have never kept a journal before but decided that this is a good time to start.

  I wish I could say that my motives in starting a journal were altruistic, but to be honest, boredom was a major factor. I used to take the cattle up to Elk Mountain for summer pasture and be up there a
lone for three or four weeks at a time, and I thought that was boring. But at least I wasn’t confined to a space about four hundred feet long and maybe a hundred wide. And I always had something to look at besides the endless, boundless, empty sea in every direction.

  When I signed on to be a sailor on a tramp steamer called the Oriental Star, of the CMB Shipping Line, it seemed like an answer to prayer. Now, I am not so sure. I wish I had understood more clearly what I was getting into when I signed on. I have no idea when we will return to the U.S. And though I can send letters home from any port of call, I cannot tell my family where I am going to be next. So they will have no way to write to me. Skipper Jack (he’s the captain) says we’re likely to hop from port to port throughout Asia. Could be gone from six months up to a year. Right now, that is too depressing to even contemplate. If so, I’m jumping ship in China and coming home another way.

  I am hoping this journal will help pass the time between transporting things like wool, coconuts, and scrap metal. We were given one day of shore leave in Honolulu, and I was able to find an LDS chapel and attend sacrament meeting. The members were very warm and gracious. There were also two missionaries at church, and when I asked them if they had a Book of Mormon I could buy, they just gave me one. Also a Doctrine and Covenants and a New Testament, which was a bonus I had not expected. This has helped me tremendously, giving me something to do besides playing cards with the crew when I am not on duty.

  I am studying the New Testament now, which I have never done in-depth before. I am loving reading the stories about Jesus and learning what He taught. This knowledge will be very useful to me as a missionary.

  The work on board is hard but not overly challenging. We have a crew of somewhere around thirty. I am a Seaman Third Class, which puts me at the absolute bottom of the pecking order. I have two shifts each day—the worst two shifts, I might add—midnight to four each morning, and again during the hottest part of the day, noon to four. We also “swab” the deck—wash it down with mops—every day. Boring, boring, boring!

  One good thing is that Skipper believes that an important key to good morale on a ship is a good cook. The other crewmen tell me that Flap Jack (I don’t know his real name) is exceptional. Clearly, he samples his own wares a lot, because he weighs about 300 pounds. We loaded up with fresh fruit in Hawaii and that has been wonderful. I got to eat pineapple and mango for the first time. Wunderbar!

  I think I must add that part of the boredom and tedium I have experienced since coming on board is due to my relationship with the other crew members. It was obvious to them from the moment I boarded that I was not a seaman, and not like them.

  I mentioned playing cards. That’s how they pass most of their free time, with interminable games of poker, blackjack, and so on. I wouldn’t have minded that if they didn’t gamble along with it. So I started going to a different part of the ship to be alone and read the scriptures. They resented it. Said I was too good to associate with them. I guess I should have made more of an effort to fit in, but I was pretty down those first few days and just wanted to be alone.

  Most of the crew have nicknames. I don’t know that I know the full name of anyone on board. I say that because I have a nickname now too. One of the officers came up behind me shortly after we sailed and saw that I was reading the Bible. He told the others, of course, and immediately I became known as “Reverend,” or just “Rev.” I took a lot of razzing about that, but I haven’t let it get under my skin. I thought it was kind of funny and have started referring to myself by that title.

  The day after we left Honolulu a guy by the name of Luke went below deck and got into my footlocker while I was on duty. He found my Book of Mormon. Luke is one of those people with an ugly face, an ugly disposition, and an ugly temper. And this day he was spoiling for a fight. He started telling the rest of the crew I was a Mormon, which meant that I worshipped the devil, believed in having multiple wives, and was convinced that everyone else was doomed to burn in hell. So when I came off my afternoon shift, there was this circle of five or six guys waiting for me on the main deck. Luke was out front. I started to push my way through them when Luke started waving my Book of Mormon in my face and spouting off about how awful the Mormons are.

  I stopped, shocked that he had gotten into my personal things. When I asked for it back, he jeered at me and begged me to come and take it away from him. About then I glanced up and saw Skipper Jack near the wheelhouse, watching what was going on. But that’s all he was doing. Just watching. I knew he wouldn’t interfere.

  So again I asked Luke for my book, telling the others that all of that stuff about the Mormons was a pack of lies. By this time, I had made a couple of friends, so they started telling Luke to give me my book back. That really made him mad. He sneered at me and said if I wanted it to come and get it. So I did. I started for him. With a laugh, he turned and threw it over the railing. Just like that. He threw my Book of Mormon into the sea.

  I’m afraid something snapped in me. I was so angry, I lowered my head and charged, butting him in the stomach with every ounce of strength I had. He hadn’t expected that. I knocked the breath clear out of him, and he lay there on the deck, writhing around, bug-eyed and gasping for breath. When he finally got to his feet, two of his buddies grabbed me by the arms and pinned them back. Luke started for me.

  That was when Skipper Jack came in. He roared out one word. “Enough!” Luke stopped and the two guys let go of me. The captain looked at Luke and asked him one question. “Did you get into the Rev’s footlocker?” Luke didn’t answer, but that was answer enough. “One night in the brig,” the captain snapped. “And when you get to Shanghai, you find yourself another ship.”

  No one spoke as Luke backed down. On a ship, the captain’s word is absolute law. Luke was still glowering at me, but then the captain added one more thing. “Luke,” he said, “if anything happens to the Reverend before we get to Shanghai, even if he happens to stub his toe, you’re going overboard without a life raft. You hear me?”

  Well, gotta go. My shift is coming up. Be back later.

  August 7, 1934, 4:21 p.m.—D&RGW Railway,

  Near the Colorado-Utah Border

  Thompson Springs, Utah.”

  Alisa Eckhardt woke with a start, looking around wildly.

  The conductor was coming down the aisle slowly, approaching their group.

  “Thirty minutes to Thompson Springs. Folks, if you are getting off there, make sure you gather all your things. This will be a very brief stop. Just two or three minutes.” He passed by them. “Thompson Springs, thirty minutes.”

  With a mighty yawn, Lisa sat up straight and looked around. Next to her, Erika was giving her a bemused look. “What?” She asked, combing at her hair with her fingers.

  “Aren’t you the one who said you were so excited that you weren’t going to sleep until we were in Monticello?”

  “No. I would never say something that stupid.”

  Richelle Zeidner turned around, smiling at the four girls. “Knowing who is going to be waiting for us when we get off the train, I would suggest that each of you girls go back to your compartments, take a few minutes at the mirror—we all look a little run down by now—and make sure all of your stuff is packed and left by the door to the compartment.”

  As Lisa got to her feet, she looked at her faint reflection in the window and groaned. “I guess I don’t have time to wash my hair?” she asked Richelle.

  “Sorry,” Jo said. “But don’t worry. I’m guessing that Benji won’t be paying much attention to your hair.” She smiled sweetly. “At least not for the first minute or two.”

  With another groan, Lisa picked up her purse and followed after Erika, Leyna, and Jo.

  4:56 p.m.—Thompson Springs Railway Terminal

  Leyna leaned in toward the window, trying to look ahead as the train slowed. “Are we stopping? I don’t see the town yet.”


  “Sure you do,” Jo hooted. “This is the town. You’re not in Germany now.” She enjoyed the role of expert, being the only one who had been here before. “This isn’t a main stop on the line. It’s mostly used to ship cattle to the big cities back east.”

  “It’s so desolate,” Lisa said, dismayed by how brown and dry everything looked.

  “This is desert out here,” Jo reminded her. “Not Bavaria.”

  “Is Monticello like this?” Erika wondered.

  “No, it’s in the desert too. But it’s near some beautiful mountains and—Oh! Oh! There they are. I see the Westlands. Oh, my! That’s Abby with them. I thought she was in college.” Jo pointed, ecstatic to see Abby again. They had really bonded last summer.

  “Do you see Benji?” Lisa asked, her heart pounding so hard now that she felt a little light-headed. But on the platform, everyone had started to trot along with the train as it slowed and finally came to a stop. Jo had lost sight of their hosts. “No. Come on. Let’s go.”

  “All right,” Alemann said, picking up their two largest suitcases. “Jo, you go first. We’ll need you to make the introductions.”

  “Or maybe we ought to let Lisa go first,” Erika said impishly. “Before she dies of excitement.”

  “I shall bring up the rear,” Lisa sniffed as she picked up her bag. “And, Jo, if you try being cute or funny when you introduce me to Benji, I’ll. . . .” She couldn’t think of anything horrible enough to deter her sister, who had been taking bets on whether Benji would sweep Lisa up into his arms and kiss her right there on the spot.

  “Everyone off!” the conductor called out. “Smartly now. Don’t delay.”

  As Jo stepped down onto the platform, her head turning back and forth, there was a sudden squeal and Abby appeared, pushing through the small crowd. “Jo! Jo! I’m here.” And not waiting for her to put her suitcase down, Abby threw her arms around Jolanda and they embraced, half-laughing, half-crying with joy.