“Schleicher is a snake,” Hitler growled. “He is not to be trusted in any way.”
Goering continued. “Yesterday morning we received some disturbing news. We have a trusted source inside the chancellor’s offices, and he sent us word that Papen and Schleicher have made an alliance with Oskar von Hindenburg, the president’s son and aide-de-camp. Together they have convinced Hindenburg that we, meaning our party, cannot form a new government, and therefore the government faces an ‘extreme emergency.’ Those were their words.”
“And the President bought it?” Hans asked incredulously.
“He did,” Goering said grimly. “Remember, he’s in his eighties now and getting more senile by the day. And, no surprise, Oskar has his father’s ear. So with Oskar’s help, Papen and Schleicher convinced the president to declare a state of emergency, which the constitution allows the president to do under Article 58.”
This was news to Hans. “Which means what?”
Hitler slammed his fist against the table, making them all jump. “Which means that with a formally declared presidential state of emergency, Hindenburg has given Papen a Decree of Dissolution, to be read in Parliament tomorrow morning.”
“A Decree of Dissolution? Dissolution of what?” Hans was having trouble keeping up.
Hans Frank spoke up now. “Article 58 of the Constitution gives the president the right to declare a national state of emergency. In such emergencies, the Constitution grants the president the power to dissolve Parliament and—”
“What!” Hans was stunned. Had he heard him right?
“And,” Goering went on grimly, “in such cases of emergency, the executive branch of government, meaning the president and his appointed chancellor, have full power and authority to rule until such time as the emergency is over, new elections are called, and new delegates chosen.”
Hans sat back in his seat, his mind whirling wildly.
“And care to guess who decides when the emergency is over?” Frank asked bitterly. “Yes, that’s right. That same president and chancellor. Which means the emergency could go on for years.”
“Which for all intents and purposes disenfranchises the delegates and ignores the voice of the people,” Hans added.
“Precisely,” Hitler said quietly.
“So,” Joseph Goebbels spoke for the first time, “by 9:15 tomorrow there will be no Reichstag, and we will all be packing our bags and slinking away like cats in a rainstorm.”
“Wait,” Hans cried. “Can’t Hermann call for a vote of the delegates and reject the Decree?”
Goering hooted. “No, Hans! Because the moment Papen reads that letter from Hindenburg, there are no longer any delegates. There is no longer a Reichstag. And it is a longstanding tradition that the Reichschancellor gives the opening speech when a new Parliament begins. And that tradition states that no business can be conducted by the deputies until that speech is given. So there is no way that I can stop Papen from standing up and reading the decree.”
A dark silence filled the room as the enormity of what Hermann had just said sank into Hans’s brain. He didn’t know what to say, because there was nothing he could say.
“That is not all of the bad news, Hans,” Goering went on. “We also learned late last night of another problem. As you well know, the Communists and the other leftist parties took a beating in the last election. They lost a lot of their delegates. And they’re still licking their wounds. They also are aware of the Decree of Dissolution and are as anxious to stop it as we are. So here is what they plan to do, and it is a brilliant idea. Ernst Torgler, president of the party, will jump to his feet the moment I bang the gavel down to open the session. He will do that even before I have a chance to introduce the chancellor and let him speak.”
“But I thought you said—”
Goering’s look cut Hans off. Goering went on grimly. “If I recognize Torgler, which I must do by the rules of order, he plans to ask for a motion of censure of the government.”
Hans was getting a headache trying to keep up with this. “Sorry. I don’t understand all of these terms. What does that mean?”
Again it was Frank the lawyer who answered the question. “A motion of censure was put into the constitution as a way for the legislative branch to counteract the power given to the executive branch. Any delegate to Parliament can make a motion of censure at any time, and it requires only a simple majority to pass. If it does pass, then instantly the federal government is dissolved, as well as Parliament.”
“The government?” Hans exclaimed. “All the government? President? Chancellor? Cabinet?”
Goering nodded. “Mostly. The president is allowed to stay on and lead an interim government that has limited powers until new elections are held. Basically, the president can keep essential government services going, but he can do nothing else.”
“Ah,” Hans said slowly, finally starting to grasp it all. “So a motion of censure would prevent Papen from reading the letter because he would no longer be chancellor?”
“Yes, exactly. So that stops the presidential decree of an emergency in its track.”
“But the Reichstag is dissolved anyway, right?”
“Yes,” Goering said, “but in this case, by law, the new elections must be held within sixty days of dissolution so that the crisis is resolved.”
Hans shot to his feet. “No! Not another election. We can’t let that happen. Another election right now will be disastrous for us.”
Hitler was up now too, eyes flashing like sheet lightning. “And rule by presidential decree is not a disaster? Wake up, Hans! This is a major crisis. Don’t tell us what we can or cannot do, because this is out of our hands now.”
Hans rocked back, stung by Hitler’s fury. “I. . . . I’m sorry, mein Führer,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean that. It . . . It just came out,” he finished lamely. He slumped back into his seat, feeling like his face was going to explode in flames.
Rudolf Hess was Hans’s direct superior. He jumped in now, not to defend him but to turn the conversation back to the issue at hand. “Assuming that our source is correct, Hermann, tell us how this motion of censure actually happens. If Papen speaks first and reads the presidential decree, then what does that do to Torgler’s motion of censure?”
“If that happens, there can be no motion of censure, because there will be no Parliament. Though under normal conditions the rules of order stipulate that I must recognize Torgler, this is an opening session, and. . . .” He left it hanging as his eyes bored into Hans’s.
“And the chancellor gets to speak first.”
“Ja, ja! And that is the rub. It would be highly inappropriate of me, as president of the Reichstag, to ignore decades of established tradition. It could be enough that President Hindenburg could declare me incompetent and remove me from my position.”
“And that, Hans,” Hitler snapped coldly, “is our dilemma. We are damned if we do, and damned if we don’t. So let’s not be worried about the dangers of another election just yet.”
“Yes, mein Führer. My apologies for not seeing the greater picture.”
Hess turned to Hans. “Now that you see the dilemma we are in, tell us as best you can what holding another election will mean to our party.”
“And don’t bog us down with a bunch of statistics,” the Führer said coldly. “You’ve got two minutes.”
Hans had been reaching down for his attaché case where he had all of his notes, but at Hitler’s words he snatched his hand back. “Yes, mein Führer. To summarize, if we hold another election this year, our projections are that we will see a serious cut in the number of delegates we will win.”
Adolf’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “How serious?”
“Uh . . . preliminary projections, based on interviews and polls we have been taking, indicate that we may lose somewhere between thirty and forty seats.”<
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That rocked everyone back, and someone gasped.
“But that will still leave us as largest party in the Reichstag,” Hans added hastily.
“And what has led you to this conclusion?” Adolf’s voice seemed to chill the whole room.
“May I speak candidly, mein Führer?”
Hitler swore. “We are facing a massive disaster, Hans!” he shrieked. “Why would you even ask such an asinine question? Roehm is not here for a reason, Hans. Speak your mind.”
Hans took a quick breath and got to his feet. “There are three major reasons why I believe we shall lose heavily if we hold another election. First and foremost is the storm troopers. They are everywhere now. They hovered around the polling places during the last election, intimidating people into voting for us. They have engaged in open street battles with the left-wing parties. Hundreds have been killed. The Brown Shirts are feared, but they are also hated by many people.”
He swallowed quickly and plunged forward. “And to be blunt, mein Führer, since they are part of the Nazi Party, many people are asking why we have not done something about this problem. I know that it is much more complicated than that, but the people don’t see it that way.”
Adolf flicked his hand as if he was shooing away a horsefly. “Go on.”
“Number two. The common citizen does not understand why our party has not been able to form a government after winning such a large majority of the seats in Parliament.”
“That is not as simple as it seems, Hans,” Goering growled. “You ought to know that.”
“Ja, Hermann, I know that. And I will vote for our party if there is another election. But the people don’t understand. To them it looks like the same old politics as usual, and they’re sick to death of it. They thought they gave us a clear mandate for change, yet there has been no change.”
Hans paused for a moment, but no one spoke, so he went on quickly. “Third, and this is more important than it may sound at first. We are learning that the people in general are weary of elections. If we have another one, that will make four this year. They’re sick of campaign posters and party rallies and parades and radio broadcasts. To them it’s all empty promises. Our projections are that if there is another election, as many as five or six million people would choose not to vote at all. And many of those would be former supporters of our party. So a lower turnout will likely not work in our favor. In fact, just the opposite is the more likely scenario.”
Hans sat back down and prepared for the worst.
No one spoke. All eyes were on their leader. The tension in the room was like static electricity. But finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Hitler got slowly to his feet. “The choice before us is impossible,” he said thoughtfully. “With either Papen or Torgler, the end result is the same. The Reichstag is no more. Therefore, I see only one alternative.” He turned to Hans and actually smiled at him. It was only momentary, but it was a smile. “Hans, you look exhausted. I’ll have my driver take you to your hotel. Be back here tomorrow. The rest of us—and Joseph, you find Roehm and get him in on this as well—will now go to work on that last alternative before us. Which is to work all night if we have to and patch together some kind of compromise so we can form a new government and stall the presidential decree.”
He swung around to Goering. “Hermann, if we are successful, can you postpone the opening of the assembly long enough for us to form that government?”
That clearly took Goering by surprise. “Uh . . . it would be very unusual to postpone the opening session of Parliament for any reason, but. . . .” He was starting to nod as his mind raced forward. “But given the crisis conditions we are in, if we had our deal put together by the opening of the session, then yes. I think that would warrant calling a recess to update Hindenburg on developments. Then we have him in a box. If he goes ahead with the dissolution, it will make him look like he’s pushing for his own personal dictatorship. He’s too wise to make that mistake.” He shrugged. “I think it could work.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” Hitler cried. “Go! We’ll meet at 8:30 tomorrow morning. Work all night if you have to. Make this work!” He turned to Hans and smiled. “You’ve had a long day, mein Freund. This is not something you need to worry about. Go get some sleep. But be back here and join us in the morning.”
“Yes, mein Führer!” Hans snapped to attention. “Heil Hitler!”
September 12, 1932, 8:34 a.m.—Reichstag Building
The mood as the men reassembled in the Presidential Palace the next morning was dark and moody, filled with gloom. Their frantic attempts to put together a coalition had been in vain. And two other late developments had dashed any remaining hopes.
Their source in the chancellor’s office had sent word that Papen was fully aware of what the Communists planned to do when the session opened. So he had called an emergency meeting with the leaders of the parties most closely aligned with him and received a commitment that delegates from their parties would object to the Communist’s motion. And that would stop it. Ironically, it took a clear majority to pass the motion, but if even a single member voted against making the motion of censure, it was automatically tabled until further discussion could be held. So there would be no opportunity to stop Papen from speaking. The chancellor had very neatly seen to that.
The second blow had come with a note that Hindenburg had sent to Goering warning him that if he did not strictly follow established protocol in letting Papen be the first person to speak, then as part of the presidential decree, the Nazi Party would be stripped of what power it still had. It was clear that this was not an empty threat.
Admitting that there was nothing more to be done, a thoroughly deflated Adolf Hitler had dismissed the meeting and sent his men over to the Parliament building to await the disaster that was now upon them. There would be no stopping Papen now.
Hans, Frank, Hess, and Goebbels were seated behind the railing that separated the gallery from the delegates. Goering, of course, was down front. Adolf, as head of the largest party in Parliament, was seated on the stand behind Goering, along with the other dignitaries.
Hans felt a nudge on his shoulder. When he turned, Rudolf Hess leaned in toward him. “Look, Hans. Something is going on with the chancellor.”
When Hans turned, he immediately saw what Hess meant. Earlier, von Papen had entered the hall with an aide, who carried a small, red leather box. According to Rudolf, the case was used to carry official documents from the president’s office, a signal that Papen had the presidential decree in hand. Now Papen had taken the box from his aide. He had opened it and taken out a small sheaf of papers. Hans assumed they contained his speech and the presidential decree of dissolution.
But something was definitely wrong. Where just moments before Papen had been all smiles and bonhomie as he spoke with those around him, now he was as rigid as a steel ramrod. Any hint of a smile was gone as he started shuffling through the papers. Even from this distance they could see that his face registered alarm and deep consternation. He was pale and highly agitated. His aide, who now stood at his side, carefully watching him go through the papers, looked like he might be sick. Clearly panicked, Papen urgently whispered something to his aide, who went even paler than Papen. Papen barked something at him, and he turned and strode over to where Goering was seated next to Hitler. The man leaned down, whispered something in Goering’s ear, and raced out through a door at the back of the hall.
And to add to the mystery further, Goering looked stunned, as did the Führer. Goering frantically called one of his aides forward and whispered in his ear. The man stiffened before racing over to the aisle and starting up toward Hans and the others.
Long before he reached them, they were on their feet. The aide came straight to Goebbels but motioned for the others to close in.
“I have a message from President Goering,” the young man said breathlessly.
“Chancellor von Papen has evidently left the letter from President Hindenburg back in his office. He has sent his aide to get it posthaste. Papen has requested that President Goering delay opening the meeting until his aide can return. Herr Hitler has conferred with the president and said to tell you all that he has counseled the president not to delay.”
‘Why?” Goebbels asked. “What good will that do?”
“I was not instructed on that matter, sir,” the young man said, and then he turned and trotted away.
“He forgot to bring the president’s letter?” Hess said in utter disbelief. “At this critical moment, he forgets the letter? What an idiot!”
No one responded to that, for Hermann Goering had stood up and was moving slowly toward the podium. A hush fell over the hall. The four of them moved back and took their seats, leaning forward to see what was about to unfold.
“Will this change anything?” Hans whispered to Joseph.
Goebbels shrugged. “Don’t see how it can. Just delay things a little. There’s no way Hermann cannot recognize Papen. Not with Hindenburg’s threat to destroy us.”
But Joseph Goebbels was wrong—something that didn’t happen very often with him.
The large clock on the wall showed two minutes after nine as Goering reached the podium and picked up the gavel. With great solemnity he looked slowly at the congregation and then turned and gazed at the door through which the aide had disappeared. When he saw nothing, he smiled at Hitler, and BANG! The gavel slammed down against the podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Goering intoned slowly and with great solemnity. “This session will please come to order.”
Out of the Smoke Page 17