Out of the Smoke

by Gerald N. Lund

  Instantly a man leaped out of his chair and strode over to stand in front of the podium. It was Ernst Torgler, president of the German Communist Party. He was waving his hands wildly in front of Goering’s nose. The president of the chamber rapped the gavel again, only this time more sharply. “The delegate will sit down, please. No motions can be entertained until the session is formally opened with a prayer by the chaplain of the Reichstag.”

  Torgler howled something but returned to his seat, fuming openly. As Goering went through the numerous introductions, hardly anyone heard a word of it. Every eye in the hall was on Papen, who kept turning around and frantically watching the back door. He grew more and more pallid, but there was still no sign of his aide.

  Finally, after the last introduction was made, Goering turned and gave the chancellor a hard look. Stricken, Papen only shrugged his shoulders and held up a finger, his expression pleading. Just one more minute. Disgusted, yet trying hard not to openly grin, Goering turned back to the podium and invited the priest to come up and offer an invocation on the meeting.

  Halfway through a lengthy and somewhat pompous prayer, the back door squeaked open. Everyone’s eyes flew open and focused on the aide who came in at a dead run with some papers in his hand. Goering saw this too. So the moment the priest said amen and started back to his seat, Hermann got slowly to his feet. As he glanced at Hitler, Hans saw something that many others probably did not. The Führer gave Hermann Goering, president of the Reichstag, an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Goering initially seemed perplexed, but then suddenly he grinned and nodded. With clear determination, he returned to the podium, picked up the gavel, and rapped it down hard. “This body is now officially in session,” he cried. He was speaking slowly and deliberately. “And now, as has been the tradition for many decades, it will be our pleasure to hear from our esteemed Chancellor.”

  He stopped. Torgler was up again and shouting to be heard. “Herr President! Herr President! I demand to be recognized.”

  Almost lazily, Goering considered that but then turned and let his eyes sweep across the body of assembled delegates. Then he sighed wearily. “The president recognizes the leader of the German Communist Party.”

  There were audible cries of surprise. Hans looked to where Papen was seated. To his surprise, Papen was watching all of this with bored amusement. Then it hit Hans why he was so relaxed. Torgler was no threat because Papen had someone in his pocket that would object to the motion, and that would automatically table it. And now, with a presidential decree in hand, he would stand up and send them all packing.

  Torgler turned to face the vast audience. “Herr President, I hereby make a motion that the government be censured.”

  Pandemonium broke out, as obviously this came as a surprise to many present.

  Goering rapped the podium again and again. “Silence!” he roared. The noise quickly died away, so he went on, speaking slowly and distinctly. “We have a motion to censure. Are there any objections?”

  Hans turned and scanned the areas where the Centrists and other conservatives were seated. They would be the ones to object and effectively kill the motion. But no one moved. Papen gaped in the same direction and then leaped to his feet, staring at that same group of delegates.

  Goering was clearly taken aback as well. “I ask again,” he cried, “are there any objections to the motion?”

  After another five or six seconds of total silence passed, two things happened. Papen dropped back into his chair, his face ashen. And a beaming, triumphant Torgler looked up at Goering. “Herr President,” he sneered, “there are no objections. I ask that you call for a vote.”

  “That old fox,” Goebbels cried. “Torgler got to Papen’s people and made them a better offer. Oh, this changes everything.”

  Hitler obviously knew that too, for he was on his feet and over to Goering in a flash. They conferred briefly, and then Hitler returned to his seat. Goering turned back to the podium and began hammering with the gavel again. When the hall quieted enough for him to be heard, he exclaimed, “The president of the National Socialist Party has requested a thirty-minute recess before the vote is taken so he can confer with his delegates. I am sure there are others who wish to do the same.” He glanced up at the clock. “We will reconvene at 9:45. And the vote for or against censure will then be taken.” Neatly sidestepping Papen, who had rushed up to the podium, Goering banged the gavel one last time, turned and pushed past the Chancellor, and followed the Führer out.

  9:24 a.m.—Conference Room,

  Reichstag Presidential Palace

  In the end, it was a simple, though highly unpalatable, decision. To vote with the Communists was anathema. But if they voted against them, a defeat of the motion of censure was assured—which then would bring Papen and his damnable letter to the podium.

  To Hans’s surprise, Adolf turned and looked directly at him. “Your thoughts, Herr Eckhardt? If we vote with the Communists, we will get our election. But our loyal party members and the other electorate will see that as an unforgivable betrayal of all we stand for. What say you?”

  Hans did not flinch. “Mein Führer, if we vote with the Communists, we will lose a significant number of seats in the Reichstag in the next election. If we vote against them, we lose everything! To me, that makes the decision easy. We vote with the Communists.”

  September 17, 1932, 12:12 p.m.—

  München Biergarten

  Alemann Zeidner was silent for a long time after Hans finished his narrative. Finally, he looked up. “That’s an amazing story, Hans. Absolutely fascinating.”

  “What makes it so perfect is that if Papen hadn’t forgotten the letter, Goering wouldn’t have dared to let Torgler speak first. That would have been contrary to the Rules of Order. And with that, Hindenburg could have negated the action, because it would have been an illegal act to silence a chancellor. This, way Goering may be severely criticized and accused of playing hard and fast with the rules, but they can’t say he did something wrong. He stalled. He waited, but Papen wasn’t ready.”

  Alemann was nodding. “I’m sure Hindenburg was furious with Papen when he learned how he had bumbled the whole thing.”

  “And General Schleicher too,” Hans said. “As General of the Army, he was invited to sit on the stand, but even though he was a cabinet minister, he could take no role in the doings of Parliament. When the vote for censure passed, I thought he was going to go into apoplexy right there on the stand. There went any chance of him becoming vice-chancellor.”

  “And so,” Alemann mused, “Hitler miraculously dodged another one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Once again he managed to sidestep a major political disaster by the skin of his teeth. But actually, it was not through his own devices, so he doesn’t get all the credit.”

  “Wait,” Hans objected. “It was Hitler’s idea to vote with the Communists.”

  “Agreed, but that would never have happened if Papen had been prepared to read his letter, right? You said that Goering had no choice but to recognize Papen because of the rules.”

  “Yes,” Hans said slowly, still not seeing his point.

  “If Hitler had hidden the letter, then he would rightly deserve credit for what happened. And the other thing that turned the tide was that Torgler got to those who had agreed to object to the motion. So, ironically, Papen and Torgler get much of the credit for what happened up there.” Alemann’s grin broadened. “Maybe you ought to offer them both a position in your party.”

  “And your point?” Hans said a little testily.

  Alemann brought both hands up in front of him as if to block a blow. “Hans, I’m not suggesting that anything underhanded took place. Nor do I underestimate Hitler’s political brilliance. All I am saying is that he dodged a bullet last Monday, and that was thanks to things he did not control. And I see that as almost a pattern in his p
olitical life.”

  “I don’t see that. Enlighten me.”

  “Okay. In Mein Kampf, he talks about going to that first meeting of the German’s Working Party. He was sent there by his army commanding officer to investigate them.”

  “Yes. I was with him that day. We went together.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know that. Well, anyway, in his own words, he said that both the meeting and the party were laughable. He said it felt more like going to an elementary school book club.”

  “That’s right. We were both disgusted, and as we left, we were joking about how pitiful the whole thing was. Then a few days later, Hitler told me that he had joined the party. And he wanted me to join too. I couldn’t believe it.”

  “And did he say what he changed his mind?”

  Letting his mind go back, Hans nodded. “He had read something the night before that got him thinking about his future, but mostly it was because he said that he just couldn’t get the meeting out of his mind. He had this feeling that maybe a small, insignificant party was the place to start. It would give him a chance to shape what it became. He said he had this strong feeling, almost a compulsion, that he needed to align himself with them, ridiculous as they were.”

  “Ah,” Alemann said. “That’s what I mean. It seemed to be something outside of himself. The Beer Hall Putsch is another good example. He pulls off this brilliant political coup, tricking the Bavarian triumvirate into believing that the people were with him. Then he turns and runs off to put out some piddling little problem, and the three ministers slip away and the putsch collapses. That was a pretty major blunder.”

  “Oh, it was much more than that,” Hans muttered. “I was so angry when I came back and found the three ministers were gone I nearly walked out on him that night.”

  “But you didn’t. And you got yourself shot the next day because you didn’t.”

  Hans’s head came around with a snap. “How did you know that?”

  Alemann laughed. “Hans, I’m a history professor, remember? And nothing fascinates me more than seeing history in the making. So when Erika and Leyna came home and told me how some girl had swooped in out of nowhere and saved them, I wanted to find out who she was so we could thank her. So I called the police station and asked for the name of their rescuer.” He smiled. “And her parents too, of course.”

  “When I saw the name Hans Eckhardt, I knew I recognized it. And then I remembered. You were one of those arrested in the putsch that was eventually sent to prison.”

  “So you knew who I was before you came over to our home that day?” That really shook him.

  His friend laughed even more heartily. “Yes! And this is a delicious irony. I’m pretty conservative in my politics. I belong to the Catholic Center Party. And I have often spoken out against what I term the excesses of the Nazi Party. So when I saw who you were, I told Richelle that we were obligated to go and thank your daughter, but that we were going to go in, say our thanks, then turn around and run!”

  “Really?” Hans exclaimed. “And what changed your mind?”

  “Your family. Emilee. Lisa and Jo.” He chuckled softly. “And you. You weren’t anything like I expected. And next thing I know, we had agreed to stay for supper. And now look at us. You have to agree, Hans. This is delicious irony indeed.”

  Hans smiled. Delicious irony? That was not a bad way to describe it.

  “Which brings me back to my point, Hans. As you look at his rise to power, there is one example after another of fate stepping in to rescue Hitler from himself. It almost makes you believe that he was right from the beginning. It is his destiny to lead Germany, to change history, to take all the marbles in this grand game of politics.”

  “I don’t believe in fate,” Hans said flatly. “Nor destiny.”

  Alemann Zeidner laughed. “Nor do I, but this much is irrefutable, my friend. If Chancellor von Papen had not left the presidential decree in his office, you would not be worrying about an election in November right now. Nor for a very, very long time to come. The Nazi Party could very likely have just faded away, becoming just one more footnote on the trash heap of history. Surely you have to give fate or some other undefinable source credit for that.”

  Hans wasn’t sure how to answer that, so he said nothing.

  Abruptly, Alemann got to his feet. “My deepest apologies, Hans. I have kept you from your bed. But as I said before, all of this absolutely fascinates me. I hope I have not offended you to the point that we cannot continue our discussion sometime in the future.” He hesitated but then went on. “So what if the Zeidners were to provide Sunday dinner for the Eckhardt family tomorrow night at six o’clock? That would include your delightful mother, of course. Then, after dinner, you and I shall retreat to my office and once again engage in this game of intellectual swordplay until you beg me for mercy.”

  “That may take a while,” Hans said solemnly. “I don’t beg easily.”

  Chapter Notes

  Someone once said that the gates of history swing on very small hinges. So it was on September 12, 1932, in Berlin. The nation came within a whisker of becoming a benevolent dictatorship under President von Hindenburg, which could easily have ended Hitler’s political career, for that dictatorship would most likely have continued on for years.

  Though some of the trivial details of how it actually played out were added by the author to provide a continuous narrative, the key facts as depicted here are true. The Nationalist Socialists, and most of the other delegates, chose the lesser of two evils—a dissolution of the Parliament until new elections were called. The vote for censure passed by a vote of 513 to 32.

  Von Papen was livid when Hermann Goering came back from the recess and refused to hold off the vote on the motion of censure until after Papen had a chance to speak. As soon as the vote was taken, Papen strode up and slapped the Decree of Dissolution on the podium. In the tumult going on in the hall, Goering pretended not to see it. Only after the motion passed,did Goering “discover” the president’s letter. He duly read it to the assembly and then handed it back to Papen and cheerfully noted that since Parliament had already been dissolved by a constitutional majority of the delegates, there was nothing left for President Hindenburg and his chancellor to dissolve (see Rise and Fall, 170–71).

  December 25, 1932, 11:38 p.m.—Eckhardt Home

  Moving quietly in his stocking feet so as not to awaken Emilee or the children, Hans padded into the living room, walked past the Christmas tree, and moved into the small vestibule that served as his home office. Only then did he turn on a small desk lamp.

  He opened the drawer of his desk and withdrew the leatherbound book he had placed there earlier that day. He opened it to the first page and looked at the neatly lettered inscription:

  To My Beloved Hans

  Merry Christmas, 1932

  From

  Emilee, Alisa, Jolanda, Hans Otto, Enrika, & Nikolaus

  Your Adoring Family

  Hans smiled and reread the handwritten message on the inside cover.

  Hans: A brief note of explanation. I can hear you saying to yourself as you read this: “Really? A journal? My wife gave me a journal for Christmas? Whatever was she thinking?”

  So I shall tell you what I was thinking. A few weeks ago, I returned from a meeting of our Relief Society sisters and found you in the girls’ bedroom. I had removed my galoshes because it was muddy outside, so you didn’t hear me come in. I soon realized that you were telling them stories about your life and answering questions like, what did you do when you were a boy? What did you do in the war? How did you meet Mutti? I stood outside the door listening, as enthralled and delighted as they were.

  You have asked me several times what you could ever do to make up for all the times this past year that you have been gone, leaving me to raise the children basically alone. Well, this is my answer. Share your life with us.
Especially your life as an adult. Perhaps later you can share things from your early life. But please start with that day you learned that we were about to go to war and enlisted in the army. And I especially hope you will chronicle what you have experienced since the day you first met Adolf Hitler in the military hospital in Pasewalk.

  With our Führer very likely to soon become the chancellor of the Reich, our children will someday read of these things in their history books—these very things that have been a part of your life. So let them read about these things in your own words, from your own experience. Let this be your legacy to them.

  Yours forever in love, Emilee

  Hans stared at the page, the memories tumbling in his mind like dry thistles blowing in the wind. Pasewalk Military Hospital was so many years ago, and yet it was still so fresh and wonderful and terrible in his mind. There he had met the two most influential people in his life—Emilee Greta Fromme and Adolf Hitler.

  Emilee was right. And Alemann had said the same thing. Hans hadn’t thought of it in this way before, but he was a part of history—not a great creator of it, but an observer. No, not just an observer either. A participator. So as he had laid in bed thinking about it, unable to sleep, he had decided that he wasn’t interested in writing the typical life story: “My name is Hans Otto Eckhardt. I was born on February 20th, 1896, in the village of Graswang, in the district of. . . .”

  And the thought of going back to his army years and writing out his experiences in chronological order did nothing for him either. Maybe later. But Emilee was right about something else. The chancellorship was still eluding his longtime friend, but Hans was confident that wouldn’t be for long. By spring, Adolf Hitler would be chancellor of the German Republic, of that he was sure. And the roller coaster ride of this past year that had brought him to the cusp of this pinnacle was a story that needed to be told.

  With that, Hans turned to the next page, which was blank, and reached for his new fountain pen, an accompanying gift with the journal. He stopped again, the pen poised above the page. Where exactly to start? The first election? The second? Then a thought came to him, and instantly it felt right. Start with November’s election, which was the end result of those tumultuous times, ending with that day in the Reichstag. That was what he was looking for.