Out of the Smoke

by Gerald N. Lund

  Hans nodded grimly. “This is a national emergency, Schatzi. Diels is the new head of the Geheime Staatspolizei.”

  “What is that, Papa?” Lisa asked.

  “It is the newly organized Secret State Police. They are better known by their nickname, which comes from letters in their title: Gestapo.”

  There was a tremendous roar in the background of the broadcast. The radio crackled as the sound boomed out of the speakers. Then Goering came back on, his voice a strained whisper now. “People of the Fatherland. It is with deep shock and overwhelming sorrow that I tell you that the great dome of our magnificent Reichstag building has just collapsed in upon itself. The building is nothing more than a burned-out shell and soon will be a heap of fiery ashes. It is gone.”

  Chapter Notes

  In the evening of February 27, 1933, the national Parliament building, known as the Reichstag, was discovered to be on fire. The flames quickly spread through both wings of the building, making it impossible to extinguish. The building was a total loss. Later examination showed that the shell of the outside walls was too badly damaged to rebuild, and it was eventually razed.

  A Dutchman of limited mental capacity was found in the building trying to start a fire and was arrested, though later investigations would suggest that he could not have done this on his own. According to William Shirer, Hermann Goering, as president of Parliament, was working in his palace just a short distance away and was one of the first on the scene. He was raging and shouted out the statement included here about the Communists being to blame for the fire, calling for immediate retaliation (see Rise and Fall, 192).

  Anthony Read, however, attributes Goering’s speech to Hitler, saying that he was the one who flew into a rage and shouted it out. “There will be no mercy now!” he cried. “Anyone who stands in our way will be mown down. The German people will not tolerate clemency. Every Communist functionary will be shot wherever he is found. The Communist deputies must be hanged this very night. Everybody in league with them must be arrested. There will be no longer any leniency for Social Democrats either” (see Devil’s Disciples, 288).

  March 6, 1933, 10:31 a.m.—Eckhardt Home

  As a soft knock sounded on the door, Hans looked up from his newspaper. “It’s open!” he called. “Come in.”

  He heard the door open and shut and then footsteps in the hall. Hans laid the paper on the lamp table beside him, and, with some effort, pulled himself up into a semi-reclining position. As he did so, Alemann came into the living room, removing his overcoat. “Guten Morgen, Hans.”

  “Morning, Alemann.” Hans saw that Alemann had brought a small attaché case with him. Then, as he pulled up a chair beside Hans, Hans noticed that his cheeks and nose were a little rosy. “Did you walk over?” he asked in surprise.

  “Ja ja. It is a beautiful spring morning. A little brisk, perhaps, but invigorating. And besides, it is only a few blocks.” He looked around. “Family all gone to church?”

  “Yes.”

  “That almost makes me regret intruding into your quiet time.” Alemann smiled. “Almost.”

  “Don’t apologize. I’ve had enough quiet time in the last month and a half to last a lifetime. I welcome your company.”

  “Gut, gut. I always enjoy our opportunities to talk.”

  “As do I.”

  His friend sat back, laying the attaché case on his lap. He started to unbuckle the flap but then changed his mind and straightened. It surprised Hans a bit to see that Alemann seemed a little nervous.

  “It is good to see you sitting up a little more, Hans. You do seem to be improving. That is good news.”

  “Never as rapidly as I would like,” Hans said, “but slowly, slowly.”

  Alemann glanced over at the newspaper. “Reading the election results?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you surprised by them?”

  “Which ones?” Hans asked sardonically. “The fact that we got forty-four percent of the vote, our best showing ever? Or the fact that fifty-six percent of the electorate still voted against us?”

  Alemann smiled. “An interesting dichotomy, no?”

  “Indeed. But the best part is, I had no part in it at all, and that’s a curious feeling. I can take no credit nor do I have to shoulder any of the blame.”

  “Um. . . .” Alemann had turned to stare out the window almost as if he hadn’t heard Hans at all. He was clearly nervous, something that Hans had not seen in him before.

  “What is it, Alemann? You seem somewhat preoccupied this morning.”

  “Ja, ja. I. . . .” To Hans’s further surprise, Alemann stood and turned his back on Hans, staring into the ashes of the fire. Hans was in no way prepared for what came out next.

  “Hans, I have something I should like very much to discuss with you.”

  “All right.”

  “Actually I feel quite compelled to do this, though it is not a pleasant thing. It is something of great import.” He coughed, clearly embarrassed now. “Which I hesitate to. . . .” He shook it off and took another quick breath. “Did Richelle tell you that I’ve been in Berlin for the last eight or nine days?”

  Hans’s eyes widened. “She said you were out of town doing research for a book you are writing, but she didn’t mention where you were.”

  “I was in Berlin. That’s why we couldn’t come to dinner last evening. I didn’t get home until after ten.”

  “Were you up there when the fire broke out?”

  There was a quick, curt nod. “I was. My hotel was just three blocks away. When I heard about it, I rushed over. I got there in time to watch the dome collapse.”

  “Really!” Hans said. “Talk about the historian being in the right place at the right time.”

  “To be part of history in the making,” Alemann said quietly. “That is a historian’s dream. Anyway, I was up there doing research, but I’m not sure I’ll ever write a book about what I learned. Not when things are like they are right now.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” Hans said. He was starting to feel a little uneasy. This was not like Alemann at all. “What things?” he finally asked.

  Again, Alemann barely seemed to have heard Hans. Then he appeared to make up his mind about something, and he came and sat down again. His face was somber, his eyes troubled. And what he said next took Hans completely aback. “Hans, I consider you a trusted friend.”

  “And I you,” Hans said slowly. What was going on here?

  “In fact, to be perfectly honest with you, I consider you to be perhaps the closest friend I’ve had in a very long time. Which has turned out to be a most pleasant surprise for me. And for my whole family, for that matter. We talk all the time about how fortunate we are to have met you and become such good friends.”

  Hans was touched by the earnestness in Alemann’s face. “Well,” he said, “to be honest, I was telling Emilee just the other day that I feel as close to you as to any friend I have. I never had a brother, and. . . . Well, that’s how I think of you. Like an older brother. I enjoy our association greatly. And Emilee feels the same about Richelle. She never had a sister either.”

  “So our intellectual jousting matches do not bother you?” Alemann asked with a glint of humor in his eye.

  “Nein,” Hans laughed. “A finer mind I have never jousted with.”

  “Gut, gut. I am glad you feel that way too. So. . . .” He stopped, staring deeply into Hans’s eyes. Again his countenance had something troubling in it. “So, there is something I want to share with you, Hans. Something intensely personal. Something that no one else, except Richelle, knows.”

  “Okay,” Hans said slowly, his feeling of uneasiness growing.

  “And though this is going to sound quite ridiculous, as I do so, I will literally be putting my life in your hands.”

  Hans snapped forward. “What! You
can’t be serious.”

  “I have never been more serious in my life,” Alemann said gravely. “But I mean it, Hans. If you were to share what I am about to share with you with the wrong people, it could literally cost me my life. Or at least my freedom. I say that only because I want you to know how much I trust you.”

  “Wow!” Hans breathed, not knowing what else to say. “I’m listening.”

  There was another fleeting smile that was equally sad. “And there’s one other thing. By telling you, it’s possible that I could also be putting your life at risk, too.”

  Chills shot through Hans. “What in the world is it, Alemann?”

  Alemann laughed ruefully. “Okay, that was a bit too dramatic. I’m not talking about your actual life, as though someone is going to try to kill you. But your life in the sense of . . . uh . . . maybe your lifestyle, or your way of living. What you are right now and what you do.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know, I know,” Alemann apologized, “but I think you will once I share what I learned in Berlin.”

  “Then tell me. You have my undivided attention.”

  “All right, let me start by telling you about this book I’ve been researching, but which I’m not going to write.” He chuckled. “Or at least not right now. Perhaps never.”

  “Go on.”

  He leaned in even closer and lowered his voice. “What I am working on now is a political history of the Weimar Republic, also known as the German Republic.”

  “So this picks up where your book on the German Empire ends?”

  “Yes. And it will include what happened the other night.”

  “The fire you mean?”

  “Ja, ja. The fire. Hans, I. . . . I’m going to call this book”—he flashed him a grim smile—“The Final Days of the Weimar Republic.”

  Hans leaned forward, careful not to move too fast. “Oh?”

  “You heard me right, Hans. I am writing about the final days of our nation as we now know it. Not the final years. Not the final months, Hans. The final days!”

  “That sounds a little too alarmist for me, Alemann. Obviously the Republic is having some serious problems right now, and I’ll be the first to agree that it’s not going to last forever, but we’ve been through worse. . . .”

  When his friend started shaking his head, Hans threw up his hands. “Alemann, you and I just went through another election. Another democratic election. Does that sound like our government is about to crash in upon itself?”

  “Hans, I would never say this to anyone else. Not even to Richelle. Nor do I make this statement lightly, but. . . . Mark my words, Hans. What we just experienced will be the last democratic election we will see in the Fatherland for a long, long time. Perhaps even in our lifetimes.”

  Hans’s jaw went slack. Our lifetimes? But he bit back a retort and said only, “Go on.”

  “Hans, I arranged to have a graduate student teach my class and went to Berlin for the last nine days. I wanted to know what was really going on up there. Having my old friend Hans Eckhardt laid up in his bed for a month has cut me off from getting an insider’s glimpse of what is happening behind the scenes. And as most historians will tell you, it’s behind the scenes where things really happen.

  “So, with you being out of the loop for a while, I decided to call on some other sources. A few years ago, for my sabbatical, I took a position as a visiting professor at the University of Berlin for a year. During that time, I made a lot of friends and established a lot of contacts. Not just at the university, but with journalists, politicians, civil servants, and even a couple of policemen.” He flashed Hans a sardonic grin. “All the people who know the real story.”

  “Ah,” Hans said, beginning to understand now. “And what did you find?” Then a light suddenly came on in Hans’s head. “Is that why you say that you could get yourself killed, because of what you learned up there?”

  Alemann nodded gravely. “Though it sounds melodramatic, yes, Hans. This could get me killed if it fell into the wrong hands.”

  Meaning Nazi hands? But Hans didn’t say that.

  Alemann reached down and retrieved his attaché case. He removed a single sheet of paper and then dropped the case on the floor again. “Do you remember our conversation about Hitler’s ‘uncanny’ luck and possible supernatural influence in his rise to power?”

  “Of course. I’ve thought about it a great deal.”

  “Then let me ask you. Wouldn’t you say that the Reichstag fire is another of those incredibly lucky turning points for the Führer? I mean, look at what’s happened in the week since then. The very next day Hitler went to President Hindenburg and convinced the old man that the fire was the beginning volley in a Communist revolution. And the president believed him. And what did he do?”

  Hans nodded. “He declared a presidential state emergency and granted Hitler broad powers to put down the revolution by whatever means necessary.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Hans! Say it like it is. ‘By whatever means necessary’ means that Hindenburg granted our new chancellor full dictatorial powers until the emergency is dealt with.”

  “Yes, that too.” Hans’s eyes narrowed. “But if you are about to suggest that some supernatural power is responsible for this turn of events, I’m sorry, Alemann. I don’t buy it.”

  “And neither do I,” he shot right back. “That would be far beyond the definition of a fortunate coincidence.”

  Something in the way he said it sent a little chill through Hans. Alemann was staring him down, his eyes filled with something that Hans couldn’t quite define.

  And then suddenly, Hans recognized what it was. It was fear. Fear and horror. “Alemann,” he said very slowly, “what did you learn in Berlin?”

  March 6, 1933, 10:57 a.m.—Eckhardt Home

  “Let’s think this through for a moment,” Alemann went on, speaking slowly and softly now. “I am Adolf Hitler, a brilliant, cunning, manipulative”—he hesitated for a moment—“and ruthless politician. I now have the chancellorship, but I’m being emasculated by my enemies on every side. Another election is imminent, and things are not looking good. The projections are looking more and more grim. In spite of all the negative warnings about the dangers of Communism, more and more people are wondering if the Communists are not a better answer than the Nazis. So what do you do?”

  Hans shook his head. “I don’t know. I wasn’t up there, remember?”

  Alemann waved that off. “You pray. You pray for a miracle.”

  Hans hooted. “Hitler doesn’t pray, Alemann.”

  “I know that. I am speaking metaphorically here. And guess what? When you pray for a miracle, your prayers are answered. A miracle drops right into your lap, and voila! A way out opens before your very eyes.”

  Hans’s eyes narrowed. “What time did your train get in last night?”

  Alemann laughed. “Hear me out, Hans. I know this all sounds crazy, but here is your miracle. One night, some of your Brown Shirts are having a night off at a Biergarten in Berlin. There is a disturbance down a few tables. A man in his mid-twenties, who is roaring drunk, is shouting that he is a member of the Communist Party. He raves about how unfairly his party is being treated by Hitler and his goons in power. So, in retaliation, he threatens to burn down the Reichstag.”

  Hans stiffened. Suddenly his full attention was focused on his friend. “You’re talking about that half-deranged Dutchman?”

  “Yes. Marinus van der Lubbe. So, the storm troopers arrest the fool, of course, even though he clearly is no real threat to anyone, and they throw him in jail.” He paused. “I admit that this part is mostly speculation, but hear me out. They—or perhaps the jailer—happen to mention this little tidbit of information to a commanding officer, who reports it up the chain of command. ‘We have this deranged young man who wants to burn the Reichstag down and—”�
�

  “No, Alemann!” Hans cut in sharply. “You are treading on very thin ice here, my friend. This could get you arrested, and even shot for treason.”

  “I told you that I was putting my life in your hands,” he said quietly.

  “I don’t want to hear it, Alemann.”

  “Yes, Hans. You do. You need to hear it. When I’m done you can throw me out, or call the storm troopers. But you need to hear this.”

  “Van der Lubbe? That’s your miracle? And the Reichstag fire?” Hans swore at nothing. “This is ridiculous. Did you not read the papers? Van der Lubbe was caught in the building with a torch in his hands and a couple of cans of petrol dumped out on the floor. The fire was already started when they caught him. He openly confessed to doing it. There were no Brown Shirts there holding a gun to his head.”

  “I know all of that,” Alemann said. “I was there, remember? I saw the police bring the poor wretch of a man out.” He took a deep breath and let it out very slowly. “Hans, I’m not saying that I have irrefutable evidence of any of this. But here are some facts that I got from my sources, including a trusted friend in the Prussian police department. You make of them what you will.

  “Fact number one. Van der Lubbe swore that someone helped him. He swore that someone gave him the petrol and the matches and told him where to start the fire.”

  “Of course he would say that. He’s mentally only half there.”

  “Fact number two,” Alemann went on calmly. “How did he get into the building? It was night. The building was closed. There were guards at the doors. Van der Lubbe swears that others took him in through a secret tunnel and showed him where to go and what to do.”

  “Oh, right,” Hans said sarcastically. “A secret tunnel. This is really a stretch, Alemann. And you’re calling this a miracle?”

  “No, Hans. Not a miracle. A ‘miracle.’ A miracle in quotation marks, because this miracle is not the work of God in any way. It is the work of men. Evil, wicked, conspiring men. They are the ones who created the miracle they needed.”