The Proud Shall Stumble

by Gerald N. Lund

  A visceral roar of anger exploded from the crowd. Adolf grabbed the microphone and shouted into it. “I say unto you, the Marxist and the Jew are our enemies, and if our government continues to support our enemies, then they become our enemies too.” Now his face was a mask of fury and he was punching the air with his fist as he spoke. “In this struggle of ours there are only two possible outcomes: either the government passes over our bodies, or we pass over theirs!”

  Hitler stepped back, breathing hard. Every person in the room was on his or her feet now, bellowing out cries of acclamation. Adolf stepped forward again, stiffened to attention, and saluted the cheering crowd. “Sieg Heil!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Hail victory!”

  The hall was a large room—large enough to accommodate four thousand people—and now all four thousand arms were in the air. Four thousand voices cried as one: “Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!”

  Adolf stood there, rigid as a marble statue, accepting the adulation. Then, as it began to die, he returned to his seat between Hans and Rudolf. He was staring straight ahead and seemed barely aware of them. That’s good, Hans thought. If he turns and asks me what I thought, I don’t know what I’ll say.

  But after a moment, Adolf leaned over to Rudolf, who was quickly looking for the sheet he had been given to use in conducting the meeting. “Rudolf! I don’t want to talk to anyone right now. Tell them I am not feeling well. Or make whatever excuse you want.” He stood again, barked a command at the two S.A. men standing in front of the podium, and disappeared.

  Rudolf got up and signaled for silence. As soon as he could be heard, he quickly thanked the people, apologized for the Führer, who had a acquired a severe migraine from speaking in the stuffy hall, and dismissed the crowd. Only then did Hans get slowly to his feet and start for the table where his family was waiting. Though he was briefly startled when he saw that Emilee was no longer there, he was not really surprised.

  9:11 p.m.

  Hans pushed his way through the crowd that was still mingling around the speaker’s platform, ignoring those who were shouting at him and mostly wanting to know whether Hitler would return to shake hands.

  As he reached the table, Paula was the first to speak. “I’m sorry, Hans. That last part really upset her. She couldn’t bear it any longer.”

  “I know,” Hans said quietly. “That part was a total surprise to us as well. Where is she going to meet you?”

  Wolfie spoke up. “She’s not waiting for us, Hans. She said she was going to walk to the trolley stop and catch the first trolley home.”

  That shocked Hans. “She’s riding alone on the trolley at this time of night?”

  Wolfie nodded glumly. Ernst and Landra now moved over to join them. “I started after her,” Ernst said, “but she waved me off with a pretty sharp look.”

  “What do you think upset her so?” Landra asked, genuinely concerned.

  Hans shrugged, even though he was pretty sure what it was. Paula answered. “The talk about morality. The cry to fight. The promise that the war isn’t over.”

  Landra seemed surprised by that. “I thought that was wonderful. I’ve never heard it expressed so clearly. And I think Hitler is the man to lead us when that time comes.”

  Ignoring that, Hans looked to Ernst and Wolfie. “You shouldn’t have let her go,” he said.

  “They tried to stop her, Hans, but she was very upset,” Paula explained. “She wouldn’t listen.”

  No surprise there. Hans sighed, knowing what was going to be waiting for him when he got home. He looked at Paula. “I know Adolf is going to want to talk about this, and probably at some length.” In his mind he added, If he doesn’t, I will! “So I don’t know how soon I’ll be home.” Then an idea came to him. He felt guilty the second it entered his mind, but it had instant appeal. He spoke to Paula. “This could take two or three hours,” he said. “If so, I’ll have missed the last trolley, so tell Emilee that—”

  “Just call me, Hans,” Wolfie broke in. “I’ll come and get you.”

  “No, no. There’s a small hotel just around the corner from Town Hall. I’ll grab a room there. But, Paula, will you call Emilee when you get home and tell her not to worry if I don’t get home tonight?”

  “I will. She’ll understand.” Paula bit her bottom lip. “She’s not angry at you, Hans. She’s just upset by. . . . Well, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  He felt a nudge on his elbow. “Hans?” It was Ernst. He turned. “Herr Hess is trying to get your attention.”

  When Hans turned, his heart plummeted. Rudolf was still on the stand. A clot of people three and four deep was still gathered around it, partially blocking his view, but Hans saw that Rudolf was motioning frantically for him to get over there.

  “Gotta go,” he said to the others. He grasped Paula’s hand for a moment. “Be sure to call Emilee.”

  “I will.”

  Hans spun around and started making his way through the crowd. As he got closer to the stand he almost stopped as he felt his heart lurch. Two men in the green uniforms of the Bavarian State Police—one of whom had a captain’s bars on his shoulders—were on the stand with Rudolf, and they were talking quite vigorously with him. Or at him. Twice Rudolf turned and pointed toward the hall that led to the back rooms—which was the way Hitler had gone. Were they here to arrest him? Surely, Rudolf wouldn’t be telling them where to find him.

  But just as Hans shouldered his way through the last couple of men and started up the stairs to the stand, the two soldiers stiffened to attention. They both saluted Hess, jumped down lightly from the stand, and started for the door. Hans felt a whoosh of relief. They were headed for the back doors, not for the hallway where Adolf had gone.

  Rudolf turned just as Hans reached him. “What is it, Rudolf?” Hans blurted.

  Without a word, he handed Hans a plain white envelope. As he took it, Hans saw that there was no writing on the envelope and that one end of it was torn off. A single, folded sheet of paper was inside.

  “Was ist das?” he asked.

  “Read it,” was all Hess said.

  He did so. Rudolf moved closer to read along with him.

  27/2/1925

  Herr Adolf Hitler

  President and Chief Executive Officer, National Socialist Party

  Herr Hitler,

  This letter is to be considered as an official notification. Due to your inflammatory language and the openly seditious threats you made against the government of the State of Bavaria this evening at the Bürgerbräukeller, you are hereby notified that you have violated the conditions of your parole. You are, therefore, hereby forbidden to engage in public speaking of any kind for a period of two years. This restriction will end on 26 February 1927 assuming no further violations are found.

  If you continue to foment revolution against the government, your parole will be revoked and you will immediately be remanded to the custody of the Bavarian State Police, and they will return you to Landsberg Prison to serve out the remainder of your five-year prison sentence.

  Respectfully,

  Otto von Seisser, Commanding Officer

  Bavarian State Police

  The scrawl over the title was clearly the signature of the last remaining member of the triumvirate that Adolf Hitler had tried to overthrow.

  Hans gave a low whistle. “They may as well cut off his hands.”

  Rudolf was frowning as he read it again. “This is dated today. Which means it had to have been typed before our meeting even began.”

  “Which means,” Hans said with a groan, “that they knew that he could not restrain himself and decided to cut him off at his boots.” He felt like swearing. Or throwing something. He had warned Adolf. Not once, but several times.

  Rudolf sighed wearily. “I hope he hasn’t left yet. He needs to see it.”

&
nbsp; “Agreed. But I’ve got to head out so I don’t miss my trolley.” No way did he want to be there when Adolf read it, and the trolley schedule was an easy excuse to leave, even if he didn’t actually plan on going home.

  Rudolf grimaced, knowing exactly what Hans was doing. Then he snapped his fingers. “Oh, that reminds me. The Führer wants you at his flat tomorrow morning at nine.”

  Hans’s head lifted slowly. “Just me? Not you?”

  Rudolf shook his head. “He’s got me dealing with some other problems. Can I give you a lift? I have a car. Just let me give this to—”

  “No,” Hans said hurriedly. “I’m all right. Thanks anyway.” In his mind, Hans was picturing what was waiting for him if he went home now, and he had already decided to grab that room in the hotel. The battle waiting for him could wait until tomorrow.

  “Okay,” Hess said. “Try not to think about it tonight. That’s what I’m going to do.”

  “Yeah,” Hans replied glumly. “Good luck with that.”

  Chapter Notes

  The first meeting held by the Nazi Party after they had been allowed to function again was held on February 27, 1925. I could only find brief descriptions of what went on that night, but Shirer does say that near the end of his speech, Hitler forgot himself and used highly inflammatory language. That led the government to restrict him from any public speaking for two years, though it is unlikely that they delivered that notice the same night.

  Since we don’t have a record of what Hitler said that night, I have drawn from his writings in Mein Kampf, which was very much on his mind at this point in his life. As noted in the last chapter, Shirer has an extensive treatment on outside influences that shaped Hitler’s later thinking, including some of the great German philosophers. The quotes attributed to Heinrich von Treitschke and Friedrich Nietzsche here have been reworded somewhat to make them flow more naturally for the modern reader.

  February 28, 1925, 8:56 a.m.—

  Outside of Hitler’s Apartment, Munich

  Stomping his feet against the cold and cursing himself for not thinking to bring gloves, Hans paced back and forth trying to keep warm. The fog was starting to lift a little with the scattered sunlight finally breaking through the light overcast, but it would be another hour or so before it softened the bitter chill down here at street level.

  Hans was also cursing himself for even being here. Why did this man hold such a grip on him? Why did he feel compelled to respond to Adolf’s request after the man had gone contrary to all the counsel and advice he and Rudolf had given him? It had been a miserable night. The hotel was clean but the mattress was lumpy and the duvet too thin to keep out the cold, even with the radiators knocking and clanging all night long. Hans hadn’t brought his toiletry things with him because it had never occurred to him that he would be staying overnight. Now he felt like a bum. His whiskers itched, his hair—combed only with his fingers after wetting it down—was only a cut or two above a rat’s nest, and his leg ached abominably.

  To top it off, as he had started for the trolley stop, he had realized that he did not have Hitler’s exact address. He vaguely remembered where it was, but he had no idea which trolley line he needed to get him there or what stop would be closest. And he was afraid that he didn’t have enough money to cover a taxi. So he had walked.

  Most of all, he dreaded what lay in store for him. Adolf would be in a towering rage, of that Hans was sure. How much of that would be aimed at Hans, he didn’t know. How much would Adolf blame himself? Hans grunted in disgust. “Not nearly enough,” he muttered.

  He reached down and massaged his bad leg and then straightened and walked across the street.

  9:02 a.m.—Hitler’s Apartment, Munich

  To Hans’s surprise, when Adolf opened the door, he was in slippers and a robe. But he was freshly shaved and his hair was combed. “Guten morgen, Hans,” Adolf said, opening the door wider and inviting him in.

  “Guten morgen, Adolf.”

  As he shut the door and turned to face Hans, Adolf motioned toward the small table. There were two cups of steaming coffee on saucers and two empty dinner plates with a table knife beside each one. In the center of the table was a long baguette and a small dish of orange marmalade. No butter, Hans noticed. Just the marmalade. “Have you had breakfast yet?” Adolf asked.

  “Actually, no,” Hans replied.

  “Then sit.”

  Watching Adolf out of the corner of his eye, Hans took the far seat. His friend looked rested and fit and seemed to be in a reflective mood. There were no dark clouds hovering over the room. Adolf broke the baguette in half and handed one of the pieces to Hans and then pushed the marmalade toward him. As Hans broke his half into two pieces and smeared them both with marmalade, Adolf sat back and watched him. “Rough night?” he asked. There was a twinkle of amusement in his eye.

  Hans chuckled ruefully. “I decided not to risk missing the trolley, so I stayed in a small hotel near the plaza.” After taking a bite of the roll and a sip of his coffee, Hans added, “I wouldn’t recommend the place very highly.”

  Adolf nodded and lifted his cup, drank carefully, and set it down again. Hans pushed the marmalade back to him, deliberately not meeting his gaze, not sure quite yet how to read Adolf’s demeanor. He didn’t sense any underlying anger or frustration. No pent-up explosion waiting to erupt. It was as if there had been no official letter last night. Had he left the beer hall before Rudolf had given it to him?

  They ate in silence for a moment. Adolf blew on his coffee, took another drink of it, and sat back, watching Hans as he ate. He seemed lost in his own thoughts. Hans said nothing, not eager to break the silence. Eventually he sat back, his gaze fixed on the one small window in the room.

  “Have you kept up on what is happening with the mark?” Adolf asked abruptly.

  Startled, Hans quickly nodded. “Somewhat.”

  “Tell me what your thoughts are.”

  This was not what Hans had expected, so he thought for a moment, took another sip of coffee, and said, “Well, a year ago if you had told me that we would have a stable currency, that the economy would be booming, that unemployment would be down to less than a million men, and that people would actually be saying kind things about the government they have hated with such passion for years, I would have thought you were out of touch with reality. And yet that is what we see. It is quite astonishing.”

  “And it definitely does not work in our favor.”

  “True. Revolution is not on the people’s minds like it was a year ago.”

  “But it is a paper prosperity, Hans. Just as it was a paper inflation. The good times cannot last. This recovery is not the result of the strength of the Fatherland but comes from the strength of others who are propping us up with their massive loans and investments in our industry and infrastructure.”

  Hans nodded and began talking. The papers were saying that loans and investments from American financiers were approaching seven billion dollars now, and that didn’t count the massive loan the U.S. government had given to jump-start the new Reich’s currency. Output in Germany was rising rapidly as the direct result of that influx of capital. In 1923, the output of German factories and businesses had dropped to fifty-five percent of what it was in 1914. Now it was steadily rising again. It was predicted that in two more years, it would reach the prewar level. The single biggest indicator of how well the economy was doing was that retail sales were up twenty percent over the previous year. This was solid proof that the economic recovery was trickling down to individuals and families.

  “Yes,” Adolf cut in after that comment. “And these are the people that we rely on for our support—the lower-middle classes, the millions and millions of shopkeepers, bootmakers, cobblers, factory workers, farmers, small family businesses owners, and other non-salaried workers. No wonder our membership has slipped so far this last year. These people are
sharing in this general prosperity.”

  Hans murmured his agreement and started to eat the other half of his bread. He was still wary. Was this Adolf’s way of leading up to what had happened last night? Was he going to say anything about the disastrous effects of his putting aside his prepared notes and calling for the overthrow of the government? It certainly didn’t appear so.

  “But we know that it is not real prosperity, not real solid economic growth,” Adolf continued. “It is all sustained by borrowing money or taking money from others who are not our own people. And that weakens us, Hans. It doesn’t strengthen us. It just makes us beholden to other masters.”

  Adolf was starting to get excited as he spoke, and his voice rose accordingly. “And look at what else the Republic is doing with that money. They are extending grants and loans to the individual states, cities, and municipalities. And they in turn are creating vast social services for the population—unemployment insurance, old-age security benefits, free medical clinics. They’re building lavish community swimming pools, sports stadiums, theaters, new schools.”

  “And that’s bad?” Hans ventured.

  “No!” Adolf cried. “It’s brilliant! And it’s working. The government is buying the votes of the people. They’re purchasing their loyalty. People are happy. People are content. No one is talking about revolution anymore.”

  Except that’s what you did last night.

  “But, Hans, this growth, this bubble of prosperity, cannot last forever. Why? Because the money isn’t coming from our own resources. It is borrowed money, and sooner or later the borrowers call in their debts. And when we cannot pay them, then they have us right where they want us. Mark my words, not many years shall pass and once again we shall see the power elite, the wealthy industrialists, the landed families, the Jews who control the financial centers of the world, and all the other parasites take over again. And the common people will be shocked to the core when they learn that the same old masters are once again making them dance at the end of the string.”