by A G Mogan
One year later, I met You, the bold, selfless, German soul. And when I saw your face, I saw something else as well: above you there was hovering a star. I feel now that my mission, whatever it was, is complete. And God is calling me to stand by his side again. Be not sad, my Son, as I shall go at peace, I shall leave happier than ever I came, knowing now that God truly exists. He has answered my prayer, through You. How wonderful is this very certainty with which I am taking leave of this earth?
Eternally, I shall watch over you.
Eckart
“Are you all right, Herr Hitler? Do you need assistance?” the guard inquires, surely alarmed by my violent sobs.
I raise my eyes from the letter to look at him. “I am fine, thank you…just mourning a good friend.”
That good friend is among the good now, on some mountain with the fresh wind caressing his face and enchanted birds singing magic songs to soothe his soul.
I turn his letter over and grab a pen. I shall dedicate my book to him, for he is part of it more than any other breathing soul ever was; he helped in creating the future of the Motherland with an enthusiasm that almost matched my own.
“To that man, who, as one of the best, by words and by thoughts and finally by deeds, dedicated his life to the awakening of his, of our nation: Dietrich Eckart.”
Rest your soul, good friend, right next to the greatest warrior spirits of all times.
It Was Written In The Skies
My trial begins on February the 26th, 1924. The Munich People’s Court accuses me, General Ludendorff, and a few others of high treason against the state. When the alleged accusation is read aloud, I burst loudly into laughter. A certain Herr Stenglein, the prosecuting attorney, raises his eyes and pierces me with a sharp, scornful look.
“My words amuse you, Herr Hitler?”
I clear my throat in an attempt to overcome my laughter. “It is not the words, Herr Stenglein, but the accusation in itself that amuses me! I feel myself to be no traitor, but the best of Germans, who wanted the best for his people.”
He turns his head to one side, perhaps so he could hear me clearer. “Hence, you do not consider yourself guilty? Do you admit that what you and your men did was lawfully wrong?”
“If I stand here as a revolutionary, it is against Revolution and crime! I am not guilty…there is no such thing as high treason against those who betrayed my country in 1918!”
A startling wave of applause erupts from the crowd gathered to witness my trial, and a realization rocks me: the courtroom is a huge stage for my oratory. If I use my best skill properly, perhaps they won’t deport me to Austria. I might even get acquitted. Or, if I am not acquitted, then at least they would know me for who I truly am: the most fanatic nationalist, who loves nothing more than Germany, our Motherland: the attorney’s country, now my own country, the country of every single soul attending my trial.
I thank the people with a bow of my head and continue.
“And what is, if I may ask, lawfully right or wrong? If the 1918 traitors sold my country, is it high treason, or even theft, on my part that I am trying to take back what had been stolen from me? Is it high treason or lawfully wrong that I want to give back to the people what rightfully belongs to them? Would you call that treason, Herr Stenglein? Taking back our rightful propriety?”
Every single man and woman in the courtroom stands up. Some whistle, some are applauding, and some are shouting my name and crying out for my release. The look on the attorney’s face is positively changed. He pierces me with his gaze again, but now there is no scorn, only admiration.
“I agree with some of the things you say, but we have laws, laws issued to protect us and to bring to justice those who fail to obey them. Do you not agree, Herr Hitler?”
“Not when these laws are promulgated by a corrupted state!” I shout.
The noisy clamor that follows this statement communicates, once again, that the audience agrees.
The attorney bangs his gavel repeatedly. “Silence!” he yells. “Silence!”
He turns to me again.
“You and your men assume no responsibility, whatsoever, is that correct, Herr Hitler?”
“I assume full responsibility for failing the putsch. The other political parties abandoned their responsibility of dealing with the whole problem, which will cause the death of Germany if not tackled, namely the Marxist movement. In my opinion this is the vital question for the German nation.”
“Can you explain to this court why you see the whole problem in the Marxist movement, please.”
“By Marxism I understand a teaching which rejects in principle the value of personality, and makes it possible that a German considers his own blood brother a mortal enemy and a class enemy, while he looks upon our real enemies, the English, the French, and even the completely racially alien Hottentots, as his own brothers. The second tool of Marxism is indiscriminate terror. No other movement has ever worked with such a thorough knowledge of the masses as the Marxism…it offers the worker the following alternative: either you become my brother or I crush your skull. We can never conclude peace with this Weltanschauung; as far as we are concerned, Germany will be rescued on the day when the last Marxist has been converted or smashed. There is no middle way. Not the bourgeoisie, but the German working people, the masses, must again become nationalistic! And if I am really accused of high treason, then I must wonder why those who did exactly the same as I did are not sitting here with me…I mean the gentlemen Kahr, Lossow, Seisser and all the others.”
“Herr Hitler, explain your relationship with these gentlemen.”
“Three years ago, we intended to hold fourteen meetings and introduce a propaganda campaign throughout Germany with the slogan: Down with the Ruhr traitors! But we were surprised by the banning of these mass meetings. I had met Herr von Kahr in 1920. Kahr had impressed me as being an honest official. I asked him why the fourteen mass meetings had been banned. The reason he gave me simply would not hold water. The real reason was something that could not be revealed. From the very first day the watchword was: Unlimited struggle against Berlin. The struggle against Berlin, as Dr. von Kahr would lead it, is a crime; one must have the courage to be logical and see that the struggle must be incorporated in the German national uprising. I said that all that had been made of this struggle was a Bavarian rejection of Berlin’s requests. But the people expected something other than a reduction in the price of beer, regulation of the price of milk and confiscation of butter tubs and other such impossible economic proposals – proposals which make you want to ask: who is the genius that is advising them? Every failure could only further enrage the masses, and I pointed out that while the people were now only laughing at Kahr’s measures, later on they would rise up against them. I said: “Either you finish the job - and there is only the political and military struggle left. When you cross the Rubicon, you must march on Rome. Or else you do not want to struggle; then only capitulation is left. The struggle had to turn toward the North; it could not be led by a purely Bavarian organization. I said: “The only man to head it is Ludendorff.”
I pause to rest my strained voice, and drink from one of the glasses of water placed at my disposal.
“Please continue,” the attorney urges me.
“So, I proposed Ludendorff, and Lossow and Seisser had no objections. I further explained to Lossow that right now nothing could be accomplished by petty economic measures. The fight was against Marxism. To solve this problem, not administrators were needed but firebrands who would be in a position to inflame the national spirit to the extreme. Kahr could not do that, I pointed out; the youth were not behind him. I declared that I could join them only on the condition that the political struggle was put into my hands alone. This was not impudence or immodesty; I believe that when a man knows he can do a job, he must not be modest. One thing was certain: Lossow, Kahr, and Seisser had the same goal that we had: to get rid of the Reich Government with its present international and parliamentary po
sition, and to replace it by an anti-parliamentary government. If our undertaking was actually high treason, then during this whole period Lossow, Seisser, and Kahr must have been committing high treason along with us, for during all those months we talked of nothing but the aims of which we now stand accused. How could we have called for a new government if we had not known that the gentlemen in power were altogether on our side? How else could we, two days before, have given such orders as: at 8:30 o’clock, such and such a government will be proclaimed? Lossow talked of a coup d’état. Kahr quite openly declared that he would give the word to strike. The only possible interpretation of this talk is that these men wanted to strike, but each lost their nerve. Our last conversation, on November 6, was for me the absolute confirmation of my belief that these men wanted too, but … ”
I talk for hours, being interrupted now and then only by the same clamor and applauses. I know I would be acquitted, for the atmosphere did not seem as a real trial at all, but an immense arena full of people gathered to listen to me.
Then, in March, at my last hearing, I have to make the best of my oratorical ability and speak uninterruptedly for four hours. When I reach my conclusion, the people are already frantic.
“The deed of November 8 did not fail! I believe that the time will come when the masses, which today stand with our swastika flags on the streets, will join forces with those who fired on us on November 9; that the hour will come when the Reichswehr soldiers will stand on our side.
Even now I have the proud hope that one day the hour is coming when these untrained bands will become battalions, when the battalions will become regiments and the regiments divisions. The hour of reconciliation will come in that eternal last Court of Judgment – the Court of God – before which we are ready to take our stand. Then from our bones, from our graves will sound the voice of that tribunal which alone has the right to sit in judgment upon us.
For it is not you, esteemed gentlemen, who pass the ultimate verdict on us, but the eternal Court of History, which will make its pronouncement upon the charge which is brought against us. What verdict you will hand down … that I know. But that Court will not ask of us: “Have you committed high treason or not?”
You may declare us guilty a thousand times over, but the Goddess who presides over the Eternal Court of History will, with a smile, tear in pieces the charge of the Public Prosecutor and the judgment of the Court: for she will acquit us!”
A strange silence overhangs the courtroom and I turn around to look at the people. As I do so, I notice the strangest thing. They are all crying.
“We cannot reproach you with selfishness,” the attorney says. “It is obvious that your actions were not prompted by personal ambition, but enthusiasm for the cause … we cannot deny you our respect, Herr Hitler.”
The sudden shift from watching the tears of my followers to hearing the attorney’s voice makes me experience physical pain. I turn to face him and bow down in gratitude for his words.
Thus, my trial ends with the empathetic tears of the people presiding over and attending to it, with tens of thousands of men, my supporters, jamming in front of the Ministry of Justice, shouting “Sieg Heil!” and “Heil Hitler!”
Ludendorff is acquitted. The bloody trio is never brought to justice. As for myself, I receive a minimum sentence of five years in my cell at Landsberg.
Once back in my cell, I sit at my table and write on the cover of my thick manuscript.
The trial of common narrow-mindedness and personal spite is over, and today starts my real struggle. My party is not merely a political party. Anyone who understands National Socialism only as a political movement knows virtually nothing about it. It is even more than religion. It is the will to a new creation of man. You will all see that soon. Adolf Hitler, the man, had been sentenced, yet Adolf Hitler, the Führer is yet to be born. When I come to power, may God have mercy on you!
Sweat drops fall on the papers and I hastily wipe them off with the sleeve of my uniform. Raising my head, I search for Hess with an eager eye. There he is, kneeling in a corner, like a punished dog.
“Stand up, Rudi!” I say curtly. “The putsch had to fail. I see that now. It was not the proper way to seize power. Yet again, I distrusted The Goddess of Destiny. But not anymore!”
Animated by my self-certainty, he reaches for my hand and kisses it.
“Mein Führer, oh, mein Führer, you indeed possess a mighty spirit.” Amused by his puppy eyes, I pat him reassuringly on the shoulder.
“Bring me Hanussen. I need to know if I’ll rot in here,” I order, then wave him off with my hand.
After Hess retreats to do my bidding, my mind flies to the time I met the person who was to become my personal astrologer, Erik Jan Hanussen. And because meeting him was through another association, this time with the person who was to become my photographer and life-long friend, Heinrich Hoffmann, I resolve to pull out of my memory the hilarious and yet fated story of meeting my dearest Hoffmann.
Some awkward circumstances brought us together a couple of years ago, and I realize that throughout my life I met most of my comrades in similar awkward conditions. It is strange how life brings some people together, as I have never searched for the company of others; indeed, others searched for my company and I only kept by my side whoever was of any use to me.
When I first laid eyes on Hoffmann, I had no intention to immortalize my person in pictures and there were several reasons for that decision. I was extremely camera-shy, being painfully self-conscious of my body. This shyness most likely dated back to the time I scrutinized myself carefully in the mirror and found missing parts to my body. Or perhaps it was from the time Stefanie’s mother looked at me as if I were the dreadful plague. I do not know which. But, I was convinced I would not make beautiful pictures.
My decision to not have pictures taken of me was also purely pre-meditated, being part of the intricate political game I had now played for some time.
Every person in Bavaria knew who Adolf Hitler was, yet few had ever seen him. This made them flock to my meetings, just to catch a glimpse of me in person, a glimpse of the one they had been reading about, but never seen. It was pure curiosity, the great political tool I engaged at the time, and still do. They wanted to see how I looked. I wanted them to hear how I spoke. If only they could hear me speak! I was constantly telling myself. Curiosity made them come to me by the thousands, but my words alone made them leave as enrolled members of my movement.
Additionally, there were others, like great international newspapers or photographic agencies that would pay as much as twenty thousand dollars to the person who succeeded in snapping a photograph of me. It was, and still is, an astoundingly high rate for a set of photographs, considering that a picture of Ebert, the President of the Republic, would sell for a meager five dollars.
And so, it was only natural for my friend, Hoffmann, to jump at such well-rewarded opportunity, not only because any photographer would have, but also because, knowing him as I know him today, he was the greatest shark of them all.
It is a gray gloomy day when I suddenly decide to pay a visit to the office of Völkischer Beobachter, the official Nazi newspaper. I am sitting in the front office, chatting with a spirited employee, when a tall, handsome man with blond hair and blue eyes approaches me. A pure Aryan! is my first thought of him. If only I had such blond hair!
“Forgive me, sir,” he says, approaching me, “is Eckart in yet?”
“Negative. I am waiting for him, too.” He excuses himself and leaves.
I linger at the office for about three hours, discussing the new format I want to implement for the newspaper, an American format, which no other paper in Germany had at the time. Another shrewd propagandistic tool, of course. I design the title-head myself, using Antiqua type, meant to draw the attention and to differentiate our newspaper from the rest. This creates quite a stir with the party members, who oppose my idea, though they know how unyielding I am, once my mind is set.
Leaving the office, I am startled by a flash of light, which temporarily blinds me.
“Ah! Another one!” I shout spitefully, and with a swift movement of my head, I order the SA men accompanying me to see to it. Rubbing my eyes, I enter the car, a green Selve. Through the car’s window, I see my men grabbing the photographer by his throat and snatching the camera from his hands, then exposing the plate to the light. There, that should have ruined the photo, I think to myself with amusement. As the car starts to move, I look at the confused, irritated, blond-and-blue Aryan I admired earlier and smile. He smiles back and disappears behind the car.
Shortly after this amusing incident, Hermann Esser, a member of my party and inner circle, invites me to his wedding breakfast, which is his wedding gift from a close and trusted friend. Weddings are among my few favorite events and I am excited to attend. For breakfast, we get together at his trusted friend’s house, somewhere on Schnorrstrasse, and I am pompously introduced to the master of the house and his guests.
“Adolf Hitler, ladies and gentlemen!” Esser shouts and a round of applause fills the room. “This is the host and a dear friend,” he continues, placing his hand on his friend’s shoulder. The tall, handsome, blond-and-blue Aryan shakes my hand.
“Ah, the thwarted photographer!”
He bows his head.
“Heinrich Hoffman. Welcome to my house, Herr Hitler. You are most welcome!”
“I am really very sorry that you were so rudely disturbed while taking your picture,” I say abjectly. “I hope today I shall have the opportunity of giving you a more detailed explanation of the circumstances.”