Hitler in Hell

by Martin van Creveld

With additional Reichswehr forces converging on the city, by the morning it was touch and go. Here I must hand it to Ludendorff; it was he who suggested that we “march.” His call proved disastrous in the short run. But in the long run it saved us and laid the foundation for the future. Informing the various groups of fighters and gathering them together took time. It was not until late in the morning that 3,000 men were finally ready to move.

  With Ludendorff, me, and some others at the head, we marched through the city. On our way we changed directions several times so as not to clash with the police, which had sealed off many streets. Wherever we went, crowds lined the pavement, cheering and wishing us good luck. Finally, we reached the Odeonsplatz, where about 100 policemen and soldiers stood waiting. A skirmish with fists and truncheons ensued, and someone fired a shot. Thereupon, the police leveled their rifles and loosened a salvo into us. As always happens in such cases, it seemed an eternity. But in fact it only lasted for about half a minute. When it ended, sixteen of our men, as well as four policemen, had been killed.

  With our people taking shelter or running in all directions, the Putsch almost immediately came to an end. I myself was pulled down by the dying Scheubner-Richter and hit the ground hard. My shoulder was dislocated, an injury so painful that only those who have gone through it can imagine it. Somehow I was able to reach Hanfstängl’s apartment, which was not far away. He was not at home; to avoid arrest, he had fled to Austria. So had Göring, who had taken a serious wound in the groin and was in even greater agony than me.

  The person who opened the door for me was Helene, Hanfstängl’s beautiful American wife. Later, he circulated tales that I was in hysterics, threatened to shoot myself, that she took the gun from my hand, and so on. He also said that, on another occasion, I had begged her to divorce him and marry me. All that is pure invention. It is true, though, that, in her efforts to cheer me up, she said that, without me, the Party would collapse. That, at any rate, gave me strength to face the future.

  Two days later, I surrendered to the police and was arrested. Three months after that my fellow conspirators and I were put on trial. By that time my injury had healed. I was feeling in top form as people often do when things get rough and there are obstacles to overcome. Defending myself, I told the court that we were idealists and had acted out of the best motives. I also assumed full responsibility for everything that had taken place. Should the judges condemn us, I said, history would smile and tear their verdict to pieces.

  The trial provided me with my first opportunity to address an audience not just in Bavaria but in the whole of Germany. A large contingent of foreign journalists also attended the proceedings. And it worked. All I was given were five years in prison with a promise of being released in less than a year. My associates got shorter terms; Ludendorff, the only one in our ranks who had not dropped to the ground but marched right into the police cordon and through it, was acquitted. He stormed and ranted, claiming that the verdict had insulted him and demanding to be re-arrested but to no avail. By letting the trio go, he had committed the worst blunder of the entire episode. From this point his influence declined very rapidly and he left the stage of history. To console him, in 1935 I offered him the rank of field marshal. But he, apparently still under the influence of his wife’s nutty ideas, refused.

  I shall not describe the time I spent at Landsberg in detail. As I said, it bore some similarity to my life here in Hell. Then, as now, there were no dogs around. Alas, but it seems the loyal creatures can only be found in Paradise. The guards were uniformly kind, and I bore them no grudge. Later, some of them even joined our movement. As to the cell in which I was held, it became an object of pilgrimage for Hitler Jugend and others. There is, however, one amusing detail I want to mention. The prison authorities allowed me to see about as many visitors as wanted to come. A great many of them were women. In fact it was a woman, Winifred Wagner, who gave me the paper on which first Maurice and then Hess took down my dictation of Mein Kampf. Asked who they were and why they had come, the ladies would come up with all kinds of fictitious blood relationships. One of the wardens, I am told, commented that never had he met anyone who had so many mothers.

  Have you ever listened to Beethoven’s Egmont Overture? I have done so many times, both during my sojourn on earth and here in Hell. The story is about a sixteenth-century Dutch nobleman, Count Lamoral of Egmont. In 1568 he rose to liberate his country from the Spanish yoke, was caught, and died on the scaffold. His spirit, though, did not die with him. Instead, it rose from the grave and became much more powerful, much more inspiring, than it ever had been during his life. All this Beethoven, our ur-German Beethoven, captured in his music. Not for nothing did I fund a new monument for him in Bonn! Similarly, our Putsch, precisely because it had failed and because some of our men had sacrificed their lives for the cause and died, became a symbol and legend.

  Legends have their own way of developing. Ours having been born, year by year our own propagandists and others embroidered on it and added to it. The swastika flag we had carried was salvaged. Later, someone had the idea of calling it the Blutfahne, or blood banner. Year by year, whenever a new SA unit received its colors, I, as the Führer, used to consecrate those colors by touching them with one hand and the Blutfahne with the other. Next, looking the commanders straight in the eye, so as to impress them with the seriousness of the moment, I would shake hands with them. After our seizure of power, we started re-enacting the march year by year. And I would address my old comrades at the Bürgerbräukeller just as I had done in 1923.

  The Putsch also taught us, or at any rate me, a few important things. Some historians have described my SA men, as they were at the time, as a well-disciplined, heavily armed force. In fact they were neither. By their looks, they had escaped from a concentration camp! It is true that Röhm, thanks to his ties with the Reichswehr, had been able to obtain arms for them. But on no occasion were they used to open fire on the representatives or order. That apart, many of them were raw youths—rowdies, to call them by their proper name—who had never received any real training. Quite a few would not have known how to use a rifle if they had tried. Except for that one occasion at the Odeonsplatz which proved decisive for all of us, the police did not use their weapons either. Whatever else, civil war was averted.

  Taking a wider view, it was clear that we had underestimated the strength of the Republic. It might not have taken strong roots among the people, many of whom were looking back in nostalgia. How could it, given that it was led by a bunch of traitors and mealy-mouthed democrats who, to quote Eckart, where always shivering in their wet pants? But neither were they ready to fight it, let alone risk their lives to replace it with some other regime.

  One reason was simple fatigue. Nine years after the outbreak of the World War I and five after it had ended, the only thing most of our countrymen wanted was stability so that they could finally start repairing the immense damage they had suffered. Another was the outcome of the presidential election which was held, for the first time, in March 1925. It resulted in the election of Field-Marshal Paul von Hindenburg, the man who, starting in 1915-16, had been venerated like no other person in the whole of Germany.

  I do not want to imply that Hindenburg was some sort of super-competent genius. He was not. During the World War a gigantic statue of him had been erected in Berlin. In return for a few pennies, people were invited to take up a hammer and drive nails into his body. This led one of his English biographers, John Wheeler-Bennet, to call him the Wooden Titan, a name that suited him very well. A monarchist at heart, he never thought he would play the role he eventually did and always resented having had to do so. And it was no wonder because, at the time he assumed office, he was already seventy-eight years old. His great strengths were iron nerves, unflappability, and the kind of courage a person in his position needs to appear in public without a bodyguard. Even more important was his willingness to accept responsibility. Always somewhat slow, though, a leading intellectual
light he had never been.

  To return to my proper subject, what I learned from the attempted uprising was that Germany was not Italy. As the Blackshirts marched on Rome, the Italian army and police stood aside and did nothing. That was not what happened in our case. I therefore concluded that, in the future, we would have to limit ourselves to legal methods. Many of my colleagues did not like the decision. That was especially true of our SA fighters. They felt we were a revolutionary movement and were always thirsting for action. Recalling the history of the French Revolution and punning on the words equality and legality, some of them used to call me Adolph legalité! I, however, held firm. As I used to tell my colleagues, we should hold our noses and enter the Reichstag, always with the objective, of course, first of using that institution for our own ends and then blowing it sky-high. There simply was no other way.

  Finally, in all modesty, the Putsch, the trial, and the time I spent in Landsberg taught me a lot about myself as well as the role I might play in the history of my country. I had, after all, come from humble origins. Though I had always had a feeling that there might be something special about me, even as late as the trial that followed the Putsch I was still thinking of myself merely as a “drummer.” As I told the court, my task was to call the minds together in preparation for the great national leader to come. Early on, I even thought that the name of that leader might be Herr General Erich Ludendorff. That was one reason why I courted him as much as I did.

  As I said earlier, though, Ludendorff proved a deep disappointment. A great soldier he had been. But a great popular tribune capable of rallying the masses he was certainly not. Or perhaps, having been born in 1865, he was simply getting too old for the role he would have loved to play but could not. It was during my stay at Landsberg that the consciousness first dawned on me that I myself might have been selected by Providence to lead the nation in its time of crisis. The coming years were to provide ample confirmation of that understanding.

  8. My Happiest Years

  As Nietzsche wrote, whatever does not kill me strengthens me. For me, that proved to be the case. I emerged from Landsberg much stronger and more self-confident than I had ever been. The months I spent here provided a welcome period of rest after the excitement, exertions, and dangers of the previous ten years. They also gave me the leisure one needs to think and to plan ahead.

  I left prison on 20 December 1924 after thirteen months inside. Ere I did so I gave all my cash, 282 marks, to my comrades who had to stay behind. What a feeling, being free! Not expecting a hard hand on my shoulder took some weeks getting used to. My first destination was Hanfstängl’s brand-new villa in Munich. His son, four-year-old Egon, was very glad to meet me again. In days past I had imitated the sounds of every kind of artillery for him. Now I obliged him by doing it again. I asked Hanfstängl, who was a very fair pianist, to play for me. Listening to Isolde’s Liebestod relaxed me. It was just the kind of music that used to bring tears to my eyes! Landsberg had made me put on weight because our wealthy visitors brought us so much good food that our dining room resembled a delicatessen shop. That same evening, when dinner came, I told Hanfstängl of my decision to stop eating meat and drinking alcohol. This was a decision I kept until the end of my days.

  Coming up for air, I soon discovered that the Party, which I had created almost single handedly and in which I had invested so much energy, had more or less gone to pieces. I had appointed Rosenberg as my successor during my absence. After all, most of the rest were either in prison or else had fled across the border. Unfortunately, he proved totally unable to do what had to be done. He had always been primarily a man of words, not action. His haughty manner and tendency towards Besserwisserei (knowing everything better) also drove away many supporters. The heads of the various local organizations spent their time fighting each other tooth and nail. Meanwhile, what little funding we had trickled and dried up. In the end it was the women—Frau Bruckmann, Frau Bechstein, and a few others—who somehow prevented the worst. For that the Party, and I personally, are eternally grateful to them.

  Officially, my status was that of an ex-convict with a criminal record. Therefore, my first care was to rehabilitate myself. I was able to arrange some meetings with the Minister-President of Bavaria, Heinrich Held, a Center (Catholic) politician who had taken over from Knilling. I convinced the elderly gentleman that, from now on, I would only use legal means in my quest for power. That too was a promise I rigorously kept. True, the tactics our SA used in dealing with opponents were not always exactly delicate. How could they be, given the nature of the Red opposition? But at no time thereafter could anyone accuse me of planning anything similar to the 1923 escapade, let alone trying to carry it out.

  The meetings went well, as is made clear by the fact that, shortly afterward, most of my imprisoned comrades were also released. The Party, which in the aftermath of the Putsch had been banned, was once again permitted to exist and act in the open. With Hoffmann’s help, I rented a suite to serve as our headquarters. As early as 16 February, even our Völkischer Beobachter, whose masthead I personally had designed in such a way as to distinguish it from the rest, was able to resume publication. It provided Rosenberg with a field of activity for which he was much better suited than for leading any kind of organization. The next step was to reestablish my control over the Party. I was, after all, their greatest asset by far, being the only person able to attract large numbers of people and make them join our cause. I was holding the trump card, and I made sure they never forgot it.

  Still, it was anything but easy. Dealing with the heterogeneous lot who had used my absence to fish in troubled waters demanded all my energy and my powers of persuasion. The fact that I was banned from speaking to assemblies of non-Party members—until 1927 in all of Germany and until 1928 in Prussia as the largest German state by far—did not make things any easier. In Berlin and elsewhere the ruling gentlemen, when they spoke of freedom, only meant their own! Swallowing my rage at this insult, I did what politicians do. I gathered supporters. I cajoled, I charmed, and, yes, I flattered leaders. I built coalitions. I got rid of some comrades who, often claiming to act in the name of this or that crackpot program, did not want to listen to me or accept my authority as Führer. Who first used that title, incidentally, I have no idea. It just floated about until more and more people took it up.

  The climax of my campaign arrived on 27 February 1925 during a meeting at the Bürgerbräukeller, the very same place in which we had mounted our Putsch. Some of my most important collaborators refused to attend or were unable to do so. One of them was Rosenberg, who was in a funk. Others were Göring, who was still convalescing, and Röhm, who was trying to reestablish his own National Socialist Freedom Party. That old foggy, Drexler, was present and still trying to prove that he was somebody. In the end the chair was taken by my trusted business manager, Max Amman. Three hours before I arrived the hall was already packed to capacity. Others crowded the streets outside. I spoke for two hours. I explained the reasons for the plight Germany was in, demanded that all of them forget their differences and unite so as to save her, and predicted that the road ahead would be long and hard. I also demanded full authority—I would brook no opposition—and ended by having all the various leaders meet and swear undying loyalty to me as the leader of the Party. That ceremony having been performed, the applause simply would not come to an end.

  The elections that gave Hindenburg the presidency also finished off Ludendorff. Influenced by his dear Mathilde, Ludendorff had been assuming a more and more anti-Catholic stance. Doing so in Catholic Bavaria was a foolish move that could not and did not take him anywhere. Not surprisingly, he got just one percent of the vote. He promptly threw in the towel and retired to a villa in Tutzing, near Munich, where he and Mathilde went on spouting their drivel. Our own results were no better, but I did not let that trouble me too much. My main task now was to further consolidate the Party. Again, it was anything but easy. The most important obstacle was Otto Strass
er’s older brother Gregor. A Bavarian by birth and a pharmacist by trade, this Strasser was a gifted speaker second only to myself. Previously, as a member of the Freikorps, he had taken an active part in the suppression of Communism in Munich. He also participated in our Putsch. Tried and sentenced to prison, he was elected to the Reichstag as a representative of the Völkisch Block. In May 1924 he was freed.

  When the Party was reestablished, I put Strasser in charge of our propaganda department and sent him to build up our organization in the north. He did so with considerable success. He was so successful, in fact, that at one point his part of the organization counted more members than mine did. The trouble with Strasser was that, then and later, he did not strictly follow the Party line. Along with many members of the SA, he developed radical socialist ideas that I could not and would not accept. He even wanted to replace our 25-Point Program! It took a national meeting of our Party, which was held in Munich in February 1926, to more or less paper over the differences. Though the future was to show that my problems with him had by no means ended, I was able to draw his associate, Dr. Joseph Goebbels, then a young man with an outstanding gift for propaganda, over to my side. It was easy; all I had to do was send my chauffeur-driven Mercedes to pick him up at the railway station. Later, too, rarely did he ask for anything but a pat on the head.

  There things rested, more or less. Over the next few years I lived for the Party. For twenty-four hours a day I spoke and organized, organized and spoke. While I always took care to tailor my speeches to the occasion and to the audience, more and more I focused on the essential points. They were, not necessarily in that order, the need to reverse the Revolution of November 1918; to oppose Marxism with all our might; to oppose the Jews by disenfranchising them and removing them from all public posts (a sentence or two in Mein Kampf notwithstanding, the idea that all of them would have to be killed only came much later); the need for casting off the shackles imposed on us at Versailles and rebuilding our armed forces; and, finally, the need for additional territory to secure our daily bread. I presented these ideas as I saw fit, now in one way, now another, and always adding new examples to illustrate them. I must have been convincing, for over time there grew around me a veritable cult. It was one Goebbels, who tended toward hero worship, encouraged as much as he could.