This was Himmler's night and he was indeed a genius. No place could be more perfect than this moss-covered, dank castle, its cold halls stalked by Teutonic ghosts who had died jousting for the pleasure of ancient kings or clashing broadswords on some forgotten battlefield.
Himmler's cold, mouselike features wavered in the yellow torchlight and his jaws twitched as he tried to control his emotions. He loved the night. It matched the darkness of his soul and the mad fantasy he had brought to life in this eerie fortress. His ghoulish imagination had created a nightmare Camelot, a flagitious Round Table whose homicidal knights now had a secret headquarters in which to swear allegiance to their new king, Adolf Hitler. Not to the Fatherland—to Hitler.
Thirty-six newly graduated SS officers stood in their black uniforms, eyes ablaze with hypnotic fervor, their passionate oath to defend Hitler to the death echoing in the silolike stone tower while the wind soughed and whipped the torch flames into a frenzy. They stepped forth, four at a time, to touch the consecrated battle standard, the swastika, a perversion of the Sanskrit svastika, a religious symbol to the Hindus, its four points representing the animal and spirit worlds, hell and earth. The left-hand swastika adopted by the Nazis stood for darkness, for Kali, goddess of murder, for black magic and witchcraft. To simply touch the cloth of this flag was sexually stimulating to some of the initiates.
The new black knights of the Third Reich returned to their places on the winding stone staircase, raised their arms and cried out:
"Heil Hitler! . . . Heil Hitler! . . . Heil Hitler!"
They had touched the consecrated flag and taken the oath of fealty to Hitler. Now Himmler walked up the steps followed by Heydrich, giving each of the initiates a sword and scabbard to be worn only at official ceremonies. And each was given the long knife, their dagger of authority.
What a moment for Himmler! Hitler had given him full responsibility for creating the Schutzstaffel and he had gone about it with a vengeance, combining the mission of the SS with his own fantasy, spending three million reichsmarks to renovate the ancient castle known as Wewelsberg outside Paderborn in the heart of Westphalia. Just as the Nazis had perverted the swastika, Himmler had perverted Christian holidays into SS holidays—pagan rituals to celebrate Hitler's birthday, the anniversary of the Beer Hall Putsch, harvest and spring festivals; had created a funeral service straight out of the Dark Ages, a midnight, torchlit ritual climaxed by cremation; had combined witchcraft and mythology into a pseudoreligious order. And he conscripted and nurtured men who disavowed Christianity in favor of darker spirits; who worshipped Ares and other gods of war; who were matched in marriage to Aryan maidens selected by their commanding officers; who dreamed chaos, murder and unspeakable atrocity, their psychoses nourished by the Third Reich and encouraged to flourish by the Fiihrer.
Thus the SS was born; a madhouse government within the government, bound by no laws, with awesome powers and its own secret police, the SD. Hitler's private army created in the mind of Himmler. But if Himmler had created the machine, Hitler had given it its perverted soul. Racism, Hitler had written in Mein Kampf, would give the Germans "blood" and "soul." It would identify a common "enemy." It would restore the self-confidence and enhance the ego of the German people. So, he had ordered Himmler to create the SS. It would enforce this Nazi tenet and Goebbels would publicize it. Hate, terror, lies, these were the spine of the Nazi Third Reich.
Vierhaus stared down at Himmler, standing at the base of the staircase, looking up at the new troopers spiraling up and around him. Himmler smiled smugly. Treachery begets treachery, Vierhaus thought to himself. The SS would become Hitler's avenging army against his onetime friend Röhm, now turned traitor, and his maverick SA brownshirts.
"You are now members of the greatest order in history, Die Schutzstaffel," Himmler said. "Tomorrow you will take part in a great adventure, one which will tell the world that our great leader, Adolf Hitler, is Germany. And we are the true knights of the Third Reich. We are his army. Sieg Heil!"
"Sieg heil!" they answered.
"Sieg heil!"
"Sieg heil!" they answered.
"Sieg heil!"
"Sieg heil!" they answered.
Himmler raised his dagger over his head.
"Go with God," he cried.
Everything seemed right but the weather.
Saturday, June 30, 1934, had been the day picked by Himmler for Operation Kolibri, "Hummingbird." Hitler had accepted the date without question, for if Göring was the obese Falstaff to Hitler's king, Himmler was the Führer's Merlin. Himmler had relied on his mystic powers, his understanding of the occult, witchcraft, astrology, and numerology, to arrive at the date. He conjured the spirits and advised his leader that the weekend was the perfect time for Operation Kolibri. Himmler was the ultimate magician of the Third Reich. He could even manufacture evidence out of thin air if the Führer needed it.
It was Himmler who had invented Hummingbird, as they all had come to call it, and drawn up the basic blueprints, although everyone ultimately contributed something to the dark plot. Theodor Eicke, the sadistic manager of Dachau, had drawn up the initial list, even going back through old news accounts seeking names that might have otherwise been forgotten or overlooked. Himmler and Göring added their own victims to the growing roll. Then Heydrich dropped a few names in the hat. Hitler had even invited Vierhaus to add his names to the list but the deformed little box of a man declined.
"Danke, mein Führer," he said. "My enemies are all dead already."
So the list grew. Not only leaders of the brownshirt Sturmabteilung , but political opponents and old enemies appeared. By the end of June there were over three thousand names on the deadly roster.
The schizoid path of deception and betrayal eventually led to the town of Bad Godesberg, near Bonn, and a quaint hotel called the Dresen which overlooked the Rhine River. In his suite on the second floor, Hitler brooded. His round, astonished eyes glared up into the southern skies, prematurely dark from the storm clouds that were broiling up between Bonn and Munich. Occasionally a jagged arrow of lightning would etch the contours of the river, followed by rumbling drums of thunder.
He stood in the open French doors that led to the balcony, his hands stiff behind his back, his shoulders hunched. The weather had to clear, he said to himself, smacking his fist into his open palm several times. It was crucial that the weather clear. His dinner of vegetables and fruit sat untouched. The room seemed to crackle with tension. Vierhaus, who was smugly honored by being invited to sit with the Führer on this important night, had never seen him look so gaunt and edgy. Hitler's eyes were ringed with deep, dark circles and they seemed even more feverish than usual. His cheek twitched uncontrollably.
He had made his old friend, Ernst Röhm, probably the best recruiter and trainer of militia in the world, head of the Sturmabteilung and Röhm had built it from 600,000 men to 3 million in one year, an amazing feat. And then Ernst had developed ideas of his own. Dark delusions. Now it was obvious he planned to use the SA to overthrow Hitler.
A born soldier, Hitler's inner voice screamed, a street soldier, only happy when dealing in death. Why did he turn on me? How could he be so disloyal?
Hitler saw in these elements a truly Wagnerian tragedy. Two magnificent schemers pitted against each other. One of his oldest friends. Now his greatest enemy. Such irony.
And yet, Hitler could still not bring himself to initiate Hummingbird. He had to be sure. He still had to have evidence that his old friend had turned traitor.
He went back in the sitting room. Vierhaus was sitting on the sofa reading a newspaper. He put it aside when Hitler came back.
"I need a cigarette," Hitler said. "You have a cigarette, Willie?"
"Gauloises?"
"Anything. Just a cigarette," he said with a wave of his hand. He took it and leaned over for the light, then strode the room, smoking like an amateur, holding the butt between thumb and forefinger, taking short puffs, blowing the smoke out in bursts.
"I did everything I could for him," he said finally. "Didn't I write him a letter of thanks at New Year's?"
"Yes, mein Führer."
" ‘I thank you for the imperishable service you have rendered,'" Hitler said with mock grandeur, wafting his arms as he spoke. " ‘It is an honor—an honor, yet—to number such men as you among my friends and comrades-in-arms.' "
He stamped his right foot angrily and slapped both fists against his legs.
"What do I get in return," his voice began to rise. "Betrayal. Lies. Treason!"
"Yes, mein Führer."
"This man was my friend!" he roared, shaking his fists at the ceiling. He dropped his arms to his sides and bobbed up and down on his toes. He picked up the newspaper.
"Did you see this article in Der Sturm? He is openly bragging about his . . . his perversion. Compares himself to other ho . . . mo. . . sex . . . uals. Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Frederick the Great . . ." He stopped for a moment and tried to control his gathering fury. "My God, how many years have I overlooked this. Ignored it. But . . ." He waved the paper over his head and slammed it to the floor.
"He has no concept of how important women are to the Third Reich, to the propagation of the Aryan race. Listen to this, listen . . ."
He reached down, scrambled through the crushed newspaper and pulled out a page, punched a forefinger at the story.
"‘I renounce the political ideology of the new Germany because it gives women an equal place in contemporary society.' " He threw the paper down again. "People think these are my thoughts too, Willie!"
And then, as if to justify what was about to happen, still stalking the room, he said:
"On June fourth, not a month ago, I sent for him. ‘Ernst,' I said, ‘stop this madness. You must conform to the rules of the Third Reich.' Yes, mein Führer, he said. I reminded him of the Beer Hall Putsch when sixteen of our comrades died in the streets and he was himself shot. ‘All our ideals we fought for then are within our grasp. Believe in me,' I told him. ‘Don't cause trouble.' Yes, mein Führer, he said. ‘Take a month's leave, all of you. No uniforms for a month,' I said. Yes . . . mein . . . Führer, he said." Hitler started to scream. "Now he has called all his top men to Lake Tegern for a meeting . . . and they are all in uniform! He lied to me. Lies! Lies! Lies!"
Hitler stopped and shook his head violently. Vierhaus decided to divert his attention, get his mind off Röhm for the moment.
"I, uh, have some encouraging news, mein Führer. I had decided to wait, I understand the stress of the evening . . ."
Hitter dropped heavily into a leather chair near the windows. He sat hunched down, his eyes bulging like those of a madman, the whites around his pupils glaring eerily in the shadows. The eyes looked up at Vierhaus.
"No. No you don't, Willie. Nobody understands it but me."
Vierhaus saw in the moment, a chance perhaps to curry favor, to take the edge off the night.
"Perhaps while we're waiting for Goebbels . . ."
"Yes, yes, what is it?"
"I know who the head of the Black Lily is and how to catch him."
Hitler's face did not change but his eyes brightened.
"Who?" His voice was a low rasp.
"The head of the Black Lily is a young Jew, until recently a student. His name is Avrum Wolffson. I also know the names of his chief lieutenants. And best of all, I know how to get to him."
"Do it immediately," Hitler snarled. "The moment this is all over, do it."
"Yes, mein Führer, the process has already started. I hope to arrest him as soon as Hummingbird is complete."
"What a moment, Willie! If we can destroy Röhm and the Black Lily in one, swift, Blitzkrieg."
"Consider it done, mein Führer."
"Kill him, you hear me, Vierhaus?" Hitler said, his voice beginning to rise. "No trial, no publicity until it's over." He slammed his fist on the coffee table. "Just kill him!"
"Yes, mein Führer."
Hitler thought for a moment, then said, "Take him to the cellar at Landsberg and behead him."
"Yes, mein Führer."
Hitler stood up and began pacing again. "And then cremate him and throw his ashes to the winds."
"As you wish."
"I want him obliterated."
"Yes, mein Führer."
"Power is in the muzzle of a gun, Willie. Röhm is about to find that out. And this Wolf . . . what?"
"Wolffson."
"Ja, Wolffson. They have made their coffins, now they will lie in them."
"Ja, mein Führer," Vierhaus said and to himself added, It is about time.
Then the messages started. Couriers, telephone calls, telegrams, all reporting on the preparations for the night's devilish activities. Finally Himmler called Hitler personally.
"Mein Führer, we have irrefutable evidence that the SA is planning a coup d'état for tomorrow."
"What! Where did you get this evidence?"
"Karl Ernst has alerted the SA troops for a general uprising."
Karl Ernst was the SA chief of Berlin, a longtime friend of Röhm's and a dedicated storm trooper.
"Is Göring there? I wish to speak to him," Hitler snapped.
"Nein, mein Führer. He is on the street. The entire area between Tiergartenstrasse and the Augustastrasse is cordoned off. The SA are trapped in the middle. Nothing gets in or out."
"Excellent. Do not move until I give the word."
"Of course, mein Führer, " Himmler answered.
Hitler cradled the phone.
He went back to the window. The storm clouds raced across the night sky. To the north, the lightning still brightened the heavens. But it was clear that the storm was moving on. Hitler took it as a final sign.
He whirled on Vierhaus. "People must be convinced that this plot to overthrow the government was real," he said. "Röhm is not unpopular, you know."
"You can make people believe anything if you tell them in the proper way," Vierhaus said softly.
Hitler shook his head violently.
"Ja, ja! But it must come from me. It must be in my words. The people know my words."
He strolled around the room, stopped and stared at the wall for several minutes.
"Let me tell you something, Willie," he said. "The world is ruled by fear and the most effective political instrument of fear is terror. Terror conditions people to anticipate the worst. It breaks the will. The people must understand that this . . . insurrection . . . cannot—will not—be tolerated ever again. Hmm?" He nodded approval of his own words.
"So . . . Röhm plans to overthrow the Führer, does he?" Hitler said with a sneer of satisfaction. "Well then, call the airport. I want to know when we can leave for Munich. We will initiate Hummingbird immediately."
He looked at his diminutive sycophant.
"Let the killing begin," he hissed.
As they approached Brown House, Hitler could see Reinhard Heydrich standing at attention on the front steps with half a dozen men behind him. There was no mistaking Heydrich. Even in the darkest moments before dawn, his tall, gaunt, ramrod figure was unmistakable. As they drew closer, Heydrich's cadaverous features and dead eyes were highlighted by street lamps. Hitler felt a sudden chill. There was something about Heydrich. He was almost too efficient, like a bloodless robot. But he was integral to Hitler's plans, a man who took orders without hesitation and who performed admirably. When Vierhaus had discovered that Heydrich's grandmother, Sarah, was Jewish, Hitler had officially purged him of his "tainted blood," making Heydrich an Aryan by decree.
One of his men sprang to the armored car and opened the door. Heydrich cracked his heels together as Hitler got out and snapped his arm out in the Nazi salute.
"Heil Hitler."
Acknowledging the salute, the dictator asked, "Well, Heydrich, how does it go?"
"We arrested Schneidhuber and his assistant, Schmid, without incident. They are under guard along with a dozen other SA who were here already, all under house arrest. All
protesting bitterly."
"Of course," Hitler snapped. Schneidhuber, a former army colonel, was the Munich chief of police and the highest ranking SA official in the city. It was rumored he would be Röhm's chief of staff if the Wehrmacht and SA merged.
"Schneidhuber," he growled under his breath as he followed Heydrich into the lobby of the Nazi headquarters building. Schneidhuber was a heavyset man in his late forties who affected the turned-up wax mustache and monocle of the Prussians. His thick lips seemed permanently curved into an arrogant sneer. He was in SA uniform as was his aid, Edmund Schmid, in stature a smaller version of his boss. Small and rotund, he had the dull look of a typical sycophant.
Upon seeing them, Hitler went into a violent rage. His face seemed to swell up. Veins stood out in his forehead and his color turned from white to red almost to purple.
"You traitor!" he screamed at Schneidhuber. "You miserable pig of a man!"
"Mein Führer, " Schneidhuber pleaded. "I don't underst—"
"Shut up! Shut . . . up!" Hitler bellowed. He began to shake. Suddenly he reached out and grabbed the SA insignia on the police chief's epaulets and tugged at them, jerking the stout officer back and forth, until part of one of the sleeves tore away.
"You are beneath the contempt of everyone, everyone, Schneidhuber, you hear me! You . . . are . . . a . . . yellow, incompetent, lying . . ."
He stopped and backed away, still clutching the handful of cloth, then dropped it and clawed for his pistol.
Heydrich stepped around him, drew his Luger and held it at arm's length, six inches from Schneidhuber's face.
"Mein Gott!" Schneidhuber screamed, a moment before the pistol roared in his face and he felt the burning gasses scorch his face and the sudden explosion in his brain. His head jerked back and he sprawled on the floor, his forehead scorched by the hot powder. The small, singed, nine-millimeter hole was squarely between his eyes.
Schmid fell against the wall. His knees buckled. He held his hand at arm's length in front of his face.
"Please," he whined.
Heydrich fired the first shot into the palm of Schmid's hand. It ripped through both hands and creased Schmid's forehead. The little man fell screaming to the floor and Heydrich leaned over and shot him behind the ear.
The Hunt (aka 27) Page 29