The Lone Assassin

by Helmut Ortner

  That evening, a bronze memorial was solemnly unveiled at the arched side opening of the Feldherrnhalle. Hitler demanded of the recruits that they, too, sacrifice their lives for the “national revolution,” just like the sixteen who fell here at this site. For you there must be nothing in life but loyalty…. These dead men are your model …

  From that first commemoration onward, the rituals were established. The National Socialist leaders and their “old fighters of 1923,” who met annually in the Bürgerbräu Beer Hall, staged a celebratory event, which primarily served the recasting of the 1923 fiasco as a patriotic act. The outcome of their trial after the putsch attempt helped them with this falsification of history. Most of them got off scot-free as mere hangers-on who were “just following orders,” while the ringleaders received mild sentences. It was helpful that the judges quite openly sympathized with the putschists. Hitler was sentenced to a five-year imprisonment in a fortress, counting the pretrial custody. After just under a year, he was free. His struggle could begin anew. The fire could be reignited.

  * * *

  Hitler had not forgotten his comrades-in-arms from those days, especially not those who had given their lives. They were depicted as “blood witnesses to the movement” and declared “martyrs.” The “Blood Order” decoration remained reserved for the participants from that time. In 1934, the Führer buttoned it to the right breast of their uniforms. From that moment on, they wore it with pride—as they do now, at the Bürgerbräu event on November 8, 1939.

  The blood-red ribbon, attached to the button of the right breast pocket, stands out conspicuously from the brown shirts. On it hangs a solid silver medal, which shows the profile of an eagle perched on a wreath and bears the inscription: 9 November, München, 1923-1933. On the opposite side of the medal is an engraving of the Feldherrnhalle. Above it is a swastika surrounded by sunrays, and written in an arch the words: Und ihr habt doch gesiegt (“And you were victorious after all”).

  “Yes, we were victorious. We were there when the national uprising began in this hall. We fulfilled our patriotic duty.” That is how they think, the men who wear their medals proudly on their breast. As in all the previous years, it is their celebration, their evening.

  As the Führer, followed by prominent National Socialist figures, strides to the podium, where the microphones are set up in front of a large swastika flag, enthusiastic cheers burst out. “Heil, Heil!” The shouts resound through the hall. Reflected in the faces are excitement, pride, and even awe. They are all assembled before Hitler: in the front row the prominent party figures, behind them the “old fighters” and the surviving comrades of the sixteen “fallen of November 9,” national and regional party leaders, SA and SS officers, labor leaders, and other party members. The hall is bursting at the seams.

  The Führer speaks, and the Volk listens. The party members here in the hall are not the only ones listening; throughout the whole Reich, people sit at their radios and follow the speech. It is noteworthy that Hitler, on this evening, limits the usual “story of the party” to a few passages and that his speech instead amounts to little more than a single incendiary tirade against England. To frenetic applause he blames England for the outbreak of war.

  The forces that stood against us in 1914 have now once again instigated war against Germany, with the same platitudes and with the same lies …

  If Lord Halifax declared yesterday in his speech that he champions the arts and culture … then we can only say: Germany already had a culture when the Halifaxes still had no inkling of it. And in the past six years, more has been done for culture in Germany than in the past one hundred years in England …

  For I have sought to develop not only the cultural side of our life, but also the domain of power, and have done so thoroughly. We have built up our armed forces—I can safely say so today—so that there are none better in the world …

  England as a creator of culture is another story. We Germans certainly do not need the English to show us anything in the realm of culture.

  Our music, our poetry, our architecture, our paintings, our sculptures can absolutely compare with the English arts. I believe that a single German—let’s say, Beethoven—achieved more musically than all Englishmen of the past and present together!

  The hall roars.

  What they hate is the Germany that is a dangerous example for them, the social Germany, the Germany of our social labor legislation. The Germany of welfare, of social equality, of the elimination of class differences—that is what they hate! They hate the Germany of social legislation, which celebrates the first of May as the day of honest work!

  And, of course, they hate the strong Germany, the Germany that marches and takes upon itself voluntary sacrifices.

  His tirades are repeatedly interrupted by enthusiastic applause. With a forceful, piercing voice, he goes on.

  Our will is just as indomitable in the outward struggle as it was in the internal struggle for power. Back then, I always told you that everything is conceivable, with one exception: our capitulation. And today, as a National Socialist, I can only repeat before the world that everything is conceivable—a German capitulation, never!

  To those who tell me, “Then the war will last three years,” I reply, let it last as long as it will. Germany will never capitulate—not now and not in the future …

  They will by no means be able to defeat us either militarily or economically. There can be only one victor, and it is we!

  The applause following the speech lasts for minutes. It is as if the crowd is intoxicated. What they are celebrating with shouts of “Heil” is the belief in their own invincibility.

  Even as the national anthem resounds, bodyguards clear a way to the exit for Hitler and his entourage. In their jubilant revelry, most people in the hall at first don’t even notice that the Führer has already left the place of worship.

  * * *

  Due to “urgent affairs of state,” Hitler had initially wanted to forego his annual speech in the Bürgerbräu Beer Hall. He had decided only the day before to participate in the traditional event after all. His debate with his generals on the matter of the western campaign formed the background for his hesitation.

  On October 22, Hitler had decided to launch the attack in the west and scheduled the beginning of the offensive for November 12. The generals of the army were of the opinion that an attack before the spring of 1940 would not be feasible, and they opposed Hitler’s plan, but all their attempts to dissuade him from it failed. Due to the unfavorable weather conditions, the date then had to be postponed nonetheless, and the attack preparations already set in motion had to be stopped. Now Hitler intended to make a final decision on the new date on November 9, and he wanted to stay in Berlin in order to keep holding the reins in this matter.

  Thus the celebration had originally been planned with a scaled-down program. Hitler himself did not want to give a speech. Instead, his deputy Rudolf Hess was to speak on all German radio stations on November 8 at 7:30 in the evening. But then everything was changed. In one of Hitler’s typical spontaneous decisions, he flew from Berlin to Munich to give his speech, despite the time pressure. The organizers were instructed to shorten the evening program so that Hitler could take the night train to Berlin that same evening. He wanted to be back in the Reich Chancellery the next day. Since his private pilot had not been able to guarantee him a return flight to Berlin that evening in light of the uncertain weather conditions, a special train had been provided for the return journey and its departure time had been scheduled for 9:31 PM.

  Most people in the hall know nothing about all this. They only noticed with surprise that the Führer had spoken more briefly than in all the previous years and afterward immediately disappeared. Most of them now make their way to the exits. Only the “old fighters” stay and drink beer together. The clock shows that it is 9:20 PM.

  While Hitler is on the way to the train station with his entourage, a bomb explodes in the Bürgerbräu Beer Hall with
a deafening blast. Beams crack, masonry breaks, dust clouds up; screams and panic ensue as part of the ceiling caves in. Seven people are immediately dead. Another will die on the way to the hospital. Over sixty people are seriously injured. The Bürgerbräu Beer Hall now resembles a heap of rubble.

  Meanwhile, Hitler, who was the target of the attack, is boarding the train to Berlin. In Nuremberg, he receives the news of the bomb attack. His first reaction: It’s a false report. Later, he declares: Now I am completely calm. The fact that I left the Bürgerbräu earlier than usual is a confirmation for me that providence wants to let me reach my goal.

  On the evening of November 8, 1939, the myth of providence guiding and protecting Hitler is born. The editors of the National Socialist newspaper, the Völkischer Beobachter, write their propaganda articles that night. The next morning, they appear throughout the entire country under the headline, “The Miraculous Salvation of the Führer.”

  The assassination attempt, which from the evidence suggests foreign instigation, immediately provoked a fanatical outrage in Munich. For the identification of the perpetrator, a reward of 500,000 marks has been offered, which has been raised to 600,000 marks by a voluntary private contribution. The devastating explosion in the Bürgerbräu Beer Hall occurred around 9:20 PM, at a time when the Führer had already left the hall. Almost all the leading men of the movement at a national and regional level had accompanied him to the train station, where he boarded the return train to Berlin immediately after the conclusion of his speech due to urgent affairs of state. It can only be called a miracle that the Führer escaped with his life from this assassination attempt, which is at the same time an attack on the security of the Reich.

  But who were the assassins? Who were the “nefarious murderers”?

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Interrogations

  The call came shortly after nine in the evening. Police assistant Otto Graeter was just about to turn off his radio. The Führer’s speech, which he had followed with his colleagues Roderer and Jankow, had been surprisingly short. Jankow, who was on telegraph and telephone duty that night, picked up the receiver. “Graeter,” he cried, “someone has been arrested at customs. We have to head over!”

  Graeter looked at Roderer grumpily. “Let’s go,” he said, and they went outside and got into a gray Volkswagen. The drive from the former Villa Rocca—a well-maintained, three-story house from the late nineteenth century in which the Konstanz Border Commissariat was housed, located in the middle of the city—to the customs office on Kreuzlinger Strasse took about twenty minutes. Graeter, who was forty-three years old and robust in stature, had been transferred at the beginning of the war from the criminal police to the border police. Here he served in Section II, Internal Political Affairs—a subdivision of the Karlsruhe State Police Department. Customs dealt with imports and exports and guarded the border. But if anything out of the ordinary occurred, then that was his business.

  “What’s going on?” Graeter asked, after he had entered the customs house with Roderer.

  Mauer, a young Gestapo officer who had been detailed to customs as reinforcement, approached Graeter. “We have an illegal border crosser,” he said tersely, pointing to the adjacent room. There sat a small, inconspicuous man, with a gaunt face and a timid look, dressed only in a shirt and pants. He was wearing a simple shirt without a tie. Graeter approached him. The man was a craftsman; he saw that at first glance. His hands were work-worn and battered.

  On the table lay all sorts of small parts: screws, springs, and wires, which most likely came from a clock; a border-crossing card; a wallet with five marks; a sheaf of notepaper; a pocketknife; a pair of pincers; and a small piece of hard-cured sausage. There was also a postcard showing the Munich Bürgerbräu Beer Hall on the table. Graeter could not make sense of this. He instructed Roderer to pack the paraphernalia in a small box. Only after the customs assistant Obertz—who had come over from his room—had drawn attention to an insignia that the man wore on his lapel did Graeter’s face light up. “Ah, a Red Front Fighter; look here …”

  Then he cast a glance at the border-crossing card. It had expired. He looked at the photo, read the name. “Your name is Elser?” he asked sternly.

  “Yes, Georg Elser …” the man answered in a calm voice.

  “Then let’s go!” Graeter shouted with a wave of his hand. He said good-bye to Obertz and Mauer and left the customs house with his driver Roderer. They took Elser between them.

  It was about ten o’clock when they returned to the Villa Rocca. Elser had remained silent during the whole drive. A few times he had cleared his throat, and once he had wiped his nose with a handkerchief. Graeter went with him into his office on the second floor, pushed a chair over to him, stuck a piece of paper with carbon copy sheets in his typewriter, and looked across the desk. “All right, friend,” he said gruffly, “here we go. Just don’t tell any stories, or else there will be trouble.”

  “What were you doing on the border?” he began his interrogation.

  “I didn’t want to cross the border. I wanted to visit Herr Feuchtlhuber. He is the chairman of the traditional costume society. On the way I got lost …” Elser replied in Swabian dialect.

  Graeter became angry: “Don’t talk nonsense! No one believes you!” He reached for the telephone to ask a colleague to check whether there was a Herr Feuchtlhuber in Konstanz and whether he was the chairman of a traditional costume society. Minutes later the telephone rang: Yes, there was a man with this name and he was in fact the chairman of a traditional costume society. Only he lived near the Petershausen train station, far from the spot where Elser was found.

  Graeter confronted Elser with this fact. He only shrugged. “I don’t know my way around Konstanz.”

  An impenetrable, slippery fellow, thought Graeter—and one who was not to be trusted. He had to know his way around Konstanz, for he had lived there for almost seven years, as a quick check in the register of residents had revealed. But he admitted nothing. For nearly half an hour now, Graeter had been sitting opposite him, asking question after question, but so far he had received only sparse details.

  Name: Georg Elser

  Hometown: Königsbronn near Heidenheim in the Swabian Alps

  Occupation: cabinetmaker

  Marital status: single

  In addition to these facts, Elser divulged some information about his recent workplaces. Where had he come from? From Munich, no, from Ulm … Graeter’s patience was wearing thin. He stood up, walked around the desk and planted himself in front of Elser: “Tell the truth! What were you doing on the border? Why did you want to enter Switzerland illegally?” he shouted with a threatening voice.

  “I have an illegitimate child and could no longer pay the alimony,” Elser answered, intimidated.

  Graeter had no doubt that this answer was a lie, too, though he could not verify it at that time. He wasn’t sure what to do next. He could not get much out of this man—a stubborn fellow. He knew that the questioning had now reached an impasse.

  * * *

  It was about eleven o’clock when the teletypewriter began to tick in the ground floor office. Bomb Attack in Munich, read the heading. Under it followed fifteen lines ordering an intensification of border surveillance. Jankow brought the message up to Graeter.

  “Well, how about that,” Graeter said indignantly after reading it, “how about that.”

  Elser looked at the stunned faces of the two Gestapo officers. He ran his fingers through his hair and appeared quite calm.

  No sooner had Jankow returned to his office than a second communication had come: Attack on the Führer, read the heading this time, followed by a message stating that all border stations were to be put on alert and suspects were to be apprehended. Jankow was overcome by a strange feeling—might the detainee on the second floor have had something to do with this? After all, they had found a postcard of the Munich Bürgerbräu Beer Hall on him, along with odd small parts that could come from an alarm clock.
Didn’t you need an alarm clock to detonate a bomb? He didn’t want to accuse this inconspicuous fellow of anything. But the fact was that he had been caught in the attempt to cross the border illegally. And finally, he was a communist. Wasn’t he wearing that forbidden sign with a balled fist?

  Jankow hastened upstairs and showed Graeter the new communication. Without any visible reaction, Graeter skimmed the message, thanked Jankow tersely, and set the paper aside with apparent thoughtlessness. He then walked over to the window; outside the fog had thickened, and the visibility was less than fifty yards. Lousy weather, thought Graeter, fitting for this evening. The police assistant was in a bad mood. Sitting in front of his desk was a man who looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and yet his investigative instinct told him that something wasn’t right about the fellow. That message … he couldn’t have had something to do with … ?

  Graeter suddenly turned around. “An attempt has been made on the Führer’s life,” he shouted sharply. At the same time, he looked into Elser’s face, but the man showed no reaction whatsoever. Seemingly composed, he received the news.

  Graeter left the room. From the telephone in the opposite office, he called his boss, Inspector Hinze. “We have here an illegal border crosser who has come from Munich,” he reported excitedly. “Yes, he mentioned that he came on the ship from Friedrichshafen.” He was instructed to interrogate the man further and inform the state police station in Karlsruhe immediately.

  A few minutes later, Graeter called the Gestapo in Karlsruhe and described the arrest of a man named Georg Elser. His orders were to “keep at it, continue the interrogation, pursue every suspicion, and report back immediately with any results.”

  Graeter went back into his office, where Elser was still sitting calmly in his chair. The man must have nerves of steel, Graeter thought. He opened a drawer to take out a slice of bread for himself. He offered Elser a piece. “Want some? You must be hungry, too. I don’t know how much more time we will have to spend with each other today.”