“You’ll learn a lot there,” Friedel had told him. “Every master has his own craft, his own style.”
Shortly thereafter, Georg had applied and been accepted. You can begin working for me as a journeyman. I will expect you on March 15, wrote the master carpenter only five days later. On that Sunday, Georg raised his glass to Friedel and Eugen: “To a good journey!”
On March 14, he took the train to Tettnang and then walked more than two hours to Bernried. After his arrival, he found out that he was the only journeyman. He was disappointed with the work, too; as in earlier workshops, his job was to make furniture, but here, aside from a self-made circular saw, there were no machines at all. Even the planing work had to be done by hand.
It quickly became clear to Georg that there was no opportunity for further training. Nor did he like the village. Bernried consisted of only a few houses, so that he soon felt quite lonely. In May he quit and, without the prospect of a steady job, continued on his wanderings. Later he recalled those first weeks in a strange place.
I trekked through Langenarden along Lake Constance toward Friedrichshafen and Manzell. From Bernried to Friedrichshaften, I walked for about a week. I spent the nights at inns and along the way asked repeatedly for work to no avail. On this journey, I was always alone. I didn’t beg or peddle then or later. I paid the inn bills from my savings. From the employment agency in Friedrichshafen, where I inquired, I learned that the Dornier factory in Manzell was looking for a skilled carpenter. I took the job and was employed in propeller construction. About fifteen to twenty people worked in this department. Because I couldn’t get a room in the immediate vicinity of the factory due to the tourist season, I rented lodgings in Kluftern, a town on the railroad line between Manzell and Markdorf. I took the train every day back and forth between Manzell and Kluftern. In Kluftern I stayed at an inn, the name of which I can’t remember. In this job I earned quite good wages through piecework and a lot of overtime hours—more than ever before, anyway.
At that time, Georg became friends with Leo, a young fellow who worked as a carpenter for the same company. The two of them had something else in common as well: Leo, too, liked to play music.
On warm Sundays, they would sometimes take the train to Friedrichshafen or Konstanz, hike along the lake, and stop at one of the inns on the way. One evening, after their return, Leo took out his clarinet and gave a small private concert for Georg. “Let’s go to Konstanz together,” Leo proposed. “There we can play in the dance orchestra of the traditional costume society—you with your accordion, I with my clarinet; that would be something … They could really use us.”
Georg, who was always somewhat reserved about presenting his musical abilities in public, shook his head. “But how will we get to the orchestra rehearsals?” he asked thoughtfully. “For that we’d have to go to Konstanz.”
Leo laughed. “Well, then let’s look for a new job there!”
In the days that followed, they talked often about quitting their well-paid jobs and going to Konstanz together. In August, the time had finally come; Leo had persuaded Georg. They gave notice and took a boat from Friedrichshafen to Konstanz. It was the first boat ride of Georg’s life. He felt as if he were crossing the Atlantic. The lake seemed endless to him. Far away on the horizon, the clouds darkened and sank into the lake. Georg thought of Königsbronn, his mother, and Eugen. He planned to send them a postcard from Konstanz.
After a few days, the two men were hired as carpenters in a clock factory. The company sold finished grandfather clocks and produced the cases for them. The work was varied and to Georg’s liking. He stayed with this company until the end of 1929, but due to lack of orders there were several changes of ownership and even a bankruptcy. For him, this meant multiple interruptions, at times for a few weeks and once even for half a year.
Georg shared the fate of many colleagues. For months he lived off unemployment benefits and his savings. It ran counter to his worldview to take each day as it came without work. He, who had been accustomed to working from his early youth onward, who loved his craft, who in fact based his whole identity on his work, suffered from this condition.
In early 1929, when after a few months the production of the company, which was now called Upper Rhenish Clock Manufacturing, was stopped once again, Georg worked for half a year as a cabinetmaker in Switzerland. In Bottighofen, a small village six miles south of Konstanz, he had found another job through a newspaper ad.
For an hourly wage of 1.30 Swiss francs, the equivalent of 1.04 reichsmarks, Georg built furniture. Early in the morning he rode his bike from Konstanz, where he had rented a room, across the border to Bottighofen. He had his bike tagged at the customs office, got a pass for “local border traffic,” and was thus able to cross the border without inspections. Though he had at one point considered renting a small apartment in Switzerland, he ended up staying in Konstanz after all, where he had found something like a second home in recent years. In the meantime, he had lost close contact with Leo, but had found new acquaintances.
Georg had meanwhile become a valued member not only in the orchestra of the traditional costume society, where he had become an indispensable player due to his musical talent, but also among the Konstanz Friends of Nature. There, among politically like-minded people, he felt comfortable. Nonetheless, he was reserved with his opinions. He was not a man of many words; occasionally he made a brief remark regarding political issues, but that was as far as it went. People who were more closely acquainted with him knew that Georg had two sides. On the one hand, he was a quiet, taciturn man, who seemed reticent, sometimes downright shy. On the other hand, there was the gregarious, even entertaining Georg. He loved to be in the company of others; he just didn’t want to be the center of attention. He offered his help everywhere, especially where he could make use of his handicraft skills.
His humble behavior and his attractive appearance won him a lot of sympathy among the young female members of the society in particular. Georg was so different from the rest of the young men, for he barely drank, didn’t show off, and was extremely charming. In his time in Konstanz, he was a desired lover. I had met several young women in a row there, so that my time was full. Some of them I saw for a longer period, he recalled later.
The relationship with one of these women was not without consequences. Mathilde, his girlfriend, got pregnant. The two of them were not happy about it. How would they find an apartment? How would Georg, who had so often been without work recently, feed a family of three? And did they even want to get married? They liked each other, of course—they were in love. But was that enough for a marriage? Mathilde and Georg spent many evenings talking about their situation and their future. He later testified about what ensued.
At the time when we thought she was in the second month of pregnancy, we were given an address in Geneva where it would be terminated. We went together, Mathilde and I, to Geneva. Mathilde was examined, and it was determined that she was already in the fourth month, and an intervention could no longer be made. A woman had performed the examination. We did not have to pay anything for it. We stayed the night in Geneva and went back to Konstanz the next day. I paid the travel costs.
The child was born, a boy, who was given the name Manfred.
Months later, the relationship with Mathilde began to dissolve. They were no longer getting along. They had to admit to themselves that it had been a brief, stormy affair and nothing more. Georg saw his son often up to the age of six months, but not after that. In the period that followed, everything he earned in excess of 24 reichsmarks was deducted from his weekly wages as alimony.
Georg was not exactly happy with this arrangement, but he accepted it. “One day I will take custody of the boy, and my mother will take care of him,” he told himself in order to soothe his conscience. But he soon realized that such thoughts arose only from his guilt. And he knew: Manfred belonged to Mathilde. He was her child.
Later Georg would no longer have long-term relati
onships with women—perhaps that was partly because, as a result of the alimony payments for his illegitimate child, he was not financially capable of starting his own family. An intact, harmonious family, entirely different from what he had experienced—that would always remain a distant longing for Georg. And his family? He had written a few times to his mother; he had sent his brother Leonhard a card from an excursion on Lake Constance; he had gone to Königsbronn twice in recent years. Home had not changed much. His father was still drinking, and his mother continued to bear her fate with resignation. On the way back, a sad mood had overcome Georg. The circumstances in his parents’ house still depressed him.
In early 1930, while on a stroll, he ran into a former colleague from the Konstanz clock factory and learned from her that one of the earlier partners in the company was now producing clock cases again in Meersburg. The next day, Georg went there and inquired about work. A few days later, he received a letter of acceptance to begin as a carpenter. Georg was relieved. The work in Switzerland in the small family business had not satisfied him. He had not felt challenged in his craft.
Georg now took the ferry daily across the lake to Meersburg and worked from seven in the morning until six in the evening. After work, he returned to Konstanz, where he had rented a new room on Fürstenbergstrasse. Aside from rehearsal evenings with the orchestra and occasional meetings of the Friends of Nature, he spent his free time exclusively with Hilda, a young waitress he had befriended. Georg built her a small sewing table and invited her on boat rides on Lake Constance. On Sundays, they took long walks.
Georg was in love with Hilda. He did not tell her that he had a child out of wedlock—nor, however, did he give her hopes of a possible marriage. Georg did not make it easy for Hilda. He often behaved aloofly and stubbornly, only to become kind and charming again, but he never offered Hilda a sense of unconditional security. He was not capable of that. Hilda practically had to fight for his affection and tenderness, and she only rarely succeeded; an invisible barrier always remained. Sometimes she had the feeling that Georg was standing in his own way. She tried to imagine what went on in his head, what thoughts preoccupied him, what emotions blocked him. Georg did not talk much about things like that. He was a practical person—not someone who communicated well with words.
For almost two years he worked in Meersburg, and then he and his colleagues were given notice that the company had to file for bankruptcy again. Georg quickly found another job in a small carpenter’s workshop in the immediate vicinity, where he was tasked mainly with making doorframes and doors. But after five weeks, he was laid off there, too, because there were no more orders.
In May 1932, after unsuccessful attempts to find a new job, Georg gave up his room in Konstanz and moved to Meersburg, where he repaired furniture and made small items for various people in exchange for room and board. Later he recalled:
At that time, I worked for the widow Bechtle, who resides on the property of the master glazier Mauer. There I had to repair a secretary and build a table. At the moment I cannot remember other jobs I did for Frau Bechtle.
From Frau Bechtle, who was a good friend of the Doderer family, I received my meals at that time. For the overnight lodging I did not have to pay anything to D. After that I had to repair cabinets for the H. family, who were also good friends of the Doderer family—I no longer recall the apartment. I still occupied my apartment, that is, my room with D. at the time, but the H. family provided my meals. I remember that I also had to repair a cabinet for an Ottmar family during that same period. For the Doderer family, too, I had to fix an old cabinet.
In late July or early August 1932, I moved into accommodations in the home of Frau Sattler, whose bedroom I had to renovate.
I only gave up the room with D. because Frau Sattler had offered me lodging. I had my own small room there. The work for Frau Sattler lasted until about mid-August 1932.
These private carpentry jobs could not satisfy Georg in the long run. He also felt isolated in Meersburg, where he missed the evenings with the traditional costume society in Konstanz. There, in a clear-cut setting, he had found cordiality, occasionally even recognition, which had meant a lot to him, perhaps even more than intense friendships. Only Hilda visited him now and then. Together they would walk along the lakeside. Sometimes they would get a table in one of the cafés. Both of them had sensed a long time ago that they had increasingly drifted apart since Georg’s departure from Konstanz and had no future together. In any case, Georg had already long since made a significant decision—to return to Königsbronn.
A few days after he had begun lodging with Frau Bechtle, he had received a letter from his mother, in which she wrote that his father was drunk more and more often and was selling one field after another to pay his debts, which arose from the drinking and the neglected lumber trade. “Please, Georg,” she wrote, “come home—we need you.” The family expected his return to lead to an improvement; above all, Georg was to bring his father to his senses—not an easy task.
At that time, I took the train to my parents’ house in Königsbronn. There I stayed in a room with my brother. My mother and my brother were very pleased with my return, while my father accepted it with indifference. I realized that my parents were in heavy debt due to my father’s lumber trade, though I cannot say the exact amount. The debts were due in particular to the fact that my father bid too high for wood at auction and could only sell it again at a loss. From my uncle E. E. in Königsbronn, I learned that my father had always been under the influence of alcohol at wood auctions and that was the only reason he offered high prices. My father had been drinking beer and wine almost daily in Königsbronn and its environs, where he had business to do. I don’t know the exact quantities. Neither my mother nor my brother had been able to exert an influence on him.
Thus he described, years later, his return to his parents’ house. A return to the past? Almost. There was, however, one change. In the Reichstag elections on July 31, 1932, the National Socialists had achieved their breakthrough in Königsbronn. The Nazi Party received 38 percent of the votes. Among the people’s cries of “Sieg Heil,” abetted by the state and the economy, the path to catastrophe had begun—in Königsbronn, too.
CHAPTER NINE
Return to a “German Village”
January 30, 1933: Adolf Hitler is appointed the new chancellor of Germany by the aged President Hindenburg. His cabinet of the “national awakening” consists of nine ministers belonging to the German National Party or unaffiliated with a party as opposed to only three National Socialists—besides Hitler, there’s Frick as minister of the interior and Göring as minister without portfolio. But the optical effect is illusory. The three National Socialist ministers have long held more power in their hands than the nine conservatives.
January 30 is their day, their victory. Ever since their pitiful putsch attempt ten years ago in the Munich Bürgerbräu Beer Hall, they have been waiting for this day of triumph.
On Wilhelmstrasse 77 in Berlin, formerly Bismarck’s official residence, Hindenburg reads the oath of office with the shaky voice of old age, and has each member of the cabinet repeat it. Hitler is the first to swear the oath: I will devote my strength to the welfare of the German people, preserve the constitution and the laws of the Reich, fulfill my duties conscientiously and conduct my affairs impartially and justly toward everyone.
After the swearing-in, Hitler, with his two loyalists in tow, leaves the residence of the president, who sent off his new cabinet—the last of the Weimar Republic—with the words, “And now, gentlemen, forward with God.”
Stepping out of the elevator in the Hotel Kaiserhof minutes later amid the cheers of his followers, Hitler cries, “Now we have made it!” They all shake his hand: Goebbels, Hess, Röhm—the line of well-wishers is endless. In the afternoon, the official announcement goes out into the Reich: The President has appointed Adolf Hitler chancellor!
Meanwhile, the party is already in the midst of organizing the evenin
g celebration under Goebbels’s leadership. The new Nazi minister of the interior, Frick, willingly lifts the restrictions in the government quarter. From seven o’clock in the evening until after midnight, 25,000 Hitler supporters, together with Stahlhelm units, march through the Brandenburg Gate in a torchlight parade.
When the celebratory procession reaches the brightly illuminated façade of the Reich Chancellery, the chorus of thousands of voices shouting “Heil” swells. In one of the windows, Adolf Hitler stands triumphant. In a dark suit, nervous and excited, he greets with a raised arm the masses marching past. Behind him are Göring, Frick, and other cabinet members. The cheers rise to a deafening roar. Not far from there, on the balcony of the Kaiserhof, SA chief Röhm, Gauleiter Goebbels, and all the prominent Nazi figures take in their “victory parade.”
That night, after the cheering has fallen silent, after the military music and the sound of marching have faded, Hitler, surrounded by his closest confidants and “old fighters,” remains in the Reich Chancellery until the early hours of the morning. He loses himself in endless monologues and speaks of having attained this goal only through divine providence. He recalls emotionally the scene of the morning’s swearing-in ceremony with Hindenburg, mentions cheerfully the consternation of the “Reds,” and finally asserts that this day marks the beginning of “the greatest Germanic racial revolution in world history.”
* * *
In Königsbronn, the night after January 30 was a night like any other. For a long time, the lights had been turned out, the chairs had been put up in the Hecht tavern, and the last revelers had gone home. Only a yapping dog occasionally broke the silence.
Georg Elser rolled back and forth in bed, sleeping restlessly. After a while, he woke up completely, sat on the edge of the bed, rubbed his eyes, and ran his hands through his hair. How often had he sat like this in recent nights? There they were again, the snatches of dreams, the anxious thoughts, and the wishful fantasies. They made his head heavy, deprived him of sleep.
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