The Lone Assassin

by Helmut Ortner

  That afternoon, after a short walk, Maria accompanied her brother to the train station. The goodbye was brief. “Be well and don’t forget to write,” she said to her brother, giving him her hand. “All the best to you,” Georg replied tersely. Then he boarded the train to Munich.

  A few days earlier—while I was still in Munich, before leaving for Stuttgart—I had decided that I would return to Munich. Because I had finished installing the clocks two days later than I had originally planned, I was anxious to check again whether they might have stopped. After I had installed, restarted, and set the clocks on November 6, 1939, I had only half an hour before I had to leave the hall. But I wanted to be safe, and for that reason I went back to Munich.

  Because he had only ten reichsmarks left from his savings, he had asked Maria at breakfast for fifteen reichsmarks, assuring her that he would pay the money back quickly. Maria had given him thirty instead.

  Now, as the train headed toward Munich, he tried to close his eyes. He saw the column, the Führer—would the assassination succeed? Would the leadership be killed? Would his subsequent escape to Switzerland succeed?

  I wanted to be in Switzerland before my clocks set off the explosion. Switzerland had seemed to me the most obvious choice. Other countries, such as Italy, would have been completely unfamiliar to me, but I knew the border crossing points to Switzerland near Konstanz very well from the several years I had lived in that area. Back then, however, I had never contemplated crossing the green border. That hadn’t been necessary, because at the time I had been in possession of a local border-crossing pass. After starting the clocks and crossing the border illegally, I planned to look for work in Switzerland as a carpenter or some other sort of job….

  I also intended—and had already thought this through—to write the German police a detailed letter from Switzerland explaining that I alone was the culprit in the assassination and had no co-conspirators or confidants. I would have sent a precise drawing of my device as well as a description of the execution of the deed, so that my claims could have been verified. My sole aim in sending such a message to the German police was to ensure that absolutely no innocent parties would be arrested during the search for the perpetrator. I had also considered the possibility that I might be extradited from Switzerland to Germany. To prevent this from happening, I planned to take with me certain material that I believed would be of interest to the Swiss military.

  When I worked in the shipping department of the fittings factory in Heidenheim, I had, in accordance with my duties, kept a notebook on deliveries, such as empty powder boxes that we had sent full to a certain company. Although the company had provided this book at that time, I took it home with me after the termination of my employment, because only a few pages had been written on. I no longer recall whether I had at that time considered the possibility that I could use these entries later.

  When I left the company, the notebook was not demanded from me. I took it along with my other things to Munich on August 5 and continued to use it there for occasional entries. However, it was not the same notebook as the one in which I drew the sketch with the dimensions of the column during my Easter visit. It is possible that when I took the notebook with me to Munich on August 5, I did so with the idea already in mind that I could put the entries in it to use later in Switzerland. The pages I planned to take with me to Switzerland contained entries showing that a number of German companies were active in German armaments manufacturing. I firmly hoped that the Swiss would not expel me if I provided this information to them. If they had nonetheless deported me from Switzerland, I would have asked to be sent to France, though I had no particular reason for that either. I wanted only to pursue a steady job. I did not know that the French put so-called emigrants in concentration camps. With respect to France, I did not think of a reward either. I hoped only to receive a residence permit.

  In the event of deportation, if the Swiss had not already taken from me the information about the German armaments companies, I would have given these notes to the French. I have to admit that I remember, when I entered the company or perhaps somewhat later, having been informed of the need for secrecy regarding all details about the powder factories. As far as I know, a piece of paper was presented to all of us at the time, which we had to sign. I no longer recall whether there was anything on it about treason, espionage, or the death penalty.

  I had scarcely reckoned with the possibility that I would not manage to make it to Switzerland—that is, I firmly hoped that my escape would succeed. If they catch me, I thought, then I will just have to accept the punishment.

  On the evening of November 7, around half past nine, Elser arrived in Munich. Because he only rarely read daily newspapers or listened to the radio, he could not have known that his plan was more than endangered.

  The day before, the regional leadership of Munich-Upper Bavaria had announced that the annual commemorative program on November 8 in the Bürgerbräu Beer Hall was to be abridged due to the exigencies of the war. Instead of the Führer, his deputy Rudolf Hess would speak, and the commemorative march on November 9 would be canceled. Instead, a scaled-down wreath-laying ceremony was to take place. Today, on November 7, the Völkischer Beobachter disseminated this report.

  Elser knew nothing of this as he walked through the large train station. Outside he boarded a streetcar heading toward the Bürgerbräu Beer Hall. He was carrying a package with a piece of sausage in it, and in his pockets he had a pocketknife, a pair of pincers, and various springs and screws, in case he should need them. It was about ten o’clock in the evening when he arrived at the Bürgerbräu.

  Coming in by the main entrance on Rosenheimer Strasse, I went through the coatroom into the hall, which was empty and dark. I didn’t notice anyone observing me. I saw no one. The door to the hall was not locked. In the hall, I proceeded immediately to the gallery and listened at the door of the column to check whether the clock mechanisms were still running. By pressing my ear against the door, I could hear the ticking of the clocks very faintly. I then opened the door with the pocketknife, opened the clock case, and made sure with my pocket watch that the clock mechanisms were not fast or slow. The clock was working properly.

  Elser closed the paneling and retreated to his old nightly hiding place. After the doors to the hall were unlocked, he left as usual shortly after six o’clock in the morning through the side emergency exit.

  Outside on Rosenheimer Strasse, a poster caught his eye and he went up to it. On it, THE FÜHRER SPEAKS was written in large print, and underneath those words was the event description: Meeting of the “old fighters” on November 8 in the Bürgerbräu Beer Hall, Admission 6:00 PM—Music will be played by the marching band of the Adolf Hitler Standard. Elser read the announcement twice, including the list of participating groups in small print: the “old fighters,” the surviving comrades of the “sixteen fallen,” the guests of the Führer, national and regional party officials, SA and SS officers, leaders of the Hitler Youth, and labor leaders.

  Elser turned around and looked at the Bürgerbräu Beer Hall once again. At that moment a strange mood came over him. Was it pride and satisfaction? Was it loneliness and fear? He felt his heart racing, and in his brain the bomb ticked in sync with it. “It has to succeed,” he said softly to himself.

  Shortly before ten o’clock, he bought a third-class ticket at the train station counter for the route Munich-Ulm-Friedrichshafen-Konstanz. He took the local train to Ulm, where he transferred to the express to Friedrichshafen, arriving there at around six o’clock in the evening. Before the departure of the steamer to Konstanz, he had forty-five minutes, which he used to get a shave in a barbershop. While his face was lathered, he looked into the large mirror in front of him. The white foam had given him a mask, which felt for a moment like a soft, warm, protective covering. As the barber drew the razor through the foam with a practiced hand, the pleasant feeling swiftly abandoned Elser. He thought of the bomb, of his escape, of Switzerland—of tomorr
ow.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Enhanced Interrogation”

  As if given a sudden electric shock, Georg Elser shot up. Hands had seized him and yanked him out of his sleep. Was it a dream? The cell was dark, with only the searchlight from the yard drawing a vague silhouette of his plank-bed. He got up, felt his way to the sink three paces from the bed, and turned on the faucet. For a moment, he let the water run through his spread fingers, and then he splashed the tingling coldness on his face. Slowly, he turned around. His thoughts crept along the walls, images bored into his brain: the arrest at the border, the interrogations in Konstanz and Munich, the transfer here to the Gestapo headquarters in Berlin, hours of questioning, the same questions, the same answers, again and again.

  He sat down on the bed. He found it hard to breathe. A mountain of despair, guilt, and anger seemed to be crushing him.

  * * *

  Berlin, Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse 8. This center of the planning and management of National Socialist terror—where desk perpetrators focused on the “proper implementation” of “procedures” and typically stayed away from the actual sites of horror—was at the same time a place where people were beaten and tortured. In their offices on the upper floors, the Gestapo conducted “enhanced interrogations”—verschärfte Vernehmungen, as the torture methods were called in German bureaucratese. The victims included communists, social democrats, unionists, and members or supposed members of resistance organizations, as well as those who refused to accept the legitimacy of Nazi state power, such as Jehovah’s Witnesses or individual representatives of the churches. The interrogations were humiliating, tormenting, and—at times—deadly. Those interned in the in-house prison, as Georg Elser was, had to fear for their lives.

  At nine o’clock in the morning on Wednesday, November 22, the two bolts on Elser’s cell door slid back noisily. The door opened to reveal a Gestapo officer, whose terse order rang out loudly. “Elser, come with me!” The officer was wearing a uniform and standing in the doorway with his legs spread and his hands clasped behind his back. At his left side stood another uniformed man, leaning his shoulder against the wall and eyeing Elser impassively. Without saying a word, they walked through long, wide corridors and climbed stairs, until they stood outside the interrogation room. By now, Elser recognized the door, which led straight into the heart of terror. Inside, his tormentors were already waiting, preparing to continue the “enhanced interrogations.” It was their job, and they performed it as was expected of them.

  The door flew open. He had a shaved head and a completely swollen face, his sister Maria later recalled of her brother’s appearance. Had the Gestapo henchmen mauled Georg so badly in order to finally compel her to confess that she had known about his assassination plans? She had already been interrogated many times over the past several days—alone, with her husband, and in the presence of her brother. Always the same questions: “Did you know about it? Were you in contact with your brother? Didn’t he visit you before his escape attempt? Didn’t he tell you anything? Didn’t you have any suspicions?”

  At times the Gestapo officers would be cold and aggressive, while at other times they would package their questions in friendly phrases. There was method in everything. Maria and her husband always gave the same answers. “No, we didn’t know anything about it! No, we didn’t notice that! No, we had nothing to do with the attack!”

  They had already explained all that after their arrest in Stuttgart, but no one believed them. Their apartment was searched, they were interrogated again and again, and ultimately they were brought to Berlin on a special train. I spent the train ride in a compartment with my husband, guarded by two police detectives, Maria later recalled. During the whole journey, I did not get to see any of my family members. In Berlin, I was first brought to the Moabit prison and several days later to the Hotel Kaiserhof. After several days, my family members were permitted to return home, but my husband and I were put in the Moabit prison again.

  The two of them would be detained in Berlin longer than all the other family members. The Gestapo officers used every means at their disposal to pry a confession out of them, but their efforts were in vain. She and her husband had to pay a high price for their perseverance: They would not be released from prison until February 18, 1940, after countless, grueling interrogations.

  On that Wednesday morning, Maria still suspected nothing of the long ordeal ahead of her. For ten days, they had been in this city, of which they had seen only the prison, the hotel, and the offices of the Gestapo. She had already been confronted with Georg three times—but this time was the worst.

  The Gestapo torturers demonstrated cruelly what they understood by “enhanced interrogation.” But what did they expect to achieve? Georg had long since confessed, providing minutely detailed testimony on his plan, the preparations and the execution of the attack. Did they still believe in a plot, in masterminds and string pullers? Did they think that the whole Elser family was in on a conspiracy against the Nazi regime?

  Maria had the impression that the Gestapo officers were trying to extract a confession from her by force. Why else would they have abused her brother so badly the previous night in order to confront her now with his miserable condition? One of their objectives was fulfilled, however: Maria suffered a nervous breakdown.

  Georg’s mother, too, was at the end of her strength. She and her husband had already been questioned incessantly in Stuttgart. Now, in Berlin, they had to submit to severe interrogations once again. She later recalled her reunion with her son.

  In Berlin, I was first brought to a prison and locked up, and then the interrogations began. There, too, I was questioned every day, almost always by a different officer. At one point, I was led into a large room where my son Georg was sitting at a long table. He wept when I was brought in to him. I was seated opposite him and was asked whether this was my son Georg and whether I believed that he had carried out the attack. I again expressed my conviction that I did not believe that he had done a thing like that. I didn’t speak to Georg himself, because I didn’t know whether I was permitted to speak to him or not, so I didn’t dare to say anything to him.

  Every day the family members were interrogated, often for hours on end—sometimes in a kind tone, other times in a harsh tone, sometimes by one Gestapo officer, other times by two or as many as four. At one point, an interrogation took place in which everyone had to participate. They sat at a large table and were questioned as a group. Everyone was relieved when it was finally over and they were brought back to the Hotel Kaiserhof.

  Georg’s mother later described the circumstances in the hotel: We family members each got a room of our own. We got proper meals, but were not allowed to leave our rooms. In the hallway outside our rooms, some police officers were always on patrol so that we could not leave. In the hotel, we were then allowed to meet again during the day and eat meals together as a family. At night, we went back to our separate rooms.

  Georg’s sister Friederike and her husband, Willy, were arrested in Schnaitheim and were initially detained and interrogated in Stuttgart. From there they were ultimately sent on to Berlin for the Gestapo interrogations. Later Friederike recalled those life-altering days.

  My husband and I first learned of the attack in the Bürgerbräu Beer Hall on November 9 from a report on the radio. Beforehand we had known nothing about Georg considering such plans or intending to commit an assassination attempt on Hitler. That evening, a description of the suspected perpetrator was broadcast on the radio. I told my husband that you might almost think it was Georg, as he fit the description. The next morning, three detectives came from Stuttgart, arrested my husband and me, and brought us to Heidenheim. Our house was searched, but nothing was found or taken from the premises. Toward evening, we were brought in a car from Heidenheim to Stuttgart, where I was locked up in the prison on Büchsenstrasse. There was no room for my husband in the car, so he wasn’t brought to Stuttgart until the next day. In Stuttgart, I was separate
d from my other family members and did not see them at all. I was locked up there for about ten or twelve days and interrogated every day, sometimes even at night. During the interrogations, I still wasn’t told what was actually going on and could not imagine what this was all about. I was questioned about my brother, and the officers wanted to know everything in precise detail—about his earlier life, with whom he had associated, and so on.

  From Stuttgart, I was then transferred to Berlin, together with my husband, my mother, and my siblings. In Berlin, we were brought to Gestapo headquarters, to the Hotel Kaiserhof, where each of us got a room. We were treated well there, were given good food, and had no complaints. We were, however, strictly guarded by police detectives and Gestapo officers. We were in Berlin another six or seven days, during which we were often interrogated. In Berlin, too, I was asked the same questions again and again—about my brother Georg’s whole life from childhood on. We were also asked whether we had known anything about the attack, but I couldn’t provide anything but the truth and had to say that I had no idea about that matter. After six or seven days, we were all released, with the exception of my sister Maria, who was kept there longer. Upon our release, we were presented with a document, which each of us had to sign, barring us from revealing anything about this matter or talking about it with other people.

  This fact was later corroborated by Georg’s brother Leonhard, who had also been brought to Berlin for the Gestapo interrogations with his wife, Erna. Upon our release, we were expressly prohibited from saying anything about this matter.

  * * *

  Besides Georg’s family members, among those interrogated in Berlin was a young woman who had for a long time played a central role in his life—his former lover Elsa Heller. On that wet, gray Wednesday, they saw each other for the first time in ten months. Years later, Elsa recalled their last encounter.