Presidential Mission

by Upton Sinclair

  X

  So Lanny began. He described the place where the Nummer Drei was confined, how he spent his time, what he ate, what he had said about the people who had charge of him. “The British are polite to him, in order that you may have reason to be the same to the many British officers whom you hold. Rudi smiled as he told me how careful they were not to excite him, because, if he were judged insane, it would be necessary under the Geneva convention to return him to Germany. Of course he is not in the least insane, but is very unhappy because of being separated from his friends, especially yourself.”

  Lanny went on to tell what the faithful Parteiführer had said about his adored Reichsführer. Older, with thinning hair and features lined by grief, Rudi had wept as he talked about the old days, the days of ideological war, when he had had his scalp split by a beer mug thrown in one of the Saalschlachten, the battles of the beerhall. He had mentioned old Nazi companions, some long since departed, and others of whose fate in the present war he could only guess. Lanny made a good part of this up, and he pulled all the tremolo stops, for he knew that Adi had a sentimental streak, the German Schwärmerei, and saw these old days as it were under a rainbow of glory.

  And who had done more to help create this glory than Walther Richard Rudolf Hess? He had come out of World War I an aviator, while Adi had been a mere Gefreiter, a subcorporal, the next in rank to a common soldier—and how common these were in Germany, in every sense of that word! Rudi had been an educated man, the son of a well-to-do merchant, while Adi had been a street waif, trying to survive by painting little picture postcards and sleeping in the shelter for the unemployed of Vienna. They had kicked him out because he wouldn’t stop his soap-boxing!

  And yet Rudi had recognized his genius, and had become his faithful secretary and friend, had marched with him in the futile Beerhall Putsch in Munich, and had gone to prison with him. In that prison he had taken Adi’s rambling and ridiculous notes, and had put them in order and made a book called Mein Kampf. He had fought in the ten-year battle for power, and when it had been won he had become the head of the Party, taking Hitler’s orders with never a doubt or a qualm. That he had dreamed of inducing perfidious Albion to assist in the putting down of Bolshevism—well, it had been a mad dream, ein toller Traum, but surely not a disloyal one!

  XI

  The question of whether to attempt to rescue this “old companion” was one which would call for much investigation and study, said the Führer; the trouble was that the Luftwaffe was so badly needed on the Russian front, and in North Africa, where the Americans were building up their strength so rapidly. The harassed man’s brow darkened, and Lanny was afraid he was going to start on another tirade; but no, he had been impressed with the American’s statement about information concerning North Africa, and he asked what it was. Lanny told many facts—all of which he could be quite certain that Spanish agents had long ago picked up in Morocco and Algiers: how the bombers were being flown across from Brazil and the fighters brought on carriers and flown ashore; what divisions had arrived and who commanded them; how the ports were being repaired and the airfields made over; what Vichy politicians had sold out to the Jewish democracies and what they were doing.

  And then, of course, the Casablanca Conference. Its secrets had begun to leak out, and really were secrets no longer. The son of Budd-Erling had hung around on the outskirts and had wined and dined a number of the Army and Navy officers; more than one of them had drunk too much and talked freely. Lanny made a funny story out of the two French fighting cocks, De Gaulle and Giraud, and the amount of time that Churchill and Roosevelt had spent trying to get them to agree. “The Allies expect to take Tunis this spring,” he said, “and then, of course, they will move across to Sicily.” He was afraid to say more, not because it was a secret, but because it might drive Adi into another tantrum.

  The visitor talked about the Jewish-plutocrat-democrat Rosenfeld and his overwhelming ego, which desired to do all those evil things it accused Hitler of doing. A terrible calamity, that the destiny of a powerful nation should rest in the hands of this crippled and abnormal personality! Lanny said: “I don’t know if it has come to your ears, mein Führer, but I have it on first-rate authority that the man has taken up the notion that our scientists can solve the problem of developing power from the splitting of the atom. You may not believe it, but he has diverted considerably over a billion dollars from war manufacturing to this purpose. Huge plants are being erected, purely on mathematical theory, to carry out processes which have not even been tested in the laboratory. We have a saying, ‘putting the cart before the horse’; this time we are putting a million carts where there is no horse visible. I doubt if there has been such madness in the world since King Canute set his throne on the sand and ordered the tide not to advance.”

  “I have heard about the atom splitting,” replied the Führer, “and I am well pleased to have our enemies spending their money that way. Some of our own scientists have been playing with the same idea, and have tried to persuade me, even to frighten me, into taking up the same projects. But I am not an easy man to frighten, as you may realize, Herr Budd.”

  “Ja, sicherlich, mein Führer.”

  “I have my own plans, and my way of winning this war. I have told the German people that we are creating new weapons, and believe me, I was not telling them fairy tales. What is coming to the British before this year has passed will knock some of the ‘ginger’ out of them.”

  “You may be interested to know that the news has already reached them. I have had it revealed to me in England that you are developing jet propulsion. The people who are in the know expect what they call rocket bombs to be falling upon them before this year is over. They are working hard on the project themselves, but they know that you are ahead. The Americans are even further behind, mainly because of Roosevelt’s fantastic idea of nuclear fission.”

  “I am glad to have this reassurance, Herr Budd.”

  “As it happens, my father is in touch with many technical men, and he talks to me freely. I do my best to remember what I hear, but you will understand that I am only an amateur, and for obvious reasons I dare not make notes. There are a few things I can tell you about what our own people have discovered on the subject of jet propulsion. I cannot be sure that it will help you, but I offer it for what it may be worth.”

  “Ich verstehe, Herr Budd. Tell me, by all means.”

  So Lanny proceeded to repeat that list of details which he had been furnished, by Major Dowie, technical details likely to impress the Germans without doing any harm to the Allies. The P.A. had learned these sentences by heart and had been careful not to let them grow dim in his memory. As he recited them to the Führer, he could see that that emotional person was enormously impressed. Whatever doubts he may have had in his mind were shoved into the background as he heard this supposed-to-be traitor reeling off a list of American achievements and objectives in the new and vitally important science of jet propulsion. Hitler wasn’t a technical man himself, but he thought he was, and that made him an easy mark. “I must let you discuss these matters with some of our own specialists,” he said. And this, of course, was one of the hopes that had lured Lanny into the ogre’s den.

  XII

  The conference proved the longest a wandering art expert had ever had with the commander-in-chief of an empire at war. Hitler wanted to ask questions about one after another of the important persons this friend had met, in America, in Britain, in Vichy France, in North Africa. Lanny was expecting at every moment to have him ask: “What is this I hear about your having been through Russia and talked with Stalin?” He was prepared to answer that he had been forced to take this trip to escape from the Japanese, and that he had used his father’s position to meet the Red dictator and find out his idea of peace terms in order to bring them to Hitler. But apparently there had been a slip of the Brown dictator’s secret service; the Führer mentioned no rumor about Lanny’s having been in the Soviet Union.

&nbs
p; Just as there had been men in prewar France who preferred Hitler to Blum, so in America there were men who would have preferred Hitler to Roosevelt. Lanny had talked with some of these men, and now he told Hitler what they had said and were publishing in their great newspaper chains. The Führer found this agreeable listening. In particular he was interested in the little group of “economic royalists” and their military friends who were so embittered against a Judeo-pluto-democratic President that they had been discussing the idea of seizing his person, holding him incommunicado, and issuing decrees in his name. Lanny had reported this on his last visit to Hitler, and since then he had got from Roosevelt’s friend Jim Stotzlmann a lot of new details concerning the junta. He didn’t mind embellishing them, for he could be sure that Hitler had no way of checking at present. There was nothing that pleased Adi more, and he found no slightest difficulty in believing the story, for that was the way he had treated his own rivals, and he had no doubt that these rivals would be eagerly seeking a chance to do the same thing or worse to him.

  Lanny outlined the program which these men intended to put through in the name of a captive President. America was to cease making war upon Germany, and this would force Britain to do the same. America would concentrate upon defeating Japan, and in return for this service to civilization would take the empire which Japan held at present, including the control of China; also, of course, of Central and South America, and Mexico. The United States and the Führer would jointly guarantee the integrity of the British Empire forever. The Führer would hold what he had at present, and would concentrate upon defeating Russia, something he could easily do if his western front were relieved from pressure. Such a settlement would preserve the peace of the world for a thousand years.

  It was Hitler’s own formula, exactly what he wanted, and he rubbed his hands with satisfaction; every trace of vexation, every trace of melancholy, disappeared from his flabby features. “Sehr richtig, Herr Budd!” he exclaimed. “I will promise to liquidate every Bolshevik man and whore on my part of the earth! Tell me, why cannot this be brought about? Why does it take so long? My heroic German youths are pouring out their blood on the snows of that barbarous land, while I wait for your Western Powers to come to their senses. Warum? Warum?”

  So simple it seemed to him, a little matter of kidnaping a crippled President and keeping him safe from harm! The great newspaper proprietors of America, the great industrialists, the great bankers—they were men of such enterprise and initiative, they had built up a vast empire, and were they now going to surrender it without a struggle? Surely they could see that if the Bolsheviks were permitted to destroy Germany, there would be no stopping them anywhere short of the Atlantic Ocean on the west and the Indian Ocean on the southeast. And how long would it take their expert agitators to eat their way into the heart of the American labor movement?

  A wise P.A. didn’t say anything to break the spell of this Führertraum. He didn’t point out that the President was especially well guarded in wartime, and that the effort to depose him might result in a civil war; on the contrary, he gave the explanation: the economic masters of America had believed that Germany was going to win the war singlehanded, and only now was it becoming clear to them that this was less than certain, and that more positive action might be called for. Lanny didn’t have to put words into the mouths of the American business potentates—he had only to repeat what he had heard them say at their own dinner tables and on their private golf courses, and in the locker-rooms of the Newcastle Country Club. Hitler rubbed his hands still more gleefully, and was ready to send Lanny back to the United States at once, to organize these gentry and put them to work.

  XIII

  “What are your plans, Herr Budd?” the future world master inquired; and Lanny replied worshipfully that he had no plans except to carry out the Führer’s wishes. His suggestion would be for him to return to America by way of Spain and Portugal to make the Führer’s terms clear to the key persons upon whom the project depended.

  “If you don’t mind,” he added, “I might be of use to several of your people before I go. For example, Hermann Göring. I have heard the report that you are not on the same intimate terms as formerly, so naturally I consult your wishes.”

  “Hermann set himself against my policies in a way that I considered presumptuous; but even so, he is the Commander of the Luftwaffe, and in that capacity he is indispensable to me.”

  “It was my idea that he might like to hear some of the technical details concerning the Budd-Erling plane and others that I have been able to watch in North Africa. Of course I would not dream of seeing him unless it was in accord with your wishes.”

  “It is quite all right and a good idea. I also want you to talk to some of our jet-propulsion people; Professor Salzmann, I think, would be a good choice.”

  “I’ll be happy to meet him. And then I should like to renew one or two old friendships: Heinrich Jung, for example—how is he?”

  “He has an important position now in the Hitler-Jugend, and is rendering his usual devoted service. He and his family are well, so far as I know. I rarely see any of my old friends these days; I am a prisoner of the war. I am afraid you will find Berlin a far from pleasant place to visit this winter.”

  “I will get along, mein Führer. I have become so used to the bombs that I miss them. One more question, if I may—Kurt Meissner?”

  “Kurt insisted upon going back into the Army; but before he could go to the front he was injured by a falling building in one of the night raids to which the Hauptstadt is subjected. I am told that he may never be able to play the piano again.”

  “Oh, how tragic!”

  “The Fatherland is full of tragedy, so full that I cannot spare the time to think about my friends. I was told that Kurt had returned to his family in Stubendorf.”

  “As you know, he is my oldest and dearest friend. Would it be possible for me to see him?”

  “Certainly. I will have you flown there if you wish.”

  “There may be some difficulty about my traveling in Germany under present conditions, mein Führer.”

  “I will give you my personal Erlaubniss-schein, which will protect you from embarrassment. You speak German so well that no one but the police and the military will pay attention to you. Will a period of three weeks suffice?”

  “That will be more than ample, I am sure.”

  “When you are ready to leave, notify either Hermann or myself, and arrangements will be made for you to fly to Stockholm or Lisbon.”

  “My passport does not cover Sweden. If I may make a suggestion, it will suffice if I am flown to Madrid. I can consult with some of your friends there, and then in a day or two make my own way to Lisbon. My arrival there in a German plane might attract undesirable attention.”

  “Ganz richtig, Herr Budd. You will spend the night here as my guest, and fly early in the morning, if weather permits. In case we do not have a chance for further talk, let me say now that I appreciate the devotion you have shown to our cause, and that it will surely not go unrewarded.”

  “There is nothing I want for myself, mein Führer; only that thousand-year peace you have promised the world, so that I can go back to playing the piano and looking at beautiful paintings.”

  “Hermann has collected ten thousand old masters,” said the Führer of the Germans. “He will have them all assembled in one place and you can spend the rest of your life studying them.”

  22

  The Mighty Scourge of War

  I

  “Bitte um Verzeihung, Herr Budd,” said Arthur Kannenberg, coming into the little reception room to which Lanny had been escorted, and in which he was comfortably ensconced in a wicker chaise-à-deux before a grate fire. A wind had arisen outside, and snowflakes were lodging on the windowpanes. The rolypoly little ex-Kellner was now comical in a Bavarian suit, with black leather short pants and a brightly embroidered short jacket; Lanny knew it was his equivalent of “formal dress,” and he carried his a
ccordion as a sign that he was ready to entertain if requested, and would be hurt if he was not.

  “The Führer has asked me to explain,” continued this professionally jolly soul, seating himself beside the guest. “He dines with his military staff, and they discuss the news of the day and the strategy of tomorrow. They would not understand having an Ausländer present.”

  “Sicher nicht, Herr Kannenberg. It would be embarrassing to me, and I appreciate being spared the ordeal. Am I to have the pleasure of your company?”

  “You are kind, Herr Budd. We are to dine here.”

  “Let us pretend that we are in the old days,” said Lanny with his best smile. “Un cabinet particulier, if you recollect.”

  “We always use French when we think of elegance,” sighed the ex-Kellner.

  “Even Frederick the Great did that,” replied the other, “so it should be en règle.”

  So these two made friends; and a soldier in uniform brought them cabbage soup and rye bread on trays. This was followed by a chicken, which had been sacrificed for their pleasure, divided in half, and roasted with potatoes, the principal food of the German Volk. The deputy-host apologized for the lack of variety in this repast, but Lanny said: “I spent five days all but starving in the Sahara Desert and I have not yet made up my weight. I assure you this food has a most delicious flavor. When I think of what your people are enduring, I feel myself a sybarite.”

  II

  A former beerhall impresario found this a highly intellectual conversation, and he drank to the long life of the mysterious Führer-freund. They talked about the good old days, to which good old Bavarians looked back with melancholy. They had accepted their Air Marshal’s word that no enemy bombs would ever fall on German soil; they had thought they were safe from the war, snuggled up against the Swiss border; but now it was coming to them, and their sufferings were multiplied by their fears. Herr Kannenberg drank a draught of Liebfraumilch—which is wine, not milk; he looked at the snow coating the windowpane, he listened to the wind howling in the small chimney, and tears came into his eyes. “I think of our Jungens, out there in the frightful Russian winter, on those plains that have no end!”