The Third Reich

by Thomas Childers

  The situation in 1922 seemed particularly ripe for an assault on the embattled Republic. Between 1918 and 1924 Germany suffered from a severe case of cabinet instability—nine different governments since 1920, none with a workable majority in the Reichstag; a plague of political terrorism, and attempts to overthrow the fledgling Republic from both the radical left and right. The Reichstag elections in June 1920, held in the shadow of the Versailles Treaty, resulted in a devastating defeat for the parties of the Weimar coalition: the left-liberals, now called the Democratic Party, saw their vote cut in half, and the Social Democrats and Catholic Zentrum also experienced serious losses. The Conservatives were the big winners but were not strong enough to form a government. As a result, a string of minority cabinets and patchwork coalitions presided over the country, sometimes invoking Article 48 of the constitution, which gave the chancellor, with the approval of the Reich President, the power to take measures by emergency decree.

  In 1920 a conspiracy of conservative monarchists under the leadership of Wolfgang Kapp sent troops angry at their demobilization orders into Berlin and declared the establishment of a dictatorship. The army, while refusing to defend the government, also declined to throw support behind the coup. Without that support, the Kapp Putsch collapsed after a mere six days, brought down by an effective general strike called by the labor unions. The trouble did not end there. Workers in the Ruhr were not ready to end the strike without guarantees for reform and meaningful action against the Free Corps. They formed a “Red Army of the Ruhr” to protect themselves from the anticipated reaction of the army. Indeed, the army showed no qualms about moving vigorously against the left; reinforced by Free Corps units, the army smashed the workers’ uprising, executing many and murdering others.

  The ongoing unrest in the Reich prompted the Allies to demand that all paramilitary groups in Germany be disbanded or Germany would face invasion. The Reich government agreed, but Bavaria refused to comply. Under pressure from the Allies, Berlin at last demanded that Bavaria submit or face invasion from the north. With great reluctance the ultraconservative government of Bavarian monarchist Gustav Ritter von Kahr at last complied. By mid-1921 the various paramilitary organizations in Bavaria were dissolved, their members drifting to the NSDAP and other counterrevolutionary parties. Predictably, right-wing outrage against the Republic intensified, stoking the smoldering Bavarian resentment at Berlin.

  Adding to the instability was a rising tide of political murder that swept across the country in these years. Hugo Haase, leader of the USPD, was assassinated in 1919; Matthias Erzberger, signatory of the Armistice and long vilified as one of the “November criminals,” was murdered while vacationing in the Black Forest in 1921; and a year later so was Walther Rathenau, the liberal Jewish foreign minister. All were committed by right-wing terrorists, many with ties to groups in Munich. Almost all escaped without serious consequences. Anti-republican police officials tolerated and in some cases colluded with right-wing fugitives, helping them to escape the law, and judges were notoriously lenient with those who were tried. When the Munich police chief Ernst Pöhner, who helped Erzberger’s killers flee across the Czech border, was asked if he was aware that there were “political murder gangs” operating in the city, he is said to have replied, “Yes, but not enough of them.”

  The murder of these prominent national figures was but the tip of the iceberg. Numerous pro-Republican regional leaders as well as outspoken local supporters of the Republic fell victim to right-wing hit squads. Between 1919 and 1922, Germany recorded over three hundred political murders; in the first six months of 1922 alone, the number climbed to 376. Only twenty-two of these attacks were committed by leftists. “It was the time,” Konrad Heiden remarked, “when murder could be had for small change.”

  The brazen murder of Rathenau in June 1922 was the final straw. The Reich government enacted the Law for the Protection of the Republic, which instituted stiff penalties for attacks against Republican institutions and officials, and called for a nationwide crackdown on extremist groups. It also created a special tribunal within the Supreme Court in Leipzig to hear cases of political terrorism and laid out regulations for strict monitoring of political parties and societies, including their meetings and printed propaganda materials. In Munich the Bavarian authorities refused to honor the law, claiming that it amounted to unconstitutional meddling in Bavarian affairs. Bavaria would deal with terrorism in its own fashion and enacted its own legislation, which, Bavarian leaders insisted, superseded the Reich law. Little changed. As 1922 turned to 1923, the Weimar Republic was still very much in peril, and the forces of the right were gathering strength.

  The reparations issue continued to haunt the Weimar government. The Versailles Treaty had not set a specific amount for Germany’s reparations obligations, but in 1921 the Allied Reparations Commission had finally presented the German government with a figure. The bill was 123 billion gold marks, not counting payments amounting to 26 percent of Germany’s exports. In what was called the London Ultimatum, Germany had been given six days to accept or the Allies would occupy the Ruhr. The Republic had only with great reluctance bowed to the ultimatum, prompting another round of accusations of betrayal and cowardice from the political extremes. Although the government had accepted the terms, it also employed a variety of economic stratagems to avoid making the payments—disputing the value of payments in kind, especially timber and coal, the value of the mark, and the schedule of installments. In January 1923, France and Belgium, exasperated by Germany’s consistent evasion, invaded and occupied the Ruhr, setting off an economic and political crisis that threatened to unravel the delicate fabric of Weimar democracy. The German government called for a policy of passive resistance and let the printing presses of the treasury roll. Inflation, which had been mounting since the end of the war, spiraled into an utterly surrealistic hyperinflation. At the outbreak of the war in 1914 a dollar was worth 5 reichsmark (RM); at war’s end, 64 RM; in January 1923 following the Franco-Belgian invasion, 17,972 RM. Thereafter the value of the reichsmark was almost impossible to calculate for more than a few hours. In August 1923 a dollar was worth 109,996 RM; by November, 420,000,000,000 RM.

  Banks received government permission to print their own currency, sometimes on paper (small bills printed on one side that looked rather like Monopoly money), later on bedsheets and pillowcases. Often banks simply stamped zeros on existing denominations, transforming a 5 RM note into a 5,000 or 500,000 or 5,000,000 bill. In November, a streetcar ticket in Berlin cost 150,000,000 RM; a kilo of potatoes 90,000,000,000 RM; a beer in Munich 500,000,000,000. Children constructed elaborate castles with stacks of worthless paper currency; women shopped with wheelbarrows heaped high with bills. Shopkeepers hoarded their goods, refusing to sell their merchandise since it would be impossible to replenish their inventory tomorrow with today’s now worthless currency. People were paid three times a day. Upon arriving at work in the morning, they received a payment and immediately dispatched an accompanying family member (often a child) to buy lunch; if they waited until lunch break, the morning’s pay would be worthless; at the midday break the process was repeated, with a runner sent to buy food for dinner. Finally at the end of the workday, workers and employees were paid again and bought food for the next morning, when the whole process would begin again. “Life,” one German glumly lamented, was “madness, nightmare, desperation and chaos.” It was the end of the world, “the death of money.”

  With the economy careening toward utter collapse, the foundations of the Republic began to crumble. In late summer two Rhenish separatist movements, cheered on by the French, declared independent Rhineland republics, one in Aachen, the other in Koblenz; in Saxony and Thuringia, where the Communists and Socialists had formed a legitimate governing alliance, rumors of a leftist coup prompted Berlin to send in troops, disband the leftist government, and impose martial law. A Communist uprising in Hamburg in October was crushed by the army, leaving the country poised on the cusp
of anarchy and civil war. It was in this cauldron of economic crisis and political instability that Hitler and the NSDAP made their first appearance on the national political scene.

  Throughout the early months of 1923 Hitler had continued his feverish agitation against the Republic, heaping abuse on Berlin’s policy of passive resistance. It was, he roared, the Republic’s craven behavior, the government’s disgraceful inability to stand up to the Allies that had led Germany to this catastrophe. In January the NSDAP had held its first National Party Day. The party rented out a dozen of Munich’s largest beer halls, and throughout the day and into the night Hitler spoke in all twelve. He also presided over an imposing parade by the SA on the Marsfeld, where he stood in review of the passing columns for over two hours. In all, the police estimated the attendance at the Nazis’ Party Day events at 100,000. There were setbacks—on May Day an embarrassing confrontation with government forces, when a massive show of force by the Nazis was frustrated by the Bavarian Reichswehr and State Police (Landespolizei), who disarmed and dispersed the thousands of paramilitary men gathered on the Oberwiesenfeld. Hitler was humiliated, and yet despite this embarrassment, huge crowds still continued to flock to hear him speak.

  In the late summer, as the economy spun out of control and the political situation deteriorated, rumors of an impending coup d’état swirled through the city. Pressure was building from the far right as well as separatist forces. On September 1–2, General Erich Ludendorff, an implacable enemy of the Republic and the hero of the far right, presided over a “German Day” celebration in Nuremberg. Over 100,000 militants from right-wing groups, veterans’ associations, and paramilitary organizations swarmed into the city. At the German Day event, Röhm managed to bring the right-wing organizations Reich War Flag, the Bund Oberland, and the SA into a new militant coalition, the German Battle League (Kampfbund). Remarkably, Hitler, who had always resisted entering into an alliance with other parties, had agreed to allow the SA to join as well. Hitler was recognized by the other groups as the “political leader” of the alliance, though exactly what that meant was not at all clear; retired Lieutenant Colonel Hermann Kriebel was to be its military commander, while Ludendorff was generally viewed as the future dictator of Germany. All three stood together on the podium at the impressive German Day demonstration, exhibiting an unusual degree of right-wing solidarity, and fresh rumors of an impending coup swept throughout Munich.

  Hitler had succeeded in galvanizing popular opposition to the Bavarian Republic, but Röhm and others in his inner circle were worried that the party could not keep its followers at a fever pitch indefinitely. Hitler had preached action, revolutionary action. If he did not move, and soon, they would begin drifting away. Beyond the party faithful, the broader public was growing desperate. Unemployment was rapidly rising; food prices were exploding; savings were disappearing. In late October, reports from regional officials brought alarming news: in Upper Bavaria, one district office reported that the mood of the local population “is close to the mood of the November days of 1918 and April 1919,” and Bavarian officials were “expecting riots at any moment.” The people were demanding a solution to their economic distress. The time was ripe; the party had to act.

  In November 1923 real power in Munich was in the hands of a triumvirate consisting of State Commissar Gustav Ritter von Kahr; Colonel Hans Ritter von Seisser, director of the State Police; and General Otto von Lossow, commander of the Bavarian Reichswehr. The last weeks of October were taut with intrigue and suspicion, as Hitler, Ludendorff, and other leaders of the Kampfbund held meetings with members of the triumvirate. Each pressed its vision of the future on the other, but little agreement could be reached. A veil of mutual mistrust hung over the meetings. Both groups wanted to hurry the demise of the democratic state they abhorred, but beyond that little common ground could be found. The triumvirate wanted the Republic overthrown and replaced by a dictatorship backed by the Reichswehr and led by an oligarchic group of conservative political leaders in Berlin. Kahr was engaged in talks to win support for such a plan in Berlin, without, however, gaining much traction. Especially disheartening was his failure to win over Reichswehr commander General Hans von Seeckt, whose support would be pivotal.

  At a meeting with leaders of the Kampfbund on November 6, Kahr, backed by Lossow and Seisser, emphasized that any attempt to bring down the Republic would take time and careful planning, and he wanted no part of a Putsch, especially one led by Ludendorff and Hitler. All must act in concert; this was no time for unilateral moves. Hitler had not been at the meeting, and he was unsettled by Kahr’s intransigence. He wanted revolutionary action and was not inclined to wait. Still, he realized that any Putsch would need the support of the Munich police and the Bavarian Reichswehr, and he hoped to coax Kahr to back—or at least not block—such a move. On the night of the 6th he tried to arrange a meeting with Kahr for the next day, but the commissar refused to see him. That night, after conferring with his top advisors, Hitler decided that the time for the Putsch had come. Then on November 7, Kahr made an unexpected announcement: he would hold an important speech at the Bürgerbräu Beer Hall on the following evening. All Munich’s prominent political players, business leaders, military men, and social movers and shakers were to be in attendance. Hitler took Kahr’s refusal to meet with him as an ominous sign, and when Kahr again refused to meet with him on the 8th, either before or after his Bürgerbräu address, the Nazis were convinced that the commissar intended to exclude Hitler from his plans altogether. Of more immediate concern, Hitler and his lieutenants feared that Kahr might use his Bürgerbräu speech to announce his intention to break with Berlin, restore the Wittelsbach monarchy, and declare an independent Bavaria. Kahr’s hand would have to be forced.

  That morning, Hitler conferred with his inner circle. He sensed a potential opportunity. With Munich’s top civilian and military leaders all gathered in one place, he would crash the meeting, hijack the proceedings, and launch his own Putsch from the Bürgerbräukeller. He would force Kahr, Lossow, and Seisser to endorse the Putsch. He convinced himself that the army would fall in line behind them. It was a desperate roll of the dice, a long shot, but, as he would demonstrate again and again in the coming years, Hitler was a gambler.

  In the afternoon of November 7, the plan was finalized. It called for SA and Kampfbund troops to take control of all the major cities in Bavaria—Nuremberg, Augsburg, Regensburg, Ingolstadt, Würzburg, and Munich. They would seize railways, bridges, communications centers, radio stations, government buildings, and police headquarters. The offices of the labor unions, Social Democrats, and Communists were to be occupied and their leaders arrested. SA units from the surrounding countryside would converge on Munich, coming by truck and train. SA and Kampfbund leaders would be given their orders by telephone or courier. They were to alert their men for action the next day, although they were not to inform them of their mission. Secrecy was essential. Lieutenant Colonel Kriebel, the military leader of the Putsch, calculated that Hitler could count on roughly four thousand armed men arrayed against an army and police force of about half that number. But Hitler did not intend to use force. He hoped that no violence would be necessary. If the triumvirate could be convinced—or coerced—to cooperate with the Putsch, the Bavarian authorities, the municipal police, and the Bavarian Reichswehr would fall into line and together they would move on Berlin. It was to be, as historian Alan Bullock put it, “a revolution by sheer bluff.”

  * * *

  It was dark when Hitler and his entourage left party headquarters bound for the Bürgerbräukeller. The beer hall sat on a gentle rise on the east side of the Isar River, about a half mile from the Marienplatz in the center of the city. It was one of Munich’s largest beer halls, flanked by gardens and surrounded by a low stone wall. Its main hall could seat some three thousand people. It tended to draw a somewhat more upscale crowd than the earthier Hofbräuhaus or Löwenbräukeller, and that would certainly be the case for Commissar Kahr’s addres
s. Aware of the possibility of trouble, a contingent of 125 municipal police was in place in and around the sprawling grounds, and a company of State Police was held in readiness at a nearby barracks.

  Commissar Kahr’s address began promptly at eight o’clock. The hall was filled to capacity. Seated at dozens of round wooden tables before him were bankers and businessmen, military officers, newspaper editors, members of the Bavarian cabinet, and political figures from the center-right. His theme for the evening was the evils of Marxism, punctuated by the usual paeans to German nationalism, always a hit with this crowd. Kahr was deep into his remarks when Hitler arrived in his red Mercedes, bluffed his way through the police cordon, and, accompanied by his armed entourage, stepped into the lobby. Outside a stream of trucks began arriving. Within minutes they had disgorged their load of heavily armed SA men and helmeted members of Hitler’s special guard, the Shock Troop Adolf Hitler. Within minutes they had brushed aside the police cordon, surrounded the building, and blocked all the exits. Then, at just past 8:30, as Kahr droned on, the door to the hall burst open and in stormed Göring, “with all his medals clinking,” followed by two dozen uniformed shock troops brandishing pistols and machine guns. Behind them, in the entrance to the main hall, SA men mounted a heavy machine gun, training it directly on the audience.