In fact, even before the trial began, Hitler was confident of a sympathetic hearing. He had already come before the presiding judge, Franz Neidhardt, well known for his right-wing nationalist sympathies. In May Neidhardt had presided over Hitler’s trial for assault arising from a beer hall brawl and imposed the lightest possible sentence on the defendant: three months. He also sanctioned Hitler’s release from Stadelheim prison after serving only thirty days. With Neidhardt’s indulgence, the trial provided Hitler with exactly the national stage he craved. Although Ludendorff was by far the most well known of the defendants, from the beginning this was Hitler’s show.
Hitler appeared before the court in civilian clothes, his Iron Cross displayed on his chest. After the initial bout of despair in prison, his spirits had been lifted by visits from Drexler, Helene Hanfstaengl, Frau Bechstein, and others who brought encouraging words from his loyal followers. His self-confidence surged. And no wonder. From the opening gavel, the court proceedings were a scandal. Neidhardt allowed Hitler to interrupt the prosecutor, to cross-examine witnesses, and to give perorations of up to four hours. Hitler heaped scorn on the state’s witnesses, especially Lossow, Seisser, and Kahr, branding them cowards, hypocrites, and co-conspirators desperately trying to cover their tracks. He was allowed to ramble on at length about his political vision, about the November criminals, the Treaty of Versailles, Germany’s future foreign policy under his direction. He inveighed against parliamentary democracy and called for a dictatorship, immodestly laying claim to the role of Germany’s savior, its future dictator. The other defendants entered pleas of not guilty. Hitler defiantly took responsibility for all that had happened. He proudly admitted his guilt for wanting to reclaim the honor of Germany, to restore the glory of the German army, to free Germany from the grip of the November criminals who had enslaved the nation. Above all, he thundered, he was “resolved to be the destroyer of Marxism.”
In his closing statement he delivered one of his most impressive speeches, explaining that he and the National Socialists “wanted to create in Germany the preconditions that alone will make it possible for the iron grip of our enemies to be removed from us. We wanted to create order in the state, throw out the drones, take up the fight against international stock exchange slavery. Against our whole economy being cornered by stock exchange slavery, against the politicizing of the trade unions, and above all, for the highest honorable duty which we, as Germans, know should be once more introduced—the duty of bearing arms, military service. And now, I ask you: Is what we wanted high treason?”
He closed with a warning:
The army we have formed is growing from day to day, from hour to hour, and faster. Especially in these days I nourish the proud hope that one day the hour will come when these wild companies will grow to battalions, the battalions to regiments, the regiments to divisions; that the old cockade will be taken from the filth, that the old flags will wave again, that there will be a reconciliation at the last great divine judgment, which we are prepared to face. Then from our bones and our graves the voice of that court will speak, which alone is entitled to sit in judgment over us. For it is not you, gentlemen, who pronounce judgment upon us. The judgment is spoken by the eternal court of history. . . . What judgment you will hand down, I know. But that court will not ask us: “Did you commit high treason or did you not?”
No, he went on, that court would judge the men of November 9 as “Germans, who wanted and desired only the good of their people and fatherland; who wanted to fight and die. You may pronounce us guilty a thousand times over, the goddess of the eternal court of history will smile and tear to tatters the brief of the state’s attorney and the sentence of the court; for she acquits us.”
The crowd was with him, the judge was with him; even the state prosecutor praised his motives, if not his methods. On the day the sentence was to be announced, expectant crowds swarmed around the redbrick structure that served as courthouse and jail. The six defendants posed proudly on the steps of the building for a group photo. They looked stern but confident. Inside, the state prosecutors found the courtroom sprinkled with women carrying flowers for their hero; one even asked if she might bathe in Hitler’s bathtub. The international press and journalists from around Germany, on the other hand, were appalled by what one called the “Munich carnival” in the courtroom. Even ministers in the Bavarian government, some of whom had been held hostage in the Bürgerbräukeller, complained about Neidhardt’s indulgent handling of Hitler. When censured by a minister of state for allowing Hitler to speak for hours, Neidhardt lamely responded: “It is impossible to keep Hitler from talking.”
The worst fears of the Republic’s supporters were realized when the court rendered its final verdict on April 1. All evidence to the contrary, Ludendorff was acquitted outright. “Adolf Hitler [was] practically acquitted and all the rest of the accused [were] either freed without further ado or punished with such ridiculous sentences that they are to all intents and purposes free men. . . . To put the sentences in a nutshell,” The New York Times commented, “every one of the accused is as free as a mountain bird except Hitler, Kriebel, and Weber, and all Germany is convinced that they will likewise be free as soon as they have served the Munich court’s idea of punishment which a traitor to the German Republic should suffer—six months imprisonment” minus time already served. It was, most observers agreed, a farce. “All Munich is chuckling over the verdict which is regarded as an excellent joke for All Fools Day.” But while supporters of the Republic could only shake their heads in dismay, “reactionary Munich is delighted at the verdict,” the Times reported, “though some dissatisfaction is expressed that Hitler was not freed with Ludendorff.” In delivering Hitler’s sentence of five years—the minimum allowed by law—Neidhardt emphasized that the Nazi leader would be eligible for parole in six months, minus the four months already served. In other words, Hitler could be back on the streets in eight weeks. There was consternation in the international press. As the reporter for The New York Times cryptically put it: “To plot against the Constitution of the Republic is not considered a serious crime in Munich.”
Some had hoped that Hitler, still an Austrian citizen, would at a minimum be deported when released. They were sorely disappointed. “In the opinion of the court,” the final judgment read, “a man who thinks and feels as German as Hitler, a man who voluntarily served four and a half years in the German army during the war, who earned high war decorations for bravery in the face of the enemy, who was wounded and whose health was impaired . . . should not be subjected to the Law for the Protection of the Republic.” It was a remarkable turnaround. Ingloriously defeated in his attempt to overthrow the legitimate government of Germany by force, Hitler had turned the trial into a major triumph. The trial had given him a national stage on which to spout his views, and he had delivered a propaganda masterpiece. Still, most assumed that his newfound notoriety would quickly fade. After all, he had no national following to speak of; he was still very much a regional phenomenon; and despite his dramatic courtroom theatrics, he would now disappear into prison. His party was in disarray, declared illegal, its leaders scattered, in exile or in prison. Germany, most believed, had seen the last of Adolf Hitler.
3
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ON THE FRINGE, 1925–28
When Hitler returned to Landsberg Prison on April 1, 1924, his old cell was waiting. He had left the prison for his trial an obscure street corner agitator whose notoriety was confined largely to Bavaria. When he returned, he was the “martyr of Munich,” a hero of the radical right. The disastrous Putsch had been ridiculed everywhere as a bumbling, almost farcical calamity, but Hitler’s virtuoso performance in the courtroom had transformed him into a national figure. Now he was Landsberg’s “prisoner of honor,” a celebrity to the other conspirators, the jailers, and the prison officials.
In the wing of Landsberg Prison reserved for political prisoners—a commodity with which Bavaria, given its turbulent postwar histor
y, was well stocked—Hitler was again assigned cell 7 on the upper floor, reserved for the most important prisoners. His cell was small but comfortable, holding a table, two chairs, a cupboard, and bed. Light poured in from two large windows, and although Hitler complained about the bars, his view was of shrubbery, trees, and hills. Visitors brought geraniums and other flowers.
Under the circumstances, he had all he could ask for. He dressed in his own clothes, usually lederhosen and the traditional Tyrolean jacket, white shirt, and sometimes a tie. Telegrams and letters from loyal party members and doting admirers poured into the prison; some sent books, others packages of food (Hitler was partial to Viennese pastries and fretted about his weight). Hitler’s cell, Putzi Hanfstaengl later remarked, “looked like a delicatessen. You could have opened up a flower and fruit and a wine shop with all the stuff stacked in there.”
Although visitors were to be restricted, the sympathetic prison authorities turned a blind eye to the rising tide of visitors who arrived for an audience with “the hero of Munich.” On some days Hitler spent up to six hours receiving guests. Even his dog was allowed a visit. By summer Hitler was besieged by so many visitors that he asked the jailers to admit only those with a written appointment. The prisoners were granted two hour-long sessions of physical exercise, including boxing and gymnastics. Hitler sometimes refereed the contests but usually preferred to walk—after all, the leader of the movement could hardly enter into a physical competition with his followers.
Even as a prisoner, Hitler was very much in command, the master of his surroundings. When a new prisoner was assigned to the block, he was taken immediately to report to Hitler. At meals in the common room Hitler presided over the table, holding court. One fellow conspirator wrote to a friend that every day at 10 a.m. “there is normally an hour’s discussion with the Chief or better still an address by the Chief.” The jailers and other prison staff often listened from beyond the doorway, and were as impressed as the prisoners. When Hitler spoke, “the warders gathered outside on the staircase and listened without making a sound . . . the men of the police guard unit would form up in the courtyard outside and none of these listeners ever made even the smallest disturbance.”
Hitler’s main occupation while at Landsberg was writing. He had in mind to write a book about his wartime experiences, his political awakening, and the beginnings of the NSDAP. A second volume might be necessary to explain National Socialism’s Weltanschauung, its ideological goals and assumptions. Together the two volumes would constitute an autobiographical political manifesto. Visitors supplied him with paper, pen, and ink, even a typewriter, on which he tapped out the pages, using the two finger method. Sometimes he dictated to fellow conspirators Emil Maurice or Rudolf Hess. One jailer remarked that “all day long and late into the night the typewriter would be tapping and one could hear Hitler in his small room dictating to his friend Hess. On Saturday evenings he would generally read the completed sections to his fellow prisoners who sat around him like schoolboys.”
Hitler was not altogether unhappy with this respite from the frenetic rough and tumble of politics. Since his entry into the party, he had found little time to reflect and write. His considerable energies had been devoted to speaking, organizing, and attempting to hold the rambunctious NSDAP together. Now, with the enforced discipline and quiet of prison, he could turn at last to developing his ideas in a more systematic form. As he would recall many years later, his book would never have been written had it not been for his time in prison. In Landsberg, with few diversions, he threw himself into his writing. He had high hopes for the book. He intended to call it Four and a Half Years of Struggle Against Lies, Corruption, and Cowardice, but was dissuaded by his old army comrade and publisher Max Amann, who gingerly suggested that the title might not be as compelling to potential readers as it was to Hitler. Amann suggested a shorter, pithier title: Mein Kampf (My Struggle).
Although Hitler was kept informed about developments beyond the prison walls, he refused to become involved in the incessant wrangling among his lieutenants. While awaiting trial, he had deputized Alfred Rosenberg, the editor of the Völkischer Beobachter, to act as caretaker for the party in his absence. It was a curious choice. Pedantic, aloof, and bereft of any personal charisma, Rosenberg liked to think of himself as the philosopher of the party. He had no administrative experience and no personal following. Many believed that Hitler had chosen him for precisely these reasons. Rosenberg was in no danger of usurping his power, nor would he be a threat to his position as leader when he returned.
Almost immediately Rosenberg encountered challenges on several fronts. Little had been done to prepare for the possibility that the coup might fail, and Rosenberg discovered that the party’s organization was in almost hopeless disarray. Hoping to establish a caretaker organization for the banned NSDAP, he founded the Greater German People’s Community (Grossdeutsche Volksgemeinschaft or GVG) on January 1, 1924, but few party leaders were ready to accept him as leader. Many Hitler loyalists remained aloof, and by summer Esser and Streicher had assumed control of the GVG. Other Nazi leaders attached themselves to a rival radical party, the German Völkisch Freedom Party (DVFP), headquartered in Berlin and headed by Ludendorff and Albrecht von Graefe, who had marched in the failed Putsch. What was left of the NSDAP was fragmenting by the day, splintering into mutually mistrustful factions.
Complicating matters further, the Nazis were confronted by the approach of the first national elections since 1920. Hitler had always vehemently opposed participation in democratic elections, but the situation in early 1924 seemed to offer rich possibilities. Between November 1923 and the spring of 1924 the Reich government, using emergency decree powers provided by Article 48 of the Weimar constitution, introduced a series of stringent deflationary measures that led to an immediate stabilization of the economy but also had serious social and political ramifications. They entailed the de facto suspension of the eight-hour workday, a massive and unprecedented dismissal of civil servants and public employees, a severe restriction of credit, which produced a flood of bankruptcies, especially by small businesses, and a startling rise in unemployment, most striking among white-collar personnel. In addition, the government’s Third Emergency Tax Decree, which revalued debts and mortgages at only 15 percent of their original value, triggered a volcanic eruption of protest from creditors. The inflation crisis of 1923 quickly gave way to the stabilization crisis of 1924.
Contributing to the furor raised by the government’s harsh stabilization measures was the revival of the reparations issue. The question—how much, in what form, and on what schedule Germany would pay—had not been settled at Versailles or at subsequent international conferences. It would prove to be the most intractable issue in postwar international politics. In early 1924, an international committee of economic experts, appointed by the League of Nations’ Reparations Commission and chaired by the American banker Charles Dawes, drafted a new scheme of payment to be presented to the German government. In early April, with the Reichstag campaign just getting under way, the committee presented its report to the commission. Quickly dubbed the Dawes Plan, this bundle of recommendations called for a graduated schedule of payments, beginning with approximately one billion marks in 1925–26 and rising to a normal annual payment of 2.5 billion by 1928–29. To Berlin’s dismay, it did not, however, establish Germany’s total liability, and hence the ominous prospect of paying and paying endlessly into the future loomed over the negotiations.
Among the most galling aspects of the plan were provisions that were widely viewed as infringements on Germany’s sovereignty. The plan called for the creation of an international general council with broad powers to oversee the German economy. Since a stable currency and a balanced budget were viewed as prerequisites for German recovery, the operations of the German central bank (Reichsbank) were to be closely supervised by the international general council, and an Allied reparations agent was to be stationed in Berlin to direct the transfer of rep
arations payments. As sweeteners, the committee indicated that acceptance of the Dawes Plan and a good-faith effort to put Germany’s economic house in order would prompt a much needed influx of foreign capital that would allow the country to get back on its feet again. Although not formally part of the plan, the Allies also suggested that evacuation of the Ruhr within one year could be expected if the Germans cooperated and accepted the report.
As soon as the details of the Dawes Plan—and its positive reception by the German government—were made public, a nationwide furor erupted. The Conservatives, Nazis, and Völkisch parties as well as the Communists denounced the plan as a “second Versailles,” another link in the chains of slavery imposed on Germany by the vindictive Allied governments. Although the press referred to it as the “inflation election,” the government’s harsh stabilization policies and the Dawes Plan quickly became the central issues of the ensuing campaign, galvanizing all the enemies of the Republic.
With the election scheduled for May 4, the Nazis would have to make a decision on whether to participate—and quickly. It was a highly contentious issue. Held in the shadow of the hyperinflation and the draconian stabilization that followed, the spring campaign of 1924 seemed to offer anti-Republican forces a tremendous launching pad. Anger over the destruction of the currency and the severe measures undertaken to stabilize the economy—all unpopular and all by emergency decree—was running high. At the same time, the extensive media coverage of the Hitler trial had thrown a spotlight on the National Socialists just as the campaign was getting under way, and although Hitler was no longer on the scene, many within the party believed that the moment should not be wasted.
The Third Reich Page 9
