Fire and Steel, Volume 3

by Gerald N. Lund

  He turned to Hans and then looked at Ernst Roehm. “Gentlemen, I strongly suggest you convey that information to Herr Hitler, for we shall proceed on Wednesday, with or without him.” BANG! The gravel slammed down again. “This meeting is adjourned.”

  9:45 p.m.—Telephone exchange, Munich railway station

  This late on a Sunday night, Munich’s main railway station felt like a morgue. But it was the only telephone exchange Hans knew of that stayed open around the clock. He glanced up at the large clock on the far wall and frowned. The last trolley to Milbertshofen District left at ten thirty, and he had to get to the trolley station before then and purchase his fare.

  “Come on, Adolf,” he muttered for the sixth or seventh time. “Crisis or not, I am not going to miss my trolley and walk four miles to get home. I have a life too, believe it or not.”

  Another four or five minutes went by before the female clerk at the desk called to him. “Herr Eckhardt, I have your party on the line. I will send it to booth one for you.”

  Hans walked swiftly to the nearest booth, went inside, and sat down just as the phone rang once. He snatched up the speaking apparatus. “Hello?”

  “Hans?”

  He sat back, relaxing. “Ja, Adolf, it is me. How good to hear from you.”

  “My apologies for making you wait, old friend. I was on the phone with Ernst Roehm.”

  “Oh? Then he told you about the meeting?”

  “He did. And he also told me what you did. I am in your debt yet again, Hans. But I want to hear it all from you as well. Do you have time? I know it’s late.”

  “I have time.”

  “So tell me everything.”

  Hans did so, talking for five or six minutes, with Adolf interrupting him only once or twice with questions. When he finished, he didn’t wait for a response. He asked the question that was the primary reason for his call. “How soon will you be coming home?”

  “I am leaving on the first train in the morning.”

  “Wunderbar!” Hans exclaimed. “When would you like to meet? Would you like to come to our home? Emilee could fix supper for us.”

  “Danke, Hans. Your wife is a great support to you. But we have much to talk about, and I don’t want to bore her with all of this. My train arrives at five-twenty tomorrow afternoon. Could you meet me at the station? And then we’ll go to our usual restaurant in Marienplatz and we can take as long as we need.”

  “Of course. I’ll be there.”

  Chapter Notes

  Bavarian Motor Works (BMW) did not start producing automobiles until 1929. The distinctive logo that incorporates the blue and white of the Bavarian flag was patented in 1917. Its circular shape was meant to suggest the revolutions of an aircraft propeller.

  After more than a year of growing successes, there was no question that by the summer of 1921, Adolf Hitler was the titular leader of the burgeoning National Socialist German Workers’ Party (Nazi for short). Some of the original leaders felt threatened by his rise to power and his dogged insistence that he have things his way. A movement within the leadership set about to push him out while he was away in Berlin. On learning this, Hitler hurried back to Munich to deal with the threat (see Shirer, Rise and Fall, 44–45).

  July 13, 1921, 6:35 p.m.—Dienerstrasse, near Marienplatz, Munich

  Hans left Marienplatz moving slowly now, savoring the light breeze that had sprung up from the east. He thought he could feel just a touch of moisture the breeze was picking up as it passed over the Isar River and the green areas that surrounded it. The river was less than a mile to the east. It was a beautiful evening, and throngs of people—many of them young couples and families with small children—were out in droves to enjoy it.

  When Hans had left his house, he had planned to take a trolley to the center of town and then switch trolleys at Marienplatz and take another one to Wiener Platz, site of the Munich Kindl Keller and tonight’s meeting. But as he disembarked from the first trolley, his mind was filled with memories of the left-wing, Soviet-style revolution that had started on May 1, 1919. By that point, Colonel von Schiller, Hans’s former battalion commander, had called him back into action, and the next day he and his company had been placed in this historic square to protect its famous Glockenspiel and centuries-old statue of the Virgin Mary. After a few hours, they had been replaced by regular army units and were called north to reinforce another battalion.

  On impulse, Hans glanced up at the clock on the Glockenspiel, saw that he was early for his pre-meeting with Adolf, and decided to retrace the route they had taken that day in 1919. So he crossed the square and headed north. And here, the memories came in a rush.

  As they had started up the completely deserted street, Hans’s company in the lead, they spread out in marching formation, guns drawn, faces tense. Then a strange thing happened. The citizens of this part of Munich, who had been hiding in their homes since the revolution had erupted, saw them coming. When they realized that these were pro-government troops and not leftist rebels, they poured out of their buildings or came out on their balconies to cheer and wave.

  Now, Hans stopped near the corner of a six- or seven-story apartment building and looked around, his mood very somber now. It was here that a young woman in her early twenties had dashed out of the building to his right. She was barefoot and carrying a handful of red geraniums, probably ripped from flowerpots on her family’s balcony. Hans was leading the company and was a few steps out front of the rest of his men, so she ran up to him, thrust the flowers into his hands, and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him long and hard on the lips.

  He smiled for a moment. He could still remember the softness of her lips and how sweet they had tasted. And the joy in her eyes had made him laugh. Then she had turned and run back inside as his men cheered and begged her to come out and “thank them,” too.

  And that’s when the snipers from the upper floors of buildings on both sides of the street had opened fire. Suddenly, the sharp crack of their rifles, the smell of gunpowder, and the screams of the people drowned out everything else. Horror was all around him. And blood. He had lost twelve men that day, and twice that many were wounded, some critically. Six civilians had also been killed, including an eight-year-old boy.

  He also remembered the young girl. She too had been coming out to hand flowers to the troops, a picture of purity and innocence and loveliness that had made him smile. But when the shooting began, she had frozen into immobility, screaming hysterically for her mother. Hans had reached her in three great leaps, swept her up in his arms, and dove to the ground. He thought he had her completely covered by his body, but then there was a sharp ricochet and she went instantly limp. He would never, in all of his life, forget the feeling that wrenched his gut when he saw the blood on her face and on the pavement and on his tunic. A stray shell fragment had hit her in the head.

  Feeling his stomach clutching up as it had that day, Hans suddenly had to get away. The memories were too sharp, too unbearable. He broke into a trot, ignoring the strange looks that the strolling crowds gave him as he went by.

  6:49 p.m.—Grounds of Maximilianeum Palace, Munich

  Hans only stopped when he was about halfway across the Maximilian Bridge, and only then because he was gasping for breath and his legs were trembling. He leaned over the bridge’s balustrade and stared down at the placid water of the Isar moving slowly beneath him, pushing back the memories of that day on the street. After a few minutes he finally straightened, turned east to face the magnificent palace that lay before him now, and started on again.

  Emperor Maximilian II had built his vast palace on the east banks of the Isar back in the 1800s when this area was not yet part of Munich’s urban sprawl. But Hans had not come to see that. He moved to where the road divided to form a large oval ring that encircled the building and its grounds. There he moved onto the rolling expanse of lawn, walked about
fifty yards, and stopped. The last time he had been here, this area had been covered with the sprawl of tents that made up the army’s temporary field hospital during the Soviet revolution. And it was here that he had come to meet Katya Tobler, the young girl from the street ambush.

  Katya was seven years old at that time. He hadn’t known her name, of course, and so it had taken him a couple of days to find her. He had come to the hospital and introduced himself to Katya and her mother. He smiled to himself now. He had brought her a teddy bear that day, one of the newest things from America. And he had accepted a tearful kiss from both Katya and her mother, which had finally brought him some peace. Now he had a photo of Katya on his dresser at home. A few months after she got out of the hospital, she and her family had come and had dinner with him and Emilee.

  And suddenly Hans was glad that he had come early and walked these streets again. It was good to remember what you were fighting for. At first, Hans had been highly skeptical of that dream. Now it was becoming reality. And a group of petty, jealous, narrow-minded incompetents were trying to stop it.

  He straightened his shoulders, walked back out to the sidewalk, and turned east. Wiener Platz, the Plaza of Vienna, was only a few blocks away now. Adolf would be waiting for him outside Kindl Keller, the “Child Cellar.” How appropriate, Hans thought. It was Katya Tobler and Nattie Litzser and Bruno and Miki and all the rest of his nieces and nephews, and, of course, his own Alisa, that made the sacrifices worth it. Children were what this was really all about. And Hans actually smiled as he quickened his stride.

  7:37 p.m.—Kindl Keller, Wiener Platz, Munich

  Anton Drexler got slowly to his feet and looked around at the circle of men, intentionally ignoring Adolf Hitler, who was directly across the table from him. If Hitler noticed the slight, he gave no indication. He stared straight ahead, his expression unreadable. “The committee will come to order,” Drexler finally intoned.

  The chairman waited for a moment and then went on. “Due to the urgency of the issue before us tonight, we shall dispense with the usual reading of the minutes and our financial report by our treasurer.” He stopped and looked around, as if that decision might be controversial and he was daring anyone to contradict him. No one did.

  The room that the executive committee had booked here in the Kindl Keller was somewhat larger than the one they had met in on Sunday night. And again, Hans had to acknowledge Drexler’s shrewdness. This was not just an executive committee meeting, but a gathering where all party members were invited. He had no choice but to choose a larger venue, but it was no more than twice the size of their previous meeting place. Five tables that sat six or seven people each. A few chairs lined up along the walls, all of which were full. And a few people who were standing. So maybe fifty people at most.

  And as Hans searched their faces when he and Adolf entered, he saw that fully half of the seats were filled by Drexler loyalists. He hadn’t dared risk a swarm of Hitler supporters.

  But the deck wasn’t totally stacked against them, either. As Hans let his eyes sweep the room, he saw that Adolf’s supporters were there in force too. Ernst Roehm sat with four men in uniform, probably old army buddies. Emil Maurice had three men with him that Hans recognized as part of the order troops. Heinrich Hoffmann; Rudolf Hess; Christian Weber; Alfred Rosenberg; Max Amann, who had been Adolf’s first sergeant in France; Dietrich Eckart; Ulrich Graf, another of Hitler’s personal bodyguards—they were all there as well as other friendly faces Hans recognized.

  Most gratifying, however, was the presence of Hermann Goering. Though he sat quietly now, two tables away, lost in his own thoughts and not speaking to anyone, his presence was like a glowing torch. Everyone kept watching him and whispering to each other about him.

  A native Bavarian, Goering had entered the war as an infantry lieutenant but shortly thereafter was transferred to the air force as a combat pilot. He quickly distinguished himself as a fearless and skilled airman. Officially he was credited with shooting down twenty-two enemy aircraft, and he had become commander of the famed Baron Richthofen Squadron by the end of the war. He had earned the Pour le Mérite, Germany’s highest military honor, as well as an Iron Cross, First Class. He was strikingly handsome with thick, light brown hair, laughing blue eyes, and strong facial features. Women swooned over him. Men gathered around him so they could later tell their friends and family they had actually shaken hands with him.

  After the war, he had been a show pilot for a time in Denmark and Sweden, where he met Baroness Karin von Fock-Kantzow, an immensely wealthy wife of Swedish nobility. She had fallen for the dashing young flyer and was now in the process of divorcing her husband. They were engaged to be married in February.

  About a year before, Goering had returned to Munich and enrolled in the university. It was there that he had heard of a young political firebrand named Adolf Hitler and his rising Nazi party and decided to attend one of the rallies. Thrilled by what he saw, he had quickly joined the party. This made even national headlines and proved to be a prestigious feather in the National Socialists’ cap. Almost instantly, he and Adolf had become fast friends, and Goering’s support of his new friend was total and unflagging.

  To have him here tonight was of tremendous importance in Hans’s mind. This was only confirmed by how many times Drexler, Harrer, and their cronies kept glancing nervously in his direction.

  “All right, then,” Drexler harrumphed, “the question before us has to do with the disunity and fractions within the party, particularly among our governing committee.” Now he glared at Adolf, his eyes glittering with contempt. But again, if Adolf saw it, he gave no sign.

  “A few days ago, this committee circulated a pamphlet outlining our concerns about the actions of Herr Adolf Hitler in relation to the National Socialist Party. I trust you’ve all had a chance to read it, so let us proceed.”

  Hans jerked around to Adolf. “Pamphlet?”

  Adolf nodded. “You didn’t get a copy?”

  “No.” He turned and glowered at Drexler.

  “An oversight, I am sure, Herr Eckhardt,” Drexler said blandly. “But I shall read the document aloud so all may be fully informed.”

  “Danke,” Hans said, his anger simmering just beneath the surface.

  The chairman reached out and withdrew a sheet of paper from the leather pouch he always carried with him. Others around the table began pulling out their papers as well. Adolf withdrew his from inside his jacket pocket. He opened it and put it between himself and Hans so Hans could read along as Drexler began.

  The chairman began, “This was drafted by several members of this committee, whose signatures are affixed at the bottom of the document. I shall skip that preliminary information and begin with the first paragraph.” He removed some spectacles from his shirt pocket, put them on, cleared his throat, and started to read.

  “‘The executive committee of the National Socialist German Worker’s Party, otherwise known as the Nazi Party, do hereby bring accusations of wrongdoing against Herr Adolf Hitler, Director of Propaganda of said party. Most recently, a lust for power and personal ambition have caused Herr Hitler to return to his post after six weeks’ absence in Berlin, the purposes of which visit Herr Hitler has never fully explained to the committee.”

  Hans leaned in to object. The committee knew that he had gone north to speak to a group of nationalists and assess the political situation there. But Hitler laid a hand on his arm and gave him a quick shake of his head.

  “‘Herr Hitler seems to regard the time as ripe for bringing disunion and schism into our ranks by means of shadowy people behind him, furthering the interests of the Jews and their friends.’”

  Hans nearly choked. “You think he was up there consorting with Jews?” he blurted. “Surely, you must be joking. This is Adolf Hitler, remember?”

  Drexler barely looked up. “Herr Eckhardt, you will contain yourself or I shall
have the sergeant at arms remove you from this hall. Do I make myself clear?”

  Again Adolf reached out and restrained Hans. “Be patient, my friend,” he murmured.

  “‘It grows increasingly clear,’” Drexler continued, “‘that Herr Hitler’s purpose is to use the National Socialist Party as a springboard for his own immoral purposes and to seize the leadership in order to force the party onto a different track. This is most clearly shown by an ultimatum that he presented to the party leaders two days ago, in which he demanded that he be given sole and absolute dictatorship of the party, and that the chairman of the party, Herr Anton Drexler, resign forthwith and that the rest of the governing committee be completely dissolved.’”

  Hans whirled around. “You really did that?”

  Adolf, who still seemed to find this whole thing quite amusing, just shrugged.

  Drexler droned on with the charges: Herr Hitler had overstepped his bounds. Herr Hitler was conspiring against the committee. Herr Hitler was not a true National Socialist, but a venal opportunist whose radical views, if not checked, would utterly destroy the party. And on and on. To Hans it sounded like the rantings of a spiteful child.

  Drexler paused and looked around the room. “Specific charges are then enumerated, which we shall address in a moment. I shall read only the closing paragraph, which is a call to all members of our beloved party. ‘National Socialists. Make up your mind about this man and his character. This is a man who twists every fact to his own purposes. This is a man who carries on his campaign like a Jew. How can you trust him? Make no mistake, fellow party members, Herr Adolf Hitler is a demagogue who is filling your minds with all kinds of tales that are anything but the truth.’”

  Again it was all Hans could do to stop from laughing out loud. They were accusing Hitler of being Jew-like? Had they totally lost their minds? Others in the hall were openly sniggering too.