The Proud Shall Stumble

by Gerald N. Lund

  When the revolt was finally put down, Wolfie’s loyalty was rewarded with a supervisory position in the department. A couple of years later, when the Public Works Department was consolidated with the Ministry of the Interior, he had been given a full department of his own. It was housed on the top floor of the Ministry of the Interior, which was located, along with many other state government buildings, on Ludwigstrasse about a block north of Odeonplatz. And Wolfie’s office was on the third floor in the southeast corner, which gave him a clear view of all that was going on below.

  Over the last couple of years, it had become his custom that when he needed a break from the tedium of his work, Wolfie would swivel his chair around, lean back, and enjoy the magnificent view that was his. On this day, however, he was anything but relaxed as he looked out the window. He was on the edge of his chair and had a pair of binoculars in one hand and a telephone in the other. He had the glasses focused on the spot where Residenzstrasse opened up onto the plaza in front of the War Memorial. He had already studied the line of state police along the north end of Odeonplatz but had decided that he wouldn’t mention them to Paula unless it became absolutely necessary. Paula was in Graswang with Emilee and the rest of the family, so whatever he said to her would be known by all.

  “Can you see anything yet?” Paula’s voice sounded tinny through the phone.

  He pulled the mouthpiece closer to his lips. “No, not yet,” he whispered. Then he glanced around quickly to make sure no one could see him. His office door had a glass pane in it, but he had the blinds pulled now. He knew that every other person in the office was lined up at the windows, knowing they had a ringside seat as history was about to be made. His boss was as caught up in the moment as the members of his staff were, so he did not try to stop them. All he had said was that it was forbidden to open the windows or to use the telephone during this emergency.

  Wolfie was risking his wrath by calling Paula and the family, but his boss knew that Hans was an important figure in the party, and Wolfie hoped that if he were caught, he could use that as his primary excuse.

  “Wait!” he cried. “Here they come. I can see the flag-bearers.” He held his breath and then nearly shouted it. “And there’s Hitler and Ludendorff right behind them.”

  “Can you see Hans?” Emilee called to him. Her voice was a little muffled, but Wolfie knew that all the adults in the family were gathered around the phone right now.

  “Ja, ja! There he is. He’s the second man to Hitler’s right. There are—” He counted quickly. “There are eleven men in that first row. There are several rows behind them and—ah, yes. There are two trucks coming into view now.” He also decided not to mention that the first one was filled with machine guns and the men who would fire them. “And here comes a company of men. I’m guessing there are many more behind them.” Suddenly he grunted and leaned forward, adjusting the field glasses to get a sharper focus. “What in the name of heaven?”

  “What?” Paula cried anxiously.

  Wolfie jerked up a little. He had momentarily forgotten that he was speaking into the telephone and not to himself. “Hans is in a uniform. But I thought. . . . Emilee, did he have his uniform with him?”

  There was a pause, then, “No, I don’t think so. He told me he was going straight to where the party leadership was meeting. He wasn’t going to take the time to go home for his uniform. Are you sure that’s him? Is he all right?”

  “He looks fine. They’re stopping now.” And with that he realized he couldn’t hold it back any longer. “Paula, put Emilee on.”

  “Yes, I’m here,” Emilee said a moment later.

  “Emilee, there are a large number of state police lined up in front of the concert hall. They’re blocking Hitler’s way. They’re armed and look like they’re going to stop them from going forward.”

  “Armed?” Emilee gasped.

  “Yes. Right now they’re in a bit of a standoff. The police captain has a bullhorn and is talking to them. Can’t make out what he’s—uh-oh. Hitler has drawn his pistol.” He gasped. “No! No! No!” Wolfie was suddenly yelling at Hitler through the glass, completely forgetting about the phone.

  “Wolfie! What’s happening?” Emilee’s voice shrieked out of the earpiece.

  He barely heard her. There was the soft crack of a pistol shot and he saw one of the policemen clutch at his chest and then crumple to the ground. Instantly there was a roar of gunfire that shook the window glass as policemen dropped to their knees and opened fire.

  Somewhere in Wolfie’s mind it registered that through the phone he could hear Emilee sobbing and Paula and Inga and the others yelling. Only then did he realize that to some degree, they could hear everything he was hearing.

  “Sorry, Emilee. I’ve got to go. I’ll call as soon as I can.” He slammed the phone down and leaped to the window. Any semblance of order was gone as men screamed and dove for cover as they blasted off their weapons. The firing was one continuous roar now. Jamming the field glasses to his eyes again, Wolfie frantically searched for Hans. But he couldn’t pick him out. Men were sprawled out on the pavement. Some were firing back at the police line. Some were screaming in agony. Some were bodies twisted in the grotesque poses of death.

  Dazed and numb, Wolfie lowered the glasses, unable to watch any longer.

  November 9, 1923, 12:20 p.m.—Odeonplatz, Munich

  Hans lunged for Hitler as the Luger blasted off again and again, but he collided with Max. Max was trying to free himself from Adolf’s interlocked arm, whether to get in front of him and protect him or to duck for cover, Hans wasn’t sure.

  “Get down, Max!” Hans shouted, but in the tremendous roar of more than a hundred rifles blasting off, he couldn’t even hear himself. He dropped to one knee, firing off his own pistol as fast as he could pull the trigger. A bullet whipped past his ear and he felt a brush of wind. Instinctively, he dropped to the ground and rolled away.

  There was a soft, sickening sound, like a tomato hitting a wall. Max von Scheubner-Richter’s body lurched violently. Then his knees collapsed and he started to fall. The Führer screamed as blood spattered across his face and Max fell against him, dragging him slowly downward.

  Slithering frantically, keeping his face against the paving stones, Hans reached the two of them. Max was lying half across Adolf’s body. Adolf’s face was covered in blood and he was shrieking with pain as he tried to free himself of Max’s weight.

  “Are you hit, Adolf?” Hans cried.

  The Führer obviously didn’t hear him. He was alternately moaning and then screaming with pain. Hans turned to Max. Draped across Adolf’s body as he was, he was elevated enough that he was still exposed to rifle fire, so Hans scuttled forward a foot or so, reached up and grabbed Max’s hand, and dragged him down to the ground. “Stay down!” he shouted.

  Then, as Hans rolled him over, he saw that Max was beyond hearing. The Estonian had caught a bullet squarely in the throat. The whole front of his tunic was soaked with blood. There was no question about whether he was alive. So Hans turned to Adolf and reached out and grabbed him by the elbow, trying to calm him down enough to see if he was hit as well.

  Adolf was still rolling back and forth, one hand reaching across his body and holding his left shoulder. Hans threw an arm across his chest and pinned him down. “Are you hit?” he cried again.

  There was a blank stare, and then comprehension returned. “No. My shoulder’s broken. Max broke my shoulder.”

  Hans shook his head. “Max is dead, Adolf. He took a bullet for you. Probably saved your life.” Now he understood the blood spattered on Adolf’s face. The bullet had cut Max’s jugular vein. The blood was Max’s. Hans rose up for a moment and looked more closely at Adolf’s shoulder. There was a peculiar bulge beneath the tunic, and his left arm was twisted at a bizarre angle.

  It was a strange thing about combat. Fear could drive some men over the edge
to the point that their minds ceased to function. For others, it was as though time slowed down and allowed the brain to function with perfect clarity. Hans realized immediately what was wrong. Max and Adolf had been side by side, their arms locked together. When the bullet hit Max, he had been jerked back so violently that he probably yanked Adolf’s shoulder out of its socket. Then as he fell, the full weight of his body probably made the dislocation of Adolf’s shoulder that much worse.

  Hans crawled forward enough to lie beside Adolf. “Don’t leave me, Hans,” Adolf cried. “Please!”

  “I’m not going to leave you,” Hans replied. “I think your shoulder’s dislocated. I can fix it, but we’ve got to find cover first. Can you walk?”

  Adolf hesitated, but Hans saw his legs move, one after the other. “I think so,” he finally said.

  “I’m going to help you up. There’s an automobile parked at the curb about twenty-five yards behind us. That will shield us. When I say three, I’m going to help you get up. Stay in a crouch. Then we’re going to run for that car as if hell itself were on our heels. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Adolf said through clenched teeth. “Where’s Ludendorff? Was he hit? Did you see him?”

  Hans shook his head. “The last I saw him, he was marching straight into the line of fire, with his aide right beside him. But I didn’t see either of them go down. I don’t know where they are now.”

  Hans ducked as a bullet hit the cobblestone pavement and whined away in a screaming ricochet. He pushed Max’s body away to be sure he wasn’t still tangled up with Adolf. Then he slipped his arm through Adolf’s good arm. “Ready? One. Two. THREE!”

  Hans leaped to his feet, staying in a tight crouch. “Let’s go! Let’s go!”

  There was a piercing, agonized cry, but Adolf was up and behind him, half running, half hopping, screaming with every step.

  As they approached the parked car, Hans pointed to it. “There!”

  To his surprise, his friend yanked his hand away and pointed toward the opposite side of the street. “No, Hans. This way! My car’s over there. Emil’s there. He can get me out of here.”

  Adolf took Hans’s elbow and steered to the left.

  Wondering if he was delirious, Hans strained to see through the smoke and dust behind them. He had seen no car following along with them during their march.

  “Behind the truck,” Adolf hissed.

  And sure enough, the black Citroen was there, behind a delivery truck on the other side of the street. And Emil Maurice was standing beside it, holding the door open, waving and hollering at them to come. Hans changed directions and they raced across the distance to the car.

  “Help me, Emil,” Hans shouted as they ducked behind the shelter of the truck. “His shoulder’s dislocated. Hold him around the waist.”

  As Emil did so, Hans looked Adolf in the eye. “This is going to hurt. You may even pass out, but if I can get it back in the socket, your pain will drop sharply.”

  Gritting his teeth, Adolf nodded. “Do it.”

  Though the firing was diminishing somewhat in intensity, there were still bullets pinging off of stone walls or shattering glass all around them. So Hans didn’t wait for Adolf to get set. The firing would help distract him. He took Adolf’s left hand and gently pushed it so that the elbow was pressed softly against his rib cage and his forearm was extended at a right angle. “Just relax your arm, and don’t resist what I’m doing. I’m going to rotate it a little to pop it back in the socket.”

  “You do know what you’re doing, right?” Adolf asked grimly. He tried a smile, but his face was a pasty grey now.

  Hans grinned. “My father did this to me when I fell out of the barn loft when I was eleven.”

  Adolf’s eyes widened. “You mean you’ve never done this to someone else?”

  Careful to hold the elbow in place, Hans rotated the arm and shoulder in a lateral and upward rotating motion. The scream that followed nearly pierced Hans’s eardrums, but almost instantly Adolf’s eyes flew open. “Oh!” he cried. He reached up and gently massaged his shoulder with his good hand. “Oh my, that feels better already.”

  “Gut!” Hans said. Then, to Emil, “Get him out of here.”

  Maurice opened the back door of the car and helped their Führer get in. As he shut the door and came around the car, he smiled at Hans. “Was that really the first time you’ve ever done that?”

  Hans chuckled. “No. That was part of our basic first aid training in the army. But don’t tell him that.” Then he went serious. “Do you have a place to take him?”

  “Yes. Friends are standing by for just such a contingency.”

  “Then go,” said Hans, and he moved away.

  He waited until Maurice had pulled a U-turn and shot away, tires screeching. Hans watched for only a moment and then ran back to the shelter of the truck. He peered around the back of it. The firing was going on from both sides, but it was intermittent now. He looked to his left and to his rear and saw some uniformed figures in the deep shadows of the war monument. They were waving and shouting at him. He wondered if they were police, but then he saw that their uniforms were light brown. Stormtroopers.

  Hans looked around the truck again. The gun smoke was so thick that he couldn’t see very well, but he could see that green uniforms were advancing slowly toward them. It was time to go.

  He took a deep breath, counted to three, and jumped out, heading for the shelter of the memorial, running fast and low, zigzagging back and forth, leaping over bodies sprawled in puddles of blood.

  “Come on, Eckhardt!” someone shouted. Hans increased his speed, his legs pumping like a sprinter’s. He was still about twenty yards from safety when something slammed into the small of his back and sent him rolling. For one split second he was aware of a searing, scorching pain, beyond anything he had ever experienced. And then there was nothing.

  12:26 p.m.—Innem Ministerium, Munich

  Wolfie slowly scanned the scene below him, letting the binoculars take it all in. He spoke into the phone softly as he did so. “No, Paula. I haven’t found him yet. It’s pretty chaotic down there. But tell Emilee that I saw him rescue Hitler. They hid behind a truck, out of the line of fire. When I looked back a few seconds later, I saw Hitler getting into his car with his driver. They were just shutting the doors. So I assume Hans got in on the other side.” He paused. “Yes, yes. It drove away without incident.”

  He listened for another moment and then shook his head. “Nein. Paula, I can’t go out. We’re in lockdown. The shooting has stopped, but there’s no way anyone can go outside yet. It may be hours before—”

  A sharp knock on the door brought him around with a start. The door burst open and his boss was standing there. “I’ve got to go, Paula,” Wolfie cried, and he hung up.

  Heinz Bernhardt glanced at the phone.

  “I’m sorry,” Wolfie said quickly. “I—”

  His boss waved that away. “Did you see your nephew?”

  Surprised, Wolfie gaped at his boss momentarily but then nodded. “I think he got away.”

  “I’m glad for you.” Heinz took a quick breath. “I’m sorry, Wolfie, but we just got word from upstairs. All phone lines are to be kept free until further notice.”

  “I understand. Are they saying when we can get out of here?”

  Heinz shook his head. “Not for hours, probably. They may even keep us in here overnight.”

  Wolfie nodded glumly. “I understand.”

  9:28 p.m.—Eckhardt Dairy Farm, Bavaria

  When the phone rang, Paula almost flew across the room and snatched it from its hook. Emilee was right on her heels. “Wolfie?”

  “Yes, Paula. It’s me.”

  “Thank the Lord. What happened?”

  There was a deep silence.

  “Wolfie?”

  “Is Emilee there with you?
”

  “Ja, ja!” Emilee cried. “I am right here. Did you find Hans?”

  A deep sigh this time. “Paula, I need to speak to Emilee directly. The rest of you can gather in close, but. . . .” His voice trailed off to nothing.

  Emilee stared at the phone in horror as Paula handed it to her. “Oh, Wolfie!” It was a strangled cry. “No!”

  “Emilee, listen to me closely. The phones are down except for here at the telephone exchange, so I’ve only got a minute or two.”

  “Is he . . . ?” She couldn’t say it and started to cry.

  “No, Emilee. Hans is alive. That is the good news.”

  She gasped. “Really?”

  “Ja, but it’s not good.”

  “But he is alive!”

  Wolfie was fighting to keep his own voice steady. “Yes, he is alive. But he was shot in the back, Emilee.” He rushed on as she cried out. “He’s critically wounded. They’ve taken him to the hospital and he’s in surgery even as we speak.”

  “Which hospital? I’m coming.”

  “I’m sorry, but you can’t.”

  “What?” Emilee gasped. “Why not?”

  “In the first place, the X-rays show that the bullet is lodged against the base of his spine. It is a very delicate operation and he—”

  “No! Don’t say it, Wolfie.”

  “I didn’t mean that. I was just going to say that he will probably be on the operating table all night.”

  “I don’t care. I want to be there.”

  “Emilee, listen to me. I understand what you’re feeling, but they won’t let you in.”

  “Why not? I’m his wife.”

  Wolfie’s voice went soft. “Because he’s in the prison ward of the hospital.”

  “The prison ward? What do you mean?”

  “Sixteen of those in the revolution were killed today. Four police­men were also killed. Many more are wounded. Those who led this attempted coup have been arrested and are being charged with treason. Hans is one of those. He’s a prisoner, Emilee. He is not allowed any visitors. Because I am a high official in the Ministry of the Interior and a relative, I finally got to talk to one of the surgeons. But that was all.”