The Proud Shall Stumble

by Gerald N. Lund

  “I’m not asleep,” Emilee said in a low voice. “You can come in.” She reached over and turned on the table lamp beside her chair. It filled the room with a soft glow.

  With a sigh, Hans moved forward until he faced her. Emilee got to her feet, letting the blanket drop to the chair. She was in her nightdress and a robe, and he wondered if she was cold. There was a deep chill in the room. To his surprise, she reached out and took his hand and gently pulled him toward the couch. She sat down and tugged on his hand, signaling him to sit beside her.

  “One second,” he said. He pulled free of her, took two steps back to the chair, and retrieved the blanket. He returned, laid it carefully over Emilee, leaned down, and tucked it in around her. Then he sat down beside her.

  Emilee reached out and took his hand. “Danke Schön, Schatzi.”

  Schatzi? That was a good sign. Hans squeezed her hand gently. “I’m sorry, Emilee. Sorry for being such a boorish husband.”

  She reached up with her other hand and stroked his chin, now smooth and freshly shaven. “Better than being a bear.”

  “Why didn’t you say something about my beard earlier if you didn’t like it?”

  She half turned. “Hans, if you wish to wear a beard, that is fine with me. You look handsome with a beard—when you take care of it. It was the bum-off-the-street look that I objected to.”

  Hans considered that and then with exaggerated ruefulness said, “It kind of goes with the beer hall persona, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  He drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “So, let’s have it.”

  Emilee looked up at him and smiled sadly. “Is that what it feels like? Like I’ve got you in the crosshairs, so fire away?”

  “No. I didn’t mean it that way, I. . . .”

  “I think you did, actually. And you’re right. I thought I could shame you into facing up to yourself, and that was wrong of me. So I’ve been thinking about what we should do.”

  “And what did you conclude?” Hans asked.

  “No conclusions, but two thoughts.” Emilee smiled up at him. “Does that surprise you?”

  Hans laughed softly. “No. So tell me.”

  She turned around so that she squarely faced him. “Well, to begin with, I know that life really took a turn for the worse for you a couple of years ago.”

  “Ja, but I had lots of company,” Hans replied. “Life took a turn for the worse for all of Germany when the government decided to print their way out of their debt crisis.”

  “True, but for you everything else seemed to be unraveling too. First it was your father selling the dairy farm. Thanks to Adolf, that was quickly resolved, but you still lost your father. And on the very day you buried him, you were asked to participate in a major coup against the government. A coup that failed miserably.”

  “It was a joke,” Hans said bitterly. “We had them, Emilee. We had them in our hands. Then Adolf hears about some piddling little brushfire problem over at the War Ministry and rushes off like Joan of Arc to save the day. And the chickens flew the coop.”

  “And twelve hours later you’re in the hospital with a bullet pressing against your spine,” Emilee commented.

  Hans nodded grimly. “Better than being with those sixteen men in the graveyard.”

  “Amen to that,” she whispered. “But that doesn’t lessen the pain that you now deal with every day. Sixteen months later and still no end in sight.”

  “That’s life,” Hans said, staring at the floor now. “But believe it or not, I didn’t start drinking because of the pain.”

  “Not the pain in your leg.”

  He gave her a sharp look. “And not because of prison either. It could have been worse.”

  “I’m not talking about that pain either. The dream is gone.”

  Hans scoffed at that. “What dream? The Nazi Party, you mean?”

  “No, the dream to do something really significant with your life.”

  “I am doing something significant. I have the garage. I have you. I have two children that I adore. But do you remember what you called those other dreams once?”

  “What?”

  “Pipe dreams. Hallucinations that come after you smoke the opium pipe. That’s all they were. And on November ninth, a year and a half ago, the Bavarian government took that pipe away from us once and for all.”

  Emilee leaned her head against his shoulder. “And now, to top everything else, Hitler is out of jail and hasn’t even called you.”

  “Why would he?” Hans retorted. “You said it. There is no more party, no more newspaper, no more rallies, no Führer, no nothing. I think that even he has finally accepted the hard reality we now face.”

  “Then you need something to fill your life besides us. We’ll always be here.”

  Hans leaped to his feet, breaking free of her. “What? There’s some guys down at the Biergarten who are starting up a nine-pin league at the bowling alley. Think that would do it?” he asked sarcastically.

  “Or there still is the possibility of the university.”

  Hans swung around, genuinely angry now. “Not again.”

  “Or,” Emilee went on, musing now, “maybe we could take up gardening together. Our district council is talking about opening up small family garden plots in that vacant land behind the BMW factory. I could do the vegetables and you could do the flowers.”

  That did it. The anger was instantly gone and Hans burst out laughing. “You are incorrigible,” he cried. “Here I am, pouring out the agony of my soul, and you make fun of it.”

  Emilee was trying hard not to smile. “Well, you were about to drown in self-pity there for a second.” Then she quickly sobered. “I’m sorry, Hans. I’m not trying to make light of it. I know that the beard and the Biergarten are only symptoms of something much deeper that you’re struggling with. And we have to find a solution to that. Together. I want to help you.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “I don’t know.” She was studying her hands now. “But I know who does.”

  Hans looked up and then instantly reacted. “No, Emilee. I would not call Adolf, even if he were the solution. Which he is not.”

  “I wasn’t talking about Adolf,” she said.

  He gave her a questioning look and then suddenly his anger was back. “Oh, of course. Let’s pray about it, right? Let’s get down on our knees and bow our little heads and ask God to sweep down from heaven and bring Hans never-ending happiness.” The sarcasm was like the edge of a knife. “Shall we do it right now?”

  Emilee watched him steadily, seeing the rise and fall of his chest, the bitterness in his eyes, the lines of frustration chiseled around his eyes and mouth. Then she spoke one word. “No.”

  “No? That’s all? No what? No, you don’t want to pray? No, you don’t want to save Hans’s soul today?”

  Emilee waited calmly, letting it all come out until it came to a sputtering stop. He finally looked at her, and there was a touch of contrition in his eyes. He softened as he spoke next. “We’re both tired. Can we talk about this in the morning?”

  Emilee stood, went over and turned out the lamp, and came back and pulled him up. “All right,” she said.

  Hans looked at her suspiciously. “And that’s all?”

  “Yes. You’re right. We are both very tired.” But as she reached the door to their bedroom, she spoke again. “Hans, I’ll not be eating with you tomorrow morning.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Or tomorrow evening when you come home for supper either. And this has nothing to do with what you just said about prayer. It just came to me that this is my answer. Not your answer, but mine.”

  “Not eating?” he asked.

  “It’s called fasting in the scriptures,” she explained.

  “No, Emilee,” Hans burst out. “No prayers. N
o fasting, either.”

  “I’m not asking you or the girls to do it.”

  “I still forbid it.”

  Emilee cocked her head to one side and met his gaze. Finally he started to squirm. “All right, I won’t stop you,” he muttered. “But it’s not going to do any good.”

  Emilee touched her stomach. “If nothing else, maybe I can lose some of the weight I put on with Jolanda.” Then she sobered. “In the New Testament, Jesus taught His disciples that some problems, some challenges, need more than just prayer. They need fasting and prayer. I believe that. So. . . .” She shrugged.

  “How in the world could going without food for a day make a difference in anything?”

  “I don’t know. But it was Jesus who said it, and I believe that He knows.”

  “So you’re going to go without food all day tomorrow?” Hans asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And when do you start eating again?”

  “I’ll eat breakfast with you and the rest of the family the day after tomorrow.”

  Hans was frowning at her again. Emilee’s head came up a little. “This doesn’t affect you, Hans, so I’m not asking your permission.”

  “I know, I know. Sorry I said what I said.” He put an arm around her. “How did I ever convince you to marry me?”

  Emilee laughed. “Remember that night in the hospital when you were having a nightmare and kicked me in the leg so hard you nearly broke it? That did it. It was true love from that moment on.”

  February 25, 1925, 3:55 p.m.—Eckhardt Garage and

  Truck Repair, Schleissheimerstrasse 271, Munich

  “Hans?”

  He turned his head toward the door of the back room where he was working. “Yes, Ernst?”

  “You have company.”

  “Tell them I’m busy. You handle it.”

  “It’s the Führer.”

  Hans nearly dropped the carburetor he was working on as he swung around to look at his brother-in-law. “Here?” He set the part down and grabbed a rag.

  “Yes, Hans,” Ernst said, half amused. “He’s out in the main bay.”

  Hans wiped his hands off and tossed the rag aside. “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “You,” Ernst drawled. “Go, I’ll finish this.”

  As Hans stepped into the main area of the garage, he saw that Adolf was over by the workbench. His back was to Hans as he studied a picture of an army truck of earlier vintage with two soldiers standing beside it. But as Hans moved forward, Adolf swung around. He immediately strode over to greet Hans. Hans extended his hand, but Adolf enveloped him in a bear hug. “Hans, old comrade, how good to see you again.”

  “And how good to see you again, mein Führer. Though I must say, it is a bit of a surprise.”

  Adolf stepped back and looked him up and down. “Nein, mein Kamerade. None of this Führer business. It’s Hans and Adolf, Adolf and Hans.” He looked around the shop. There was only one truck in the three bays. “And how is business?”

  “Improving gradually, now that the currency is stabilized again. Still not to where it was before the inflation hit, though.”

  Adolf turned and moved back to the picture. “This is you, obviously, taken during the war. Is this your friend who was killed by the sniper?”

  “Yes.”

  Adolf shook his head. “We lost so many. So many.”

  Hans was still reeling a little. “You look nice and fit for a recently released prisoner.”

  Adolf laughed. “Remember what I told you that last day of the trial? About all the gifts everyone was sending me?”

  “Ja, ja. You said your cell looked like a confectionary, florist, and wine shop.”

  “So,” Adolf said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I sometimes partook of the candy.”

  A noise brought them around, and they turned to see Ernst. He was smiling at them both. Hans motioned him forward. “You remember my brother-in-law, Ernst Fromme?”

  “Ja, ja. Of course. You came to many of our rallies. And you joined the party, no?”

  “Yes. I did,” Ernst replied. “It’s good to see you again, mein Führer.”

  “And you as well, Ernst. Are you well?”

  “I am, danke.”

  “Can I steal this good man here from you?” Adolf turned to Hans. “We have much to catch up on. Can you have dinner with me this evening?”

  “I. . . . Of course.” Hans turned to Ernst. “Will you let Emilee know?” He then turned back to Adolf. “What time?”

  “I should have said, ‘dinner and conversation,’” Adolf laughed, slapping Hans on the back. “How about now? I have a car and driver across the street. We need to catch up on things.”

  “Uh . . . ja. I can go now. As you can see, we are not terribly busy. Is that all right, Ernst?”

  “Of course, Hans. You go. I’ll close up, and I’ll call Emilee and tell her.”

  “And will you give Frau Eckhardt my best wishes, bitte?” Adolf asked.

  “Of course.”

  4:43 p.m.—Adolf Hitler’s Apartment, Thierschstrasse 41, Haidhausen District, Munich

  As the driver let off the gas and the car rolled to a stop in front of a small apartment building, Hans looked out the windows. Adolf pointed to the old stone building to their right. “I now live on the top floor.”

  Adolf opened the door, leaning forward and touching the driver on the shoulder. “Danke, Klaus. I won’t need you until morning. Hans and I will walk to the restaurant, and then he can catch the trolley home from there.”

  “Jawohl, mein Führer.”

  The apartment proved to be a surprise to Hans. He had gone down to Landsberg three different times to see Adolf, and he had been surprised just how nice his “cell” was. The prison was set on a hill, and the view from Adolf’s window of the River Lech and the surrounding countryside was magnificent. It was furnished with a small sofa, two upholstered chairs, a writing table with a floor lamp beside it, and two additional wooden chairs. The bedroom and simple toilet facilities were in a separate room shut off by a door. This was also a two-room apartment, but the living area was much smaller. The kitchen table sat only two, and there was a shabby divan that took most of one wall. On the opposite wall was a small, freestanding cupboard with a hot plate on top of it, and next to it was a tiny portable sink with clean dishes stacked in it. One window with a flimsy curtain let in very little light. Many of the surrounding buildings towered above this one, so what light was coming through the heavy overcast skies was largely lost by the time it made its way in here. The overall effect was somewhat dingy and definitely drab.

  But Adolf seemed not to notice and turned on the light, a single bulb that hung from a cord attached to the ceiling. If Adolf was embarrassed by it all, Hans could not detect it.

  “Here, let me take your coat,” Adolf offered.

  Hans removed it and Hitler hung it and his own coat on pegs behind the door. The table was covered with loose sheets of paper and a couple of books that were open. Adolf scooped them all up and set them on the cupboard beside the hot plate. Hans sat down in the closer of the two chairs, and Adolf sat across from him.

  The other thing Hans was wondering was if Adolf was going to make any apologies for not contacting him since his release from prison five days before Christmas. But he hadn’t said a word about it in the car, and Hans doubted he would now. And his assumption was right. As usual with Adolf, the time for light chitchat was over. He plunged right in.

  “You probably haven’t seen this in the papers yet, because the government convinced the papers to put it on the back pages, if at all. But the National Socialist Party has been given permission to formally function again.”

  Hans’s head came up. “No, I hadn’t heard that. Tell me more.”

  “Well, a fortnight after my release from prison, I a
rranged a visit with His Excellency Herr Heinrich Held.”

  “The Prime Minister of Bavaria?” Hans was stunned. Out of prison two weeks and he’s invited to meet with the Prime Minister?

  “He is also the head of the Catholic Bavarian People’s Party, which holds the majority of seats in our Reichstag now. I petitioned him to allow us to start up our party meetings once again. I am still on parole, and will be for the next four years, but—”

  “So am I, but we are finished with it in April,” Hans added.

  “Yes, I am envious. Anyway, based on my good behavior in prison, and my promise of continuing good behavior, the Prime Minister consulted with the Minister of Justice, Franz Gürtner, whom you know from court. As you’ll remember, the prosecutor said that our party was a ‘wild beast that had to be checked,’ and the court agreed. ‘Well,’ the Prime Minister told Gürtner, ‘the wild beast is checked. I think we can afford to loosen the chain.’ Gürtner agreed, so we are back in business.”

  “Wunderbar! What about the Völkischer Beobachter?”

  “Yes, we’ll start the newspaper up again, too. The first new issue will come out tomorrow. But we must be circumspect in what we say and do, Hans, or they’ll take it all away from us again.”

  And that, thought Hans, is as close to an apology as I’m going to get.

  “But,” Adolf went on, “the day after tomorrow, Friday night at eight o’clock, we are holding our first public rally. This is why I’m so glad I caught you today, Hans.”

  “Really?” Hans cried. “I can’t believe it. And where will it be held? I want to come.”

  “Come?” Adolf chortled. “I want you up there on the stand with me.”

  Hans exhaled slowly. This he had not expected, and his head was swimming with the enormity of it. “Where is it to be held?” he finally asked again.

  Adolf’s eyes flicked away, but then they came back and fixed on Hans. “At the Bürgerbräukeller. The main hall.”

  Hans’s mouth fell open. “The Bürger—do you think that’s wise?”

  “Wise!” Hitler shouted exultantly. “No, it’s brilliant, Hans! Can’t you see it? Everyone calls our debacle that night the Beer Hall Putsch. So what better place to start again, to show the world that we were not defeated, that we are back, and that their beloved leader is at the head once again?” He snorted. “Rosenberg is a brilliant philosopher, Hans, but when it comes to leading the party, he doesn’t have the brains of a chicken.”