The Proud Shall Stumble

by Gerald N. Lund

  Choosing his words carefully, Hans said, “I have a similar opinion of the man, so. . . .” He suddenly thought better of what he was about to say and didn’t finish.

  “So why did I appoint him as my successor while I was in prison?” Adolf finished for him.

  “Well, yes, to be honest.”

  Hitler smiled. “Because he doesn’t have the brains of a chicken. Oh, I knew he could keep the party stumbling along for a time under the restrictions, but I had no fear that he would take it off in directions that were not part of our overall strategy.”

  Or, to put it more bluntly, you didn’t want someone strong and charismatic enough to take over as the Führer. It was pure Adolf. Shrewd, cunning, prescient. Yes, he was back, all right. And Hans felt a little thrill shoot through him.

  “To be frank,” Adolf continued, “it has been most discouraging to see what happened in my absence, Hans. In May of last year, our party won almost two million votes. When another election was held in December, we got less than a million while the Social Democrats, those leftist criminals that run our government, got over eight million votes and increased their seats in the Reichstag by thirty percent.”

  “I saw that,” Hans said. “But I wasn’t surprised. The mood in the Fatherland has changed dramatically since the new currency was introduced. The economy has stabilized. Wages are up and unemployment is down. Foreign investment capital, particularly from America, is flowing in, and new factories and other critical infrastructure projects are being completed all across the country. With the help of the Americans, the government has renegotiated the war reparation payments, and they are now working on a new pact that will make the French withdraw from the Ruhr Valley. They’re even seeking membership in the League of Nations.”

  “The League of Abominations,” Hitler spat. “Another sellout of the rights of the German people.”

  “I agree, Adolf. But the people see all of these changes as positive signs that things are finally looking up. And that’s what they care about. And it’s the Weimar government who’s making it happen. Some are even starting to call this the Golden Age of the German Republic.”

  “I am well aware of that, Hans, and though it disturbs me greatly, I am not discouraged. Those fools can’t keep the people happy forever. There will be another downturn, and when it comes, we must be ready.”

  Hans wasn’t so sure of that, but he said nothing.

  Hitler was lost in his own thoughts for a time, but then he seemed to come back to where he was. “And that’s why I wanted to talk to you, Hans. I need you.”

  “I’ll be there Friday night.”

  “Gut. This is very good. I’m working on what I want to say that night, and you are so good at seeing where I get too carried away or where I am not connecting with the people. So I want to run some ideas past you tonight. We’ll do it over supper.”

  “And I can come tomorrow night if you need me,” Hans replied. “Will you have it mostly done by then?”

  “Ja, ja, for I must get it firmly in my mind so I do not have to use notes. That would be wonderful. I shall send my driver to the garage—at four, shall we say?”

  “That’s good for me.”

  “But that’s not all I have in mind, Hans.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The party is in shambles right now. I am shocked at the disunity, yes, even the downright battles going on within the ranks of our leadership. The press is saying that I’m finished, and even some of our comrades who once were fiercely loyal are now saying that I am nothing but a has-been, a cipher, a nonentity.”

  “Who is saying that?”

  It was as though Hitler hadn’t heard the question. “And worse than that, it looks like they might succeed in deporting me to Austria.”

  Hans nearly leaped out of his chair. “No, Adolf! That was resolved in the court.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. But the government didn’t buy into Neithardt’s argument about being German by nature and emotion.”

  “It was a pretty thin argument, Adolf,” Hans commented. “Even I thought that.”

  “As did I, but it worked. Or so we thought. But Seisser and his national police got Austria to agree to accept me, and then he drafted a strongly worded recommendation that I be deported immediately so as to permanently prevent me from raising any more rebellion against the government. Our attorneys are fighting it. They are appealing to the Bavarian Supreme Court, but if they turn the appeal down, then it’s over, Hans. How can I run a movement for German Nationalism when I’m not allowed in Germany?”

  “That’s not good,” Hans agreed gloomily.

  Adolf changed topics slightly. “Many of the faithful who were with us on November eighth and ninth are gone now. Max von Scheubner-Richter and Dietrich Eckart are both dead. Hermann is in exile.”

  Hans nodded. Hermann Goering had been seriously wounded when the firing at the Odeonplatz began and had fled to Austria with his wife. Eventually they went to her villa in Italy to allow him time to heal. But Hans had a thought. “Surely he can come back now that all of us have been released.”

  “Some say that; others say that he would have to stand trial like the rest of us. Hermann won’t return unless he’s sure it’s safe. And even if he did, he’s still not doing well,” Adolf explained.

  “Who else?”

  “Well, Alfred Rosenberg and Julius Streicher have been locked in a bitter fight over who should be the head of the party in my absence. My return settles that, but I don’t know if they will reconcile and stand with us now or not.” Hitler sat back and began to massage his temples. “I went to my old friend and mentor Anton Drexler the other night. I told him about the rally and asked if he would preside at the meeting. He was one of the original founders of the party, after all.”

  “And what did he say?” Hans asked.

  “He laughed in my face and told me to go to the devil.”

  “Then it’s a good thing he’s not coming.” Then Hans had another thought. “I heard that Ludendorff’s gone off in his own direction, starting up his own movement. And Ernst Roehm has done the same. Is that true?”

  Adolf nodded.

  “Ludendorff is no surprise. He’s an old fool with a wounded ego. But Ernst? That really surprises me.”

  “When I was sent to Landsberg with a possible five-year sentence, Roehm organized the stormtroopers into what he called the Frontbann, which was our way of making it legal so the government wouldn’t break it up. But last year, without consulting me, Roehm decided to merge the Front Band with the S.A. When I told him not to do that, he resigned. Now I hear he’s in ‘self-imposed seclusion,’ whatever in the name of Hades that means.”

  Adolf fell silent for a time, lost in his thoughts again, but finally he sighed and got to his feet. “There are so few I can trust. With your wound, you were able to stay out of all of this infighting and backstabbing. And that’s wonderful. But I need you now, Hans.”

  “I’m here, Adolf.”

  “Gut. I am hungry. Are you up for a walk on a brisk night?”

  “Lead the way,” Hans replied.

  “Oh, wait, I wasn’t thinking about your leg.” Adolf hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Dummkopf!” he cried. “I shouldn’t have sent the driver home.”

  “It’s all right,” Hans said. “Actually, it does better when I’m up and walking about.”

  “Truly?” Adolf asked.

  Hans nodded. It was mostly true.

  Chapter Notes

  The fact that the Nazi Party was reinstated just two months after Hitler was released from prison is an indicator of just how much pro-Nazi bias there was in the halls of the Bavarian government (see Rise and Fall, 118–119). They did immediately plan their first public meeting in over a year and chose to hold it in the same beer hall where they had failed so miserably before.

>   February 25, 1925, 8:48 p.m.—

  Café Deutschland, Marienplatz, Munich

  Hans pushed his plate back, picked up his stein and emptied the last of his lager, and sat back with a long sigh of pleasure. “Thank you, Adolf. You are right. This is the best wienerschnitzel in Bavaria. It’s been so long since we last ate here together, I had forgotten about it.”

  “I’m glad you liked it.” Hitler half turned and looked up at the large cuckoo clock on the wall and then picked up his cup of tea and took a sip. “So, do you still have time to talk?”

  Hans glanced at the clock and nodded. “I do. I called Emilee and told her not to wait up for me. But I do need to make the ten o’clock trolley.”

  “We shall keep our eye on the time.” Adolf motioned for the waitress and she came over. He paid her and they waited as she cleared the dishes off the table. When she was finished and had walked away, Adolf pushed back from the table and crossed his legs. His eyes were thoughtful as he studied his friend. “So, Hans,” he said finally. “Have you heard the latest Nazi jokes?”

  Hans started. Nazi jokes? Had he heard him correctly?

  Adolf smiled ruefully. “Come on, my friend. Surely you’ve heard them, at least some of them. I understand they are everywhere now.”

  “Well . . . uh . . . yeah, I’ve heard a few.” Was this a trap? A test of some kind? But Adolf seemed genuinely interested. “Okay,” Hans said. “Uh . . . what do you call Nazis after the Beer Hall Putsch?”

  Adolf chuckled. “Sauer Krauts. Ja, I like that one.”

  “Have you heard about the new National Socialist restaurant?”

  “No.”

  “The food is good, but you always come away hungry for more power.”

  Adolf smiled at that, but it was clear he didn’t find that one amusing. But he motioned for Hans to continue.

  Hans thought for a moment. He had heard a few that were quite vulgar, so he skipped those. “How does the recipe for German chocolate cake begin?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “First, you have to invade the kitchen and overthrow the cooks.”

  Adolf threw back his head and hooted. “Very good. I like that one. But you’re holding back, Hans. Some of them involve me. Don’t hold back.”

  “Um . . . I’m not sure I’ve heard any of those,” Hans muttered, though he clearly had heard them.

  Adolf was nodding, but all humor was gone from him now. “That’s the state of our party right now, Hans. We are the butt of dozens of jokes. We’re the laughingstock of Bavaria. And we are to change the world? The very thought doubles people over with laughter.”

  Not sure how to respond to that, because it was all too true, Hans murmured something unintelligible.

  “You know how I spent my time in prison, don’t you?”

  “Uh . . . ja. You said you dictated your memoirs to Rudolf Hess. Your autobiography.”

  “Autobiography is more accurate than memoir, but even that word is a little misleading. I do talk about my early life and the things that had the most profound influences on me, but much of the book—and I’ve only got the first half done—outlines the grand vision that drives me to do what I do.”

  “You told me that Max Amann convinced you to change the title of it.”

  “Yes. To Mein Kampf. And he was right. My title was much too long. His is much better. And as a publisher, he keeps reminding me that titles make a difference.”

  “When will it be out?” Hans asked.

  “It should be released in the fall.”

  “Then I shall rush right out and buy one.”

  “Nonsense,” Hitler replied. “I shall give you one of the first autographed copies. In fact, because it defines the vision I have for the future, I’ll see if Max can get me a copy of the printer’s draft when it’s ready this summer. It will be important for you to know my thinking, considering what I have in mind for you.”

  Again Hans was surprised, but he tried not to show it. What do you have in mind here, Adolf?

  “I don’t know why it is, or how it came to be, Hans, but something in my early life filled me with this almost mystical vision of my personal mission here on earth. And when I went to Vienna at age sixteen looking to find myself, that vision crystallized.” He looked up abruptly. “Does the name H. S. Chamberlain mean anything to you?”

  “Of course,” Hans answered. “He’s the English philosopher who claims to be a German in his heart and soul.”

  “He actually has applied for German citizenship, did you know that?”

  “I didn’t. But when I was at the Von Kruger Academy many years ago, we spent one whole term studying his Foundations of the Nineteenth Century.”

  “And?” Hitler asked.

  “I thought he was brilliant.”

  “Gut, gut. So did I,” Adolf agreed. “I spent long hours in prison studying the great philosophers, including Chamberlain. Alfred Rosenberg introduced me to his writings, and I was instantly seized by them. And, as you surely remember, he was at the Bayreuth festival in September of 1923. It turned out to be a glorious event. We had over five thousand party members, as well as members of the military there as our guests. I was asked to give the keynote speech.”

  “I remember it well,” Hans said. “It was written up in all the papers.”

  “Well, I met Herr Chamberlain there. He is a son-in-law of the great Richard Wagner. Did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t. I didn’t even know he was still alive. He wrote Foundations back around the turn of the century.”

  “Ja, ja. He’s an old man. His seventieth birthday is in a few months. I’ve been invited to the celebration.” Then Adolf waved that aside. “But that’s neither here nor there. What I want to share with you is what happened when I met him.”

  He pulled a folded sheet of paper out from the small case he carried. Hans saw that it was a handwritten letter. “This is a letter Chamberlain wrote to me the day after our meeting. This sounds a little self-serving, but I read it only to lay some groundwork for the questions I have for you.”

  “I’m listening,” Hans said.

  Adolf lifted the sheet. “I’ll skip the usual preliminaries.” He began to read. “‘Herr Hitler, I am compelled to say to you that you have mighty things to do. My faith in Germany and her destiny has not wavered for an instant, though my hope—I confess—has been at a low considering all that is going on in the Fatherland of late. But yesterday, when you spoke to us, in one stroke you transformed the state of my soul. I realized that in the hour of her deepest need Germany has given birth to an Adolf Hitler, which proves her vitality, as do the influences that emanate from him. For these two things—personality and influence—belong together. May God protect you, for I am convinced that you are destined by God to lead the German people.’”

  “Wow!” Hans exclaimed. “And that coming from someone of Chamberlain’s stature.”

  Adolf set the paper to one side and took a book out of his case. Hans caught a quick glimpse of the title on the spine. Excerpts from the Writings of Georg W. F. Hegel. Adolf opened it to a place he had marked. “Here is a comment Hegel gave in a lecture he gave in Berlin about what he called ‘world-historical individuals.’ His thesis was that the will of ‘the spirit-world,’ or the will of destiny, is carried out by these world-historical figures.” He lifted the book. “Listen to this. ‘These men may be called Heroes. Such were Alexander, Caesar, and Napoleon. Their vocation and purposes were not derived from some existing order but flow from their inner spirit, which strikes the outer world like a rock on a seashell, bursting it to pieces. These were thinking men who had deep insights into the requirements of their time. Thus, these world-historical men—the Heroes of an epoch—are the clear-sighted ones, and their deeds and their words must be recognized as the best of their times.’”

  Hans was struggling a little n
ot to let his surprise show on his face. It was clear that Adolf was viewing himself as one of Hegel’s world-historical heroes.

  Adolf flipped the pages to another marker. “But listen to what Hegel says here. ‘No traditional conception of morals and ethics must disturb either the supreme State or the Heroes who lead it. Moral claims that are irrelevant must not be brought into collision with world-historical deeds. The litany of private virtues—modesty, humility, philanthropy, or forbearance—must not interfere with their destiny. We must not be squeamish about our Heroes, for, in fulfilling their destinies, at times they must trample and crush many an innocent flower.’”

  Closing the book, Adolf searched Hans’s face, obviously expecting some kind of response. Not sure what to say, Hans temporized. “Uh . . . is this what you’re thinking of saying in your speech on Friday?”

  Adolf was genuinely startled, and then he burst out laughing. “Oh, Hans. Even I, in all of my passion, know better than that. No, of course not. I am just trying to explain to you why I have called you here. I suppose that as we drove to my flat this afternoon, you were thinking, ‘What are we doing here? The party is dead.’ Right? The movement was squashed at the Odeonplatz on November ninth. Am I right?”

  Feeling a little sheepish, Hans nodded. “Yes, those thoughts did cross my mind.”

  “All I am trying to say to you is that in spite of how grim things look right now, you need to know that this is not over. The failure of that tragicomedy the people are calling the Beer Hall Putsch was a major setback, but it was not defeat. Do you believe that, Hans?”

  “Only if you are back at the helm,” Hans said without hesitation. “Otherwise, no.”

  “That’s what I’m telling you, Hans. Though it sounds so egotistical to say it like this, I cannot get it out of my mind and heart that I am that man—that hero, that master—the one destined by God Himself to restore the Fatherland to its former glory and to accomplish its divine mission. I too am a thinking man, and a man of destiny. Yes, Hans, from among the millions of men in our nation, one man must step forward and with apostolic force lead the broad masses away from the shifting thinking of a petty world.”