by A G Mogan
On the other hand, Drexler, the other co-founder, in an attempt to pour oil on troubled waters, suggests to cosmeticize the program here and there; in other words, to convey my ideas in a disguised form, less offensive and aggressive. I agree, only with the express condition that the final product is to first pass my inspection. Everyone agrees.
And the membership keeps increasing and increasing.
There is no longer any doubt with whom the merit for all of these achievements rests.
The Party now has a soul, and that soul is Adolf Hitler. The spirit animating the Party belongs to me, for I am its’ true creator. It is I, who breathed life into it. My popularity is too much for Herr Harrer to stomach and he soon hands in his resignation and leaves the Party. My biggest obstacle is successfully surmounted. The opportunity to implement new changes arises, and I do so by extending the executive committee with devoted comrades. Like-minded people, old friends, who will obey my will.
And the membership keeps increasing and increasing.
On 24 February 1920, I read the program aloud in front of a gathering of two thousand people. Every point is accepted, every word acclaimed. The followers suffocating the Hofbräuhaus beer hall unite under a new creed, my creed, under a new will, my will. The hall buzzes with cheers, yet something else rings in my ears. It is the voice of the Goddess of Inexorable Retribution, humming the sweet verses of Deutschland Über Alles.
That night, still possessed by the Goddesses always protecting me, still unable to leave the beer hall that made it all happen, I make a new decision. The name of the Party no longer reflects the grandeur of my vision; therefore, it has to be changed. As the clock strikes midnight, I sit down at the corner table, and then, closing my eyes, I listen to the sound of the bells in the huge mechanical clock of the Town Hall building, located just around the corner. Forty-three bells and thirty-two life-sized figures come to life in the 260-foot tower, re-enacting two scenes from Munich’s history. The sound they produce during the fifteen-minutes-show is out of this world.
Pulling a pen from my coat pocket, I write the following words on a white cloth napkin: National Socialist German Workers’ Party. In short: The Nazi Party. And even shorter: The Nazis.
And the membership keeps increasing and increasing.
Look at me now … Father.
Enthusiasm Does Not Always Serve You
The image unfolding right before my eyes looks surreal and I stare at it in disbelief. In one of the corners of the cell I nowadays inhabit are cakes, boxes of all kinds of chocolates, and bottles of wine placed on top of another up to the ceiling. In another corner, also up the wall, huge bouquets of flowers, tulips, daisies, carnations, and baskets of wild flowers are stacked in layers. Among these wonders, three unopened bags with letters from my sympathizers await reading and replies. I turn my gaze to the cold, dark gray prison cell walls that have surrounded me for over two months and the contrast almost amuses me.
The putsch I staged, meant to help me take over political power in Bavaria, took a terrible turn. And here I am, inhaling the mold of Landsberg prison. I move away from the damp walls and post myself in front of the barred window to proudly watch those in the street protesting. Thousands of my followers surround the prison walls, chanting my name. I salute them by raising my right arm in the air and they respond in kind. Shouts of Heil Hitler! traverse the vicinity far and wide. It’s frantic.
Returning to the silence of my cell, I plunge back into my thoughts. All the events that led to my incarceration return quickly in the mirror of my consciousness.
Over the past three years, I’ve gone from a simple local agitator of the city into a real personality on the country’s political scene. I’ve become the most popular and the most hated man in Munich. With the help of the Thule Society and friends like Dietrich Eckart, I was introduced into high social circles, financially quite favorable to my party. All of Munich’s personalities are now at my feet, people with money: Frau Bruckmann, the wife of a big publisher, Frau Beckstein, wife of the legendary piano maker, executives of the Daimler Company, August Borsig, the prosperous manufacturer of locomotives, and many, many others.
With Eckart’s help, I buy my own newspaper, the Münchener Beobachter, previously belonging to the Thule Society. I give it a new name, Völkischer Beobachter, and design it to be used strictly for propaganda purposes.
But, I soon realize that the financial situation by itself is not enough. The Movement needs protection, protection of a brutal force of people; it needs help in removing any possible obstacles raised against freedom.
So, in the summer of 1921, Sturmabteilung, better known as the SA, was born. My own body of soldiers, fired at the end of the Great War, soldiers deemed worthless tools by the Treaty of Versailles. Many such fighters I have turned into happy people, simply by giving them a new cause, a new life meaning. I have not even tried too hard to recruit; the thirst for revenge in each of these men brought them to me in droves. I just have to exploit their energy, frustrations, and violence.
Only a single requirement do I impose in order to be enrolled in my body: to be capable of total obedience and to be ready to meet death. Soon enough, they flocked by the thousands and it was not at all difficult to raise the organization to the rank of a true army, my own army. I designate Ernst Röhm, my political ally and close friend, as Supreme SA Leader, in charge of recruiting new members and educating them in the spirit of fighting and obedience to one leader: myself.
Then, my artistic spirit got to work. I create uniforms following the style of Mussolini’s Blackshirts, as well as banners and special songs, followed by noisy marches through the streets. Everything is meant to create the grandeur of a Wagnerian opera. I create units of cyclists, horse riders, motorcyclists, artillerymen and special units trained in Intelligence.
In November 1922, the SA number over fifteen thousand members.
But, above all else, the movement needed a symbol, a symbol to make it widely recognizable, even in dim lamp post light. Given its mystical meaning, its magical powers, and its outstanding visual impact, it is only natural that I would choose that strange symbol covering the walls of the church in Leonding, the symbol of von Liebenfels’ Order of the New Templars, the symbol of Thule Society, the sign of the strong one from above: swastika. It would be the sign of the movement, my sign, the mark of the German Savior, signifying the mission allotted to us, the struggle for the victory of Aryan mankind. And at the same time, the triumph of the ideal of creative work, which is in itself and always will be, anti-Semitic. I imprinted it on banners and flags, on the walls of houses and factories, and on special armbands worn by all Nazis on their left arms. It was everywhere, in everyone’s face.
As a mass, we grew and still grew.
In early 1923, the party extended to over fifty local groups, with thirty-five-thousand new members. And by the end of the year, it became the absolute power in South German Nationalism. The time had come to move the pawn on the political chessboard. It was time to depose the Jewish Republic, to liberate the Motherland from the yoke and shame, and to cast away the cursed enemies from her breast.
On November 8, 1923, I gather my men and violently break into the boring meeting of the three most powerful men in Bavaria: Gustav von Khar, state commissioner general, Otto von Lossow, commander of the Bavarian Reichrwehr Division, and Hans Rittter von Seisser, commander of the Bavarian State Police, who are quietly addressing leading conservatives of Bavaria in the Bürgerbräu Beer Hall.
Flanked by my men, I jump onto the table in the middle of the room, pull out my revolver, and fire two shots at the ceiling.
Then, I roar, “Not one more word. Not one more move! The National Revolution has begun! No one is allowed to leave!”
“Who is this poor little waiter fellow?” I hear a man whispering to his table companion. I jump off the table, furiously make my way to him and smash his face with my revolver. Everyone becomes quiet. Pointing my gun at the leading men, I leap onto the
platform and force them into a side room.
“The National Revolution has begun. You are either with me or against me!” I shout at the startled men. They stare at each other, as if wanting to read each other’s minds before addressing me.
“And how are you planning to take over, exactly? By keeping us here, at gun point…till when?” Khar, the goddamned bureaucrat asked.
“That isn’t such a bad idea. However, I am hoping, for your sake, as well as for that of our Motherland, you will join me.”
“But what is your plan, Herr Hitler?” he continues, with a smug expression on his face.
“General Ludendorff will lead a new National Army. I will take over the political leadership; while to you, my friends, I shall offer leadership positions in my new administration,” I say triumphantly, and ordered beers for us all.
We soon clashed beer mugs in agreement, or so it seemed. Upon the platform, each takes a turn in declaring allegiance to me in front of the gathering of more than three thousand people. When my turn comes, I speak to them like a possessed being. At the end, the electrified audience stands up in ovation to venerate and obey their new leader.
Beer pours from a miraculously bottomless tank, ignoring the price of 500,000 inflated marks per mug. Unfortunately, in my enthusiasm, I forget my long ago promise to never trust another human being as long as I live.
The following day, the three scumbags, free of my pointing gun, revert to their old disgusting selves. The allegiance, my leadership, and my National Revolution dissipate in daylight like a beautiful dream. My ambition and determination alone proved to be insufficient in the face of the still-brainwashed, still subdued German people of the Weimar Republic. I know though that if I do not press forward now, I will sink into oblivion and fade away from the pages of history.
I gather my men once more and unite in a march to the city center. We sing and shout out slogans, waving swastika flags in the air. When we reach Odeonplatz, the Bavarian Police are already waiting for us, and there are hundreds.
I was not expecting so much opposition, and for the first time a shiver of fear travels down my spine. I instinctively grab a fellow-revolutionary marching next to me by his arm. At the same moment, a gunshot, by one of us, deafens me. The police open fire. Ten seconds later, about fifteen of my men are dead. Among them is the fellow next to me, who pulled me violently to the ground when he fell.
With my shoulder dislocated, my leg numbed from hitting the cobblestones, and my men fleeing for their lives, I had but one option left: to run away.
Looking up at the lions flanking the entrance to Feldherrenhalle, I am reminded of that beautiful August day when the Great War began. I was in the exact same place, and now I am in the exact same position, kneeling down. But then, my tears were of joy, now they are of incredible sadness and despair. I hear a loud whistle and through my tears see one of our SA doctors waving at me impatiently to get into his car, a yellow Fiat. Crawling on all fours, I reach his car and manage to climb in.
“Where to, Herr Hitler?”
“Lake Staffel. Hanfstaengl’s country home.”
Ernst Hanfstaengl, or Putzi, became my ardent follower after attending one of my speeches. A rich man from a well-to-do family connected to none other than Abraham Lincoln’s, he owns an art-publishing house, a very profitable one for him, and the Party. But his main attraction is his astounding piano playing. I drag him anywhere at any hour, just to hear all those soothing Wagnerian arias.
His wife, Helene, opens the door to let me in. Ravaged by pain, both physical and spiritual, I run straight to the attic. For the next two days, I hide in Hanfstaengl’s attic under a mat, refusing to eat or to give up my revolver. I could put an end to all of this right now. I should put an end to all of this right now.
On the third day, even though I am almost on the verge of collapse, I still hear the knocks on the front door. I struggle to get up at once, knowing they have come for me.
A few seconds later, Helene opens the attic’s door, and I feel the cold metallic taste of the gun in my mouth.
“No!” she screams, dropping the barrel of flour she is hoarding onto the floor. She moves toward me with quick, shuffled steps. I back up, shoving the gun even deeper into my mouth. The taste of it is horrid, but my prospects, I think, are much worse.
“No … ” she says again, in a softer tone. “This is cowardice. And you are no coward! A coward would have never had the courage to march on imminent danger with only a handful of men!”
If only she knew … if only she’d seen me walking on all fours … trying to escape … isn’t that what cowards do?
She is now next to me, grabbing the gun from my hand and throwing it into the barrel in one swift movement before I can counter-act. Left without my only means of escaping my most disgraceful future, I fall on my knees again. Ah! The shame! The shame I’ll have to endure is unthinkable. It will prove much worse than death.
She moves closer still and sits down on the sofa. I crawl, this time to get nearer to her and place my head on her lap. She places her little hand on my forehead and caresses it gently.
“If only I had someone like you to take care of me,” I say, eagerly hoping she would caress me some more. Her perfume, her soft ways, her warm feminine voice, and her tender bosom pressing on my neck…all make me forget for an instant …
She swiftly pulls herself from under me.
“Herr Hitler … this is very inappropriate!”
“Helene … Helene … what a fated name … if only you and I could be … how many great things we would achieve together … ”
I grab her small white hand into mine. It is cold, so cold. I pierce her eyes with a wistful gaze, but she betrays nothing beyond a polite smile.
“Herr Hitler, you are behaving like a child. What if Ernst, or even worse, Egon, my son, comes through that door?” she scolds me, pointing at the attic’s door. “What then?”
“Helene, please … ”
She abruptly stands up and my head hits the sofa.
“Pull yourself together now. They are downstairs. I told them to give me a moment. Now it’s long past that moment and they will come after you. You are a hero. Do not ever forget that. Go downstairs and surrender to them like one.”
“I’ll starve myself to death in there. They are going to poison me!”
“No, you will not starve yourself to death. I shall bring food to you every day. Look at me!” she demands, grabbing my face in her hands. “I promise to you that I will take care of everything. You have a great future ahead of you. Now go, be proud, and never lose faith in your destiny.”
Destiny. A word I vow never to forget again.
And so, like a proud hero, I let them take me away.
“Mein Führer, shall we go on?” asks Hess, startling me out of my train of thoughts. He sits patiently at the typewriter, his expression calm and adoring like that of a devoted dog.
Rudolf Hess. I welcomed him into the party myself over two years ago, after I heard of his devotion and courage during the Great War. We even fought together in the First Battle of Ypres, without knowing each other, and just like me, he was rewarded the Iron Cross, Second class, which he still wears proudly on his chest.
Hess, alongside Emil Maurice, my former Supreme SA Leader and on-and-off chauffeur, share the same prison cell with me. They are both helping me write my political autobiography, taking turns at the typewriter. Their help is critical, since I haven’t the tranquility to sit on a chair and type.
The pain in my shoulder still bothers me, as well as the bloody rash on my calves, which re-appeared recently and slows my movement throughout the cell. This goddamned Jewish affliction will eat me alive! I think to myself, staring at the huge swastika flag covering the wall in front of me.
“So we shall. Type down. In the case of syphilis, especially the attitude of the State and public bodies was one of absolute capitulation. To combat this state of affairs something of far wider sweep should have been under
taken than was really done. The discovery of a remedy which is of a questionable nature and the excellent way in which it was placed on the market were only of little assistance in fighting such a scourge. Here again the only course to adopt is to attack the disease in its causes rather than in its symptoms. But in this case the primary cause is to be found in the manner in which love has been prostituted. Even though this did not directly bring about the fearful disease itself, the nation must still suffer serious damage thereby, for the moral havoc resulting from this prostitution would be sufficient to bring about the destruction of the nation, slowly but surely. This Judaizing of our spiritual life and mammonizing of our natural instinct for procreation will, sooner or later, work havoc with our whole posterity. For instead of strong, healthy children, blessed with natural feelings, we shall see miserable specimens of humanity resulting from economic calculation.
Our own nobility furnishes an example of the devastating consequences that follow from a persistent refusal to recognize the primary conditions necessary for normal wedlock. Here we are openly brought face to face with the results of those reproductive habits, which on the one hand are determined by social pressure and, on the other, by financial considerations. The one leads to inherited debility and the other to adulteration of the blood-strain; for all the Jewish daughters of the department store proprietors are looked upon as eligible mates to co-operate in propagating His Lordship's stock. All this leads to absolute degeneration. Nowadays our bourgeoisie are making efforts to follow in the same path. They will come to the same journey's end.
These unpleasant truths are hastily and nonchalantly brushed aside, as if by so doing the real state of affairs could also be abolished. But no. It cannot be denied that the population of our great towns and cities is tending more and more to avail of prostitution in the exercise of its amorous instincts and is thus becoming more and more contaminated by the scourge of venereal disease. On the one hand, the visible effects of this mass-infection can be observed in our insane asylums and, on the other hand, alas! among the children at home. These are the doleful and tragic witnesses to the steadily increasing scourge that is poisoning our sexual life. Their sufferings are the visible results of parental vice.
