“You know England, Lanny,” said Göring. “Cliveden and Wickthorpe and the other country houses control up to a certain point, but nobody can ever be sure when the mob may rise up and force a reversal of their policy. It’s like sailing a small boat on one of those Swiss lakes; everything is so peaceful and still, you think it’s a washbasin; but suddenly comes the bise and upsets everything.”
“I have seen it,” replied Lanny.
He had been troubled in his conscience, for fear that he might have been agreeing too freely with the Nazis and thus giving them encouragement. It would be intolerable to think that by so much as a feather’s weight he had helped to turn the scales in any of these recurrent crises. Now he saw a chance to tip the scales his own way, and he hastened to agree with Göring’s opinion of the English “mob”—its instability, its liability to sudden frenzies, and the cowardice of the most powerful political leaders in the face of such a storm. An irresponsible press and an unsubdued labor movement had almost broken the Tory policy over Abyssinia, and again over Spain; now they might easily do it over Czechoslovakia, and Germany would find itself at war with Britain, France, and Russia all at once.
“Give us two years more to get ready,” lamented the head of the Air Force, “and we shall be beyond danger. But no, we cannot wait! Ribbentrop is there, like Mephistopheles, whispering into the Führer’s ear, insinuating doubts as to the judgment and even the good faith of those of us who try to restrain him, who plead for a little more time. It is a terrible thing!”
Suddenly the great man had a bright idea. “Why don’t you talk to him, Lanny?”
“Me, Hermann?”
“You know England better than any of us, and he knows that you do. Tell him what you have just told me.”
Lanny hadn’t really told very much; he had listened to what Göring told, and put in a few words of assent now and then. But it wouldn’t do for him to cast doubts upon his own authority. He replied: “You know, it’s not easy to talk to the Führer when his mind is made up. He does the talking!”
“I know; but his mind isn’t made up yet; the thing is hanging in the balance. You might find him in a mood to ask questions. You are one of the few persons he can believe to be disinterested; you have never asked him for anything, and I have told him he can trust you, for I believe you are a good influence upon him.”
“Thanks, Hermann. I’m always honored to meet him, because I know he’s a great man. You would be interested to see how people everywhere crowd about to ask me questions about him—and about you also. You are looming large upon the world’s horizon right now.”
“Far too large,” replied Der Dicke, who had not permitted his high station to destroy entirely his sense of humor. “I am going to have to take a reducing cure. But seriously; let me call the Führer and tell him you are here, and tell him you have talked with Runciman and Wickthorpe and others. He will wish to see you without any suggestion from me. He will probably tell me to have you flown to Berchtesgaden.”
“I have my car here,” the visitor reminded him.
“Das macht nichts aus. We will fly you back here, or send your car to Berlin, or to Berchtesgaden, wherever you prefer. This is a serious matter—the fate of Germany, and indeed of all Europe, may be hanging in the balance.”
XII
So it came about that Lanny saw Germany from the extreme north to the extreme south, quite literally a bird’s-eye view; a gigantic map unrolling, slowly, silently, except for the roar of a great motor. He sat in the co-pilot’s seat, beside a very young Air Force Leutnant, one of the world’s best, so Der Dicke had declared, patting them both on their backs after he had introduced them. “Take good care of him; he is the Führer’s friend,”—so he had told the officer.
So now, through the interphone, the pilot in charge of Lanny’s destiny for an hour or so entertained him with the names of cities, towns, and villages, rivers, lakes, canals, forests, mountains, airfields, great factories—every feature of the map below, whether natural or made by man. The greater part of Germany, as seen by a bird, looks like a checkerboard, but with no two squares alike. Different crops have different shades of green or brown or yellow at different seasons of the year; roads are tiny gray ribbons; buildings have only roofs, and these vary according to their materials, and whether they are wet or dry. Such details constitute an airman’s life while he is in the sky, and while he is studying photographs, or maps on a briefing-room wall. When he learns that his passenger’s father makes the fastest pursuit plane in the world, he gets a thrill and asks many questions, and mentions that the factories of his own land are just on the point of exceeding that record by ten or twenty kilometers per hour.
Lanny was set down expertly on the Führer’s private airport, Ain-ring. A car was awaiting him, and again he was driven into those beautiful mountains. The earth had performed more than half its annual swing about the sun, and early March had become late August. The snow was gone, and the evil witch Berchta had retired to her cave; the landscape was arrayed in dark green, shiny with gleams of the sun; all the good fairies, gnomes, and little men who haunt the German forests were hiding under the fern-fronds, and a million bees were collecting honey for the Führer’s table. They had to work overtime, since he, non-smoker and non-drinker, was extremely fond of sweets, especially when they were made into cream tarts or puffs or other delicacies, usually considered more suitable for ladies’ palates.
That was one part of the meal he served Lanny at lunch; a much better meal than he had prepared for Schuschnigg on his visit—and surely better than that luckless wight was now getting in the castle where Hitler had him confined. No more proclamations about plebiscites from him; no more insolence over the radio, imitating in a mocking voice the Führer’s peculiar modes of speech acquired in the Innviertel! The outside world hadn’t heard much about the ex-Chancellor’s fate, but Lanny knew that he had been united to his Countess Vera—by proxy, in a ceremony in which his brother took his place, and bride and bridegroom were not permitted to set eyes upon each other!
The master of the Berghof welcomed his guest cordially; but Lanny knew him well enough to perceive at once that he was under great tension. The whole place was on pins and needles, as the saying is; people coming and going, talking in whispers, and watching to be sure that nobody else was listening. Hess was there, and the first thing he said to Lanny was: “You should have brought Madame. She might have been very useful to us now.” Lanny answered: “I was planning to consult Pröfenik, but I got whisked away in too great a hurry.”
XIII
Right after lunch the Führer invited the guest to his study and seated him in one of those extremely modernistic chairs made out of light stainless metal. “Göring tells me that you have just come from England. Tell me what you found there; it is important for me.”
Lanny complied tactfully, beginning with every favorable circumstance he could think of. The British ruling classes were tremendously impressed by the diplomatic skill which a man of the people was so unexpectedly displaying; the military people were awed by the quality of Germany’s new armaments; the great industrialists envied him the Ordnung und Zucht which he had managed to impose upon German labor. Lanny told of the parade of Mosley followers he had seen in the streets of London; of the admiration for the Führer which had been expressed by highly placed noblemen and their heirs; of the eager questioning by Lord Runciman of Doxford. The Führer beamed, rubbed his thighs, slapped his knees, and gave every evidence that his vegetable plate and temperance beer were setting well upon his stomach.
But then—a but! “Of course that isn’t all the story, Herr Reichskanzler”—and the great man’s face began to fall. “Hermann thinks I should tell you both sides, because you have a grave decision to make, and it is not the part of friendship to withhold any facts.”
“By all means, Herr Budd, tell me the worst. What are the difficulties you see?”
Lanny referred to the British press, which boasted itself “free,”
and understood by freedom the policy of publishing whatever was likely to arouse reader interest and increase sales. A highly competitive press, dominated by commercial motives; under the influence of the late Lord Northcliffe it had thrown dignity to the winds, and gone in for headlines and sensations. There were, of course, still responsible papers. The Times, called “the Thunderer,” was now owned by Major Astor, brother of his lordship; the same was true of Lord Beaver-brook, who owned the Daily Express and the Evening Standard, and of Lord Rothermere, Northcliffe’s brother, who owned the Daily Mail and the Evening News, and had gone so far as to give his support to Mosley’s Union of British Fascists. All these could be counted upon in any crisis; but there were other papers, able to make a great noise, which catered to labor, to what they called liberalism, democracy—
That was enough to set Adi off, as Lanny knew it would. For a solid half-hour without one pause he poured out his loathing of that licentious capitalistic press and that bastard “liberty” which permitted it to batten on the degradation of the public. It was Jewish-owned and Moscow-subsidized—both these facts the Führer could prove, and it was part of the hideous conspiracy to bolshevize Europe and the entire world. To the thwarting of that conspiracy the Führer had dedicated his life; for that purpose Divine Providence had sent him in this crisis. A complete speech, with all rhetorical stresses and gestures; it might have been delivered with éclat to seven hundred thousand Germans on the Tempelhofer Feld, or to seventy millions over the radio, but it was delivered to one American and four dead walls—unless there was a household listening, as in the case of the Schuschnigg tirade.
The orator stopped as suddenly as he had begun—this being his custom, as Lanny had learned. “I am doing all the talking,” he said, “and you have information that I need. Please pardon me, and go on.”
“The facts I tell you are deplorable, Exzellenz,” replied the visitor, deprecatingly; “but you must know that I did not create them. There is no greater service that can be done to a master of men like yourself than to bring him the truth.”
“Certainly, Herr Budd; I am not a child and have no wish to be treated as one. Tell me frankly, and be sure that I will consider it an act of friendship.”
“What I have to say, Herr Reichskanzler, is that a large section of the British public appears to be in a nervous and excitable state at the present moment; ready to be played upon by any demagogue who tells them that you are not going to be satisfied to get back the territories which are preponderantly German, but that you are aiming at conquests. I don’t meet persons of that way of thinking, so I can’t say this at first hand, but I know that the governing classes are worried, fearing one of those storms of public emotion that arise, as suddenly as the bise on an Alpine lake. It is their prayer that you will make matters as easy for them as possible. Will you give them time, so that the changes can be made with order and by mutual agreement? That is the question I have been asked a score of times in England; and, of course, if you care to give me an answer, I will be happy to pass it on to the key people.”
The Führer of all the Nazis couldn’t take a thing like that sitting still. First he began to snap his fingers and then to jerk his arms; then he hopped up, and began to pace about. He would stop and start to interrupt, then choke back his words and force himself to listen, as he had promised to do. When he could endure no more, he burst out again, listing the humiliations and insults he had endured from the people and government of England over a period of years, indeed ever since he, the son of Alois Schicklgruber, had become aware of what was happening in the world.
The son of Budd-Erling knew that he wasn’t doing himself any good by becoming the target of such a tirade, and at the first break in the deluge of words he exclaimed: “Remember, Exzellenz, I am an American, and you are not to hold it against me when I tell you about people in England.”
The great man took this as the occasion to end the interview. “You are correct, Herr Budd. I have to give the historic process time to work itself out. You have done me a service, and be sure that I appreciate it, and hope that you will never hesitate to tell me the truth as you see it. Stay with me a while now, if you can spare the time, and let me ask you for more information.”
XIV
That was handsome, and Lanny went to his room with hope that he might actually be helping to bring peace to Europe. This mood lasted for an hour or more; until there came a tap on his door, and there was Rudolf Hess, also seeking information. “The Führer is in one of his black moods. What on earth did you say to him, Herr Budd?”
So Lanny told his story all over again. He wasn’t sure what was the personal attitude of Nazi Number Three toward Nazi Number Two, but he thought it proper to state that Marshal Göring had considered his information from England of such importance that the Führer ought to hear it. Hess, who had been raised among Englishmen and knew their ways, assented to this at once; the situation was critical, and it was important that someone should take the onus of pointing it out to the Führer, who didn’t know the English people, their language or their literature, and so was in danger of misjudging their attitude. Lanny, groping his way in the mazes of court intrigue, was pleased to discover that Number Three agreed with Number Two, and shared his hatred of the champagne salesman, who had never had a number officially assigned him, but had apparently established himself as Number Four and doubtless had hopes of pushing upward.
The faithful Rudi took it as his duty to explain the greatest man in the world, whose servant and admirer he had been for most of his adult life. Der Führer was a man of action; when the time for action came, he moved with the swiftness of a charging lion, and those were the times when he was really himself. At other times he was restless and uncertain and a prey to many sorts of moods, some of them even suicidal—it was no secret that Hess had had a hard time keeping him from destroying himself after the failure of the Putsch, almost fifteen years ago. He was impatient of every sort of detail, and left it to Hess or others upon whom he had conferred authority; he rebuked them when they brought him problems, and told them that all he required of them was that they should succeed—otherwise they were of no use to him and would be replaced.
The prime necessity of his being was solitude. That was the meaning of the long walks in the forest; that was why he had chosen the Berghof, and why, since it had become a great establishment, he had built the eagle’s nest on the Kehlstein, where no one could possibly get at him. He had to hearken to his inner voices; he had to give his Genie a chance to incubate in secret and give him guidance. For weeks at a time he would be brooding, inaccessible, irritated when anyone forced himself upon him.
“I am sorry if I have made things harder for you,” said Lanny, considerately.
The Deputy answered: “Not at all, we are used to it; we have learned to adjust ourselves to the moods of an inspired leader.” And then, after a pause: “As a matter of fact, the one who is going to catch it has not yet arrived. I’ll not tell him of your part in the matter.”
“Who is it?” inquired the visitor. “Ribbentrop?”
“No, Dr. Franck.”
Lanny knew the name of Karl Hermann Franck as Henlein’s Deputy Führer in the Sudeten. “What has he done?”
“He has taken upon himself to issue a proclamation, canceling the previous instructions to our people there that they should forego the right of self-defense for the present. Franck has told them that they should resist attacks by Marxist terrorists. Of course they should do that, but apparently it is premature, and interferes with something the Führer is planning. He is in a rage, and ordered me to telephone for Franck to be brought here by plane at once. I would not care to be in his boots.”
XV
Thus duly forewarned, Lanny stayed in his room. But he took the liberty of leaving his door slightly ajar, according to the custom of the Berghof as he had learned it. When, later on, he heard shouting downstairs, he took his post just behind the door, the best place from which to get an earful
—and surely he got it. Apparently the Führer was in such a fury that he didn’t wait to have the unhappy Deputy brought up to his study; he rushed downstairs and met him in the entrance hall—which meant that everybody in the place could hear every word.
At the beginning there were a few breaks in the tirade; one could imagine the frightened official trying to interpose explanations or apologies. But after that there were no breaks; the Führer was yelling at him—and never in all his life had Lanny Budd heard such sounds coming from a human throat. The dressing-down of Gregor Strasser, even that of Schuschnigg, had been a summer’s zephyr in comparison with this tornado. The unfortunate Herr Doktor was called Sie Trottel, Sie verdammter Esel, Sie Schweinhund—and when such ordinary German abuse wasn’t adequate, he was called foul names known to the Innviertel yokels. He had exceeded his authority, he had threatened with utter ruin and collapse the Führer’s careful policies of legality. Germany might be plunged into war overnight by his insane presumption, and he alone, der lumpige, abgesetzte, unsägliche Doktor Karl Hermann Franck would bear the responsibility for it all. A traitor to his Fatherland and his Führer, he deserved to be taken out onto the drive in front of the Berghof and shot forthwith. Lanny heard the words erschossen worden at least a dozen times during that lambasting, and each time he could imagine a terrified wretch cringing and perhaps falling down upon his knees.
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