Within days of Hindenburg’s death and Hitler’s quick moves to consolidate all power in his hands, Shirer got his wish: he received a call from one of the bosses at Hearst’s Universal News Service, who offered him a job as its correspondent in Berlin. Elated, Shirer immediately agreed. “Must brush up my German,” he wrote in his diary. On August 25, he and Tess took a train from Paris, arriving at Berlin’s Friedrichstrasse Bahnhof at about ten in the evening. As soon as Shirer stepped off the train, two plainclothesmen grabbed him and demanded to know if he was “Herr So-and-So,” as Shirer recalled, since he didn’t catch the name they kept repeating. “I had expected to meet the secret police sooner or later, but not quite so soon,” he wrote. After examining his passport, the plainclothesmen finally let him go. As he thought of the new chapter that was about to begin for him, Shirer ended his first Berlin diary entry that evening with what he admitted was a bad pun: “I’m going from bad to Hearst.”
That same morning, another foreign correspondent, far more famous at the time than Shirer, had boarded a train to go in the opposite direction, from Berlin to Paris. Dorothy Thompson had the distinction of exiting Nazi Germany for the last time because she had been presented with an expulsion order. Thompson, or Mrs. Sinclair Lewis as she was known because of her novelist husband, had gone to Austria after the murder of Chancellor Dollfuss on July 25, eager to cover what the Nazis were up to there. In early August, she decided to drive from Austria through Munich up to Berlin, reacquainting herself with her old stomping grounds, stopping in towns and villages along the way to get a sense of the popular mood. She may have badly misjudged Hitler when she interviewed him in late 1931, but she was now intent on discovering what he was doing to Germany.
Thompson wasn’t exactly sure when she crossed into Germany since no border guard stopped her, but then she noted the sudden appearance of houses decked out in Nazi flags. Along the road, she saw a Storm Trooper wearing a black armband, which she assumed was in honor of Hindenburg. But when she asked him, the SA man said it was “for Röhm.” Thompson also noticed the election banners everywhere in preparation for the plebiscite that coming Sunday to affirm Hitler’s power grab following Hindenburg’s death. Compared to other countries where voters chose between competing candidates, “in Germany Hitler made himself President and it was a law, and then people voted, whether they liked the law or not,” she wrote later. “If they liked it, that meant he was President; and if they didn’t, that meant he was President anyhow.”
Thompson found the roads in Germany clogged with cars, motorcycles and bicycles, almost all driven by young men. “I was in a procession of young men,” she recalled. “I had the feeling that there were only young men in Germany, thousands and thousands of young men, all very strong and healthy, and all working furiously to get somewhere.” Then there were the election posters that Thompson described as “sentimental, evangelical,” proclaiming “We are with thee, dear leader.”
In Garmisch, an American visitor from Chicago told Thompson that he had been in Oberammergau, the Bavarian village famed for its Passion Plays. “These people are all crazy,” he said. “This is not a revolution, it’s a revival. They think Hitler is God.” During the scene in the Passion Play when Judas received his thirty pieces of silver, a woman sitting next to him declared: “That is Röhm, who betrayed the Leader.”
In the Bavarian town of Murnau, a Hitler Youth camp filled with “beautiful children,” as Thompson put it, sported a huge banner proclaiming WE WERE BORN TO DIE FOR GERMANY. When she arrived in Munich, Thompson had letters of introduction to people she hadn’t met before. “I went to see them but they wouldn’t talk,” she reported. “They were frightened to death; you could see that.”
At another stop, she met a Catholic priest who was willing to talk. “The Nazi Revolution is the greatest blow to Catholicism since Martin Luther,” he told her. “But it is also a blow to all Christianity… In the Nazi outlook nationalism is elevated to a mystic religion, and the state claims not only the bodies of the people but the souls. Force, and not goodness, is the measure of all things.” Who would win in this struggle between Christianity and the Nazis, she inquired. “They are getting the children,” the priest replied. “That is their program—to get the children.” In other words, the Nazis were aiming to replace Christianity with their own “mystic religion,” and they were well on their way to doing so.
When Thompson finally arrived in Berlin, she headed straight to the Adlon Hotel, which felt “like home,” the smiling barman ready with his popular dry martinis. “Oh, I was so glad to be back!” she recalled. Everything was perfect in the hotel. “It was all the courtesy, all the cleanliness, all the exquisite order that was Germany.” But her journalistic colleagues warned her not to use the hotel phones, since they were monitored. So Thompson found a cheap saloon with a phone booth in the back, which she used to place calls to some of her German acquaintances.
The American reporter had lunch with a young woman who worked as a stenographer in a state bank. She had “eyes as candid as water,” Thompson noted. “When you look at her you know she never told a lie in her life.”
“Do you find it’s so bad here as the outside world seems to think?” the woman asked Thompson. When the reporter replied that she had come back to Germany to see the situation for herself, the woman explained that she hadn’t been a Nazi in the beginning, but that even in her bank conditions had changed since Hitler came to power. Overall, wages were lower than before, but the biggest cuts were among the directors and other senior staff. And regular staff felt that they were treated better, with fewer social distinctions. “It’s as though we all belonged to a big family,” she said. While there was talk of food rationing, she claimed everyone was willing to make sacrifices as long as they were employed.
Thompson asked her about the Night of the Long Knives. She professed it was “an awful shock” to learn that some of the Nazi leaders had been “acting dreadful” and were corrupt. “That is why Hitler had to execute them,” she concluded, as if that was a perfectly logical solution.
When Thompson pointed out that in the United States people were tried before they were punished, the German woman didn’t seem to understand her point. “It was funny,” Thompson mused. “I never met anyone in Germany except a few intellectuals, who minded that these people did not have a trial. It was as though they had forgotten that there ever had been such a thing as law.”
Thompson also met a Brownshirt she had known earlier. While admitting there were clashes within the Nazi movement and some of the SA leaders wanted to get rid of Goering or Goebbels, he insisted there was never any talk of undermining Hitler’s regime or of acting in any way against him. “Hitler sold us out,” he said. “There wasn’t any plot. No one was treasonable to Hitler.” He described how Nazi firing squads gunned down far more of his colleagues than reported, with the victims numbering about 300 instead of the 77 mentioned by Hitler.
Thompson also met Otto, a German journalist who had earlier been a staunch defender of free speech but who now “writes articles that free speech isn’t any good,” as she put it. Over coffee and plum cake, he calmly explained that revolutions aren’t made by pleasant people. “Revolutions need terrorists,” he said. “Afterward, when the revolutions succeed, the people who made them are in the way.” The Russians could send those who fell out of favor to Siberia, but in Germany “there was nothing to do but shoot them.” He admitted that shooting former Chancellor von Schleicher’s wife “made a bad impression abroad” and the cleanup was “not pretty.” But the result was a stronger Germany, he insisted. “I doubt if any revolution in history has been made with greater order. It is now consolidated. It will last for years.”
While listening to Otto, Thompson was thinking of some of the other murders on June 30. A music critic in Munich by the name of Willi Schmidt was shot because he was mistaken for a storm trooper with the same name who had already been shot earlier that same day. Dr. Erich Klausener, a Catholic
leader, was killed for no reason that she could ascertain. He was cremated and his ashes were sent to his wife by registered post, according to an account she had read in a British newspaper. “I kept thinking how it must have been when the postman rang the bell,” she recalled, imagining a scene of the postman asking the unsuspecting widow to sign for the package and then tipping his hat. “They are awfully polite in Germany,” she observed. To Otto, she said aloud: “Yes, Germany is an orderly country.”
Thompson spent only ten days in Berlin. One day the porter called. “Good morning, madam, there is a gentleman here from the secret state police,” he announced. A young man in a trench coat that looked like the one Hitler wore came up with an order for her to leave the country within forty-eight hours. “In view of your numerous anti-German publications in the American press, the German authorities, for reasons of national self-respect, are unable to extend to you a further right of hospitality,” it read.
While other reporters had been pressured to leave, this was the first outright expulsion and it generated front-page stories back in the United States. “The general feeling of the foreign colony here over the incident is that Nazism has once again demonstrated its utter inability to understand any mentality but its own,” wrote Frederick Birchall, the New York Times’s Berlin correspondent.
Several American and British correspondents came to see Thompson off to Paris, giving her American Beauty roses for her journey. As the train pulled out of the station, she leaned out of the window, clutching the roses, “a little tearful about such a demonstration of comradeship,” Birchall added.
In her own account, Thompson identified the real reason for her expulsion as “blasphemy.” As she explained, “My offense was to think that Hitler is just an ordinary man, after all. That is a crime against the reigning cult in Germany, which says Mr. Hitler is a Messiah sent by God to save the German people—an old Jewish idea.” Returning to New York in September, she had attained new supercelebrity status, with reporters rushing to get her views on the country that had given her the boot. “Germany has gone to war already and the rest of the world does not believe it,” she declared.
At about the same time, Shirer, the new arrival, was contrasting his new home with the city he had first visited in the 1920s. “I miss the old Berlin of the Republic, the care-free, emancipated, civilized air, the snubnosed young women with short-bobbed hair and the young men with either cropped or long hair—it made no difference—who sat up all night with you and discussed anything with intelligence and passion.” Instead, Shirer found a city where there were the constant shouts of “Heil Hitler,” Brownshirts and SS guards marching everywhere, and the endless clicking of heels, all of which grated on his nerves. Barely a week into the new assignment that he had been so anxious to get, Shirer admitted he was already “in the throes of a severe case of depression.”
Whether the correspondents were coming or going, they recognized that Germany had undergone a remarkably swift and chilling transformation. No one was casually writing off Hitler anymore.
Back in the United States, Sinclair Lewis, Dorothy Thompson’s husband, drew heavily on his observations of Germany as he dashed off his new novel It Can’t Happen Here in two frantic months of writing. Published in 1935, it envisaged the coming to power of a fascist dictator in the United States. Like Hitler, Berzelius Windrip, Lewis’s antihero, claims to have all the answers to all the country’s economic problems, while proclaiming his people’s superiority. “My one ambition is to get all Americans to realize that they are, and must continue to be, the greatest Race on the face of this old Earth,” he declares. Once in power, he abolishes Congress and employs the Minute Men, his equivalent of the Brownshirts, to bash anyone who dares to resist.
The book was a huge success, eventually selling more than 300,000 copies, and stirring controversy as the American Communist Party and others on the far left embraced its message with particular enthusiasm. Lewis liked the praise, but was uneasy about the source. “There is no excuse for any one to swallow the Bolshevik claim to be the one defense against Fascism,” he wrote. But he had succeeded in his primary aim: convincing many of his countrymen that fascism was a threat that they should take seriously, wherever it manifested itself.
As new American correspondents came on the scene, they were prone to start from the premise that they were going to report from a bizarre, increasingly sinister but always intriguing place. Pierre Huss of the International News Service, whom Shirer characterized as “slick, debonair, ambitious, and on better terms with Nazi officials than almost any other,” came to call it both “Hitlerland” and “Naziland.” And, of course, no one was a more intriguing figure in that land than Adolf Hitler. Both the veteran Berlin correspondents and the new arrivals were always looking for opportunities to see him in person, trying to take the measure of the man and his movement. Reflecting on the eight years that he would spend in Berlin, right up until a month before the United States and Germany went to war in December 1941, Huss wrote: “You had to work hard and long, frequently taking your food and sleep on the wing to keep up with Hitler.”
In January 1935, Huss’s efforts to get an interview with Hitler paid off at just the right moment. The Nazi leader was in his Alpine chalet in Obersalzberg, waiting for the results of the plebiscite in the Saar, the territory that had been administered during the previous fifteen years by Britain and France under a League of Nations mandate. There was little doubt that the Saar’s inhabitants would vote as Hitler wanted them to, ensuring the return of the territory to Germany. Huss calculated he would find Der Führer in good spirits, which would make this an opportune time to meet him.
He wasn’t mistaken. Arriving at the chalet, he saw Hitler examining the returns, his eyes “alight with joy.” He was dressed in what Huss characterized as “his golf suit,” while Goering stood nearby in a huge white sweater, joining his boss in celebrating the outcome of the voting. Hitler promptly greeted his American guest by insisting that he join him on his regular walk in the mountains before lunch. As usual, he didn’t allow his bodyguards to accompany him, instead only taking along his white Hungarian shepherd dog, his walking stick made of knotted wood, and a Luger automatic pistol in his pocket.
With the dog leading the way through the snow, Hitler kept up a brisk pace that left Huss nearly out of breath as they reached the crest of a hill. Hitler told him it was good exercise, enjoying the fact that his guest was struggling a bit. Then he pointed down to the chalet that they had just left, which was surrounded by hills like the one they had just climbed. “A good rifle shot, aiming through telescopic sights, could easily pick me off from here while I am sitting on the porch or in that back room there,” he told Huss. He added that he was buying all the land in the area, closing it to outsiders “so [SS leader Heinrich] Himmler can quit worrying.” The road that Huss had traveled up the mountain would also be closed to all but authorized traffic.
Hitler next pointed in the direction of Salzburg, saying that Himmler and some army officers had claimed that “a few well-directed cannon shots from there some dark night could blow us out of bed.” With a forced laugh, he explained that he had told Himmler that he’d have to be patient since “I cannot just walk over the border and take a piece out of Austria.” He added, “I am a fatalist and all those things take care of themselves.”
Huss felt Hitler was taking a risk by walking in the hills alone, whatever measures were used to secure the area. He pointed to two woodcutters a couple of hundred yards ahead, indicating that they or someone else could attack him while he was out on one of his walks. At that point, Hitler told Huss to pack a hard snowball and throw it far. When Huss did so, Hitler pulled out his pistol and fired off a dead-on shot: the snowball burst apart in the air. Seeing Huss’s skeptical expression, he told him to throw a second snowball. Once again, his aim was perfect. “You see, I am not entirely defenseless,” he said—and went on to boast that the SS and Army brass considered him better than many of their be
st marksmen.
The amiable mood of their walk was broken when Huss ventured to suggest that Hitler would be courting a major conflict if he insisted on carrying out every part of his party’s 25-point program first proclaimed in 1920, including its call for a Greater Germany with new territory and colonies. Hitler abruptly stopped, and “like a flash he changed from the Bavarian alpine rambler to Adolf Hitler,” Huss recalled. Hitler shot back, “Sooner than give up one little point of my program, I’d go over to that tree and hang myself.” Although the Nazis had departed from several parts of their original program already, he insisted “it can only be fulfilled to the letter because it expresses the will of Germany.”
Huss’s conclusion about Hitler after his walk in the hills: “He is a fanatic, every inch of him, going into a passion or fury when the occasion demands.”
Veteran correspondents like Lochner and Wiegand worried that the fanaticism of Germany’s new rulers was impacting their ability to do their jobs. “Reporting from Germany ceased to be a pleasure when the Nazis seized power in 1933,” the AP bureau chief noted with typical under-statement. In a letter to William Randolph Hearst dated August 5, 1933, Wiegand told his boss that he had been warned “that in one way or another every effort allegedly will be made to persuade you to transfer me from Germany.” Mentioning the increased monitoring of cables, phones and mail, along with the sweeping crackdown on any freedom of expression inside Germany, he wrote: “It is no pleasure to a freedom-loving man to work in Germany these days… Hitler’s proud claim is that there is order and discipline in his Germany. So there also is in St. Quentin and Sing Sing.”
The Nazis realized that they often lost the propaganda war if they forced correspondents out, since those reporters then enjoyed the spotlight when they returned home. But that only prompted them to try new methods to compromise those they disliked. Supposedly anti-Nazi Germans started approaching correspondents with offers to provide secret military information. On more than one occasion, Sigrid Schultz threw men out of her Chicago Tribune office when they made such an offer and warned her colleagues to stay clear of them. In April 1935, she returned home one day to discover that an envelope with “important information” had been delivered in her absence by what sounded like one of the same men. Opening it, she saw the design for an airplane engine, which she promptly burned in her fireplace; she knew that, if found on her premises, this would be perfect incriminating evidence in a spy trial.
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