Fire and Steel, Volume 2

by Gerald N. Lund

  The new “Soviet Republic,” which was set up and run by the Independent Social Democrats, lasted exactly six days after the assassination of Eisner. The gross incompetence was much like it had been in Berlin. As just one example, the leadership of the party chose as their foreign minister a man who had been in and out of psychiatric hospitals numerous times. One of his first official acts was to declare war on Switzerland when they wouldn’t lend him sixty locomotives. A day or two later, he sent cables to the Pope in Rome and Vladimir Lenin asking them if they knew the whereabouts of his key to the lavatory.

  It had been easy pickings for the Communists and Spartacans to step in and take over. They moved swiftly and with ruthless efficiency to enact Communist reforms. When the army tried to intervene and negotiate with them, they spurned them and organized their own army from unemployed workers, who flocked to their banner in large numbers. But Hans was close enough to his quota that he told Jürgens and Diehls they were taking the weekend off. An hour later he was on his way to his shop.

  At the shop, Hans was relieved to find the lock undisturbed and Wolfie’s car gathering dust. There was also a note tacked to the door saying that the workbench he had ordered was ready for delivery. And with that he left to fulfill his promise to Wolfie and Paula to check on their house and make sure everything was all right, and then he would head back to the barracks to grab some much-needed sleep.

  But as Hans approached number 16, the first thing he saw was a curtain blowing softly in the breeze—outside of the window! For a moment he wondered if someone had left the window open, but then it hit him. That window didn’t open. It was a fixed pane of glass. Hans let off the gas and coasted slowly by the house. The whole window was gone. The front door was kicked in, and across the brickwork, in large black letters, were the words DEATH TO THE MONARCHISTS.

  Hans’s heart was suddenly pounding so hard he could barely breathe. He gently accelerated again, turning his head to the front as if he hadn’t noticed anything unusual.

  But once he was past that block, he bent low, made a right turn onto a side street and then another turn into the alley that ran behind the Grolls’ home. He shut off the engine and the light and let the bike roll to a stop. There were no street lamps in the alley, and only faint light from a few of the windows provided any light. Hans hopped nimbly off the bike and walked it forward, counting the houses as he passed them.

  Parking the bike behind the garbage cans, he fished in his pocket for the house keys with one hand while he drew his pistol with the other. A moment later, he was inside the apartment. He came to a halt to let his eyes adjust and his pulse slow a little. The hallway was pretty dark, but with the curtains open, the street lamps provided enough light for him to see into the kitchen, living room, and sitting room pretty well. And what he saw made him nearly retch.

  Every kitchen cupboard was open, and the cupboards were empty. As Hans stepped into the room, glass crunched beneath his feet. The floor was littered with broken crockery and glassware. He bent down to see what he at first thought was sand on the floor. It was sugar, made yellow by the lamplight. Coffee, flour, beans, and pasta were mixed in with it and the broken glass. A smear on the wall caught his eye. It looked as though someone had thrown a glass of water at it, only it was not water. Something thicker, with little bits of something sticky in it. Then he saw a can of peaches on the floor. It was split clear open. Someone must have hurled it against the wall.

  In the corner, the stove had been tipped on its side. That had pulled the stove pipe out of the wall, and soot drifted up in little black puffs as he stepped forward. Suddenly he heard movement behind him. Hans spun around, jacking a bullet into the chamber of his Luger. A dark shape scurried across the floor. He knew instantly what it was. He had seen them often enough in the trenches. Hans swept up a broken coffee cup and hurled it at the rat, but he missed it by a foot.

  In the living room, every cushion of the sofa had been savagely ripped apart. Paula’s favorite lamp table had its legs smashed. The lamp had been trampled under someone’s boots. More words were painted on Paula’s shattered mirror, which had been a treasured gift from her parents on her wedding day. DOWN WITH BOURGEOISIE PIGS.

  Disgust welled up in him. These weren’t looters. Maybe they had taken a few things, but not much. This was wanton destruction, smashing anything that might have any value to its owners. Blind rage simply because Wolfie was a successful civil servant and they were scum.

  Hans started up the stairs, but the stench of urine and feces was so strong that he backed down again. If there was anything of value left in his and Emilee’s bedroom, he didn’t want to touch it. He turned around and checked the deadbolt on the front door to make sure it was in place, even though the bottom panel had been kicked in and it wouldn’t take much to squeeze through the hole. He looked for the rat again. He didn’t care if the neighbors heard the gunshots. If he saw that sucker again, he was going to empty his entire magazine at it, consequences be damned. But he didn’t see it. Nothing moved. An eerie silence hung over the place like a shroud. Swearing, Hans kicked at a shattered chair and then made his way back out to the alley.

  He waited until he was a block away before he started the engine and drove slowly toward the telephone exchange. When he reached it, he changed his mind and went by it, even though its lights were on and a sign said that it was still open. He decided he wouldn’t call tonight, even though he had promised that he would. He would drive down to Graswang tomorrow instead. He’d surprise Emilee. Surprise everyone.

  A deep gloom settled in on him. He would especially surprise Paula and Wolfie.

  April 16, 1919, 10:55 p.m.—Headquarters building, Bayerische Armee, Munich

  Wolfgang Groll got off the motorbike and stepped back, his head tipped up so he could read the letters over the door. “Bavarian Army?” he asked without turning.

  Hans dismounted, put down the kickstand, and removed the key from the ignition. “Yes, Wolfie. This is it. Relax. The army is just trying to identify the bad guys responsible for the revolution.”

  “But why me? I’m not in the army.”

  “You were there when they seized control of the Public Works Building. You saw their faces. You saw what they did. And now you’ve seen what they did to your home. Not every home on the street, Wolfie. Just yours and Paula’s. And that’s what these people need to know.”

  Grumbling, Wolfie fell in step with Hans as they went up the steps and into the building.

  11:28 a.m.

  Wolfie looked at the clock for the tenth or eleventh time in the last five minutes. “It’s been almost half an hour,” he grumbled. “Let’s go.”

  Hans sighed. “Wolfie, this is the army. Okay? Nothing moves fast in the army.” He looked around. There had been one man ahead of them when they came in. He had not yet come back out.

  “So I say we just go. I’ve got things to do.”

  “What?” Hans scoffed. “Go back to Graswang and help them milk the cows?”

  “No, I say we go over to the apartment and start cleaning it up. I don’t want Paula to see it like that. She’ll never get that picture out of her head.”

  “Wolfie,” Hans sighed. “You know we can’t do that. Not until we get these Bolsheviks out of power. If they learn that you’re back, they’ll come after you again.” He reached up and touched the scars on his cheek. “Believe me. I know what I’m talking about.”

  His uncle folded his arms and sat back, staring moodily up at the ceiling. Two minutes later, another man in uniform came out through the doors and turned right, headed for the side entrance, but it was not the man who had been with them earlier. Hans leaned forward, peering at the man. There was something familiar about him. He was a little older than Hans and at least six inches shorter. In profile, his nose was straight, but prominent. His hair—jet black and combed straight down toward the ears on both sides of the part—revealed a high forehead and thinnish eyebrows.

  Just then, the man half turned an
d glanced back at something, and Hans saw his mustache, a small patch of black perched precariously beneath his nose. He jumped to his feet. “Stay here,” he said to Wolfie, and then he took off, half running and half walking. The man was almost to the entry doors. Hans cupped his hand to his mouth and called, “Adolf? Adolf Hitler?”

  Stopping, the man turned around, not sure who had hollered at him. Hans couldn’t believe it. It was him! He strode forward, lifting a hand in greeting. “Is that really you?”

  He stared at Hans for a moment, looking confused, and then suddenly his countenance changed. “Hans? Oh my word. Sergeant Hans Eckhardt!”

  People stared at them as they came together and embraced in a huge bear hug, slapping each other on the back. Then they stepped back. “What are you doing here?” Adolf asked.

  “I’m Bavarian,” Hans laughed. “Remember? This is my state. We’re being interviewed by the tribunal looking into causes of the revolution. The real question, is, what are you doing here? I thought you were Austrian.”

  Adolf took him by the elbow and steered him out of the way of the people coming in and out of the building. “I am Austrian. I was born in Braunau am Inn. It’s right on the border. My father was a customs agent for the government.”

  Hans was grinning. “So we could say that you are half Austrian, half Bavarian.”

  “No,” he said irritably. “I am all German. I spit on the artificial borders drawn by men. We are not Austrian Germans and Bavarian Germans and Berliner Germans. We are Germans who merely live in those places.” Then he laughed and clapped Hans on the shoulder. “But pay me no mind. So, what are you doing here? You told me you were getting out of the army.”

  “I was. I did. Then I got caught in the Spartacan riots in Berlin and joined a Freikorps unit.”

  Adolf leaned in, suddenly eager. “You were part of what happened in Berlin?”

  “Ja. My battalion took back the police headquarters building from that swine Eichhorn.”

  “Ah,” Adolf exclaimed. “What I would give to have been part of that proud moment.” Then he looked at Hans’s uniform. “So then you stayed in? And they made you an officer?”

  Shaking his head, Hans chuckled. “Actually, it’s a little more complicated than that. When the trouble in Berlin ended, I left and came down here to be with my family.”

  “Over near Oberammergau, as I remember.”

  “Your memory is good, Adolf. But the commander of our battalion called me a few weeks ago. The general staff is sending regular army units and more Freikorps units here to put down this so-called Soviet Republic.”

  “Yes!” He nearly shouted it. “I heard that. I am ecstatic. The army is the only force with the courage to take these Communists and Jews head on.”

  “Well, what about you? It looks like you stayed in the army too.”

  “Yes, much the same as you did. I came back to Munich, which I consider my adopted home, with the intent of doing something of great significance. I have this consuming passion to do something for our country and our people.”

  Hans started at that. “As do I. During the conflict with the Spartacans, I had an opportunity to be among the poor and the working class. I determined I wanted to do something to help them.”

  Adolf’s response was immediate and heartfelt. “You helped defeat the Spartacans.”

  “I know but. . . .” Hans shrugged. “That’s why I told my commander I’d come help here.”

  “Yes. This is the next battleground,” Adolf replied. He reached out and gripped Hans’s arm. “I have thought much on this. During my schooling, I became interested in history and read voraciously, trying to identify the forces that shape society, the forces that change history.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “One word above all stood out. Politics. That is how one person can make the greatest difference. Yet,” he grimaced, as if in pain, “as I lay in the hospital after that gas attack, thinking that I might be permanently blinded, I found myself in great despair. What was I to do? I had no job. No friends. No money. I was nameless and unrecognized by even the poorest wretch on the streets. And then—” He was looking past Hans now, seemingly far away. “And then, that pastor spoke to us that day in the hospital. Do you remember that, Hans?”

  “As though it were yesterday.”

  “He inflamed me with a consuming determination to do something. To start somewhere. So I decided to come to Munich. But I hardly recognized it. Chaos was everywhere. That Jew swine Eisner had seized the government and set up the People’s Republic. My own battalion had become a ‘Soldier’s Council’ and was totally corrupted with Bolshevik and Communist ideology. I refused to be part of that. But I found another unit, where right-thinking people still held to the belief that Germany and Austria could be healed.” There was a brief smile, little more than a flicker. “And I did have to eat. So I joined myself to them.”

  Hans was nodding soberly. “This tale has a familiar ring to it.”

  Hitler went right on. “They assigned me to be a guard at Traunstein, a prisoner-of-war camp near the Austrian border. What a muck of a place that was. So when spring came, I left and came back here. And hardly was I back when some of those Communist swine tried to arrest me as a deserter, since I had refused to serve under their ‘Soldier’s Council.’ But I shoved the barrel of a rifle in their faces and they slunk off like the craven cowards they are.”

  Hans turned and waved to Wolfie to come over. When he did, he introduced him to Hitler. “Wolfie is also a civil servant,” he explained.

  “Like my father,” Adolf said. “What branch of civil service?” he asked Wolfie.

  “Public Works. Here in the city.” Then, at Hans’s urging, Wolfie told Hitler what had happened to him.

  “And you are both here to testify before the tribunal too?” Adolf asked Hans. “Good for you. I am as well.” He glanced up at the clock. “Oh, dear. I must run. I have an appointment back at the barracks. But let’s get together. We are kindred spirits, you and I. Where are you posted?”

  “At Mars Camp Barracks.”

  “It may take me a day or two,” he said, “but I’ll find you. And then, my friend, I shall buy you a plate of bratwurst and a pint of ale and together we’ll solve the world’s problems.”

  “I would like that, Adolf. Very much.”

  Hitler shook hands with both of them, and then he turned and was gone.

  “Do you think he will look you up again?” Wolfie asked as he disappeared out onto the parade grounds. “He seems a little distracted.”

  “I think the better word is intense. But I hope so. I like him. I like his passion.”

  Behind them, a woman’s voice called out. “Sergeant Hans Eckhardt?”

  He turned around, raising his hand. “Here,” he called. Then to Wolfie: “Okay, here we go.”

  April 19, 1919, 8:05 p.m.—Mars Camp barracks, Maxvorstadt District, Munich

  There was a sharp rap on the door. Hans looked up from his desk, where he had been poring over the names of his company members. “Come!” he barked.

  The door opened and Corporal Jürgens came in. He waved an envelope at Hans. “Mail call.”

  “At eight o’clock at night?”

  Jürgens shrugged. “Hand-delivered at the gate.” He laid the letter on the desk and left.

  There was nothing written on the envelope except Lieutenant Hans Eckhardt. Curious, Hans retrieved a letter opener from the drawer and slit open one end. It was a single sheet with three lines written in a slanting, barely legible scrawl.

  Enjoyed our brief meeting enormously.

  Dinner tomorrow, 8:30 p.m. Marienplatz. Café Deutschland, across from the Glockenspiel.

  Bratwurst. Ale. More stimulating conversation. A.

  Hans stared at it for a moment and then smiled. “And Wolfie thought you’d never show.”

  April 20, 1919, 8:35 p.m.—Café Deutschland, Marienplatz, Munich

  Hitler was waiting for him outside the café, pacin
g back and forth. “Sorry,” Hans said as he hurried up. “Couldn’t find a place to park my motorbike.”

  “It’s not a problem,” Adolf said, a smile breaking out. “I was afraid you had not received my note. Come. I have a table reserved for us in a back corner where it won’t be so noisy.” He removed his cap, and Hans did the same.

  The room, which was long and narrow, with a bar running the full length of one side, was nearly full. The air was blue with cigarette smoke, and there was a lot of noise. Hans saw an upright piano near the far end of the bar, but gratefully no one was sitting at it. More than half of the men were in uniform of one kind or another, and many of them were officers. Definitely an army hangout. The girls ranged in age from late teens to mid-thirties.

  Adolf slowed and let Hans come up beside him. “Have you been here before?”

  Hans shook his head. “No, but I haven’t been in Munich for that long.”

  “I like this place. Only German products are sold here.”

  They were seated, and a moment later a young woman in a brightly colored Dirndl brought them menus. As Hans glanced at it, he took off his tunic. It was hot and humid in here. “So what beers do you like best here?”

  Adolf barely glanced up. “I don’t drink beer. I’m having coffee. But I’m told that the Alts are the best.”