The Wooden Shepherdess (43 page)

“Bind him!” said Hitler.

Roused by the shindy, the landlord appeared in his nightshirt wondering who'd let these rackety strangers in. Then he caught sight of Röhm his illustrious guest, and “Heil Hitlered” with lifted arm; but his guest made no move to salute him back—which of course he couldn't, in handcuffs. “Na, ja—Grüss Gott!” said Röhm bitterly. Friedrich then escorted Röhm outside and bundled him into a car, while Hitler took hold of the trembling publican by the arm and apologized for the disturbance....

“So far, so good!” thought Friedrich, who saw how the Führer almost danced with relief.

As for the doctor's protestations that all the effects of his treatment were being undone.... This wasn't England, where even an ailing murderer couldn't be hanged if the doctors considered it bad for his health; and somebody soon shut him up.

To avoid any possible ambuscade the hunting-pack rounded the lake, rejoining the Munich road by a different route. There, as they sped back again towards Munich the number of prisoners snowballed. Röhm's orders (issued in Hitler's name) had summoned the S.A. leaders for ten o'clock; but Heines was not the only high-ranking leader who hoped for an early word with the Chief before the meeting began. They were stopped in their cars one by one, and the men drawn up by the road in a single line for Hitler to take this strange parade of his ancient comrades-in-arms—the World War heroes, the Freikorps fighters, the men who had marched in his Munich Putsch.

One was a certain Ludin, a former Army Lieutenant cashiered and jailed four years ago for preaching the Nazi creed in the Officers' Mess. Unlike his fellow-accused he had borne no grudge against a Führer who'd stood in the witness-box and there (for Reasons of State) had disowned him, but stuck to his Nazi guns: since when he had risen fast and far in the Storm Troops. Ludin had hoped for so much from this Wiessee meeting: so often before the Führer's presence had served to resolve some seemingly insurmountable impasse.... But what had gone wrong? They hadn't expected the Führer himself to arrive till noon—and now, how seedy he looked! His face was puffed, yet haggard: he hadn't shaved, his eyes were bloodshot and dull, he was wearing a leather coat in the heat of the morning sun and he hadn't a hat. His forelock was plastered against his forehead with sweat, and beads of it shone on his little mustache....

Meanwhile the Führer was passing in silence from man to man, pausing to give each face a look which seemed to use each pair of eyes as open peep-holes into the brain behind; and each man suddenly grew afraid. He spoke only once, when “Ludin” he said in a far-away voice before moving on. Whereupon Brückner gestured bewildered Ludin back to his car, and Ludin was free to drive away wherever he liked.... But the rest were swept into the bag; and they presently found themselves standing in ranks in the dust of Stadelheim prison yard, for most of the vacant cells had already been filled with the battered remains of Wagner's midnight drinking-party. But Röhm had privileged treatment: for him a cell inside the jail had been held in reserve.

Röhm was no stranger to Stadelheim jail: it was where he'd been lodged long ago when the Munich Putsch failed. These were familiar walls that recalled the past and those “ancient emotional ties” which bound him to Hitler's person, their friendship through thick and thin. Only a few months ago “Your Adolf” had sent him a letter expressing his thanks to Fate “for giving me men such as you, my dear Ernst Röhm, as my friends....” And indeed, since 1919 when he'd spotted the latent political gifts in this scrubby lance-corporal lately discharged from the Army, and given the man his chance....

But a loaded revolver was laid on the table. “A German Officer knows what he has to do,” said the jailer; and locked Röhm in.

*

Wearing “S.A. Standartenführer” badges of rank at Kettner's behest, Lothar had traveled from Kammstadt to Munich by train. All incoming trains were met by parties of S.S. men to escort any S.A. leaders aboard them to waiting cars; but these were all of them “Gruppenführer” at least (more or less, “Generals”). Lothar, because of his lowlier rank, seemed likely to get left out....

“Excuse me,” he said.

“Who are you?” The S.S. Officer looked at him rather strangely, he thought.

“Gruppenführer Kettner.... That is, he's broken his leg and he sent me to represent him.”

“So you're bound for Wiessee too? All right—jump in if you like!” said the man, with a Cheshire-cat grin. So Lothar jumped in. But it wasn't Wiessee their drivers took them to—only Stadelheim Prison. There the astounded men found themselves under arrest. They were drawn up in ranks with those others; and waited, strictly forbidden to speak.

A sudden stentorian shout rang out from inside the prison: “What's that bloody thing for? No, I won't do Adolf the kindness: he'll have to do his own dirty work if he wants me dead!”

The ghost of a groan swept the men outside in the yard like a small puff of wind. After that, once more silence. They stood there and waited, surrounded by hundreds of armed S.S. men. For Hitler had gone to the Brown House; and nothing more could be done till Hitler himself arrived.

The Brown House was cordoned off by Police and Regular Soldiers. Rudolf Hess had flown direct from Berlin and had taken charge: any S.A. man who liked might enter, but after five in the morning none might go out.

Hitler had urgent instructions for Hess: for a flash of inspiration had shown the elated Führer that Röhm and his S.A. leaders need not be the end of this happy event by a long chalk! A lot of old scores remained to be settled, and this was an opportunity not to be missed: liquidations discreetly carried out now would hardly be noticed in all the excitement....

Gustav von Kahr for example, who'd dared to out-double-cross Hitler himself back in 1923, thus postponing his rise to power for many a weary year.... Kahr was now in his seventies, living in strict retirement; but Kahr couldn't dodge his eventual punishment—not if he lived to be ninety! So Hess took out his notebook, and noted down “Kahr.”

There were others who had to be silenced simply for knowing too much: such as Father Stempfle (he knew far too much about Hitler's affair with Geli). So Hess noted down “Stempfle”—without in the least knowing why. There were others as well, including a certain Bavarian Colonel from back in Hitler's own Army days who knew.... Hess also remembered that Colonel, and wrote down his name (Hess too had served with Liszts).

“Oh, and then there is Schmidt.”

Hess wrote down “Schmidt.” But still, which “Schmidt”? He didn't quite like to ask.... But then he remembered how strongly the Führer felt about music: he must mean Willi Schmidt, the musical critic.

Once Hess had written in “Willi” that seemed to be all, down here in the South—unless Rudi had names of his own to add? But Hess shook his head, replaced the elastic with care and thrust the notebook back in his pocket. Had Göbbels got names to add? But Göbbels too shook his head: those Bratwurst-Glöckle waiters who'd witnessed his meetings with Röhm, these certainly had to be silenced—but this was a matter he'd rather attend to himself.

Hitler was feeling a little light-headed from lack of sleep. He summoned all company present, and started to read them a lecture denouncing the moral evil of homosexual vices; but had to cut it short, for he seemed to be losing his voice. As he thought of the business still to be done at Stadelheim Prison his lips felt dry, and he licked them.

*

Sepp Dietrich, commander of Hitler's own “Leibstandarte” (his personal guards), was given the job.

The sultry afternoon sun was still high overhead when Dietrich stepped out on the Stadelheim prison yard with an S.S. officer at his elbow. Except for Röhm, the men in the cells had all been brought down and stood with the rest in the dust. There Dietrich saw all the familiar faces: Peter von Heydebreck, gaunt and one-armed—the hero of Annaberg: Hayn (under whose command, as Lothar remembered, his dear brother Wolff had fought long ago on the shores of the Baltic): Fritz Ritter von Krausser, Röhm's deputy during his sick-leave and wearing his decorations for gallantry: August Schneidhuber, battered and bloody and barely able to stand: the young Count Spreti, no longer so debonair....

Röhm himself could be seen had Dietrich but raised his eyes to that second-floor window; but this he didn't do, for his mission was not with Röhm. Instead he scanned each well-known face till he came on a face which he didn't know, and silently pointed at Lothar. His S.S. aide called the man out, and Lothar sprang forward saluting.

“Who are you?”

“Gruppenführer Kettner....”

“You're not Kettner! Where is he?”

“He's broken his leg, and he sent me....”

“I said, where is he?”

“In bed.”

“
Where
, dumb-bell?”

“At home, in Kammstadt.”

“Kettner: make a note of it,” Dietrich remarked aside to his aide: “Tell Hess where he is.”

The officer made his note, then inquired: “But this young man? Should he....” Sepp Dietrich however was moving on, and Lothar returned to the ranks.

“If only the Führer would come as they say he will,” thought Lothar, “and clear all this up!” For there must be some inexplicable misunderstanding—but
no
misunderstanding could baffle for long the Führer's all-seeing eyes....

All day they had stood in the sun and not been allowed one drop of water to drink: Lothar picked up a pebble to suck but he couldn't, it burned his tongue. “When the Führer comes he will let us all drink, and then set us free.”

Lothar glanced at the westering sun: for a moment it darkened into the Führer's face, then blazed once more as a ball of fire. Yes, the Führer was more than mortal: the Führer was Fate incarnate, the power that predetermines all human lives. Therefore for some mysterious cause which it wasn't for Man to try to fathom he must have willed even this misunderstanding, since nothing could happen he had not willed. But the light of his coming presence must just as surely dissolve it again by a further act of his will, for he loved his children....

Lothar had hoped for so much from that Wiessee meeting, but most of all for the chance of seeing the Führer face-to-face—even as once before he had seen him (years ago, during the Putsch) in that upper room at the Bürgerbraükeller with Göring and Ludendorff.... Then the strange coincidence struck him that here was a Lothar once again dressed up in borrowed plumes! Then he'd been accidentally wearing a General's overcoat: now, this Standartenführer's uniform equally didn't belong to him....

Dietrich had backed to the end of the yard, and a sudden movement among the guards caught Lothar's eye—ah, this must presage the Führer's arrival at last! But then he looked up and saw Röhm, who had gripped the bars of his window and shook them with all his might. For that was the moment when Dietrich gave the signal, the firing-squads raised their sub-machine guns and started mowing them down; and Lothar at least was to die with a look of intense surprise on his face.

Late that same afternoon the Führer (and Göbbels, who stuck to his side like a leech) flew back to Berlin, leaving Hess in Munich to tidy things up—as per instructions.

Berlin had seen Göring and Himmler work to a somewhat wider brief, freely adjusting the “Plot” to fit desirable victims. Not that their hands were entirely free.... To take those three ex-Chancellors first, in common prudence Brüning should have been shot—but in common prudence Brüning had smelled his danger and taken himself abroad. Vice-Chancellor Papen also had got to survive (alas!), since Papen was Hindenburg's pet and the Old Bull's approval was needed to cover the whole affair: von Papen's arrest indeed had been partly to guard against accidents. Still, he had to be given a fright: so two of his closest advisers were shot, his offices seized and ransacked.... Having been shot as it were by proxy, Franz von Papen would certainly take the hint: there'd be no more dangerous Marburg speeches from him!

But the third was ex-Chancellor Schleicher; and here no obstacles stood in the way. Soon after breakfast a friend had been chatting with Schleicher over the phone, and heard him turn to someone behind him saying: “Yes, I am General von Schleicher....” The friend then heard three shots ring out in the General's house before the phone went dead.

Gregor Strasser was lunching with his wife and children at home when the Gestapo took him away, without saying why or where.... And so on—and so on. Karl Ernst, the Berlin S.A. Leader, didn't get far on his honeymoon: bridegroom and bride were both arrested at Bremen, about to embark for Maderia. From there he had to be carted back alive to Berlin, for the “Plot” scenario said he'd been caught in the act of trying to seize the city on Röhm's behalf....

Even Putzi Hanfstängl's name had somehow got on to somebody's list, but Putzi was luckier: Putzi was hitting it up with his old college chums at Harvard while all this was going on. So Putzi survived—which nobody minded much, he was nowadays hardly worth powder and shot so far as political influence went. Yet plenty of others worth even less were unluckier. “Luck” where these private enmities were concerned was mostly a matter of bargaining—rather like blackballs at London Clubs: “If my friend So-and-so stays on your list, then your friend What's-his-name goes on mine—either neither, or both!”

Rumor of course was sizzling all through a frantic city where nobody knew whose turn would be next: “Röhm has committed suicide!” “So has Strasser!” “Schleicher....” The Foreign Press was avid for cast-iron news, and unwilling to wait. That Saturday afternoon, since Göbbels was not yet back from Munich (and Putzi, whose job was the Foreign Press, was abroad), Göring in person called for the correspondents, outlined his “Röhm-Strasser Plot” and gave them a potted lecture on S.A. corruption. “And Schleicher?” somebody asked, as Göring was turning to go.