Fire and Steel, Volume 3 Page 16

  “So . . . uh . . . the meeting won’t be held here in Munich.”

  His fingers stopped moving as he gave her a sharp look. “Where will it be?”

  “They don’t have a schedule yet, but President Schiller thinks ours will be in Nuremberg in early June.”

  That finally got his attention. “Nuremberg? Emilee, that’s more than a hundred miles north of here.”

  “I know where Nuremberg is,” she said dryly.

  “What about Alisa? I’m not sure leaving her with your mother is a good idea.”

  “Actually, your mother and Paula invited Mama and Heinz-Albert too,” she said slowly.

  “What?”

  “It will be summer, and Alisa will be eight months old by then. And you know how she loves to be out of the house. She’ll be fine.”

  “We don’t have that kind of money—hotels, meals, train tickets.”

  “The local members in Nuremberg will provide homes for us, and we’ll eat with them, so our meal costs will be reasonable.”

  “No.”

  “No? Just like that? Without even discussing it?”

  “Have you paid any attention to what is going on with the mark as compared with other currencies? At the beginning of the war, you could buy four marks for one U.S. dollar. At the end of the war, it was five marks per dollar. Now it’s seven per dollar, worth only about half of what it was before. Then add in the high cost of commodities because we’re still recovering from the war, and things are really tight right now.”

  “Yes, Hans,” she said coolly, “I am aware of that. This may come as a shock to you, but I read the newspapers too.”

  “Well, we can’t afford four train tickets to Nuremberg and back. I’ll bet they’ll cost you twenty-five marks each. That’s nearly a hundred marks.”

  She eyed him for a moment, almost wishing she had waited until he wasn’t in a hurry, but now she was committed. “Don’t exaggerate, Hans. First of all, Mama will pay for her ticket and Heinz-Albert’s if they decide to go. Second, infants ride free. Third, I called the train station, and the round-trip ticket is just seventeen marks. And finally, even if it were seventy-five marks, that is not ‘nearly a hundred marks.’”

  He didn’t look at her, but she saw his mouth pinch into a tight line. “I’ll prepare food for you and Ernst so you won’t have to worry about that. You keep telling people how well the shop is doing. That we are prospering.”

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean we’re rolling in clover, Emilee. And besides, this is. . . .”

  His eyes dropped and he looked away.

  “This is what? Not important? Frivolous? Silly?”

  “I . . . I wasn’t going to say that.”

  “Then what were you going to say?”

  “I’m not happy that Mama and Paula are trying to turn you and your mother into Mormons, Emilee.”

  Now it was Emilee who was taken aback. “What? Is that what you think?”

  “Well, you’re going there now more than you go to the Lutheran church.”

  “Because it’s closer, by quite a bit. And because at the Mormon meetings, people actually speak to us instead of just nodding politely. And because it’s a chance to be with your mother before she and your father go back to Graswang.”

  “Well,” he muttered, half under his breath, “I don’t like you being gone that much. And going for three or four days to Nuremberg? No. It’s too much money and will take you too much time away from home.” He hurried on before she could retort to that. “Look, I promised Adolf I would meet him early tonight. Do we have to solve it now?”

  “Says the man who just accused me of taking too much time away from home,” she snapped. “All right, go. This is only the third time this week. To meetings that are now lasting three or four hours every time. Oh, yes, and by the way, how much have you contributed to the German Workers’ Party through membership dues and contributions?”

  Hans turned away, getting his coat out of the wardrobe, refusing to look at her. “I’m not sure. I don’t keep track of it.”

  “Well, I do, because I keep the books. And right now you’ve given a total of fifty-four marks since you joined.”

  “That can’t be right,” he said, turning in surprise. “Really?”

  “Yes, really, Hans.”

  “Okay, but what I am doing is—” Again he saw that he was walking into another trap. “Never mind. I have to go, Emilee.” With his jacket on, he came over and bent down to kiss her on the cheek. She averted her head.

  “We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” he growled, frowning at her.

  “Of course. Whenever it’s convenient for you.”

  He sighed. “Come on, Emilee. Adolf says this is an important meeting. I promise. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “May I ask you one question? You can answer it with a simple yes or no.”

  Another sigh. “Go on. I’m not sure what’s gotten you into such a fluff today.”

  “A fluff,” she said very slowly. “You think this is a fluff?”

  “I. . . .”

  “Forget it.” She gave him a little push. “Wouldn’t want you being late.”

  He took her by the shoulders. “Emilee, I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry. I just. . . . Go ahead, ask me your question.”

  She looked at him for a long moment, her blue eyes smoky and brooding. “Suppose you came home tonight all excited and said that Adolf had been invited to speak at a rally in Nuremberg and he wanted you to accompany him. That you would be gone for two or three days. What do you think I would say?”

  His face flushed.

  She pulled free of his grasp. “Tell me,” she snapped. “What would I say?”

  He gave up. “Okay. I get it. You’d tell me to go. You’re right. You have been wonderful about me and the party, so I apologize for being such a lout about the Mormons. So, yes. You may go to Nuremberg in June. And yes, you may take Frieda and Heinz-Albert with you if they wish to go. And no, I will not say anything more about how much it will cost.”

  She went up on tiptoes and kissed him softly on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  He looked at her for a long moment and then shook his head. “No question about where Alisa gets her determination. Not in my mind, anyway.”

  Emilee cocked her head to one side and studied him.

  He squirmed a little under the penetration of her gaze. “Go ahead,” he said wearily. “Say it.”

  “You do remember that conversation we had early on in our relationship, right?”

  “What conversation?”

  “I don’t remember how it got started, but I had made some comment about God hearing my prayers, or blessing us in some way, and you told me that you weren’t sure there was a God.”

  “Yes,” he said slowly, obviously cautious now. “I kind of remember it.”

  “Well, I asked you if it bothered you that I prayed, or that I liked going to church. And you said no, it did not.”

  His head bobbed once. “Ah, yes. I remember now. Then I asked you if it bothered you that I didn’t believe in prayer and never wanted to be involved in religion.”

  “And I said no.” She looked deeply into his eyes. “And then we made a promise to one another. Do you remember that?”

  He flinched again. “Yes. We promised that we would not try to force the other person to be like we were.”

  She went up and kissed him again. “Good. And just so you know,” she added, very somber now, “I believe that what you are doing with Adolf is of great significance and may be the answer to your longings to do something significant with your life. So I do not resent you being gone or giving them money. But I would appreciate you honoring your part of the bargain.”

  “I understand.”

  “Without resentment, Hans,” she added pointedly. Then before he could answer
, she gave him another little push. “Now go, or you’re going to be late.”

  8:10 p.m.

  “Inga? This is Emilee.”

  “Of course it is.” Emilee could hear the warmth and joy in Inga’s voice, even over the telephone line. “How are you, my dear?”

  “Very good.”

  “Is the baby asleep?”

  “Finally.”

  “Is Hans back from his meeting yet?”

  “Oh, no. Not even close. It’s a committee meeting, not a rally, but Adolf said they’ll still probably go late.”

  “Again?”

  Emilee laughed merrily. “That’s kind of what I said too.”

  “Did you get a chance to talk about Nuremberg?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “He had some concerns about it, but we were able to work them out.”

  Now it was Inga who chuckled. “I would like to have been there to hear that.”

  Emilee let that pass, though she was strongly tempted to say more. “I talked to my mother and told her about it. At first she was a little concerned about taking the train that far, but she said that she would very much like to go if she’s feeling up to it.”

  “She will be,” Emilee’s mother-in-law said confidently. “I can’t believe the change in her health since she moved down here to be with you.”

  “I know. And she knows it too. She calls it her little miracle. And I agree.”

  “Not little. Quite big, actually. Her color is so good, and she’s putting on weight.”

  “That part she doesn’t like,” Emilee said, “but I do. So, anyway, I just wanted to call and tell you to count me in for sure, and probably Mama and Heinz-Albert, too.”

  “That’s wonderful, Emilee. Paula and I are so excited. We can hardly wait. An Apostle. Here in Germany. I keep pinching myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.”

  “I’m actually quite excited too. More than I thought I would be.” She paused for a moment. “Life is good all around, isn’t it?” Emilee said.

  “It is indeed.”

  “Tell Paula I’m coming over on Saturday to help her paint Gretl’s bedroom.”

  “I will, Emilee. Auf Wiedersehen. And remember, Nuremberg in June.”

  April 1, 1920, 6:15 p.m.—Bürgerbräu Keller, Haidhausen District, Munich

  Trying not to be too obvious, Hans studied the half-dozen men seated at the two small tables that had been pushed together. They were in the small basement room of one of Munich’s largest and best-known beer halls. The mood was subdued, even somewhat sullen, as they waited for Adolf to finish proofreading their latest poster.

  Though Adolf was neither president nor party chairman, but only their “political officer,” there was no question about whose meeting this was, and that irritated some of the old guard. Though Karl Harrer, their previous president, had resigned in a huff, the success of Adolf’s rally had humbled him. He was no longer an officer in the party, but out of respect for him, the others allowed him to sit in. Anton Drexler, who had replaced Harrer as president, was not happy either. Everyone knew he was one of the founders of the party, yet it was Adolf who was leading the meeting.

  Officially, Hans was not a member of the committee either, but he was considered to be Adolf’s aide, so no one questioned his presence. Even Ernst Roehm, who was a staunch supporter of Adolf, seemed a little grumpy tonight. But then, how could you tell for sure? Hans thought. His deeply scarred face always left him looking like the grim reaper out searching for new candidates to usher into the Underworld.

  Above them, the building throbbed softly with the noise of the crowds that were pouring in. Not being a native of Munich, Hans was here for the first time, and he had been staggered by the massiveness of the huge hall. How had Adolf managed to secure one of their private rooms for such a small planning meeting? Probably because word was spreading through the city that the German Workers’ Party was drawing bigger and bigger crowds. Knowing Adolf, he had probably promised them that soon they’d rent out the hall and double the two thousand people they had drawn a few weeks ago.

  Suddenly, Hans saw that Gottfried Feder and Drexler were both scowling at him. He lowered his eyes and began to study his hands. A moment later, Adolf made one last correction and then grunted and slid the poster across to Dietrich Eckart. “Das ist gut,” he said. “Print it.”

  Everyone straightened and turned their eyes to Adolf. He looked around the circle for a moment and then, as usual, began without any preamble. “We have two questions to consider tonight. So let us begin.” A half smile flitted momentarily around his mouth, and his dark eyes glittered with excitement.

  Drexler raised a hand and cleared his throat. He was ignored.

  “With our growing success it has become imperative that we reach out and appeal to the working classes of our nation in a way that turns our name and our cause into a byword, a catchphrase on every man’s lips. A simple name that rolls easily off of the tongue.” Adolf sighed, shaking his head. “And, my brothers, I regret to say that we do not have such a name at this time.”

  As others glanced at each other in surprise and dismay, he rushed on. “We call ourselves the Deutsche Arbeiterpartei.” His brow furrowed thoughtfully. “The ‘German Workers’ Party’ is not a bad name, really. It does describe to some degree who we are and—”

  “Nein!” Harrer was on his feet. His face was livid.

  Drexler leaped up too, his jaw clenched like a steel trap. “Our name is not open for discussion,” he hissed. “Especially not now when we are starting to become well known.”

  It was as if Adolf were unaware of their presence. “I have a suggestion,” he said. Then he calmly reached into his pocket and withdrew a single sheet of paper that was folded in half long ways. Harrer and Drexler sat down again, their curiosity piqued.

  Adolf waited a moment and then opened the paper and laid it before them. In large block letters three words ran across the width of the sheet:

  For several seconds there was not a sound as the men leaned in for a closer look. Then Drexler snorted in disgust. “This is a simplification?” he sneered. Flecks of spittle sprayed from his mouth as he tried to suppress his outrage. “Are you mad?”

  Hitler just smiled. “We are a party for the workers, and we are German. Both of those are good words, and you can see that I have retained them both. I have added only one more word.”

  Drexler was peering at the sheet, his lips moving. Then he looked up. “Yeah, and that word is twenty-two letters long! And this is supposed to ‘roll easily from the tongue’?”

  Again, it was if Hitler weren’t hearing them. “We are more than just another workers’ party,” he went on. “Central to our platform is the idea of a strong, nationalistic Germanic nation. The people must know that about us. Also, our goal is to create a strong socialist government, is it not? Oh, not like the Marxists and the Bolsheviks. But do we not believe that the means of production, distribution, and exchange in our country should be controlled by the people, by the very ones who create most of our wealth?”

  Drexler hesitated, and Harrer too, but there was only one answer to that. Both concepts were central to their party’s platform. So after a moment, they nodded along with the others.

  Adolf’s face went hard. “Then shouldn’t our name tell the people that?”

  “Yes,” Harrer agreed, “but it’s not helpful if they can’t even pronounce it. Remember, many of the working classes are illiterate.”

  Adolf turned to Hans, catching him off guard. “Do you not agree that we must call ourselves nationalists and socialists?”

  “Uh . . . of course I do. But. . . .”

  “Say it, Hans,” he urged. “Say what you are thinking.”

  Hans took a quick breath. “It is a rather ponderous name, even for a people whose language is chock full of long and pond
erous words.” He stopped, tensing for the storm he expected to follow. But to his surprise, his friend only smiled.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “I’ll grant you, that is a problem.”

  Then, catching everyone by surprise, Hitler pulled the paper toward himself. He turned it around so the letters faced him as he took a fountain pen from his pocket. Still smiling to himself, he bent forward, putting his left arm up to shield what he was doing from their view. With five or six quick, short slashes of the pen, he drew something on the paper.

  “So, let’s suppose,” he said, half talking to himself, “that we take two letters from the word National, and two letters from the word Sozialistische.” He chuckled, clearly enjoying his moment. “And then we put them together.”

  He turned the paper back and around, slid it forward to the center of the table, and sat back. The men leaned forward. Some got to their feet so they could see better. And what they saw caused them to almost gasp.

  “We shall,” Adolf said, triumph gleaming in his eyes, “for simplicity’s sake, give our party a nickname. We shall be officially known as the National Socialist German Workers’ Party, but we shall be called the Nazi Party.” He stabbed at the word with his forefinger. “Is that short enough for you, Herr Harrer? Does that roll off the tongue easily enough for you, Herr Drexler?”

  After staring at that single word for what seemed like a full minute, Hans sat back, shaking his head in astonishment. Brilliant. There was no other word he could think of to describe what had just happened. Absolutely brilliant.

  It took less than five minutes to have the name unanimously approved by the committee. Even Harrer and Drexler grudgingly admitted that it was a significant step forward.

  6:48 p.m.

  They took a ten-minute break, allowing the men to go to the water closet or to light up a cigarette. Hans had been tempted to stay behind in case Adolf wanted to talk, but as the men stood and walked away, Hitler didn’t even raise his head. He was staring at the sheet of paper, his mind far away.

  So Hans got up and walked out. He had been a smoker in the army, but after being discharged he pulled back to no more than one cigarette per day. When he married Emilee, he stopped altogether, except for smoking occasionally when he was with others who did. But once Alisa was born, that was it. He swore off cigarettes, not wanting her to even smell tobacco on him. Since that time, he found the heavy pall of smoke distasteful, so now he went outside, standing back to watch the people filing in and out of the beer hall. He drew in deep breaths of fresh air and thought about what had just happened. And marveled.