Out of the Smoke Page 22

  “Your presence will be missed, Hans. We all know that. But right now your task is to get better.” He snapped his fingers. “Which reminds me. The Führer asked me to convey a personal message to you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Normally when a person goes on disability, they drop to half of their salary.”

  “Yes, I know that. That’s all right. We have some money saved.”

  Hess replaced his hat and started to button his coat. He was smiling broadly now. “The Führer said to tell you that he has sent instructions to the finance office. You are to remain on full salary for as long as necessary.”

  February 27, 1933, 8:45 p.m.—Herrenklub, Berlin

  The Herrenklub, or “Gentlemen’s Club,” was a highly exclusive club in the Vosstrasse area, a block or so northwest of the heart of Berlin’s governmental center. Four stories high, with a top-floor dining room with large windows on three sides, it provided a wonderful view of the surrounding city, including the Presidential Palace, the Reichstag, and the Brandenburg Gate. Modeled after the gentlemen’s clubs in England, it had rooms where its members could stay overnight, a spacious dining area with excellent chefs, its own library, a wine cellar, game rooms, and a bowling alley. It was also called “the Millions” club because most of its members were men of great wealth. Vice-Chancellor Franz von Papen’s family had been members for generations. As had the family of the great war hero and current president of the German Reich, Paul von Hindenburg.

  So when Papen had invited his old friend and political ally to dine with him and perhaps talk some politics, it was only natural that they had come to the Herrenklub. Other members had acknowledged their presence with a smile and a nod, but here, no one was so gauche as to try to join in a conversation without first being invited.

  They were seated at the table in the dining room, finishing the last of their wine as they talked quietly. Papen happened to glance out of the window to the southeast. He started. Outside, the sky was glowing an unnatural red, as though it were the last of lingering sunset. Heads all around were turning to look as well, and people were murmuring and pointing. Then Papen heard the muted noise of people shouting out in the streets. As he stared in confusion, the concierge came running up. He glanced over at Hindenburg but stopped at Papen. He leaned down and whispered in his ear. “Your Excellency, the Reichstag is on fire.”

  “What?” Papen leaped to his feet. That could not be! But it was. As he rushed over to the windows, he instantly recognized the red glow from a fire. He grabbed the arm of the concierge. “Send word to my driver to bring our car to the front door immediately!” The man spun around and literally ran out of the dining room. Seeing that, Papen walked quickly to the president. He bent down, told him what was happening, and then helped him get to his feet. They moved over to the window, joining others that were gathering there to watch in horror. What they saw sickened them. The great dome of the Parliament building was silhouetted in the glowing red light all around it. Smoke was towering up into the night sky. Suddenly flames appeared, licking around the bottom of the dome of what was arguably the most famous and widely recognized building in the Fatherland.

  “We need to go, Herr Reichspräsident,” Papen said as calmly as he could muster. “My car is waiting outside.”

  8:48 p.m.—Der Haus am Bogensee, Joseph Goebbels Residence, near Wandlitz

  It had been a mixed day for Joseph Goebbels. The election was now just a week away, and there were a thousand items that needed attention. And things were looking grim. Most concerning was that their campaign to convince the German people that the Fatherland was about to be “cast into the chaos of Bolshevism”—his own phrase—had fallen pretty flat. Four days earlier, Hermann Goering’s police forces had raided the now-abandoned headquarters of the Communist Party and found heaps of pamphlets and posters calling for the overthrow of the government. Joseph had immediately put that in the newspapers and on the radio in a carefully orchestrated attempt to convince the people that their country was in imminent danger. But in spite of Joseph’s pleas, Goering had produced no hard evidence, such as providing even one copy of the purportedly damaging pamphlets, and the people had remained unimpressed.

  But there were the positives, too. Earlier in the day Hitler had called to tell him that Vice-Chancellor von Papen had agreed to a reorganization of the cabinet, giving the National Socialists a much stronger voice in that body. He also reported that the first million marks from the industrialists had arrived and was now in the bank—which meant that the party was solvent again. With those two pieces of good news, Goebbels had spent the rest of the afternoon putting the final touches on the plans for his final nationwide blitz of radio broadcasts, local rallies, and torchlight parades and a vigorous local party effort to get out the votes—by encouragement if possible, by intimidation if necessary. All of this was set to happen on March 4th, the day before the election.

  Pleased with himself, Goebbels had telephoned the Führer and invited him and a few carefully selected guests to have a quiet and relaxed dinner at Joseph’s estate, which was about nine miles north of the city. The guest list was to be of Hitler’s choosing. The Führer had agreed, and now here they were.

  Dinner was over and they were in small groups, listening to music on the gramophone or engaged in light conversation. The mood was pleasant and filled with optimism. Joseph was sitting alone at the moment, half listening to his wife talking with the other women.

  There was a tap on his shoulder. Joseph looked up in surprise to see his personal assistant. “A telephone call for you, sir,” he whispered.

  “Not now, Wehrner,” he growled. “Find out who it is and tell them I’ll call back tomorrow.”

  “It’s Putzi Hanfstaengl, sir,” his assistant said apologetically.

  “Oh?” That was a surprise. Putzi was the son of an American heiress and a wealthy industrialist father, who in the earliest days of the party had become staunch supporters of Hitler. That support—including significant financial support—and friendship continued to this day. Putzi had access to the Führer like few others outside the inner circle of leadership. He had been one of those invited tonight but had begged off because he was confined to his bed with a severe cold.

  “He said it was urgent that he speak with the Führer immediately.”

  Irritated, Joseph got to his feet. “All right. I’ll take it in the study.”

  He shut the door behind him and lifted the phone off its cradle. “Guten Abend, Putzi. How are you feeling?”

  “Joseph! It is imperative that I speak with the Führer immediately.”

  “Sorry, Putzi. He’s engaged at the moment, but I can pass any message on to him.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath. “Then tell him that the Reichstag is on fire!”

  Joseph gasped. “Is that meant to be a joke?”

  “If you think it is a joke, Joseph,” Putzi snarled, “why don’t you come and see for yourself?” The phone cracked down so hard it made Joseph jump. Putzi was clearly not used to being pushed aside by one of the underlings.

  Joseph stared at the hand piece he was holding and then hung it up. Was Putzi making a stupid joke because I wouldn’t put him through to Hitler? Was he on some kind of medication?

  Still skeptical, he decided that maybe he would make a few phone calls, just to be sure.

  Five minutes later, Joseph Goebbels and Adolf Hitler were racing down Charlottenburger Chausse at sixty miles per hour.

  February 27, 1933 9:04 p.m.—Eckhardt Home

  Hans Eckhardt was on the sofa, lying on his side. In the fireplace, the last of two logs were now just piles of glowing embers. He had a book with him, but it was turned upside-down, spread across his upper leg. It was a book on Otto von Bismarck, the founder and great leader of the German Empire. And the author was none other than his friend Alemann Zeidner. He had brought it to Hans a week ago, hoping
to give him something to take his mind off of his interminably slow recovery.

  This coming Saturday evening, the night of the elections, the Zeidners would be coming over for dinner and then they would listen to the election returns afterward. Alemann was too much the gentleman to ever ask if Hans had read his book, but Hans was determined to have it finished before he came. The house was mostly quiet. Nikolaus, who would turn four the next day, was asleep. Hans could hear the soft murmur of voices from the kitchen. Jolanda, Hans Otto, and Rikki were helping their mother prepare decorations and games for Nikolaus’s party. Down the hall he could hear the faint sounds of the radio.

  Hans smiled. Mozart’s opera The Magic Flute. Alisa was supposedly doing her homework, but knowing her as he did, he guessed that she was sitting next to her table radio, leaning in close, listening intently to the parts she so loved.

  What pleased Hans the most was knowing that at some point in the next few days, she would sit down at the piano and begin to play some of those same pieces. Lisa’s ear for music was astonishing, and it thrilled and amazed Hans that after hearing a piece two or three times, she could sit at the piano and play it almost perfectly.

  With a weary sigh, he set the book aside, too tired to start on it tonight. Between the warmth of the fire, the dulling effect of his pain medicine, and the sweet strains of The Magic Flute, his eyelids were starting to droop. Maybe tomorrow morning, when he was more alert.

  A moment later, the door to the kitchen opened and Emilee came out. She held an envelope in her hand. “How is the reading going?” she asked with a droll smile.

  “Fine. How are the party preparations going?”

  “Nearly done.” She pulled one of the dining room chairs over beside him and sat down. “Jo is helping Hans Otto and Rikki blow up balloons for Nikolaus.”

  “Good. Did Mama go to bed?”

  Emilee nodded. “It’s been a long day for Oma Inga. But I see that there’s still a light on under her door, so she’s probably still reading.” She glanced at the book on his lap. “Unlike you, I see.” Before Hans could answer that dig, Emilee extended the envelope. “Did you get a chance to read Paula’s letter?”

  He pulled a face. “Ah . . . no. I forgot. Tell me what she said.” He really didn’t feel like reading that, either.

  Emilee sighed, not surprised. “Well, they arrived in Salt Lake City about ten days ago.”

  “Really? I thought they were supposed to be quarantined in that immigration center in New York for a month or more.”

  “It’s called Ellis Island. So did she, but the quarantine officer examined them after they had been there for just over a week and declared them all healthy. They caught the train the next day. Jacob and Adelia Reissner met them at the train station. They are staying with the Reissners until they can find a place of their own.”

  “That’s nice. Just like the Reissners.” Hans had first met Jacob Reissner and his missionary companion clear back when he was in his last year at the Von Kruger Academy. Eighteen at the time, Hans had shown no interest in their gospel message, but he enjoyed their friendship, and speaking with them had greatly improved his English skills. Then he frowned. “Nine people? They took in nine people? I never pictured them as living in a mansion.”

  “It’s not a mansion,” Emilee chided him. She reached into the envelope and took out two small black-and-white photos and handed them to him. The first was a group picture. His Aunt Paula and Uncle Wolfie stood with Bruno. Next to them were Anna and Rudi and their four children. And behind them were the Reissners and their six children. The second photo was of the four adults standing beside Jacob and his wife. The house behind them looked pleasant enough, but it wasn’t anywhere close to being as large as their own home. “I thought Adelia came from a banking family,” Hans said as he handed the photos back.

  “She does, but remember, Jacob is just a college professor. Anyway, Paula says that Jacob has introduced them to key people in the German community there and that the kids will start in a German school that teaches English as well. She sounds very happy.”

  “I’m glad. And what about jobs for Rudi and Wolfie?”

  “Nothing yet, but Paula sounded optimistic. Especially for Wolfie, considering his government experience and that his English is already pretty good. And did Alisa tell you she got a letter from Utah today too?”

  Hans looked up, this time genuinely surprised. “From that Westland boy?”

  She nodded. “Ja, ‘that Westland boy,’ whose name is Benji. ‘That Westland boy’ who has been corresponding with your daughter for years now. If you use that condescending tone of voice with her, she may just pop you a good one in the nose. And I wouldn’t blame her.”

  “So Benji is what—seventeen now?” he mused. “And our Lisa is thirteen. And they’re still writing each other? I wouldn’t have predicted that.”

  “Nor I,” Emilee said softly. “But they’ve become really good friends through their letters. They write five or six times a year. The bad news is, Benji said that his family won’t be coming over to attend the Jubilee performance of the Passion Play next year. I guess things are not going well for farmers and ranchers in America right now. Anyway, when Lisa read that, she started to cry and ran to her bedroom. That’s why she didn’t come out for supper.”

  “That’s a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”

  “They are good friends, Hans,” Emilee snapped. “And she’s been so excited to think that she could see him again. Oh, and he sent a new photo of himself. He’s grown up to be a very handsome young man. That doesn’t make it easier for her.”

  “As long as she’s got no damn-fool idea that she’s going to marry him,” Hans grumbled. “That’s never going to happen.”

  Emilee jumped up, glaring down at him. “Why don’t you tell her that? I’m sure she’d like to get your tender insights on the matter.” She threw up her hands in exasperation. “Oooh! You can be such a clod sometimes, Hans. It isn’t love between them. It’s just a very unusual and special friendship. Which Lisa treasures! So why don’t you give your daughter a half an ounce of credit?” She spun around and started back for the kitchen.

  Emilee had barely taken two steps before the sound of a door crashing open came from the hallway. A moment later, Lisa appeared. When she saw her parents, she turned and ran over to them. Her face was pale and her eyes were frightened.

  Emilee rushed to her. “What is it, Alisa?”

  “Vati! Mutti! Come quickly. They just interrupted the broadcast of the concert with a news bulletin from Berlin. The Reichstag is on fire.”

  Hans went cold. “What?” Stunned, he tried to get up but gasped and fell back. Then he barked at Emilee. “Turn on the radio!” He was pointing to the floor-model console radio they kept in the dining room.

  Emilee was to it in an instant and turned the power knob on. She waited for the vacuum tubes to warm up and turned the dial quickly. Static sounded until she zeroed in on Berlin National Radio. Instantly a male voice was heard. Emilee turned up the volume.

  “—can’t believe my eyes,” the announcer was saying breathlessly. “The entire building is now engulfed in flames. Firefighters have arrived now and more are coming, but the flames are too intense for them to get in too close. Fire is now consuming the dome. And flames are shooting out from many of the windows along the full length of the building.”

  Sirens could be heard in the background, along with people shouting and crying. Then there was the sharp crack of an explosion.

  “Oh! Oh!” the man shrieked. “The windows are exploding from the intense heat inside. It is a sickening sight. Ladies and gentleman, we are witnessing a national tragedy right here before our eyes.”

  Hans reached out and took Emilee’s hand. His voice was strained and hoarse. “If the dome is on fire, that means that the main parliamentary chamber is on fire too.”

  “Wait,�
� the announcer cut in sharply. “From where we are standing, we can see Hermann Goering running back and forth, directing the firefighters where to train their hoses. We are told that Goering, current president of the Reichstag, was working in his office when he saw the smoke and the fire. We think it may have been him who—hold on. Another car has just pulled up. We’re being told that it is Reichschancellor Adolf Hitler. Ja, ja! It is him. Along with some other party leaders. We can see him clearly now. He’s holding up his hand to shield his face from the heat.”

  Suddenly, another man’s voice came in. “Ladies and gentlemen, please stand by. Herr Reichspräsident Hermann Goering is about to make a statement.” The microphone crackled with static, and then came a voice that Hans recognized instantly.

  “People of the Fatherland,” Goering’s voice boomed from the radio. “We are shocked almost to the point of speechlessness as we watch this national treasure being consumed by fire right before our very eyes. Now to add even more horror to this hour, we have just received word that this fire is not an accident.”

  Emilee gasped. Hans jerked forward. “What?” he cried.

  “The police have apprehended an arsonist. We do not yet have a name, but the man, a Communist we are told, was caught in the basement of the Parliament building in the very act of starting these fires.”

  “A Communist!” Emilee cried. “Oh, no!”

  Goering went on, his voice rising to almost a shriek. “This is an outrage! This is treason. This is a horrendous Communist crime against our new government. This is the beginning of the Communist revolution. I have just now given instructions to the head of our police, Herr Rudolf Diels. I told him that we must not wait even one moment. He is to take immediate action to put this down. We will show no mercy. Every Communist official must be shot wherever he stands. Every Communist deputy to the Reichstag must this very night be strung up.”

  Emilee spun around, a horrified look on her face. “Can they do that? Without a trial or anything?”