The Wooden Shepherdess

  But gelding the whole S.A. apparatus as well as stripping Röhm of all power.... How very much simpler the answer would be if only that farcical tale of a plot were true!

  It is easy enough to “strike first” when the other party has no intention of striking.... Had this been Ramsay MacDonald, or Baldwin, one might have supposed this merely a crooked subliminal left-hand groping towards that first ray of light at the end of the tunnel; but Hitler was morally ambidextrous, with no such distinction between unconscious self-seeking and what he was consciously up to. He knew that the plot was a fabrication invented by Göring and Himmler, and perfectly understood why; but what he believed was entirely controlled by his will. If the White Queen “believed two impossible things before breakfast,” so could he too if he wanted to.

  Meanwhile the S.A. grew more and more outrageously out-of-hand and four days after the Neudeck Ultimatum the President showed he had meant what he said: the Army were stood to their arms, waiting in threatening silence. But Hitler would keep his options wide open as long as he could, of course. Only five days were left, so the whole planned anti-plot operation would have to be put in provisional motion—S.S. and Police be alerted and told their roles, and Gauleiter Wagner in Munich be briefed since his was to be the opening gambit; but this must be done on Göring’s and Himmler’s sole authority. Hitler’s own being still uninvolved his options would still be open, and only theirs compromised.

  So Hitler still stalled; and on Thursday—with only forty-eight hours to go—he blandly announced his immediate departure for Essen, and watched their faces. The trio (for Göbbels had joined them as probably being the winning side, though still prepared for a hedging bet or he wouldn’t be Göbbels) were near despair. “Terboven’s wedding,” and “trouble at Krupp’s over one of Röhm’s henchmen.” ... The Führer’s excuses for going were both so flimsy they feared some diabolical trick if they let him out of their sight. Yet someone must stay in Berlin at the helm—with somebody else “to lend him a hand,” since none of these three conspirators wholly trusted the others.... Finally, Göbbels got his way. Let Himmler and him remain in Berlin while Göring attended the wedding and then returned post-haste: thereupon Göbbels would fly to wherever Hitler was spending tomorrow night, with some juicy “news” from the horse’s mouth—something to finally tip the scales....

  This Göbbels’ plan ensured that he alone would be close to the Führer’s side on D-Day Eve when the cat must jump, and could switch if he had to switch. Moreover, Göbbels didn’t trust Göring and Himmler not to do him in too once the Purge began (if it did begin): only under the Führer’s personal wing could he really count himself safe.

  22

  So Hitler departed to Essen; and after the wedding, to Krupp’s. The reception he’d lately met with at Neudeck was fresh in his mind; and Bertha and Gustav Krupp were potentates hardly less awe-inspiring to visit than Hindenburg.

  Hardly a parallel elsewhere exists for the time-honored ex-territorial status of Krupp’s in the German Reich. Like the Vatican City in Rome, Essen itself was a capital city controlling its own international empire. The “Krupp Konzern” was the largest in Europe. Its steel had built the great American railroads, its cannon had armed (as well as the Germans themselves, and the Russians) the second-class world from China to Chile, the Boers to Siam. It was Alfred Krupp—not Bismarck, nor Moltke nor even the men of the Prussian Army—who vanquished the French at Sedan, thus founding the Second Reich: his son Fritz Krupp who had started building the Kaiser a navy simply to use up some surplus steel; and Gustav Krupp who had battered Liège and Verdun. Moreover, if Krupp guns founded the Second Reich, Krupp gold had gone a very long way towards founding the Third.

  Today the Romanovs, Hapsburgs and Hohenzollerns, Wittelsbachs—most other Royal Houses in Europe had fallen; but not the Krupps.

  In the Villa Hügel (the Dynasty’s palace at Essen) the reigning Krupp had been used to receiving those former Crowned Heads as equals: even the German All-Highest himself, for Krupp was not only a richer man than his Kaiser but also a much more Absolute Monarch with no Constitution whatever to irk him: in Essen his slightest word had the force of Law for his forty-thousand “Kruppianer,” whose lives he ordered in every detail from birth to death. Democracy everywhere seemed on the march; but not in the Krupp Konzern, no Union Labor was ever employed in the Works nor a stranger allowed inside the Works.... Yet three weeks ago the unheard-of had happened: the Head of Röhm’s Political Staff had presented himself at the gates—had forced his way in—had ordered the men to down-tools and harangued them, preaching the Revolution to come!

  Whatever other reasons Hitler might have for visiting Krupp there certainly had been “some trouble with one of Röhm’s henchmen which needed ironing-out.”

  Ever since Anton Krupp made guns for the Thirty Years War the whole Konzern had been owned and controlled by one single man, descending from father to son. But in 1902 the scandal which dogged his pederastic orgies in Capri had driven Fritz Krupp to killing himself without leaving a son to succeed. So his daughter Bertha was now the Reigning Queen: for she was the Krupp of the Blood, while Gustav “Krupp” (though confirmed in his right to the name by the Kaiser’s own decree) was a mere Prince Consort—and Hitler’s impending visit found husband and wife at loggerheads. Bertha flatly refused to invite this upstart Chancellor-Führer to tea, or even allow him inside her house. He deserved no better reception at Essen than Neudeck: if Gustav proposed to hob-nob with trash, he must see the man at his down-town office—and so at the down-town office it had to be, with the minimum fanfare possible.

  There, at the splendid doors of the marble entrance-hall, not Bertha herself but her dark and shy and far from attractive daughter scarcely lifted her gaze from the Führer’s glittering boots to hand him a bouquet (the face she didn’t see was wreathed in smiles, but the eyes were a couple of bloodshot pebbles). Somebody tried to raise a “Heil,” and the ominous couple of tons of chandelier over his head tinkled a note or two; but that was all. He slipped on the polished marble as Gustav carried him off to his private office; and there the “ironing-out” began, behind closed doors.

  Although his reception had not been quite so insulting as at Neudeck the message was much the same. The time had come when Hitler could keep his options open no longer: tonight, when Göbbels arrived, he must finally make up his mind whether to “put his head in the Wiessee hornets-nest” tomorrow—or what.... And still he hadn’t a clue, if he didn’t fall in with Göring’s and Himmler’s plans. Was his Daemon deserting him?

  23

  From Cologne that afternoon black truckloads of S.S. guards had thundered along the new Autobahn under a blazing sun to Bonn, then out to Bad Godesberg. There they pulled up in the grounds of the monumental Dreesen Hotel.

  The youngest among them and latest recruit was Ernst the Krebelmann boy, whose father had vetoed his joining Gruppenführer Kettner’s S.A. since “a much better class of people” joined the S.S. and his father could get him accepted. Looking in at the dining-room’s big French windows, he caught one glimpse of waiters shifting the heavy furniture round as if preparing the room for a conference. Nazi big-wigs were meeting here, said the grapevine: so that’s who we had to guard! But what were Party Big-wigs doing so far from Berlin, which was where the trouble was brewing?

  Nobody really knew what the “trouble” was, and rumor and counter-rumor fell over each other: yet most seemed agreed that the threatened danger came from the Right—from Papen, Hugenberg, Schleicher, the Army. Everyone knew that the Old Bull of Neudeck was gaga—in short, that Papen had President Hindenberg under his thumb, while Hindenburg in his turn had control of the Army; and ten days ago, at Marburg, Vice-Chancellor Papen had made a speech so disloyal towards the Führer the papers had not been allowed to publish it. Now the Commander-in-Chief had canceled all Army leave: troops had been concentrated on Berlin, and their camp in the Tiergarten bristled with guns....

  “There’s a rumor the Be
rlin S.A. will be alerted: they’ve just had a tip that the Army are plotting to kidnap the Führer! General Schleicher is back....”

  “So that’s why the Führer has left Berlin again almost as soon as he got there!”

  “‘Alerted’? But who’ll give the order?”

  “Their Gruppenführer of course.”

  “But he can’t do. He’s not even in Berlin: he’s just got married, and off abroad tomorrow night on his honeymoon. Who was it told you? And isn’t the whole S.A. being sent on its usual annual furlough tomorrow morning? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Their furlough was really fixed last April: I bet it gets canceled.”

  “But Röhm’s neuritis is worse. He’s on sick-leave at Wiessee: who’ll take command when the ruddy balloon goes up?”

  “Isn’t von Krausser in charge?”

  “All this S.A. furlough business is stupid,” somebody grumbled: “I know they’re an awful lot of scallywags—still, they’re a couple of million men and the Army’d think twice about taking on even a semi-armed force that was ten times their size.”

  “It’s crazy, it’s leaving the Führer a sitting duck for the Army!”

  “But we have been mobilized, meaning the Führer prefers to rely upon us” said Ernst the youngest one, puffing his S.S. chest.

  “SILENCE, there in the ranks!”

  Everyone clicked his heels to attention; but “Where is the Führer?” Ernst whispered, not moving his lips.

  “He’s not far off: he went to Terboven’s wedding at Essen today,” Hans (his friend) whispered back with the same ventriloquial technique. “My brother....”

  “Essen for weddings!” thought Ernst: “At times like these! I bet you he really went to see Krupp....”

  But now the sentries were being posted. Ernst and Hans together were stationed outside on a terrace lined with bay-trees and oleanders in tubs in front of those dining-room windows, and “Good!” said Hans, “We’ll be able to see who comes.”

  “Nobody so far,” said Ernst, glancing sideways but keeping his face to the front in case they were watched: for the next pair of sentries included a swart young fellow—Schellenberg—known to be Heydrich’s pet....

  The next half hour was spent tramp, tramp, fifty yards up the terrace and fifty yards back; and though a black S.S. tunic and breeches and jack-boots look fine on a springy young man, Ernst found them hardly the ideal wear for a hot afternoon in the steamy Rhine-valley air. Below them, the winding Rhine with its strings of barges: beyond that again were vine-clad mountainous hills—the Siebengebirge, capped by thunder-clouds white in the sun. A heat-haze was rising from Bonn, showing only the top of its tall Minster tower; and all the shade to be had was by marching as near as you could to the hotel building itself.

  “Whew!” said Ernst: “It’s close!”

  “Thunder about,” said Hans. Then he added: “I wonder if anyone’s come yet?”

  “Take a peep next time we pass.”

  A minute later, “Gosh” said Hans: “He has—it’s the Führer himself!”

  “No!”

  Forgetting discretion, the two young men turned their heads till they nearly twisted them off their shoulders. But then they had to stop their patrolling entirely to goggle, for windows alas are made to look out of not into—the plate-glass reflected the brilliant blue sky, the mountains, the thunder-clouds, even their own silly faces but barely revealed those dark living figures inside, as faint and as insubstantial as ghosts. Yet the Führer was certainly there, striding the length of the room and biting the nail of his little finger. At Hitler’s elbow was Göbbels, and ... Was that or wasn’t it Göring, away at the back there with all those others?

  “Göring was with him at Essen,” said Hans: “After, they said he’d gone back to Berlin.... But yes, there’s Friedrich my brother!” he added excitedly.

  “Where?”

  “There, with his fellow-adjutant Brückner.”

  So that was Friedrich: a granite-faced man not a bit like Hans, and taller even than Brückner—taller than anyone else in the room. Jealously, Ernst supposed he’d been picked for his muscles rather than brains.... Friedrich he knew was fifteen years older than Hans and only a half-brother really, and Hans hardly ever saw him; but still, any relative quite so close to the Führer gave Hans an almost visible aura in everyone’s, eyes—even Ernst’s.

  But then a movement among the reflections betrayed to the pair they’d been joined by a third. They turned—and stiffened, like small boys caught at the jam: for the worst had happened, and this was that bumsucking.... Still, the dangerous newcomer said not a word and goggled as much as the best of them.

  All at once (and as if they’d been tantalised quite enough), a cloud passed over the sun and those brilliant reflections suddenly dimmed and faded, the shadowy figures behind the glass turned solid and clear. Yes, there indeed was Dr. Göbbels: his lambent eyes never left the Führer—they’d almost the look of a ferret’s eyes watching which way the rabbit would bolt.... His lips were moving, he seemed to be urging something; but not a word could be heard through the thick plate-glass—not even a sound.

  “It’s like at an old silent movie,” said Hans.

  “Yes,” said the new arrival: “Only there aren’t any subtitles telling us what’s going on.”

  Meanwhile it grew even darker. A flash, and a rumble of thunder—and then came the rain. It fell like a cloud-burst. The three young men turned their backs to the glass, and flattened themselves against it for shelter as best they could. The thunder crashed, forked lightning weirdly lit the Wagnerian scene as the rain-lashed tree-tops bent to a sudden wind.

  Cold water was slowly trickling down his back inside his clothes when something made Ernst turn his head; and there—behind his shoulder, and only an inch or two from his own—on the other side of the pane was the Führer’s face looking out.

  The gaze of a man half-conscious: vague, shifty, glassy, settling nowhere and seeing nothing.

  24

  At last the storm had rumbled away. Somewhere behind the hotel the sun was setting, but heavy curtains were drawn at once as soon as the lights came on indoors: there was nothing more to be seen.

  The interloper was gone, and the two friends briskly tramped the terrace hoping at least to keep warm if they couldn’t get dry. Then it was growing dark, with pin-point lights twinkling out all over the valley—and still the meeting went on.

  One by one the few remaining tugs on the river lit up, preparing to dock for the night. A reddish glow above Bonn was lighting the undersides of the lowering clouds as the storm retreated; and after a while there were stars.

  It must have been after midnight before they were called to the trucks, but you couldn’t see your watch. Ernst climbed aboard his truck just as the first of those big black Mercedes cars with official numbers began to move off; and then they were roaring after them through the trees and the sleeping countryside, taking the road to the Eifel hills.

  On the little Hangelar airfield an aircraft was waiting ready and warming up, its propeller turning slowly. Standing on guard on the grass, Ernst saw Hitler again as he went on board with Göbbels still at his elbow.

  The plane climbed into the starry sky, while they watched its red and green twinkling lights to see where it meant to head. Ernst glanced away at the Plough and the Pole Star to get his bearings: Berlin must be over there.... But no, the plane was steering a steady course towards the south-east. That was where Frankfurt lay, and Stuttgart—and further still, Munich.... Yes, Munich it must be: for Röhm (as everyone knew) was resting and taking a course of treatment near there, on the shores of the Tegernsee. Tireless, tomorrow morning the Führer intended consulting his old friend Röhm on whatever that meeting had been about....

  “Did you see Friedrich again?” asked Hans: “I did: he went up the gangway just behind Dr. Göbbels.”

  Soon they were once more back in their crowded trucks and bound for their beds in Cologne at last, the string of veh
icles coasting downhill and backfiring like guns—Ernst sneezed at the stinking exhaust of the one in front. Nobody sang now, nobody spoke: the others already seemed half asleep as they stood squashed tight and swaying together at every bend in the road like trees in the wind. To them this had been just another routine assignment—and boring at that: for none of these others had seen what the two friends had seen....

  Cologne was near: for now they were racing along the empty Autobahn through the “Green Belt” trees on the very last lap to the old, grim, ex-army barracks the S.S. had taken over. Arrived there at last, Ernst changed his clothes and got into something dry: for he felt quite sure he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Something entirely momentous had been decided that night, right under his eyes; but what? For of only one thing did Ernst feel certain—that this was a night that would live in history. All that dumb-show behind the glass had been history in the making.... He drowsed a moment—and found himself walking past rows of enormous museum cases, each with some famous Crisis of History being enacted inside it on public show there (for fifty pfennigs) behind the glass.

  He nodded himself awake. The heat and the smell of his room-mates drove him across to the window for air. Behind him his room-mates snored, and one of them talked in his sleep. The window faced north, looking over a city lit only by street lamps (for all the little houses were dark). Then a cock crew.... Those black-paper crenellations silhouetted against the paling sky would turn into factories soon, and houses: for dawn was coming and somewhere a baby had started crying. The air was cool enough now, but that smoky orange glow in the east portended the heat of this coming last day of June....