Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse 8, Berlin, Germany
October 5, 1938
4:54 p.m.
SS-Untersturmführer Goerdeler was seated opposite Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler. Every single word issuing from Goerdeler’s full, wide mouth was a study in precision. With equal resolution, he was ignoring the painful ache in his lower back that came from the constant effort of compressing his tall body down into the chair. Franz Goerdeler never questioned that the smaller man to the front of him was the bigger man and never let his large physique imply otherwise. Their weekly meeting on miscellaneous domestic matters, a one-hour review where he personally briefed the reichsführer, accompanied only by a secretary to take shorthand notes, was an outstanding opportunity for a junior officer to impress. A little back pain could not be allowed to jeopardize it.
The untersturmführer’s task was clear: bring to the reichsführer’s attention any minor matters or inquiries that he considered his office might have otherwise overlooked. To Goerdeler it was yet another reflection of the precision and attention to the smallest detail that his punctilious superior brought to every facet of his leadership. He knew that it was also his first step on the ladder to a position of trust and responsibility within Himmler’s personal staff—the dream of every young SS officer. Perhaps he could even be his next adjutant; surely SS-Obersturmführer Jurgen Pfeiffer was soon to be destined for a command position.
The neat pile of eighteen manila files stacked on the table to Goerdeler’s right signaled the day’s briefing was coming to a close. He had raised more matters than normal. The reichsführer had been in Munich for the week previous, present at what all the Berlin newspapers were heralding as a German triumph, the final laying to rest of the humiliation of the Great War and the perfidious Versailles diktat that followed. Goerdeler had heartily complimented the reichsführer on that great success before they opened the first file and the meeting seemed to have proceeded satisfactorily thereafter, even if he could never be totally sure. It was not an easy job to decide what he should bring to the reichsführer’s attention and often even more difficult to gauge his superior’s true reaction to what he did present.
The reichsführer always listened to every matter raised with equal attention, each time closing his eyes and resting his face forward on the tips of his index fingers and thumbs as Goerdeler read out the salient points of the matter. He would then quietly request the file, studying the supporting documents himself, applying his keen eye to every page before handing it back. Only then would he issue concise, precise instructions as to how to proceed, leaving SS-Untersturmführer Goerdeler to feel nothing but awe at the reichsführer’s mastery of all matters. The success of the meeting was so important to Goerdeler’s burning ambition that if he thought it had gone well, the young SS officer would reward himself with a surreptitious small cigar during his four-block walk back to his quarters followed by a brandy after dinner. If he felt that he had not impressed, he would be unable to eat or sleep for the disappointment.
The nineteenth and final file of the day was now in Goerdeler’s big hands. He had resisted some pressure in the office to leave the matter off that day’s agenda. Others had advised that perhaps it lacked the gravity worthy of the reichsführer’s attention, that it was just a piece of journalistic bombast. One fellow junior in the office even warned him that not all the Nazi leadership liked the weekly Der Stürmer, that Reichsmarshall Göring actually forbade his staff to read it.
Goerdeler had, however, persisted, believing that due to the reichsführer’s known interest in the region mentioned and the amount of correspondence that the matter generated, it should be raised. He told them all, in turn, that it was exactly the sort of thing that should be included, something that at first sight appeared trivial but was actually much more serious, easily overlooked given the attention that week on Munich. Petulantly, he had even added that his colleagues would do well to remember that the newspaper in question was the führer’s favorite, and what the führer liked, so did the reichsführer.
The young officer opened the file before him. On seeing the newspaper clipping within, he hesitated for a moment, wondering only then if he should have listened to the others. Raising such a matter might well be a waste of his superior’s time, a mistake that would not go unnoticed.
But it generated so many letters from the general public to the reichsführer’s office, it must be right to raise it, surely?
“This is the final matter on our agenda for today, Herr Reichsführer.”
“Proceed.”
“It is a brief editorial from a recent edition of Der Stürmer accompanied by a selection of the correspondence it generated to this office. I hope that you do not consider this to be frivolous use of your valuable time, Herr Reichsführer, but the people see you as their protector and guide in all matters relating to the honor of the Fatherland, and I am aware of your keen interest in Asia. As a result, I … we … we considered that you should be made aware of this matter as the last item on today’s agenda. I apologi—”
Himmler held up his hand, stopping Goerdeler midsentence. There was a pause as he looked directly into the junior officer’s eyes, his own hidden by the reflection of the ceiling lighting on the small round lenses of his pince-nez.
Only when the silence had grown into a buzz of white noise in the young man’s eardrums did Himmler break it. “Then, Untersturmführer, I suggest you quickly read to me what Editor Streicher has to say, as your allotted time is nearly over.”
Goerdeler swallowed and glanced furtively at his watch to confirm the time remaining. It was indeed just a few minutes. Feeling his heart beating heavily, he took the newspaper clipping from the final file, careful to hold it in both hands so as not to permit the slightest tremble. For a brief moment as he looked at the dense, black blocks of heavy print thumped onto the coarse grey paper, he struggled to make out any words at all.
Blinking his eyes twice nervously, he forced himself to start. “Of course, Herr Reichsführer. The editorial for your attention is taken from the fifteenth of September issue of Der Stürmer. The title of the editorial is ‘An Insult of Mountainous Proportion.’”
Franz Goerdeler had to moisten his lips and swallow before he could continue.
“The editorial reads as follows:
The role of the German weekly newspaper that fights for the truth is first and foremost to reveal the cancer that is the Jewry within our midst.
He gulped again.
As Der Stürmer always says, “The Jews are our misfortune!” and so we remain unsleeping in our desire to rout out their debilitating wickedness from within our great Reich.
However, a true watchdog is attentive not only to the wolf, but also to the fox. A fox that sometimes lurks within the most innocuous situations, hiding behind cunning platitudes as it intends instead to wound and steal.
Reading the newspaper article out loud, Goerdeler suddenly heard for himself how ridiculous the opening paragraphs sounded. Worse still, how little they actually said. He wondered if he had already lost the reichsführer’s interest.
He couldn’t tell. There was no trace of a reaction, not a flicker of movement from the top of the pomaded crop of parted black hair angled toward him. A wave of nervous panic shot up the inside of his rib cage and branched out into the tops of his arms. The others were right; it was an error to raise this issue. But he had started now. There was no alternative. He must finish it. Fighting a still-drying mouth, Goerdeler continued:
We have been alerted by our many friends in the DÖAV, our august Alpine Association, to a recent inquiry received from two British Alpinists, named Smythe and Shipton. A request that might have gone unnoticed by many in this proud country, were it not for the keen eyes and ears of this proud newspaper!
So, once more inspired by the twin flames of devotion and duty that burn, ever present, in this vigilant editorial office, we reveal a shocking British request for what it really is, nothing more than a shameful insult, yet another bitter slight from a fading nation that wilts daily in the shadow of the Third Reich.
What is the crime of Messrs’ Smythe and Shipton, you ask? It is none other than to have the effrontery to ask the German Alpine Authorities for their “blessing” to climb the mountain of Nanga Parbat.
Do these fools understand nothing of history? Do they not realize that this is an approval that can never be given? Nanga Parbat is the German mountain of destiny, the scene of our greatest alpine tragedies, the future place of our greatest Himalayan triumph.
With a justified sense of outrage, we respectfully call upon our leadership to respond in the strongest terms and forbid such a ridiculous idea. A response that says unequivocally, “Do not dare to approach our mountain, you, who once again have weakly succumbed to failure on the mountain that you cannot conquer, namely Mount Everest, in the country you cannot possess, namely Tibet!”
How many feeble British Everest expeditions has it been now? We count at least seven since 1921. And how many of your sons have you lost in these pathetic attempts? We think it is only two or three, of the tens, or is it not now hundreds that you have sent to try and bully that great mountain into submission? Such a litany of failure and cowardice in no way qualifies such people to even walk near the graves of the eleven alpine martyrs of the Fatherland who sleep in eternal rest beneath the slopes of Nanga Parbat.
Do the British invite us to climb Mount Everest? No, they do not! They jealously guard it for themselves in the manner of spoiled, weak children desperate that no others might—
“Enough!” said Himmler.
He gestured to be handed the file.
With a visibly shaking hand, Goerdeler passed it over the table. Himmler opened it and, with no regard for time, studied the editorial and then the reams of supporting correspondence from an equally outraged readership. He read every page, slowly, as if hunting for hidden meaning in every word. Then, keeping hold of the file, the reichsführer stood. The young SS-untersturmführer barely had time to do the same and salute, hearing only the words, “This is indeed an insult,” as the figure departed the room.
When Goerdeler turned back to the now-empty table to collect the other files, his notebook, and fountain pen, he noticed that the shorthand secretary, seated silently at the side of the room, was looking at him with something akin to sympathy in her eyes. There would be no cigar and brandy for SS-Untersturmführer Franz Goerdeler that evening, little food or sleep either.