Chapter 21

December 1924, Hamburg

After each return trip, the ship was refitted in Cuxhaven. I repeatedly scoured the papers for snippets about party members. I knew that Wolf, Amann, Hess, Emil, and other Nazis had been convicted for their roles in the Putsch. Some were incarcerated in Landsberg Prison. I didn’t know much else. I wrote Wolf one letter, but I dared not put a return address. I had no idea if it was received.

In December 1924, Max’s cousin had news for me when I entered the office after a return crossing.

“Max called several days ago looking for you,” said Manfred.

“Did he say what it was about?”

“Only that you should call him back.”

Max picked up on the first ring.

“What’s so important?” I asked.

“Hello to you, too. Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”

Maybe she had. “Sorry. How are you, Max?”

“Stop wasting time.” I rolled my eyes. Typical Max. “Your friend, Hitler, is being released from Landsberg three days from now. Thought you would like to know.” I turned my back and cupped the phone so Manfred could not hear me.

“After nine months? I understand he was given a five-year sentence.”

“They say it’s for good behavior. It seems fishy to me.”

“I’m sure Hitler was a model prisoner . . . he always did respect authority.”

“Being good is one thing. Serving only a few months for trying to overthrow the government is ridiculous. No one is that good.”

“How did you find out?”

“Your friend Emil called Kitty, Kitty called me.”

“Thanks for telling me, Max. Before you hang up, I need to ask you something. Promise to tell me the truth.”

“Friedrich, that’s an insult!”

“Sorry. I should have known better. Has anybody been looking for me? Asking if you knew where I was? I need to know that if I go to Munich I won’t be arrested.”

“Not a soul. Not once. It’s as if you never existed. Besides, if they were looking for you, Emil would have warned me to tell you not to go to Munich.”

What was I thinking? Of course Emil would have had my back if I were in danger.

I thanked Max, apologized again for doubting him, and hung up. I wanted to be there when Wolf was released, but we were scheduled to be at sea during Weihnachten—the Christmas Eve celebration. I had prepared to play a German favorite, written a century earlier in Austria: Stille Nacht.

“Is everything all right?” Manfred asked.

“I need to be in Munich by tomorrow night.”

“We sail in five days. Will you be back in time?”

“I can’t promise that I will. Can you find a replacement?”

“This is such short notice. Not many pianists are available to drop what they’re doing and travel for the next couple of weeks. Especially during the Christmas holidays.”

“It could be longer than a couple of weeks, Manfred.”

“You’re not quitting, are you?”

“I love working on the SS Ballin. I promise to have an answer for you in a couple of days. Until I do, can you find a replacement for the next voyage?”

Manfred and the shipping lines had been good to me. I did not want to disappoint them, but I felt I had to be there when my friend was released.

Manfred opened a humidor and stuffed his meerschaum pipe with a sweet-smelling tobacco. He struck a match on the countertop. “Not to worry. There’s a way out. The man whom you replaced would give anything to be back on the Ballin. He’s a fine pianist.”

“Replaced? I was so happy you gave me the job that I never asked how you made it available so quickly.”

As he puffed, shards of tobacco blazed orange and crackled. “Max called and explained that you had to be on the next ship that sailed. He gave me no choice. I let the other man go and put you on.”

“Now I feel terrible. Does the man have a family? Was he able to get by?”

“No family. Getting by? I wish I had his job. It’s a dream.”

Then it struck me. “Don’t tell me. Max got him a job at Pension Schmidt.”

“How did you know?”

“Lucky guess. Why would your man want to leave there?”

“He complains that it is too confining. He will be happy to fill in for you. Think of it as giving him a vacation.”

“What man wants a vacation from a brothel?”

We both laughed. Then he became serious and repeated, “Tell me, Friedrich, will you be back for the next trip?”

“It all depends on what I find in Munich.”

*

Three days later, on Saturday morning, I stood in extreme cold outside the back gate of the Landsberg Prison in Munich to wait for Wolf to appear. I stamped my feet and clapped my hands in an effort to stay warm, trying to stave off frostbite.

Time ticked by and nothing happened. I wondered if Emil sent the wrong information or Max heard him wrong. I turned to leave when a big black Daimler-Benz rolled up. Heinrich Hoffman, Wolf’s favorite photographer, jumped out, equipment in hand. He was there to memorialize the event.

We greeted each other. I knew Hoffman only slightly. He was loud, gregarious, and inclined to exaggerate, especially when in his cups—which was often.

“I didn’t know you had such a big car.”

“Where have you been?” he asked. “The Führer has been asking for you.”

“Traveling back and forth to New York ever since the Putsch. I didn’t know if the police were looking for me. If I was ever needed, Emil knew where to find me.”

Hoffman nodded at the driver who remained behind the wheel. “As for the car, it belongs to Adolf Müller.”

“The same Müller whose company prints the Nazi pamphlets? Do you think he would let me sit in the car with him? I’ve been out here so long I will be lucky if I don’t lose a couple of fingers or toes.”

I reached for the handle when the squeal of a gate stopped me. Müller bounced out of the car. Our expectations were dashed when a uniformed gatekeeper strode to us. He ordered Hoffman to dismantle his tripod and stow away the camera.

Hoffman stood his ground and pointed. “You have no jurisdiction outside those walls.”

“I may not, but the government in Berlin does. They issued strict orders that no pictures were to be taken when Hitler leaves prison. They don’t want propaganda to come from this.”

“Berlin holds no sway over me. I’m here to record history in the making.”

The guard pointed to the camera. “Either it goes or Hitler stays in jail.” Then he gave Hoffman a slight shove. “Of course the Führer might be disappointed that he will not be released because of you.”

It was not lost on me that he referred to Wolf as the Führer.

Hoffman looked from me to Müller. What choice did we have? With reluctance, we retreated into the car and waited.

Wolf finally strode into view accompanied by two guards. We dashed out to meet him. He looked puffy . . . kilos heavier from sweets and cakes sent by his admirers. As he passed through the gates, Wolf shook each guard’s hand before marching to the car, trailed by a uniformed man carrying a package. Wolf saluted Hoffman and then broke out into an ear-to-ear smile. He pushed my hand away, grabbed me, and kissed me on both cheeks.

“Friedrichen, I knew you would find a way to be here.”

“Mein Führer,” said Hoffman, “it is essential that I photograph your release, but they will not let me take a picture here.”

“Skip the picture, Heinrich.”

“Mein Führer. This is an historic moment. It must be recorded.” Then he snapped his fingers. “I have an idea.”

When we slipped into the car, Wolf took the thick package from the guard and placed it on the seat between us. I thought he would explain what was in it, but he didn’t. Instead he gazed out the window appreciating the sights.

Hoffman directed Müller to drive to the old city gates. The hulking edifice had the look and feel of a prison wall. Hoffman positioned the car and Wolf to convey the illusion that this was the moment of Adolf Hitler’s release from Landsberg Prison. Hoffman’s understated picture of Hitler’s first taste of freedom, in time, became iconic.

Wolf rubbed his hands together as he returned to the car. “I forgot how cold it gets in December.”

Hoffman turned to face us. “We have a surprise for you, mein Führer. There is a party in your honor. Nothing fancy. Some of your closest friends want to see you.”

Wolf grunted. He never liked small gatherings.

As we drove to the party, I asked him about the package. He cradled it to his chest. “Friedrich, I made good use of my time in prison. I read many, many books.” Then he plopped the package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string into my hands. It was weighty. “More importantly, I wrote one. It’s my story.”

I had so many questions; I didn’t know where to start. “They gave you time to write?”

“They let me spend the days as I wished. I had as many visitors as I wanted. Frau Bechstein came with Lotte, who is growing up very fast. My sister visited with my nieces. Admirers sent gifts. There were so many flowers that I gave some to the guards.”

“Did you write the pages yourself?”

“Nein. I dictated and Emil and Hess took turns typing. Can you believe it? They even gave us a typewriter. Look at these.”

He handed me two photographs taken by a guard. They made me smile. One was of him and Emil. The other was of the two of them, with Rudy, Hermann Kriebel, and Friedrich Weber. I could see that Wolf had put weight on by the time of the second shot. I laughed seeing Emil with his mandolin. “I see they let Emil have his instrument.”

“When can I publish your book?” Müller asked, stealing glances to see the wrapped manuscript.

“I want to edit it some more, and then your publishing company may do what it does best.”

“What is the title?” I asked.

“Amann didn’t like mine, even though it is perfect.”

“Don’t keep us in suspense,” said Hoffman.

“My title was Four-and-a-Half Years of Struggle Against Lies, Stupidity, and Cowardice.”

I had all to do to bite my tongue and not tell him how terrible that was.

“That is a bit cumbersome,” Müller said. “What did Max suggest calling it?”

“Mein Kampf.”

Without meaning to, I mumbled its translation.

“What did you say?” Wolf asked.

“I learned English this past year.”

“How does Mein Kampf translate into English?”

“My Struggle.”

*

Putzi Hanfstaengl’s house, located in Herzog Park, overflowed with well-wishers. Wolf embraced his freedom in a most uncharacteristic manner: he entertained the assemblage. He used his amazing voice to describe his experience on the western front. He mimicked all types of guns: English, French, and German. Then he put the partygoers through the Battle of Somme, imitating the various guns used by the Allies and our forces, with the skills and timing of a seasoned entertainer. Everyone was in stitches. This was a side of the man none had seen.

Hans Frank stood on a chair and tapped his wine glass. He waited for the crowd to simmer down. “Tonight we honor a giant. There is no other way to describe him.” Frank unfolded a leaf of paper. “Let me read the words our Führer proclaimed in the trial. Hear them and remember them.

The man who is born to be a dictator, wills it. There is nothing immodest in this.

The room erupted in cheers. Frank held his hand up for silence and then repeated the Führer’s challenge when the trial ended.

You may judge us guilty, but the Goddess of Eternal Justice will tear to tatters the verdict of this court. For she acquits us!

The room’s exuberance was palpable. Filled with pride in my friend, I strode to the piano and played the German national anthem: Deutschlandlied. At the first note, all rose to their feet and joined:

Deutschland, Deutschland über alles . . . Germany, Germany above all.

It was a glorious homecoming. As the party carried on, I cornered Hans Frank, who was now studying law. “I read an article in which a reporter said, ‘What went on there reminded me of a Munich political carnival.’ Hans, this reporter made it sound like the Boss had a field day. Is it true that Wolf said whatever he wanted?”

“That’s not far off,” answered Frank. “Let me answer you this way. Do you know Franz Gürtner?”

“He’s the Bavarian minister of Justice. But he wasn’t the judge,” I answered.

“That’s right. George Neithardt presided. The same judge in Otto Ballerstedt’s case.”

“Why was Neithardt so lenient?”

“Because of Gürtner. He is the judge’s boss. As the saying goes: good lawyers know the law, but great lawyers know the judge.”

“And in this case we knew the judge’s boss.”

He slapped me on the back. “You catch on quick, Friedrich. Gürtner arranged for an early release after he decided the Boss learned his lesson.”