Chapter 23

We arrived at Haus Bechstein expecting a grand reception. Helene Bechstein did not disappoint. The salon was packed with celebrities and the social elite. They came to see Wolf, whose status had grown as a result of his domination of the trial after the failed putsch.

This time we were dressed to the nines. Wolf was in formal tails and I was lucky enough to find a silk dinner jacket in my size at a shop that specialized in tall men.

After greeting us, Frau Bechstein pointed to a wrapped package I carried in for him. “What is that, Wolfchen?”

“That’s a little something for Lotte,” he answered, as I handed it to a butler who stowed it away for later.

Frau Bechstein then slipped her arm through Wolf’s and gushed with pride as she prattled to every guest about the famous party leader who would restore Germany to its rightful position amongst nations. There were questions about the rigors of jail life. What kind of food did they serve? Did they beat him? More banal questions followed during the course of the evening. Given our mission, Wolf exhibited more patience than I thought him capable. This was another Landsberg dividend.

Lisolette Bechstein cornered me. She had matured into a young woman during these past four years. No one would turn their head when Lotte passed. But if one stopped to chat, they would discover she had a soft, deferential way that made her attractive. “Has he changed?” she asked. “I visited him once in . . . you know . . . and he seemed fine. Is he all right now?” She turned dreamy-eyed. “I need to know everything about him.”

“He emerged out of Landsberg stronger and better for the experience. He is more determined than ever to succeed.”

“But does he have a special woman to take care of him?”

I turned my head to the cluster of older women preening over him. “He has more mothers then he needs. Rest assured Herr Hitler is well taken care of.”

Lotte’s face reddened. “That’s not what I meant.”

I knew very well what she meant. I also knew Wolf was prepared to spend more than a few moments with her if it meant more funds from the Bechsteins. It was time to do my job. I stuck out my arm. “Come. He asked me to bring you to him.”

I pried Wolf away from the gaggle of women. Wolf’s face lit up when he saw how Lotte had ripened into a young woman. “Come, I have something for you,” he said.

We found our way to the reception hall where the butler waited with the package. Wolf took it from him and then, with his classic Viennese bow, presented it to Lotte.

“For me?” her mouth formed a surprised “O.”

“Schönes Fräulein, only for you.”

Her hands trembled as she fumbled to open it. I reached to help her. When the last wrapping fell to the marble floor, she gasped, “It is beautiful!”

It was a vivid watercolor of the Laon countryside leading up to the walled city that Wolf painted in 1919. It was signed, “A. Hitler,” and in the lower left hand corner, the number “nineteen.”

“Friedrich,” said Wolf, “Do you have a pen?” I handed him a pencil. “This will have to do.”

He inscribed the back, “Meiner lieben Löttl”—my dear Lotte—and signed it “Dein Wolf”—your Wolf.

With that he took the thunderstruck girl by the arm and ushered her into a corner where they sat on a cramped, silk settee. She glowed as he fussed over her, leaning closer and closer. I could only imagine how he complimented her on her dress, her shoes, and the way she brushed her hair. His technique with women usually yielded results.

*

I surveyed the room and recognized Fritz Thyssen. Thyssen was fifty-one, with a long face and dark, beady eyes. He stood to inherit his father’s steel and mining business, which controlled three-quarters of Germany’s iron ore. Thyssen had already donated small sums to the party.

“Herr Thyssen, allow me to introduce myself.”

“I know who you are. Herr Hitler has already pointed you out as a rising star in the party. More to the point, I was present the night you thrilled us with your wonderful performance of Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody. Are you going to play for us again?”

“If Frau Bechstein asks.”

He slapped me on the back as he scanned the room. “This party needs to be livened up a bit.” Having no more to say to me, he turned to rejoin friends.

I cleared my throat. “Herr Thyssen. I need a favor of you.”

He stiffened, turning slowly back to me. “Herr Hitler has given me a special mission to meet industrialists such as yourself.” I pulled out the sheet of paper that established my authority. “We want you to know that we will no longer support the anti-capitalist measures described in the twenty-five-point program. Hitler feels strongly that those who have accumulated substantial assets as a result of either hard work or through their families, should be entitled to keep them.”

Thyssen scanned the document and turned from guarded to benevolent. “It was always my hope that Hitler would take this approach. As long as the riffraff in the party incited the masses against us, there could never be more than token support from us. Granted, the NSDAP was better than the Reds, but until now its attractiveness was limited. This change is most reassuring. How soon will he formalize this new position?”

Wolf never mentioned a timetable. “I need to show this to more industrialists. When enough are on board, Hitler will formalize this as an official part of the platform. Any help you can give to speed this along will be appreciated.”

“Start with that man over there. Alfred Hugenberg.”

I turned to see a barrel-chested man nearing sixty. He sported a gray handlebar moustache, round glasses, and a full shock of graying hair combed straight back. Hugenberg ran Krupp A.G. during the war. Krupp was Germany’s largest company. It supplied the military with all of its munitions during the conflict. Having left Krupp, Hugenberg now headed the Scherl House, Germany’s largest publisher.

“Can you make the introduction for me?”

Thyssen took me by the elbow. “Certainly. After Hugenberg, there are one or two more worth meeting here tonight.”

*

Over the next two years I continued playing music on the SS Ballin, traveling between Germany and America. I was able to save my salary since the cruise line paid for my room and board. During layovers in Cuxhaven, I sought out potential patrons for the party. Among whom were Alfred Vogler of the coal, iron, and steel plants; Ernest von Borsig, manufacturer of locomotives; and Richard Franck, who owned Heinrich Franck Söhne, the world’s largest manufacturer of substitute coffee made from chicory.

To each I emphasized that financial support of the NSDAP would ensure favored status when the party came to power. Even skeptics donated money as insurance against the unknown future. And as I met more and more sympathetic industrialists and wealthy future patrons, Wolf skillfully made the party’s tectonic shift away from Socialism.

It was during this time that Ernst Röhm, a rabid revolutionary, resigned from the party. Sensing that this was not his time, he departed for South America with a contract to build up the Bolivian army. Even this helped. Wealthy donors viewed his departure as a constructive step.

*

I saw little of Wolf or the party regulars during the many months I continued to sail. I did attend one meeting: Nazi Party Day on July 4, 1926. This was the first time Wolf used the Blutfahne or Blood Flag that, after the party came to power, became its most iconic symbol.

Heinrich Trambauer carried that swastika flag during the 1923 Munich Putsch. As marchers approached the Feldhernhalle and the Munich police opened fire, Trambauer fell wounded. Andreas Bauriedl then snatched the fallen flag and marched until he was shot . . . the bullet passing through the flag into his body. Trambauer lifted his head to see the dying Bauriedl’s blood soak through the fabric. Trambauer mustered his last ounce of strength, grabbed the flag, and gave it to Karl Eggers for safekeeping. For three years, the flag was shuttled from house to house to avoid confiscation until it emerged for this Nazi Party Day ceremony. Seizing the moment, Wolf had the flag fitted with a new staff and finial. Below the finial, he ordered a silver sleeve fabricated that bore the names of the sixteen dead comrades of the failed putsch. From that day forward, every SA and SS unit consecrated their own banner by touching it to this bloodstained flag of ’23.

*

I found a moment to be alone with Wolf at the end of the rally. “Where is Göring? I didn’t see him today.”

“Do you remember when he was shot during the putsch?”

“Shrapnel bounced off the cobblestone into his groin. The last I saw he was being dragged away. I’ve heard nothing since.”

“He escaped to Austria. The wound got infected. His doctor was too generous with morphine. Our dear friend, Göring, has turned into an addict.”

“That can be treated.”

Wolf nodded. “Only for those willing to be helped. Not our Hermann. He went crazy. Last September, they admitted him to Catherine Hospital in Stockholm. He attacked a nurse for not giving him enough morphine. They declared him insane, put him a straightjacket, and sent him to Långbro Mental Hospital.”

“Will he ever come back?”

“Time is the great healer,” answered Wolf. “If Göring comes back, we’ll make good use of him.”