Chapter 46

September–October 1932

Meetings! Meetings! Meetings! Throughout September and October, it seemed as though we met daily. We had formal meetings with Hindenburg and Papen, and formal meetings with Schleicher. We had secret meetings with Papen and with the Reich President Hindenburg’s Secretary of State Otto Meissner. Sometimes Hindenburg’s son Oskar joined us. At times we met with Oskar alone. There were offers made. Offers rejected. Offers accepted and then reneged. Promises made and promises broken. Each meeting was attended by us in the hope that the Papen-Schleicher axis would come to their senses and relinquish their power to Hitler. For their part, Papen and Schleicher continued to press Hitler and the Nazis to join them in a working coalition. But Hitler would accept nothing less than the chancellorship with dictatorial powers. Only one man had the power to grant this, and that man—Paul von Hindenburg—could not bear the sight of Adolf Hitler.

On September 8, Hess, Goebbels, Röhm, Frick, Gregor Strasser, and Hermann Göring met with Wolf and me in Munich in the Braunes Haus to plan for the upcoming November elections. We crammed around an oval mahogany table that was too small for comfort. Röhm squeezed between Frick and Strasser. I could barely keep a straight face as each man squirmed so as not to rub thighs with Ernst.

Hitler began by offering congratulations to Goebbels. “Our good comrade has just had his first child. A daughter.”

We all applauded. “What is her name?” Hess asked.

“Helga,” said Goebbels. We looked to Hitler and then to Goebbels, expecting the H was to honor Hitler. Rather than insult Wolf and explain that there was a family tradition from his wife’s first husband’s family that all children’s names began with H, Goebbels offered nothing. In the end, Goebbels and Magda would have five more children . . . all first names beginning with H, including Goebbels’s stepson Harald.

Röhm brought us back to the role the SA would play in the upcoming election, by mentioning the five men who murdered and mutilated Conrad Pietzruch. “Potempa was just the beginning. Did you see the outpouring of support for those men?”

That he lionized their actions was too much for me to tolerate. I burst out, “Those men are beasts!” No one expected the outcry. Even I was shocked that I lost control. All present waited for Hitler’s reprimand knowing he publicly supported these convicted SA monsters.

Instead, Wolf said, “Our Friedrich is well known for his tender heart.” Then he added insult to injury. “Did you know that the Potempa Five have my photograph pasted on their cell wall?”

The thought that these men, who castrated their victim in front of his mother, stared at Wolf’s picture day and night sickened me.

Rudy Hess sobered us. “Apathy is setting in across the country. No one wants to go through another election. Look at us! We’ve lost twenty thousand party members over the last few weeks. By every measure, we’re slipping.”

“You can’t be so negative,” Gregor Strasser said. “Just last week the Catholic Centre Party joined us to elect Hermann,”—he referred to Göring—“president of the Reichstag. They are willing to enter a coalition with us.” He glanced to see Hitler’s reaction before continuing. “Together we can overwhelm the Social Democrats and the Communists.”

Hitler sprang to his feet. If there were no table between them, he would have grabbed Strasser by the throat. Hitler roared in the man’s face. “I have told you, repeatedly, Strasser, no coalition! This perpetuates the dysfunction.” He pounded the table. “Fragmentation of the other parties is our power. It demonstrates the failure of democracy. They cannot agree on anything. In the end, this will force them to give me the chancellorship.”

Strasser did not flinch. “Mein Führer. It makes no sense to avoid coalitions. The moment we become part of the majority, we’re thrust to the forefront of power.” Strasser stood taller. He smoothed his jacket sleeves. Then with great pomposity said, “Schleicher wants us to join a coalition cabinet . . . with him as chancellor. Why shouldn’t we?”

Frick, Hess, Röhm, Goebbels, Göring . . . we all stared at Strasser with incredulity. He was in open revolt. And then it came: not another explosion, but a controlled, lethal condemnation.

“Why do you continue to stab me in the back, Gregor?” Hitler answered his own question. “Perhaps you think you would make a better party leader than me? Are you that much a fool?” He wagged his finger at all of us. “There is only one acceptable path for me and our party: win more seats in November. Then we will own the majority in the Reichstag. I will not be anyone’s vice chancellor,” he hissed. He stood to his full measure and asked, “Do you have any issue with what I am saying, Gregor?”

Strasser’s future in the party—and perhaps even more —hung in the balance of his answer. He raised his hands in mock surrender. “You are the leader, Mein Führer.”

It was not lost that he did not explicitly agree with Hitler’s strategy.

“The Papen government will fall like a house of cards. We National Socialists will give the Fatherland a display of our strength of will. I head into this struggle with absolute confidence. Let the battle commence! We will emerge victorious!”

“Mein Führer,” Goebbels broke the spell, “I wish I could share in your rosy outlook. This will be the fifth major election of the year. The people are tired, the party’s coffers are running low.”

Hitler slammed the table. “How can you worry about money when power is in our grasp? We will find the money. We always do.”

That should have ended the discussion . . . but it didn’t. Frick spoke for the first time. “Change your message, mein Führer. Don’t run ‘for the sake of Germany.’ Instead, run against Papen and the aristocrats. Paint them as reactionaries. Show how you’re a man of the people.”

“There is a better way, mein Führer,” I said. “Mount a campaign that paints you the picture of strength. Repeat over and over that you are forty-three and in excellent health. Tell them that impotent and tired men run the government. Hammer home their indifference to the plight of the lower classes. But don’t call them that. Call them the middle class or the working class. No one knows what those phrases mean, but no one identifies themselves as ‘low class.’ And then inveigh against the industrialists who keep the workers and the middle class under their thumbs, and the way they use Papen as their tool of oppression.”

“How can I do that after taking their money? I will lose their support.”

Encouraged that I had his ear, I answered, “You need not worry. Above all else, industrialists understand business and what it takes to succeed. These men are not stupid. They want you to gain the popular vote. They know that if you win by criticizing them, they win, too. If you lose defending them, they lose. It is what you do after the vote that matters to them.”

It all hung in the balance. One never knew if a moment like this would produce agreement or an epithet-filled tantrum. When he did speak, it was not in his oratorical voice that could be heard by followers in the last row of the Sportpalast, it was in his every day, softer tone.

He scanned our faces before asking, “Do you all agree with Friedrich?”

“He’s right, mein Führer.” Goebbels grimaced that he had to support me.

The others concurred.

Then Hitler asked, “Are there other ideas on how to achieve the results we need?”

Again I raised my hand. “Bring together an outpouring of youth the likes of which have never been seen. Let’s assemble the Hitler Youth boys and the Bund Deutsche Madël girls in a massive rally for Hitler—a show for Germany’s future.”

“Children cannot vote, Friedrich.” Röhm chirped. “As glorious as it might be, it is a waste of our time and resources with the election a few weeks away.”

Goebbels sided with me. “Mein Führer, it is a brilliant idea. Everyone reacts to children. This will cast the party in a good light and help gain needed votes.”

“What about the cost?” Wolf asked.

“As you said before, we will find a way,” I answered without any idea how to do it.

There were no further objections.

“Joseph, work out the details with Baldur.” Baldur von Schirach headed the Hitler Youth. Then Wolf grinned at me. “I assume your Trude put you up to this. I won’t forget her when we come to power.” He turned back to Goebbels. “Work fast to make this happen. I will adjust my speaking schedule to be there.”

October 1, 1932

“Would you rub my feet?” Trude kicked off her shoes and plopped onto the bed in the Potsdam Hotel. “Thank you for taking me to the New Palace today. The Grotto Hall was spectacular. I loved the painted ceilings.” Trude purred. “You’re making the pain go away. Your hands are magic.”

I looked up. “Do you think we did the right thing pushing for this Reichsjugendtag? There is so much at stake.”

“Friedrich. Don’t stop rubbing when you talk.”

My fingers pressed deep into her tissues and elicited a soft moan. “I am here to please. Seriously, what about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow will give the Führer the success he needs. From all reports, more than one hundred thousand boys and girls are coming from every corner of Germany and they are paying their own way, to boot!”

*

In a matter of days, the SA and SS had transformed the heath outside the ancient city into a working, viable, tent city that would accommodate one hundred thousand strong. There was a speaker’s platform and even a post office.

For seven-and-a-half hours, the future soldiers—the Hitler Youth boys and the BDM girls—marched past the reviewing stand. Each saluted Hitler who returned the salute, rarely lowering his arm.

The gathering lasted two days. It was the sole highlight in what was a dreary, tiring, frustrating attempt to rally Germany not only to vote for the NSDAP, but to vote at all. The voters, sick of a year of constant campaigning, stayed home. Wolf was now speaking to half-empty halls.

*

“You won’t believe what happened,” Trude said when she settled into my apartment one night. “We left Heidelberg after a great response and were marching down Breite Strasse in Manheim when a group of kids—they couldn’t be more than ten or eleven years old—threw tomatoes at the girls in the rear of the line. That’s never happened before.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

She shook her head. “That’s not the point. It was the disrespect. We represent the Führer.”

“Not everyone supports us, Trude. We get about one-third the vote. That means two-thirds of Germany votes for the other parties.”

Trude looked at me in disgust. “Don’t you get it? They were Jews. They wore those stupid skullcaps. They called my girls all sorts of terrible names.”

“Röhm’s men have been breaking their share of store windows belonging to Jews. Those boys might have been retaliating.”

“Well,” she laughed, “too bad for them. By the time word got to me in the front of the line, the melee was over. My girls chased them down and broke their hooked noses.”

Whenever she spoke this way, she no longer appeared attractive. I needed to change the conversation. “We’ve both been working nonstop on this campaign. I’ve arranged a treat: we’re going to see Claire Waldoff perform at my friend’s cabaret tonight.”

She pouted. “Do we have to? I liked her records until I heard that she performed at the Sportpalast for the lawyers of the Rote Hilfe organization. I am sure they are Communists and Jews.”

“Are we going down that path again? Why would it matter? They help all Germans who are wrongly accused. Jews and Gentiles alike.”

We had been next to each other on the couch. Trude moved away. “I don’t like it that every time talks center on Jews, you take their side.”

I threw up my hands. “People are people. They bleed the same as we do.”

“How can you say that?”

“How can you not?”

The air remained frosty as we prepared to go out. “Can we at least put this topic aside so we can have a good time tonight?”

She laid down the hand mirror she used to apply makeup. “You’re right. There is no reason to let this get between us.”

When we entered the Nightingale, Max hurried over, delighted to see me after a long break. I introduced Trude to Max. He clicked his heels and bowed.

“It is an honor to meet you, Fräulein Mohr. Friedrich has told me so much about you.”

Trude remained stiff, making no effort to be gracious. Rather than try to lighten the moment as he was wont to do, Max escorted us to a table, bowed again, and moved on to other patrons.

The minute he withdrew, Trude erupted. “Your Max is short, fat, and with cunning eyes. He looks just like a cartoon out of Goebbels paper Der Angriff or Streicher’s Der Stürmer.”

This was not good. Her continued bigotry twisted my gut into knots. I had hoped Trude would have grown more tolerant after meeting Einstein. This had to be resolved . . . but not here. “We agreed to put this aside for tonight. What happened?” I said with all the control I could muster.

“It’s not my fault. I feel unclean when those people get near me.”

I was about to tell her we were leaving when the lights dimmed and Trude sat down. I remained standing, unsure of what to do next.

She tugged my hand. “The show is about to start.”

Max introduced Claire Waldoff. I was so upset that I sat with my arms folded across my chest, not hearing one song. I only knew the show was over when the lights were turned on and the clapping ended.

I stood to leave when Max brought over a bottle of 1920 Clicquot Ponsardin Brut Champagne.

“Not tonight, Max. But thanks, anyway.”

“What’s the problem, Friedrich? The bottle not good enough?”

Trude could not restrain herself. “I have to ask, Herr Klinghofer, why is it that you allow a woman who performs for the Communists to sing to your patrons?”

“Without qualification, Claire Waldoff deserves to perform at the Nightingale.”

Trude would have none of it. “Claire Waldoff is irreverent.”

“Is that a bad thing, Fräulein? These are dark times. We need humor to lighten our moods.”

“I’m afraid you’re misguided, Herr Klinghofer. How you get through your day means nothing to me. What is important is for all of us to be loyal Germans and not support those who associate with Communists. Unless,” she glared down at him, “you are a Jew-Communist yourself.”

I seized her arm. “Trude! You have no right to talk to Max that way. Apologize this minute!”

Before Trude could utter a word, Max stepped toward her. “Fräulein. The fact that I am Friedrich’s friend should tell you exactly who and what I am. It’s sad that your intolerance gets in the way of understanding that you and I are both loyal Germans. It is a shame we cannot be friends. I bid you a good night.” With that, Max squared his shoulders and turned away.

Trude turned to me. “How can he think he’s a loyal German? He supports a lesbian who performed for the Communists. The thought is preposterous.”

“What is preposterous is that we are still here.”

“I was hoping you were ready to leave. Back to your apartment?”

“As fast as we can. And do you know what we are going to do there?”

“I certainly do.” She grabbed my hand to kiss it. I yanked it back.

“You are going to collect your belongings—the few that you have there—and then make sure you get the hell out of my life!”