Chapter 62

June – July 1934

“We are going to Neudeck.” Hitler stood in my office doorway, bedecked in his flying gear.

“Alone?”

“Certainly not with Papen, if that’s what you mean. We have an appointment with the old man. General Blomberg will be there, too.”

“Is that wise?”

“Wise? It’s imperative we meet with Blomberg. Without the army, we’re nothing. Regarding Hindenburg, we need to know if Papen’s Marburg speech moved him. Papen may already have reached out to Hindenburg in his bid for the presidency.”

“Regarding Papen’s speech, people are beginning to greet each other with, ‘Heil Marburg.’” The blood drained from Hitler’s face.

“Is that so? Everyone concerned with that speech, especially Herr Edgar Jung, who wrote it, will soon get their ‘Heil Marburg’ from me. But, first, on to Neudeck.”

We landed and were driven to the Manor house. General von Blomberg met us at the door. Oskar was at his heel.

“The field marshal is very weak,” Oskar said in hushed tones. “Go in alone,” he told Hitler. Then, in an apology to me, he mouthed that he was sorry.

“Do you also understand what is at stake?” Blomberg asked me while Hitler was with Hindenburg. “If the SA is not suppressed, the president will declare martial law and turn control over to the army.”

“You made that clear on the Deutschland.”

“That was ten weeks ago. Nothing has changed since.” Blomberg did nothing to hide his irritation. “We thought Hitler would have done what he promised by now. You are forcing us to invite Papen to be president.”

I was about to explain the steps that were in motion when Hitler emerged, nodded to Blomberg, and said, “General, you will hear from me shortly.”

“Our patience is growing thin, Herr Hitler.” That he didn’t refer to Wolf as mein Führer punctuated his warning.

Hitler put his index finger to his lips. “Soon.” He turned to me. “Come, Friedrich, we have much to do.”

I was bursting to find out what Hitler and Hindenburg discussed. As per usual, Hitler sat next to the driver in the front seat, forcing me to wait until we were on the plane. The engines whined. Hitler leaned into me. “The die is cast. The old man knows he has little time left. He could not have been clearer. He is ready to declare martial law if I don’t move against Röhm.”

June 25 – June 30, 1934

Word came from Oskar von Hindenburg—through General von Blomberg—that Franz von Papen would meet Reich President Hindenburg on June 30. This meeting could not take place.

Wolf activated his plan. He ordered Sepp Dietrich, who commanded Hitler’s elite bodyguard—the SS Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler—to be ready to move against Röhm and his top officers. Simultaneously, the Reichswehr was put on notice. Blomberg agreed to have the army on standby in their barracks if Sepp Dietrich’s men needed help. Finally, Hitler ordered Röhm and his top leadership to meet with him on Saturday, June 30 at Bad Wiessee, a resort in upper Bavaria. It was the first weekend of their “furlough.”

While the newspapers and many historians would label our actions during these next high-tension days as the “Röhm Putsch,” there was no putsch—at least not by Röhm.

June 28, 1934, Thursday

To give the appearance of normalcy, we honored a long-standing promise to attend Josef Terboven’s marriage in Essen. Josef marched with us in Munich in ’23. Hess, Goebbels, Hitler, and I attended the wedding breakfast while Göring, Himmler, and Heydrich remained in Berlin organizing the offensive. At a critical moment, Wolf broke away from the celebration and took me aside. “The wheels are in motion. Röhm and some of the top SA leadership are already at Bad Wiessee.”

“When are the rest expected?”

“Most are in transit and will be there soon. The rest are in Berlin. Himmler, Heydrich, and Göring will take care of them. The plan is for Sepp Dietrich and a contingent of SS to accompany me to arrest Röhm and neutralize the top SA leadership.”

“Some will put up resistance. You need me by your side.”

“Nein. They don’t expect anything. They will be overwhelmed. You, on the other hand, must carry out a critical mission if we are to succeed. Much will depend on you.”

“You have thought of every contingency. What could be left?”

“Franz von Papen. It is critical to prevent Papen from communicating with his staff. A plane is waiting to fly you to Berlin. Göring and Himmler will expect you early in the morning. Take a squadron of SS to surround Papen’s house. Cut his phone wires. Place him under house arrest no later than noon. Restrain him if he resists. No one must go in or out once you get there until our mission has been completed.”

“Under what pretext can I keep the vice chancellor under house arrest?”

“Tell him . . . tell him that Röhm’s Putsch has started in Munich, that his life is in danger, and that I have placed him in protective custody for his own safety. Under no circumstance can he be allowed to reach Hindenburg on the 30th!”

Friday, June 29, 1934, 6 a.m.

I found Göring, Himmler, and Heydrich in a conference room at SS headquarters in Berlin. The three were discussing last minute details of the impending action.

Himmler nodded when I entered. “Right on time, Friedrich. I’ve placed thirty SS at your disposal. That should be enough to keep Papen safe.”

“Is one good with communications?”

“You mean can one snip the telephone wires? They all can.”

I turned to Göring. “Hermann, please send a messenger with updates. I don’t want to be left in the dark.”

I rode in the lead car followed by a caravan of black vehicles. In a flash, the men surrounded Papen’s house and cut the phone lines before I banged on his front door. Papen, dressed in a blue silk robe over his nightclothes, opened the door scratching his disheveled mane of gray hair.

Papen yawned. “Friedrich, why are you here this early? Did something happen to Hitler?”

“It’s not safe to talk out here, Franz. Let’s step inside.” Papen’s house was filled with nineteenth-century furnishings and mementos from his long career. We sat on plush club chairs in the salon. “Are your wife and children home?”

“They went to visit friends in Bremen for the weekend. What’s wrong with Hitler? Why is it safer inside?”

“I need to stay with you for the next couple of days. Probably through Sunday. Monday at the latest.”

“That’s preposterous. I have appointments to keep.”

“Your safety is more important than any meeting you might have.”

“I don’t understand,” said Papen.

“Hitler got word that Röhm and the SA leadership are plotting a putsch.”

He jumped up. “If that’s so, I must call Hindenburg so he can declare a state of emergency. The Reichswehr must be alerted that the SA is about to take it over. General Blomberg must take steps.”

“That won’t be necessary. Hindenburg has been informed and Blomberg has issued orders. By tomorrow, the heads of the SA will be arrested. You must remain here until the danger has passed.”

“What does Röhm have to do with me? Besides, if he’s in Bad Wiessee, as you say, and we’re in Berlin, then what harm could come to the vice chancellor?”

“There is no telling how his SA men will react when Röhm is arrested. Hitler appreciates your value not only to him and the president, but also to the country. We need this extra layer of security to ensure your safety. I’m sure you understand.”

“At least let me call my wife and children. Tell them that I’m safe. When they hear what is about to happen tomorrow, they will worry.”

“No need. I’ll get a message to them.”

“I’ll do it myself.” He walked to the console and lifted the receiver. He clicked the button many times. He shook it. “The line seems to be dead.”

I shrugged. “Just a precaution.”

Papen’s shoulders slumped. He realized our comedy was over. He and I were not going anywhere. Throughout the day, we talked, read, and played chess. Dinner was brought to us. Papen opened a good bottle of wine. We were civilized for the time being.

Saturday, June 30, 1934, Early Morning

Papen came down to the salon dressed in a fine, three-piece gray tweed suit, white shirt, and gray-striped tie.

“Franz, where do you think you’re going?”

“I told you I had an appointment today that I must keep.”

“I thought I made it clear yesterday: my orders are to keep you here. Please do not make this more difficult than it already is.”

Papen headed for the door. When he opened it, five SS men jumped to alert and aimed their rifles his way. Papen froze.

“Can I make it any plainer?” I nodded toward the SS men.

“But Hindenburg is expecting me,” his voice pitched higher.

“He is aware that you are unable to attend because of the emergency.”

He slapped his thigh and drew himself up straight. “Friedrich, I am the vice chancellor of Germany. I am walking out this door. No one is going to stop me.” He pulled the door open.

I yanked him back and slammed it shut. “Franz, if you don’t sit down, my orders are to tie you down.” Papen twisted away and stomped from room to room, lifting shades or separating curtains. Through each window, he saw clusters of SS men. Defeated, he went to his bedroom to change his clothes without added protest.

When he returned, he found me in his study. “How long are you going to keep me here?”

“Until I hear otherwise.”

“How reassuring,” he answered.

An hour later, there was a knock on the door.

“Is it for me?” Papen asked.

“No.” It was a report from Göring. I opened the envelope.

All hell broke loose Friday night in Munich. Three thousand SA men rioted. Hitler diverted from Bad Wiessee for several hours. The Führer personally arrested SA Obergruppenführer Schneidhuber and Gruppenführer Schmid. Tore badges off their uniforms with own hands. Ordered them shot. Dealing with putschists in Berlin now. Hitler on way to Bad Wiessee to arrest Röhm. Keep you posted.

H.G.

Papen was at my elbow. “What does the message say?”

I shoved it in my pocket. “Last night, some of Röhm’s men got out of hand in Munich. They had to be subdued.”

“Was that the beginning of Röhm’s Putsch?”

I answered with a shrug. The less Papen knew, the better.

“What is going to happen today?” Papen asked.

“Something important. That’s all I know. Let’s take our mind off this. You won the chess game yesterday. I would like a chance to return the favor.”

Sunday, July 1, 1934, 1 p.m.

The hours ticked by that morning without word from Göring. Finally, as I was about to order one of the SS to go to headquarters and get me a report, the commander of the men surrounding Papen’s house knocked on the door. He gave a heel-clicking salute, “Heil Hitler.”

I held out my hand; he remained at attention. “Where is Reich President Göring’s report, Herr Sturmbannführer?”

“We have been ordered to withdraw, Herr Obergruppenführer. The telephone lines have been repaired. Vice Chancellor Papen is free to do as he pleases.”

Göring said this would be over by Sunday. He was right. I thanked the commander.

As I walked back into Papen’s living room, the shrill ring of the telephone broke the silence. Papen, reading in his study, lunged for the receiver, the leather-bound volume falling from his lap. As he listened, his posture changed from ramrod straight to that of a hunched old man. He shouted, “No!” Then “Oh mein Gott!” And finally, “This is not possible!” When he could, he asked a question or two, only to cry out at the answers.

When the call ended, he needed two trembling hands to return the receiver to its cradle. Papen leaned on the table to gather enough strength to hobble back to his seat, plop down, and then clasp his head in his hands.

“Franz, what on earth is it?”

He lifted his tear-stained face. “Your gang has murdered my entire staff. All of my top people!”

“What are you talking about? That can’t be.”

“What am I talking about?” Papen rose and leaned on his chair for support. “Goddamn you, Friedrich . . . I’m talking about the cold-blooded killing of my staff. My press chief, von Bose. Herbert was shot dead in the Vice-Chancellery; Erich Klausner was shot in his office. And . . .” Papen fell back into his chair sobbing. I stood stone-still until he spoke again. He whispered through rheumy, reddened eyes, “They even killed Edgar Jung. You knew him, Friedrich. Edgar was always by my side. Now I know why Hitler asked me who wrote my Marburg speech.”

Papen hobbled to the side table and poured himself a brandy. He finished it and poured another. With glass in hand, he stepped toward me, and gazed off at nothing. “Edgar was found in a ditch in Oranienburg. With a bullet in his head.”

Then he stepped into my space and stabbed his index finger into my chest. “Yes, Herr Obergruppenführer, you were there when I answered Hitler’s question: ‘Who wrote your speech?’ Now his body lies in a ditch, shot in the head. Tell me, Friedrich, why was he shot? Why were they all shot? What did they have to do with this so-called Röhm Putsch?” With each question he stabbed me harder. “Why didn’t you shoot me? It would have been better for me than to hear this.”

I stepped back. “I’m sorry, Franz. I didn’t know.”

He stepped toward the side table. “Liar!” Papen poured another glass of brandy. Drank half, and with a look that tossed daggers, said, “That’s not all of them. Do you know who else your gang murdered? Poor Schleicher.”

How to process this madness? “Schleicher had nothing to do with Röhm,” I mumbled.

“I’m not finished.” He gulped the rest of his drink. “Not only did they shoot Schleicher dead in his apartment doorway, but they killed his wife, too. Poor woman. Both murdered.” Rivulets of tears streamed down his face as he struggled to stand.

“Who else?” I prayed there were no more.

“Gregor Strasser. Murdered in a basement cell in Gestapo headquarters.” Without another word, Papen grabbed the handrail of the staircase and pulled himself to his room, one step at a time.

Schleicher? Strasser? Both were out of politics. Neither had dealings with Röhm. There was only one answer: revenge. More than once, Wolf told me that he wanted both dead.

The phone rang. After four rings, I knew Papen wasn’t answering it.

I lifted the receiver.

It was Papen’s wife.

“Yes, he is okay. Yes. Yes. I’m sure. I’ll have him call you soon.”

Sunday, July 1, 1934

It was almost 5 p.m. when I reached Gestapo headquarters. Göring and Himmler were gone, but Heydrich was in his office. I found him behind his desk that sported a framed photo of Heinrich Himmler. He motioned to the lone chair.

“I just left Papen. His people are dead. So are Schleicher and Strasser. What the hell happened?”

Heydrich leaned back. “Papen’s lucky. He should have gotten his, but the Führer spared him for some reason.”

I was numb. I thought about Göring’s note. “Why Schneidhüber?”

“He was a traitor,” answered Heydrich.

“I don’t understand. The Führer stood in a picture with him at the Buch-Bormann wedding.”

Heydrich shrugged. “We didn’t count on troops rioting in Munich. That had to be quashed before the Führer traveled to Bad Wiessee to arrest Röhm. That’s when we received the call to spring into action here in Berlin. Code name: Unternehmen Kolibri. Operation Hummingbird. It went down fast after that.”

“Did they have to kill Papen’s entire staff?”

“Goebbels ordered it.”

“Why Strasser and Schleicher?”

“Isn’t it obvious? They both conspired against the Führer.”

“Did Schleicher’s wife deserve to die? How did she wrong the Führer?”

Heydrich shook his head. “We didn’t mean to kill her. She came to the door with the general. It was a stray bullet.”

My stomach convulsed; this was a living nightmare. “This was supposed to be about Röhm. What happened to him?”

“The Führer took a handful of men and arrested Röhm himself. The rest is history.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The other co-conspirators were rounded up.”

None of this made any sense to me. “I don’t understand. If Röhm was arrested, what others were rounded up?”

“The top echelons of the SA, of course. Are you that naïve to think the plan was to eliminate one person? Get rid of Röhm and our troubles would go away? That would never have been enough to satisfy the Reichswehr.”

“You’re talking to me like I’m an idiot, Standartenführer. I’m hearing all of this for the first time. How would you like me to respond? Maybe you can talk about all these deaths as though they meant nothing to you, but I knew these people.”

“Cut the crap, Friedrich. This is about survival. You and I are both survivors. And for the record, I’ve just been promoted to Gruppenführer. I will be your rank soon enough.”

This was not the time to deal with his truculence. “You still haven’t told me how it ended in Bad Wiessee.”

“Ask your old friend Emil Maurice. He had quite a heavy hand in all of it.”

When I reached for the telephone on his desk, he stopped me. “There’s time to call Emil.” Heydrich came around his desk. “Come with me. Let’s take a ride. You need to see, firsthand, how we dealt with the putsch.”

*

We drove to Lichterfelde, a village founded in the Middle Ages, now incorporated into Greater Berlin. Lichterfelde boasted a well-known military academy that the Berlin Police used since the Great War. It now housed Hitler’s bodyguard: the SS Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler. We rolled up to the four-story red brick building. From the outside, it reminded me of Pasewalk Hospital. The building stood empty. The garrison and its commander were still in Munich.

“Why bring me here?”

“Be patient, Friedrich.”

I followed Heydrich through vast halls and out the back into a courtyard. He explained that the arrested SA men were detained in the coal cellar until their names were called. They were then brought to the sunlit courtyard where we stood.

Heydrich pointed to a long wall riddled with bullet holes. Shards of brick were strewn about, resting on blackened ground that looked like pools of oil . . . but were globs of congealed blood. I stepped closer. Clumps of flesh were pinned into divots in the brick. Here and there, I saw a part of an arm or a piece of scalp with matted hair stuck to the wall.

Heydrich rocked on his heels, relishing my reaction to the remnants of this butchery.

I began to choke. The taste of bile rose from my gut. Just when I thought I had it controlled, I turned and vomited. I waved away the white handkerchief Heydrich offered, and used my own. My voice was muffled. “How many killed?”

“I need to confirm names, but it tallied one-hundred-and-fifty-three. We were very organized.” Heydrich could not have been more matter-of-fact. “Four names were called every fifteen minutes. They were marched out of the coal cellar and lined up by the wall. We ripped open their shirts and drew a circle around their left nipple with a piece of coal.”

I struggled to understand what his words meant as I pushed against my knees to stand. “You drew targets?”

“Shooters must have targets,” he said. “Eight SS aimed their rifles at the traitors; none knew who had live ammunition and who had blanks. Before I ordered them to shoot, I first called out that the Führer wills it. ‘Heil Hitler!’ Fire! I finished each off with a bullet to the head. We used a butcher’s wagon to cart the bodies out, then the next four souls would be lined up.”

“Did you tell them why they were being executed?”

He laughed. “The odd thing? They believed a Röhm Putsch had succeeded. They thought Hitler had been arrested and that they were all victims of the coup. Many shouted, ‘Heil, Hitler,’ as we shot them.”

“In Munich, who was killed besides Röhm?”

“Buch headed the operation there. As I said earlier, your friend Emil Maurice played a significant part over my and Himmler’s objections.”

“I want to leave, now.”

“You’ve seen what I wanted to show you.”

He dropped me off at my apartment. I ripped my clothes off and took a long, hot shower. With a towel still wrapped around my torso, I grabbed a glass and a bottle of scotch and took a long pull. Then another. I stared at the phone for a time, and then placed a call.

“I didn’t think I would find you home, Emil. What the hell happened?”

“It’s over, Friedrich. Finished.”

“Why didn’t I know about the extent of this beforehand?”

“Only the Boss can answer that. But you should have been here, Friedrich. It was amazing. We pulled up to the hotel early Saturday morning. Walter Buch was there.”

“It’s ironic how you can’t get away from him.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Remember the letters? Ida Arnold?”

“Ancient history. Anyway, Buch hung back. I was behind the Boss when he knocked on Röhm’s door. Röhm was in a deep sleep. He said, ‘Heil Hitler,’ when he saw the Boss, and something to the effect that he expected the Boss later in the day. Then Hitler stepped into the room by himself and proceeded to curse Röhm about his lewd behavior. He told him he was a disgrace to himself, to the Boss, and to the entire Reich.”

“What did Röhm say?”

“He took it. Not a peep. Then someone said that Edmund Heines, Röhm’s deputy, was in bed in the next room with some boy-lover. When Hitler heard this, he turned bright red. I thought he would have a stroke then and there.”

“Don’t tell me they killed Heines, too?”

“How could we let the immoral bastard live? Buch had us haul Heines and his lover outside. As soon as they cleared the doorway, Christian Weber and I killed them. Buch was okay giving the orders but didn’t like to dirty his hands.”

“Weber is a murderous slob.”

“Weber was perfect for what we had to do. After we shot Heines and his lover, we returned to Munich. Hitler. Buch. Weber. Me. Others too. Along the way, we intercepted car after car filled with SA headed toward Bad Wiessee. Some were Röhm’s personal guards. Hitler ordered them to turn around and follow us. We headed a caravan of SA that didn’t have a clue they were being led to their deaths.”

“I’ve known many of the top SA men for years. We were in the Freikorps together. We marched shoulder-to-shoulder in the ’23 Putsch. You knew them, too.”

“Buch told us we couldn’t take any chances. We had to kill them all. Orders are orders.”

“What happened to Röhm?”

“We took him to Stadelheim Prison.”

“That’s where Hitler and Esser did thirty days after beating up Otto Ballerstedt,” I said.

“I’ll come to him in a minute.”

I rolled my eyes. Not Ballerstedt, too! “I’m not sure I want to hear about him. Go on about Röhm.”

“A gun with a single bullet was placed on the table in front of Röhm. The Boss demanded that Röhm do the right thing. He gave Röhm ten minutes to kill himself.”

“Was Hitler in the room with Röhm?”

“No. We couldn’t take the chance that Röhm would use it on him. Do you know what that arrogant pig said? ‘If I am to be killed, let Adolf do it himself.’ I tell you, the Boss wept. In his heart, he didn’t want to kill Röhm. Röhm was an Alte Kämpfer, like both of us. But he had gone too far against the Reichswehr. The Boss had no choice. After ten minutes, the order was given. Röhm died in a hail of bullets shot through the door opening.”

“Emil, I thought this was about Röhm and the SA, but obviously it was more. Strasser and Streicher were killed here in Berlin. Both of Papen’s aides and his secretary were killed, too. Who else died in Munich?”

“Gustav von Kahr, for one. Remember how he violated his word and turned on us during the Putsch? Hitler never forgave him for doing that. Kahr’s body was found in the marshes outside of Dachau. Hacked to death. A bullet was too good to waste on him.”

“Don’t tell me you did that?”

“No, but I wished I had.”

“This went far beyond the original plan to satisfy Blomberg and the others in the Reichswehr. I’m at a loss as to what to call this? A massacre?”

“Call it revenge. Problem solving. Whatever strikes your fancy.”

I had no words to describe this bloodbath. I felt trapped in a world I didn’t understand. “You mentioned Otto Ballerstedt.”

“Ballerstedt paid for how he treated Hitler when he embarrassed him.”

“For God’s sake, Emil, that was in 1921. The man was a cripple then. He retired years ago. How could he be a threat to anyone now?”

“No matter. Yesterday he got a bullet in the back of the head.” Emil continued. “There were others. We cleaned house, Friedrich. Now people know we mean business. Where were you when all this was going on?”

Still processing the news, I couldn’t answer.

“Friedrich? Did you hear me?”

“Sorry. I . . . I was locked in Papen’s house with him since Friday. Without access to the outside world. I knew none of this until this afternoon.”

“I’m glad you kept Papen safe. Heydrich or Himmler might have gotten the idea to do away with him, too.”

“Heydrich did get the idea but couldn’t act on it because I was guarding him.”

“That would have made the old man in Neudeck very unhappy.”

As Emil said this, I recalled Martin Breslauer’s words that New Year’s Eve in Max’s club. Breslauer said that in the world of Nietzsche, a benevolent dictator has to demand supreme happiness.

“Emil, today was not a day for happiness.”