If Germany cages in a man, like Hitler, whom the prosecutor had called honest, brave, and selfless, then you have to believe scoundrels [are in control] . . . I believe England would be happy to have Hitler and Ludendorff.
—A BRITISH WOMAN, IN AN OPEN LETTER TO STENGLEIN, Grossdeutsche Zeitung
All weekend, discussions raged in cafés, shops, and beer halls about what the Miesbacher Anzeiger had already dubbed the most significant political trial in the history of Munich. The popular cabaret performer Weiss Ferdl celebrated the defendants before a massive crowd at the Hofbräuhaus: Hitler and his colleagues “courageously . . . confess their deed; they’ve nothing to conceal. Tell me, what have they done wrong? Can it really be a crime to try to save one’s fatherland from disgrace and despair?”
By the end of the trial, Hitler had radiated an enormous confidence, firmly convinced of his own historical importance. Vorwärts saw this “measureless hubris” as evidence that Hitler was nothing less than a psychopath. Frankfurter Zeitung focused more on the effects of his speech on the crowd, marveling at how this simple, half-educated “virtuoso of rhetoric” whipped the crowds to a frenzy and “moved thousands to tears.” Along the way, he hit every note on the scale: outrage, pain, indignation, enthusiasm. There was nothing subtle about this man or his speeches.
For Charles Bonnefon in L’Écho de Paris, the Hitler trial had seemed straight out of the fourteenth century. Rival chieftains, each commanding a private army, stalked the land in “the struggle of everyone against everyone”: There were Hitler and Ludendorff; Kahr and the Bavarian authorities; President Ebert and his cabinet; General von Seeckt and the German Army. Were they witnessing the “apotheosis of the feudal age?”
The foreign correspondent for Philadelphia’s Public Ledger preferred a different image, calling this Munich’s own “Alice in Wonderland” trial. The entire cast, from Hitler “the would-be Mussolini” to Kahr the “ex-dictator,” seemed like the queen and the pack of cards in the Lewis Carroll novel: “collapsible when not taken seriously.”
But it was essential to take these men and their actions seriously, the Vancouver Sun had advised. If the tribunal wanted the Munich court to regain respect, it had to deal firmly with the Prussian general, the “Austrian scene painter,” and their ragtag band of misguided, hate-filled cronies. A young republic like Germany should “avoid prosecution for high treason as long as possible,” but once it initiated the process, its justice system “must carry [it] through energetically.” This was especially true of this republic whose legitimacy was questioned by a large number of brash, outspoken opponents.
If there was ever a case so clear-cut, then surely it must be this one, Vorwärts concluded. The defendants had confessed—even boasted—of their own guilt. Yet given the course of the proceedings under Judge Neithardt, who could say with certainty that these men would receive a guilty verdict?
Only Hitler would be punished, it was widely predicted, and this was because of his theatrical defiance of Berlin, Bavaria, and the Entente. Robert Murphy at the US consulate, for one, thought Hitler would receive a prison sentence and then, as required by law, be deported to Austria. His friend Eugenio Pacelli, the nuncio for the Vatican and future Pope Pius XII, agreed. At the least, it seemed, Hitler would not be making problems for quite some time.
GIVEN THE POLARIZING nature of the proceedings, authorities feared the outbreak of demonstrations, brawls, or even riots at the announcement of the verdict. That week, certain newspapers on both the left and far right, like the Socialist Münchener Post and the extremist Grossdeutsche Zeitung, had been banned from publishing. Munich authorities had also outlawed the distribution of any political pamphlet, poster, handbill, or even a printed notice of the verdict.
On one hand, the police were pleased that the announcement of the tribunal’s decision would not take place over the weekend when, thanks to increased leisure time, the size of the crowds would be larger and the risks for trouble magnified. On the other hand, the reading of the verdict had been moved to another date that might prove problematic: It was to take place the same day as the birthday of nationalist icon Otto von Bismarck.
That weekend, informers tipped off police about a riot being plotted at the Augustinerbräu, and a telegram arrived from Augsburg warning the presiding judge that the Nazis would most emphatically refuse to accept any guilty verdict. Hate mail had poured in from as far away as the United States, calling Stenglein “a pathetic bastard.” There were even death threats to his deputy, Hans Ehard. In this overheated atmosphere, authorities decided not to take any chances.
On Monday March 31, several leaders of the police met at the library of the headquarters at Ettstrasse to plan the strategy for controlling the final session of the trial. Emphasis was placed on minimalizing the opportunities for disturbances or, if they broke out, stifling them immediately. The police were to show no toleration whatsoever of protests or applause. Large gatherings were to be prevented around Blutenburgstrasse, and a close watch placed on railroad stations for arrivals in Munich.
The Reichswehr was put on high alert and reinforcements were called in from neighboring towns in Bavaria. Guards were also posted at key sites around Munich, in fear of a possible attack, including the French consulate, the residences of government officials, and above all, the homes of Judge Neithardt, the tribunal, and the prosecutors.
THE VERDICT IN the trial would, of course, be final. There was no appeal in the People’s Court. Time magazine, then in its first year of publication, recapped the proceedings for the benefit of its readers, summing up the arguments Hitler and his codefendants made for why “they should not be decapitated, hung, or otherwise extinguished for high treason”:
They say in effect, “We were not the only ones [who committed the crime]. The highest Bavarian officials were in the plot, but got out when they thought it would fail. One of them was Kahr, another Lossow, etc. So there!”
Despite the jocular tone, the reporter admitted that he found this argument credible.
In fact, the number of people compromised in the beer hall conspiracy was believed to be so high that, L’Intransigeant reported, the Bavarian Ministry of Justice did not know what to do. Rumors swirled of deals behind the scenes to ensure the acquittal of Ludendorff, Hitler, and the other defendants.
As for the triumvirate, they had fled Munich before the end of the trial. Some said they went to Italy and others to Corfu, Greece, or Switzerland. At any rate, few were surprised. The Bavarian leaders had shown themselves to be small men, Allgemeine Rundschau said. Rather than take responsibility for their actions, they had preferred to hide behind official secrecy and seek shelter in loopholes of the law. Did not their flight from Munich confirm their guilt, or cowardice, or both?
It was hardly a surprise, either, that the court had allowed the Bavarian leaders to leave the country when investigations of their own alleged treasonous activities were pending. Neithardt had been quicker to protect Kahr, Lossow, or Seisser than he had the constitution.
No trial in recent memory had been quite like this one, Bayerischer Kurier concluded. Its main defendant had acted like “a man possessed,” Vorwärts added. The Berlin reporter related a conversation overheard at the trial when a man in the audience had praised Hitler as a master speaker who strode forth like a colossus of classical antiquity. This defendant could, if he wished, the man added, “cause a world to collapse.”
So as Hitler was emerging from the debacle of the putsch more powerful than ever, the question for the court remained: Would he be at the end, or the beginning, of his career?