Mitch reached out and took Edie’s hand and squeezed it. “Oh, how I wish I could have stayed longer to witness that for myself,” he whispered.
“It is incredible,” she agreed. “I want you to tell our children that story.”
President Valentine paused again, and then in a subdued voice he said, “Many of you have asked when missionaries from Utah can return to Germany and complete their missions. Some of you are hoping that you will be among those first ones to return.” Numerous heads came up at that, many of them nodding in agreement. “President Cannon has already sent a letter to Salt Lake asking that US missionaries be sent back as quickly as possible. But it is not likely that will happen soon. President Cannon guesses that will not happen until 1920 at the earliest, and maybe later than that.”
That brought a chorus of groans.
“For the last two years, President Cannon has not been allowed to go into Germany. He has been forced to stay in contact by phone, letters, and telegrams. Food shortages are systemic. Unemployment is everywhere. The German mark is weak as measured against foreign currencies. Throughout a long, cold winter, the people have not had sufficient fuel. Tuberculosis and other diseases are almost omnipresent.”
He stood there with his head bowed for several moments. When he began again it was in a low voice filled with pain. “And yet—” He raised a finger as his voice caught in his throat. “And yet the people remain faithful. They attend church. They pay their tithes. Like the house upon the rock in the parable of Jesus, the rains fell, the storm came, and the winds blew against the house, but the house did not fall, because it was built upon the rock of Jesus Christ.”
President Valentine wiped at his eyes. “My brothers and sisters, may we keep these dear friends across the sea in our daily prayers. May we reach out in any way possible to help them. The Church has undertaken and is still undertaking efforts to bless our fellow Saints both temporally and spiritually. So I would ask of you—beg of you!—to follow the Church’s example. And I say that in the name of our beloved Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.”
Chapter Notes
I was not able to determine when missionary reunions first became part of the culture of the Church. The earliest documented reference I could find was in 1914. This chapter is not based on any known Swiss-German Mission reunion.
President Hyrum W. Valentine, from Brigham City, Utah, and his wife Rose Ellen (Ella) Bywater Valentine, presided over the Swiss-German Mission from 1912 until 1916. President Valentine was asked to speak in general conference in April 1917 (see CR, April 1917, 146–147). What he said in that setting provided the basis for his words here. The information from President Angus Cannon comes from what he wrote in Church periodicals shortly after the end of the war. Other details come from Anderson (Mormons and Germany, 78–81), and Scharffs (Mormonism in Germany, 55–59).
About seventy-five men who were members of the Church lost their lives in the war (see Mormonism in Germany, 58).
April 25, 1919, 10:05 a.m.—EDW Ranch, Monticello, San Juan County, Utah
Edna Rae Westland was at the sink, washing out the bowls and pans she had used to make twelve loaves of bread. Those loaves were now lined up on the table, where they caught the morning sun. Edie was alone in the house, enjoying a moment of solitude.
Those moments were getting increasingly rare. There were now a dozen people living on the ranch on a full-time basis, counting Mitch Jr., June, and their four children, as well as Edie and Mitch and their own four kids. And though Rena lived in Verdure with their two children, right now her husband was engaged in spring planting, so she often came up to spend the day. Which Edie loved, but it did get a little hectic from time to time.
But this morning, Rena had called to say that the baby was a little fussy so she wasn’t coming. And once the older kids left for school, Mitch Jr. and June had taken the twins and their two youngest for an all-day trip to Moab to pick up supplies. It was just Edie and Mitch, and Mitch was out in the barn, putting new straw in the stables. So Edie decided to steal some time for herself and read a book.
10:43 a.m.
The brrrrring of the telephone made Edie jump a little, and she realized she had dozed off for a moment while reading. She looked around, a little confused. The phone rang again. She got up, set down her book, and walked swiftly into the kitchen. The phone rang a third time just as she lifted the receiver off of its hook. “Hello, Westlands.”
A man’s voice, very official, spoke in her ear. “Is this the Mitchell A. Westland residence?”
Mitchell? No one ever called him that except Edie and his mother, and then only when they were irked at him. “Yes, it is.”
“Is he there? May I speak with him, please?”
“He’s out in the barn at the moment. It will take me a few minutes to get him. Would you like to hold, or shall I have him call you back?” This was definitely a long-distance call. She could tell that from the soft static in the background. And those were expensive.
“I’ll wait, thank you. Could you tell him that this is the Office of the First Presidency calling?”
Edie nearly dropped the phone. She reared back, staring at it in disbelief. Was this someone’s idea of a joke? “I . . . all right. I’ll go get him.”
She closed the screen door softly behind her and took off running. “Mitch! Mitch! Come quickly.”
Two minutes later he was back. As he reached for the phone, he absently brushed the flecks of straw from off his pants. “Hello. This is Mitch Westland.”
Edie moved closer, standing right next to him so she could hear every word.
“Brother Westland, this is Brother Leroy Mangelsen. I work in the Office of the First Presidency and am making this call in their behalf. Do you have just a few minutes?”
“I . . . Of course.” Mitch gave Edie a baffled look. She was still too shocked to respond.
“Brother Westland, I need to ask you some questions. The Presidency is working on a problem of some complexity, and they are looking for individuals with a unique set of qualifications to assist them in this matter. Jacob Reissner suggested you as one who might be considered.”
“Okay,” he said slowly. “How may I help you?”
“Well, I suppose the first question for you is, are you willing to have your name put forth for consideration for a special project?”
“Uh . . . yeah. I suppose.” Are you sure you’ve got the right man? But Mitch didn’t say that.
“Good. For now, I just need to get some information from you. If it’s all right, I have a list of questions for you.”
“I’m ready.”
“Your full name is Mitchell Arthur Westland?”
“Yes.”
“How old are you?”
“I turned fifty-one on January 31st of this year.”
“So your year of birth was. . . .”
“Eighteen sixty-eight.”
“And your address is Rural Free Delivery Box 236, Monticello, Utah.”
“Actually, it’s RFD Box two-forty-six.”
“Oh, good. Thank you. And your wife’s name is Edna Rae Zimmer Westland?”
“Yes, but she goes by Edie.”
“And she is of German descent?”
Mitch’s eyebrows raised as he looked at her. “Yes, her grandparents on her father’s side were from Germany. They immigrated here in 1878. But both of them are now deceased.”
There was a moment’s pause, and Mitch could hear the faint scratching of a pen.
“We understand that you spoke German in your home while the grandmother lived with you?”
“Yes. My wife and I and some of our children can speak German.”
“And how would you describe your fluency in German?”
“Excellent,” Edie mouthed.
“Excellent,” Mitch said, frowning at her.
“And . . . let’s see. You were called to serve in the Swiss-German Mission . . . ah, yes. In June of 1913. And you were released early due to the war.” They w
eren’t questions, so the man was obviously reading off of something.
“Yes.” Edie, whose face was pale now, moved to the table and sank heavily into a chair.
“How many children do you still have in the home, and what are their ages?”
“We have four. A boy, fifteen; a girl, eleven; and twins who are four, a girl and a boy.”
“Is your passport still valid?”
“Yes, I renewed it last year.”
“Do you have any plans to travel back to Germany?”
That rocked him back a little. “Uh . . . no, not immediate ones. My wife and I have talked about going to the Passion Play in Oberammergau sometime. But that’s still just talk.”
“I see. Are you affiliated with any German clubs, groups, or organizations here in America?”
That one took Mitch by surprise. “No.”
“Not even some of those groups of Church members here in Utah? We have a large contingent of German-speaking Saints here in Salt Lake.”
“No. Monticello is too far away to make that a possibility.”
“I see.” The man was silent for a moment, as if checking his list. “And please excuse the personal nature of this question, but the First Presidency needs to know this information. If you prefer not to say, they will understand. How would you describe your financial situation?”
On hearing that, Edie dropped her head in her hands and stared at the table. “I would say we are comfortable. I am a cattle rancher, and we’ve had a few successful years, thanks to the war. So we are debt free and have some savings in the bank.”
There was another moment of scratching and the turning of paper, and finally: “All right, I think that’s everything I need, Brother Westland. Thank you very much. I may be back in touch if they have further questions. Do you have any questions?”
About a thousand. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Then good-bye. And thank you again.”
Mitch replaced the earpiece in its hook and sat down heavily beside his wife. She didn’t look up. “They’re going to call you on another mission,” she said in utter dejection.
He had thought the same thing but had already rejected that idea. “Edie, I’m fifty-one years old. And you heard what President Valentine said. Germany is not issuing any visas yet.”
Edie stiffened. “Do you think they’re looking for a new mission president? The Valentines have been there for almost three years now.”
For a moment Mitch was speechless. Then he shook his head. “There’s no way. Me, a mission president? Besides, our kids are too young. The Church wouldn’t send a young family over there.”
“Then what?” Edie burst out. “If it’s not a mission, what else could it be?”
Mitch searched his wife’s face, seeing how many lines the years had added around her eyes and mouth. “All right, let’s suppose for the sake of argument that it is a mission. Then what?”
Her head came up slowly. “You know the answer to that.”
“Are you sure?”
“You be careful what you say,” she scolded. “If Oma Zimmer is listening, she’ll pop you a good one for even asking that question. And think about your own mother, Mitch. She hated it here. She was terrified of the Indians. When the Brethren offered releases to anyone who wanted to quit, my parents went back to Richfield. Your mother stayed. Why?”
“Because it was a call from the Prophet.”
“Yes, Mitch. And whose office were you just talking to?”
His jaw set. “I still don’t think this is about a mission call. He called it a special project.”
Edie threw up her hands and shot to her feet. “Oooh! You are so stubborn sometimes.”
As she stomped out of the kitchen he called after her. “I wonder who I learned that from.”
May 2, 1929, 7:00 a.m.—Mars Camp, Maxvorstadt District, Munich, Germany
Colonel Stefan von Schiller strode up to the podium and looked around the large assembly room. Hans noted that he carried no cane, and though his limp was noticeable, it was not pronounced. The hall was about half full with the officers and platoon sergeants of the First Battalion. There was a buzz of excitement in the air. The word was that today they would march on Munich.
Von Schiller cracked the podium with his fist, and instantly the hall quieted. “Gentlemen,” he roared. “Welcome back.”
The men applauded enthusiastically.
“Are you ready to help solve Munich’s problems the same way we did in Berlin?”
Whistles and shouts.
He suddenly went very still and frowned deeply. “Gentlemen, I have a problem. Today, is the second day of May. My wife has scheduled a banquet at our home on Saturday, the tenth of May. That is one week from tomorrow.” He looked at Hans for a moment. “Some of you know my wife. She does not view war as an acceptable excuse for postponing a party.”
Laughter filled the hall. He leaned forward. “Do you understand what I’m saying? I need to be back in Berlin by next Saturday morning. Do I make myself clear?”
The response was instantaneous. Clapping right along with the rest, Hans marveled. This man was a genius at motivating men. “Or better yet, how about we finish this whole thing up by tea time tomorrow?” von Schiller continued. That won him a thunderous response with much stomping of the feet.
After letting it roll for a few moments, the colonel held up a hand and gradually the room quieted again. “You company commanders and platoon commanders have all been briefed on our objectives and your specific assignments. But I have just learned some things from an intelligence briefing that I think your men should know.”
He held up one finger. “Number one. The so-called Soviet Republic’s Red Army now consists of about twenty thousand men.” The reaction to that was instant dismay, and Hans’s reaction was no different. Twenty thousand!
“Ah,” von Schiller said softly, “I can see that number concerns you. Good. You should be concerned. But you tell your men this: First, very few of those men are soldiers. They are factory workers, railway workers, unionists. Second, they are poorly trained. We estimate about half do not know how to fire a rifle.” He smiled. “But then, about half of them have no rifles!”
Laughter erupted at that. “More important, counting our Freikorps troops, regular army, and a group that calls itself the ‘White Guards of Capitalism,’ we now have about forty thousand men who are fully armed, combat-trained, and battle-hardened.” He grinned. “How do you like them odds?”
The response was thunderous, and the colonel’s smile broadened as he watched them celebrate. As the noise died down again, he raised two fingers. “Number two. The Communists are convinced that when this battle commences, the people will rise up and join them. How blind can they be? These Communists are the same ones who turned the middle classes against them by expropriating their apartments and automobiles, looting their homes and businesses, forcing them to sell goods below cost, and brutally executing nearly thirty of Munich’s most respected citizens.” His eyes were flashing fire. “Do you think the people will rise up and fight for them?”
“No!” the crowd roared. As Hans joined in the cheering, he looked around, and once again his admiration for Colonel von Schiller rose higher. Morale was always a major factor in battle. And Hans had not seen the morale of his men higher.
“So,” the colonel said when they were quiet again. “I have only one more question.” His voice rose sharply. “What think you? Can Colonel Stefan von Schiller call his wife tonight and tell her to set a place for him at the table next Saturday?”
The answering roar was so loud, the colonel actually laughed. Then, knowing his work was done, he snapped off a salute, turned, and walked out.
10:38 a.m.—New Town Hall, Marienplatz, Old Town, Munich
Hans cocked his head and listened to the rumble of artillery and the distant crack of rifle fire and then motioned his four platoon leaders to move in closer. “All right, listen up. I just received word. The White Guards are wai
ting for trucks to transport them into the city. Until they arrive, our previous orders are put on hold. First Battalion is to hold St. Mary’s Plaza until the White Guards arrive. Companies A and B are covering the roads to the north of us; D Company is to the south. Their task is to cut off any incursions before they reach us.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the huge, ornate building behind them. “Our company is to defend New Town Hall and the Glockenspiel and the Marian Column and Mary’s statue at all costs.”
He saw disappointment on their faces. This morning they were charged up by von Schiller. Now they were going to babysit some huge cuckoo clock with life-size dancing figurines and a statue of the Virgin Mary. No wonder they were frustrated.
Hans had to do something about that. “For those of you who are not from Bavaria, you need to understand the importance of where we are right now. This square has been the heart of Bavaria itself since the 1100s. That statue of Mary was erected in 1638 to celebrate the Bavarian victory in the Thirty Years’ War. The Glockenspiel is world-famous. And if something happens to any of this because we were careless or thought it wasn’t important, those mobs of people that Colonel von Schiller spoke about this morning are going to come after you and me, and they will tear us to pieces with their bare hands. Do you understand me?”
Everyone nodded. No one spoke.
“So, Sergeant Diehls and First Platoon will be the rovers. I want you moving at all times, watching the side streets, checking out the buildings. We don’t want to be surprised. Second, Third, and Fourth Platoons will deploy along the length of the town hall. We have four machine guns, so I want two in front of the main entrance and one at each end. Make sure you have overlapping fields of fire facing to the south. If they’re coming, they’ll likely come in from the south. As soon as the guns are set up, get the sandbags from the trucks and protect your positions.”