Alisa took one look, gave a low cry, and buried her face against her mother’s shoulder.
“Alisa,” Hans cried, laughing, “it’s Vati, Liebchen.” He took a step toward her.
Alisa nearly climbed up and over her mother’s shoulder trying to get away from him. Backing off a step or two, Emilee held her tightly. “It’s the soap,” she said. “She doesn’t recognize you.”
“Ah. Of course.” Hans turned back, picked up the straight razor, whopped it back and forth a few times on the razor strap, and went to work on his face. Alisa turned to peek at him. Emilee moved to one side so the baby could see her father in the mirror as more and more of his face began to appear. When all that was left was the lather on his neck, he grinned at her and waved.
“Vati?”
“Yes, Lisa,” Emilee laughed. “It’s Vati.”
Alisa held out her hands and started to squirm to get down. Hans shook his head. “Vati is still wet, Liebchen. Let me dry off and get some pants on, then Papa will hold you.” He pushed the door mostly shut. Emilee went over and sat down on the bed, holding her daughter so she couldn’t climb down. “Are you sorry that we moved here?” she called after a moment.
The door opened partway and Hans peered around it. “Not at all. Why do you ask?”
“This bathroom is smaller than our last one.”
“Only because the tub takes up more room. I’ll take the bigger tub any day.”
“Gut. I feel the same.”
“And having your mother and Heinz-Albert living with us has been good for her, I think. Don’t you? Even though she was just a block away before, I think she worries less now.”
“I agree.” Emilee was pleased that he would mention that particularly. As her congestive heart failure continued to worsen, Frieda Fromme found it more difficult to walk the short distance to the flat Hans and Emilee had been renting. So one day, about a year ago now, Emilee’s mother had shocked them by proposing that she sell her home and use the money to help Hans and Emilee buy a home large enough for Frieda and Heinz-Albert to move in with them.
“And I am very happy with the larger garage,” he called.
“Of course,” she called back. That had been a blessing too. A block west of their home was Schleissheimerstrasse, a major thoroughfare through this part of Munich. Two blocks south from their street on the main thoroughfare, Hans had found a garage for rent with four bays and a large workbench across the full length of the back of it. Not only did that double his capacity for fixing trucks, but a couple blocks west of his location was the Bavarian Motor Works. BMW, as everyone called it, had been a major producer of aircraft engines during the war. Now it produced engines for aircraft, boats, automobiles, trucks, and motorcycles—which meant Hans had quick and easy access to engine parts. Within a month or two of their move, Hans’s client base began to expand and he finally hired Ernst. He was now Hans’s full-time apprentice mechanic. Hans now had a part-time mechanic as well.
The bathroom door opened and Hans came out, cinching the belt on his pants tight. On the bathroom floor, his towel was crumpled where he had let it drop. Emilee almost said something, but Alisa shot off the bed and into her father’s arms, squealing as he tossed her into the air and caught her again. After a moment, he walked to the wardrobe and opened it. As he looked for a shirt, Alisa studied him closely and then raised one of her little hands and softly ran a finger along the twin scars on his upper cheek. “Vati hurt?” she asked, her eyes narrowed in concern.
“No, Liebchen. They don’t hurt. Not anymore.” He kissed her, set her down, and selected a shirt.
As he put it on and began to button it, Emilee asked, “How late tonight?” Then she hated herself for letting her voice sound so whiny.
“Not sure,” Hans said. “I’m hoping we’ll only be an hour or two at most.”
“I wish they wouldn’t hold meetings on Sundays. It’s the only day when you can be with us.”
His frown deepened. “With Adolf in Berlin, we shouldn’t even be having a meeting.”
That surprised her. “He’s still up there? I thought he went there over a month ago.”
“Six weeks, actually. He was asked to speak to a group of German nationalists in the capital. And afterward, he wanted to get a feeling for the nationalist movement in the north. But we all expected he’d be back long before this.”
“So why are you meeting, then?”
“I’m not sure. And to be honest, I don’t like it. When Drexler called, he made a point of telling me that the meeting was something I didn’t have to come to if I didn’t want to. When I told him that Adolf had asked me, as his assistant propaganda officer, to attend any meetings in his behalf, Drexler pointedly told me that if I did come, I would not have a voice in any votes taken.” He was quiet as he put on his shoes and socks. “What’s really going on is that Drexler and some of the others are jealous of Adolf’s growing influence in the party.”
“Are they trying to push him out?” Emilee asked in surprise.
“That’s what I’m going to find out.” He reached out his arms. “Lisa, Vati has to catch the trolley. Come give Papa a kiss.”
6:41 p.m.—Old Sternecker Brewery, Schwabing, Munich
Hans was pretending to be making notes on his tablet, but in reality, he was surreptitiously sizing up the group that surrounded the two tables in the room. Since Drexler had tried to discourage him from coming, Hans had expected maybe he hadn’t let others know about the meeting either. So Hans half expected that only the executive committee would be there.
The executive committee of the party consisted of six members including Adolf. And three of them were leading the charge to strip Adolf of his position and influence. Anton Drexler, one of the original founders of the party, was currently president and chairman of the committee. He sat directly across from Hans. Sitting to his left was Karl Harrer, the man who had been “national president” of the party when Hans and Adolf had first attended a meeting. He was still a voting member of the committee, and right now he stood firmly with Drexler in his opposition to Adolf.
Seated on the other side of the chairman was Gottfried Feder, the amateur economist who was now the party treasurer. An obsequious and fawning man, he had switched his allegiance from Adolf to Drexler when Hitler replaced him as the party’s lead speaker at the meetings.
The other two members were supporters of Adolf. Hermann Esser, secretary to the committee, was an effective speaker—or orator, as Adolf liked to call them—second only to Hitler in his effectiveness. He was also far and away the most virulently anti-Semitic member of the party. He constantly wrote Jew-baiting articles for the party’s recently acquired newspaper. He was also a relentless womanizer and made no secret about being supported by his many mistresses. Though Hans didn’t particularly care for him, he was a dynamic force in the party.
According to rumors, he was also not above using blackmail to supplement his income. When he had tried to extort money from party members, some of the more conservative members demanded that he be ejected from the party. Hans hadn’t been there that night, but he got a full report later. Adolf had listened to their complaints and then sat back and smiled. “Esser is a scoundrel. No one disputes that. But we shall hold on to him as long as he can be useful to the party.” That was a story that Hans had not shared with Emilee.
Finally, there was Christian Weber, who served as sergeant at arms. Here was another man that Hans didn’t particularly like. He was a horse seller by trade, a heavy beer drinker, a former bouncer in one of Munich’s less reputable beer halls, and a renowned brawler. But he was solidly in Adolf’s camp, and Hans was glad that he was there.
Not that it would make much difference, Hans feared. With Adolf gone and Hans having no vote, that left three against Adolf and only two for him. That explained why Drexler had been so specific about Hans not being able to participate as a commi
ttee member, even if he did come.
But to his surprise, it wasn’t just the committee who had shown up. There were six other men there as well, seated at the adjacent table. Two of them Hans didn’t recognize, but the sight of the other four pleased Hans greatly. They may not be able to vote, but judging from the dismay Drexler had shown when they’d entered, it was clear that their presence was felt.
Ernst Roehm was there, and, as always, he was a formidable force in any room. Part of that was his deeply scarred face, but besides that, he was recruiting men from his former regiment to serve as the party’s “order troops,” security guards designed to combat hecklers during rallies. They were a tough bunch and totally loyal to him, which also was pretty intimidating.
Next to him was Emil Maurice, one of Adolf’s chauffeurs and personal bodyguards. He was in charge of training the troops and organizing them into squads. Across from Roehm was Rudolf Hess, one of the more intellectual members of the party, and a man totally loyal to Adolf. He was convinced that Adolf was the leader destined to return Germany to its former greatness, and that conviction never lagged.
The fourth man was Heinrich Hoffmann, Adolf’s personal photographer, and the only man allowed to take pictures of Hitler now. He was quiet and reserved, and he had a distinct limp from some accident earlier in his life. He wasn’t much of a fighter, but his loyalty to Adolf was almost dog-like, and Adolf trusted him implicitly.
Hans felt himself relax a little. This was going to be fight, but he wasn’t alone here. The sharp rap of the gavel brought his head up. Drexler rapped again and called out, “The meeting will now come to order.”
Hans immediately raised his hand. Anton Drexler pretended he didn’t see it and went right on. “My fellow committee members, no one can dispute that we have many enemies who are Red Communists, leftist Social Democrats, and like-minded leftists of every stripe and hue. And these enemies are determined to squash our movement once and for all. I cite as evidence of that the increasing number of disturbances we are experiencing in our public meetings—”
The bull-necked Ernst Roehm raised his hand. “Herr Drexler, just the opposite is true. Such opposition is actually evidence that we are succeeding, and our enemies feel—”
Drexler slammed the gavel down with a sharp crack that made several in the room jump. “Herr Roehm, you are out of order, sir. I have the floor.”
Roehm sat back, his face flushing angrily. Catching his eye, Hans just shook his head. “Wait,” he mouthed.
Drexler’s face was a mottled red now, and Hans wondered if he would erupt into one of his coughing fits. Drexler was a solidly built man with a long, narrow face, thick black hair, and dark eyes that were half hidden by large, round spectacles. But he had always been somewhat sickly, which Hans attributed to the fact that he was employed in the Munich railway shops, where he constantly breathed in the smoke and cinders of the locomotives.
Hans raised his hand again, waving it back and forth now. “Herr Chairman, permission to comment on what you have said, bitte.”
“I am not finished,” Drexler said coldly. He turned away from Hans and went on. “Add to the opposition we are seeing in our meetings the increasingly vicious attacks we are receiving from the press, and that is striking evidence that Herr Hitler is taking this party in a direction that could lead to its very dissolution. Because of that, I, and others on this committee, have undertaken discussions with Herr Julius Streicher of Nuremberg, president of the German Socialist Party, with the intent of combining our two parties.”
Hermann Esser shot to his feet, his face livid. “With Julius Streicher as our new leader?” he roared.
Forgetting his commitment to the rules of order, Drexler shouted back at him. “Well, why not? Herr Streicher is a well-known and effective leader of a right-wing nationalist movement like our own. And he is very much in favor of exploring the possibilities of amalgamation.”
“He is bitter enemy of Adolf Hitler,” Roehm hissed. “And he would sell his grandmother into prostitution if he thought he could oust Adolf and lead the party himself.”
“Hear, hear,” Emil Maurice said, pounding the table.
“Well, maybe it is time that Adolf be ousted,” Drexler said hotly. “Look at what is happening. He is the director of our propaganda committee, but he acts like he is the chairman of the party. He plans what to do. He decides where we will meet. He books venues for our meetings and then tells us about it later. He designs our new flag and presents it to us as a done deal. He decides what our name shall be.”
Others around the tables were now shouting, some in support, some in opposition to what Drexler was saying. But Drexler raised his voice louder and rode over them. “No one disputes that he is an effective propagandist, but that’s not enough for him. He wants to lead this party. He wants to be the dictator of all we do and say, and I say, if Julius Streicher can help us pull Herr Hitler back into line, then so much the better.”
Hans got to his feet slowly. Drexler glared at him. “I have the floor, Herr Eckhardt. Be seated.”
Hans was sorely tempted to point out to him that the “floor” was hardly under anyone’s control at the moment, but instead he quietly said, “Our bylaws state that if the actions of a party member are under question, that person shall be brought before the committee and given a chance to defend himself. If Herr Hitler’s actions are in question here, then I demand that this discussion be postponed until he is present to defend himself.”
That obviously caught Drexler completely off guard.
“Hear, hear!” someone cried.
“Ja!” said another voice.
“This is an outrage,” cried Weber, who was seated next to Hans.
Drexler recovered quickly. “I agree, Herr Eckhardt,” he sneered. “And might you tell us when Herr Hitler will condescend to attend one of our meetings?” He looked around at the others, feigning puzzlement. “He has been in Berlin for six weeks now, I believe it is. Tell us, Herr Eckhardt, just when might we confront him with our concerns?”
Hans should have expected that, but he had gotten too caught up in the battle. He had asked Adolf that question half a dozen times or more, and he still hadn’t gotten an answer.
“Perhaps,” Harrer now added with open contempt, “our Director of Propaganda has decided to take up residence in our national capital and is looking for bigger fish to fry.”
Hans’s initial impulse was to strike back at this little snake and shred him verbally. But Harrer, along with Drexler, had been one of the original founders of the German Workers’ Party. Though he had proved to be an inept leader, he was still widely respected by the committee members for his part in founding the party. Hans sensed that an attack could backfire.
“I cannot say exactly which day Herr Hitler will return,” he said calmly, “but I know it will be in the next few days.” Even if I have to go to Berlin myself and drag him back. “So again I say, our party does not condemn a man behind his back. And if this committee is displeased with Hitler’s actions, then let them call him forth.”
Drexler had clearly not been expecting this. His chest rose and fell as he balefully tried to stare Hans down. Then, finally, he jabbed at Hans with his finger. “Sit down, Herr Eckhardt. You are out of order.”
“No, it is you who are out of order, and I will not sit here and see the bylaws of our party flaunted openly by the very person charged to enforce them.”
Drexler leaped to his feet. “You will either sit down and be quiet, or I shall order our sergeant at arms to eject you from this meeting.”
Christian Weber got slowly to his feet. “Begging your pardon, Herr Chairman, but the sergeant at arms believes that Herr Eckhardt has made a legitimate procedural point, and therefore he will not escort him out of the hall.”
Drexler was speechless.
Then, to everyone’s surprise, another figure got slowly to his feet. I
t was Dietrich Eckart. Hans had not noticed him before because he had taken a chair at the back of the room. “Herr Chairman, permission to address the committee, bitte.”
It was said so politely and with obvious deference to Drexler that everyone just stared at him. Dietrich Eckart, who spelled his name differently than Hans and was no relation as far as either of them knew, was another one of the founding members of the party. He was not particularly impressive in his looks—just under six feet tall and nearly bald, with thinning eyebrows and a dark black mustache. But he was a respected journalist and playwright and was held in high esteem by those who knew him. He didn’t say much in their committee meetings, but when he did, all tended to listen.
Knowing that Eckart was not only one of Adolf’s most loyal supporters but also his mentor and friend, Hans sat down again. A moment later, Weber joined him. Drexler eyed Eckart warily and finally sat down as well. “You may speak, Herr Eckart.”
“Herr Drexler,” Eckart said as the room finally quieted. “If you have other items on your agenda, then I encourage you to proceed with them. But our brother Hans Eckhardt has politely reminded us that by its own rules, the party cannot condemn one of its members without him being present. As chairman, it is your obligation to follow the rules of order and maintain some decorum in this assembly. I hope you will feel moved to do so now.”
For one moment, Drexler looked like a cornered fox, but he quickly recovered. He picked up the gavel and let his eyes move slowly around the circle of men. He seemed more thoughtful than confused, and Hans watched him closely. Drexler was no genius, but he was not a fool, either.
“Actually, the exact wording of our bylaws is that a member accused of wrongdoing has a right to be confronted by his accusers. But the bylaws also state that if the accused chooses not to appear, the committee can proceed as needed.” He banged the gravel down hard on the table, making everyone jump this time. “This meeting will reconvene this coming Wednesday evening at 7:30 p.m., at the Kindl Keller in Wiener Platz. At that time, the question of Herr Hitler’s fitness to serve a leading role in this party shall be examined.”