“They were able to do this only because the Federal Reserve flooded the market in 1927 with cheap money. At one stage in 1928, the amount of this so-called ‘margin’ was equivalent to 18% of the entire American economy. Of course, with all this loose money, stock prices increased at an unnatural rate—from spring of ’27 to summer of ’29, the stock index, called the ‘Dow Jones’ doubled from 200 to 381. So when the selling started in late 1929, the second human emotion of fear took over, and the stock market collapsed faster than it had expanded in the prior two years. Now this extremely unpleasant—but essential—purging would have been relatively short-lived, but for the all-knowing politicians and the Federal Reserve, who continued to interfere. The only way to tame animal spirits is by people losing money, not by government rules to ‘regulate’ the markets—until the last trumpet sounds, people will always be driven by greed and fear.
“Albert, if you see people are oversized children, as I do, rather than as rational beings, then it is clear that these children need to be chastised rather than pampered. And farmers are a perfect example. In all countries, farmers are the greatest whiners—they complain about everything. The best solution is not to cave into their complaints, but rather to ignore them. Let the weaker farmers give up or sell out, this is called the marketplace, and the marketplace is just a formalization of human nature.”
“The marketplace is simply an abstraction of humanity, of human behavior, of greed and of fear, of the very nature of people with their strengths and weaknesses. While politicians and their toadies in academia are convinced they can rise above this baseness, they are wrong. Politicians like to boast on the radio that they can quote ‘make the world a better place;’ actually, it is business that makes the world a better place, but the process is an ugly one, and people’s loathing of this ugliness is what politicians prey on. Politicians all promise to ‘control,’ to ‘regulate,’ to ‘improve.’ Their fanciful schemes often do generate a short-term euphoria, but this drug quickly wears off, and like the person running down stairs, more and more is needed—it is simply an addiction. And as the addiction rapidly grows, it needs to be fed more and more.”
3: Cold Comfort for Fatso
THE SUN FEEBLY STRUGGLED—and failed—to warm Haus Wachenfeld. The SS guards tried to convince each other that the winter was not as bad as the ice winter of the previous year—the winter of ’39 was the coldest in living memory: canals froze; hearty livestock died in the fields before they could be shepherded to barns; and airplane engines refused to start. But the current winter was just as severe.
A roaring fire in the great room burnt brightly. In front of it, and hogging most of it, stood a very fat man of medium height wearing the extravagant uniform of Reichsmarshall. He looked like a colonel from a Latin America banana republic, his chest was so encrustulated with medals. In his right hand he held a jewel-encrusted baton. He was explaining—or rather pontificating—to the very small man standing beside him how his baton was a full three centimeters longer than any other in the Reich. The other man succeeded in appearing impressed, and flattered the fat man by saying that it was not just his baton that was longer. The fat man liked this phallic reference and laughed.
“So, Paul, why are we here? I was planning to hunt mountain goats at Oberlech for the entire week. Couldn’t this meeting wait?”
The small man said nothing.
Presently, their host entered and approached the fire. He was careful not to catch the fat man’s eye. The host suggested they move to the secure room in the second basement. At this, the fat man’s smile disappeared and he started to sense trouble, as one of his Austrian mountain goats senses danger even before picking up the scent of the hunters.
The three walked to the lift that Bormann had had installed in a single 24-hour period when the owner was away in Berlin. When the host first saw the miracle, he simply shook his head and smiled, and without thinking, said to all how he could never do without Bormann; a remark Bormann repeated one hundred times over the next few months.
The three men entered the lift and the host inserted the key in the brass control panel of electric push buttons and pressed the button for the second basement, which could only be accessed via the lift and only by someone with the key (Bormann held the only other key.)
Silently, the Siemens lift descended and the three men walked to the first room. The entire second basement was uncharacteristically spartan—it was like a prison, or more accurately, a dungeon. Unfinished concrete marked the walls of the corridor and even the room itself was sparse—a large desk, four arm chairs, a moving picture screen and a new electrical phonograph were the only furnishings. The room was well lit by electric lights and heated by two three-bar electric heaters.
The fat man’s unease increased.
“I hope you two are not going to do me in here,” he laughed, trying to get a reaction.
The complete lack of response from the other two really alarmed him. After all, these were two of his oldest comrades in the Struggle, and why he had marched with the host in Munich in ’23.
“Please sit here, Paul has something to show you. But before we start, I’d like to ask you just one question: do you know a man by the name of Prodromos Athanasiadis Bodosakis? Here is a photograph of this man.”
At this, Goering blanched and started to sweat, a little at first.
“Well, I meet lots of men. Why Paul, this chap looks like your nemesis from the old times in Berlin—the old police chief who persecuted you.”
Even the reference to the hated Bernhard Weiss generated no response from the slight man.
“It’s a simple question, Hermann,” the host asked, almost plaintively.
“Do you know him? Yes or no?”
The fat man realized his comrade from the old days was trying to help him.
Goering said nothing.
After a moment, the host said, with no enthusiasm, “Paul, run the film please.”
The little man walked to the film projector and started the film. The film was very grainy and the sound was at times inaudible, but the film showed the fat man and the Greek in a hotel room. The room was clearly a large and expensive suite in the old style of a grand hotel of Vienna or Paris or even Rome.
About a minute into the film, Goering was heard to ask about “the second payment.” The Greek told the fat man that the money was already in the fat man’s bank account in Switzerland. On the film, Goering could be seen rubbing his hands—like a stereotype of the greedy avarice of the bankers he professed to hate.
“Carinhall needs more work, so this will be most useful” the grainy figure was heard—and seen—to reply.
A few seconds later the film ended.
“So I met this fellow, he was simply a business colleague, what of it?” Goering lied.
The little man handed Goering a folder of a dozen sheets of paper.
Goering opened it and looked.
“Fuck—what is this, who forged my signature?” the confused fat man first confessed and then tried to bluster in the same sentence.
“You supplied the fucking Republicans with arms which they used to kill German soldiers. You arranged for the fucking ship Bramhill to deliver 19,000 rifles, and 100 machines guns, and 28 million rounds in ’36. You’re a fucking traitor. Brave Germans soldiers you helped kill, you, you fucking piece of shit, you fucking animal, you coward, you killed German soldiers in Spain.”