“I never discuss politics here at the Eagle’s Nest,” Hitler said. “We come here to relax and forget the problems, hmm? However, Herr Ingersoll, I think it would be profitable for us to understand each other, eh?”
“If you wish, mein Führer.”
“I am curious about something,” Hitler said. “I know you had bad times for a year or two before you became an actor. Why didn’t you join the Sturmabteilung? A good Nazi like you, belonging to the brownshirts would have given you prestige.”
“I couldn’t do that,” Ingersoll answered.
“Why not?”
“It’s a personal matter,” he said with some hesitation.
“One you cannot share with your Führer?”
Ingersoll thought for a moment before answering.
“I didn’t come here to make enemies.”
“It will not go beyond this room, Hans.”
Ingersoll thought about that for a few moments. On the one hand he feared his own prejudice would infuriate Hitler, and yet his instincts told him that Hitler would respond favorably to honesty.
Besides, why was he really here, he wondered? Were these political questions merely curiosity? Or was there some darker motive behind the discussion? Ingersoll flipped the two options over and over in his mind, like spinning a coin. Finally he opted for candor. After all, he was a national idol. His popularity transcended politics or ideology.
“I am afraid my opinions are somewhat. . . snobbish,” he said finally.
“Snobbish?”
“The brownshirts are not my kind of people. I understand their function is necessary but . . . they are loudmouth bullies, boisterous and
“Yes? And?” Hitler’s eyes bored into his but Ingersoll did not look away.
“And then there’s Ernst Röhm. He is . . . there is something about him . . . Röhm is a lover of little boys,” Ingersoll said rather harshly. “A sadist. A drunkard
“You know Röhm?”
“I met him once. Back in ‘25, ‘26, in Berlin. He was making a speech. Cold sober he was incoherent.”
“He was not picked for his oratorical skills—or his good manners, for that matter.”
“Yes, mein Führer, but . .
“Your instincts about Ernst are correct,” Hitler said. “He has failed to give the SA a soul of its own.” Hitler stood up with his back to the fire and shrugged his shoulders. “It has no pride or direction.” He thought for a moment more, then added enigmatically, “These things eventually outlive their purpose.”
He paused again.
“Besides, Röhm has pig eyes,” Hitler said, changing the mood again and chuckling at his own insult.
“I wouldn’t want to spend the evening with Attila the Hun either, but he was very effective.”
“Precisely. I see you understand that even rats can serve a useful purpose. He serves a purpose, a very necessary purpose. But I assure you, he will have no voice in the future of Germany. He is uncouth,” Hitler said abruptly.
“Exactly!”
Ingersoll was obviously a student of politics, his observations were accurate. Die Sturmabteilung, the SA, were Hitler’s personal storm troopers. Ruffians and thugs, most of the brown- shirts had originally been recruited from prisons or from beer halls where they were bouncers. They had become an undisciplined paramilitary force. Marching through the streets, smashing windows, beating up Jews, guarding political meetings and privately engaging in blackmail and extortion, the SA had become dangerously out of control and so Hitler had brought Ernst Röhm, a compatriot from the old Putsch days, back from a diplomatic post in Bolivia to head it. Hitler still needed this private police force of his, but he had his own plan for dealing with them. He had created the SS, the Schutzstaffel, putting one of his closest friends, Heinrich Himmler, in charge. It also had a satellite, the SD, a security service engaged in counterintelligence in Germany and abroad. It was the SD in which Wilhelm Vierhaus played a vague but obviously important role. Hitler’s plan was to build the SS into the most fearful organization in the Nazi party, shifting its power until it was stronger than the SA and then...
But each thing in its time.
“I realize I probably seem like an elitist Ingersoll started to say.
“You are an elitist,” Hitler said matter-of-factly. “There is nothing wrong with that. It’s one reason you are here.”
“I have little in common with Röhm and his brownshirts other than politics. I prefer to support the National Socialist movement in other ways.”
Hitler’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward slightly.
“Such as?” he asked.
“Financial contributions. Encourage my associates to join the party. Defend your ideas to those who, uh . . . don’t fully understand them.”
“So, you are a good Nazi then?” Hitler asked.
Ingersoll thought for a moment before he answered.
“Perhaps I am a good Hitlerite, mein Führer. That might be a more accurate way of putting it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I see the party as a means to the end. To me, it’s a necessary glory show. There are too many buffoons and hooligans.”
“Buffoons and hooligans?” Hitler echoed with surprise. Vierhaus was right, Ingersoll was certainly outspoken. Ingersoll could sense Hitler’s growing irritation.
“I would follow you into fire, mein Führer,” he quickly added, “But there are some I’d prefer to shove into the flames.”
Cajole and flatter. Hear him out.
“As I told you, I’ve read Mein Kampf cover to cover many times. It is always on my nightstand. It is a great book, greater than the Bible. I agree with everything you say, particularly regarding the Jewish problem.”
“Herr Schauspieler, tell me the truth. How do you really feel about the Jews?”
“I hate them,” Ingersoll said, his voice taut and low. “I bate their Marxist tricks. Their whining
“Ja. Ja! Very good. They are whiners. And you’re right, they are the backbone of the Marxist movement. They’ve had fourteen years, fourteen years to show us what they can do and all they have produced is rubble. Look around you. Rubble! The secret to our success, Hans, is that we are honest. We deal honestly. We seek only what is fair, what is proper. What is right for Germany.”
He smiled, an understated smile, a momentary manipulation of the corners of his mouth that was almost a smirk. He sat down again, perched on the edge of his chair and leaned toward Ingersoll with fists clenched.
“We must take the Jews out of the marketplace, out of the banks, out of our industries. Perhaps even . . . rid Germany totally of this Jude scourge. Would you agree?”
Ingersoll smiled in return and nodded. “Yes, but how? And how will you justify what we do to the rest of the world?”
Hitler’s mood changed radically. His face turned red. His voice rose fervently and rage simmered deep inside him, He glared out the window.
“Justify? We justify nothing! The rest of the world? Who in the rest of the world? The French?” lie snorted indignantly. “How can you have an understanding with a man who is choking you as you speak? The Americans with their Monroe Doctrine? My God! The ultimate hypocrisy. They exclude would-be immigrants if they are undesirable. Regulate their numbers. Demand certain physical standards, insist they bring in a certain amount of money, interrogate them about their political beliefs. Listen, my friend, one learns from one’s enemies. Anyway, there is a way we can deal with the Americans. The Communists say that power comes from the barrel of a gun. Well, I’ll show them power, all right. I’ll show them the barrel of our gun.” He smashed his fist into his open palm and stamped his foot on the floor. “How can they blame us for doing the same things, eh? I don’t give a damn about the Jews in other countries. But here, this is Germany’s business. This is our business.”