70
Der Gerade Weg office
FRITZ GERLICH FINISHED READING the draft prepared by his deputy editor.
“This is good, Gunther, but it’s missing the larger point.
Even with all the propaganda surrounding their principal rivals, the Nazis still couldn’t get a majority of the vote in the March fifth parliamentary elections.
They barely cracked forty-three percent.
” He grabbed his deputy editor’s arm. “That proves my point—Hitler does not have the mandate he claims. Even with all the lies he conjured up about his opponents!”
“Okay. I understand.”
“And yet—and yet, he’s going to try to govern as if he has that mandate.
Will the Communists and Social Democrats who were elected even show up to parliament?
Will they be arrested immediately? Will the ones currently in ‘protective custody’ be allowed to show up to cast votes as legislators? This—this is madness, is it not?”
“Understood, Fritz. I’ll make some revisions.”
“And do it fast. We need to get this issue out tonight. There is no time to waste!”
The editor started toward his desk, then stopped. “Fritz, will this be our last edition?”
Gerlich removed his glasses and wiped them with a cloth. “Gunther, I have told you before and I say it again—you are free to leave, as the rest of our staff has. If I must be a one-man periodical, I will. You will have my understanding and my deepest gratitude for staying this long.”
They both heard the noise and turned toward the front door. It was locked. A guard was present, standing outside, but he was no match for the six brownshirts, rifles in hand, looking through the large window.
“Go, now,” said Gerlich. “Out the back door. Now!”
“Fritz—”
“Go, Gunther! Go with God, my son.”
Gunther did so, disappearing through the rear door into the alley.
Gerlich put on his glasses and reached into his pocket, taking the rosary in his hand.
The brownshirts busted the door down. Gerlich closed his eyes and said a prayer.
“Fritz Gerlich!” The lead storm trooper, rifle slung over his shoulder, faced him squarely. “We are here pursuant to the authority of the Decree of the Reich President for the Protection of People and State,” he said, referring to the official title of the Reichstag Fire Decree.
You’re here pursuant to Adolf Hitler’s monstrous but fragile ego, Gerlich thought.
“We are placing you in protective custody. We will take custody of your offices immediately. We are prepared to use force to effect these orders.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Gerlich put out his hands to be cuffed. “I am ready to respond with my life for what I have written,” he said. “I will not retract. I am a Catholic.”
He was handcuffed and led from his office as SA troopers smashed desks and windows with billy clubs. He could smell gasoline dousing the furniture.
“Forgive me, Sophie,” he whispered, catching a glimpse of a photograph taken on a wedding anniversary trip to Vienna. He remembered how truly fortunate he’d felt when beautiful Sophie Botzenhart said yes to his marriage proposal. He thought then, as he thought now, that he didn’t deserve her.
And then he thought of his beloved country, one to which he had devoted his life’s work. A country he no longer recognized.
“God save Germany,” he whispered, as they threw him inside a car. “I did what I could.”