12
Der Illustrierte Sonntag newsroom
Munich
“THE MINISTER OF JUSTICE could not be reached for comment, comma, though credible sources indicate that a JM vehicle known to transport corpses was seen leaving the police inspectorate for the Bogenhausen District in the wee hours of Sunday morning, period.” Fritz Gerlich paced his office while dictating to one of his assistants, who scribbled in shorthand on a small pad of paper.
“I think that’s all for now. Type that up and I’ll have a look. ”
“Thank you, sir.” The assistant stood to leave.
“Oh, wait. How is your father?”
The young assistant bowed her head. “He’s home now. It’s been a slower recovery than we expected, sir.”
“And still unable to work, then?” Gerlich reached into a drawer and removed an envelope. “Take this, dear.”
“Oh, no, sir—”
“An advance on your wages. That’s all. I’m praying for your family.”
The young woman took the envelope as her eyes watered. “Thank you, sir.”
Gerlich’s deputy editor, Gunther, popped his head into Gerlich’s office. “I’m getting dinner down the street. Do you want to join me?”
“I’m not hungry.” Gerlich removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “Did you find out where the body was moved?”
“Not yet. We’ve checked every morgue in Munich. We’ve used all our sources.”
“Even our source at the Justice Ministry?”
“Even her.” Gunther pulled down on his tie. “I think she knew something but was too scared to tell me. Everyone’s scared, Fritz.”
“Herr Gerlich.” His secretary walked in. “I have Martin Gruber from the Post on the phone. He says it’s urgent.”
Gerlich drew back. The editor in chief of the Munich Post was calling him? “Okay, well, put him through.” He waited a moment until his black rotary-dial phone rang, then punched a button. “Martin? What can I do for you?”
“Fritz, are you okay?” Gruber spit out, sounding frantic.
“Am I—well, of course—”
“—give you fair warning—”
“Slow down, Martin. What are you talking—”
“—any minute, I assume—”
“Martin, my old friend, what in the name—”
A loud crash, the sound of glass breaking, came from the pressroom. Gerlich dropped the phone and got to his feet, just in time to see a number of brown-clad, jackbooted, uniformed Nazis march directly toward his office. SS guards.
“Excuse me! You can’t just come in here!”
The guards did not break stride. The first one shoved Gerlich in the chest, knocking him to the floor, narrowly missing the corner of his desk. Another threw Gunther against the door and ordered him out.
“This is… a press… office!” Gerlich gasped, struggling to keep his breath as the SS guards started kicking him in the midsection with their sharp-pointed boots.
As he lay balled up in the fetal position, absorbing blow after blow, he heard a gunshot, people screaming, a thundering vibration on the floor as over two dozen employees of Der Illustrierte Sonntag raced for the door on the SS’s command.
Then it was quiet. The pressroom had been cleared. The guards stopped kicking him. Gerlich managed to sit upright against the wall, cringing in pain.
“Ah, now we can speak privately.”
Gerlich’s blood went cold. He knew that voice, even before the guards parted to reveal Heinrich Himmler, smiling with one side of his mouth. “Good evening, Fritz. It’s been a long time.”
“Get out… of my office,” Gerlich managed between gasps of air. “Take your jackbooted thugs… with you. I’ll… call the police.”
“Will you, now?” Himmler smirked. Both knew that Gerlich calling the police would yield nothing.
“There’s no need for such drama. I just wanted to have a chat.
” He sat down in the editor’s chair, making himself comfortable.
“I always wondered what it was like wasting away in an office, editing a newspaper that nobody reads.”
“If nobody read it, you wouldn’t be here,” Gerlich managed. Beyond his office, he could hear crashing and scraping and hacking—the sounds of the SS guards looting the pressroom, breaking furniture, destroying file cabinets.
“What do we have here?” Himmler leaned over, taking a look at Gerlich’s desk. “Copy for tomorrow’s edition, Fritz?”
“You can’t… see that!”
“And yet, here I am, seeing it.” Himmler clucked his tongue as he read the article. Then he ripped the copy into pieces. “Herr Gerlich, you have the wrong story. I’ve brought our lawyer, Herr Frank, to explain.”
Hans Frank, Hitler’s personal lawyer and counsel to NSDAP, stepped forward. Well dressed, with receding dark hair, Frank handed several documents to Gerlich. “We will sue Der Illustrierte Sonntag and you personally, Herr Gerlich,” he said. “And as always, we will win.”
“Only because the Munich judges are in your pocket.” Gerlich looked over the papers. One contained a draft of a lawsuit against him. The other was a single piece of paper, what looked like a press release. “What is this?”
“That,” said Himmler, “is the true story. Which you will print tomorrow.”
Gerlich looked it over. “‘Unsatisfied artistic achievement’? This is a joke. We will not print such rubbish! If Geli Raubal committed suicide, why has the government whisked away her body so she cannot be examined?”
Himmler sighed. He removed his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. “Yet again, you have incorrect information, Fritz. And you have reached the end of the road on this story. Is that clear?”
“Never,” Gerlich growled. “We will never stop telling the truth.”
Himmler looked Gerlich over, then nodded to the SS troopers. Himmler got to his feet and came around the desk. A moment later, the guards turned over Gerlich’s desk with a furious crash, papers flying everywhere. They lifted his typewriter off the back desk and threw it against the wall.
“You have no right to do this!” Gerlich shouted.
Himmler looked him over again. “Do consider the press release we gave you, yes? I think you’ll find that other newspapers have reconsidered their editorial positions. You wouldn’t want to be left alone, twisting in the wind.”
“I am never alone,” he whispered.
“Ah. Ah, yes. Your religious conversion. I’ve heard.” Eyes narrowed, Himmler bent at the waist, moving closer to Gerlich. “God has given us the Führer, Fritz. You’d do well to fall in line like a humble servant.”
“Never,” Gerlich hissed. “I will not bow to a false prophet like Hitler.”
“What did you call him?” Himmler straightened up, removed his sidearm, and aimed it at Gerlich’s face. “I dare you to say that again.”
Gerlich closed his eyes and silently began to recite the Lord’s Prayer.
“Say it again, Gerlich! I dare you!”
Gerlich, chin up, looked Himmler in the eyes. “Hitler is a false prophet. A demigod. A charlatan. I will never bow to such a hateful, bigoted—”
Himmler discharged his firearm, a single shot, before Gerlich could finish the sentence.