68
Der Gerade Weg office
“IT CAN’T BE TRUE. It simply cannot!” Fritz Gerlich examined the blueprints of the Reichstag building laid out on the table in his office.
“There is no other means of entry or exit. The only way an arsonist could have entered the building is via the underground tunnel from the building that houses the Reichstag president—who happens to be none other than Hermann Goring. Whose offices are surrounded by SA guards day and night!”
Gerlich’s deputy press editor scribbled notes.
“The SA had to be involved in this fire. Yet nobody is questioning Goring’s account of events.” Gerlich turned to the editor. “Write it up. And be quick. We’re publishing this afternoon.”
As the editor departed, Gerlich’s wife, Sophie, entered his office carrying a small wicker basket. “I brought lunch,” she said. “I assume you’ve not eaten.”
Gerlich hadn’t eaten since the night before. He’d hardly slept, either.
“What is this editorial I heard you mention?” she asked.
“It’s about Goring. He tells the press he has overwhelming evidence of the Communist Party’s guilt for the fire.
Reams of evidence, he says. So? Where is this evidence?
When will he show it to us? Will he ever show it to us?
” Gerlich opened the basket, pulled out an orange, and started peeling it.
“He won’t. He won’t ever show this so-called proof because he doesn’t have any.
Because it was Hitler’s men who set the fire and then blamed their political enemies. Emperor Nero would be proud!”
“Fritz, you promised me,” said Sophie warningly.
Gerlich set down the fruit. “I promised you what, Sophie? That I’d be careful? I’m being careful. I’ve hired a guard. You passed him as you walked in.”
“You’re going after people who have the power to shut you down right now, Fritz. To close your office and detain you indefinitely in—what do they call it, protective custody?”
“Which is precisely the time to expose them, Sophie.” He took her arms. “Don’t you see? This is when journalism is most crucial.”
Sophie deflated. They’d repeated this argument endlessly. “Listen, the next round of parliamentary elections is next week, right?”
“March the fifth,” said Gerlich.
“Can you wait to see how those elections turn out? The public should be disgusted by what Hitler is doing.”
Gerlich shook his head. “Most of the nation believes what they read in the official press. They think the Communists and the Social Democrats burned down the Reichstag and were plotting a coup! I don’t think they’ll fare well in the elections, do you?
And most of the candidates are currently being detained in some unknown location by Hitler’s SA troops.
And the ones who aren’t detained aren’t exactly campaigning—most of them are in hiding from the SA.
” He flipped his hand. “Hitler could not have stacked the deck more in his favor.”
“What about President von Hindenburg?”
“The man is seriously ill.” Gerlich shrugged.
“The only reason he agreed to seek reelection in the first place is that he didn’t want Hitler to win.
I’m told he has little over a year at most, and he’s so frail as it is.
He’s not going to stop Hitler. I’m telling you, Sophie—this is when a journalist is needed the most: to expose the truth. ”
“But you can’t expose anything if you’re locked up,” she said. “Or if you’re dead. Do I have to become a widow to win this argument? Can’t we move to Switzerland like we discussed? You can publish your newspaper from there.”
Gerlich threw up his hands. “This is exactly what they want, you know. To scare us into abdication—”
“Oh, yes, I know, Fritz. I’ve heard it a hundred times. Here’s what I don’t know.” She was silent a moment. “What is your greatest commitment? Is it to this job? Or is it to me, your wife?”
“Sophie, don’t ask me to—”
She turned and slammed the door behind her.
Gerlich dropped into his seat with a heavy sigh. “Sophie,” he whispered. “You deserve better.”
Then he started writing his editorial.