97
THE NEXT EVENING, BAUER and von der Haas stood on the street outside the arched gateway of the beer hall. The streets were abuzz with the festivities. Advance security was in place.
It was unusually foggy, due to the recent drop in temperatures. That was fine by Bauer, who was not in the habit of making himself seen and known these days. He pulled up the collar of his ratty wool coat as he and von der Haas walked down a nearby alley.
“If his speech is at eight thirty, he won’t arrive until just before then, escorted by the Führerbegleitkommando,” said von der Haas, referring to the SS’s elite eight-person bodyguard team that accompanied Hitler everywhere. “He’ll enter through the front.”
“And hopefully never exit,” said Bauer, his breath lingering before him.
“But if he survives the blast, they will evacuate him out the emergency rear exit. The Führerbegleitkommando will have an armored car ready.”
“I’ll shoot him before he gets in that car,” said Bauer. He looked up at the building kitty-corner to the Bürgerbr?ukeller, an abandoned warehouse. Bauer had staked out a position on the third floor. His sniper rifle was already hidden inside that building.
Von der Haas looked up as well. “That fog is heavy. You think you’ll be able to see him?”
He was right. The fog was thicker than normal fog. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “Hopefully, it doesn’t come to that. You’ll be on the radio?”
“Got mine right in my pocket,” said von der Haas. “Good luck.”
Bauer opened the window on the third floor of the warehouse. Nothing to see yet. It was only 7:58 p.m., another half hour before Hitler’s speech.
He lifted his sniper rifle and aimed it. His scope was good, so he was able to see the rear exit despite the fog. He preferred greater visibility, but the good news was that the SS officers outside wouldn’t be able to see Bauer easily, either.
It shouldn’t come to that, he reasoned. Not if the bomb was true. He placed his pocket watch on the interior window ledge, along with the two-way radio. That was something new, this radio, a recent invention that von der Haas had managed to procure through his various contacts in intelligence.
“Anton, this is Berta. Over.”
Bauer almost jumped out of his skin at the cackling of the radio. He lifted it and pressed the button. “Berta, this is Anton. Over.”
“He’s pulling up right now. Right now. Over.”
Bauer looked at his watch. “Now? He’s not scheduled to arrive for another half hour. Since when is that guy ever early to anything?”
“I don’t know, but the motorcade just pulled up.”
Sure enough, not two minutes later, the armored car pulled up to cover the rear emergency exit. A few moments after that, a gigantic roar emerged from the beer hall, easily loud enough to reach Bauer’s ears, celebrating the arrival of the guest of honor.
For some reason, Hitler was starting his speech a half hour early.
Bauer had hoped to close the window for a while, given the lack of heat in the building and the falling temperatures outside.
But now that it was open, and the SS guard was not too far away down there, the window would have to remain open.
Opening it and closing it made too much noise, and he couldn’t risk drawing the attention of the Führer’s personal guard, the SS Führerbegleitkommando.
He sat against the wall, out of view, and listened. Every few moments, the beer hall would erupt in cheers and applause. One thing about the Führer, he knew how to work up the party faithful.
It went like that for quite a while, the audience cheering every thirty seconds or so—presumably after every sentence Hitler uttered. Bauer scooped his pocket watch off the ledge and checked it. 8:15 became 8:30 became 8:45.
Bauer thought of his family, now in the United States for the past year and a half.
They had settled outside Chicago, in a town called Downers Grove.
His children were both teenagers now: Maxine was fourteen, and played violin in the school orchestra.
Ridley was thirteen and had recently developed a love for the American game of baseball.
The photos Amalie sent showed Maxine to be in her awkward teen years, but she still took so much after her mother. Ridley now reminded Bauer more and more of his father.
Bauer made sure to also send his family photos of himself—not because he enjoyed taking them, but because he did not want the kids to forget their father entirely.
He ached so badly to join them but wouldn’t—couldn’t—leave until this business was finished.
If everything went as planned, that business would be finished in exactly twenty-two minutes.
Bauer stood up, outside the view of the window, and stretched, while he continued to listen to the ebb and flow of the crowd’s applause.
He probably wouldn’t need to do anything—the bomb would likely take care of everything—but if somehow Hitler were to escape, Bauer would have to be poised to shoot at the rear exit.
And then he’d have to escape himself, which wouldn’t—
Wait. Hold on—what—
Something was off.
The applause, the cheering. It wasn’t stopping. It was sustained, continuous.
Bauer grabbed his watch. It was only three minutes after nine. It was too early—
He peeked through the window, looked through the fog. He couldn’t see well, but well enough.
The armored car stationed at the rear exit was doing a three-point turn. It was turning around to leave.
Hitler’s speech was concluded? Impossible! Hitler never spoke for less than two hours at these events.
He grabbed his radio. “Berta, this is Anton, over.”
“Anton, this is Berta, over.”
“What’s happening? Is the speech over?”
“Over? How could it be over? Let me look. I’m a few kilometers down the street. I don’t see the motorcade leaving.”
“The armored car at the emergency exit just left.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. Keep me posted.” Bauer didn’t know what was going on inside that beer hall.
There could be any number of reasons why the crowd was engaged in sustained applause.
Maybe Hitler was introducing the other officials present like Goebbels and Goring, and it was one continuous applause line. Or maybe—
But then the applause began to subside, and Bauer could no longer hear it. He listened intently, eyes squeezed shut. Then his radio squawked again.
“Anton, the motorcade is leaving.”
Bauer grabbed his watch. It was 9:07 p.m.
“No!” he cried, throwing down the watch. “No!”
The bomb detonated on time, at 9:20 p.m. on November 8, 1939.
It caused a partial collapse of the roof of the Bürgerbr?ukeller Hall and left a mountain of rubble.
Seven people died and over sixty were injured.
But not Adolf Hitler or his top aides, who had all left the beer hall just thirteen minutes earlier.
It was due to the fog. Hitler was preparing for the invasion of France and had wanted to fly back to Berlin the next morning.
But the fog would prevent air travel, so Hitler changed plans and prepared to travel by private train to Berlin.
So he’d moved up his speech by half an hour and had limited it, uncharacteristically, to one hour.
Later, while on the train, Hitler was informed by Joseph Goebbels of the bombing and the attempt on his life. “Now I am completely at peace!” said the Führer. “My leaving the Bürgerbr?ukeller earlier than usual is proof to me that Providence wants me to reach my goal.”