to focus on the task at hand, which was convincing the British that he and his general were genuine, and getting them to talk about other conspirators. He needed a good night’s sleep.
Munich
Fräulein Peters could listen to the Führer speak for hours. He had been talking for fifty minutes and they had flown by. He had seemed tired at the beginning of his speech, but his words and the adulation of his audience had lifted his spirits, as they always did. Fräulein Peters felt jealous of those comrades who in 1923 had gathered in this very hall and marched out into the streets to try to reclaim Germany for the Germans. They had failed, of course, but it was the first brave step on a glorious path.
Hitler was talking about Providence, how Providence was with the German people and with the National Socialists, how Providence was leading the German people – after centuries of bravery and spilling of blood – to their true destiny.
‘Fräulein Peters.’ It was Frau Kühn, the telephone operator. ‘Reichsminister von Ribbentrop.’
Fräulein Peters tore herself away from the Führer’s words and hurried to a small room just next to the hall.
‘Herr Reichsminister!’
‘Fräulein Peters, what time does the train leave for Berlin?’
‘Nine thirty-one, Herr Reichsminister.’
‘The Führer will want to talk, he always wants to talk. But it is essential that he is back in Berlin tonight. Give him a message from me to wind up his speech soon and make sure he catches that train. Put it under his nose.’
‘Yes, Herr Reichsminister!’
Fräulein Peters quelled a moment of panic at how she could tell the Führer to do anything. She scribbled out the message, making clear that it was from Ribbentrop. Then she summoned an SS trooper to deliver it: she knew that would look much better to the crowd than if she were to do it.
The trooper placed the note in front of the Führer as he was speaking. He paused, and during the applause, glanced at it. He concluded his speech: ‘Party Comrades! Long live National Socialism! Long live the German people! And especially today, long live our victorious army!’
The applause in the confines of the beer hall deafened her. Fräulein Peters checked her watch: 8.58 p.m. They would be all right so long as Hitler didn’t linger chatting, which he was very capable of doing. But he shook only a few hands and by 9.09 they were out of the hall. Fräulein Peters had arranged for an extra carriage to be placed on the Number 71 train leaving at 9.31, and they were all aboard with three minutes to go.
Relieved, Fräulein Peters settled into her seat and at 9.31 p.m. precisely the train left the station.
Despite the slightly hurried departure, there was an air of gaiety in the saloon carriage and bottles of champagne were broken out. Fräulein Peters was given a glass by a handsome SS officer she hadn’t seen before, who proceeded to strike up a conversation. The Führer was in a good mood and Goebbels was making him laugh. The relief and the champagne made Fräulein Peters feel giddy, and she was enjoying the attentions of the SS officer.
The train pulled into Nuremberg and Goebbels climbed out to see whether there were any messages. Fräulein Peters saw him return a few minutes later with a grave expression. The carriage quietened to hear what he had to say. Fräulein Peters wondered if it was some military disaster: a battleship sunk, perhaps, or a surprise Allied offensive.
She was totally unprepared for what Goebbels did say. ‘My Führer, I have just heard that at nine-twenty this evening an enormous bomb went off in the beer hall. At least a dozen comrades were killed.’
The Führer didn’t seem to take this in. Fräulein Peters refused to believe it until he believed it. All eyes were on him, waiting for a lead.
‘It’s true, my Führer,’ said Goebbels. ‘If you had not left early you would be dead.’
There was silence in the carriage. Then Hitler nodded to himself.
Munich
Fräulein Peters could listen to the Führer speak for hours. He had been talking for fifty minutes and they had flown by. He had seemed tired at the beginning of his speech, but his words and the adulation of his audience had lifted his spirits, as they always did. Fräulein Peters felt jealous of those comrades who in 1923 had gathered in this very hall and marched out into the streets to try to reclaim Germany for the Germans. They had failed, of course, but it was the first brave step on a glorious path.
Hitler was talking about Providence, how Providence was with the German people and with the National Socialists, how Providence was leading the German people – after centuries of bravery and spilling of blood – to their true destiny.
‘Fräulein Peters.’ It was Frau Kühn, the telephone operator. ‘Reichsminister von Ribbentrop.’
Fräulein Peters tore herself away from the Führer’s words and hurried to a small room just next to the hall.
‘Herr Reichsminister!’
‘Fräulein Peters, what time does the train leave for Berlin?’
‘Nine thirty-one, Herr Reichsminister.’
‘The Führer will want to talk, he always wants to talk. But it is essential that he is back in Berlin tonight. Give him a message from me to wind up his speech soon and make sure he catches that train. Put it under his nose.’
‘Yes, Herr Reichsminister!’
Fräulein Peters quelled a moment of panic at how she could tell the Führer to do anything. She scribbled out the message, making clear that it was from Ribbentrop. Then she summoned an SS trooper to deliver it: she knew that would look much better to the crowd than if she were to do it.
The trooper placed the note in front of the Führer as he was speaking. He paused, and during the applause, glanced at it. He concluded his speech: ‘Party Comrades! Long live National Socialism! Long live the German people! And especially today, long live our victorious army!’
The applause in the confines of the beer hall deafened her. Fräulein Peters checked her watch: 8.58 p.m. They would be all right so long as Hitler didn’t linger chatting, which he was very capable of doing. But he shook only a few hands and by 9.09 they were out of the hall. Fräulein Peters had arranged for an extra carriage to be placed on the Number 71 train leaving at 9.31, and they were all aboard with three minutes to go.
Relieved, Fräulein Peters settled into her seat and at 9.31 p.m. precisely the train left the station.
Despite the slightly hurried departure, there was an air of gaiety in the saloon carriage and bottles of champagne were broken out. Fräulein Peters was given a glass by a handsome SS officer she hadn’t seen before, who proceeded to strike up a conversation. The Führer was in a good mood and Goebbels was making him laugh. The relief and the champagne made Fräulein Peters feel giddy, and she was enjoying the attentions of the SS officer.
The train pulled into Nuremberg and Goebbels climbed out to see whether there were any messages. Fräulein Peters saw him return a few minutes later with a grave expression. The carriage quietened to hear what he had to say. Fräulein Peters wondered if it was some military disaster: a battleship sunk, perhaps, or a surprise Allied offensive.
She was totally unprepared for what Goebbels did say. ‘My Führer, I have just heard that at nine-twenty this evening an enormous bomb went off in the beer hall. At least a dozen comrades were killed.’
The Führer didn’t seem to take this in. Fräulein Peters refused to believe it until he believed it. All eyes were on him, waiting for a lead.
‘It’s true, my Führer,’ said Goebbels. ‘If you had not left early you would be dead.’
There was silence in the carriage. Then Hitler nodded to himself.
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