"They betrayed us..."
"The police station’s been taken back too. We carried out all the weapons stored there, but..."
"The stormtroopers’ morale is shot."
"So what do we do now?"
Röhm, face locked stiff, smoking silently, turned to me. The others looked at me too, waiting for the answer.
"This is all my fault."
I closed my eyes, hand pressed to my chest, pretending to feel guilty over the fiasco.
"I was too soft. I should’ve kept them under lock and key so they couldn’t betray us... I was careless to the point of idiocy. I’m sorry."
"There’s no need for you to apologize. None of us expected this," Röhm said, flustered, waving his hand.
"Schreck, Maurice. I’ve got something to ask of you."
"Yes, Chief."
"Take the wounded and get them to a hospital."
"And you, Chief...?"
"Don’t worry about me. Go."
Schreck and Maurice left, faces heavy with worry.
"Göring, Hess."
"Yes, Chief."
"You two gather the important documents and get them to Hanfstaengl. Everyone else, with me."
***
November 9, 11:30 a.m.
I marched at the head of the column with Röhm, the Strasser brothers, Ludendorff, and the senior party men.
Armed stormtroopers and party members followed. Passersby stopped in the street, staring silently at our procession.
We crossed the square in front of city hall and advanced up to the military command building.
"Stop! Stop!"
"Nobody move!"
The army was waiting in front of headquarters, rifles leveled. Dozens of muzzles aimed straight at us, waiting only for the command.
A mounted officer with a megaphone shouted:
"Attention, rebels! All rebels, listen well. You are criminals waging an illegal insurrection. Disperse at once or—"
"Shut the hell up!"
The officer faltered, lowering the megaphone. I seized the moment and shouted:
"Rebels? Insurrection? Who the hell told you that?
We rose up for our cause! To drive out the traitors in Berlin who betrayed the German people and care only for their own safety while our nation suffers. To give the rights of this country back to their rightful owners—the people!
You are Germans too. You know damn well what we mean. Don’t stand in our way."
I locked arms with my comrades at either side.
We kept marching in formation, not backing off even with barrels aimed at us. The soldiers wavered at the sight.
But the officer was unmoved.
"Fire!"
At the command, dozens of rifles spat flame. I felt the body of the man beside me go slack.
"Kh-hhk!"
Otto Strasser collapsed, blood streaming from his mouth.
His chest was torn open, blood soaking his coat crimson.
"Retreat! Fall back!"
"Everyone fall back!"
The stormtroopers fired back, dropping a few soldiers, but the tide had turned.
On the far right, my bodyguard Ulrich Graf lunged forward, shouting:
"Shoot, you bastards! This is Hitler and General Ludendorff before you!"
Even with a bullet in his thigh, Graf screamed defiance, emptying his lungs.
I dragged him back, supporting him. Ludendorff just stood frozen, a blank look on his face.
"Take Graf to the hospital, quickly!"
"Yes, sir!"
Two stormtroopers rushed to lift him. I sprinted forward again.
Gregor stood beside his fallen brother’s corpse. He met my eyes and shook his head slowly, as if to say it was all lost.
Did he mean his brother’s death—or the entire cause? I couldn’t tell.
"There he is! Hitler!"
"Don’t move!"
"Got the bastard!"
***
Gregor Strasser, Ludendorff, and I were arrested on the spot.
Otto Strasser was dead. Röhm, Hess, Schreck, Maurice, and other party leaders were caught while fleeing.
Hanfstaengl, judged uninvolved, wasn’t arrested.
Göring fled to his in-laws’ in Sweden.
I was locked in solitary at Landsberg Prison.
No heating. Meals were nothing but cold boiled potatoes hard as rocks and thin gruel, twice a day.
A bit better than trench rations on the Western Front, but far from the warm dishes I’d grown used to. Each time, I forced myself under a self-hypnosis.
I’d lived this once already.
Part of the plan anyway. Just endure a little longer. Just a little longer.
***
The year turned. 1924.
February 24, with winter fading, I was hauled into the Munich courthouse for trial.
Reporters and gawkers swarmed the entrance.
"Mr. Hitler? Any comments on the incident?"
"Is it true you threatened the commissioner with a pistol?"
"Mr. Hitler, just one word please!"
The escorting police held back the crush while I kept my mouth shut and walked on.
Inside the courtroom, cameras flashed bright.
Ludendorff, Röhm, Hess, the Strassers, Schreck, Maurice—all sat in the dock.
I exchanged brief glances with them, then sat down.
"We will now begin the trial."
I looked up at the judge. Relief: a familiar face.
Judge Georg von Neithardt.
The same judge who handled Hitler’s trial in history. I’d worried some other magistrate might appear, but no.
"Defendant Adolf Hitler, you are charged with high treason."
The prosecutor’s opening stilled the chamber.
"First, a question. Records confirm the defendant was born not in Germany but in Austria. State your exact nationality, defendant."
Here we go.
"Apologies, Prosecutor, but your question is too vague for me to understand."
"Too vague? What do you mean?"
"Just that. Do you mean the letters printed on the paper in your hand—or the blood running through my veins?"
I finished and watched Neithardt. He unclasped his chin from his hand, surprised.
"An unexpected reply. Very well, let me rephrase. Do you plead not guilty?"
"No."
"What?"
"I plead... guilty."
The chamber erupted.
The judge himself questioned me.
"Guilty? Are you serious?"
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Why?"
"Because I failed the people. I couldn’t see our cause through, and only got comrades killed. If that isn’t guilt, what is?"
"Go on. I’ll hear you out before judging."
"Your Honor, this is irrelevant to—" the prosecutor protested, but Neithardt raised a hand to silence him.
Smooth sailing.
"Tell me this. If you recover goods stolen by a thief, are you a thief?
We were betrayed in 1918—by those calling themselves our leaders.
They betrayed the blood and effort of our people. They turned the deaths of countless youth, the suffering of their families, into nothing.
I rose to take back the rights of the people. To restore Germany’s rightful power. To make Germany great again.
But I achieved nothing. The revolution failed. I turned the hopes of the German people into smoke.
Therefore I am guilty."
The chamber stood as one, applauding. Even the judges.
***
After that, it was practically scripted.
Neithardt, fully under my spell, granted me unlimited time to speak. The courtroom became a party rally.
I thundered at the packed gallery:
"Commissioner Kahr promised me full support, swore to join the revolution. Yet here I am the accused, and there he sits in the gallery.
If I am guilty, why is he innocent? Why is betrayal of the German people excused? If he is innocent, then no one will ever rise for justice again!"
"Picture it, my friends! Germany healed of her defeat, risen again, ruling the world!
The German flag once more flying over Alsace and Lorraine, East Prussia joined again by land!
This is no fantasy, no pipe dream. This is the rightful claim of the German people, the destiny of the world!"
"I fought four years at the front. I fought well enough to earn the Iron Cross.
Some look at my medal and call me a hero.
But I do not see myself as a hero. I am not, cannot be, will never be. The real heroes are elsewhere.
The millions who fell over four years, in fields, at sea, in trenches, in the mud—those are the true heroes.
Without their sacrifice, Germany today would not exist.
The politicians in Berlin deny this. Their only thought is to feed on the people’s blood and cling to their own power.
Will you stand by as they continue to rule this land?
Or will you rise as one, with the true strength of the people, to set Germany straight again?"
Each time I finished, the courtroom roared.
Only a few—suspected Communist sympathizers and the prosecutor—sat stony-faced. Everyone else stood, clapping, cheering, chanting my name.
"Hitler! Hitler! Hitler!"
And I realized—the name didn’t sound strange to me anymore.
Somewhere along the way, the cries of "Hitler" had become a thrill running down my spine.