The Hunt

“Sieg heil!” They answered.

Himmler raised his dagger over his head.

“Go with God,” he cried.

Everything seemed right but the weather

Saturday, June 30, 1934, had been the day picked by Himmler for Operation Kolibri, “Hummingbird.” Hitler had accepted the date without question, for if Goring was the obese Falstaff to Hitler’s king, Himmler was the Fuhrer’s Merlin. Himmler had relied on his mystic powers, his understanding of the occult, witchcraft, astrology, and numerology, to arrive at the date. He conjured the spirits and advised his leader that the weekend was the perfect time for Operation Kolibri. Himmler was the ultimate magician of the Third Reich. He could even manufacture evidence out of thin air if the Fuhrer needed it.

It was Himmler who had invented Hummingbird, as they all had come to call it, and drawn up the basic blueprints, although everyone ultimately contributed something to the dark plot. Theodor Eicke, the sadistic manager of Dachau, had drawn up the initial list, even going back through old news accounts seeking names that might have otherwise been forgotten or overlooked. Himmler and Goring added their own victims to the growing roll. Then Heydrich dropped a few names in the hat. Hitler had even invited Vierhaus to add his names to the list but the deformed little box of a man declined.

“Danke, mein Fuhrer,” he said. “My enemies are all dead already.”

So the list grew. Not only leaders of the brownshirt Sturmabteilung, but political opponents and old enemies appeared. By the end of June there were over three thousand names on the deadly roster.

The schizoid path of deception and betrayal eventually led to the town of Bad Godesberg, near Bonn, and a quaint hotel called the Dresen which overlooked the Rhine River. In his suite on the second floor, Hitler brooded. His round, astonished eyes glared up into the southern skies, prematurely dark from the storm clouds that were broiling up between Bonn and Munich. Occasionally a jagged arrow of lightning would etch the contours of the river, followed by rumbling drums of thunder.

He stood in the open french doors that led to the balcony, his hands stiff behind his back, his shoulders hunched. The weather had to clear, he said to himself, smacking his fist into his open palm several times. It was crucial that the weather clear. His dinner of vegetables and fruit sat untouched. The room seemed to crackle with tension. Vierhaus, who was smugly honored by being invited to sit with the Fuhrer on this important night, had never seen him look so gaunt and edgy. Hitler’s eyes were ringed with deep, dark circles and they seemed even more feverish than usual. His cheek twitched uncontrollably.

He had made his old friend, Ernst Rohm, probably the best recruiter and trainer of militia in the world, head of the Sturmabteilung and Rohm had built it from 600,000 men to 3 million in one year, an amazing feat. And then Ernst had developed ideas of his own. Dark delusions. Now it was obvious he planned to use the SA to overthrow Hitler.

A born soldier, Hitler’s inner voice screamed, a street soldier, only happy when dealing in death. Why did he turn on me? How could he be so disloyal?

Hitler saw in these elements a truly Wagnerian tragedy. Two magnificent schemers pitted against each other. One of his oldest friends. Now his greatest enemy. Such irony.

And yet, Hitler could still not bring himself to initiate Hummingbird. He had to be sure. He still had to have evidence that his old friend had turned traitor.

He went back in the sitting room. Vierhaus was sitting on the sofa reading a newspaper. He put it aside when Hitler came back.

“I need a cigarette,” Hitler said. “You have a cigarette, Willie?”

“Gauloises?”

“Anything. Just a cigarette,” he said with a wave of his hand. He took it and leaned over for the light, then strode the room, smoking like an amateur, holding the butt between thumb and forefinger, taking short puffs, blowing the smoke out in bursts.

“I did everything I could for him,” he said finally. “Didn’t I write him a letter of thanks at New Year’s?”

“Yes, mein Fuhrer.”

“‘I thank you for the imperishable service you have rendered,’ “ Hitler said with mock grandeur, wafting his arms as he spoke. “‘It is an honor—an honor, yet—to number such men as you among my friends and comrades-in-arms.’”

He stamped his right foot angrily and slapped both fists against his legs.

“What do I get in return,” his voice began to rise. “Betrayal. Lies. Treason!”

“Yes, mein Fuhrer.”

“This man was my friend!” He roared, shaking his fists at the ceiling. He dropped his arms to his sides and bobbed up and down on his toes. He picked up the newspaper.

“Did you see this article in Der Sturm? He is openly bragging about his . . . his perversion. Compares himself to other ho mo . . . sex . . . uals. Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Frederick the Great He stopped for a moment and tried to control his gathering fury. “My God, how many years have I overlooked this. Ignored it. But He ‘waved the paper over his head and slammed it to the floor.

“He has no concept of how important women are to the Third Reich, to the propagation of the Aryan race. Listen to this, listen

He reached down, scrambled through the crushed newspaper and pulled out a page, punched a forefinger at the story.

“‘I renounce the political ideology of the new Germany because it gives women an equal place in contemporary