The Man Who Shot Hitler

[Inspired by true events.]

“Papers.” An order, not a request.

Without looking up, Müller reached inside his coat, withdrew a tattered identification document and handed it to the official. Feet spread for balance in the swaying railway carriage, the official studied the paper then peered down at the household brush salesman with his frayed shirt collar, dowdy suit and large, battered sample case tucked under the seat.

Müller offered a small, tight smile. It wasn’t returned, his identification was. Through the soot-spattered carriage windows, the Schöneberg district was a blur. Ten minutes later, the train drew into the station servicing the Berlin Sportpalast arena.

Waving away a porter, Müller lifted the sample case onto the platform and braced himself before carrying it into the street – a beaten man, facing another day explaining the merits of stiff coconut fibre bristles to disinterested hausfraus.

Excited, chatty Berliners pressed around him as they made for the indoor arena. The lure of Hitler, the nation’s 1930s matinée idol, drew them to the ornate, domed building. Müller felt himself being swept along by a rush of men and women in hats and youths in brown shirts.

Near the Sportpalast’s main entrance, Müller found the toilets. An odor, equal parts disinfectant and stale urine, rose to meet him. Choosing the furthest cubicle, he placed the case on the toilet seat and popped the latches. A SS uniform was tucked neatly inside a false bottom. In the cramped cubicle, he struggled like a contortionist to get out of his suit and into the uniform. The calf-hugging, polished boots were tight, uncomfortable. Pistol checked, Müller left the case on the seat and used a hairpin to lock the cubicle door.

As he rejoined the crowd, he heard the command: “Papers, Oberleutnant.” Definitely not a request. The lieutenant flashes on his uniform didn’t require deference. Two Wehrmacht guards, both edgy, blocked his way. It wasn’t personal. Wearing a sidearm, he expected to be stopped. This time he handed over two crisp documents, the first his identification, the second on a white card giving him permission to stand in the front ranks at the rally.

The older guard handed back the documents together with a smile. “You’re with the SS-Standarte. Congratulations. Is my old schoolfriend Dieter Schmidt still creating mischief there?”

A trap. Tipping his head slightly to one side, Müller said: “There’s no Dieter Schmidt in the SS-Standarte.” He met the guard’s gaze. “Perhaps he left before I joined.”

“Perhaps. Heil Hitler.”

Touching his heels together with a casual click, Müller turned away. A calculated guess and the white card allowed him to edge down the busy main aisle to reach the apron of the stage just as the event host, Reich Minister of Propaganda Joseph Goebbels, crossed to the podium.

Standing with a handful of fellow officers, Müller looked up towards Goebbels’ pale face and prepared to wait out the introductory speech.

Finally, the Führer appeared. A wave of noise from the audience’s roar washed over Müller. “Sieg Heil!”

Perspiration ran down both sides of his body. Wiping his right palm on his jacket, he drew in two breaths, pulled the Luger from its holster, aimed and began pulling the trigger. He lost count of the number of times. Possibly three, no more. A blow from the right knocked his pistol aside, the following punches sent him to the floor. The rage was animalistic. Boots flailed, spittle showered down. Then he felt himself being dragged away, his heels gouging parallel tracks in the floorboards.

Lashed to an ornate, upright chair – a stage prop, Müller decided, even through the pain – he kept his head back to try to stop the bleeding from his nose. His right eye was partly closed, puffy, pummelled red. Around the room, silent men watched, waited.

Goebbels entered. Thin, neat, supremely confident, he looked at the men. “Get out.”

No-one moved. “Are you disobeying orders?” Goebbels asked, his voice soft. Within seconds, he and Müller were alone.

Goebbels held his face close to Müller’s: “Do you know of H. L. Mencken?”

“The American writer?”

“I’ll forgive him his nationality for this one quote: ‘The whole aim of practical politics is to keep the populace alarmed, and hence clamorous to be led to safety, by menacing it with an endless series of hobgoblins, all of them imaginary.’”

“Like you and me, Reich Minister.”

“Precisely. And I must congratulate you. Extraordinary shooting. But what else could I expect from the marksman hero of Passchendaele, even if we lost that battle? Indeed, if your aim had been two centimetres to the left today, we would have lost the Führer too. All Germany rejoices that he was unharmed.”

Müller felt a cigarette being pushed between his lips. A lighter flicked. Hands still tied, he tried to draw in the smoke.

Goebbels sounded almost apologetic. “Obviously I can’t untie you … yet. The crowd now needs to see my men load you into a car. The message will be clear: a piano wire noose awaits any traitor.”

Müller opened his mouth, the cigarette falling to the floor. “When can I see my family?”

“Let’s see. How many times have you created such wonderful assassin disguises? Three?”

“This was the fourth.”

“A threatened nation is an obedient nation, so I think one more attempt on the Führer’s life this year should be sufficient.” There was a moment before a cold smile appeared. “You can visit your family before that date.” Another pause. “To encourage you.”

Müller could feel the blood drying in his nostrils. Painfully, he closed both eyes, picturing his wife and two sons. Goebbels had allowed him to see them once in the last three years. The coming meeting would be different. In Müller’s apartment, sown into the lining of his mattress, he had hidden fresh papers, beautifully forged. His contact who created so many fake identification and travel papers in the past had succumbed to that most elemental of emotions – greed. Finally, Müller’s family would escape Germany. He would stay. At the next rally, the bullets would fly two centimetres to the left.

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Copyright 2019 GREG FLYNN