"There's twenty-two singers!
But one microphone,
Back in the garage!"
~ The Clash
The Red Front safe house was an abandoned factory on the outskirts of Berlin, as the economy continued to crumble such places had easier to find even as the paramilitary force grew larger and larger seemingly every day.
Johann wondered how yesterday’s battle might affect that recruitment.
A disused factory meant that there was more than enough space to fit all those who had opted to lay low in the event of a police crackdown. Many grinned jovially amongst the black eyes and broken teeth that they received from the state park riot, warm in the knowledge that their opponents had been dealt much worse.
“Hitler’s willing hangmen were happy to maim and murder the men, women, and children whose only crime was a love for Germany in these trying times.”
Laughter burst out at the Comrade reading out the story in an hysterical, high pitched voice, Eric Mielke seemed to be delighting in the panic amongst the German press he had helped to create. Now he was passing the time reading out the most hyperbolic headlines from the morning papers.
Die Rote Fahne, the paper of the Communist Party, had barely mentioned the scuffle, but the German press had otherwise been all over the story in a predatory fashion. Many within the present company were happy to hear the condemnations read out loud in mocking fashion. These articles were not designed for the working class of course and thus the Red Front didn’t need to care about what they thought
Johann could not help but feel as though their bravado was gained more in the exclamations of the capitalist press barons who had taken offence rather than the fascists they had dispatched. He was well aware of such feelings, they were the type that had caused him to crash planes trying fancy tricks against the Freikorps in the Ruhr. All the same, he did not feel it right to stop the revelry, they had done as they had been ordered to do, and Johann had followed Hitler’s orders ever since the insurgency against the French back in 1924. He could understand the triumphalism.
The laughter amongst the group was brought to a swift halt by the screech of the entry door being dragged open. Johann and his comrades arose from the concrete blocks that acted as their seats to see a shadowed figure appear from outside, his face silhouetted from the light shining in.
A moment later the soldiers of the Red Front snapped to attention with their left fists in the air. It was not every day the General Secretary of the Communist Party of Germany came to visit their little hidey hole. It was only as he got closer that it became clear that this was not a surprise courtesy call.
Johann couldn’t help but notice that the General Secretary was unshaven, his signature grey suit thrown on without the red cloth tied around his left arm. There was a newspaper clenched in his shaking fist. Adolf Hitler was seething.
Johann and the others stood frozen, waiting to be told to relax, but instead Hitler merely threw the paper to the the ground. A Hugenberg tabloid, just like the one that they had been making fun of in the moment that seemed it could have been a century ago.
“Why did I have to hear that the militant wing of the Communist Party undertook a major operation from A. CAPITALIST. RAG.” It was more of an outburst than a question, but Johann tried to avoid eye contact all the same.
“Who deemed themselves worthy to give orders to the organisation I crafted out of the worker’s sacrifice in the Ruhr? WHO?!” This time there was a question, with added venom, and Johann noticed that Mielke, the young enthusiast, had been chosen to be on the receiving end.
“The Zer-the Zentrale, the order came from the Zentrale, we were told you had given the go-ahead.” Johann realised that the tough street fighter who had happily led the charge against the fascists had suddenly been turned into a quivering schoolboy.
“There was no such order,” Hitler snarled in retort, “you are trying to cover up this mess with vague answers but it won’t work.”
“General Secretary, this is the truth, I was given the order by the Party President himself. He said that you had convinced the Zentrale that the time had come to start clearing the streets of the Blackshirts.” Mielke’s pleading voice sounded surprisingly similar to the one of feigned hysteria he had put on when reading the article condemning their assault on the Volkisch Bund, however there was a sincerity to it now, one that appeared to make Hitler pause for thought rather than continue to make accusations.
“You got your orders from the Party President?” He mumbled, anxiously scratching at his unshaven face.
“Yes, General Secretary.”
Something appeared to click in Adolf Hitler’s mind, with a dawn of realisation in his eyes that he had been betrayed. It seemed now that his vaunted relationship with Ernst Thalmann was no longer as strong as it had once been. Together they had removed the incompetents, the sectarians and the zealots from the KPD, now it seemed as if Hitler’s ally had decided that he could no longer share power.
Hitler turned and began to head towards the door, seemingly lost in his thoughts,
“General Secretary?”
This comment gave Hitler pause, but only momentarily, as he swung round again with the same manic expression.
“No, Leader. From now on you will all address me as leader. That way there will be no further mistakes. You will never listen to an order that this not directly from me ever again. If someone attempts to say that I have given approval you will consult me. If anyone gives you an order otherwise, you will report it. To. Me.” Hitler shot daggers towards Mielke.
“Jawohl, mein Fuhrer.” He shouted, Hitler seemed satisfied with the response. The man who had christened himself leader walked back out into the sunlight, leaving his comrades in the shadows once again.
This time they waited for him to leave before turning to Johann,
“You’ve known him the longest, what the hell was that all about?”
Johann looked around all of his new comrades, unable to calculate how to reassure them or give them any explanation. All that he could do was shrug.
“I think we’ve just been part of a coup.”
---
Clash song
here.
The painting is
Glad to be Back by George Grosz