Laurent Binet: HHhH

While I was checking my sources, however, I came upon this statement, disclosed to I don’t know whom, but which shows that Heydrich had a very clear idea of his job: “In a modern totalitarian system of government, the principle of state security has no limits. Therefore whoever is in charge must aim to gather a degree of power almost without restraints.”

You can accuse Heydrich of many things, but you can’t say he didn’t keep his promises.

April 20, 1934, is a significant date in the history of the Schutzstaffel: Göring surrenders the leadership of the Gestapo, which he created, to the two heads of the SS. Himmler and Heydrich take possession of the magnificent headquarters on Prinz Albrecht Strasse in Berlin. Heydrich chooses his office. He moves in. Sits down at his desk. Gets to work straightaway. He places some paper in front of him. Takes his pen. And starts making lists.

Obviously, Göring isn’t happy to give up the leadership of his secret police, already one of the jewels in the crown of the Nazi regime. But it’s the price he must pay to win the support of Himmler against Röhm: the petit bourgeois of the SS worries him less than the left-leaning agitator of the SA. Röhm likes to brag that the National Socialist revolution is not finished. But Göring doesn’t see things that way: they’ve got the power, their only task now is to keep it. Heydrich undoubtedly subscribes to this point of view too, even if Röhm is godfather to his son.

Berlin hums with conspiracy as a document circulates the city. It’s a typewritten list. Neutral observers are stunned by the carelessness with which this sheet of paper is passed around in the cafés, going from hand to hand under the eyes of waiters whom everybody knows to be informers in the pay of Heydrich.

It is nothing less than the blueprint of a hypothetical ministerial cabinet. In this future government, Hitler remains chancellor but the names of Papen and Göring vanish. In their place appear those of Röhm and his friends—Schleicher, Strasser, Brüning.

Heydrich shows the list to Hitler. The Führer, who likes nothing more than having his paranoid tendencies confirmed, chokes with rage. However, the heterogeneity of the coalition leaves him puzzled: Schleicher, for example, has never been counted among the friends of Röhm, whom he despises. Heydrich retorts that General von Schleicher has been seen deep in conversation with the French ambassador—proof that he is part of the plot.

In fact, the disparate couplings of this strange coalition show above all that Heydrich still needs to refine his knowledge of internal politics. Because he’s the one who has drawn up and distributed this list. The prevailing principle behind it is very simple: he has, naturally enough, written down the names of his enemies, along with the enemies of his two masters, Himmler and Göring.

From outside, the imposing gray stone building reveals nothing. At most you might guess at an unusual activity in the movements of the silhouettes that enter and exit. But inside this SS hive there is frenzied agitation: men run in all directions, shouts echo in the great white hall, doors slam on every floor, telephones ring endlessly in offices. At the heart of the building and of the unfolding drama, Heydrich plays what will become his greatest role—that of the killer bureaucrat. Around him are tables, telephones, and men in black who dial and hang up. He takes all the calls.

“Hello! He’s dead?… Leave the corpse where it is. Officially, it’s suicide. Put your gun in his hand… You shot him in the back of the neck? Well, never mind, that doesn’t matter. Suicide.”

“Hello! It’s done?… Very good… The woman too?… All right, you’ll say that he was resisting arrest… Yes, the woman too!… That’s right, she tried to intervene, that will work fine!… The servants?… How many?… Take their names, we’ll deal with them later.”

“Hello! Finished?… Good, now throw it all in the Oder.”

“Hello!… What?… At his tennis club? He was playing tennis?… He jumped over the hedge and disappeared in the woods? Are you fucking with me?… You comb the woods and you find him!”

“Hello!… What do you mean, ‘another’? What do you mean, ‘the same name’?… The first name too?… All right, bring him here, we’ll send him to Dachau while we find the right one.”

“Hello!… Where was he last seen?… The Adlon Hotel? But everyone knows the waiters work for us, that’s idiotic! He said he wanted to give himself up?… Very well, go back and wait at his house, then send him to us.”

“Hello! Let me speak to the Reichsführer!… Hello? Yes, it’s done… Yes, that too… It’s happening now… It’s done… And where are you with number one?… The Führer refuses? But why?… You must convince the Führer!… Talk about his morals! And all the scandals that we’ve had to suppress! Remind him of the trunk left behind at the brothel!… Understood, I’ll call Göring now.”

“Hello? Heydrich speaking. The Reichsführer tells me that the Führer wants to spare the SA Führer!… Naturally, under no circumstances!… You must tell him that the army will never accept it! We have executed Reichswehr officers: if Röhm doesn’t die, Blomberg will refuse to back the operation!… Yes, there you go, a question of justice, absolutely!… Understood, I’ll wait for your call.”

An SS guard enters. He looks worried. He approaches Heydrich and bends down to speak in his ear. They both leave the room. Five minutes later, Heydrich returns, alone. His face reveals nothing. He goes back to answering calls.

“Hello!… Burn the body! Send the ashes to his widow!”

“Hello!… No, Göring won’t let us touch him… Leave six men at his house… Nobody enters and nobody leaves!”

“Hello!…” et cetera.

At the same time, he methodically fills out little white sheets of paper.

This goes on all weekend.

Finally, he gets the news he’s been waiting for: the Führer has given in. He will give the order to execute Röhm—his oldest accomplice, and the head of the Sturmabteilung. Röhm may be godfather to Heydrich’s eldest son but he is above all Himmler’s direct superior. By decapitating the SA leadership, Himmler and Heydrich liberate the SS, which becomes an autonomous organization answerable only to Hitler. Heydrich is named Gruppenführer, a rank equivalent to major general. He is thirty years old.

Gregor Strasser is eating lunch with his family on Saturday, June 30, 1934, when the doorbell rings. Eight armed men are here to arrest him. Without even giving him time to say goodbye to his wife, they take him to Gestapo headquarters. He is not interrogated but finds himself locked in a cell with several SA men who crowd around him excitedly. They are reassured by his prestige as an old companion of the Führer, even if he hasn’t exercised any political power in months. He does not understand why he is here with them, but he knows the mysteries of the Party well enough to fear its arbitrary, irrational side.

At 1700, an SS guard comes to take him to an individual cell with a large window in the roof. Alone in his cell, Strasser does not know that the Night of the Long Knives has begun, but he can guess what’s going on. Should he fear for his life? True, he’s a historical figure in the Party, linked to Hitler by the memory of past struggles: they were, after all, in prison together after the Munich putsch. But he knows too that Hitler is not a sentimental man. And even if he can’t grasp how he could be considered a threat comparable to Röhm or Schleicher, one must take the Führer’s boundless paranoia into account. Strasser realizes he will have to play his cards cleverly if he wants to save his neck.