Chapter Eighteen
A Sum of its Parts
January 1919
Vienna, Austria
Republic of German-Austria
Hitler hated Vienna. The city reeked of leftist liberalism and Jewish influence. Walking by the Creditanstalt in the Inner City, seeing desperate people walk in and out, made him nearly want to spit at the large Neoclassical building. How can people say Jews don’t control the so-called ‘republic’ when they owned and operated the largest bank in the nation. He wished he was in Linz, with his comrades. Olbrecht, Lutjens and all the rest. Linz, more so than Branau am Inn where he had spent his childhood in, was his hometown. It was beautiful, elegant, and the people of strong will and stout spirit. The men he had fought with and seen die defending the Austrian
Vaterland had hailed from Linz. It was the home of heroes, defenders of the Austrian-German race.
When peace had been declared, the 87th Infantry Brigade had been sent back to Linz. There the thousands of men in the brigade had been honorably discharged, given their last paycheck and sent on their way. Hitler had hoped to remain on as Olbrecht’s adjutant in the rapidly reforming Army, renamed to the
Volkswehr with the dissolution of Austro-Hungary, but a
Stabsfeldwebel was considered too junior to be a regimental officer’s adjutant. And with the rapid downsizing of the Landwehr into the smaller
Volkswehr due to a far smaller budget and arms restrictions placed on Austria by the Entente, Hitler had been discharged from service.
It had been expected but the disappointment was sharp and lasting. Four years fighting for a nation that he had at long last come to recognize as his fatherland and now he was cast out to the streets, left to survive with a handful of banknotes that lost their value with each passing day. He did not blame the soldiers of Austria, it was not their bravery that was in doubt. Others had failed them, the aristocratic-controlled government and the lofty generals whose minds and tactics were locked in the 19th Century.
Olbrecht had fought to keep him on his staff, had filed a complaint with Major General Rudolf Krauss, commander of the 87th Infantry Brigade, but the general said that it simply was not possible.
And while one door closed, another opened. Gustav Gross had written to him, asking him to come to Vienna.
‘I have need of you,’ he had written. And so Hitler had used his dwindling amount of money to purchase a ticket from Linz to Vienna.
Arriving in early December 1918, Hitler met with Gross at the train station. It seemed Gross, inspired by the conversations the two had penned to one another in the many months since his recovery in the hospital, Gross proposed a new political party: the National Liberal Front, an amalgamation of smaller right-leaning political parties to unite into a more cohesive and enlarged political entity that could influence the national direction as the upcoming election for the Austrian Constituent Assembly was set to take place in February.
On December 10th, 1918 the National Liberal Front (
Nationalliberale Front, NLF) was created, combining the financial resources and voter support of various parties such as the German National Party, the German People’s Party, the German Freedom and Order Party, and the German National Socialist Workers’ Party, among others, into the third largest party in the country. Gross was publicly running for the Chancellorship but he told Hitler privately that this election was simply to establish the NLF and cement its existence in the Republic’s political conscience. Gross hoped to win enough seats in the Assembly to form a power bloc that could enter into a coalition with the Christian Social Party, the largest conservative party in the country, and oust the Social Democrat Workers’ of Austria from their stranglehold on power.
Hitler, the Hero of Hill 53, was used as a propaganda and recruiting tool to appeal to the veteran vote and the more militantly-minded individuals. Initially, Hitler had been happy to recall his time in the Army, his service and battles, most notably the Battle of Hill 53, and speaking at these gathering in homes, political offices and beer halls had lined his pocket with a not inconsiderable amount of money but as the weeks went on, he wanted to do more than simply be a factor in party recruitment.
“You want to win the Chancellorship eventually, correct?” Hitler had asked Gross as they ate a light luncheon in downtown Vienna almost two weeks after the Front was created.
“Of course, that is the point after all.” Gross was reading a newspaper detailing the intensifying political campaigning going on in the capital.
“I can give you that victory,” he had stated assuredly.
Gross looked up from the paper and combed his fingers through his gray beard in thought. “How?” he eventually asked.
“You’ve heard me speak at the events you host. I enrapture the crowd. Make me the chief of propaganda and you’ll get your votes in the 1920 election.” Hitler had discovered he had an oratorical skill while speaking to crowds of anywhere from forty to sixty patrons who visited Gross’ office in the Inner City to contemplate joining or helping finance the fledging NLF.
His largest speech had been earlier that day at a beerhall, the NLF hosting it and providing free beer and bread to those who stopped to listen which garnered a crowd of around a hundred and twenty people. And though Gross and several other leading NLF figures had spoken about their plans to reinvigorate Austria’s economy and industry, none had held the attention Hitler did when he started speaking, whipping up the crowd in nationalist fervor as Hitler laid the blame of the Great War on the General Staff, the aristocrats and the Jews. Though some within the NLF supported a return of the monarchy, Hitler was firm in his resolve that this should be avoided as the Hapsburgs had only led Austria into ruin.
It made him unpopular with the newfound party’s leadership, their displeasure blocked by Gross’ support but it nonetheless enamored him with the veterans and the working class who clapped and cheered when he had finished.
Still, despite the steady rise in membership to the Front, Gustav Gross hesitated.
“I’m sorry, Adi. I would prefer you as chief of propaganda but that position is going to Jakob Lutschounig.”
“He has all the oratorical talent of warm pudding,” Hitler said, irritated. Truthfully, Hitler had never heard Lutschounig speak but the man was seventy years old and looked ever tired at party headquarters.
“Be that as it may, I promised him a position in the Front to secure the agrarian vote.”
“You would rather have a man whose speeches bore a crowd into a nap as propaganda chief than have me who whips them into a frenzy? That is idiotic, Gustav, and you know it.”
“That is politics.”
Hitler had not taken that very well, later writing a letter that evening deriding the Front’s archaic parliamentary political appeasement structure, sending it to Lutjens and Olbrecht, who both stayed in Linz and whom he had kept in contact with.
He wanted to be propaganda chief. It would allow his words and vision to reach others across Austria. Being a speaker for the NLF was beneficial financially and to hone his newfound craft at public speaking but he had little freedom over what topics to choose since his rant against those who lost Austria the war. Gross and the others had all but said they were going to keep him on a tighter leash.
He needed something to give him leverage into becoming a member of the Front’s central committee. From there he could influence actual change in the party’s platform, making it go from vague national liberal ideas to something far more concrete and direct, something that would not just promise but actually deliver.
Hitler roamed the streets of Vienna on Christmas Eve when a boy shouting the newspaper headlines atop a box caught his attention:
“-major armed clash at Leutschach in Carinthia between German-Austrian militia against Slovene militia, casualties reported to be in the dozens! Repeat, repeat, there has been a major armed clash at-”
An idea came to him... one that could prove promising.
Hitler smiled.
January 1919
Vienna, Austria
Republic of German-Austria
Vienna appeared hollow, drab, an air of despair hovered over everything. To Simon Golmayer it reminded him of the war. Yet instead of bullets being fired, it was anger; instead of shells slamming into the earthworks killing the youth of an empire now dead, it was the uncertainty of work and money. The city was covered in snow, alleviating some of the drabness but not quite ridding Vienna of it.
His mood was dark, the past few weeks had not been easy, made worse when Richard returned home a week ago bearing news of his twin Abraham having died in the last few days of the war in the Battle of Vittorio Veneto. Not only was there one more mouth to feed but also a son who would never come home. Judith cried for days, Felix and Hannah, sweet Hannah who he had never seen before being discharged and returning home, also cried, not knowing why but sensing the misery in the house. Simon tried his best to help and to improve his wife’s moods but she still remained in bed nearly all day, recluse and silent. Richard, similarly broken, was instead always gone from home, returning late at night smelling of cheap cigarettes and alcohol.
When he had arrived home two weeks ago, he had done so with a pocket full of Austro-Hungarian krone, money that had been made worthless with the dissolution of Austro-Hungary. He had been forced to go to the bank where they stamped new names and denominations over the paper money, now called the Austrian krone. The savings that had been in the bank prior to the war, saved up over a long and difficult career in Viennese banking finance, had been dried up as a result of growing inflation during the war and Judith being forced to withdraw on it to pay the raised taxes and higher price of food and other consumables. Now with inflation rising rapidly, and the Empire’s industrial heartland (Bohemia) and the lion’s share of agriculture output (Hungary) now were separate countries, leaving mountainous Austria to sustain itself.
Long lines existed at markets, grocery stores and the many bakeries and butchers throughout the city. Food was scarce and the prices high. Unlike many of his fellows, Simon refused to use specie to pay for anything. He instead used all the paper banknotes they had, knowing that when inflation got worse, which he knew it was going to as all signs pointed to it, then the coins he had held in reserve would carry more fiscal weight than the rapidly meaningless krone banknotes. But banknotes and specie wouldn’t last forever. He needed to secure a job that provided some influx of cash.
This led him to go to his place of former employment: the Creditanstalt. The Neoclassical architecture reminded Simon of a better time, when money was good and peace reigned over Europe. He walked in, dressed in his best suit, which hung loose on his body, the war and the lean times had thinned him into a wiry man, a far cry from his once plump self.
The inside was just as he remembered, though he noted a couple more men in security uniforms standing by, hands near revolvers. Simon had heard of riots and protests at banks as people were desperate for their money, begging to withdraw and spend it before inflation wiped out their savings. The crowds on the inside were significant but thus far orderly. He stood in the shortest line and waited nearly an hour to reach the front.
He walked up to the bank teller, a young woman about Richard’s age. She looked up from some documents at him as he arrived at her window.
“Hello, I’m here to apply for a job.”
She pointed wordlessly to a crowd of men sitting near one wall of the bank, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee and water. They, like Simon, were well dressed though many had loose fitting suits and eyes that watched everyone who walked in, their hard-earned combat reflexes still with them in the couple of months since the war ended.
Ah, he thought. He didn’t realize so many would try and seek employment so soon. That was foolish of him.
He looked back at the young woman. “My name is Simon Golmayer, I was a senior accountant with this bank.
Herr Rothschild knows me personally.” That stretched the truth, if anything
Herr Rothschild knew of him but little more than that.
The woman looked skeptical, as if others had said that before.
Putting on his most winning smile, he nonchalantly slid over a 20 Krone coin. The woman’s eyes hungered at actual money, and she snatched it away, putting it in a pocket.
“One moment,” she said, turning and rising out of her chair.
She was gone a long time, long enough for the men and women behind him in line to begin voicing complaints and muttering.
But the teller returned. “Wait by the men over there,” she gestured at the unemployed veterans, “Someone will be with you shortly.”
“Thank you,” Simon said half-heartedly. He was hoping he would talk to someone immediately and not have to wait but he did as he was told and joined the men. Pouring coffee, ersatz of course, into a provided cheap mug. He sipped, grimacing at the flavor but welcoming the heat.
It took three hours, with several men he was standing with being called up for an interview by a secretary who escorted them further into the bank out of sight. When they returned, some men looked relieved, walking with pride while other looked dejected, angry and wouldn’t catch the eyes of those who watched.
“Simon Golmayer,” called the secretary’s voice. Simon gulped down what was left of his fourth cup of coffee, setting it down on the marble counter, and walked briskly to the man.
“Simon Golmayer?” the man asked, hands holding a paper and a pen.
“Yes, that’s me.”
The secretary marked something on his paper, likely his name off a list, and gestured for him to follow.
Simon did so, walking into the inner offices that he had gone through a thousand times before the war. Some faces he recognized, many he did not. A larger number were women then he remembered. The secretary, a man Simon did not recognize, saw the look and shrugged. “Women are cheaper to employ than men and they do the job about as well.”
He was led to an office and seated. No one sat behind the desk.
“He might have stepped out to use the restroom, one moment,” the secretary said and left. Simon sat and waited, his own bladder starting to complain due to four cups of coffee and nerves.
“Simon, it is you!”
He turned and smiled as he saw Fritz Hanke limp in.
“Fritz! Thank God to see you alive and well,” he stood up and shook firmly the outstretched hand.
“Well, well enough I suppose,” he patted his leg. “Serbian irregular shot me in the thigh in 1916, giving me this damn limp. It aches but at least I survived. More than I can say for so many other Austrian patriots.”
Simon nodded in agreement, feeling a sliver of shame that he had gone the whole war without a scratch, which was ridiculous to feel though it was there.
“Sit, sit,” Fritz said, limping to the seat on the other side of the desk.
“You’re the interviewer?” Simon asked.
“Mhmm,” Fritz said, taking a seat and sighing with relief. “When I got discharged from the Army, I came back here but my senior accounting position had been filled. But the Personnel Manager had just retired so Herr Rothschild offered me the job. He said, ‘For your brave service and wound, you deserve more but this is all I can give.’ Good man that
Herr Rothschild. Alas, here I am.”
“Wonderful!” Simon licked his lips nervously. “Is there, by chance, a senior accountant position open?”
Fritz’s smile lessened. “No there isn’t, Simon. I’m sorry.”
Simon felt his spirits deflate. He thought back to his home, where Judith waited with young Felix and Hannah, depending on him to supply a means to survive.
“But we have another position,” Fritz said, giving Simon a ray of hope. “Senior Bank Teller, a supervising position over the Tellers. I know it's not what you used to do but you’re smart and hardworking. We need someone at the front there with some conviction and smarts to run it effectively and diffuse any problematic scenarios with clients.”
“What is the salary?”
Fritz wrote on a small notepad and slid it across the desk to Simon. Glancing at it, he whistled. He knew it was going to be a paycut and he vaguely knew was a Teller Supervisor made pre-war but the number shown to him was lesser than his most pessimistic prediction.
“I know it is a paycut, Simon, but after a year you will receive a notable bump in income with small yearly bumps afterwards. The bank is stretched thin, Simon, financially. Losing the war caused many loans to default or demand immediate payment, of which only a percentage was paid. Lines of credit are few and far between, with even the new government struggling to pay the interest on the loans keeping it afloat. If a senior accountant position opens up I will immediately notify you and push your name to the top of the list.”
Simon did the math in his head. This salary would barely pay the mortgage on his home, but it was a source of income which was better than nothing. He would have to pick up a second job. He would also have to sit Richard down and explain the situation and hope to God that his son gets out of the melancholic mood he had been in since returning and get some sort of job. And in a few years once Hannah went off to Kindergarten then Judith could join the workforce. It would be a long and hard path, one rife with struggle and uncertainty, but that was the beauty of life. It was what you make it to be.
“Will you take the job?” Fritz asked.
Simon stood and held out his hand.
“Yes, Fritz, I will.” They shook on it and once again Simon Golmayer worked at Creditanstalt, run by Louis Nathaniel de Rothschild.
January 1919
Bruneck, South Tyrol
Kingdom of Italy
The sight of the Italian tricolor flying over Bruneck Castle gave Jakob Kuhr a sour stomach. Many men and women, of all ages and occupations, grimaced and muttered unhappily when about in the streets, seeing the black and gold of Austrian Cisleithania gone and the green-white-red flag of Italy flutter in its place, dominating over the city from the castle’s towers.
Bruneck was a much changed city to the one Kuhr left when he was conscripted. Unemployment was high, almost as high as the price of food and other goods, but the sight of Italian soldiers patrolling the city, abusing their power to receive food for cheap or free and other services for the fraction of the cost, bullying the locals to cave into their demands, filled Kuhr with such rage and shame he had contemplated either shooting himself or shooting the nearest Italian. But he knew his death, either done cowardly or bravely, would do nothing to liberate South Tyrol from the Latin heel. He had voiced the frustrations, privately, to friends and coworkers at the construction company he was lucky enough to be employed by. The pay wasn’t much, but it was steady and in specie rather than near-useless banknotes.
Warned by some to stop his secessionist talks, he instead went to the beer halls of Bruneck, filled with unemployed veterans itching to do something, anything, against the occupiers.
Kuhr was not alone, many men and some women were in the halls, listening to orators of various quality deride the Italians and calling for South Tyrol to rejoin Austria, or German-Austria as it was being called in the vain hope of being integrated into Germany.
Kuhr sat there, drinking the cheap beer and eating the even cheaper black bread, and listened to Major Maximillian Kostner of the
Standschützen, the South Tyrolese militia and veteran of the Great War, who went on and on to boycott using Italian products or buy from Italian merchants who were flooding into the area to stake their claim on Italy’s newly annexed province.
This received hearty cheers and vocal support from the Austrian crowd, though Kuhr knew some would not follow through on this as Italian goods or food was too valuable to ignore but it would start a movement at the least, a peaceful protest against what many South Tyrolese saw as an illegitimate military occupation. Anything that strayed too close to violent means were ignored. There were doubtless some in the crowd being paid by the occupiers as informants.
Early on in the occupation, days after the Italian soldiers marched in and made Bruneck Castle their base of operations, a Tyrolese patriot had thrown a grenade at a truck carrying Italian soldiers. The grenade missed but the patriot had evaded capture. As punishment ten Tyrolese citizens of Bruneck had been imprisoned, with the Italian authorities demanding the attempted saboteur to turn himself in within twenty-four hours or face the consequences of his actions.
No one turned themselves in and no came forward with information. Twenty-four hours after their announcement, the Italians marched then citizens, all men picked randomly from ages 18 to 80, into the city's central square where they were lined up and shot by firing squad. Since then none had dared physically attack the occupiers, but dissent simmered just beneath the surface.
The beer hall's doors slammed open, drawing the eye of all present, while a young boy ran in, gripping a newspaper. He ran to the raised platform Kostner was speaking from.
Kostner took the paper and quickly read it, eyes tightening as he continued. Many looked on quizzically. At last Kostner finished and he looked out over the assembled faces.
“In the city of Marburg an der Drau, thirteen German-speaking Austrians were murdered by Rudolf Maister and his Slovene horde, with sixty more wounded. Former
Landwehr First Sergeant Adolf Hitler is calling for volunteers to ensure Carinthia remains a part of German-Austria. He calls for fellow Austrian patriots to aid their countrymen in this hour of great struggle.”
Outrage erupted in the beer hall, with men standing up, shouting “Those damn traitors!” and “Death to Maister!” and finally “Bloody Maister!” The Austro-Slovene Conflict over Carinthia had escalated since the end of the Great War, with several minor clashes between militia units, but this was a murderous and heinous crime and Maister needed to be punished for the crimes he oversaw.
Kuhr was among those shouting. Though he was a South Tyrolese Austrian, he felt the shared outrage that other German-speaking Austrians were being persecuted and oppressed in land they had long ruled.
“We must aid our brethren in Carinthia!” Kostner shouted, affirmative yells answering him. “Who will volunteer to aid our brothers and sisters? I shall be the first to volunteer but who will come with me?”
Many raised their fist, a good many shouting their willingness.
It was Kuhr, who spoke from within, a deep-seated emotion and feeling that seared its way to his mouth to be uttered aloud, that would spark conflict in South Tyrol for years to come.
“First Carinthia, then South Tyrol!”
The hall took the call, yelling it so loud that the wooden beams and stone bricks shook with the words.
“First Carinthia, then South Tyrol!”
