Killing Hitler (7 page)

By this time, Bavaud was growing desperate. He was running out of money and had, as yet, failed to confront his target. That same afternoon, he caught a train to Bischofswiesen, close to Berchtesgaden, and began walking the ten or so kilometers to Hitler’s residence. By the time he arrived, however, it was already dark and he realized that he would certainly not be admitted that evening. Circumstances, he believed, were forcing him to abandon his “holy” mission. He opted to return home.

After returning to Bischofswiesen on foot, Bavaud spent the last of his money on a ticket to Freilassing, en route to Munich. Despite lacking the funds to reach the French border, he hoped to make it to Munich and then to France by stealing onto a Paris-bound train. Initially the plan worked well, but outside Augsburg he was challenged by a ticket inspector. Without the funds to pay the necessary fare, he was handed over to the railway police, who in turn passed him on to the Gestapo.
⁶⁸

Under interrogation, Bavaud initially maintained the pretense of his enthusiasm for National Socialism. His gun aroused suspicions, but he calmed them by claiming that it was his hobby. At first, then, he managed to keep his attempt to kill Hitler secret, and he stood trial in early December 1938 only for illegal possession of a weapon and ticket fraud. When his baggage was retrieved from Berlin, however, the Gestapo was given more to work with. A map of Munich was found, as well as one of Berchtesgaden, along with additional ammunition.
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Further interrogation followed and soon revealed Bavaud’s true purpose. In February 1939, he was transferred to Berlin and formally charged with attempting to assassinate the Führer.

Bavaud’s testimony was puzzling. He initially claimed to have been acting on the orders of a person of considerable influence within Germany, who acted as his “protector.” But as his
interrogation progressed, he steadfastly refused to name the individual or to give details of his motives. He was assessed by a psychologist, who testified that he was of sound mind and was fit to stand trial. The opinion was also given that he was a “religious fanatic,” who had acted alone out of a mistaken sense of mysticism and in the desire to become a martyr.
⁷⁰

On 18 December 1939, Bavaud stood trial in the People’s Court in Berlin. Witnesses recalled him looking exhausted and pale-faced, seated between two police officers.
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Facing a panel of five judges, he was accused under paragraph 5 of the Law for the Protection of the German People and State of 1933, which concerned the attempted murder of a member of the government and carried the death penalty.
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His defense lawyer bravely stressed Bavaud’s previous good conduct and argued in vain that his client had only planned a murder and not attempted to commit one. He would pay for his temerity with a lengthy interrogation of his own.

That morning, witnesses were called and expert testimony was heard. Bavaud himself was asked to account for his actions. He informed the court that he had acted alone, for the benefit of humanity and all Christendom. He made no attempt to plead diminished responsibility or to beg for leniency but, in a closing statement, confessed to having exaggerated his role and expressed his regret for his actions. It would help him little. Found guilty, he was described as an assassin of “exemplary circumspection, shrewdness, intelligence and skill” and sentenced to death.
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The Swiss authorities chose not to intervene. They submitted no plea for clemency and made no request that the sentence be commuted. They failed even to keep Bavaud’s family informed of his fate. Bavaud, meanwhile, was transferred to the
Todeshaus
(death row) of Plötzensee prison in Berlin.

The routine at Plötzensee was bestial. Prisoners were woken at 5 a.m. to slop out their cells and receive a breakfast of watery ersatz coffee and a piece of bread. Those on death row, such as Bavaud, were kept in strict isolation, shackled hand and foot, their meals pushed through a small metal hatch in the door. Above their heads, an electric light burned constantly, illuminating
every corner of their tiny cell. They were permitted no visitors, no exercise, and no work. The food was predictably awful, consisting most often of a thin, watery broth containing potato peelings or fatty meat scraps.

Prisoners scheduled for execution were informed the afternoon of the day before that they should tidy their things. They all knew what this meant. The guards usually came for them at dawn. In silence, they would be taken for “preparation.” Their necks would be shaved, their hands shackled behind their backs, and their torsos bared. In the distance, a single bell would toll. The condemned would then be led to the execution room, where the guillotine was concealed behind a heavy black curtain. On a signal from the commanding officer, the curtain would be drawn back. The condemned would be strapped to a wooden board beneath the polished blade of the guillotine. Execution followed almost instantaneously.
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Bavaud had originally been scheduled for execution in January 1940, but, unlike most condemned men, he was kept alive while the mysterious background to his plot was investigated again and again. Germany, by this time, was at war, and the possibility of enemy involvement in the conspiracy could not be ruled out. Bavaud was interrogated by the Gestapo in February 1940 and in May 1941, but little more information of substance was gleaned.

Bavaud’s extended stay in Plötzensee must have been unbearable. Every day, for nearly eighteen months, he had to prepare himself anew for his turn: the click of heels in the corridor, the key in the door, his appointment with death. His letters home, mostly confiscated by the authorities to aid their investigations, expressed his homesickness and fear, as well as his strengthened faith and renewed optimism. They also demonstrated regret for his involvement with Gerbohay, who emerged as the shadowy “protector” and instigator of the assassination plot. Writing on 5 April 1940, Bavaud cursed his fate, saying:

If only I had stayed at Saint-Ilan, in the service of God. If only I hadn’t abandoned the creator for that creature; the eternal for the worldly; light for darkness, I would not be here.
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His final letter, written on the night of 12 May 1941, relayed to his parents the news that his turn had finally come:

Dear Father, Dear Mother,

…this is the last night that I will spend down here. I almost didn’t think this day would come, but I have kept a cool head, which gives me hope for the morning, for the moment when my head will roll.

…I beg the Lord to forgive my enemies. I beg forgiveness from those against whom I have trespassed.

…I embrace you all…for the last time. I want to cry, but I can’t. I feel my heart would explode…Thank you for everything that you have done for me…I entrust my soul into the hands of God. Your son.
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As it turned out, Maurice Bavaud was forced to maintain his “cool head” for one more day, while his last words were translated, analyzed, and censored. He was guillotined at dawn on 14 May 1941.

What light does Maurice Bavaud’s attempt shed on the effectiveness of Hitler’s security regime? After the event, investigations into Bavaud’s background, motivations, and possible accomplices were predictably thorough. Convinced that Bavaud was part of a wider conspiracy, the Gestapo made tireless inquiries, retracing the assassin’s steps and interviewing all those with whom he had come into contact. Following the fall of France in 1940, Bavaud’s former classmates at Saint-Ilan were questioned. Marcel Gerbohay—implicated in Bavaud’s prison correspondence—was arrested, interrogated, and, like his former friend, guillotined.

Yet the security forces had been much less thorough in detecting or preventing Bavaud’s attack. Certainly Bavaud could
not get close enough in Munich to risk a shot, and his subsequent attempts to secure an interview with his target also failed. But beyond that, he does not appear to have been hindered in any way at all. He was never stopped, frisked, questioned, or checked, despite speaking little German. He purchased ammunition freely in Berlin and in Munich, and repeatedly practiced his marksmanship in rural Bavaria and close to the Berghof.
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His identity was not checked when he requested a ticket for the parade in Munich. And he was not searched when he took his seat in the grandstand. Even his repeated demands to see Hitler aroused no suspicions. In fact, he twice received advice from Germans on how he might get close to the Führer—from a policeman at the Berghof and from Karl Deckert, who was an officer of the Reich Chancellery staff. Apart from his final arrest, which owed everything to chance, he never once came to the attention of the police, in spite of the fact that the Gestapo had received two tip-offs about him, from Leopold Gutterer and from his Berlin landlady.
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In dealing with Bavaud (or rather in failing to deal with him), the Nazi security organizations had demonstrated some grievous failings.

It should be added at this point that Bavaud was almost certainly
not
the criminal mastermind described by the People’s Court. That backhanded compliment was probably paid to cover up the ineptitude of the authorities. Though charming and persuasive, Bavaud made a very amateur assassin. As a convinced pacifist, he was hardly cut out for the task, and his actions do not suggest a razor-sharp intellect or indeed a killer instinct. Even his choice of weapon betrayed his lack of proficiency. The Schmeisser 6.35 mm pistol was certainly small and easy to conceal, but it lacked the firepower and accuracy of larger-caliber weapons. To be genuinely effective for an assassin, therefore, it would have to be fired a number of times at very close range—below 5 meters, or better yet point-blank. If Bavaud had succeeded in securing an audience with Hitler, it would have been ideal, but it was entirely ill-suited for his master plan: the task of picking Hitler out of a crowded procession at 15 or 20 meters.
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Even if Bavaud
had
fired during the parade, it is extremely unlikely that he would have hit his target at all.

Yet if one starts from the recognition that he
was
an amateur, Bavaud’s achievement is nonetheless impressive. Only twenty-two, he single-handedly tracked Hitler across Germany, armed and trained himself, and came within a few feet of his target. Only fear, inexperience, or his own scruples prevented him from firing a shot. Most important, he demonstrated the courage and strength of conviction to act, when many millions of others across Europe were content to criticize, wring their hands, and do nothing.

For this reason perhaps, news of Bavaud’s case was conspicuously absent in the German press when it came to trial in the winter of 1939. Hitler, of course, was well apprised of the case and certainly took the matter seriously. Perhaps predictably, in the Führer’s mind it assumed more ominous and monumental proportions. He inflated and embellished Bavaud’s three-week pursuit of him to three months, during which the “Swiss sniper,” as he called his assailant,
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had been armed with two pistols and had “hunted” him during his walks around Berchtesgaden.
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But, beyond the hyperbole, Hitler undoubtedly thought Bavaud to have been a genuine threat to his life. Typically, he considered Bavaud’s relative success to be proof positive both of the shortcomings of his bodyguards and of the protection he enjoyed from providence. Bavaud had “confirmed his belief that there is nothing one can do to stop an idealistic assassin, who is prepared to die for his mission.”
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The Führer’s security regime did indeed change in the year after Maurice Bavaud’s arrest, but it is hard to ascertain the extent to which those changes were in response to Bavaud or merely a response to the rising international tensions of the time. The new Reich Chancellery, for example, completed in January 1939, had revamped security arrangements, with double sentries and an alarm system. Arrangements for Hitler’s tours were also tightened, with a sentry
of Leibstandarte
men to be posted outside the Führer’s chosen residence, and an anti-aircraft battery added to his train.

There were, however, two clear consequences of Bavaud’s attempt. The first was that, from 1939, the rules regarding foreign nationals wishing to participate at party events were tightened.
An application had to be made in writing and a strict vetting procedure was to be followed, including an interview with the Gestapo. Staff were reminded to be especially vigilant of dubious letters of recommendation.
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The second consequence was that the annual commemorative parade in Munich was scrapped after 1938.
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The “Swiss sniper” had evidently convinced Hitler that it was too risky to concentrate the Reich leadership in one narrow street for such a widely publicized event. Indeed, in time of war, such willful exposure to risk was unthinkable, even for Hitler. In later years, therefore, he would usually merely drive to the Feldherrnhalle, lay his wreaths, and depart again for Berlin.

What Hitler’s security men didn’t know, however, was that just as Bavaud was agonizing at seeing the Führer march away from him that day in Munich, another assassin was watching the spectacle, looking for opportunities and plotting an attack of his own.

CHAPTER 2
Georg Elser: The Lone Bomber