Interwar Period – Widerstand (2)

November 5, 1938 – Breslau, 8th Military District, Eastern Germany – Kreisau, Silesian Region

I left Berlin for a long weekend and traveled to Kreisau, a small town in Silesia.

In the original course of history, this land—along with East Prussia—would be lost after the Second World War. But for now, it remained German soil.

I was a guest at the manor of the Moltke family in Kreisau.

“Thank you for the wonderful meal, Count Moltke.”

Count Moltke descended from the family of Helmut von Moltke, the famed Chief of Staff of the German Empire and one of the architects of its founding alongside Bismarck.

“Ah, I’ve enjoyed our time together, Captain Schacht. I hope we can build a strong relationship in the future.”

The current head of the family, Count Helmut James von Moltke, was not far from me in age.

If Europeans have a distinguished ancestor, they tend to reuse the name across generations—something that can be confusing for outsiders.

“Good coffee beans have just arrived,” said the Countess. “Since we have a special guest, I had them prepared.”

“Oh, thank you, Freja.”

“Thank you,” I echoed.

She poured the coffee and left. The aroma was rich—coffee from an old and prestigious family really did have a distinct character.

As I was savoring it, Count Moltke spoke.

“…Leutnant Colonel Oster and I share the same view on the persecution of the Jews, and we’ve worked together several times on that matter.”

Although he lived far from Berlin, in the eastern reaches of Silesia, he had cooperated with the Abwehr to smuggle persecuted Jews across the border into Poland on multiple occasions.

After the Anschluss, things had become more complicated—Poland had revoked the citizenship of Polish Jews in Germany and Austria, refusing them entry.

“You’ve taken on a difficult task in times like these. Many question the persecution of the innocent, but few take the risk. And fewer still have the means to actually help.”

I didn’t say it just to flatter him.

Despite the Nazi madness, more people than one might think sympathized with the Jews or tried to aid them.

That a neighbor could greet someone warmly one day and then beat them to death the next simply because they were Jewish was both absurd and emblematic of the era’s madness.

Yet those with the power to act were often unwilling to risk losing what they had.

Oskar Schindler, for instance, would be remembered as a great man precisely because it was rare—and difficult—for someone of means to sacrifice it all for others.

“In the end,” the Count said with a bitter smile, “perhaps it’s only a small bit of self-satisfaction for those of us who can’t truly change the era.”

He continued, “…Oster is a man of conscience, burning himself up with the idea that one must fight evil. But he doesn’t truly understand the democratic system. He’s not opposed to it—he just doesn’t feel it’s necessary. But you… you’re different.”

His gaze was piercing.

“The days of emperors and nobles are gone, but Germany’s democracy has failed. Some of us still meet to discuss how to revive it, but frankly… I have little hope.”

This man—who in the end would be executed by the Nazis—was looking to me for an answer, as someone who might help unite democratic and social democratic forces under what would later be called the Kreisau Circle.

“The insurgents come to me for funding,” he said, “but I fear giving it to them might simply support another kind of oppressor. As the son of former Minister Schacht, who once believed in and supported the Nazi regime, you must understand my hesitation.”

“Of course, Count.”

I understood. He wanted to aid civilian forces, not secure a role in some restored imperial government.

My father’s history—supporting the Nazis both financially and politically, only to watch them become a dictatorship that discarded him—had clearly left an impression on Moltke.

“I’m concerned,” he went on, “that the armed struggle they envision might not truly help Germany. Among the royalists and militarists, what space will there be for civil rights? Will we ever see a civilian government here again?”

His hesitation was the reason I had been sent here.

Leutnant Colonel Oster had been intrigued by my views. Right now, I was the best suited to persuade democratic sympathizers to support the resistance.

“To be honest, Count, I’m not here only to ask for funding.”

“…Then why?”

“The Weimar Republic had advanced institutions, even if they were forced upon us by the victors of the Great War. Yet democracy collapsed because of the loopholes that allowed its enemies to thrive.”

Goebbels himself had been the most brilliant satirist of democracy, claiming that democracy had given the Nazis the means to destroy it.

“But the Nazis have also, ironically, planted seeds for democracy’s return. The German people now know they are not bound to obey emperors and nobles. They’ve seen how elected leaders can reshape a nation.”

It might look as though the German will was united behind Hitler—but it wasn’t.

Despite the Nazis’ relentless propaganda and repression, resistance of all kinds persisted through the interwar years.

The only reason it seemed that all of Germany supported Nazism was because dissenters were silenced—violently.

In fact, the regime’s internal security efforts consumed so much energy that Germany often lagged behind in intelligence warfare against the Allies and the Soviets.

Most of the remaining opposition would only be purged after Colonel Stauffenberg’s failed assassination attempt in 1944.

Without such an absolute pretext, the Nazis often hesitated to fully crush well-known opponents, even when their dissent was obvious.

“I want to turn their mockery of democracy back on them,” I said. “And I want to make sure no other tyrant simply takes Hitler’s place. That requires more than just money.”

“…Do you think that’s truly possible?”

“Is it possible?” I echoed. “If we do nothing, then no—it will remain impossible. I can’t promise a certain outcome. But if we use every resource and work with every ally we can… I don’t think it’s impossible.”

“Hah… you’re rather reckless, Captain.”

The Count smiled faintly, then asked, “Do you have a blueprint? I don’t gamble on words. Even as I am, I’m still a businessman.”

“Of course, Count. And I think you’ll like it.”

I had been working on it for some time—so much so that I almost felt disappointed he hadn’t asked sooner.

After the annexation of Austria and the Sudetenland, the Nazis began openly deporting Jews.

Poland—more antisemitic than Germany had been even before the Nazis—refused to take them in, invalidating the passports of Polish Jews in Germany and Austria.

But the Nazis were too obsessed to accept this. They sent secret police to force Polish Jews to the border.

Between Germany, pushing them out, and Poland, barring their entry, thousands of Jews were left stranded—homeless and desperate.

On November 7, 1938, that desperation boiled over. In Paris, a Jewish youth shot Ernst vom Rath, the secretary of the German embassy.

November 9, 1938 – 7th Military District, Southern Germany – Munich, Bavaria

In Munich—the birthplace and stronghold of the Nazi Party—an event was underway to commemorate the Beer Hall Putsch that Hitler had launched 15 years earlier.

While Nazi leaders basked in the adoration of Munich’s residents, Joseph Goebbels took the stage.

“I cannot rejoice fully today,” he declared, “for Germany grieves—right here, where our great movement began! The proud German son, Ernst vom Rath, was a sincere young man who served only his country!”

He continued, his voice dripping with venom.

“But that damned Jew shot him—an innocent! Even now, as we speak, this German patriot lies at the brink of death. And yet the Jews claim they are innocent!”

“Damn Jews!” voices in the crowd shouted.

“Shamelessly, their press lies—claiming we are the abusers! They must learn that our patience has limits! One day we will silence those filthy mouths forever—”

A secretary hurried onto the stage. “Herr Doktor!”

Goebbels paused, irritated, and listened. His face hardened.

“…Proud citizens of Germany,” he said, “our son, the proud secretary Ernst vom Rath…”

The crowd watched as his expression shifted—from feigned sorrow to naked hatred.

“…is dead.”

Murmurs swept through the hall.

Goebbels’ voice rose above them, sharp as a whip.

“An innocent German son was slain by the Jews! What crime had he committed? To the Jews who spat on our mercy and answered with cold bullets—why should we endure them any longer?”

The audience roared.

“The Jews have shown us why they are the enemy of Germany! We must prove that this great nation will no longer be enslaved by such demons!”

“Kill the Jews!”

“For vom Rath!”

The hatred was spreading, feeding on itself.

“We, the proud Aryans, will no longer dance on the strings of these evil parasites! Our patience is gone! The time has come to remove them from our land! Germany—awake!”

“Vengeance!”

“Death to the Jews!”

With the crowd in a frenzy, Goebbels shouted his final decree:

“Tonight, we erase the stain of Jewry from this land—with blood vengeance!”

Kristallnacht had begun—the “Night of Broken Glass.”

It was the true beginning of the Holocaust.