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THE FORGOTTEN HISTORY OF HITLER’S ESTABLISHMENT ENABLERS  
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Adam Gopnik
March 18, 2024
The New Yorker
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_ The Nazi leader didn’t seize power; he was given it. _

The media lords thought that they could control him; political
schemers thought that they could outwit him. The mainstream left had
become a gerontocracy. And all of them failed to recognize his
immunity to shame., Universal History Archive / Getty

 

Hitler is so fully imagined a subject—so obsessively present on our
televisions and in our bookstores—that to reimagine him seems
pointless. As with the Hollywood fascination with Charles Manson
[[link removed]],
speculative curiosity gives retrospective glamour to evil. Hitler
created a world in which women were transported with their children
for days in closed train cars and then had to watch those children die
alongside them, naked, gasping for breath in a gas chamber. To ask
whether the man responsible for this was motivated
by _reading_ Oswald Spengler or merely by _meeting_ him seems to
attribute too much complexity of purpose to him, not to mention
posthumous dignity. Yet allowing the specifics of his ascent to be
clouded by disdain is not much better than allowing his memory to be
ennobled by mystery.

So the historian Timothy W. Ryback’s choice to make his new book,
“Takeover: Hitler’s Final Rise to Power
[[link removed]]”
(Knopf), an aggressively specific chronicle of a single year, 1932,
seems a wise, even an inspired one. Ryback details, week by week, day
by day, and sometimes hour by hour, how a country with a functional,
if flawed, democratic machinery handed absolute power over to someone
who could never claim a majority in an actual election and whom the
entire conservative political class regarded as a chaotic clown with a
violent following. Ryback shows how major players thought they could
find some ulterior advantage in managing him. Each was sure that,
after the passing of a brief storm cloud, so obviously overloaded that
it had to expend itself, they would emerge in possession of power. The
corporate bosses thought that, if you looked past the strutting and
the performative antisemitism, you had someone who would protect your
money. Communist ideologues thought that, if you peered deeply
enough _into_ the strutting and the performative antisemitism, you
could spy the pattern of a popular revolution. The decent right
thought that he was too obviously deranged to remain in power long,
and the decent left, tempered by earlier fights against different
enemies, thought that, if they forcibly stuck to the rule of law, then
the law would somehow by itself entrap a lawless leader. In a now
familiar paradox, the rational forces stuck to magical thinking, while
the irrational ones were more logical, parsing the brute equations of
power. And so the storm never passed. In a way, it still has not.

Ryback’s story begins soon after Hitler’s very incomplete victory
in the Weimar Republic’s parliamentary elections of July, 1932.
Hitler’s party, the National Socialist German Workers’ Party (its
German initials were N.S.D.A.P.), emerged with thirty-seven per cent
of the vote, and two hundred and thirty out of six hundred and eight
seats in the Reichstag, the German parliament—substantially ahead of
any of its rivals. In the normal course of events, this would have led
the aging warrior Paul von Hindenburg, Germany’s President, to
appoint Hitler Chancellor. The equivalent of Prime Minister in other
parliamentary systems, the Chancellor was meant to answer to his
party, to the Reichstag, and to the President, who appointed him and
who could remove him. Yet both Hindenburg and the sitting Chancellor,
Franz von Papen, had been firm never-Hitler men, and naïvely
entreated Hitler to recognize his own unsuitability for the role.

The N.S.D.A.P. had been in existence since right after the Great War,
as one of many _völkisch_, or populist, groups; its label, by
including “national” and “socialist,” was intended to appeal
to both right-wing nationalists and left-wing socialists, who were
thought to share a common enemy: the élite class of Jewish bankers
who, they said, manipulated Germany behind the scenes and had been
responsible for the German surrender. The Nazis, as they were
called—a put-down made into a popular label, like
“Impressionists”—began as one of many fringe and populist
antisemitic groups in Germany, including the Thule Society, which was
filled with bizarre pre-QAnon
[[link removed]] conspiracy adepts. Hitler, an
Austrian corporal with a toothbrush mustache (when Charlie Chaplin
[[link removed]] first
saw him in newsreels, he assumed Hitler was aping his Little Tramp
character), had seized control of the Party in 1921. Then a failed
attempt at a putsch in Munich, in 1923, left him in prison, but with
many comforts, much respect, and paper and time with which to write
his memoir, “Mein Kampf.” He reëmerged as the leader of all the
nationalists fighting for election, with an accompanying paramilitary
organization, the Sturmabteilung (S.A.), under the direction of the
more or less openly homosexual Ernst Röhm, and a press office, under
the direction of Joseph Goebbels. (In the American style, the press
office recognized the political significance of the era’s new
technology and social media, exploiting sound recordings, newsreels,
and radio, and even having Hitler campaign by airplane.) Hitler’s
plans were deliberately ambiguous, but his purposes were not. Ever
since his unsuccessful putsch in Munich, he had, Ryback writes,
“been driven by a single ambition: to destroy the political system
that he held responsible for the myriad ills plaguing the German
people.”

Ryback skips past the underlying mechanics of the July, 1932, election
on the way to his real subject—Hitler’s manipulation of the
conservative politicians and tycoons who thought that they were
manipulating him—but there’s a notable academic literature on what
actually happened when Germans voted that summer. The political
scientists and historians who study it tell us that the election was a
“normal” one, in the sense that the behavior of groups and
subgroups proceeded in the usual way, responding more to the
perception of political interests than to some convulsions of
apocalyptic feeling.

The popular picture of the decline of the Weimar Republic—in which
hyperinflation produced mass unemployment, which produced an
unstoppable wave of fascism—is far from the truth. The
hyperinflation had ended in 1923, and the period right afterward, in
the mid-twenties, was, in Germany as elsewhere, golden. The financial
crash of 1929 certainly energized the parties of the far left and the
far right. Still, the results of the July, 1932, election weren’t
obviously catastrophic. The Nazis came out as the largest single
party, but both Hitler and Goebbels were bitterly disappointed by
their standing. The unemployed actually opposed Hitler and voted en
masse for the parties of the left. Hitler won the support of
self-employed people, who were in decent economic shape but felt that
their lives and livelihoods were threatened; of rural Protestant
voters; and of domestic workers (still a sizable group), perhaps
because they felt unsafe outside a rigid hierarchy. What was once
called the petite bourgeoisie, then, was key to his support—not
people feeling the brunt of economic precarity but people feeling the
possibility of it. Having nothing to fear but fear itself is having
something significant to fear.

It was indeed a “normal” election in that respect, responding not
least to the outburst of “normal” politics with which Hitler had
littered his program: he had, in the months beforehand, damped down
his usual ranting about Jews and bankers and moneyed élites and the
rest. He had recorded a widely distributed phonograph album (the
era’s equivalent of a podcast) designed to make him seem, well,
Chancellor-ish. He emphasized agricultural support and a return to
better times, aiming, as Ryback writes, “to bridge divides of class
and conscience, socialism and nationalism.” By the strange alchemy
of demagoguery, a brief visit to the surface of sanity annulled years
and years of crazy.

The Germans were voting, in the absent-minded way of democratic voters
everywhere, for easy reassurances, for stability, with classes siding
against their historical enemies. They weren’t wild-eyed
nationalists voting for a millennial authoritarian regime that would
rule forever and restore Germany to glory, and, certainly, they
weren’t voting for an apocalyptic nightmare that would leave tens of
millions of people dead and the cities of Germany destroyed. They were
voting for specific programs that they thought would benefit them, and
for a year’s insurance against the people they feared.

Ryback spends most of his time with two pillars of respectable
conservative Germany, General Kurt von Schleicher and the right-wing
media magnate Alfred Hugenberg. Utterly contemptuous of Hitler as a
lazy buffoon—he didn’t wake up until eleven most mornings and
spent much of his time watching and talking about movies—the two men
still hated the Communists and even the center-left Social Democrats
more than they did anyone on the right, and they spent most of 1932
and 1933 scheming to use Hitler as a stalking horse for their own
ambitions.

Schleicher is perhaps first among Ryback’s
too-clever-for-their-own-good villains, and the book presents a
piercingly novelistic picture of him. Though in some ways a classic
Prussian militarist, Schleicher, like so many of the German upper
classes, was also a cultivated and cosmopolitan bon vivant, whom the
well-connected journalist and diarist Bella Fromm called “a man of
almost irresistible charm.” He was a character out of a Jean Renoir
film, the regretful Junker caught in modern times. He had no illusions
about Hitler (“What am I to do with that psychopath?” he said
after hearing about his behavior), but, infinitely ambitious, he
thought that Hitler’s call for strongman rule might awaken the
German people to the need for a _real_ strongman, i.e., Schleicher.
Ryback tells us that Schleicher had a strategy he dubbed
the _Zähmungsprozess_, or “taming process,” which was meant to
sideline the radicals of the Nazi Party and bring the movement into
mainstream politics. He publicly commended Hitler as a “modest,
orderly man who only wants what is best” and who would follow the
rule of law. He praised Hitler’s paramilitary troops, too, defending
them against press reports of street violence. In fact, as Ryback
explains, the game plan was to have the Brown Shirts crush the forces
of the left—and then to have the regular German Army crush the Brown
Shirts.

Schleicher imagined himself a master manipulator of men and causes. He
liked to play with a menagerie of glass animal figurines on his desk,
leaving the impression that lesser beings were mere toys to be
handled. In June of 1932, he prevailed on Hindenburg to give the
Chancellorship to Papen, a weak politician widely viewed as
Schleicher’s puppet; Papen, in turn, installed Schleicher as
minister of defense. Then they dissolved the Reichstag and held those
July elections which, predictably, gave the Nazis a big boost.

Ryback spends many mordant pages tracking Schleicher’s
whirling-dervish intrigues, as he tried to realize his fantasy of
the _Zähmungsprozess_. Many of these involved schemes shared with
the patriotic and staunchly anti-Nazi General Kurt von
Hammerstein-Equord (familiar to viewers of “Babylon Berlin” as
Major General Seegers). Hammerstein was one of the few German officers
to fully grasp Hitler’s real nature. At a meeting with Hitler in the
spring of 1932, Hammerstein told him bluntly, “Herr Hitler, if you
achieve power legally, that would be fine with me. If the
circumstances are different, I will use arms.” He later felt
reassured when Hindenburg intimated that, if the Nazi paramilitary
troops acted, he could order the Army to fire on them.

Yet Hammerstein remained impotent. At various moments, Schleicher, as
the minister of defense, entertained what was in effect a plan for
imposing martial law with himself in charge and Hammerstein at his
side. In retrospect, it was the last hope of protecting the republic
from Hitler—but after President Hindenburg rejected it, not out of
democratic misgivings but out of suspicion of Schleicher’s purposes,
Hammerstein, an essentially tragic figure, was unable to act alone. He
suffered from a malady found among decent military men suddenly thrust
into positions of political power: his scruples were at odds with his
habits of deference to hierarchy. Generals became generals by learning
to take orders before they learned how to give them. Hammerstein hated
Hitler, but he waited for someone else of impeccable authority to give
a clear direction before he would act. (He went on waiting right
through the war, as part of the equally impotent military nexus that
wanted Hitler dead but, until it was too late, lacked the will to kill
him.)

The extra-parliamentary actions that were fleetingly contemplated in
the months after the election—a war in the streets, or, more likely,
a civil confrontation leading to a military coup—seemed horrific.
The trouble, unknowable to the people of the time, is that, since what
did happen is the worst thing that has ever
happened, _any_ alternative would have been less horrific. One wants
to shout to Hammerstein and his cohorts, Go ahead, take over the
government! Arrest Hitler and his henchmen, rule for a few years, and
then try again. It won’t be as bad as what happens next. But, of
course, they cannot hear us. They couldn’t have heard us then.

Ryback’s gift for detail joins with a nice feeling for the black
comedy of the period. He makes much sport of the attempts by foreign
journalists resident in Germany, particularly the New
York _Times’_ Frederick T. Birchall, to normalize the Nazi
ascent—with Birchall continually assuring his readers that Hitler,
an out-of-his-depth simpleton, was not the threat he seemed to be, and
that the other conservatives were far more potent in their political
maneuvering. When Papen made a speech denying that Hitler’s
paramilitary forces represented “the German nation,” Birchall
wrote that the speech “contained dynamite enough to change
completely the political situation in the Reich.” On another
occasion, Birchall wrote that “the Hitlerites” were deluded to
think they “hold the best cards”; there was every reason to think
that “the big cards, the ones that will really decide the game,”
were in the hands of people such as Papen, Hindenburg, and, “above
all,” Schleicher.

Ryback, focussing on the self-entrapped German conservatives,
generally avoids the question that seems most obvious to a
contemporary reader: Why was a coalition between the moderate-left
Social Democrats and the conservative but far from Nazified Catholic
Centrists never even seriously attempted? Given that Hitler had
repeatedly vowed to use the democratic process in order to destroy
democracy, why did the people committed to democracy let him do it?

Many historians have jousted with this question, but perhaps the most
piercing account remains an early one, written less than a decade
after the war by the émigré German scholar Lewis Edinger, who had
known the leaders of the Social Democrats well and consulted them
directly—the ones who had survived, that is—for his study. His
conclusion was that they simply “trusted that constitutional
processes and the return of reason and fair play would assure the
survival of the Weimar Republic and its chief supporters.” The
Social Democratic leadership had become a gerontocracy, out of touch
with the generational changes beneath them. The top Social Democratic
leaders were, on average, two decades older than their Nazi
counterparts.

Worse, the Social Democrats remained in the grip of a long struggle
with Bismarckian nationalism, which, however oppressive it might have
been, still operated with a broad idea of legitimacy and the rule of
law. The institutional procedures of parliamentarianism had always
seen the Social Democrats through—why would those procedures not
continue to protect them? In a battle between demagoguery and
democracy, surely democracy had the advantage. Edinger writes that
Karl Kautsky, among the most eminent of the Party’s theorists,
believed that after the election Hitler’s supporters would realize
he was incapable of fulfilling his promises and drift away.

The Social Democrats may have been hobbled, too, by their commitment
to team leadership—which meant that no single charismatic individual
represented them. Proceduralists and institutionalists by temperament
and training, they were, as Edinger demonstrates, unable to imagine
the nature of their adversary. They acceded to Hitler’s ascent with
the belief that by respecting the rules themselves they would
encourage the other side to play by them as well. Even after Hitler
consolidated his power, he was seen to have secured the Chancellorship
by constitutional means. Edinger quotes Arnold Brecht, a fellow exiled
statesman: “To rise against him on the first night would make the
rebels the technical violators of the Constitution that they wanted to
defend.”

Meanwhile, the centrist Catholics—whom Hitler shrewdly recognized as
his most formidable potential adversaries—were handicapped in any
desire to join with the Democratic Socialists by their fear of the
Communists. Though the Communists had previously made various
alliances of convenience with the Social Democrats, by 1932 they were
tightly controlled by Stalin, who had ordered them to depict the
Social Democrats as being as great a threat to the working class as
Hitler.

And, when a rumor spread that Hitler had once spat out a Communion
Host, it only made him more popular among Catholics, since it called
attention to his Catholic upbringing. Indeed, most attempts to
highlight Hitler’s personal depravities (including his possibly
sexual relationship with his niece Geli, which was no secret in the
press of the time; her apparent suicide, less than a year before the
election, had been a tabloid scandal) made him more popular. In any
case, Hitler was skilled at reassuring the Catholic center, promising
to be “the strong protector of Christianity as the basis of our
common moral order.”

Hitler’s hatred of parliamentary democracy, even more than his
hatred of Jews, was central to his identity, Ryback emphasizes.
Antisemitism was a regular feature of populist politics in the region:
Hitler had learned much of it in his youth from the Vienna mayor Karl
Lueger. But Lueger was a genuine populist democrat, who brought
universal male suffrage to the city. Hitler’s originality lay
elsewhere. “Unlike Hitler’s anti-Semitism, a toxic brew of
pseudoscientific readings and malignant mentoring, Hitler’s hatred
of the Weimar Republic was the result of personal observation of
political processes,” Ryback writes. “He hated the haggling and
compromise of coalition politics inherent in multiparty political
systems.”

Second only to Schleicher in Ryback’s accounting of Hitler’s
establishment enablers is the media magnate Alfred Hugenberg. The
owner of the country’s leading film studio and of the national news
service, which supplied some sixteen hundred newspapers, he was far
from an admirer. He regarded Hitler as manic and unreliable but found
him essential for the furtherance of their common program, and was in
and out of political alliance with him during the crucial year.

Hugenberg had begun constructing his media empire in the late
nineteen-teens, in response to what he saw as the bias against
conservatives in much of the German press, and he shared Hitler’s
hatred of democracy and of the Jews. But he thought of himself as a
much more sophisticated player, and intended to use his control of
modern media in pursuit of what he called a _Katastrophenpolitik_—a
“catastrophe politics” of cultural warfare, in which the strategy,
Ryback says, was to “flood the public space with inflammatory news
stories, half-truths, rumors, and outright lies.” The aim was to
polarize the public, and to crater anything like consensus. Hugenberg
gave Hitler money as well as publicity, but Hugenberg had his own
political ambitions (somewhat undermined by a personal aura described
by his nickname, der Hamster) and his own party, and Hitler was
furiously jealous of the spotlight. While giving Hitler support in his
media—a support sometimes interrupted by impatience—Hugenberg
urged him to act rationally and settle for Nazi positions in the
cabinet if he could not have the Chancellorship.

What strengthened the Nazis throughout the conspiratorial maneuverings
of the period was certainly not any great display of discipline. The
Nazi movement was a chaotic mess of struggling in-groups who feared
and despised one another. Hitler rightly mistrusted the loyalty even
of his chief lieutenant, Gregor Strasser, who fell on the
“socialist” side of the National Socialists label. The members of
the S.A., the Storm Troopers, meanwhile, were loyal mainly to their
own leader, Ernst Röhm, and embarrassed Hitler with their run of
sexual scandals. The N.S.D.A.P. was a hive of internal antipathies
that could resolve only in violence—a condition that would endure to
the last weeks of the war, when, standing amid the ruins of Germany,
Hitler was enraged to discover that Heinrich Himmler was trying to
negotiate a separate peace with the Western Allies.

The strength of the Nazis lay, rather, in the curiously enclosed and
benumbed character of their leader. Hitler was impossible to
discourage, not because he ran an efficient machine but because he was
immune to the normal human impediments to absolute power: shame,
calculation, or even a desire to see a particular political program
put in place. Hindenburg, knowing of Hitler’s genuinely courageous
military service in the Great War, appealed in their meetings to his
patriotism, his love of the Fatherland. But Hitler, an Austrian who
did not receive German citizenship until shortly before the 1932
election, did not love the Fatherland. He ran on the hydrogen fuel of
pure hatred. He did not want power in order to implement a program; he
wanted power in order to realize his pain. A fascinating and once
classified document, prepared for the precursor of the C.I.A.
[[link removed]], the O.S.S., by the psychoanalyst
Walter Langer, used first-person accounts to gauge the scale of
Hitler’s narcissism: “It may be of interest to note at this time
that of all the titles that Hitler might have chosen for himself he is
content with the simple one of ‘Fuehrer.’ To him this title is the
greatest of them all. He has spent his life searching for a person
worthy of the role but was unable to find one until he discovered
himself.” Or, as the acute Hungarian American historian John Lukacs,
who spent a lifetime studying Hitler’s psychology, observed, “His
hatred for his opponents was both stronger and less abstract than was
his love for his people. That was (and remains) a distinguishing mark
of the mind of every extreme nationalist.”

In November of 1932, one more Reichstag election was held. Once again,
it was a bitter disappointment to Hitler and Goebbels—“a
disaster,” as Goebbels declared on Election Night. (An earlier
Presidential election had also reaffirmed Hindenburg over the Hitler
movement.) The Nazi wave that everyone had expected failed to
materialize. The Nazis lost seats, and, once again, they could not
crack fifty per cent. The _Times_ explained that the Hitler movement
had passed its high-water mark, and that “the country is getting
tired of the Nazis.” Everywhere, Ryback says, the cartoonists and
editorialists delighted in Hitler’s discomfiture. One cartoonist
showed him presiding over a graveyard of swastikas. In December of
1932, having lost three elections in a row, Hitler seemed to be
finished.

The subsequent maneuverings are as dispiriting to read about as they
are exhausting to follow. Basically, Schleicher conspired to have
Papen fired as Chancellor by Hindenburg and replaced by himself. He
calculated that he could cleave Gregor Strasser and the more
respectable elements of the Nazis from Hitler, form a coalition with
them, and leave Hitler on the outside looking in. But Papen, a small
man in everything except his taste for revenge, turned on Schleicher
in a rage and went directly to Hitler, proposing, despite his earlier
never-Hitler views, that they form their own coalition. Schleicher’s
plan to spirit Strasser away from Hitler and break the Nazi Party in
two then stumbled on the reality that the real base of the Party was
fanatically loyal only to its leader—and Strasser, knowing this,
refused to leave the Party, even as he conspired with Schleicher to
undermine it.

Then, in mid-January, a small regional election in Lipperland took
place. Though the results were again disappointing for Hitler and
Goebbels—the National Socialist German Workers’ Party still
hadn’t surmounted the fifty-per-cent mark—they managed to sell the
election as a kind of triumph. At Party meetings, Hitler denounced
Strasser. The idea, much beloved by Schleicher and his allies, of
breaking a Strasser wing of the Party off from Hitler became obviously
impossible.

Hindenburg, in his mid-eighties and growing weak, became fed up with
Schleicher’s Machiavellian stratagems and dispensed with him as
Chancellor. Papen, dismissed not long before, was received by the
President. He promised that he could form a working majority in the
Reichstag by simple means: Hindenburg should go ahead and appoint
Hitler Chancellor. Hitler, he explained, had made significant
“concessions,” and could be controlled. He would want only the
Chancellorship, and not more seats in the cabinet. What could go
wrong? “You mean to tell me I have the unpleasant task of appointing
this Hitler as the next Chancellor?” Hindenburg reportedly asked. He
did. The conservative strategists celebrated their victory. “So, we
box Hitler in,” Hugenberg said confidently. Papen crowed, “Within
two months, we will have pressed Hitler into a corner so tight that
he’ll squeak!”

“The big joke on democracy is that it gives its mortal enemies the
tools to its own destruction,” Goebbels said as the Nazis rose to
power—one of those quotes that sound apocryphal but are not. The
ultimate fates of Ryback’s players are varied, and instructive.
Schleicher, the conservative who saw right through Hitler’s
weakness—who had found a way to entrap him, and then use him against
the left—was killed by the S.A. during the Night of the Long Knives,
in 1934, when Hitler consolidated his hold over his own movement by
murdering his less loyal lieutenants. Strasser and Röhm were murdered
then, too. Hitler and Goebbels, of course, died by their own hands in
defeat, having left tens of millions of Europeans dead and their
country in ruins. But Hugenberg, sidelined during the Third Reich, was
exonerated by a denazification court in the years after the war. And
Papen, who had ushered Hitler directly into power, was acquitted
at Nuremberg
[[link removed]];
in the nineteen-fifties, he was awarded the highest honorary order of
the Catholic Church.

Does history have patterns or merely circumstances and unique
contingencies? Certainly, the Germany of 1932 was a place unto itself.
The truth, that some cycles may recur but inexactly, is best captured
in that fine aphorism “History does not repeat itself, but it
sometimes rhymes.” Appropriately, no historian is exactly sure who
said this: widely credited to Mark Twain
[[link removed]], it was more likely first
said long after his death.

We see through a glass darkly, as patterns of authoritarian ambition
seem to flash before our eyes: the demagogue made strong not by
conviction but by being numb to normal human encouragements and
admonitions; the aging center left; the media lords who want something
like what the demagogue wants but in the end are controlled by him;
the political maneuverers who think they can outwit the demagogue; the
resistance and sudden surrender. Democracy doesn’t die in darkness.
It dies in bright midafternoon light, where politicians fall back on
familiarities and make faint offers to authoritarians and say a firm
and final no—and then wake up a few days later and say, Well, maybe
this time, it might all work out, and look at the other side! Precise
circumstances never repeat, yet shapes and patterns so often recur. In
history, it’s true, the same thing never happens twice. But the same
things do. ♦

Published in the print edition of the March 25, 2024
[[link removed]], issue, with the
headline “The Enablers.”

_ADAM GOPNIK [[link removed]], a
staff writer, has been contributing to The New Yorker since 1986. He
is the author of, most recently, “The Real Work: On the Mystery of
Mastery
[[link removed]].”_

_Since its founding, in 1925, THE NEW YORKER has evolved from a
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_The weekly magazine is available in print, at newsstands, and
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