There was a murmur in the crowd as Bishop von Preysing rose to give the homily.
And in the soaring space, the Bishop spoke. Within moments, Elise realized what he was talking about—that he had received the information about Charité and Hadamar from Father Licht, and had decided to publicly denounce Operation Compassionate Death.
He didn’t mince words—and ended with “Woe to mankind and woe to our German nation if God’s Holy Commandment ‘Thou shalt not kill’ is not only deliberately broken, and if this act of mass murder is not only tolerated, but allowed to continue.”
Throughout the cathedral, there was stunned silence.
Women had tears running down their cheeks, while men looked on with pale faces and set jaws. In the back, one older woman fainted. She was helped up by two ushers and taken outside for air.
Bishop von Preysing put his hands together. “Let us pray.”
Elise knelt and bent her head. She prayed for Gretel. She prayed for the deaf boy on the train. She prayed for all the murdered children.
She tried to pray for Maggie, and for her mother, but the words wouldn’t come.
Copies of Bishop von Preysing’s homily were distributed throughout Berlin. Bishop von Galen and other higher-ups in the Catholic Church also spoke out against Operation Compassionate Death, and copies of their homilies, too, were circulated.
Through the Solf Circle, the resistance group Father Licht belonged to, the British propaganda office obtained copies of the homilies and dropped flyers of them over German cities and German-occupied territories, to let the people know that their government was murdering children. There was rioting in Hadamar and Ansberg, and the other sites where Operation Compassionate Death was being carried out.
Adolf Hitler was about to give a speech at the Staatliches Hofbräuhaus in Munich, where in 1920 he had once proclaimed the twenty-five theses of the National Socialist program. Then, the assembled crowds had cheered and applauded. Now, two decades later, the people waited, stony-faced and silent, for their Führer.
Inside the Hofbräuhaus, the mood of the top Nazis was subdued. “Mein Führer,” Goebbels said. “Are you sure you want to do this—now?” Goebbels was keenly aware of the disposition of the crowd. They had heard or read the homilies. Many of them had relatives and friends who had “disappeared” to Hadamar, or one of the other institutes, only to be returned as ashes in a black urn.
“My people need me,” Hitler replied, pushing back a limp lock of hair. “They may not know it, but they need me.”
Goebbels knew better than to object. “Ja, mein Führer,” he answered, head bowed.
Hitler stepped out onto the balcony.
There was complete silence. Then, from the back, came one soft call of “Boo!”
Soon, the call was picked up by others in the crowd. “Boo! Boo!” they shouted. “Boo!” Hitler glared at his audience, daring them to continue—and yet they did. His composure began to melt.
He glared into the mass of people with his hypnotic silver eyes, but this time no one was mesmerized, no one was afraid.
They met his eyes, and still they called “Boo!”
The Führer opened his mouth to say something—then closed it. The booing continued, becoming louder and stronger. Abruptly, Hitler turned on his heel and left the balcony.
Once they realized what had happened, the crowd burst into applause. They applauded von Preysing, they applauded von Galen, and they applauded themselves. They had stood their ground. They had saved their friends and relatives. They congratulated themselves as they left the Hof: “Now the euthanasia program will end. Now our children are safe.”
Inside, Hitler met with Goebbels, Bormann, Heydrich, and Himmler. “I want von Preysing arrested and executed!” the Führer screamed, pacing with his hands behind him, clasped so hard the knuckles were white. He was furious, forehead crawling with veins of rage.
He swept all of the items off the desktop in sudden, wrathful petulance—lamps and bronze figurines and teacups falling to the floor with an ominous crash. He flung open cabinet doors, just to slam them—hard. It was a temper tantrum of the worst kind, that of an adult.
“Mein Führer,” Goebbels soothed. “Would you like some tea?”
“Nein! I want von Galen and the rest of the clergy in handcuffs, immediately!”
“I say this as both a colleague and a friend. I don’t think that would be prudent—at this time, that is.” Goebbels was white with fear.
Hitler threw himself into a chair, head in hands. His uncanny understanding of mass psychology had failed him, and he was both enraged and hurt, as a favored child disciplined for the first time.