People's Front #2: Brüning Verordnet Not

The rejection of Brüning’s proclamation of the emergency decree—Brüning verordnet Not—and the motion to repeal it had handed the cabinet a fresh set of wings. In the most literal sense, the Chancellor simply rammed through the very austerity package he had tabled before. The very next day, a Sunday, he unveiled savage welfare cuts aimed at slashing government expenditure by fifteen percent. Then came a hike in the income-tax rate so that every citizen would pay something, a flat poll tax slapped on luxuries like alcohol and tobacco, and a steep rise in agricultural import tariffs that drove the price of bread still higher.

The results were exactly what anyone with half a brain could have predicted.

“Twenty marks in tax?”

“What the hell is this… it’s almost doubled!”

More than anything else, the tax increases were impossible to ignore. A poll tax is precisely what the name suggests: a levy per head. The chairman of a corporation raking in millions of marks a day paid the same sum as a laborer scraping together a hundred marks a month. Landlords and bourgeois families barely felt it. For the lowest rung of workers, however, it was devastating.

“My monthly wage is 120 marks. If they take 60 in tax, what exactly am I supposed to eat?”

Scenes like that were commonplace. Half a paycheck vanishing into the state’s coffers had become routine. On top of that, the Chancellor’s aggressive devaluation policy carried a host of other hidden poisons. The welfare cuts might not be felt immediately, but they would metastasize into a colossal social evil.

“Why the hell have hospital fees gone up again?”

Health and welfare budgets had been gutted, so medical costs soared. Public transport subsidies were slashed as well.

“Five marks just to ride? Forget it. I’ll buy a damn car instead!”

Most people, of course, could never afford a car. Meanwhile, the government had jacked up import tariffs in a desperate bid to tilt the trade balance and generate a surplus. The prices of everyday goods that Germany did not produce in sufficient quantity shot skyward. At the same time, there was simply no money circulating in the markets, so no one dared to spend. All of it—every last bitter measure—had been crammed into the single month since the emergency decree was declared.

“The Chancellor has clearly lost his mind. There’s no other explanation for doing something like this!”

The Communist Party, naturally, seethed with rage at Brüning’s policies.

“What on earth does the Chancellor gain from this?”

“In theory, he hopes to attract foreign capital and swing the trade balance into surplus. Any way he can scrape together money to pay reparations and service the debt.”

“Even if it means sacrificing the people?”

“He considers it unavoidable. For him, paying the debts comes first—everything else is secondary.”

“There’s also the matter of appealing to the victorious powers. ‘Look how much we’re suffering; please reduce the reparations.’ Whatever the motive, the method is wrong. And it cannot last. You can try to lure capital and encourage production all you like, but what good is that when the people have no money to buy anything?”

Everyone grumbled and complained, yet there was nothing they could change right now, so they could only stamp their feet in frustration.

“Still, the number of people hoping to join the Communist Party has exploded compared to last month. The Red Front Fighters’ League is growing too.”

“Given the situation, that isn’t exactly good news…”

It simply proved how thoroughly the government’s policies had lost the people’s trust.

“Any good news from the Labour Party?”

“…Ah.”

That was right. In the five months since I had founded the party I had not once bothered with internal management. Apart from a handful of honorary members back in Essen, it was essentially a one-woman party.

“Er… I don’t think there’s anything in particular?”

“That can’t be. These days there can’t be a single person in Germany who doesn’t know the name Emilia Heinz.”

“It’ll sort itself out somehow.”

I had no idea. I would have to check later. Clearly I was not cut out for the role of meticulous administrator.

“Anyway, that’s not what matters right now… What about the general strike?”

I hurriedly changed the subject.

“The national trade unions have been in touch. They say they can be ready by early January at the latest.”

“Really? That’s faster than I expected.”

“And this time the Social Democrats are on our side, so the press is far more likely to back us.”

The SPD’s involvement really was proving useful.

“First we must pressure the government to withdraw the emergency decree. And the ones applying that pressure must be neither us nor the Social Democrats, but the workers themselves. The Chancellor needs to understand that more than half the population is starving because of his policies.”

Thus we moved smoothly ahead with preparations for the general strike.

The year drew to a close, yet neither the snowy winter nor Christmas could dampen the feverish atmosphere that had taken hold of Frankfurt. The Frankfurter Zeitung appeared to have swung decisively to the left. It even printed statements from me—an open communist. Given that it had always been a liberal paper, there was simply nowhere else for it to go. With a cabinet that had abandoned democratic methods and a right wing growing ever more authoritarian, the only place left to turn was the People’s Front.

The influence of the Social Democratic Party—the largest faction in parliament—joining the coalition was enormous.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

The Social Democrats, standard-bearers of moderate leftism, lent ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠us an overwhelming degree of political legitimacy. No—legitimacy was too mild a word. Whether it was the general strike, the Red Front Fighters’ League, the Comintern, communism, or workers’ councils, the mere presence of the letters “SPD” beside any of them was enough to make liberals extend us their trust. Even the moderate conservatives who had previously branded every communist mention of a strike as “a Bolshevik threat to overturn the system” flipped their stance the moment the Social Democrats raised the banner of “restoring democracy.”

“True democracy lies not in imperfect rule of law but in the action of the masses. We believe the united resistance of Germans driven to the brink will overcome the Chancellor’s authoritarian rule!”

Opportunists, I thought. Then again, they too had suffered terribly under the austerity measures.

So the year turned, the general strike drew one day closer, and the People’s Front gathered in one place.

“Tomorrow the general strike begins. Every trade union in the country will halt work and take to the streets. Frankfurt in particular will be the decisive battlefield.”

Thälmann had summoned both the Social Democrats and me. He pointed at a map.

“The important thing is to stop the heart of Frankfurt. The unions inside the city that have already declared they will join the strike number nearly 150,000 men—thirty percent of the entire urban population. Add the other workers and even parts of the middle class swayed by Social Democratic agitation and we may well exceed 200,000. Clashes with the police are inevitable.”

Thälmann spread the city map and indicated several streets.

“Occupying these locations will be the first step. They house the headquarters or branch offices of major corporations. If we control them, even if the police try to crush us piecemeal later, we will always have strongpoints from which to strike back. The railways and factories will shut down. We will support the workers as they pour into the streets.”

“Wait. We need to be clear on this. Peaceful demonstration or violent one?”

Wels, still unable to shake his doubts, asked the question.

“It will begin peacefully, but it will soon turn violent,” Thälmann answered as if the matter were trivial.

“Violence is unacceptable. Resistance must remain peaceful by any means. No one should be hurt—surely you understand that?”

“If the military or police strike first, refusing to strike back would be stupidity. Those government dogs are nothing but a single punch against our Red Front Fighters’ League.”

“Of course, we will also mobilize our own paramilitary youth group, the Reichsbanner Schwarz-Rot-Gold.”

The Reichsbanner, abbreviated to simply the Banner, was the Social Democrats’ radical paramilitary organization. The very colors in its name—black, red, and gold—were the symbols of German republicanism, drawn from the French tricolor.

“We intend to avoid armed conflict as much as possible, Deputy Thälmann.”

“Do as you wish. You who have spent your time in the hothouse of parliament may not realize it, but our Communist Party has been clashing with the police from the very beginning of Germany’s democratization until today. The police serve only the government. If those bastards act arrogantly, we will respond with force without hesitation.”

“Deputy Thälmann is right, Deputy Wels. Compromise with the police is impossible. If they resort to physical force first, that is a declaration of war on the people. We would have no reason not to answer it.”

Wels pondered for a moment, then replied.

“Very well. You do it your way, we’ll do it ours.”

“I suppose that’s how it has to be, doesn’t it? The only thing we truly share is the strike itself.”

Clearly the road to genuine cooperation between the two parties was still long.

“Even so, the press must be our strongest weapon, Deputy Thälmann. We have to show socialists around the world what we are ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠doing here and warn Brüning that if he continues down this path there will be no turning back.”

“Physical measures will certainly be employed, Deputy Heinz.”

“Ah, and there is one more group on the streets we must be wary of besides the police.”

Thälmann produced a scrap of paper. On it was the National Socialist swastika.

“What is this?”

“It’s called a swastika. Remember when I warned the Chancellor about the National Socialist Party, Hitler, and his gang?”

“Of course I remember.”

“Anyone wearing this symbol—on their chest, their sleeve, anywhere—is one of them. I hear they call themselves the Sturmabteilung, or SA, but the name hardly matters. We must watch them carefully. They may pretend to be part of the crowd and then stab us in the back.”

“Are they that dangerous?”

“They are a pack of radical nationalists, German supremacists, woman-haters, and left-haters glued together with conservatism. They will feel no compunction about using violence. Their numbers seem to have grown more than I expected, so we must remain cautious.”

To be honest, they worried me most of all.

“All right, everyone should get some early rest tonight. We begin preparations first thing in the morning.”

With that, the first official meeting of the People’s Front disbanded.

I was nervous. As a communist I had shouted “direct action by the workers” every single day, yet now that the moment stood before me I felt an almost unbearable tension.

“Hoo…”

After a sleepless night of tossing and turning in the empty Communist Party headquarters, the general strike began on Monday, January 5th.