Rebel Mountain

Translator’s Foreword

On November 11th, 1918, a delegation of the faltering German Empire gathered in a train car near Compiègne, to sign the armistice that would end World War I. Two days earlier, the November Revolution had forced the German emperor to abdicate, leading to the declaration of a new German Republic on the very same day. Taken in concert, these events ushered in what would later become known as the Weimar Republic, a highly ambivalent period in German history. Commonly glorified as the first real German democracy, the Weimar Republic was in fact a highly unstable state. Built in the wake of a mutiny-turned-revolution, it would experience a series of attempted coups and uprisings from both left- and right-wing groups, such as the Munich Soviet Republic, the Kapp Putsch, and the Ruhr uprising, all of which took place over a period of a mere twelve months in 1919 and 1920. Plagued by repeated bouts of political violence, hyperinflation and unemployment, the republic increasingly fragmented along political, economic and also paramilitary lines. One of these fragments is widely known as the Freikorps movement.

Originating in the mid-eighteenth century, the term Freikorps originally referred to a paramilitary unit made up of a broad mixture of both domestic and foreign volunteers, but also deserters and convicts. Freikorps were primarily deployed to bolster regular troops and disrupt enemy movements via guerrilla attacks on supply lines. After the end of World War I, Freikorps made a brief return due to stipulations in the Treaty of Versailles, limiting the German Reichswehr to a strength of one hundred thousand men, a mere fraction of the eleven million soldiers the German military had employed at the end of the war. While a large percentage of these men returned to civilian life, a significant number of former soldiers were absorbed by paramilitary units, such as the Freikorps. Together with cadets, students and other volunteers, these veterans turned their attention to combating domestic threats, typically in the form of communist or socialist uprisings. Yet the Freikorps themselves were by no means enthusiastic supporters of the new republican government, as can be seen by their involvement in right wing coups like the Kapp Putsch or the famous 1923 Beer Hall Putsch by Adolf Hitler and the NSDAP. When Freikorps did support the Weimar government, it was typically out of a concern for the public order, based on a notion of choosing the lesser of two evils, with the status quo republican government generally seen as preferable to communist rule.

This was the world Kurt Eggers grew up in. Born in 1905, he was a mere thirteen years old when he took part in quelling the 1919 Spartacist uprising, an amalgamation of a general strike and various armed clashes in Berlin. Approximately one year later, he joined the short-lived Kapp Putsch against the Weimar government. Yet another year later, at fifteen years old, he would be closely involved in the Freikorps defense of Upper Silesia against Polish insurgents which provides the historical backdrop for Rebel Mountain.

While this book is primarily a work of fiction, it should be noted that Eggers personally participated in the famous reconquest of Annaberg, a small mountain which had previously been occupied by Polish troops. Eggers joined the battle as a member of the Black Band Freikorps, led by one lieutenant Bergerhoff, who also appears as a character in the later segments of this book. This is not the only autobiographic detail Eggers inserted into Rebel Mountain—throughout the narrative we can find evidence of his personal life and interests, in the names of certain right-wing and anti-Semitic associations, enthusiastic references to Ulrich von Hutten (a recurring role model in Eggers’ works) or the curious appearance of a young recruit under the age of sixteen who happens to share the author’s initials. And although we can assume Eggers to have been involved in some violent scenarios during the Spartacist uprising and the Kapp Putsch, Annaberg would likely have been his first real battle, making Rebel Mountain a deeply personal book for him.

But Rebel Mountain is more than a mere fictionalized recollection of autobiographic events. Published in 1937, it looks at the Freikorps phenomenon from a uniquely National Socialist and folkish perspective, while also reflecting on Eggers’ prominent warrior philosophy. Whereas other Freikorps authors such as Ernst von Salomon focus on a kind of martial adventurer’s spirit as the main motivation behind their fighting on the eastern border, the characters in Rebel Mountain display complex social and ultimately ethno-racial dynamics. Rather than showcasing individualized fighters eager for adventure and glory, Eggers portrays his fighters in the context of family and tribal relations. And although the Upper Silesian coal mines and factories are being considered as important economic factors, the main motivation of Eggers’ rebels clearly lies in protecting the local German population from hardship and violence at the hand of Polish insurgents.

In portraying this fight against overwhelming odds, Eggers goes beyond mere patriotism. His rebels are not defending a state or a social order. Their fight reaches deep into the German ideal of an underlying Volksgemeinschaft, a racial union going beyond established concepts like monarchism, political parties and even the Church, particularly in its Catholic and Ultramontane denominations. Rebel Mountain is the story of an adventure, a departure from an ever-more suffocating society, toward the roots of a great people and its ever-so-elusive dreams of freedom.

The efforts of the Freikorps would ultimately be overturned by a hostile political establishment. Yet they persist as a powerful illustration of the tremendous impact that even a small group of dedicated men can have on world affairs.

Theodor Runen

February 12th, 2022

The Fever Pitch

Preface

History is born from deed!

Deeds, in turn, are born from ideas and desires, from recognitions and demands.

Will is not always driven by knowledge, often it is hardship that matures men into warriors.

Yet wherever a warrior rises, the shadows of hardship and disgrace succumb to the victorious light of his will.

A sharp sword is the ultimate comfort, the ultimate freedom. Happy the man who knows how to wield it in times of great change: amidst fall and decline, doubt and despair, he carries a message. By virtue of their deeds, the strong push open the gate to freedom and rule.

Blessed is the man whose heart grows firm: in risking grand leaps, in stumbling, he gains safe ground.

I shall tell of the leap from stumbling, of the leap risked by German men, when Germany was still shrouded in darkness. I shall write of their soul, which slowly rose from fearful paralysis and finally attained the ultimate freedom, as their lonely hearts prepared themselves to make the ultimate sacrifice. The Freikorps were waging a war for Annaberg, the holy mountain of Germany. A humble objective, measured against the seas of blood spilt during the Great War. Yet it appears colossal and worthy of worship when measured by the spirit of these men, who voluntarily went out to chase an almost hopeless destiny, to follow the decree of their blood, urging them to follow the laws of honor and duty.

The secret nation crowned them as heroes, those men who lost their home and were called enemies to the state.

By virtue of their battles and suffering, they cleared our people’s flag, sullied by treason and guilt.

Honor to their deed, for it is history!

Honor to their desire! Amidst weary and worthless times, it led them to find the sword of the warrior.

As long as a people

Still brings forth warriors,

It is just!

Rebel Mountain

The Year 1921

This was not the faith to move mountains—this was the faith to storm them.

Chapter 1

Constable Riehl, you’re headed to Herderstraße with three men. You know the place: the little bakery. And be careful! The constable rises from his footstool and stands to attention. Yes, Lieutenant!

While the four policemen are slowly getting ready, awkwardly checking their pistols and adjusting their shakos, a young, gaunt constable has risen from his seat and is now headed for the door.

Where to, Lemke?

Just dropping off a letter, sir.

The lieutenant eyes him with suspicion as the man hurries away. Obscure fellow, this Lemke guy! Thinks too much, reads books, goes to meetings! Friendly with former Baltic fighters! ¹ The lieutenant is getting angry. Lemke better not cause him any trouble. There is already more than enough trouble in these crazy times. Break-ins, strikes, revolts: that’s plenty for his service. No more! Anything but those damned politics. A rotten business, fit for suicidal maniacs. Ideals! Well and good for confirmands and volunteers. But don’t you dare bother someone who volunteered for the war and had to live through November 1918 with your ideals!

The lieutenant pauses. Lemke was on his way to the mailbox, wasn’t he? So why is he going for the telephone booth?

Constable Lemke feeds the coin into its slot, asking for Steinplatz 4518. Jesus Christ, it takes way too long to get an answer. Finally!

Steinplatz 4518.

Heenemann Bakery?

Yes, sir.

Please call Mr. Maßmann.

Lemke is getting impatient. Every additional minute is suspicious, because the mailbox is only a few yards away from the Zoologischer Garten police station.

Karl?

Yes?

You’ll be getting some visitors. Four men. In about fifteen minutes.

Thank you, got it.

Over and out!

Over and out!

Lemke slams down the receiver, satisfied.

At the police station, he bumps into commando Riehl.

Good luck, Riehl.

Riehl, a die-hard Social Democrat, gives him a good-natured smile. We’ll get those bastards eventually, Lemke, and that will be it for those never-ending adventures of theirs.

Lemke’s features are hardening as he looks after the four policemen headed to Hardenbergstraße.

Devil knows, playing hide-and-seek with comrades is not a pretty sight. But the men on Herderstraße are closer to this soldier’s heart. And now they are warned.

A hand rests heavily on Lemke’s shoulder.

The lieutenant!

When did you start sending your letters via phone booth, Lemke?

Just a little white lie, Lieutenant. I had to call my girl!

The lieutenant scrutinizes the constable from narrow eyes.

You aren’t being particularly careful.

Lemke pulls himself together and looks at his superior officer with clear eyes.

Perhaps there exists a higher loyalty in this world. One which excuses even great imprudences.

The lieutenant is not comfortable with this kind of talk; by no means did he want to start a political discussion. He simply wanted to give the constable some advice, just between colleagues. After all, Lemke had once been a brave non-commissioned officer, who had faced off the enemy and received both the Silver Wound Badge and the Iron Cross First Class.²

You have to come to your senses, Lemke. The war is over. You’ve risked your head more than enough times. And you have sworn an oath to uphold the Republic.

Lemke’s face has taken on a contemptuous air.

Unfortunately this rather excessive turnover of oaths has resulted in a devaluation.

The lieutenant’s voice turns quiet.

I did not hear that. This would be reason enough for a treason trial.

Lemke remains quiet, but his face still displays sneering contempt.

The lieutenant has become nervous. He resents having to admit that he is offended by his subordinate’s superior spirit.

I will be watching you. Behave yourself accordingly.

Yes, sir!

Lemke checks the time. Five minutes until his next patrol.

It is a cold winter. There hasn’t been such hard frost in living memory. Freezing northeastern winds cut against human skin.

Constable Riehl curses under his breath. Berlin is a damned madhouse. Nothing but criminals and revolutionaries here. Both right- and left-wing. What on earth made him think putting in for a transfer from Opole³ to Berlin was a good idea?

He had always been a good Social Democrat, no doubt about that. For ten years now he has been paying his party dues. Secretly at first, publicly boasting later. That should entitle him to a position in higher service after all. But Berlin is a disappointment. Where is the city’s famed cheerfulness? These are starved people, without vitality or warmth.

And girls? They have those in Opole as well.

Constable Riehl starts a conversation about the folkish movement.⁴ Whoever might be funding them? Do his companions think they are already preparing for the next war?

The other three are taciturn. What do they care about the folkish?! They’re here to do their job, and that’s that!

There are only a few people out on the streets. A sausage-dealer selling his wares. Constable Riehl shudders when he considers the contents of these suspicious-smelling sausages. Just recently, a killer was arrested, who processed his exclusively female victims into such sausages. The exact same kind that were sold in the streets of Berlin, typically around midnight.

What a horrible city! Such a thing would have been unthinkable in Opole.

A couple of whores try to get the policemen’s attention, their shrill voices clamoring for victims.

But today, not even a drunkard would consider helping himself to those pathetic creatures, blue and frozen as they are.

Not even their uniforms are safe from the solicitations of these female individuals in their short and saucy skirts.

Constable Riehl casts a reprimanding glance at the youngest of his comrades, who exchanged a few crude jokes with one of these painted women.

They can already see the first few houses of Herderstraße. Everything wrapped in peaceful darkness.

Who would still have lights on at this hour anyway? Your average citizen is so frightened that he crawls into bed at ten o’clock in the evening and begs his dear God to let him awake the next morning without getting plundered—if it’s not too much to ask.

They have reached Heenemann’s bakery, harmless and sleepy.

The four policemen stop for a moment. In the house opposite the bakery, a lamp flares up for just a second.

Constable Riehl laughs disdainfully.

He knows that this is Louise Ostade’s place, that little Flemish girl, the bride of Lieutenant Maßmann. She followed her sweetheart from Belgium.

Constable Riehl is very familiar with the lives of these adventurers, those obstinate insurgents and front soldiers, who have chosen the Heenemann’s bakery as a cauldron for their crazy ideas and plans! But the girl’s warning won’t save them this time! It takes him just a few leaps to reach the gate from which Louise is about to slip out.

Hold it! Keep it together, missy!

Louise lets out a shrill scream.

Riehl gets rough.

Shut it, you stupid brat!

Louise allows herself a quiet smile. Karl has been warned.

She is almost a little disappointed when Riehl returns a few minutes later. Snorting with rage, he has to admit that there is nothing suspicious to be found at Heenemann’s bakery.

There they are, sitting harmlessly around the table in Heenemann’s cozy living room: Lieutenant Karl Maßmann, working as a newspaper advertiser for the Berliner Lokal-Anzeiger, Sergeant Paul König, called Napoleon, an epithet he earned because of his constant strategic objections in the Baltics, Sergeant Felix Teuscher, who sells parachutes and insurance policies with König, Private Xaverl Fuchsberger, who originally just wanted to come to Berlin to visit his lieutenant Maßmann but got stuck and turned into a stand-in for selling the eight o’clock evening paper, supposedly to meet more people.

Then there is the 1917 war volunteer Martin Harke who has reinvented himself as a student of philosophy. And although Harke is the funniest and cheekiest of them all, Baker Heenemann isn’t too far off when it comes to independence of spirit and juiciness of idioms. Mrs. Heenemann (Harke calls her Marjelly), a nice, young, carefree girl from East Prussia, seems to be in a good mood.

Won’t you at least take a seat, Officer? We were having so much fun with the game. Don’t get angry!⁵

A nervous Riehl drums his thick fingers against the table, causing the soul-destroying game’s tokens to dance around the board.

The policemen grin sheepishly. There is always something shameful about an unsuccessful raid. They couldn’t even find the tiniest of pistols.

Harke gets up, his long legs stalking toward the old piano, a cheeky whistle on his lips.

Winking, he grins at Riehl, then starts banging on the yellowing keys.

One girl wants to get up early, three quarters before dawn…

The Blackberry Song!⁶

König begins to bellow out the lyrics. His voice is howling and hoarse. Teuscher and Fuchsberger join in, Heenemann and Marjelly follow. Louise hums the