Shadows Reel (Joe Pickett #22)(14)

Der Stürmer featured salacious drawings of hook-nosed Jews eating babies, Jewish ritual murder, the sexual violation of German women by Jewish men. Its motto was printed on the bottom of the front page of every issue: Die Juden sind unser Unglück, or “The Jews are our misfortune.”

Its peak circulation had been six hundred thousand paid subscribers in 1937—a fact that startled Marybeth. It confirmed for her that the German people had been along for the ride Hitler was taking them on. It disproved the revisionist history she’d been taught that the average German citizen at the time was unaware of the anti-Semitism of their leadership.

She read on.

Streicher was so crude and anti-Semitic that he’d even repulsed some other top Nazis. Although Himmler tolerated him and the publication because he shared Streicher’s hatred, Goebbels fretted that if Der Stürmer was seen by outsiders, it would reveal something about the Nazi regime that he preferred to keep under wraps. G?ring hated Streicher (although he happily posed with him in photos) and forbade Der Stürmer from being sold or circulated within the Luftwaffe.

Hitler, however, was loyal to his friend and installed him as the governor of Franconia. Streicher was known by the populace as either the “King of Nuremberg” or the “Beast of Franconia.” In 1938, he ordered that the Grand Synagogue of Nuremberg be destroyed.

Hitler stated, “Streicher is reproached for his Stürmer. The truth is the opposite of what people say: He idealized the Jew. The Jew is baser, fiercer, and more diabolical than Streicher depicted him. One must never forget the services rendered by the Stürmer. Now that the Jews are known for what they are, nobody any longer thinks that Streicher libeled them.”

Streicher was loyal to Hitler until the end. Prior to his death by hanging after the Nuremberg trials, he used his last words to praise Der Führer and declared his eternal devotion.



* * *



—

    Marybeth shuddered as she turned over the last page of the album and closed its heavy back cover. She felt soiled. The album was a prolonged, personal glimpse into the mind and ego of a monster. She imagined Streicher selecting each photograph and directing where he wanted it placed on the page. She imagined him to be very pleased with the result.

If there was a narrative to how the photos were displayed and what they revealed, it was a celebration of Streicher as a historic and important figure of a nation that, unbeknownst to him at the time, was at its aspirational peak. Streicher rode the bloody crest of Nazi history before it washed over the European continent the very next year, when Germany invaded Poland in September 1939.

She thought about how often political opponents in contemporary America accused each other of being Nazis. It had become a cliché. But in this album in front of her was the real thing, and it was unspeakable.



* * *



—

She slipped her phone out of her handbag and called Joe again.

“Joe, you won’t believe what that guy dropped off at the library this morning.”

“Let me guess—another ranch history?”

“Not even close.”

“Try me,” he said.

“It’s a photo album from Nazi Germany. It belonged to a man named Julius Streicher, who may have been one of the worst people ever to walk on the earth.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him. Is it authentic?”

“It seems so. It kind of creeps me out.”

She could hear road sounds from his phone.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“On my way to Winchester. I got a call from a rancher up there who thinks a wounded moose died in his field. I’m going to check it out.”

Joe had inordinately warm feelings toward moose, she knew. He got angry when they were poached out of season and especially if their carcasses were left to rot.

“Are you feeling up to it?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said. He didn’t sound convincing, but he obviously didn’t want to discuss it any further. “Do you know who left it at the library?”

“No clue. There’s nothing inside to indicate who owned it. Except Julius Streicher, of course. I saved the paper it was wrapped in.”

“That was smart,” Joe said. Then: “Do you think it’s valuable?”

“I would guess so.”

“Can you donate it to a museum or something?”

“Probably,” she said. “Some archive out there might want it. I’m still wondering how it wound up here after eighty-some years. I think I’m going to do some investigating of my own. But in the meantime I don’t know what to do with it.” She paused. “I think I’ll bring it home tonight.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I don’t want to lock it up for the long weekend here. I’m not really sure why I’m thinking that, but for some reason it feels like the correct thing to do.”

“I’ve learned over the years to trust your judgment,” he said. Which meant, she knew, that he had no idea what she was thinking or why. But he was kind that way.

He asked, “Are you still planning on knocking off early?”

“Yes, even though I wasted most of the morning going through this terrible thing.”

“Let me know if you need anything from the store,” he said. “I’ll be coming back through town this afternoon, I’m sure.”