Local State Officials and Resistance to Fascism: From the Nazi Era to Present Day

As California Governor Gavin Newsom is discovering to his dismay, once fascism is ensconced in power, it is much more difficult to challenge authoritarianism.  Newsom is taking the president to court over Donald Trump’s deployment of National Guard troops to his state and has labeled the president’s threats “the words of an authoritarian.”  However, the moral outrage comes a bit late since Newsom, like other Democratic state officials, has not embraced a very effective stance towards White House illegality.  History has shown that when local authorities procrastinate or fail to act against fascism at critical moments, this comes at great cost.

Take for example Weimar-era politician Otto Braun, a member of the Social Democratic Party (SPD) who served as Minister President of the German Free State of Prussia.  Like Newsom, Braun headed a large and populous state.  In many ways, he was a successful fighter for progressive goals, having reformed administration along democratic lines, replaced monarchist authorities and democratized the local police force.  For a time, he even achieved some modest success in blocking the rise of right-wing forces.  For example, Braun managed to ban the Rhineland Stahlhelm, an ultranationalist group of veterans.  He also worked with Prussian Interior Minister Carl Severing to enforce a ban on the Nazi’s SA paramilitary wing, though the state security apparatus was limited in its powers.

Despite these accomplishments, Braun lost his nerve in 1932 during a key moment.  In April of that year, the Nazis achieved electoral gains in the Prussian state election, and the SPD lost its majority.  Neither the Nazis nor the Communists were willing to support the governing coalition, though neither could gather enough support to form their own government.  For that matter, neither party was willing to work with the other.  As a result, the SPD could not be removed, and the socialists continued as a minority government in the parliament or Landtag.  Completely exhausted by the stresses of the campaign, Braun had a physical breakdown, withdrew to rest and recuperate, and turned the managing of daily affairs over to a centrist.

Three months later, however, Braun’s government was ousted by Reich Chancellor Franz von Papen, a conservative Prussian nobleman.  Known as the Preußenschlag, or Prussian coup d’état, the event is somewhat overshadowed by Hitler’s rise to power the following year.  However, the coup was an early harbinger of events to come and may hold ominous resonance for our time.  Summoning Braun’s Deputy Minister President and Severing on July 20, Papen threatened the officials, stating he had the authority to remove the local caretaker government.  Like the Trump administration, which points to local civil disturbances as a means of justifying its heavy-handed response, Papen claimed an earlier riot left him with little choice.

In the left-leaning Prussian town of Altona, two Social Democrats and two Communists had been killed by Nazis earlier in the month.  Then, on July 17, thousands of Nazi SA marched through the town, provoking residents of working-class districts.  When a clash erupted between Communists and Nazis, police were unable to separate the two sides.  Two SA members were killed, probably by Communists, and in further clashes another sixteen residents perished under police fire in what came to be known as Altona Bloody Sunday.  Neither the killers of SA members nor policemen were subsequently identified.  However, once they came to power, the Nazis falsified evidence against four Communists, who were then executed.

In an eerie echo of recent events, Papen justified his draconian actions by remarking that “public safety and order in Prussia could no longer be guaranteed.”  Despite this bluster, Papen seemed uncertain during his meeting with Prussian officials.  Severing initially declared that he would not give up his job and would “only yield to force.”  Confronted with this high-stakes game of poker, however, Severing folded.  Papen declared a state of emergency, a move which was backed up by the Reichswehr, a national force of 100,000 men.  Just why Severing caved is something of a mystery, since Papen may have been bluffing, and in any case, the Prussian Ministry of Interior deployed 90,000 police officers of its own.

Letting himself be cowed, Severing was led out of his ministerial office.  Though Prussian state representatives objected to the coup, the SPD executive board decided not to resist, and a large-scale purge ensued.  Many SPD officials were forced into retirement, with conservatives and nationalists taking their place.  This meant that even before Hitler took over, a critical component of the power structure in Prussia had already been “cleansed.”  Braun was later criticized for giving up without a fight.  What is more, the SPD politician might have enlisted the support of the public by calling a general strike or seeking to regain his power with the help of the Prussian police.

Six months later, Hitler seized power and Prussia lost its democratic constitution altogether.  Indeed, the 1932 election was the last free state-wide election held in Prussia, and after the Nazis took control of the Landtag, Hermann Göring became Minister-President.  Under the Nazis, the entire Weimar federal structure was dismantled.  Braun, meanwhile, went into exile, which was perceived by SPD leadership as desertion and betrayal.  After the war, the politician wielded no political influence and died in obscurity.  A similar fate befell Severing: though he survived the war, his reputation was tarnished due to his role in the Prussian coup affair.

What is the relevance of this history to current predicaments and resistance to fascist takeover?  Faced with an increasingly more belligerent and provocative Nazi Party, socialists dithered at a crucial moment and lost their nerve.  Perhaps, SPD leadership could have marshaled progressive elements within the party, or even wider civic society as a whole, to push back against the right-wing.  Politicians like Braun and Severing, however, failed to improvise or mobilize the rank-and-file.  This was quite unfortunate, for if there had been more concerted resistance at the state level in 1932, this in turn would have provided a necessary boost when it came to resisting Nazi takeover the following year.

Has anything been learned?  U.S. state attorney-generals, who currently see themselves as the last “back-stop” between Trump and the people, have been holding “strategy conversations” and confidential video chats.  They have, moreover, filed injunctions in opposition to White House executive orders, not to mention lawsuits against Trump’s moves to end birthright citizenship.  Faced with stepped up Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) raids, state AG’s have pushed back on Trump’s draconian power grab by issuing proper immigration policy for local law enforcement.  Hoping to appeal to public opinion, AG’s have increasingly framed debates in moral terms while flooding online platforms with artsy infographics, short videos and digs against Trump.

Whether such showmanship is truly effective when responding to the threat of fascism remains to be seen.  Taking their cue from state AG’s, governors like Gavin Newsom have also engaged in theatrics of their own.  Embracing machismo, Newsom has dared Trump to arrest him, remarking that this would be a “great thing,” and “come and get me, tough guy.”  Newsom’s team has turned to social media and TikTok, comparing Trump to Emperor Palpatine from the Star Wars franchise.  The governor’s combativeness, however, is somewhat surprising given that up until recently, Newsom had been tacking to the political center while hosting the likes of Steve Bannon on his political podcast and pledging to work with Trump on fire recovery efforts.  Such actions, notes the New York Times, made Newsom “an unpopular figure with parts of the Democratic Party.”

Acting like he might now be aspiring to lead the resistance, Newsom has said that democracy is under assault, decries authoritarianism and accuses Trump of “brazen abuses of power.”  California has also sued Trump over deployment of the National Guard, arguing that the move is unconstitutional.  But if Trump’s actions are authoritarian and a threat to democracy, why wouldn’t Newsom go beyond mere rhetoric and simply call for the president to be removed from office?  Some activists argue Trump’s recent actions clearly meet the threshold for impeachable offenses.

Whatever the case, it’s not as if there’s a shortage of legal grounds for yet another impeachment effort, yet the Democratic Party has made every effort to shut down any such moves.  Like Weimar Germany, the political leadership seems to be out of touch with the rank-and-file, given that a recent survey indicates the public supports impeaching Trump.  Indeed, more than eighty percent of Democrats seek impeachment, more than fifty percent of independents, and even twenty percent of Republicans.  Minorities such as blacks and Latinos, meanwhile, support impeachment by more than sixty percent.

Ironically, however, even as protests grow against Trump, organizers have shied away from calling for impeachment, opting instead for a big tent and symbolic opposition to authoritarianism.  This vacuum creates an opening for a state governor such as Newsom to articulate more effective and strategic resistance, which in this case would mean not simply deflecting federal meddling in state affairs, but going on offense and calling on Congress to live up to its constitutional duties.  In doing so, Newsom might reflect on the experience of Weimar-era state politicians, whose historical legacy is hardly flattering.