The Taster

by V. S. Alexander

  I nodded. “I’m grateful for what you’ve done. Otherwise, I would have no place to go.”

  He lifted a finger as if he were about to lecture me. “I’ve called upon a few people this morning. Being a policeman and a Party member opens doors. Apply at the Reichsbund and I’ll take it from there.” He tilted his head toward a building down the block draped with Nazi flags. “Don’t be shy. Go on. I’ll work my magic.” He gave me a peck on the cheek.

  I left him, smiling, and walked to the Reichsbund, an office of the civilian service. I stared into a window crowded with books, banners, placards and Nazi publications.

  Beyond the window, a woman dressed in a gray uniform sat at a desk. She looked up from her work as if she’d sensed my presence. Uncle Willy’s courage bolstered me. I stepped inside to see what positions might be available. The woman’s blond hair was pinned back in a rather strict style, but she was otherwise pretty, with high cheekbones, blue eyes and a thin nose. She was the kind of person you wanted to like. I supposed that was why she was in her position.

  I inquired and she asked me to take a seat in an oak chair in front of her desk.

  “I’m from Berlin living here with my aunt and uncle, but I need work.” I blushed at my inadequacy.

  She stopped writing in her book, placed her pen in its center and closed the cover. “May I see your identification papers? Are you a Party member?”

  I wondered why I had not joined the Party long ago. If I thought about my loyalties, I fell in line with my father, who was noncommittal at best, a silent critic at worst. Still, I needed work or I might be forced to return to Berlin. “My papers are at home with my aunt and uncle. I’m not a Party member.”

  She eyed me rather suspiciously, but then, sizing me up, she must have judged I was no threat to Nazi politics. “Who are your aunt and uncle?”

  “Willy and Reina Ritter. They are Party members and live near here.”

  She clasped my hands like a schoolgirl chum. “I know them very well. They’re fine upstanding people, a credit to all loyal Germans. What’s your name?”

  I told her and she listened raptly to my history. As I talked she took out another book, making notations on what I said. When I was through, she asked me to stand in front of a black screen near the back of the room. She took several pictures of me with a flash camera. These, she said, would go to her superior when they were developed.

  “Is there anything I can do—that I would be qualified for?” I asked.

  “There’s nothing in this district,” she said. “You’re not qualified as a bookkeeper, or as a gardener, for construction, or a locomotive engineer. Many women already serve the Reich, so positions are limited.”

  I sighed. Reina would not be pleased.

  The woman saw my frown and said, “But that doesn’t mean this interview was for nothing. The Reich always has work for its people whether or not you are a Party member.” She looked at me like a patient teacher. “If you were as supportive as your aunt and uncle, we could look upon you more favorably.”

  I rose from my seat. “Where can I join?” I asked as sincerely as I could, yet something inside me rebelled at the thought of being a Nazi. My mother had once admonished my father for not being “stronger,” a man who thought more like the Party leadership. In order to get a job, I would have to adopt my mother’s thinking.

  She pointed to a desk across the room. “Herr Messer will be here Saturday. Come see him.”

  I walked out of the Reichsbund somewhat encouraged, although I didn’t want to face my aunt, because I still had no job prospects.

  Reina was in the kitchen when I arrived, so I sneaked up the stairs to my room and put my feet up rather than face her.

  About forty-five minutes later, I heard my uncle open the door and greet my aunt.

  I found them sitting in the living room. Reina was shocked that I was home, but greeted me with a smile. “Willy told me the news. I’m sure something good will come of your interview.”

  Uncle Willy lit a cigarette, exhaled and said, “I’m certain of it.”

  That night at dinner, we talked of my aunt’s childhood in Spain and how she and my uncle had met at a hostel in the Italian Alps. Willy had lodged there for a political gathering; Reina was staying overnight with a group of hiking friends. They saw something in each other that members of my family couldn’t see.

  The conversation died the same time as the fire and we went to bed about ten. I spent several hours worrying about work until I finally fell asleep. The next morning I went out again, but found nothing. Again, I dreaded coming home with no job. When I arrived, I found my aunt and told her the bad news.

  She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, oddly calm considering her fervor for my search. “The Reichsbund called this afternoon. They want you to report in the morning. Apparently, they have a job for you.” She hugged me and kissed me on the cheek with her cold lips. Later, I asked Willy if he knew what the position was, but he shook his head.

  That evening, we celebrated with wine. My aunt allowed me to call my parents to give them the good news. Frau Horst and my parents shared a phone in the building. My mother seemed pleased. I couldn’t tell what my father was thinking. I told them I was planning to join the Party. My father replied, “Do what you must to survive.”

  His words cast a pall over my celebration.

  I wasn’t a fortune-teller, but I wondered how dire my circumstances might become as a worker in the Reich.

  CHAPTER 3

  I reported to the Reichsbund the next morning. Instead of being greeted by the woman who’d taken my information the day before, an SS officer met me. He smiled pleasantly and asked me to take a seat in front of the desk. As I studied his face, handsome with Nordic features, I made a connection I had not considered before. Most SS men were young and similar in facial structure. The Führer wanted them to be Aryan. They were thinly muscular, usually blond and blue-eyed and driven by their adoration for their leader. They wore black uniforms when the Party first came to power, but recently they dressed only in gray. This young man was clothed in black and I understood later he was a member of the Führer’s Leibstandarte, his personal protection corps at the Berghof.

  I asked the SS man what job I would be doing. He gave no specific reply, only that I would have to wait and accept service without hesitation. He opened a file on the desk that had been marked with the Reich’s seal and spread the photos of me across the desk.

  “You’re not a Party member?” he asked, and then lit a cigarette.

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Smoke flowed like a white ribbon from his mouth.

  “There was no need.” My answer was simple and direct. Young women need not join unless they were motivated by politics—a highly unusual profession. I was not the only one who thought that way. A few of my girlfriends were as unconcerned about the Party as I was. We all felt the same. For a man, the feeling was different. It was a badge of honor, a matter of pride, to serve the Reich and go to war.

  “Germany has changed.” He pursed his lips, gathered the photos in his hands and studied each before tossing them one by one on the table. “You are not what the Führer would typically request. You are too dark, too Eastern looking. One might question your loyalties—your heritage.”

  I lowered my gaze, taken aback by his effrontery. After a few moments, I raised my head and looked him in the eye, more out of spite than anything else. “No, I am not a Party member, but I am proud to be a German. There is nothing in my background, or heritage, to give you concern.”

  He smiled. “That’s more like it. Show some spirit.” He leaned back in the desk chair and puffed on his cigarette. “We have contacted your aunt and uncle, your parents in Berlin, even a few friends and neighbors. Your record is in good standing. You understand we must be careful.”

  Over the next hour, he questioned me about my education, work habits, hobbies, even whether I had plans to have children, every personal question the Party
could possibly dredge up. I answered his questions truthfully and he seemed satisfied. He then gave me a battery of tests on mathematics, arts and sciences and politics. I believed I did poorly on most of them, particularly the political questions, which had much to do with Germany’s history and the Nazi rise to power. I finished before twelve and he dismissed me.

  I stopped at the door and turned. “You said I was not what the Führer would typically request.” A lump rose in my throat, but I got up enough nerve to ask the question. “Am I to work for the Führer?”

  His lips parted in a thin smile and his eyes met mine. “I have nothing to do with your assignment. I’m only here to make sure you are not deficient in any area required by the Reich. That’s all I can say.” He stood and bowed slightly. “Good day, Fräulein Ritter.”

  I closed the door. Through the office window I saw him place my examinations and photos back in my file. I didn’t smoke and I rarely drank, but at that moment I wished I had some vice to indulge because my nerves thrummed like a plucked violin string.

  * * *

  Over the next two weeks, I trained for my unnamed position. I rose early and arrived home late, but my schedule created little hardship for my aunt and uncle except for the disruption of having me as a houseguest. During training, the Party served us breakfast, lunch and a small supper. My aunt did not have to cook for me. That suited her.

  One of the things I enjoyed most was my group’s excursions into the countryside surrounding Berchtesgaden. The staff judged us in calisthenics. The tests were conducted in a serene Alpine field near the Hoher Göll mountain. My lungs acclimated to the rarified air and I soon realized I was more coordinated than some of my new friends. I ran fast, particularly in sprints. My long legs served me well. Every night I fell exhausted into a dreamless sleep. After an initial soreness, my muscles grew stronger and tighter. I lost weight. I never got around to joining the Party. Frankly, I didn’t want to.

  After my training was over, I had one day of rest and relaxation at Willy and Reina’s before beginning my mysterious new post. The woman who had interviewed me at the Reichsbund called to say I should be ready to depart at 5:45 the next morning with my bag.

  My aunt and uncle talked later than usual after supper. Willy was excited about my new job; his freckled face beamed with pride. We said our good-byes and I promised to call them once I arrived at my new duties.

  Pink clouds streaked the sky the next morning. My uncle stood at the door, dressed in his police uniform. My aunt, in her long blue housecoat, looked over his shoulder. A black Mercedes touring car pulled up in front of the house and an SS chauffeur got out. SS corps flags fluttered above each headlight. Without a word, for he must have known me from my pictures, the driver placed my luggage in the trunk and held the door open for me. I took my place in the plush leather backseat. I will always remember the look on my aunt’s face—it was one of happiness mixed with jealousy. Now she knew my job was important. Other civilian servants were not treated in such a royal manner.

  I waved as the car pulled away and the driver turned east toward the Obersalzberg. I had no idea where we were headed. We drove through the pleasant valley that cradled Berchtesgaden and passed the tidy farms surrounding the town. The driver said little to me as we headed higher into the mountainous terrain; the deciduous trees became fewer as stands of fir and spruce carpeted the hillsides. The valley spread out below and I could see the church spires of Berchtesgaden.

  Eventually, my curiosity got the better of me and I asked the SS driver where we were headed.

  He took his eyes off the road for a moment, looked into the rearview mirror and said, “The Berghof.”

  I’d heard of Hitler’s “mountain court” from my parents and my aunt and uncle. Before the war, it had become a tourist attraction after the Führer had taken up residence. People had gathered on the long driveway outside the main house to catch a glimpse of him. Often he stepped out to greet the adoring crowd and shake hands with well-wishers.

  My heart raced at the thought that I would be working at his secluded retreat. My feeling arose more from excitement about my post rather than any admiration for Hitler. I imagined seeing the diplomats, the foreign visitors, the important Party members: Bormann, Göring, Speer, Goebbels, many of whom visited the Berghof almost daily.

  Soon we came to an area cleared of forest as the road climbed upward. Through the driver’s windscreen a rustic-looking gatehouse appeared beside a gated archway. The rough-hewn structure rested on a rock base. Several SS men peered through a window as our car approached. One of the guards stepped out and pulled back the gate. He must have known the driver, for they exchanged nothing more than a wave. Another guard stood in the gatehouse doorway, his weapon strapped over his shoulder. They barely gave me a look, unimpressed with my presence. They were used to seeing kings, princes and diplomats from all over the world.

  As we drove past the gate, I caught sight of the Berghof. It sat perched on the hillside, like an eagle preparing for flight. Its chalet style had been modified to monumental architecture, yet the sloping wings of the roof gave it an inherent lightness. Perhaps the mountain air made it seem delicate and airy, unlike the fortified home of a leader at war. The sun glinted off the white exterior, giving it a welcoming look. I watched in awe as it slipped past my eyes. The car rounded a corner near a linden tree and headed toward a small driveway that split off from the one we were on. The driver was taking me to the entrance of a long building on the east side of the structure. He stopped the car and opened the door.

  “You are to see Fräulein Schultz, the Führer’s cook. I will take your luggage to your quarters.”

  “The cook?” I was dumbfounded. Although I had experience preparing meals for my family, I hardly felt qualified to cook for the leader of the Third Reich.

  “Those are my orders.” He shifted his head toward the door and a guard stepped out of the shadows. “Take Fräulein Ritter to the cook.” The driver got into the car, turned it around and drove toward the main entrance of the Berghof.

  The guard stepped forward, opened the door and led me through the halls to the kitchen. Although it was early, a large staff had already gathered for meal preparation. The room was well appointed with modern equipment. Several stoves and ovens were set against the walls, as well as racks of dishes and cookware. Cookbooks lay scattered across a large table. Men and women dressed in service uniforms were kneading dough, preparing eggs and cutting fruits and vegetables. A tall woman with an oval face and wavy brown hair stood out from the crowd. She projected authority in her dark dress covered by a white apron. She was talking with a man at a black stone sink. When she spotted me, she stopped her conversation and walked over.

  “You must be Fräulein Ritter,” she said.

  “I am.” I shook her hand. “You are Fräulein Schultz?”

  “Yes. The Führer’s dietician and cook.” She looked at me with concern. “What have they told you about your position?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “Come with me to my office off the kitchen. You’ll be staying here in the east wing so you can be close to me, the kitchen staff and the other tasters.”

  I didn’t understand. We went into the hall past the kitchen to a series of doors. Hers was the first. She opened it with a key and we stepped inside the small room. She took off her apron and sat at her desk while I took a seat in the guest chair. A window faced north, the same direction as the Berghof, looking out upon the sprawling view of the Untersberg. She turned to me with her hands folded in her lap.

  “You have been chosen,” she began, “by me and Captain Karl Weber, the SS officer who oversees the security of my staff. You are one of fifteen.”

  I shifted in my seat. “Fifteen what?”

  “Tasters who work for the Führer at his headquarters.”

  “Tasters?” I had no idea what she was talking about. “Perhaps you could explain what that means.”

  She looked at me like a teacher who
was irritated with a student. “You, and others, taste the Führer’s food. Your body is offered in sacrifice to the Reich in case the food is poisoned.”

  My breath fled, horrified as I was at her words. The cook must have recognized the distress in my face, for she reached across and held my hand.

  “There’s no need to panic,” she said. “I will tell you frankly, he is obsessed with being poisoned. He thinks the British have it in for him—it’s all very Shakespearean if you ask me. Why would they resort to such medieval tactics when one well-placed assassin’s bullet would do? His personal physician could poison him as well, but we don’t taste his medicines. Your chances of being poisoned are slim. After all, we all sample the food as it’s prepared.” And with a sly glance she said, “Still, I suppose there’s always a chance. I suppose you may not be ready for such candor, but you need to know the truth.”

  “This is why I was chosen for civilian service?”

  She withdrew her hands and returned to her businesslike demeanor. “Yes. Apparently, the Reichsbund felt you were qualified for this position. It’s a great honor.”

  I didn’t know how to respond, so I said meekly, “I suppose it is.” I thought of my uncle Willy and wondered if he would be proud of my position. His recommendation had gotten me here.

  “You will be working with me,” she explained. “If you do a good job, I have other duties you might pursue, such as bookkeeping for the kitchen. That’s an important task as well. We have full growing capabilities for food—greenhouses you will become familiar with.” She paused and studied my face. “You’re pretty. There are plenty of attractive men here, enough to keep a flirtatious girl busy. I discourage intimate fraternization with officers and other staff. We have movies, dancing sometimes, but you must remember you are in service to the Führer. Your personal life is of no consequence.”

  I shuddered. My life might end here. Not even the bombings in Berlin had forced me to face my mortality in such a brutal way. The thought that I might die for Hitler stunned me. An unwitting trap had been set and closed over me. My parents had sent me away, Uncle Willy had pulled strings and now I was in a position that might lead to my death. My mind raced, thinking of ways that I might get away from the Berghof. But where would I go?