The Taster

by V. S. Alexander

  “The Berg?” I was unfamiliar with the term.

  “Everyone on the staff calls it the Berg, especially if you’re fond of the ‘boss.’”

  “It’s just a job.” I placed my hands in my lap. “I haven’t tasted yet. I’m a little nervous.”

  “Don’t be. How are you getting along?”

  “Fine. I’ve met most of the staff. The Führer has a number of cooks.”

  “Yes. There’s one he likes in particular—a man he snatched from a sanatorium. Cook is jealous of him, but Hitler loves the way he prepares eggs.”

  It surprised me that the Captain called the Führer by his name. It sounded so informal and disrespectful, but I ignored the thought and said, “I’ve seen Fräulein Braun and her friends taking a walk with her dogs.”

  “Yes, her Scotties, Negus and Stasi. They’re in the Great Hall at midnight with all the invited guests, while Blondi has to wait elsewhere. Hitler begs Eva to let Blondi come into the room, but she won’t allow it as long as her pups are there. I heard Eva kicks Blondi under the table.” He snickered.

  “She kicks who?” I couldn’t imagine what Karl was talking about.

  “Blondi. Hitler’s German shepherd dog.”

  I laughed now that it all made sense. I’d seen the dog when Hitler’s valet took her for a walk. She was a handsome animal who was friendly to most people. She got to ride in the Volkswagen Cabriolet reserved for the Reich’s leader.

  Karl peeked out the blind for a moment. “Ursula and Franz are still talking. Actually, it’s more than conversation, but I don’t want to pry. They’ve known each other since they were children in Munich. They’re in love.” He propped his pillow against the wall and stretched out on the bed. His eyes sparkled in the lamplight. I felt they were looking through me, not past me, boring a hole into my soul. I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable being alone in a room with an officer who seemed interested in more than conversation. “What do you think of Eva?” he asked, and then added, “Do you know who she is?”

  I shook my head. “A friend of the Führer?”

  “We all think she’s more than that, but most Germans don’t know who she is.”

  I hesitated to answer his question about what I thought of her because I was afraid he might be a secret admirer of Hitler’s companion. I didn’t know the Captain well enough to know why he was asking me these questions. Everyone needed to be careful when they talked to an SS officer; at least that’s what I believed, particularly after what I had learned since the incident on the train. My father had said words were as precious as gold these days and should be meted out with equal care. My mother displayed a certain fervor in toeing the Party line and with it a healthy respect for saying the right things. I gave an innocuous answer. “I hadn’t heard of her before I came here. She’s pretty and wears stylish clothes that suit her well. Her jewelry seems expensive.”

  Karl smirked. “She changes her outfits almost hourly, while the rest of Germany—” His face reddened and he looked away from me. For a long time, he didn’t speak. I wondered whether I should leave.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should keep my opinions to myself, but it’s hard sometimes to maintain a positive attitude the way things are going.”

  “Why?” I asked. Nothing I had heard, except Ursula’s comment earlier, gave me any reason to be concerned about the war; it was odd that the Captain had brought up the issue at all.

  “You don’t care for politics, do you?”

  I shook my head. “Not really.”

  “You can be honest with me. What we speak of will go no farther than this room.”

  I studied his eyes, observed the depth of them so I might judge the truth of his words. All I saw was sincerity, but I still felt I should be guarded in my comments. “Frankly, I’m more concerned about my parents than myself. At first the war didn’t mean a lot to me, any more than it did to other girls in Berlin. We heard how the people in the East were our enemies. But now things have changed, the Allied bombings have begun and food is in short supply. Life is hard.” I looked away, afraid to ask my next question. “Are we losing the war?”

  I heard him shift on the bed. When I looked again, he was sitting up, staring at me. “Are you aware your question verges on treason?”

  I was astounded by his reaction. “I asked because I wanted to know. I suppose we should never speak of losing the war. You told me I could trust you. Besides, if I were a traitor, would I be the Führer’s food taster?”

  He rose from the bed. “Which answer do you want? The Reich’s or the truth?”

  “The truth.”

  He smiled. “I was right to choose you. But you’ll have your answer later. It’ll be lights-out soon. I should escort you to your room. I’ve already taken a chance, having a woman in here.” He lifted the blind and peered out. “Ursula and Franz have disappeared.”

  “I can walk by myself.”

  He shrugged and offered his hand. I shook it.

  “I’m not sure that coming here was a good idea,” I said, and opened the door to the dimly lit hall.

  Karl touched my shoulder. “Let me take you to a movie in the Berghof. Eva picks out the films. We see them before the public does. Often we get them from America. Hitler doesn’t watch them because he thinks the Reich’s leader shouldn’t enjoy himself while the country suffers. The only films he watches are dreary repeats of his speeches, so he can learn how to be a better speaker.”

  I was surprised. “That’s what he does best.”

  The Captain nodded.

  I thought for a moment about his offer of a movie. “I’d be happy to accept your invitation. I think Cook would allow that.”

  “Of course she would.” He stood close to me as we walked down the hall. When we got to the barracks door, he bowed slightly. “I would remind you that even an SS officer is human. Good night, Fräulein Ritter.”

  My heart beat a little faster as I stepped out on the practice field. Had the Captain professed an interest in me? I dared not think it. My physical attraction was no reason to trust him.

  The moon had shifted higher in the sky and the temperature had dropped a few degrees. A chilly breeze stung my cheeks as I hurried back to the Berghof. The same guard who had let us out was still on duty, but another SS man stood in the shadows. As I got closer, I recognized him as the Colonel whom Cook and Ursula had warned me to stay away from. He stepped toward me and said, “May I see your pass?”

  “I don’t have it with me,” I said. “I was told I wouldn’t need it.”

  “You should keep it with you at all times, Fräulein Ritter,” the Colonel said. “Open your coat.”

  “You know me?” I asked, and then complied with his request.

  His cold hands patted down my body. Satisfied, he waved me on toward the door. “Of course.” His tone was as dark as the shadows on his face.

  I returned to my empty room and got ready for bed. Franz and Ursula were obviously smitten with each other. I briefly imagined kissing Karl before I convinced myself the thought was ridiculous. I needed my job. There was no turning back now. No charming man could force me to break rules that might cost me my position, despite how “human” he might be. I thought of the SS officer who had taken the couple off the train. How human was he? Did he go home that night and make love to his wife? Did he tuck his children into bed and kiss them good night?

  These thoughts swirled through my head as I tried to sleep. Was the war really going badly?

  Sometime after midnight, Ursula returned to the room. She didn’t turn on the light to undress. She slipped into her nightgown, got into bed and sighed like a girl who had spent a rapturous evening with a man.

  I envied her.

  CHAPTER 4

  My hands trembled as Cook busied herself with various mushrooms, vials and small bowls containing powders. Her thin arms hovered over the oak table. My first class in poisons occurred early one morning in a corner of the kitchen while the rest of the staff went about their busi
ness.

  I had no appetite for breakfast and my stomach churned as I looked at the items laid out before me. I sat because I felt too nervous to stand.

  “We will deal with four areas,” Cook began. “Mushrooms, arsenic, mercury and cyanide. We can’t possibly cover everything today, but this will be our starting point.” She pointed to the mushrooms. “One of these is safe to eat, the other isn’t. Can you tell them apart?”

  Dread crept over me. I had no idea. They looked the same to me. She pointed to two white spheres that looked like puffballs. “Come now, which of these is poisonous?”

  I shook my head.

  “I can see we have a long way to go.” She pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and held one of the funnel-shaped mushrooms in her hand. “This is Omphalotus olearius. It grows in Europe. It’s rarely deadly, but can cause severe illness. It looks similar to Cantharellus cibarius, a Chanterelle, which grows here as the Pfifferling. It has a peppery taste.” She broke off a small piece of the Chanterelle and held it on the tip of her finger. “Go ahead. Taste it.”

  I took the yellowish-orange meat between my fingers and was about to put it into my mouth.

  “Wait,” Cook cautioned. “Smell it first.”

  I felt silly smelling and tasting mushrooms, but this was to be part of my daily routine.

  I put the piece to my nose and sniffed. “It smells like an apricot.” I popped the bit into my mouth and let it slowly dissolve until the peppery taste was too much. I swallowed it and swished my tongue trying to get out the taste, worrying that Cook was playing a horrible trick. Did she want to poison me?

  “Look at the Omphalotus. It grows in America and Asia as well. It has unforked gills and the interior is orange—not like the Chanterelle.” She split the two mushrooms in half to demonstrate the difference in color. “The Führer rarely eats mushrooms. He doesn’t really like them, but see how easy it would be to grind, chop or mince the Omphalotus and slip it into his egg and potato casserole. You must be aware of the colors and smells of the poisonous foods and be on the lookout for their evidence.”

  Cook then explained the difference between the two puffballs that lay on the table. One was deadly, the second not. My eyes must have glazed over, for other than the size and the amount of soil on both, the mushrooms looked strikingly similar. I could not tell the difference. Cook shook her head as if chastising a lazy student for her stupidity. “You will learn,” she said in a firm voice.

  Or die.

  We moved on to arsenic. Cook took a small amount of the powder and heated it in a pan. It smelled like garlic. She also took a piece of the grayish-white granules and struck them with a hammer, causing friction and heat. The odor of garlic filled the air. “The poisoning causes symptoms very similar to cholera: diarrhea, vomiting, cramps and convulsions,” Cook said. “That’s why it was easy to hide such poisoning hundreds of years ago. Cholera was prevalent. The pain from arsenic is acute. Real garlic is an antidote against a slow poisoning.” She ordered me to put on gloves and sniff the arsenic, which smelled metallic rather than like garlic. My hands shook when she told me to taste a small particle. My jaws clenched shut. Cook gave up, pried my mouth open and placed the tiny piece on my tongue. It tasted faintly of iron, hardly enough to notice.

  She then held up a brown bottle of mercury chloride. “This was used to treat the syphilitic disease of sexual intercourse, but it can kill as a poison. It causes profuse sweating, high blood pressure and rapid heartbeat. No need to taste it—it has no taste.” Cook handed me the small bowl of white salts and had me examine it. A faint smell of chlorine wafted from the bowl, but I may have imagined it, the odor was so weak.

  Finally, we dealt with cyanide. This was the poison, Cook said, that would most likely be used against the Führer. The white granules had a faint smell of bitter almonds. Cook was pleased when I noticed the odor. “Some can’t smell cyanide. It’s a genetic trait. You’re lucky you did; otherwise, you might have had to find other work.” I was shocked at my own misfortune. If I had lied about the smell, I might have been assigned as the kitchen bookkeeper or to another less dangerous task. Instead, through my ignorance of poisons, I’d secured my job as a taster.

  Cook swirled her gloved finger in the granules. “Cyanide salts are exceedingly poisonous. It knocks you unconscious and you can’t breathe; your skin turns blue.” She pointed to a metal vial on the table. “Unfortunately, a few of our officers have already committed suicide in this manner. Breaking a cyanide capsule with your teeth will cause death in a matter of minutes. Nothing can be done once the poison’s in your system.”

  The liquid looked harmless enough, almost colorless, but I was surprised at how quickly death could come. I would take Cook’s word as to the assessment of the poison.

  My head spun with all that had been shown to me. One of the other cooks needed to see Fräulein Schultz, so she stepped away for a few minutes. I held the cyanide vial in my hands and looked at the thin glass ampoule. I replaced the vial on the table and looked around the kitchen. Cook was supervising Hitler’s breakfast preparations. I could only wait. As I sat in my chair, I marveled at how such a small glass capsule might change the course of history, if only someone had the courage to carry out a plan. Hitler was no hero to me, but I dared not speak what I thought.

  * * *

  Captain Weber asked me to a movie the first night I tasted food for Hitler. Karl arranged our date through Eva Braun. Apparently, his looks and standing in the SS were important enough to get himself positioned occasionally within Eva’s circle. Since Karl and I had talked in his quarters, I had seen Eva several times in the kitchen. Her presence was a special event that disrupted the cooks and orderlies, for she demanded that attention be paid to her wishes. Cook told me Eva was the Führer’s companion and the social mistress of the residence. She appeared in fine dresses that flattered her figure even as she walked about inspecting the ovens and stoves. Mostly, she wanted to know what the staff was preparing for her invited guests, not for Hitler. She talked to each of the cooks and even asked to taste a lamb dish as it was being prepared. This caused much consternation to Cook, who scolded Eva without insulting her, and stated that she could not guarantee her safety if she continued such unorthodox actions. Eva tossed her head, shaking her curls, and laughed. She exuded an air of invincibility, as if no disaster could ever befall her.

  Cook had told me that Hitler professed to be a vegetarian, but rumors circulated that he ate meat: squab, some fish and even chicken. When I questioned her, Cook said Hitler never ate anything but eggs, fruits and vegetables. Eva ate meat and enjoyed it, as did most of her invited guests. Hitler didn’t impose his eating habits on others, but he made sure the meat-eating guests at the table were uncomfortable. He often talked about butcher shops and slaughterhouses and how horrible they were. Cook said some officers left the table because these luncheon and dinner stories were so filled with blood and envisioned entrails that stomachs turned.

  I had not seen the Führer, so everything I knew about him I learned from others. Much of the Berghof’s gossip was spread in shadow. One never knew if the Colonel was around the corner with his ear pressed to the wall.

  One late morning, after Eva had visited the kitchen, Cook pulled me aside and whispered, “The Führer thinks Eva is too skinny. He likes a woman with more meat on her bones. You’ll see what I mean, if you get to know him. He always pays attention to women with curves.” She chuckled. “God forbid Eva should change the way she looks. She put her hair up once and he hated it. He told her he didn’t recognize her. Eva never did it again, although he complimented one of his secretaries when she did the same.”

  I wanted to laugh, but the irony caught in my throat. The rumors of Germany’s defeat were in opposition to what I saw and heard at the Berghof: the nonchalance of Eva Braun, who strolled the grounds with her guests and dogs; conversations about dresses and hairdos; the bucolic scene of Albert Speer’s children in the kitchen asking for apples. Even Hitler, Cook
said, was a gentleman host, more of a mountain prince than the leader of a war machine. Everything was peace and plenty in the rarified atmosphere of the Berghof.

  I was so inquisitive, I asked Cook what the Führer was really like. I’d seen nothing of Hitler’s rumored rages at his officers or the cold, calculating persona that terrified those weaker than he.

  “He’s like your grandfather,” she said, and I laughed at the thought. “I’ve never seen him mad,” she continued. “Upset, yes, but furious, no.”

  The Colonel appeared at the kitchen door, all spit and polish, looking the picture of the perfect SS man.

  “See him,” Cook said, and looked his way. “It’s typical for him to show up out of nowhere. He’s watching us now.” She discreetly put a finger to her lips. “Be careful what you say around him. I would never get in his way because I don’t trust him. He protects the Führer better than Blondi. The Colonel has repeatedly told me that if there are setbacks in winning this war, they aren’t the Führer’s fault. The Allies have caused our misfortunes, he says, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he blamed the German people.”

  The Colonel walked past us into the kitchen, surveying the sinks, the counters, the tabletops, like they were his own domain. He made me nervous. The rumors circulating through the mountain residence made it seem as if the Berghof were resting on a slowly melting iceberg while everything around sparkled in sunshine.

  Hitler always ate about 8:00 p.m. in the dining room. Around seven, Cook lined up the dishes for me to taste, as well as the food for his guests. Ursula had been given the night off to attend to a family matter in Munich. Normally we both tasted the food. The other girls worked at breakfast or lunch or were at the other headquarters. Cook had given me a few more lessons in poisons, including other mushrooms and salts. I studied them as much as I could, but was not convinced of my ability to save the Führer from being poisoned.

  Cook placed the Führer’s meal in front of me: a plate of eggs and diced potatoes scrambled together, yellow and fluffy; a thin porridge; fresh tomatoes sprinkled with olive oil and pepper; a green salad with peppers and cucumbers; a plate of fresh fruit sprinkled with sugar. The tomatoes, along with the salad vegetables and fruits, had been grown in the Berghof’s greenhouses.