The Taster

by V. S. Alexander

  I lost my appetite because of his graphic descriptions and the hatred in my heart for my host.

  * * *

  Else was awed by the majestic vistas of the Alps when we arrived in Berchtesgaden. She’d never been so far south. After we’d climbed into the entourage of cars waiting at the train station, we motored up the mountain road. Soon Hitler’s retreat loomed ahead of us, luminescent under the brilliant December sun. After passing through the guardhouse, the car pulled into the entrance I’d first seen half a year before. In a strange way, I felt as if I had come home after an abysmal absence. The sun, the beautiful morning light, the mountain air, revived me after the oppressive stay at the Wolf’s Lair. The atmosphere here was much more relaxed than in Rastenburg. Else also noticed the difference immediately. She said her cares seemed to drop away—she might not even mind continuing on as a taster here. I showed her to our room with the view of the Untersberg, the same room that Ursula and I had shared. That small part of my history seemed a lifetime ago.

  Because I was a senior member of her staff, Cook assigned me to taste the evening supper. Else was to taste for lunch, also an important meal in Hitler’s schedule. I showed Else around the grounds so she’d be familiar with the greenhouses and the other buildings at the compound. We were back at the Berghof, admiring the view from the terrace, when Eva Braun showed up with her two Scotties. She remembered me and shook my hand. She and Hitler had been apart for several months and she seemed pleased to have company again. I introduced her to Else. Eva was cordial to me, but her measured tone with Else convinced me that one needed to gain Eva’s trust in order to be invited into her circle.

  “I fear there will be little for you to do this year,” Eva said to us. “The Führer has ordered that any celebrations should be muted.” She sighed. “I do wish the war would end soon, so our lives could get back to normal. Adolf . . .” She paused, blushing from her casual use of his name. “The Führer is so absorbed in his duties that I worry about him. I don’t want him to be in a bad mood. He may not even allow a tree this year, but he’ll probably give his usual gift of chocolates to his staff.” She leaned down and petted the dogs. “At least there’s something to look forward to.” She cupped her hands around their jowls. “Right, Negus and Stasi? And our holiday teas, of course.”

  “When are those?” Else asked innocently.

  Eva laughed, straightened up and drew together the lapels of her fur coat. “Oh, they’re not for you. They’re for the invited guests of the Führer. I imagine you’ll be the tasters for them.”

  After a stiff good-bye, she turned and walked away, leaving Else and me in the sun.

  “Who was that woman?” Else asked.

  “A companion of the Führer’s. She rules the Berghof. Keep on her good side.”

  We walked back to our room. Something had struck me as Eva talked to us—Hitler’s teas. How better to poison the Führer than at one of his intimate gatherings by the fire in the Great Hall? Still, such a plan would be risky and might result in many deaths, including those who had let the poison slip by. The thought numbed me like a dip in a cold lake.

  * * *

  Many nights I tossed and turned as I formulated my plan to kill Hitler. I shared these thoughts with no one, especially Karl. I didn’t know how seriously to take them—I became obsessed, like a madwoman who can think of nothing but murder. The anger, the murderous machinations, grew so intense I could barely sleep. Every time I decided upon the perfect plot, I thought about my father and what might happen to him, or Karl’s words would come back to me. Killing the Führer should be part of a master plan, he scolded me in my head. What would be the consequences of killing Hitler? Of course I would be a hero to the Allies, but in Germany my family and I would be branded as traitors by the Nazis and punished by death. My anger and frustration were maddening.

  But what if I could murder Hitler without anyone knowing? Perhaps I could slip into his room while he was asleep and slit his throat, or pour poison into his ear like Claudius did to the king in Hamlet. There had to be a way to rid Germany of the tyrant. The only way my father, Karl and I would survive the assassination would be to commit the perfect crime. I had no good solution. I was not by nature a murderer.

  During my work at the Wolf’s Lair and the Berghof, I’d noticed that SS officers paid strict attention to their weapons. Rarely would they part with their guns. Sometimes they would take off their holsters at lunch and place them on the table, or by their sides, or cradle them on the floor next to their boots. The weapons were always close by. And only once had I seen an officer walk off without his gun. Stealing one was out of the question. It would immediately be missed. I suspected there was a weapons cache at the SS dormitory at the Berghof, but I dared not ask Karl where it was located, or make a foolish attempt to break into it. I was sure to be captured.

  Poison wasn’t particularly a good choice, either, although it was the most convenient for me. I had learned my lesson from trying to poison Minna—too many innocent people could be killed and suspicion cast upon those who survived. Otto, the cook, had paid the price for my plot against Minna.

  Otherwise, a variety of objects could be used as instruments of death: a knife, a sword, an ax, a cane. Piano wire. A stocking, as Franz had used on Minna, or a necktie. A man could be murdered in a variety of ways, but none of them came easy for a woman in my position. Hitler’s security forces, the Führer’s natural reclusiveness, even the snow on the ground, which made it all but impossible to follow someone without leaving footprints, added to the problem of murder. I’d read long ago that it was difficult to kill a man and harder still to dispose of the body. I believed that to be true. Murder was a messy business with too many ways to bungle the job.

  Killing Hitler seemed an impossible task. I had a fantasy of pushing him off the walking trail he loved so much that led to the Teahouse. The Führer and I would take a late morning walk together with Blondi and when we came to the overlook I would push him over the side to his death. But many people often walked with him. How could I arrange a solitary stroll with the Führer? Impossible! And, if I did, the blame would land on me. What if he didn’t die from the fall? What if someone followed us? Too many questions filled my mind.

  I realized one morning that I was going quite mad over my mother’s death. The rage I felt was directed at Hitler and I couldn’t quell my murderous emotions.

  Karl met me that afternoon on the terrace. The December day was bright and cold after an evening snowfall. The magnificent mountains were mantled in white and transparent wisps of clouds flew over us on a crisp north wind. The sunlight fell in brilliant splashes on the terrace. Many gathered there at noon to take advantage of the warmth: Eva and a couple of her friends, attired in fine dresses and winter furs; SS officers in their snappy uniforms proudly surveying the scenery. I knew what they were thinking: Germany can never be defeated because Hitler would never allow it to happen. We are invincible. Look at what we behold! They were as mesmerized by the view as Hitler.

  Karl and I walked to a corner of the terrace where we could talk far away from the others. Knowing that nothing would come of them, I told him of my many fantasies to kill Hitler.

  His eyes narrowed in concern. “Never act on these thoughts,” he whispered harshly. He grabbed my shoulders, turned my back to the others and stood behind me. He continued talking into my ear in a soft voice. “One of our group has received intelligence from the British. They are operating in this area because they hope to assassinate Hitler in a sniper attack. We’re trying to stop them. We agree in theory, but their plan will only present more problems if it is carried out.”

  I looked down, dismayed, because I knew the question that haunted Karl. “Who would take over if Hitler was killed?”

  “Precisely.”

  He stepped in front of me, held my hands and stood so close his body warmed me. “Operation Valkyrie is in full swing, but you must give it time. The bomb on the Führer’s plane did not go off.”
>
  “What?” I stared at Karl, incredulous that attempts had already been made on Hitler’s life.

  Karl smiled, but I knew it was only an attempt to fool those on the terrace into thinking we were having a pleasant conversation. “Operation Spark. It failed. A bomb was placed in a box that supposedly contained cognac bottles on Hitler’s plane last March, but for some reason it didn’t go off. We think the explosive cap froze in the cargo hold. There have been other attempts.”

  I was stunned.

  “You shouldn’t know everything,” Karl said. “It’s not wise. The less you are aware of what’s going on the better. We’re constantly on guard. We never know when some rogue officer is going to attempt to assassinate him. Valkyrie is our best hope of saving Germany. There are others who believe as I do.”

  Tears stung my eyes at the mere possibility of Hitler’s death. I wanted to cling to Karl, but such a display of emotion would have been too hard to explain. I brushed the tears away. “I feel so tired and defeated. Our situation seems hopeless. Is there nothing I can do?”

  He sighed. “Magda, you must get these thoughts out of your head. Don’t drive yourself mad over something you can’t accomplish.” He looked across the terrace. “I have a plan, but we can’t talk here. It’s too dangerous. Put on your boots. Let’s take a walk to the Teahouse.”

  Karl and I agreed to meet at the front steps of the Berghof. I went back to my room and changed out of my shoes and into boots. Else was curled up under the covers, taking a nap after working the morning shift. I tiptoed around the room in order not to wake her. I closed the door quietly and walked down the wide hallway where Hitler often welcomed his guests to his mountain retreat. I opened the doors of the portico, which led to the broad stone steps, descending like the stairs of a Greek temple, to the driveway below. Mussolini, Chamberlain and countless other foreign dignitaries had climbed these steps to meet the Führer. The invited Party dignitaries, Speer, Göring, Goebbels, did the same when visiting. Hitler, his arm stiffly raised in a corresponding salute, towered like a god over them. From his vantage point at the top, he was the victor, the conqueror of those ascending from below.

  Since I’d begun my work at the Berghof, I’d seen the newsreels and photos. The protocol was always the same. Hitler, dressed in his most regal military garb, often white, would stand at the top as the visitors arrived below. The guests always climbed the stairs to honor the leader of the Reich. They arrived at this place to offer a gift or, as many had done, deliver a sacrifice. A nation would do as well as any offering.

  Karl smiled when he saw me standing at the top. The evening snowfall had been plowed into neat rows on each side of the drive. The thick white piles glittered with sparkling stars in the sunlight. I took Karl’s hand. We walked down the drive, patchy with ice, followed its U-shaped turn until we reached the trail that led to the Teahouse. We were the only ones out. I said little, but the sadness I felt earlier had eased and my spirits lifted underneath the evergreen canopy. If only we were not at war! If only a madman were not in charge! How different the world would be. Karl and I could be married, have children and start a life together. But my wishes might as well have been smoke, as transitory and fleeting as the wind that flowed around us.

  When we came to the overlook, Karl stopped, swept the snow off the railing and stood silent. I started to speak, but he held up his hand.

  “Listen,” he said.

  I did, but heard nothing. He turned and brushed his lips across my cheek. My legs struggled to hold my weight; I felt light-headed as he caressed my face. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Nothing,” he said, and cocked his head. “Nothing but the wind brushing against the trees, the flutter of snow falling from branches. How quiet and how beautiful the world can be.” He stepped away and put his hands over his face. His shoulders buckled and he broke into sobs. When he took his hands away, his face was red with rage. He shuddered to stifle his anger. “Millions are dying because of one man! Think of it, Magda! Think how wonderful the world could be if there was peace. At this time of year we need to be reminded of peace. Hitler will stop at nothing to get his way, to fulfill his vision of what the world should be. He will kill and keep on killing until nothing is left but the Reich.”

  I put my arms around him and drew him close. A tear fell upon my face. He pointed across the valley to the forest below and then to the mountain peaks spread across the horizon. “See how easy it would be for the British to position a sniper below, say in the forest—anywhere they could get a clear shot.”

  I tried to imagine Hitler standing at the overlook, perhaps with Blondi by his side. One bullet through the head. One bullet through the heart. The thoughts made me shiver, crazed with rage.

  “How easy that would be,” Karl said, “but how unfortunate for Germany. I hope the British realize the folly of their plan.”

  “When you were going to—” I couldn’t finish the sentence. “How did you get the bomb into the Wolf’s Lair?”

  He leaned against the railing. “It’s easier than you might think. The officers and soldiers have developed a trust with one another. It’s a strength and weakness for the Reich. Explosives can be slipped into a valise, or almost any object, for example, a cognac bottle. The guards rarely check a commanding officer unless they have some reason to be suspicious. When I knew my attempt was doomed by von Stauffenberg, I buried the bomb in swampy ground. Within hours the explosives would be useless.” Karl took hold of my shoulders. “Magda, you must do something for me. It’s very important . . .”

  He hesitated as if he were searching for the right words.

  “I’m asking you to do something that will assure your safety and possibly mine if it’s carried out successfully. However, it’s not without danger. But your life after Operation Valkyrie could depend on it.”

  My pulse quickened. “Go on.”

  Karl steadied me. “I want you to poison Hitler.”

  I stared at him. How could he ask me to do such a thing when he’d wanted me to have no part of an assassination attempt?

  “I’m not sure I heard you correctly,” I said.

  “You must poison him, but then you must save him.”

  The rage Karl had displayed a few minutes before had disappeared. Now only love showed in his eyes.

  CHAPTER 13

  On the walk back to the Berghof, Karl convinced me that I should display my allegiance to Hitler, for if any part of Valkyrie went awry, suspicion would be deflected from me. Naturally, the Gestapo and the SS would consider me a collaborator because of our relationship. The best way to avoid that conclusion, he pointed out, would be for me to save Hitler’s life. He had come to this realization within the past few days. As we walked, we came up with a plan.

  “Austerity” was the holiday word at the Berghof, as Cook had proclaimed. There were no parties, no Christmas tree and little joviality. The war on the Eastern Front was going badly, the Berlin bombings had taken their toll on the German people and the generals were concerned with the Allies’ plans in the West. Of course, I would have been as much in the dark about these matters as the rest of Germany if it hadn’t been for Karl. Only those directly affected, like the Berliners and the soldiers, knew the horrors of the war. The remainder of the Reich labored on, believing the lies spread by the Propaganda Minister.

  But Eva Braun hosted a tea party every few days, as she had mentioned to Else and me on the terrace. The more Karl and I thought about it, the more we felt it would be a good idea if we both were invited to one of her teas, just as she had invited Karl to the showing of Gone with the Wind. That way, we could both be present for the poisoning.

  The tea occurred a few days before Christmas. The snow fell heavily for hours and low clouds obscured the mountains as darkness descended upon the Berghof. Because of the weather, Eva scheduled her social event in the Great Hall after the Führer’s situational conference, rather than in the Teahouse. I had never been in the room, but I had heard stories about i
ts huge window, several meters in width and height, that looked out upon the mountains. Karl and I arrived after four in the afternoon and Eva and several of her guests were already nestled in the large couches and chairs that surrounded the red marble fireplace. I was immediately taken by the room, which consisted of two separate elevations. The south side, where we entered, was higher than the rest of the Great Hall. With its tapestries, oil paintings and sculptures, its wide expanse reminded me of a museum built around a sitting room. The heavy wooden ceiling was carved into ornamental squares that supported a round chandelier. Furniture groupings were scattered about the room in comfortable seating arrangements. Everything the leader of the Reich needed to conduct his business was in the Great Hall: a massive conference table, an extraordinarily large globe on a wooden stand, cabinets, a grandfather clock, even a piano. But the showpiece of the room was the gigantic rectangular window. I got only a vague notion of its grandeur because of the bad weather. Karl told me it could be lowered into the basement on warm days to give an unobstructed view of the Untersberg. Certainly the window fit the psychology of the Führer. With this touch as well, he had constructed his retreat to fit his view of the world—master of all he surveyed.

  Two ladies in fine dresses and a large man in a suit sat on a wide couch facing the fire. The man wore a monocle over his right eye. The group looked uncomfortable on the couch because it was so big they had to lean forward with no support for their backs. Otherwise, they would look like stuffed dolls with their legs hanging over the lip of the couch. One large chair sat angled next to the fire. I assumed this chair was for Hitler. Eva sat to the right of it with the Scotties at her feet. There was another large chair to the left with a small table in between.

  “Sit in that chair,” Karl whispered to me, and pointed to the vacant chair to the left of the empty one. “I’ll distract Eva. She loves it when men flirt with her.”