The Secret Journals of Adolf Hitler: Volume 1 - The Anointed
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THE SECRET JOURNALS OF ADOLF HITLER
VOLUME I - THE ANOINTED
A. G. MOGAN
A Novel
Copyright © 2017 by A. G. Mogan
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
The Secret Journals of Adolf Hitler, Volume I – The Anointed/ A. G. Mogan, 1st Edition
Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
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Contents
Editor’s Note
Author’s Foreword
Prologue
1. Infected
2. Down And Out
3. Two Glass Balls Away From Freedom
4. Painful Perfection
5. The Malady Of The Soul
6. Brilliant Star
7. Thousand-And-One-Nights In Hell
8. Too Few Heads
9. In That Hour It All Began
10. Deserted Earth And Heaven
11. Poisoned Roots
12. From Hell One Can See The Light
13. Risen
14. The Worst And Greatest News In The Holy Land
15. The Road To Light Is Made Out Of Tears
16. The Rise Of The Risen
17. The Agent Of The Creator
18. Catharsis And Birth
19. Enthusiasm Does Not Always Serve You
20. It Was Written In The Skies
Thank You!
Bibliography
About the Author
Editor’s Note
“This is a strong book with no ‘romanticized’ thoughts behind it. It’s raw and emotional, but limits the speculative aspect of the narrative to produce an engaging and sustained plausibility.”
Maria D’Marco
Author’s Foreword
Dear Reader,
After more than seven decades, no historian or biographer has put together a complete interpretation of Adolf Hitler, allowing him to remain one of the greatest enigmas of all time.
When considering my approach for exploring the life of this man, this icon of hatred, I decided to let him speak for himself. This is how The Secret Journals of Adolf Hitler, Volume I – The Anointed, came into being. It will be followed by Volume II – The Struggle, and Volume III – The Reckoning.
My aim in writing The Secret Journals of Adolf Hitler was to meet Hitler in person through personal documents that have survived, then deconstruct and reconstruct him via the concept of his life being revealed in journal entries.
I knew that questions still lingered about the circumstances that ultimately produced this most hated man. And so, answering these questions became my mission.
This novel was born out of my fascination with history and the personalities that have driven the great global events of the past. When I first heard of Adolf Hitler as a youngster, I was profoundly affected. This man was an unthinkable puzzle. To try to understand what elements pushed him beyond inhumanity further than anyone in history was a tremendous challenge.
My intention in this book is to take you through the intricate maze that was Adolf Hitler’s life, explaining everything from a psychological point of view. Written from a detached, personal perspective, I attempt to convey a realistic portrait devoid of condemnation or glory, yet firmly acknowledging the crimes he promulgated. Any text reflecting racism is included solely to enhance the overall objective of the book, and does not reflect the author’s opinion.
The process of making this book a reality took over four years. After two years of research and continuous reading of verified accounts about Hitler, I was able to discriminate the level of truthfulness in these accounts. With this insight, I was dedicated to introducing only information that seemed closest to the truth.
There are truths that will never be known, since the Nazis went to great lengths to cover their tracks, but in the absence of facts, there are plenty of rumors. In dealing with rumors, I limited myself to investigating those that made sense, those spread by his closest friends and associates. Additionally, I included many words and phrases verified as belonging to Hitler.
I truly hope you enjoy reading this book and that it opens your mind to the reality of Hitler’s life and world view. If history is not to repeat itself, we must understand what caused certain events to happen, and how they managed to be cultivated to their extremes.
I like to say that peace comes with knowledge; with the understanding of things. In order to understand, I urge you to approach this book with an open mind and a detached heart. There will be moments when you will find yourself feeling sorry for Hitler, and you might not be willing to feel that. But, in truth, during his early formative years, he was an agreeable person. He had a rough childhood; suffered enormously when his mother died; begged for food in anti-Semitic Vienna; slept in the parks and homeless men’s shelters.
Adolf Hitler was not born evil. Only with time did he become less of a human and more of a monster. Volumes II & III will deal with his transformation from the Hitler in Volume I.
You can sympathize with Hitler the human, and still condemn Hitler the monster.
If you would like to do further reading and research of your own, I have included some of my resources in the bibliography. Among these are books Hitler read and books I personally consider shaped his thinking, character and ideology.
A. G. Mogan
For Cristian
the one true friend who believed in me when no one else did
If you want to shine like the sun,
first you have to burn like it.
Adolf Hitler
Prologue
Midnight 8-9 November, 1939
I reread the teletype message I hold in my hands. I do so for the tenth time since retrieving it from the conference car thirty minutes earlier. The motion of the train, rattling along the tracks to Berlin, doesn’t explain the trembling of my hands, nor would my re-reading Goebbels’ words diminish their impact.
Bombing at Bürgerbräu Beer Hall.
Thirteen minutes after your departure.
External wall and part of the ceiling collapsed.
Seven killed. Many more injured.
Very happy you are alive.
Goebbels.
Earlier tonight in Munich, at the hall where I was to give my annual speech commemorating the November putsch, there had been no suspicion of an assassination attempt. The SS had inspected every corner of the hall, had searched every man who entered. Any suspicious characters had been thrown out.
The imminent war with France demanded I return to Berlin tonight, but extreme fog forced my pilot’s decision against flying. I had no choice but to return by private train. This meant I had to leave an hour earlier, forcing me to cut my speech from two hours to a single one.
However, during my speech I experienced the most extraordinary feeling, compelling me to leave the hall as soon as possible. A little voice in my head kept shouting, “Get out! Get out!”
If not for these seemingly benign changes, and the strident urging from beyond myself, I would now lie dead beneath a mountain of rubble. Yet once again, I have outrun death.
By thirteen minutes.
“Goebbels!”
“Mein Führer! Are you alright?” The tremble in his voice betrays his fears.
“Tell me!”
“We think we’ve got him! The bloody rascal is in our hands!”
“A lone bomber? Communist?”
“Yes, and yes.”
“Jew?”
A pause. “No, mein Führer. German. Georg Elser.”
There have been more than a dozen attempts on my life, with more than half plotted and carried out by Germans. And even though I hate them for that, it still hurts to know that many Germans are against me, and thus against their ancestors. Against the revival of their own race. They don’t deserve their Aryan blood.
“We got him at 8:45 this evening, as he was trying to escape to Switzerland. At 8:45! Thirty-five minutes before the bomb exploded! Can you believe it?”
“But are you absolutely sure it was him? Why was he held at the border? What links him to the bombing? The British SIS and that damned Otto Strasser sound more likely to me!”
“The border guards reported that he was carrying wire cutters, notes and sketches of explosive devices, firing pins, and a blank color postcard of the interior of the Bürgerbräu. When the bombing was announced, the guards rang to say they had a suspect. We’re almost certain it’s him.”
“I don’t know. He must confess — and he must do it fast. I want Himmler and Nebe on this. I want torture, hypnosis, Pervitin, whatever it takes! Summon the best Gestapo doctors!”
“Yes, mein Führer.”
“Then, send the bloody scoundrel to Dachau!” I wipe the sweat from my forehead with a sigh.
“My pleasure.”
“Good. I must get back to the train now. I’ll ring you again as soon as I reach Berlin.”
“Mein Führer?”
“Yes?”
“I thank the heavens you are alive and well.” His words sound distorted and I know he is fighting back tears. My own throat contracts and I give a harsh laugh, masking my own flood of tears.
“Well, Goebbels, a man has to be lucky.”
“But, you don’t believe in luck.”
I pause. He knows me well. Of course, I don’t believe in luck. My belief in it died along with my mother, more than three decades ago.
“You’re right, Goebbels. My leaving the Bürgerbräu earlier is proof to me that Providence wants me to reach my goal. Now I’m completely at peace.”
At half-past seven in the morning, I arrive at the Reich Chancellery in Berlin. The war generals gathered in the reception gallery await my arrival. They are eager to discuss the last details on the offensive against France. The war is barely two months old, and already Poland has been overrun. We must press this advantage quickly forward, but a thick mist shrouds the entire country, demanding we postpone the X-Day until a more propitious date.
Following our discussions, the generals leave, and I find myself alone in the Chancellery. I use this rare instance of solitary as an excuse to take my ease and drag my tired body to the Leader Apartment on the upper floor, where I let myself fall freely onto the bed. I haven’t slept in more than two days. Lying on my back, I stretch my arms toward the ceiling and examine my hands. They’ve finally stopped trembling.
I cannot say the same thing about my emotional state.
Dropping my arms to the bed, my thoughts go to the excruciating moments following each attempt on my life, when I realize Death and I have been close enough to shake hands, and how only one thing lingers in my mind. Without exception, every time I feel the great beyond hovering about me, I think of her. Of my mother.
And while I berate myself for this vulnerability, the most private part of me rejoices at the chance, if only in my thoughts, to be with her again. Thinking of Mother whenever I find myself in frightening circumstances is an unacceptable weakness. Only children should get away with it. For grown men, such a reaction is a stain on their manliness.
I once confided this secret vulnerability to a close friend, who has long since left us to walk the gardens of Mount Olympus. We had known each other for less than a year, but our similar convictions and mutual objectives created an immediate rapport between us. I told him I wished I hadn’t thought of her at those times, and how it made me hate myself for being so weak.
His reply surprised me.
“Well, Adolf, that’s not weakness … that’s fear. You are not weak when you think of her — you think of her when you are afraid. Your fear makes you perceive it as weakness. But in truth, dear friend, the fear is the weakness.”
I said that was all nicely philosophical—the man was a poet, after all—but it did not make me feel any better.
“Then, my friend, there is only one thing left to do. Write it down. Grab a pen and paper and dash it all off. It’s like taking purgative drugs. One experiences quite an effective catharsis.”
I remember giving a hearty laugh at his idea.
“Writing will help you relive past moments,” he continued, “and you’ll have the power to embrace the good ones and fight the bad. It’s like being given a second chance!”
I never seriously considered his advice. Not until now, with the attempts on my life springing up like mushrooms after a downpour. Not until now, when that blasted fear hovers about me, ready to devour me.
And I hate writing. I always have. I did not write Mein Kampf; I dictated it. My talent lies in the spoken word, not the written. The agitation I feel when pouring out the contents of my mind and heart prevents me from sitting still. I must pace the room far and wide, almost at a trot. Hand and pen simply can’t keep up with the flow of my words.
But then again, my intent here is not to try to impress an audience or write another political autobiography. So, acting on my friend’s advice could turn out to be—what was the word he used—catharsis? Yes. Writing could be cathartic.
I hope it will.
I resolve to release all that vulnerability, fear, and weakness through pen and paper. Maybe if I dash it all off it will no longer trouble me. Perhaps putting my thoughts down on paper will allow me to visualize my feelings, and then I can tear them up and throw them into a big greedy fire.
However, I soon realize that this fear is as old as I and has been my constant companion since my first conscious thought. Should I begin from that time, then? Could I possibly remember it all?
And then, the thought strikes me: maybe if I write of her, I could constantly be with her. It’s like being given a second chance!
Maybe … maybe … maybe …
Oh, my dearest Eckart, if only you were still alive…if only you were here to see what I’ve become. But, Eckart is no longer alive and there is no one else, no other breathing soul, to which I could confess my fears. Yet I wish someone knew! How I wish some mute creature was created just to hear me out, and then go ahead and die alongside my words. But, there is no such creature, and I make it a habit to keep my own counsel.
Alone, I must go to the writing desk and face my fear. Alone, with my solitary thoughts. Was it ever otherwise? Maybe just once, long long ago, when she was alive.
From his dark worm-ridden grave, the image of Father yanking Mother by the hair and spitting on her face hurtles toward me. An electrifying shudder jolts through me and the trembling in my hands is rekindled.
I know there is no turning back.
Sweat bursts from every pore as my shaky arms push me off the bed and I approach the writing desk. The memory of her tears rushes through me and I release them through my own eyes. I watch as they hit the paper, wetting it from place to place, producing a puckered, mottled appearance.
At last, with what feels like my final breath, I reach for the pen.
Infected
Passau, Lower Bavaria, January 1894
I’m suffocating. A torrent of ice-cold water
rushes into my mouth, fills my nostrils, clogs my ears. I bang my fists against the thin ice covering the river I have just fallen into, as the current catches at my heavily-clothed body, pulling me under. The rough underside of the ice rips open my fingertips, leaving bloody pulp that resembles those rabbits Father plucks alive.
The viciously cold water bites at my body as I wriggle my arms and legs with all the force I can muster. My mouth opens, searching for air, and I greedily breathe in, but it’s just more water.
The pain proves too much for my young body to bear. Hope is replaced by terror. I puke and jerk my arms and legs in one last effort to reach the surface, but only manage to swallow more water mixed with my own vomit. The air in my lungs expires. I press my lips together as tightly as I can, but my body’s natural survival instinct forces my mouth open again in a frantic search for air. More frigid liquid fills my lungs, and I fight the hungry river no longer.
Millions of thoughts speed through my mind. Some tell me I can’t die so young, others urge me to fight and stay alive, still others tell me to let go.
Then comes simple memories. The fields of flowers surrounding our house; the tiny window I stared through at Mother and Father fighting; Mother putting me to bed and whispering her love in my ear. Her image relieves the pain in my chest and a pleasant drowsiness oozes throughout my entire body. I close my eyes, and surrender.