The Secret Journals of Adolf Hitler: Volume 1 - The Anointed

by A G Mogan

  An eternity passes. A pleasant eternity, of which I am aware and into which I float, though I have no idea if I’m still in water. I can see in all directions at once. Wherever my thoughts turn, my body immediately follows. A deep serenity envelops me, and in its bliss I hear music; music I’ve never heard before, yet somehow recognize it as being part of me, an extension of my self, a core composed of millions of tiny spectacularly-colored gems. They vibrate tirelessly and from this vibration comes the music.

  A sudden, deafening trumpet cry covers all the other notes. Words, felt rather than heard, intone: It is not yet your time. Go back and fulfill your great destiny. I stretch my hand forward to trace the tiny gems with my fingers and a deep joy surges through my body. I would cry if I could, but tears seem to be nonexistent here.

  A fierce jolt shrouds the magical world in darkness and I am violently sucked backwards by a tremendous, invisible force. Biting pain pierces my chest and the rest of my wasted body. I go cold, so cold it’s as if I’m being stabbed by thousands of merciless icicles. Something presses hard on my stomach and I vomit up a torrent of water. I manage to half-open my eyes and glimpse Johann, my playground comrade, rising from his knees to pull me to safety.

  A lit butter lamp sits above me on the bed’s headboard. I watch the flickering flame within give off wisps of smoke that stain the white wall behind it. I turn my head to scrutinize the room, only to be frozen by a sharp pain shooting through my neck. One after another, I try to move each part of my body, only to experience more pain. Nothing but pain … pain … pain.

  After a few minutes of deep breathing, the pain eases and I manage to lift the blanket covering me. Looking down, I barely recognize my body. Countless cuts and bruises cover my flesh. They have been covered with a soothing ointment that gives off a minty scent.

  “Adolf, dear child!” cries Mother from my bedroom door. She claps her hands over her mouth and rushes to my side. “You’re awake!” Streams of tears race down her face. “I thought I’d lost you! If it wasn’t for Johann …” She pauses, terrified by the dreadful image of what could have been.

  My eyes fill with tears, tears of joy. How wonderful to see her again.

  “Mother … ”

  Snatching up the hem of her skirt, she wipes away her tears.

  “Say nothing, Adolf. You were in a coma for four days. I begged and begged and begged God to send you back to me.” Her tears renew, glistening in her eyes, and I see the glowing spring sun.

  I find myself examining her with fresh eyes, as though seeing her for the first time. I want to capture everything at once. It’s as if I want to memorize her features, lest God ever try to steal me away from her again.

  She is of medium height, slender, possessing an extraordinary beauty. Most of the time, her long chestnut-colored hair is tied back, but during her nightly ablutions, she lets it loose and the waves of thick, curly locks fall to her waist. At those rare moments, when I happen to spot her reflection in the mirror, I am thunderstruck, as I watch her slowly comb this luxuriant cascade, seemingly lost in thoughts. Her soft pink skin, expressive blue eyes, and mysterious gaze make her a sight to behold. I have often thought how lucky I am to have inherited those otherworldly, mysterious eyes and that penetrating, bewitching stare.

  I try to speak again, to tell her of my vision, of how I thought of her and felt her arms around me, carrying me to that magical world of gems and music. Sensing my struggle, she gently places her hand over my mouth to stop me.

  Her gesture takes me back in time — and suddenly — I remember …

  It was Wednesday. I play with my brother and sister, Alois and Angela, in the front yard of our house, which belongs to Johann’s father, the lad who saved my life. The three of us and our parents occupy the two dark, cramped basement rooms of the house. Living within these crowded quarters made me grateful for the spacious front yard, which served as a playground for us kids.

  Alois and Angela are my half-siblings from Father’s previous marriage. He had been married twice before he took Mother as his wife. The fact that he was 20-plus years her senior and she was his half-niece, apparently hadn’t bothered him.

  We break our backs to make a snowman. I manage to make a snowball the size of a pumpkin all by myself. Then, with my brother’s help, I tumble it around the front yard, pushing it with my hands, and then my legs. But, the bigger it gets, the harder it is to move around.

  Throughout our struggles, my sister watches us, laughing at and mocking our efforts. She drives me insane. If there would be no repercussions, I would slap her stupid cheerful face, but she is a full head taller than me, and always like a bear with a sore head. I swallow my resentment and continue to push the snowball until it can no longer be moved.

  Next, we make smaller snowballs, and stack them on the large one. Our childish masterpiece finally begins to look like a snowman and I sling my knitted muffler around its icy neck. It still lacks eyes, nose, buttons, and a broom, so I head for the basement door to look for objects to create these finishing touches.

  As I approach the tiny, ground-level window to our rooms, I am stopped short by the sound of raised voices. It is yet another fight between my parents, an event that crops up every few days or so.

  A burning desire to eavesdrop, never before experienced, invades me and I kneel down to wipe ice from a corner of the small window with my glove.

  I see Mother sitting on the edge of the bed, her head humbly lowered, hands protectively clutching her swollen, pregnant belly. She lifts her head to look at Father and I read fear in her eyes.

  “Stupid woman! How dare you challenge my words?” Father’s thundering voice makes my skin break out in goosebumps. “Have you forgotten what happened the last time you had the idiocy to curb me? Have you, retarded?” He grabs Mother’s hair, winding it around his fist until it pulls against her scalp.

  “Uncle! I can’t let you send Alois to the orphanage! Please!” she begs, her plaintive voice bringing tears to my eyes. “God wouldn’t allow it! He will punish us! Hasn’t He punished us enough?”

  “Silence! You and your stupid God make me sick! All of you make me sick!”

  “You hate him! His own father hates him! But he is still your—”

  Father’s heavy peasant hand delivers a blow across the face and throws her to the floor. My mouth opens, as I watch in disbelief. My heart races so fast that I am afraid Father will hear it. I recoil from the window, but can still see what is happening.

  “He’ll be homesick! They’ll beat him!” Mother courageously continues. I notice blood springing from her burst lip.

  “He’ll get what he deserves. That nasty obstinate boy needs to learn his lesson! A tough lesson, like I, myself, have been taught!”

  “Uncle … ”

  “What think you, stupid woman? That we all grew up in a sweet motherly embrace like yours?”

  “Your thrashings, your humiliations, your nasty obstinacy is more than enough lesson for him!” Her accusations are followed by silence.

  My heart stops. I look at Father, clenching his fists — and then he explodes, punching and slapping her fragile, weak, pregnant body. Soon, this seems not enough punishment and he begins kicking her arms, back, and stomach.

  “Not the belly, Uncle! Not my baby! Please! Please!”

  I want to scream, to swear, to shatter the window in rage equal to Father’s, yet I cannot. For some unknown reason, I remain rooted in place, as if a great invisible force paralyzes me. I wring my hands until my cold fingers turn purple. I strain to fight back the bile that lurches toward my throat. Finally, exhaustion seems to be taking its toll and I watch Father grab Mother by the arms and yank her thrashed body this way and that.

  “He goes. Do we understand each other?” he seethes, pulling her close.

  I know my Mother. I know that now she has relented. Her meek and gentle ways, her very fear, have surely forced her to succumb to his unbending will.

  I close my eyes and pray for her.
<
br />   “No … we don’t.”

  My stomach becomes a burning pit. It’s over. Not even Providence can save her from the wrath that now possesses Father.

  I witness the scene that follows as if I were a marble statue. It unfolds slowly and painfully, like in a nightmare from which I struggle to escape, but cannot.

  He pulls her up by the hair, grasps her by the shoulder, and whirls her around so her back is to him. He then viciously slaps the back of her head, forcing her to bend over.

  He must be punishing her the same way he punishes us when we disobey him, I think. He orders us to bend over, and then whips our bodies until the overwhelming pain finally breaks our will.

  Still holding onto her hair, he hikes her skirts up over her back. I can see her clenched jaw, the bruises already discoloring her flushed, tear-stained cheeks. Father’s expression twists with disgust and contempt as he furiously slaps her thighs and buttocks. Then, he unzips his trousers. They fall to the floor, uncovering his own hairy buttocks.

  My cheeks burn and bitter tears wash down them. I do not know exactly what is happening, only that he is hurting her badly, forcing his body on hers, again and again, like a scene from a bizarre puppet play. The obscene spectacle confuses me, yet I know with every inch of my being that it is sinfully wrong. I feel infected. Morally, spiritually, and physically infected.

  I gag once, then yellowish puke spews from my mouth like lava from an erupting volcano, soiling my clothes, the tiny window, and the white snow around me. On and on, I heave and spit. Then finally, fall motionless on my back.

  My childish, carefree world has ended.

  The gnawing wind and cold snow beneath me help to reclaim my strength. I sit up and dare to look through the window. Mother’s nightmare seems to be over and I watch as she slides from the bed to the floor, clutching her belly, her face contorted with excruciating pain. An evil, satisfied grin animates Father’s face as he buckles his belt. He takes a step, then turns to face Mother and spits in her face.

  “Stupid woman … ”

  This last humiliation unleashes a monster of rage I can no longer tame. Jumping to my feet, I burst through the basement door, slamming it against the wall, and fly down the stairs. I find Father tying his shoelaces, as the strong booze stench hits me in the face. I leap at him, hitting his foul body with my small fists.

  “You monster! You beast! You dirty animal!” All the slanderous words he’d used on me over the years come spilling out of my mouth. “I hate you! I hate you!” I keep hitting him as hard as I can, until he grabs my face and in one swift movement, smashes it against the stairs. The feeling of warm blood gushing down my neck scares me and I begin to scream. He reacts by unbuckling his belt again, then flailing my frail body with it, using all the force he can muster. His blows are so violent I am afraid chunks of flesh are being snatched away from my body. He enjoys every moment, as revealed by his twisted smile. Through my pain, I suddenly grasp that my howls seem to excite him. The louder I scream, the more intense his thrashing becomes. This realization startles me into defiance. I vow never to cry again. I bite my fingers in a desperate effort to restrain my wailing. If this stops him, I’ll know I’ve finally broken his will.

  Drops of his salty sweat fall on my open wounds, stinging me.

  Mother crawls to my side and covers me with her own body, shaking so terribly that I forget my own pain. Her face is pinched with worry, yet the unbounded love I read in her eyes soothes my tarnished spirit and gives me strength. I shove away from the stairs to stand between her and Father.

  “I hate you!” I shout again, staring into his bleary, drunken eyes, as Mother scrambles to her feet, reaching out to cover my mouth with her hand. Terrified, she then starts to drag me up the stairs by my clothes.

  I struggle from her grasp, run from the house, through the front yard and into the street. I want to disappear. I want the earth to open up and swallow me. I beg God to render me unconscious and save me from this misery. My body feels crushed; so does my spirit. My heart pounds as though it wished to leap from my chest. Tears soak my face once again, released, now that I am away from Father’s twisted gaze. The taste in my mouth, a mixture of puke, blood, and Father’s salty sweat, is horrid.

  Running blindly, I suddenly find myself on Inn River’s shore. Being mid-winter, the river is partially frozen. Patches of free-flowing water show through the ice here and there, but my anguished mind ignores this observation. Sitting on my butt, I slide off the edge of the steep embankment, down to the ice. I look to the other side of the river, which seems so far away.

  Just where I want to be. Far, far away.

  Without much thought, I start running again. I run and run and run, throwing my arms back and forth to cut the brisk wind and gain momentum. The only sound reaching my ears is the clunk-clunk-clunk of my boots hitting the ice.

  Suddenly, everything goes quiet. The stomping of my boots is replaced by muffled sounds. Only when the ice-cold water gushes into my mouth do I realize what happened. The thin ice has cracked under my weight and the furious water beneath wants to devour me, to suck me into its depths.

  I am suffocating. I struggle frantically — but the water has already reached my lungs.

  I silently slip into unconsciousness.

  Down And Out

  In the weeks that follow my near-drowning, Mother takes care of me and I recover almost completely — physically, that is. Mentally, I know I’ll never again be the same person.

  Any former ideal I had of the perfect couple switches places in my mind with a new reality; that of a farce only adults could devise. Married life and the supposed tenderness between grown-ups has been revealed as nothing more than an unscrupulous sham. A play that’s carefully staged, with every detail minutely attended to, a heartless ruse meant to look perfect in the eyes of the world.

  That’s the lie Father wants the outside world to perceive about his marriage. The industrious, conscientious father, who is the cheerful breadwinner for his family. By his side, the happy, smiling wife, who caters to his and their children’s every need while attending to every domestic detail. And then there are his well-bred offspring, who are diligent in school and always go out of their way to please their parents. Yet on the inside, his marriage is like a rotten apple. And the maggot inside is none other than that puppet play producer, my Father.

  I sleep sparingly in the weeks that follow my recovery. I’m haunted by memories forever imprinted in my mind. Father kicking and beating … his devilish laugh … Mother’s tears … hairy buttocks moving, contracting … No! I must stop them or I will slip into unconsciousness again.

  After all this torture, a happy event follows that proves somewhat effective in suppressing my painful, haunting thoughts. For a while, at least.

  In late March, only a month short of my fifth birthday, Mother gives birth to my little brother. Her doctor, Eduard Bloch, is at her side. A Jewish doctor with a funny name … Bloch … like that of a skin disease. Mother’s sister, Johanna, is also here. I’m afraid of her, since she always scowls at me. Her hunched back, ugly face, and ill temper don’t help, as they make it easy to think of her as one of those wicked old witches in fairytales.

  That night felt like a never-ending ordeal. I eavesdrop for several hours, sticking my ear to the bedroom door and peeking inside each time it opens. Every half-hour or so my aunt bustles from the room to replace the blood-stained water in the basin she carries.

  “Go, boy! Off with you!” She always chides, sending me away with a jerk of her chin. “This isn’t a playground!”

  I ignore her command and sit on the floor, as shouts and moans reach me from the other side of the door. I cover my ears to muffle them. Surely, Mother needs my help, but I have no say in the matter. Except for her, everyone in my family thinks I’m just a stupid, useless child.

  “Go on! Bring some clean water! Make yourself useful for once.” Fatigue has finally caught up with the witch. I grab the basin she pushes under my nose an
d bring clean water whenever it’s needed.

  As dawn nears, the squeal of the newborn replaces Mother’s moans, and I’m finally allowed into the room. I run, arms outstretched, to her bed. The morning light breaks through the shutters, shooting glowing rays onto her paper-white face. Her expression seems like a mask, stiff and strained, big round drops of sweat cover her forehead. I grab a wet towel and press it to her burning cheeks.

  “Your little brother, Adi,” she whispers, pointing at the cradle where the bundle rests. “We shall call him Edmund. Your father chose the name.” Of course he did.

  “Can I see him?” I demand, and rush to the crib, not waiting on her reply.

  What a small, comical face, I think, letting him grab my hand with his tiny fingers. His coos and gurgles amuse me, and the way he widens his eyes at every move he detects around him makes me laugh. What a jolly, goofy little fellow! I whisper, and bend down to kiss him. His skin smells like fresh milk.

  Edmund lives only for a short while. Much to our sorrow, he dies of measles in his sixth year. It is the fourth child that dies in Mother’s grieving arms. Throughout his brief stay with us, he’d suffered from poor health. As frail as he was, every change of season left a lasting mark on his strength.

  However, I’m certain that the real cause of his death was Father. The stress, anger, thrashings, and most especially, the perverse games he exposed Mother to, while she was pregnant with Edmund, had put a mark on the poor boy while still in the womb. Had he known what sort of life was awaiting him, he surely would not have chosen to be born alive. I can’t help but wonder if all my other deceased siblings might have died from the same causes. Although it’s true that one dreadful disease or another killed each of them, I am certain their immunity had been compromised before they were even born.