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

by A G Mogan

  I am forced to accept this mean, uncalled for, will of God out of respect for her piety, yet I cannot help but wonder why He would want this. Why would He will the suffering of this meek, gentle woman, who dedicated her entire life to others, who believed in Him more than all of us put together, who never missed a single Sunday Mass at His church, and who always took care that we wouldn’t go hungry physically or spiritually?

  I realize that I know so little about God, and about how the world really works. Even with hearing his name being whispered at every corner, in reality, I know nothing. Nothing about who He really is, where He comes from, or what reasons or profound implications lay behind His actions.

  What meaning or grandiose goals could have been served by her illness? I know not.

  But, I know I need answers, and I need them fast. Otherwise, I could no longer prevent Him from slipping out of my heart.

  It’s late December. Snow falls to the ground in huge flakes, obstructing the sky and suffocating the earth. I like to walk the streets when it snows like this, to stare skywards and marvel at my inability to see but a few inches high, to close my eyes and let the cold, enormous flakes caress my face, to hear the snow creaking under my feet, and to feel the biting cold drawn into my nostrils with every breath. It brings comfort and peace to my soul.

  The city quivers with an indescribable bustle in the streets, and inside shops, as people prepare for the holidays, buying gifts for their loved ones, Christmas trees, or various traditional foods to enrich their festive dinners. I look at their relaxed, joyful faces and envy them. As for me, the Christmas festivities are always accompanied by tragedy.

  I don’t remember the last Christmas I enjoyed wholeheartedly, sitting around the tree, drinking hot cocoa, and laughing over trifling things. Every end of the year brings with it the unsettling feeling that something bad is waiting to happen. I do not know if it’s a premonition or if the many failed holidays have simply imprinted on my soul the fear of a pending tragedy.

  For me, Christmas means being punished, or Father’s death, or finding out my Mother is gravely ill.

  I can’t help but wonder what the next Christmas will bring.

  On the Eve, we all gather around the beautifully adorned tree to discuss our mother’s terrible situation. I decorated the Christmas tree only because Mother insisted we carry on as usual, ignoring the ruthless reality. No one feels the spirit of the season though. It is warm in the house, yet I have goosebumps all over. I prepare everyone a cup of hot cocoa, which we drink in silence. Mother, Aunt Johanna and I sit on chairs, while Angela and her husband sit on the floor, gently rocking the basket in which little Leo sleeps.

  After a few silent minutes and several cups of cocoa, Mother begins to speak in her usual calm voice. One by one, we declare ourselves in favor of the surgery.

  “Klara,” starts Raubal, my annoying brother-in-law, “shouldn’t Adolf look for a job?”

  As he opens his putrid mouth, a whiff of booze hits my nostrils. My face twists in disgust at the smell, and at the topic this blockhead brought up at such a delicate moment. Waves of heat rush to my cheeks and I barely hold back the urge to throttle his throat. This pathetic loser always bothers Mother with the same question. But today, of all days?

  “He quit school to beat out the nearby woods with the other loser, Kubizek, and only God knows what else they’re doing!”

  “He’ll find a job soon, I am sure of it,” Mother says, bending her head to one side and throwing a smile at me, but the gates to my anger have already opened.

  “Well, soon is not soon enough. With your situation, you need all the money you can get!”

  I can no longer contain myself and jump to my feet. My heart pounds, my temples pulsate.

  “Am I invisible?” I demand, clenching my fists and staring at the dolt. “Say what you have to say to my face!”

  “Well, if you insist!” he mocks. “You must get down to work and bring some money in! Take care of your family, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Better mind your own bloody family! Their bread money always ends up thrown away on that blasted drink you pour down your filthy throat!”

  He stands up, his eyes bulging from their sockets. “Are you calling me a drunkard?”

  “That name’s really a compliment, compared to what I really think of you!”

  “Just fancy!” he exclaims loftily, turning toward my sister. “The worthless might-have-been has an opinion!”

  I rush at him, grabbing his throat with both hands. “You bloody washout! You miserable clerk! Are you trying to ruin my family? Huh?”

  “Angela!” he screams.

  I grunt with the effort of dragging him toward the front door.

  “Get out of my house, you stinky pig! And if I ever catch you bothering my mother again, I will kill you with my bare hands! Do you hear me, rascal?”

  Mother, Angela, and my aunt have leapt up to separate us. They are Raubal’s only chance to escape my anger unharmed. Mother begs me to stop and lifts Paula, who sobs out unintelligible sentences, up into her arms. I look at Raubal’s terrified face and slacken my grasp.

  I hate this swine of a man. Being a public servant would have been enough reason to hate him, but aside from that, he has the most miserable character and drinks as much as Father did.

  We continue our evening with the Christmas dinner, but the Raubal incident seals the evening’s lugubrious atmosphere. We eat in dismal silence; a silence that will mark all my Christmas festivities to come.

  The first days of 1907 prove cloudy on the outside and grim on the inside. An awful snowstorm swallows the entire city. Such bad weather hasn’t been seen for at least two decades, so rumors of the approaching end of the world spread like the plague. Poor Mother believes them as well and increases her prayers to God.

  Her surgery is on the evening of January 17th. I insist on accompanying her to the hospital and have packed a small bag for her, with nightgown, bathrobe, slippers and, of course, her Bible. She looks brave. I hold her to my chest for a few minutes before a nurse takes her to the ward.

  “I shall not budge an inch!” I shout behind her, but wonder if she can still hear me.

  At the break of dawn, someone shakes me awake by the shoulders. I had fallen asleep laying across four or five seats in the waiting room. Patients awaiting consultations have been forced to stand and are all glaring at me. Getting up, I free the seating and go to the hospital’s smelly bathroom, where I splash water on my face, holding my nose until I leave it.

  In the long hallway, I recognize the nurse who took Mother away and fly to her side.

  “Everything went well. You are allowed to see her, but only for a bit,” she says, taking me to Mother’s private ward. I find her sleeping, probably still under the effect of anesthesia. I’ve never seen her looking like this, so frail and defenseless, so thin and pale. I kiss her forehead and weep.

  Postponing my trip to Vienna becomes an obvious decision. I now have the chance to repay Mother for all the good she has brought to my life, day after day, for seventeen years. I cook, clean, and do the groceries. I fill my wicker basket with healthy foods, which I then prepare with the skill of a nutritionist. I do not even know how I know all of these things, but I do.

  Wanting to be closer to her, I insist on switching rooms with my aunt, so, I now occupy the little den attached to Mother’s bedroom.

  At night I hardly sleep, so I don’t miss her requests. Sometimes, when the painkillers no longer curb her suffering, I hear her muffled sobs from my cramped den. At those times, I pull a chair near her bed and fall asleep holding her trembling hand in mine.

  Soon, my steady presence and care begin to work their magic. Within two weeks she is able to stand, walk, and wash herself unaided. And then, to leave the house for a first-hand look at the early spring sun.

  Spring also arises in my heart, and as Mother heals and grows stronger, I resume my old passions: painting and architectural planning. Accompanied by Gustl, I
tread the streets of Linz in search of inspiration. We often choose the new Cathedral as our vantage point from which we analyze the surrounding buildings. Most of the time, I admiringly approve of the architectural works of the past; yet other times, I grudgingly criticize the superficiality in the erection of others. With those failures, I close my eyes and imagine how I would one day change them.

  Here, in the heart of the city, I make sketches of new buildings. In the serene countryside, I paint nature’s beauty. The solitude and quiet, the gentle breeze, the smell of grass and flowers, all serve to mellow my troubled spirit. Here, I become free to simply exist, to plan, to dream. It is here, in the midst of nature, that I miss Stefanie the most. I wonder what my beloved thought about my prolonged absence. Is she anxious, worried? I don’t want her to be — and yet I do, for she will love me even more.

  I task Gustl with finding out as much information as possible about her from one of his friends, who apparently knows her. Her father died, I hear. The thought disturbs me and I imagine her sad and lonely, for I know daughters are much more attached to their fathers, just as sons are to their mothers. I could not picture a world without my dear mother in it. Strangely enough, I also hear that her father had worked as a governmental official. She now lives with her mother, that dreadful, ignorant, hypocrite woman, in a comfortable house in Urfahr, on the other bank of the Danube river. That is why they always cross the bridge from the Main Square and Landstrasse Boulevard.

  “And she is very passionate about dancing!” Gustl says, rubbing his hands excitedly. “I hear she is an excellent dancer!”

  I look at him blankly. “I really don’t get your enthusiasm. This is terrible news!”

  “Terrible?”

  “Worse than that! Disappointing!”

  “I don’t see why! You could invite her to a dancing soiree! That would be an appropriate way to─ ”

  “Pfff! Just imagine how ridiculous that would be!”

  He raises his hands in a gesture of exasperation. “What would?”

  “Well, close your eyes, Gustl. Go ahead, close them! Imagine you are in a crowded ballroom. Now, imagine you are deaf and cannot hear the music everyone is moving to, and watch their senseless movements leading nowhere. Aren’t they all hopelessly insane?”

  My friend watches me puzzled, kneading his chin.

  “This is not good, Adolf. Stefanie is passionate about dancing; and if you want to seduce her, you will have to learn how to spin, seemingly senseless, and look idiotic, just like everyone else.”

  “No! Never!”

  “But you must!”

  “Who says that? You? Society? Who?” I pace left and right like a caged lion. “I shall never dance! I shall never embarrass myself in that way!”

  “As you wish, Adolf. But you will miss the chance─”

  “Nonsense! Stefanie dances only because she is constrained by the society on which she unfortunately depends. But once my wife, she will not have the slightest desire to humiliate herself by dancing!”

  He smiles mockingly. “If you say so. There’s more news, and you’ll definitely love it.”

  “What now?”

  “She is single.” My heart throbs at this last remark and my brain is suddenly invaded by a magical elixir.

  “Of course she is,” I say confidently, avoiding my friend’s look. “I told you, what’s in me is also in her. She can’t possibly be with someone else.”

  The sky is full of violins again.

  Driven by this new euphoric tingle, I eagerly resume my daily patrol at the head of the bridge, wearing my best suit. Even though the collar and elbows are worn out, it fits me quite well, and I’ve added a stylish black hat and ivory-handled walking stick, just like my godfather’s. I could almost pass as an aristocrat, a true nobleman.

  Anxiety overwhelms me when I finally see her walking at her mother’s arm. It’s been six months since I last saw her and she looks unchanged, except perhaps, even more beautiful than I remember her. And there is another thing that hasn’t changed. She passes me by as careless and aloof as before. No glance, no friendly smile, just the trail of her perfume remains to torment me.

  The depth of my despair is bottomless. “I can’t take it anymore! I’ll put an end to it! The bloody violins are only in my head!”

  “What violins? End what?” Gustl asks, frowning. “This ridiculous intuition game, I hope.”

  “My miserable life!”

  “You’re being silly.”

  “And I will take her with me. Stefanie comes with me. If life denies us, death surely wouldn’t.” A beautiful calm invades me, the sort of calm that shoots through your veins when arriving at a decision after a long, tormenting consideration.

  “Is this a joke?” The worry in his eyes touches me.

  “Gustl, listen to me. I can no longer bear her indifference. I cannot stand the thought of her not loving me! I will not stand it!”

  “But─”

  “No but, Gustl. Are you a good friend?”

  “Of course I am! You know I am!”

  “Then, you will help me like one!” I grab and squeeze his arm to reinforce my determination.

  “A good friend helps you out of the pit, not into it!” he blurts, tears bursting freely.

  “Wrong. A good friend helps you to obtain whatever you long for, no matter what that is.”

  “But not when it comes to death! That’s something beyond our decision!”

  “It isn’t, really. Gustl, death is not what you think; it’s not something terrible, quite the contrary. It will help me get rid of this inadequate body that stands between me and the girl I love. Death will release me, Gustl! It will deliver me from pain! How can that be terrible?”

  “No, no … ” he wails, shaking his head in anguish.

  “Taking your own life for a specific purpose is the most heroic act a man could ever accomplish! Don’t you ever listen to the words in the operas we watch? Don’t you ever listen to Wagner? Think of our ancestors! They willingly died for this very soil we now stand on! They did it for you, for me, for all of us! And they are heroes!”

  “I want to be here for you, Adolf, but … ”

  “I would have never asked for your help if I weren’t convinced of the good you will do for me!”

  He looks dismayed, but conquered. “I just hope you know what you are doing … ”

  “Never doubt me, good friend.”

  That night, unable to sleep, I imagine countless ways in which to execute my plan. Maybe we should hang ourselves, or jump in front of a train. Or maybe the fastest and easiest way would be to swallow poison. Surely, poison will, in an instant, redeem us from pain and unite us in eternal love.

  Then, I remember a story that circulated in Linz for a very long time about a young woman who threw herself into the Danube River after her lover had left her for somebody else. It is said that her ghost still haunts the place where she jumped off, asking late-night passersby if they have seen her lover. I don’t believe this last part, of course, but it’s one of the most romantic stories I’ve ever heard, even as tragic as it is.

  Looking through the shutters at the glowing morning light, I decide that our passing must be carried out in the same way. We will jump into the river from the cursed bridge that united and separated us.

  But, for this to work, I must first kidnap her.

  I remember the annual Linz Flower Festival is approaching. It would provide the most propitious opportunity to carry out my plan. Dozens of carriages, adorned with thousands of flowers, will parade through the festival, and I know Stefanie’s carriage will be included. Once the festival ends, she and her mother will return home, where Gustl will immobilize the woman, while I kidnap Stefanie. I’ll take her to the bridge, and before we jump, I will recite the poems she inspired me to write. Then, we’ll swear our eternal love and allow the wild waves to eternally unite us.

  When the day of the Festival finally comes ─ a warm, pleasant June day ─ I am more excited than
ever. I wait for Gustl in front of the Carmelite Church, pacing the churchyard diagonally. As he emerges, I suppress bursting into laughter at the sight of his dismal expression.

  “Did you pray for me?” I ask ironically. He says nothing, just glares at me.

  We head for Landstrasse, where the carriage parade will shortly begin. As good as I am at finding the best spots, I elbow my way through the crowd, until I reach the street.

  The sun has climbed high overhead and casts a warm golden light upon the people gathered to watch the festival. I close my eyes and breathe in the midday air, now mingled with the smell of the horses pulling the carriages. I love this rustic smell. I love Mother Nature, which always bathes you in her various scents of green grass, burned wood, hay, flowers, trees, earth. I love her unpredictable spirit, the strength of her love, and her wrath.

  As I open my eyes, I see the fabulous carriages starting their march. They are all adorned with the most beautiful roses ever seen. Inside each, beautiful young women wave at the thrilled audience, who whistle and applaud in return. The mood is so joyful, the people so happy.

  Suddenly, I become afraid, afraid that today is the last time I hear all these things ─ applause, fanfare music, cheers. The last time I breathe in the smell of horses, flowers, and grass. I will never draw or paint again, will never rebuild my lovely Linz, never see Mother’s sweet face.

  The air suddenly feels scarce and stifling. My heart begins to race and my body feels tingly. I get dizzy, so dizzy. I look down at my hands, for I am sure that fire replaced my blood and it’s now running through my veins. Something, an invisible force, is choking me. I want to run away from my body.

  “Look!” screams Gustl, bringing me back to myself.

  I glance at him, and then follow his indicating chin. Graceful in her carriage, Stefanie looks more beautiful than I’ve ever seen her. She is wearing a white silk dress and curls of honey-colored hair embrace her shoulders, falling to her tiny waist. Small and stylish, her carriage is decorated not with roses, but wildflowers: poppies, cornflowers, and white daisies. A bouquet of the same flowers fills her small, white hands. She looks so pure, so young, so … unspoiled. I’m certain now that she is no ordinary mortal, she looks so different from the rest. The love I have for her overwhelms me once again and I know I cannot live without her. Mixed emotions of fear, contempt, love, and enthusiasm grapple with my soul, and I resignedly burst into tears.