The fourth form of the state primary school at Leonding (Hitler centre, top row).
The first form of the secondary Realschule at Linz (Hitler far right, top row).
The first photograph of Adolf Hitler, taken at Braunau am Inn.
Alois Hitler in impressive pose in his official uniform.
Adolf Hitler, aged sixteen: a sketch by a fellow pupil in the fourth form of the secondary school at Linz.
Dr Leopold Pötsch, the history teacher at Steyr Realschule, was venerated by Hitler.
No. 9 Blütengasse, Urfahr near Linz, where Hitler shared a flat with his mother. The two windows to the right of the balcony were those of her bedroom.
A sketch by the eighteen-year-old Hitler for a new concert hall to be built in Linz.
August Kubizek at the time of his friendship with Adolf Hitler.
A signature of Adolf Hitler’s father (top) and examples of Adolf’s signatures from the years 1906, 1907, 1913 and 1914.
Stefanie, Adolf Hitler’s first love.
A wedding photograph of Hitler’s half-sister Angela Raubal, whose husband Leo became Adolf’s ardent adversary.
Extract from the notice of his mother’s death, signed by Hitler on 18 January 1908.
Hitler’s design for the villa he wanted to build for Kubizek.
Hitler’s hand-written application to the Austrian authorities asking for an orphan’s pension for himself and his sister Paula, after the death of their mother.
A postcard from Hitler to Kubizek, sent during Adolf’s first visit to Vienna and expressing his disapproval of the interior design of the Opera House.
Another postcard from Hitler to Kubizek, addressing him as ‘Gustav’, the name of Hitler’s favourite brother, as in all their correspondence.
A water colour by Hitler dating from 1906 and showing Pöstlingberg Castle, near Linz.
Hitler’s letter to Kubizek of 4 August 1933, using the familiar Du form of address and referring to the years he spent with Kubizek as the best of his life.
All I can say about Adolf’s artistic activity refers to his first attempts, and the only water-colour of his I possess is one of these. It is still very clumsy, impersonal and really primitive, though perhaps this gives it a special attraction. In vivid colours it depicts the Pöstlingberg, the landmark of Linz. I can still remember when Adolf gave it to me.
His drawings are a different matter, but there are only a few of them in existence. Although he gave me several, only one of them is left, a purely architectural drawing with little meaning. It shows a villa at No. 7 Stockbauerstrasse. It had just been built and it appealed to Adolf. So he drew it and made me a present of it. Apart from revealing his love for architecture, it is of no significance.
Casting my thoughts back to those years, I have to say this: Adolf never took painting seriously; it remained rather a hobby outside his more serious aspirations. But buildings meant much more to him. He gave his whole self to his imaginary buildings and was completely carried away by them. Once he had conceived an idea he was like one possessed. Nothing else existed for him – he was oblivious to time, sleep and hunger. Although it was a strain for me to follow him, those moments remain unforgettable. There he stood, with me, in front of the new cathedral, this pallid, skinny youth, with the first dark down showing on his upper lip, in his shabby pepper-and-salt suit, threadbare at the elbows and collar, with his eyes glued to some architectural detail, analysing the style, criticising or praising the work, disapproving of the material – all this with such thoroughness and such expert knowledge as though he were the builder and would have to pay for every shortcoming out of his own pocket. Then he would get out his drawing pad and the pencil would fly over the paper. This way, and no other way, was the manner of solving this problem, he would say. I had to compare his idea with the actual work, had to approve or disapprove, and all this with a passion as though both our lives depended on it.
Here, he could give full vent to his mania for changing everything, because a city always has good buildings and bad. He could never walk through the streets without being provoked by what he saw. Usually he carried around in his head, at the same time, half a dozen different building projects, and sometimes I could not help feeling that all the buildings of the town were lined up in his brain like a giant panorama. But as soon as he had selected one detail, he concentrated on this with all his energy. I remember one day when the old building of the Upper Austria and Salzburg Bank on the central square was demolished. With feverish impatience he followed the rebuilding. He was terribly worried lest the new building should not fit into its new surroundings. When, in the middle of it, he had to leave for Vienna he asked me to give him periodical reports on the progress of the work. In his letter of 21 July 1908 he writes, ‘As soon as the bank is completed, please send me a picture postcard.’ As there was no picture postcard available, I got out of it by procuring a photograph of the new building and sending it to him. Incidentally, the building met with his approval.
There were a lot of such houses in which he took a constant interest. He dragged me along wherever there was a building going up. He felt responsible for everything that was being built. But even more than with these concrete examples was he taken up with the vast schemes that he himself originated. Here his mania for change knew no limit. At first I watched these goings-on with some misgiving and wondered why he so obstinately occupied himself with plans which, I thought, would never come to anything. But the more remote the realisation of a project was, the more did he steep himself in it. To him these projects were in every detail as actual as though they were already executed and the whole town rebuilt according to his design. I often got confused and could not distinguish whether he was talking about a building that existed or one that was to be created. But to him it did not make any difference; the actual construction was only a matter of secondary importance.
Nowhere is his unshakeable consistency more evident. What the fifteen-year-old planned, the fifty-year-old carried out, often, as for instance in the case of the new bridge over the Danube, as faithfully as though only a few weeks, instead of decades, lay between planning and execution. The plan existed; then came influence and power and the plan became reality. This happened with uncanny regularity, as though the fifteen-year-old had taken it for granted that one day he would possess the necessary power and means. This is just too much for me to take in. I cannot conceive that such a thing is possible. One is tempted to use the word ‘miracle’, because there is no rational explanation for it.
Indeed, the plans which that unknown boy had drawn up for the rebuilding of his home town Linz, are identical to the last detail with the town planning scheme which was inaugurated after 1938. I am almost afraid of giving, in the following pages, my account of these early plans, lest my veracity should be suspected. And yet every single syllable of what I am going to recount is true.
On my eighteenth birthday, 3 August 1906, my friend presented me with a sketch of a villa. Similar to that planned for Stefanie, it was in his favourite Renaissance style. By good luck, I have preserved the sketches. They show an imposing, palazzo-like building, whose frontage is broken up by a built-in tower. The ground plan reveals a well-thought-out arrangement of rooms, which are pleasantly grouped around the music room. The spiral staircase, a delicate architectural problem, is shown in a separate drawing, and so is the entrance hall, with its heavy beamed ceiling. The entrance is outlined with a few brisk strokes in a separate sketch. Adolf and I also selected a fitting site for my birthday present; it was to stand on the Bauernberg. When, later, I met Hitler in Bayreuth, I took good care not to remind him of this imaginary house. He would have been capable of actually giving me a villa on the Bauernberg, which presumably would have been finer than the original idea, which was very much in the taste of the epoch.
More impressive still are two sketches, still in my possession, samples of his numerous designs for a new concert hall in Linz. The old theatre was inadequate in every resp
ect, and some art lovers in Linz had founded a society to promote the construction of a modern theatre. Adolf immediately joined this society and took part in a competition for ideas. He worked for months on his plans and drafts and was seriously convinced that his suggestions would be accepted. His anger was beyond measure when the society smashed all his hopes by giving up the idea of a new building and, instead, had the old one renovated. I refer to his biting remarks in a letter he sent me on 17 August 1908. ‘It seems they intend to patch up the old junk-heap once more.’
Full of fury, he said that what he would like to do best would be to wrap up his manual of architecture and send it off to the address of this ‘Theatre-Rebuilding Society Committee for the Execution of the Project for the Rebuilding of the Theatre’. How well did this monster title express his rage!
My two sketches, on either side of one sheet, date from that period. One side shows the auditorium. Columns break up the walls and the boxes are placed in between them. The balustrade is adorned by various statues. A mighty, domed ceiling covers the hall. On the back of this bold project, Adolf explained to me the acoustic conditions of the intended building, in which I, as a musician, was particularly interested. It clearly shows how the sound waves, rising from the orchestra, are reflected from the ceiling in such a way as to be – so to speak – poured over the audience below. Adolf took a great interest in acoustic problems. I remember, for instance, his suggestion to remodel the Volksgarten hall, whose bad acoustics always annoyed us, by structural alterations to the ceiling.
And now for the rebuilding of Linz. Here his ideas were legion, yet he did not change them indiscriminately, and indeed held fast to his decisions once they were taken, and that is why I remember so much about them. Every time we passed one spot or another, all his plans were ready immediately.
The wonderfully compact main square was a constant delight to Adolf, and his only regret was that the two houses nearest to the Danube disturbed the free vista of the river and the range of hills beyond. On his plans, the two houses were pushed apart sufficiently to allow a free view onto the new, widened bridge without, however, substantially altering the former aspect or the square, a solution which, later, he actually carried out. The municipal hall, which stood on the square, he thought unworthy of a rising town like Linz. He visualised a new, stately municipal hall, to be built in a modern style, far removed from that neo-Gothic style which at that time was the vogue for municipal halls, in Vienna and Munich for instance. In a different way, Hitler proceeded in the remodelling of the old castle, an ugly, box-like pile which overlooked the old city. He had discovered an old print by Merian depicting the castle as it was before the great fire. Its original appearance should be restored and the castle turned into a museum.
Another building which never failed to arouse his enthusiasm was the museum, built in 1892. We often stood and looked at the marble frieze which was 110 metres long and reproduced scenes from the history of the country in relief. He never got tired of gazing at it. He extended the museum beyond the adjoining convent garden and enlarged the frieze to 220 metres to make it, as he asserted, the biggest relief frieze on the continent. The new cathedral, then in course of reconstruction, occupied him constantly. The Gothic revival was, in his opinion, a hopeless enterprise, and he was angry that the Linzers could not stand up to the Viennese. For the height of the Linz spire was limited to 134 metres out of respect for the 138-metre high Stefansdom in Vienna. Adolf was greatly pleased with the new corporation of masons which had been founded in connection with the building of the cathedral, as he hoped this would result in the training of a number of capable masons for the town. The railway station was too near the town and, with its network of tracks, impeded the traffic as well as the town’s development. Here, Adolf found an ingenious solution which was far ahead of his time. He removed the station out of town into the open country and ran the tracks underground across the town. The space gained by the demolition of the old station was designated for an extension of the public park. Reading this, one must not forget that the year was 1907, and it was an unknown youth of eighteen, without training or qualifications, who propounded these projects which revolutionised town planning, and which proved how capable he was, even then, of brushing aside existing ideas.
In a similar way, Hitler also reconstructed the surroundings of Linz. An interesting idea dominated his plans for the rebuilding of Wildberg castle. Its original state was to be restored and it was to be developed as a kind of open-air museum with a permanent population – quite a new idea. Certain types of artisans and workmen were to be attracted to the place. Their trades had to be partly in the medieval tradition, but should also partly serve modern purposes, a tourist industry, for instance. These inhabitants of the castle were to dress in ancient fashion. The traditions of the old guilds should rule, and a Meistersinger school was to be established. This ‘island where the centuries had stood still’ (these were his very words) would become a place of pilgrimage for all those who wanted to study life as it was lived in a medieval stronghold. Improving upon Dinkelsbühl and Rothenburg, Wildberg would not only show architecture but real life. Visitors would have to pay a toll at the gates, and so contribute to the upkeep of the local inhabitants. Adolf gave much thought to the choice of suitable artisans and I remember that we discussed the subject at great length. After all, I was just about to take my master’s examination and was, therefore, entitled to have my say.
Quite a different project, of absolutely modern design, was the tower on the Lichtenberg. A mountain railway should run up to the peak, where a comfortable hotel would stand. The whole would be dominated by a tower 300 metres high, a steel construction which kept him very busy. The gilded eagle on top of the Stefansdom in Vienna would be visible on clear days through a telescope from the highest platform of the tower. I think I remember seeing a sketch of this project.
The boldest project, however, which put all the others in the shade, was the building of a grandiose bridge which would span the Danube at a great height. For this purpose he planned the construction of a high-level road. This would start at the Gugl, then still an ugly sandpit, which could be filled in with the town’s refuse and rubbish, and provide the space for a new park. From there, in a broad sweep, the new road would lead up to the Stadtwald. (Incidentally, the city engineers went thus far some time ago, without knowing Hitler’s plans. The road which has meanwhile been built, corresponds exactly to Hitler’s projects.)
The Kaiser Franz Josef Warte in the Jägermayerwald – it is still standing – was to be demolished and replaced by a proud monument. In a hall of fame there would be assembled the portrait busts of all the great men who had deserved well of the province of Upper Austria; from the top of the hall one would have a magnificent view over a vast expanse of country; and the whole edifice was to be crowned by a statue of Siegfried, raising aloft his sword Nothung. Valhalla, the Hall of Liberation at Kehlheim and the Hermann Monument in the Teutoburger Wald were obvious models. From this spot the bridge would sweep in one arch to the steep slope of the opposite bank. Adolf got his inspiration for this from the legend of a daring horseman who, pursued by his enemies, is said to have jumped from this point into the appalling depths below, to swim across the Danube and reach the other side. My imagination boggled at the dimensions of this bridge. The span of the arch was calculated to be more than 500 metres. The summit was 90 metres above the level of the river. I much regret that no sketches of this really unique project survive. This bridge across the deep valley, my friend declared, would give Linz an edifice without rival in the whole world. When we stood on one bank of the river, or the other, Adolf would explain to me all the details of the scheme.
These bold, far-reaching plans made a strange impression on me, as I still clearly remember. Although I saw in the whole thing nothing but a figment of the imagination, I could, nevertheless, not resist its peculiar fascination. What exercised my friend’s mind and was hastily jotted down on scraps of paper, was more
than nebulous fanaticism; these apparently absurd conceptions contained something compelling and convincing – a sort of superior logic. Each idea had its natural sequel in another, and the whole was a clear and rational chain of thought. Purely romantic conceptions, such as the ‘Medieval Revival of Wildberg Castle’ obviously betrayed Richard Wagner’s paternity. They were linked to extremely modern technical devices, such as the replacement of level crossings by underground railway tracks. This was no unbridled wallowing in sheer fantasy, but a well-disciplined, almost systematic process. This ‘architecture set to music’ attracted me, perhaps, just because it seemed fully feasible – although we two impoverished devils had no possibility of realising these plans. But this did not disturb my friend in the least. His belief, that one day he would carry out all his tremendous projects, was unshakeable. Money was of no importance – it was only a matter of time, of living long enough.
This absolute faith was too much for my rational way of thinking. What was our future? I might become, at best, a well-known conductor. And Adolf? A gifted painter or draughtsman, perhaps a famous architect. But how far distant were these professional goals from that standing and reputation, those riches and power necessary for the rebuilding of an entire city. And who knows whether my friend, with his incredible flights of fancy and impulsive temperament, would stop at the rebuilding of Linz, for he was incapable of keeping his hands off anything within reach. Consequently I had grave doubts and occasionally I dared to remind him of the undeniable fact that all our worldly possessions put together did not amount to more than a few crowns – hardly enough to buy drawing paper. Usually Adolf brushed my objections impatiently aside, and I still remember his grim expression and disdainful gestures on such occasions. He took it for granted that one day the plans would be executed with the greatest of exactitude, and prepared for this moment accordingly. Even the most fantastic idea was thought out in the greatest detail. How was the material for the bridge to be transported across the Danube? Should it be stone or steel? How were the foundations for the end abutments to be laid? Would the rock stand the weight? These questions were, in part, irrelevant for the expert, in part, however, very much to the point. Adolf lived so much in his vision of the future Linz that he adapted his day-to-day habits to it; for instance, we would visit the hall of fame, the memorial temple or our medieval open-air museum.
The Young Hitler I Knew Page 12