Yes, says the man, yes, all right.
It’s the domestic manager, to whom Eva fleetingly introduced me the previous day.
You’re to come and have breakfast, he says.
I don’t know if this was the message he was given over the telephone, or whether it’s his way of throwing me out of Hitler’s study.
In the dining room, he says. Downstairs.
I’ve no idea where the dining room is. Does he mean the great hall? It is dark and deserted. The huge curtains over the panoramic window are closed. Light comes in only through a narrow gap at the center like a spotlight, giving a dark red-velour glow to the whole gloomy place. I feel as if I have entered some forbidden temple where strange and mysterious rites are celebrated by night, rituals in which those who intrude unauthorized are sacrificed without mercy to a cruel deity.
I step back, almost colliding with a housemaid carrying a breakfast tray.
Where’s the dining room? I ask.
Am I mistaken in thinking she gives a scornful sniff? Doesn’t she realize I’m new to Hitler’s Berghof?
I follow her, and see the huge table in Hitler’s dining room, covered with a white cloth, and with a little bunch of pinks in the middle, looking lost and much too small. Is this where we have breakfast?
The breakfast table is in the rounded bay looking out over the valley. The Watzmann massif lies bathed in morning light, with the sky above it the translucent pale blue of an Alpine summer’s day. I try opening one of the bay windows. I want to feel the fresh air outside.
Let me do that, says the maid.
She opens the window herself. Then she lays the table. I rehearse the role of pampered guest. It’s new to me. I’m still not sure: Is there anything I can do for myself, or isn’t that allowed? I still feel like someone looking around a museum or a castle, aware that visitors mustn’t touch. Am I permitted to sit on one of the chairs at the breakfast table? Or will that set off an alarm immediately? Will the security men arrive, unmasking me as a dangerous intruder?
Only after a few days shall I discover what I did wrong that first morning. I was up too early. I was a guest in the house of a man who was a late riser. Breakfast was never served at the Berghof before ten. Later I became accustomed to this, made use of the early morning hours to go for short, solitary walks, filling the time until Eva, who observed Hitler’s daily rhythm even when he was away, put in an appearance between ten and eleven, perfectly groomed, well-rested, vibrating with activity as she is on the morning of that first day.
Goodness, you’re up already, she says.
I don’t like to say I’ve been sitting at the breakfast table for two hours, with the maid constantly asking what else I would like, gradually registering the shift of emphasis in her tone to the word else, until I realize what a nuisance I am to her. I never thought of just saying: Thank you, I don’t need you anymore. Those are the magic words she was waiting for to release her from attendance on me.
One of the things I shall learn on the Obersalzberg will be the magic words for dealing with the domestic staff who minister to us: The words to summon them up and dismiss them again. I shall learn this lesson from Eva, along with a great many other useless skills: the art of plucking your eyebrows until there isn’t much left of them at all; the art of not crossing your legs but keeping them perfectly parallel when you sit in an armchair. I shall have little need for these skills in the life that lies ahead of me. But uncertainty of the kind that overcame me on my first morning at Hitler’s Berghof encourages the learning of such lessons.
I admire the way Eva gives orders as a matter of course, asks for a soft-boiled egg, wants stronger coffee. I admire the way she ignores the open reluctance with which those orders are carried out. The slight lack of assiduity, the tiny touch of condescension with which the maid says, “Yes, gnädiges Fräulein.” I think this is inevitable.
Fascinated, I observe Eva granting the housekeeper an audience when she comes in with suggestions for our lunch menu.
What would we like to eat? A half-chicken each, maybe? Or French beans with bacon? Perhaps some soup to start with?
What would you like? Eva inquires.
She’s asking too much of me. I find it absolutely impossible to entertain any wishes in this place, let alone express them.
I don’t know, I say.
At home in Jena my parents have an extra ration card now, and one less mouth to feed.
Chicken? I say, more astonished that such a thing can exist than assuming we can really have it.
You heard, Eva says to the housekeeper.
The woman turns back in the doorway. But do please be punctual this time! she says sternly.
I look at Eva. She doesn’t appear annoyed.
I tell you what! she says. Let’s go swimming.
She speaks in a conspiratorial tone. As if swimming were a forbidden frivolity. As if we were a couple of children planning to play truant from school on a fine summer’s day.
Soon afterward we meet outside the door with our bathing things. There is a black limousine at the foot of the flight of steps, with two security men leaning on the doors. They drop their cigarettes on the ground when they see us.
Our taxi, says Eva. Now, listen: We’re going to shake them off! See that mail van? That’s our bus! You just do as I say. Come on!
We go back into the house and through a door on the left of the entrance hall that leads to some steps going down to the basement. We walk along a passage, come to the end of it and so to a narrow path that leads down to the road—this is a tradesman’s entrance to the north wing of the Berghof—and we come out exactly where the mail van is parked. I catch a glimpse of the two SS men, one at the foot of the stairway, the other a few steps up, both of them looking for us, wondering where we can be. But by now we’re in the back of the mail van.
When the postman who delivers mail to the Berghof five times a day comes back, Eva taps the pane dividing the driver’s cab from the back of the van, and the postman’s grinning face briefly appears. Then we’re on our way. Eva is using the belt of her beach robe, passed through one of the door handles, to keep the back of the van shut; the doors can be closed securely only from outside. Through the crack between them we see the SS men still staring up at the main entrance to the Berghof.
It’s the only way to shake them off, says Eva.
I have become part of a plot. It is a childish, ridiculous plot. Eva has entered into a petty conspiracy with a postman against the power to which she is delivered up. She is not defying that power, just thumbing her nose at it. She expects me to enjoy this small victory along with her. And I do. I tell her what a good time we’re having. I don’t know why this makes me feel sad. Something about Eva touches me. Something seems to be wrong. We are pretending to be keener on this bathing trip than we really are.
But then, when we get out of the van on the banks of the lake, when we untie the rowboat lying ready for us at one of the landing stages in the Malerwinkel, when we take off our shoes and feel the planks of the boat under our feet, the wood warmed by the sun, when we dip the oars into the deep, cool, dark green water, when we hear the faint splashing that mingles with the creaking of the planks, the sound of the oars against the side of the boat, wood on wood, all of it combines into a symphony of pleasure, and I, too, am convinced that this is the most beautiful place in the entire universe.
Eva knows a spot on the eastern bank where the precipitous rocks do not come all the way down to the water, but leave a narrow, stony strip of beach in front of it, and that is where we are making for.
They’ll never find us there, she says. We’ll be invisible there.
We can go skinny-dipping here, she suggests, taking off her clothes. Come on, haven’t you ever bathed with nothing on? she asks. It’s lovely.
I have not, indeed, ever bathed naked before. It seems to me an outrageous idea—outrageously exciting, new, bold. I watch Eva from the bank as she goes into the water. I’ve never seen ano
ther woman naked. I hardly expect to be as beautiful as Eva.
My nakedness seems somehow pitiful to me. I plunge right into the lake, seeking cover for my nudity there, while the water climbs very, very slowly up around Eva’s thighs and hips, a tender touch to which she surrenders herself calmly, securely.
We swim far out into the lake to where the water is cold with the chill rising from the depths. I think of the profound abyss opening below me, going far down to the bed of the lake. It’s a kind of vertigo that comes over me when I’m swimming, a fear of the depths and something trying to pull me down there. I hate swimming in deep water.
Eva! I call.
I can’t see her anymore. I turn around. As I am about to get out by the bank, I see the two men sitting just above the place where we have left our clothes. They’re smoking and looking out over the lake with bored expressions. Our guards have found us.
I support myself with my hands on a rock in the shallow water and keep still, as still as a crocodile. I wait. I’m waiting for Eva to come back and find some way out of our situation.
The men take no notice of me, although I am sure they’ve seen me. Would they have jumped in to save me if I’d been drowning out there in the lake? Is that what they’re here for? Who gives them their orders? And just what are those orders? Are we prisoners, or are they only meant to make sure we’re safe? Is this a privilege for them or an irksome duty? What do they say about it when they’re in their barracks? Do we feature in their jokes? Isn’t that just what I am, a joke personified for masculine amusement, naked, with my clothes out of reach?
If they do think it’s funny, at least you can’t tell from their faces. Their expressions show nothing but the gravity of two men doing their job, however uninteresting it is. Then I suddenly see them stand up and go down to the bank, turning their backs to me and moving a little way farther off. At the same time I hear Eva coming back. She emerges from the water beside me, shakes herself, wrings out her hair.
Those men! I say.
Oh, there they are, says Eva. They always find me. Well, after all, we have to get back to the Berghof somehow or other.
We go over to our clothes, and while I get dressed faster than ever before in my life, I see the two men down beside the water, playing the old game of ducks and drakes with flat pebbles. They still have their backs turned to us.
In the car, Eva begs cigarettes from them for both of us. I feel embarrassed.
But why? asks Eva later. Isn’t that what they’re there for?
I don’t know what they’re there for, I say.
Oh, little one, you worry too much, she says. One gets used to them.
I noticed that she doesn’t even know their rank from their stripes. They have to set her right; they insist on it. Rank is no laughing matter. Their rank expresses the core of their being. I can sense that.
I also sense, in Eva’s ignorance, something of her unsuitability to be a wife. Wouldn’t a wife have known how to interpret the men’s stripes and give them their proper titles, even if the indications were subtle, hidden, revealed only to the eye of an initiate?
Wives become expert at this sort of thing. It’s their job. Eva, on the other hand, was innocent of the art of interpreting any signs of rank whatsoever. She paid no attention to them, favoring VIPs and the unimportant with the same kindness, the same charming smile, labor squad foreman, storm trooper captain, and squadron leader alike. Did she think that would bind them to her? It was a mistake appreciated as little by the underdog as by the military commanders. She had no instinct for such things. And yet she had not chosen the most powerful man in her world with her eyes shut. That was part of the puzzle she still represents to me today. She was avid for the power that a man can wield, and had not the faintest idea what to do with it.
By the time we get back to the Berghof it is early afternoon. We’re as hungry as children after a day on the beach when they’ve stayed in the water too long. I am thinking about the chicken we were promised.
Tell you what! says Eva. Let’s take a look in the kitchen.
There’s no one around in the Berghof kitchen. It looks as if it had never been used at all. White as newly fallen snow. Uncompromisingly clean and tidy. Odorless as a laboratory. There’s nothing to suggest that someone was roasting me a chicken a little while ago.
We look in the pantry, which contains a walk-in fridge. I’ve never seen such a thing before. Surely the chicken must be somewhere around the place. I’m perfectly ready to eat it cold if necessary. I’m crazy to get at that chicken.
What are you looking for? a voice suddenly asks, from the kitchen. It’s the housekeeper.
We were so hungry, says Eva.
Then you ought to have been back in time for lunch, says the woman sternly. Or if you’d told me you were going for a swim I’d have had a picnic basket packed for you. But this really won’t do. I can make you a ham sandwich if you like. The staff are having their afternoon break now.
Oh, yes, please, says Eva. How kind of you.
I’m surprised that Eva will put up with this. Isn’t she the mistress of the house? Aren’t they all here to do her bidding? Doesn’t Hitler’s lover have an army of devoted servants at her command?
Later, I understand what at this point I only guessed, for there was something in the air. A breath of insolence, a small, lurking, barely perceptible resentment that could turn back into a show of respect at any time.
They were still all feeling the relief of Hitler’s absence with his whole retinue—all of them, the domestic manager and the housekeeper, the servants, the chauffeurs, the guards were alive with a dreadful exuberance, with pitiless, insatiable high spirits. They would have liked to hold a wild celebration, throwing furniture out the windows, slitting mattresses, lighting a great bonfire, and they would have enjoyed tormenting someone a little, just for fun. When the cat’s away the mice will play.
The pressure of authority exerted by Hitler’s presence must have been enormous. Nothing mattered but the readiness to be of service. There was no other idea in the minds of the people around him. Every emotion, every passion, every dream led only to the dread of censure from him. His displeasure was feared more than any misfortune in this world. Even a casual expression of disapproval uttered in passing was shattering. And as for his anger—his boundless anger— they would do anything, anything at all, to avoid it.
Then there was a wonderful sense of relief when he wasn’t around. The little postmidnight feasts described by Speer. Champagne corks popping, muscles relaxing once Hitler had gone to bed, shortly after sending Eva up first. Someone would go to the piano, pick out a soft tune, and here and there small, trivial remarks would drop into people’s glasses like pearls of sudden wit, warmth, and quick repartee.
I was not to know at the time that I had fallen into one of these power vacuums when I arrived at the Berghof. With a few interruptions, Hitler had been based here since February. Everyone had been terrified for months of making a mistake. They had been punctual, assiduous, blameless in their conduct. They hadn’t laid themselves open to the slightest charge of negligence. They had been on the alert day and night. They had excused any betrayal on the grounds that they were on duty, and they had hated themselves for it.
Now they wanted to be themselves again for a while. And a little rude and unpleasant to someone else, anyone.
There could have been no better target for this playfully bad conduct than Hitler’s mistress. They were using her to see how far they could go. They had been commanded to address her as gnädiges Fräulein , but while Hitler was away they could venture to lay a little more stress on the Fräulein, pointing up her single state, than on the respectful gnädiges. For wasn’t she really more like one of them? Even below them, in fact, considering she wasn’t married?
Did they have to hurry to fulfill her wishes? Did what she thought was right matter so much? Couldn’t they just say, now and then, Look, Fräulein Braun, can’t you see I’m busy?
A
ll they had to do was ensure that she had no actual ground for complaint. They were, so to speak, working to rule in serving her. Eva always felt that more keenly in the first days of Hitler’s absence than at any other time.
A mistress cannot take advantage of the privileges conferred by her lover’s status except when he is around. Only marriage will transfer such marks of status to the woman herself. Only marriage can keep them in force during the man’s absence, even after his death. No such prospects had been held out to my cousin Eva.
(“I could never marry, said Hitler . . . it’s the same with a film star: If he marries, he loses a certain attraction for the women who worship him, he’s not so much of an idol anymore.”)
She hated her status as mistress, the defenselessness to which it condemned her. But that defenselessness in itself was a part of her attraction for Hitler. He loved defenselessness. Like all tyrants, he couldn’t get enough of it. So my cousin Eva endured what she hated. She did so with a charm peculiar to the defenseless, and with the acumen of the experienced mistress who knows that this is exactly what she is loved for.
She was the woman of Hitler’s dreams. Pretty, young, vain, and completely ignorant of power politics. She learned nothing at all from mixing with the Bormanns, the Himmlers, the Speers around her. Nothing rubbed off on her even from the lower-ranking courtiers, the compliant Schaubs and von Belows. She always retained the sulky little air of willfulness with which she would inspect Hitler, her head on one side, and say:
You look like a chauffeur in that cap.
Everyone would hear her and suddenly realize how intimate she was with him. And every time they became aware of that they would feel afraid again, just as I still feel afraid today.
All the lies, the dirty little keyhole views: suppositions founded on too little rather than too much imagination, not enough imagination for anyone to suppose it possible that a monster of a man can also be average, the lover of a girl whose own average mind but above-average beauty appeal to him. Not enough imagination for anyone to see that her awkwardness, devotion, dependency can set off in him something that persuades him, erroneously, that he is a human being capable of feelings and emotion, resulting in a kind of susceptibility and consideration that always needs the woman’s extreme inferiority to kindle it and make it perceptible.
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