Wolf and Geli Chapts 3 & 4

Wolf and Geli
Chapter Three
Pretty In Tears
(rough draft)

The room was flooded with light when I woke. The day was well advanced, but instead of rushing downstairs, I was drawn to the window. Far beneath the house the Salzberg Valley meandered. Tiny farms and villages were spread below. I could see roads and houses, backyards and kitchen-gardens. Light had reached the valley floor. People were drinking coffee and reading newspapers. Children were sliding down hills. Though it was late, I tarried, imagining I could peer into each tiny window and observe. Finally, I tore myself away.
Down in the dining room, Herr Goring padded between the table and a window that took up an entire wall. It left one feeling he was standing on air. Goring gestured toward the valley with a slice of toast. “Some day,” I heard him say, “I will build a model railroad just like that.”
Hitler had followed him across the room and mumbled something close to Goring’s ear. “I don’t know,” the giant boomed, “go to her. You can teach her about politics and she can teach you about sex.” He laughed. Hitler turned away.
I turned, and Frau Raubal was standing right behind me. She was Hitler’s half sister and Geli’s mother. They could not possibly have been discussing her. …Although Bavarians were known to show little concern when it came to what the more rigid among us might refer to as incest. The old chestnut, ‘If a couple in Bavaria get divorced, are they still cousins?’ could still get a laugh in some Berlin neighborhoods.
Hitler was the householder here, but Frau Raubal made it all work. “Come into the kitchen,” she said, “I’ll make you some tea. What would you like to do for breakfast? We have everything.”
The door to the dining room was ajar. I could hear Goring say. “He’s steady. We nearly froze to death out there, but he never whimpered. He could be a pilot.” I thought of the valley spread below my window. How could flying improve that? “I could make an omelet,” I told her.
The pantry did indeed have everything. Chocolate, sugar, eggs, butter, cream, in quantities I had never dreamt of. Strange provisions for one who lived like a Spartan.
Later, of course, Hitler would develop those stomach complaints that made cooking for him a thankless, dangerous task, but at this time he enjoyed what he ate. And he ate nearly everything. My omelet was fast disappearing when he raised his head. “Where is Emil?”
There were shrugs and head shakings around the table, but Gobbels patted his lips and said, “I saw him in the hallway this morning.”
Hitler stopped the fork halfway to his mouth. “Which hallway?”
Gobbels affected an air of bemused impatience. “The one upstairs? The only one in the house?”
“Of course.” Then Geli entered the room.
Hitler wouldn’t take his eyes off of her. It was like a shopkeeper taking inventory. She gave a cheery greeting and slipped into a seat. With all the propriety one could wish for they all wished each other merry Christmas and settled down to the business at hand.
As smoothly as I could, I approached the table. My eyes met hers for an instant. That is, she took note of my presence, the way one would take note of a hot stove, or a puddle. Hitler was squirming like a child. “Did you sleep well?”
“I hardly slept at all,” she said. “The wind was like —” She seemed at a loss for words.
“The howling of wolves,” I offered.
She glanced anxiously at her uncle. “There are no wolves about,” the Leader snapped. “At least of the four-legged kind.”
“And of the two-legged kind, there can only be one,” said Goebbels.
“But they hunt in packs,” Goring told them.
“Nevertheless,” said Hitler, “there is always one who leads.”
Emil Maurice appeared. He began to eat without looking at anyone. I wasn’t shocked at all. I regarded the chauffeur’s presence as evidence of Hitler’s egalitarian principles, a servant eating at table with his master. Hitler regarded him unblinkingly. Those formidable eyes were full of questions. “We are like wolves, but we are not wolves.”
“Indeed,” chuckled Goebbels, “we cook our victims.”
“The wolf is a noble animal,” said Hitler, as though someone had contradicted him, “Even, I gave myself that secret name in Vienna. Wolf.”
Here was an opening, and Emil leapt at it with the alacrity of a dance master. “Did you know, before the war, what your destiny might be?”
“Always,” Hitler assured him, “There has never been any question in my mind that one day I would lead my country out of great danger. I—”
“There is a concert tomorrow, can we go?” Geli carelessly cut in.
“Of course.” Mild as milk. “Who is playing?”
“It’s a shame we can’t go to Vienna,” she carried on. “I hear they have a wonderful orchestra.” We all knew Hitler was barred from ever entering Austria.
“Vienna,” Hitler sneered, “nothing but Jews and Gypsies.”
“And which one were you?” She was fast, you had to give her that.
I swear I saw Goring’s hair stand on end. Everyone crouched over their plates, but Hitler only laughed. “I was the wolf.”
“Ah,” Emil was undeterred. “To have been there with you.”
“It was not a good time. I was laughed at. I had nothing. With those Jews, if you don’t have money, you’re dirt.”
“But,” Geli managed to look puzzled. “Is that bad? How is that different from being one with the soil? Shouldn’t we all be one with the soil?” Her eyes swept the table, as though searching for someone to agree with her.
Again, against all expectation, Hitler laughed. “The people that are one with the soil are in graves.” This was something I wished I had not heard. What about the farmer, the bricklayer, the fisherman?
“Earthworms are one with the soil.” Emil could not resist.
“And, an interesting thing, give them a tractor they’ll vote any way you tell them.”
“That would be an expensive election.”
“There is money. There is always money for an election.”
“You see?” Emil remarked to no one in particular, “this is what it takes to be a leader.”
‘I never consider these things. If I did, where would it end? If it is my destiny to win at election, I will. There will be money. I can see it.”
“What else do you see, Uncle?” Playing with him. Determined to cause trouble.
He turned serious. “I see you in a palace.”
“Well,” she said, “Here I am.” And laughed.
“No, no. A real palace. One I will design for you.”
He was actually sincere and she was touched by it. Anyone could see. “Would you really?” she said.
Emil looked up at her and his face darkened. “Of course he would,” sneered the chauffeur, “once he’s chancellor.”
Not everyone could say whatever they felt about Herr Hitler. He leapt to his feet and slammed his fist on the table. “I. Will. Not. Have. This.” He screamed. The chauffeur slowly got to his feet.
“I meant no harm—”
“No! You never do! You never mean anything! But it’s always the same dreck from your mouth. Get out! I don’t want to hear you, I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to think about you. I don’t want to breath the same air as you.”
Emil threw down his napkin and rushed into the kitchen, nearly in tears. He wordlessly took Frau Raubal’s hands in his, glazed into her eyes, and walked away. In the dining room, Hitler was still shouting.
And that was Christmas breakfast.
Emil had been with Hitler from the very beginning, since before the putsch. He had been head of the famous SS, Hitler’s own security squad, now a responsibility he no longer had to worry about.
Let it be said that the majority of those surrounding Hitler were not exactly live wires. A lengthy, uncomfortable silence followed the chauffeur’s departure. Perhaps it was shock, perhaps it was surprise, perhaps it was the realization that any one of them could be dismissed in the same fashion, but Emil’s going cast somewhat of a pall over the merry proceedings. In fact, the thumping of his trunk on the back stairs was a definite wet blanket during the opening of the presents. Each step of his descent brought a sob from Geli. Heroically concealed, but there was no mistaking her grief. Nearly everyone seemed discomfited, and only Goebbels appeared to enjoy himself. Hitler, of course, looked entirely unconcerned.
We were preparing lunch when there was a roaring from the hill, and everyone rushed to see. A huge black car had managed to negotiate the grade, and slid into the yard as we watched.
A man, elderly, but remarkably active, sprang from the auto almost before it came to a stop. On his head was a bearskin cap, in his eye was an unworldly gleam. His coat blew open to reveal a flash of scarlet.
“Field Marshal von Mackensen,” gasped Hitler. “Franz, Angela, clear the table.” Suddenly everything was in a terrible rush.
General Mackensen had been a steeplechase rider, a Death’s Head hussar, a great war hero and a member of the general staff. For him to travel all the way from Berlin to pay Hitler a Christmas call was no small honor. He was old now, but had turned the tide in the Battle of Tannenberg. He wielded considerable influence.
“And you drove all the way.” Hitler was delighted.
“My English car,” said Mackensen, “Rolls Royce. Almost as good as a horse, and your feet stay warm. Stalin has one.” His boots were the finest I had ever seen.
Hitler was all emotion. The space beneath the tree had overnight become crowded with those little knick-knacks that often gift distant objects of admiration. Candle sticks, carvings, cartons of cigarettes; grooming items; gifts from all over Germany. He snatched up one of these without so much as a glance and handed it to Mackensen. “My gift to you,” he said. A beautifully rendered wooden duck. It had probably cost someone a month’s salary. The old man was caught up in the moment and happy as a dog that had been taught a new trick. He hugged the duck to his breast. “Thank you, thank you!” Mackensen had lived rough all his life; the little rituals such as gift wrapping meant nothing to him.
In the midst of this levity, Geli caught the old man’s eye. She was seated on the floor, unwrapping a pair of boots that were as fine, nearly, as his own. A gift from her uncle, no doubt. Smooth, buttery, calfskin with silver buckles. Splendid, but some memory of the banished Emil must have lingered, for tears still streaked her face. The general spun on his heel. “Pretty,” he said. “Pretty in tears. Does she cry like that when you take her?” He laughed. After a moment, Hitler laughed. The others laughed too.
When he was gone they all looked at each other like sheep. “A great man,” said Hitler, “he could bring the army with him.”
“He’s a pig,” said Geli.
“Look, he owns an English car. You can’t take him seriously. His brain has turned to soup. His juice has gone sour.”
“He’s an old pig, then.”

It was mid-afternoon when I left to return the borrowed mare. “Merry Christmas,” I told the farmer. I expected anger. We had, after all, deprived him of the use of his animal. His eyes grew round when I told him where Krista had been. “Tell Herr Hitler Merry Christmas.”
When I returned to the villa, Hitler was acting as his own projectionist. The Three Little Pigs had him laughing merrily. I watched for a few moments. The wolf had very sharp-looking teeth, and hadn’t shaved recently. If only real villains were as easy to spot.

When the weeping started in again that night I was determined to find out more. I tiptoed down from the attic. It was not difficult to find the room beneath my own. I knocked softly. Her hair was loose. “You spend far too much time crying,” I told her. To my surprise she walked away from the door. “You’re the cook,” she said.
“And you’re the niece.”
‘No,” she said, “I’m the dessert.”
“What?”
“You know, the sweet in the tart, the mocha in the coffee, the berry in the jam.”
“And here I thought you were just a girl.”
“Here, no one is ‘just.’”
“But I am just the cook.”
She smiled. “You’ll see.”
“In any case, the servants are trying to sleep.”
“Alas, I have only one bed.”
“What I need above all is quiet.”
“Above all?”
“I must get some sleep.”
“Of course. And my crying disturbed you.”
“Pray don’t apologize.”
“I had no intention.”
“Yet you don’t appear grief-stricken just now.”
“Just now I’m talking to you.”
“I could make you feel better,” I offered.
“But you have to sleep.”
“Regrettably.”
“Until tomorrow then. Sleep well.”

Chapter Four
Poison Kitchen

NineteenTwentyEight was a low point for Hitler’s party. The mark was stabilized, there were things to buy, but when there was food, there were few votes for the NSDAP. Hitler didn’t seem to mind. He was safe at home, working ceaselessly, in the center of his web, and if the wind in his sails had died, it was a time for weaving snares.
There were many people who thought they understood him. They wished to stand beside him when his hour came. They understood nothing. But Hitler understood them perfectly.
When Joe Soap gets a job, the first thing he thinks about is not how to help his employer, the first thing he thinks about is how to get more time off, and a raise. Unchecked, these impulses could easily lead to economic ruin. Business leaders knew this, and feared times of prosperity, when the worker felt confident, more than they feared times of want. A time of want could be weathered, but prosperity could suck a business dry before you could say ‘layoff.’ A time of want was a time of belt tightening. Everyone understood sacrifices were required.
As much as Hitler was a friend of the worker, there were signals that he understood well enough the need for discipline. Understood it and was determined that this aspect of economic development would not go ignored. Economic discipline was as necessary in the workplace as discipline in the home, or school. The worker needed to be controlled, like a child, lest he gobble all the candy at once. So, in addition to the acknowledgement that life without bread was no life at all, there were the signals.
Somehow, there was something in the wind that blew into the Rhine Valley from Munich. Something that curled round the smokestacks and coal piles like a comforting hand, that reassured the anxious factory owner and the nervous stock jobber that they had nothing to fear from the NSDAP, or Herr Hitler.
So the big cars came up the hill. And why shouldn’t they? Germany needed jobs, and factories provided them. To imagine that with a sow and a hill of potatoes you could have a life was a decadent, useless dream. The children of Germany were headstrong and unruly, but they needed jobs and parenting. Between the steel hearth of industry and the heart of the Führer, the children of Germany could be led to something like prosperity.
What never ceased to amaze me was the way the man could control himself in the presence of these condescending, hypocritical swine. The big cars would roll up the hill, Mercedes, Dussenburg, Horch, even Frtiz Thyssen in a Bugatti. Their purpose was plain as dirt. If they had anything in common, it was their attitude of benign contempt. Superiority charged the air around them like a bad smell. It was not something they cared to hide. Well. They were delusional if they thought that someone who has always lived in the sun and gotten his way in everything could control the dweller in the shadows, whose every impulse has been thwarted most of his life. There was not the slightest hint that he understood. You felt their eyes would leave a slime trail on the table linen, but the tone of voice, the body language, the sneering and the pseudo-ruthless vocabulary ran off his back like rain off a duck. So it was good to hear him chuckle as he watched their cars disappear down the hill, his long fingers caressing the envelope. It was a time for making friends and gathering stones.
We were well into spring when Herr Goebbels returned from Berlin, all smiles for once. “The phone rang in my office,” he announced, “it was a call from America. Time magazine. They want an interview. And they’re willing to pay well for it. They’re sending a photographer.” He threw it out as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Hitler, however, with his flair for the dramatic, clutched at his heart. “No no no, I’ve told you. These people must not know who I am. They’ll pick everything apart.”
Goebbels laid a reassuring hand on his arm. “There’s no such thing as—”
“I know what you’ve said. But why should I explain myself to some Jewish ink slinger? All they do is lie. Lie, and poison everything. Magazines are nothing but lies. God, I hate those liars and their lies.”
“I understand,” said Goebbels. “They run the poison kitchen, but there is a crying need for funds. Always. It would be well to demonstrate that the party can make money without having to rely on charity.” He smiled. “It encourages the charity.”
“Swine.”
“Look at it this way. If you don’t talk to them, they can say anything. —Possibly they’ll go in some unfortunate direction. If you do talk to them, you can direct their attention to anything you choose.”
“I don’t like any of it. They don’t even speak German.”
“I know, they can’t possibly understand.”
“A whole country, run by Jews.”
“A rich country.”
“Well, what would you expect?”
So the upshot was that one fine morning Hitler motored off to Munich, driven by myself, to be interviewed for the American magazine…
Geli shrugged. ”He won’t drive himself.”
“Funny,” I said, ‘I thought he liked cars.”
“Oh he does. But what if there were an accident. Think of the scandal. He can’t allow himself.”
“So devoted. Some go all their lives, only interested in the momentary desires.”
“Sadly, the momentary desires are usually the most troublesome.”
“But you see my point. The edifice of his life, the dedication.”
“A great dedication. A great edifice. If only more of us refused to shrink from our duty.”
“Now you’re making fun of me.”
“Not at all. I admire your sincerity. —There is a need for sincere men.”
“And women.”
“Oh, women are always sincere. It’s just that they change.”
“For the better, of course.”
“—Still, all this posturing and blah blah blah, it’s all a lie. I just try to live.”
“I’m all in favor of just living. —How is it working for you?”
“I laugh more than I cry.”
“Can’t ask for better than that.”
“Well,” she said, “you can ask.”

The fat cats came and went, and always, it seemed, shortly before the arrival of some potentate, Geli would sail into the kitchen, ordering up bottles of Champaign and little cakes that had to be prepared immediately, because she was never told anything until the last minute.
“But really,” Hitler told her, “It’s just a business meeting.”
“You cannot, —believe this, for there are things I know— you cannot have people into your house and not feed them. Not allowing them to smoke is bad enough. There are requirements. Something nice. It doesn’t have to be much.” She took his hand. My heart soared, I admit it. “Look,” she said, “after they’ve gone we’ll have what’s left over.”
Just as the urge in every cat is to grow fatter, so in every heart lies the urge to give advice.
“It just doesn’t look good,” said Goebbels, “can’t you keep her in the bedroom?”
“She’s my neice. Let them think what they want.”
“Oh, they will. What is she, twenty? What they think, you won’t like. These people, they’re not like us. They have no morals, so they like to find other people with no morals. Their brains are attached to their purses the way Goring’s brain is attached to his stomach.”
“It’s the morphine, the poor man—”
“Doesn’t matter. The point is, we must give them things to think about. Also. Get them out on the patio, but let them smoke.”
“I can’t stand it.”
“You can. Cigars, but no Geli.”

She was astonished when he told her.
“What, am I a child?”
“Just while the Farben people are here, More old fools with stupid, bourgeois morals. But we cannot risk anything. In their eye you probably are a child. I know better, of course, we all do. These people have evil minds, we must be careful. Think. Germany’s pain demands it.”
So Geli sat in her room while the financial muscle of Germany sat on the porch, smoking cigars and trading veiled insults.

One morning I discovered a space beneath the house. Originally intended for a carriage, it held a car, an Adler that looked almost brand new.
I asked the boss. “Whose car?”
“The party bought it for me. They thought I might like to drive.”
“The roads hereabouts are very pleasant.”
“But it’s like everything else, I’ve never had the time.”
“But you travel more than most.”
“True. —I see. At least on short trips it would make sense.”
“There you are.”
“But,” he lowered his voice. “Emil made it sound so complicated.”
“I could show you.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“Look at the fools you see on the road.”
“It’s very dangerous, though, you could land in a ditch. Or break your arm.”
“Trust in your destiny, mein Führer. Shall we see if it starts?”
Hitler had an affinity for the mechanical. He soon had the Adler ripping through the gears, to the terror of his instructor. This particular Adler, I discovered, was equipped with a supercharger that cut in when the throttle was wide open. Hitler loved it. Any stretch of open road was an excuse to scream “Supercharger!” at the top of his voice as the car shot down the road. He would laugh like a boy, as much at my white-knuckled terror as the exhilaration of speed.
Technically not a bad driver, but there is an emotional component to piloting a vehicle. A certain stability is required, a disinterest, a distancing, of which he was entirely incapable. Let’s face it, when one drives on the public roads, self-image should be left at home. If a wagonload of firewood should trundle into the roadway ahead just as one has engaged the supercharger, screaming at the wagoneer is not the most productive reaction. Nor is forcing the horses into the ditch and overturning the wagon. Nor is it productive for the instructor to scream at the driver/trainee, no matter how badly shaken the instructor might be.
‘What?” said Hitler, “we’ll make it right. And don’t raise you voice at me.”
“We have to call someone. That man has a broken leg.”
“I forbid it. No one has ever died of a broken leg. And he should know that. Everything will be taken care of. Call Putzi. Call Goebbels. Let’s go.”
And we drove away. “I feel bad about the horses,” he admitted, “But that dummkopfe should have been more careful.”
I learned then that many Bavarian civil authorities were sympathetic towards Hitler’s party. It came as somewhat of a surprise that the matter was taken care of so discretely. No charges, no fines, no newspaper story. I made several attempts at finding out what happened to the wagoneer, but always met a dead end.
Bormann showed nothing but compassion. “I’ll jut have someone look the car over,” he told me.
The Adler never ran again.
The car wouldn’t run, and I imagined that was the reason the boss began to watch for the mail so keenly. He began to wait for the Mercedes to return from the post office, watching the road with the intensity of a terrier watching a rat hole. I imagined that a part for the valiant Adler had been ordered.
When the package finally arrived, though, Hitler snatched it up and called for his niece at the top of his voice. She meandered in just as he cut the string. It was a Rolleiflex, a beautiful little camera, and she took it from his offering hand as though it were the crown jewels of middle Europe.
She’d had no training, of course, but I, for one, hoped that her delight in nature would lead her to some proficiency. Some pictures, after all, announce themselves as if with drums and trumpets, and the girl could appreciate a sunset as well as anyone.
I had high hopes for her, and on one of my trips to Munich I bought her a book of photographs, by a Hungarian. A Slav, but there were plenty of mists and mountains, and a white horse or two.
“Thank you,” she purred, but there was considerable soul searching going on, soul searching as to whether photography really was an art, like, for instance, singing. For why waste time and effort on a pseudo art if a real, serious art is right there in your heart and lungs? While there was that pleasure in the visual, the cunning little arrangements of light and form, what Geli really wanted, at that point in time, was a singing career. So the Rolli was put aside, for later, when the Führer would require nature studies not found in the art books.
A singing career required lessons, of course, because while anyone can take a photograph, it appeared not everyone is able to sing. Proper singing lessons, too, for opera. Geli was not to be some nightclub nightingale. This would require trips to cosmopolitan Munich, forty-five minutes by fast car, and, naturally, a driver. Someone without a budding career of their own, someone who could handle the Mercedes on a muddy road. Someone not scheduled to speak in cities all across Germany, wherever the NSDAP was not outlawed.
“I’m the cook,” I told him.
“The well-paid cook.”
“She’ll want to drive. Can I tell her no?”
“I will forbid her to interfere with you.”
“So I can’t even tell her no.”
“You can tell her not to spill chocolate on the seats.”
“The singing master, no doubt, is right near the good stores.”
“Take her shopping.”
“And you’ll eat sandwiches that day?”
“What are you talking about? It’s an hour and a half, there and back.”
“Travel time. We’re discussing a young woman in Munich. I’d sooner pull teeth than try to get her out of there.”
“Nonetheless. You will return in time to prepare diner.”
And that was that.

How could it be that my country was broken and hated when everything we had was the best? Music, food, steel, writers… Our engineers were the finest in the world, yet they said we had lost the war, and that the war that was our fault. Last time I looked, when you lost a war the enemy came. I had never seen the enemy. We had been betrayed. My blood was the blood of heroes, but the heroes had been stabbed in the back. Hitler spoke directly to what was in my heart, and when he spoke, my pain was replaced by a burning desire to show the world what I was made of. Where there had been only empty words, Hitler founded a political party that could put fire in the heart of a dead man. The party was unquestionably his, and under his leadership. Unlike a ship at sea, though, where mutiny is a rare and extreme occurrence, the leader not only must chart the course and see that the sails are set, the leader must deal constantly with the threat of revolt.
Hitler had been quiet as a sick cat all week. The tension in the house was such that one was reluctant to speak. Lightening could strike at any moment. Everyone was up on their toes. I repeatedly reviewed my recent behavior and found myself blameless. The others of the household seemed equally irreproachable. Of course there was Geli, but it was difficult to know what standards to apply in her case.
Goebbels arrived for dinner, and it was pleasant to see him. Any distraction was welcome. But Hitler would not eat. “Those Strasser brothers,” he complained, “I think they’re Reds.” His revulsion was evident.
“They’re only socialists. That was the first thing I checked,” Goebbels told him.
“This Otto person— my god.”
“Oh, everything he says is inflammatory, all right, but his heart is in the right place.”
“I can’t believe you’re defending him.”
“We have our differences, but—”
“After what he said about you.”
“What? He said something? What?” Goebbels was shocked.
“I can’t repeat it. Terrible,” said Hitler.
“His brother now, Gregor.”
“A dangerous pair.”
“They’ll bear watching. —Reds, you say.”
“You must have seen the tendency. The way they think.”
“That,” said Goebbels, “and there’s something in the eyes. They can’t stand to have anyone over them.”
“Subversives.”
“Otto said something about me, eh?”
“They can’t stand to have anyone over them. You’ve just said it. You’re the Gauleiter.—And to think I gave them a newspaper. It’s like a knife in their hands.”
“Or a stab in the back,” said Goebbels
There was a long silence.
“I learned something yesterday,” Goebbels said, “what it means to ‘pie’ a font. All those little letters the printers use? If they get mixed up, the ‘a’s mixed in with the ‘t’s, for instance, the ‘o’s out of their little compartment, so you can’t find them, the whole font, at a cost of millions of marks, no doubt, is useless.”
“All that type is lead,” Hitler mused. “Melts easily. A fire, even a small one, would destroy it.”
“And no one has to get killed,” Goebbels smiled. “No hospital, no bodies, just something to remind them which side of the fence they’re on.”