I looked at the food and thought this could be my last meal. A tight grip of fear shot through my arm as I lifted the spoon. My indecision showed.
Cook’s voice sounded sharply in my ears. “Think what you’re doing! Don’t just taste the food.”
I considered what she meant. “Of course. I’m sorry.” I lifted the plate to my nose and sniffed. The odor was completely normal; the warm, comfortable smell of scrambled eggs and fried potatoes wafted into my nostrils.
“Go ahead,” Cook said. She urged me to action with a sweep of her hands. “We haven’t got all night.”
The other cooks stared at me, as if I were a lunatic. Ursula was used to tasting, but I found it hard to rid my mind of the fear of taking my last breath. Cook crossed her arms, so I steeled myself and put the food into my mouth.
The dish was delicious. There were no smells or tastes out of the ordinary. I relaxed a bit and made my way down the table, sampling the food. The cooks and orderlies returned to their preparations and ignored me. I tasted asparagus, rice, cucumbers, tomatoes, a melon and a piece of apple cake, Hitler’s favorite dessert. Soon I had eaten enough for a meal.
“Now what?” I asked Cook.
“Now you wait.” She said these words simply and without emotion, as clinically as a heartless physician telling a patient she only had a short time to live.
I took a seat at the small oak table in the corner and watched as the dishes were placed on their serving platters in preparation for the evening meal. It struck me that any of the cooks or the orderlies, as they served and delivered the food, could administer a poisonous dose to Hitler. However, only one cook and a few orderlies were allowed to touch the food I’d tasted. This was a form of life insurance. If something happened to the Führer then most of the kitchen staff would be exonerated—only those who had the responsibility of serving would be suspect.
After the last plates were taken away about eight, I was allowed to leave the kitchen.
“See, there was nothing to worry about,” Cook said.
Her blasé attitude concerned me. She didn’t taste food like I did, although I had seen her dip a spoon into dishes now and then. My fate rested in my own hands—more the reason to be prudent when tasting.
I returned to my room, changed clothes, fussed with my hair and tried to read a book.
Karl knocked on my door about ten. My heart fluttered a bit when I saw him. His hair was neatly combed, uniform sparkling and pressed, boots polished to a slick shine. He smiled and then bowed slightly.
I closed the door and placed my left arm through the arch he created with his right. We walked toward the Great Hall, the large sitting room I’d heard about but never been in. Before we reached it we came to a flight of stairs that led downward. “Dinner conversation was dull as usual,” he said. “Eva talked about her dogs and Hitler carried on about Blondi. Then Bormann got to talking about his children.” He rolled his eyes. “That was fascinating. I can outline each of their school careers and his plans for them. It’s so much more pleasant when Speer is here. At least he’s not a boor.”
“Where is the Führer?” I held on tightly to Karl as we descended the stone steps.
“He’s in the Hall with his generals for his evening military conference. Fortunately, I’m not part of that. That will go on until midnight, or later, when we may be called in for tea. That usually lasts until two, sometimes longer.” He put a finger to his lips as if to tell a secret. “That’s why he and Eva sleep so late. The rest of us must tend to our duties.”
“I’m lucky I’m only the taster.”
Karl released my arm and stopped on the stairs. “Your job is important, perhaps one of the most important in the Reich. You stand between Hitler and death. You must always remember that.”
An uncomfortable shudder swept over me as I pondered the immensity of my task yet again. Was I really all that stood between Hitler and death? There were fourteen others who were in the same position. Did they feel as I did? My task didn’t fill me with a grand sense of importance. In fact, in the past several weeks I’d preferred to think of it as only a job. Knowing the Führer’s fate was intertwined with mine was too much to bear. I changed the subject. “What movie is being shown?”
“Gone with the Wind. Everyone is excited to see it. Eva said it’s very romantic. Most American films are.”
He took my arm again and we reached the bottom of the steps. A long hall with several doors on each side stretched out before us. Karl opened the one nearest us and laughter danced on the air. The room was filled with men dressed in suits and women attired in fine dresses. Eva and her friends sat in chairs lined up in the front row on either side of the projector while other guests sat behind them. Negus and Stasi, Eva’s dogs, were nestled at her feet. We were in a small bowling alley constructed under the main rooms of the Berghof. A screen had been placed at the far end of the lanes. Two young men I knew from the kitchen took orders and then returned with trays brimming with drinks.
Karl and I sat near the rear in plush high-back chairs. They were somewhat stiff, and I wondered if they’d be uncomfortable to sit in through an entire movie. When the alley went dark, Karl reached across and touched my hand. Warmth spread through my fingers and up into my arm. The shock touched my heart and I struggled to catch a breath.
“Is something wrong?” Karl asked.
“No,” I whispered. “I tasted tonight for the first time. Perhaps it’s a reaction to the food.”
Karl twisted in his seat and took my hands. “If you’re sick, I will get the Führer’s personal physician.”
I leaned back. “Please, Karl, I’m fine. Let’s enjoy the movie.”
He nodded and relaxed somewhat. The lights flickered, the music swelled from the speakers and we turned our attention to the film. I made sure to keep his hand in mine. He squeezed my fingers as Scarlett teased the Tarleton twins. I had the same reaction when, later in the film, Scarlett kissed Rhett Butler.
About one in the morning, a telephone call interrupted the film. We were only about two-thirds of the way through, but the picture was finished for the evening. Those who wanted to see the ending would have to wait for another time. Karl escorted me back to my room, kissed my hand and disappeared down the hall. I got into bed and dreamed that night of making love to him.
* * *
Over the days, my fear of tasting lessened. One afternoon, I called my parents for the first time since arriving at the Berghof and told them I was working with Hitler. The Reich had informed them previously of my service. However, I did not tell them what I was doing. I could tell my father was not pleased with my new position because his silence gave away his thoughts. I also knew someone, probably an SS man, was listening to our conversation. I suspected my father did as well.
My mother was more effusive and pressed me about my job. I told her I was in service to the Führer and left it at that. It was best not to give either of them any more information. When I hung up, it struck me how much I lived in a world of distrust and fear. Perhaps my father’s cold replies amplified what I was feeling. At the Berghof, we lived in a monastic world: secluded, insular, broken off from the realities of the war. Hitler and his generals bore the psychological brunt of the fighting. We never saw or heard the reported rages, or experienced the tensions that apparently permeated this mountain retreat. We only heard rumors. We could either choose to believe or not. I didn’t like feeling this way because I wanted the world to be “normal.” After the conversation with my parents, I realized how far and how fast I’d slipped away from the everyday. I wondered whether everyone in Hitler’s service felt the same. I was being seduced by the singular drama in which we played. We were all Marie Antoinette asking the world to eat cake while the earth burned to ashes around us.
After about two weeks, I finally tasted a meal without some degree of shaking. Ursula and the cooks had teased me, so unmercifully, in fact, that eventually I forced myself to relax. They assured me that no poisons would get b
y them. The “last meal” became a joke around the kitchen. Despite their assurances, I still suffered from a nervous stomach now and then.
Captain Weber and I spoke often when we passed each other in the halls and sometimes we enjoyed leisurely conversations in the kitchen. Cook raised as much of a fuss as she could, but it was Karl’s right to oversee as he saw fit. One night he suggested we go to the Theater Hall for an impromptu dance. I, of course, accepted with Ursula’s urging.
Karl called for me at my room and accompanied me up the slope to the Hall. The air was fresh, the night chilly, as we walked. A small dance floor had been formed by pushing chairs aside to the walls. The lamps were dimmed, barely enough to light the room. Records, mostly waltzes, crackled out of an old table phonograph. The music flowed into the room from a gold-colored, blossom-shaped speaker. Two other couples were dancing. A few of the men, lacking women, danced together, not touching each other except for their hands. They shot looks of envy our way when Karl pulled me close and swung me into a waltz. We flowed naturally into each other.
The night melted into stars and warmth. I loved being next to Karl and, judging by the content smile on his face, he loved me as well. We danced for several hours, hardly saying a word. If love was an energy, a force, it passed between us that night. When I finally left his arms, my body tingled.
As we were leaving the Hall, we heard a cough. Karl grabbed my hand tightly and guided me out of the building. I looked back. The Colonel walked out of the shadows, cigarette in hand, the smoke drifting through the dim light. His gaze followed us as we left.
“How long has he been watching us?” I asked Karl.
He did not look back. “All evening,” he said.
* * *
One afternoon in late May, I accompanied Karl and Ursula on a trip to the Teahouse. It was my first visit. I had seen it once from the terrace that ran along the north and west sides of the Berghof. I sneaked a peek at its round turret rising through the trees below when no one was about but an SS guard enjoying the air. He recognized me and didn’t mind that I shared the view.
The mountains to the north were often misty and veiled in clouds, but the first day I saw the Teahouse the sky was crisp and blue. Looking out upon the scenery, I realized why Hitler had chosen this particular spot as his own. He’d purchased the property—claimed it, some had said—and begun renovations a short time later. The view gave its owner the psychological superiority of one who might believe he was a god. To look upon the magnificent rocky peaks was to feel on top of the world while those below were mere specks, dirt beneath his feet. Hitler was indeed master of all he surveyed.
Karl, Ursula and I set off to the Teahouse shortly after one o’clock. The blue sky above the Berghof held today as well, but a band of high clouds was approaching from the northeast. We walked down the driveway and then cut off on a trail that descended through the forest by way of a wooded path. At one magnificent bend, rails of hewn logs kept the walker from tumbling over the precipice of the Berchtesgaden valley. A long bench had been constructed there so Hitler could ponder the magnificent view to the north. Karl told us that Eva and her friends liked to use the rails as a kind of gymnastic bar, balancing upon them and pointing their legs over the cliff, at least for the sake of photographs. She was always posing and using her new film camera, he said. Hitler was often uncomfortable with her filming, but grudgingly obliged her hobby.
The Teahouse, less than a kilometer from the Berghof, soon came into view. It was like a miniature castle planted on a rocky hillside. The path ended at stone steps to its door. Karl had a key because the kitchen staff was so often called to serve there.
“I really shouldn’t be doing this, but I want you to see it,” he said. “It’s quite charming. Hitler relaxes here and invites others to join him. He’ll be down later.”
Karl opened the door and Ursula and I peered inside. A round table decorated with flowers and set with silk tablecloths, sparkling china and polished silver sat near the middle of the room. Plush armchairs decorated in an abstract floral pattern of swirling bellflowers added to the medieval atmosphere of the turret. A kitchen and offices lay behind this large circular room. We stepped inside and Karl urged me to sit in one of the chairs. I did and luxuriated in its soft cushions.
“That’s where he sits,” Karl said.
I jumped out of the chair.
Ursula laughed. “Scaredy-cat,” she said. “He’s not here.”
“Why did you tell me to sit there?” I asked Karl, irritated by his prank. “I don’t want to get into trouble.” I felt foolish.
“You won’t. Sit and enjoy the view.” I returned to the seat and looked out the windows that encircled the front half of the tower while he and Ursula whispered in the doorway.
“What are you two plotting?” I asked.
Karl turned to me, his face sullen. “Nothing. I’m talking with Ursula about her mother—she’s been ill, you know.” The night Karl and I had gone to see Gone with the Wind, Ursula had been called to Munich.
I sat for several more minutes as they continued their secretive discussion. Finally, I got up, explored the other tables and chairs and then stood behind them. They abruptly stopped their conversation when I got too close.
“We should be getting back,” Karl said. “We can’t hang about here too long.”
As we walked, I wondered why we had come in the first place. I didn’t have a good feeling about our visit to the Teahouse. Something gnawed at my stomach and I knew my discomfort centered on Karl and Ursula. They were up to something.
CHAPTER 5
Karl informed us that Hitler often stayed at the Berghof for only a short time before leaving for another headquarters or hiding place. When Hitler was in residence, a giant Nazi flag flew over the grounds. As it turned out, he wasn’t even at the Berghof for about two weeks in May. I wasn’t sure where he went, but Karl, on the sly, told me it was to the “Wolf’s Lair.” To foil assassination attempts, the Führer kept his travel schedule secret and often switched trains or flights at the last moment or showed up early or late for appointments. He’d used this tactic for years, and it had served him well, particularly since the war broke out.
A rumor circulated that Hitler was holding a reception at the Teahouse for kitchen staff before he left on his next trip. It would be the first time I had a chance to meet the leader of the Reich. I asked Karl about this and he confirmed it was true.
After breakfast the next morning, everyone was in high spirits and anticipation about “tea” with the Führer. A light rain fell, but it did not dampen our gay mood. Cook wanted me to take inventory from the greenhouses and record food items, in addition to my tasting duties, so I was late getting back to my room.
“Eva has instructed everyone to wear traditional Bavarian garments,” Cook told me. “There will be a costume on your bed.”
“Why is dressing up so important?” I asked her.
“Because Heinrich Hoffmann, Hitler’s personal photographer, is here. He and Eva thought it would be a good opportunity to capture the benevolent spirit of the Führer as he entertains and thanks his staff.” She chuckled. “Eva loves to dress up. That’s really why we’re doing it.”
When I went back to my room, I interrupted Ursula. She was already dressed in her Bavarian costume. I really had no fondness for the hose, petticoats, the flouncy dress and puffy sleeves of the garment. Ursula sat on her bed, sewing her apron. She turned quickly away from me when I entered.
“You’d better get ready,” Ursula said, looking back over her shoulder. Her fingers trembled and the needle slipped from her hand.
“Are you all right?” I asked. “Is there a problem with your apron?”
She shook her head. “I’m shaky because I haven’t eaten. I need to get to the kitchen for some food.” She began sewing again and stitched across the apron’s left pocket.
“There’s not much to eat now. The staff is preparing lunch, but I wouldn’t be concerned about me getting re
ady. I’m sure it’ll be after four before we’re called to the Teahouse. We’ve got plenty of time.”
Ursula sighed. “Yes, plenty of time.”
She went back to her work as I inspected my dress and its trimmings. “I don’t have an apron. Do I need one?”
Her eyes dimmed. “I don’t know. You might ask Cook. This one was given specifically to me.”
I stretched out on my bed with a book. “The weather is so nasty it’s a good day for reading.”
Ursula threw the apron and needle on her bed. “Can’t you take a walk or find something to do?”
I sat up, shocked at her harsh tone. “What’s wrong? I’ve never seen you so upset. Is it your mother?”
She buried her face in her hands and cried. I crept over to her, sat behind her and cradled her shoulders. This made her sobbing even worse.
“Yes,” she said between gasps. “I have no family now. Both of my brothers are dead because of the war. My father is already dead and my mother is dying. I don’t care if we lose this war—I’ve already lost everything. My brothers were all I had.”
I turned her so she faced me, and wiped her tears with a handkerchief. “You must be strong and not let your troubles overcome you.”
Ursula pushed me away. “You say that so easily because you still have your family. Wait until they are gone. Then you’ll see how hard it is.” She collapsed on the bed.
Saddened by her mood, I got up and stared out the window. The mountains were lost in the silver mist and fog. On days like this, the Berghof’s air of invincibility vanished. “I’ll leave you alone, but you only have to ask if you need my help.” I found my poetry book on the shelf. I knew Hitler was still eating breakfast and after that he would meet with his military staff for a few hours in the Great Hall. I had no idea where to go. “I’ll be back later to get ready.”
The Taster Page 6
