Her Hidden Life

by V. S. Alexander

  ‘My Führer,’ Karl said. ‘We are delighted you have invited us to tea, but Fräulein Ritter and I are somewhat perplexed by your invitation. How can we be of service?’

  Hitler held up his hand. ‘That’s noble of you, Weber, but you must leave your concerns outside the room.’ He put both hands on the table, leaned forward and studied us. ‘I want no talk of war, or battles, or strategy tonight. In the tearoom we talk of art, architecture and music. We celebrate German culture and history, and tonight we are here to celebrate love.’

  ‘My Führer?’ Karl asked, caught as much off guard as I.

  The valet served me tea, then took my beautiful red roses and placed them in a crystal vase in the center of the table, so all of us could enjoy them. Their sweet fragrance soon filled the room, a welcome change from the musty, damp odor that permeated most of the bunkers.

  Hitler smiled and held up his cup. ‘I must thank the taster who suffered under Otto’s hands.’ He paused and my nerves tightened. ‘But there is more to discuss.’ Karl’s leg brushed against mine and I sensed the tension in his body.

  Hitler took a sip of tea and patted my hand. ‘I try to greet everyone, to say hello, to have a kind word for all who serve the Reich, but I am a busy man. I don’t have much time. You should convey my thanks to all in the kitchen. Several new young women have started recently. I promised Dora I would meet them.’

  His eyes flashed with a spark of what I would call ‘good will.’ I had no doubt he would come to the mess hall and greet the new staff. At the moment, he seemed the picture of the kindly father who wanted his ‘children’ to be happy, to do well in a world under his guidance. From his mood, it appeared he believed no one on his staff would ever think of harming him. This attitude of benevolence was more than posturing. Hitler was sincere, but I also knew that any crime against the Reich would be punished in the most severe manner possible.

  ‘Cook has told me,’ he continued, ‘that you two spend a great deal of time together.’

  The blood rushed to my head and I blushed, more out of anxiety than embarrassment. So, it was Cook who had revealed our relationship.

  ‘Magda and I have struck up a friendship,’ Karl said.

  I was dumbfounded by how easily he admitted it.

  ‘We have our jobs to do,’ I said, trying to earn some distance between Karl and me. ‘Fate has thrown us together because we both happen to work in the same area.’

  ‘Yes, but it has been noted,’ Hitler said. ‘Therefore, I wish to give you my blessing.’

  Karl went white and I gasped. ‘My Führer, that is not necessary,’ I said.

  He waved his hands in protest. ‘Of course it’s necessary. I have given so many blessings, it’s like a second job; my secretaries, my staff, have all benefited. I encourage my officers to find young women of quality.’ He took another sip of tea and nibbled on a slice of apple cake. ‘Eat up; you haven’t touched the delicious desserts made especially for you.’

  ‘My Führer,’ I said. ‘I tasted them this evening.’

  He smiled in mock surprise and laughed. ‘In that case you can enjoy them knowing they are not poisoned.’ He paused and then said, ‘One issue remained, but I solved it.’

  Karl and I looked at each other.

  ‘You are not a Party member, Fräulein Ritter,’ Hitler said, ‘so I have made you one.’ He withdrew a box from his jacket and handed it to me.

  I took off the lid, unwrapped the paper inside and uncovered a medallion like the one he wore.

  ‘The number on it signifies your place in the Party membership. Mine is “one.’’’ He pointed to the medal on his jacket.

  ‘Thank you.’ Uncertain whether to put the medallion on, I closed the box and placed it on the table.

  Hitler then turned the conversation to Bavaria and the Alps, rhapsodizing upon the mythology surrounding the Obersalzberg. Karl and I sat, unsettled, for the rest of the evening while Hitler talked about Speer and his plans for the capital and the state of German art and film. Hitler even invited us to his study to listen to a recording of Wagner. It was after midnight when we were dismissed.

  We stood for a time outside the bunker door not knowing what to say. An early fall chill had crept into the air and the cooler temperature felt good against my skin. Now that we were ‘blessed’ there seemed little need for pretense. I held Karl’s hand tightly as we walked down the path. I silently marveled that I’d had tea with the leader of the Third Reich. I understood now, in Hitler’s presence, how persuasive, how forceful, he could be. No wonder the German people followed him like sheep. My father had told me of a film called Triumph of the Will. He said its only point was to glorify the Party. I’d never seen it, but I could understand how such a powerful presence could be transferred to the screen and what a great impact it might have.

  We stopped in a clearing on the path between the bunker and my quarters. Karl wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close. I felt warm and safe against him as he kissed me. I nuzzled my lips against his neck and he sighed.

  ‘Imagine the Führer having the time for such details,’ Karl said between kisses.

  I started to speak, but he held his fingers against my lips and pointed to the box I was holding. After a few moments, I figured out what he wanted me to understand. The medallion. Karl pointed to it and then to his ear – as if the medal might be an object for spying on us. The thought hadn’t crossed my mind.

  ‘It’s a beautiful pin,’ he said. ‘You should be very proud that the Führer has taken such an interest in us.’

  ‘I’ll let you look at it tomorrow,’ I said. ‘For now, let’s savor the evening.’ I pressed against him, offering more kisses.

  He stopped me and lifted my chin with his fingers until my eyes were aligned with his. ‘Perhaps we should be married,’ he said.

  My breath caught in my throat. ‘Married?’ In a different world, I would have jumped at the chance, but our future was so uncertain. I turned away from him, not wanting to share any disappointment. ‘We should talk about this tomorrow.’ Making plans seemed so absurd, I almost wanted to laugh. ‘After all, now that the secret is out, there’s no reason to rush things.’

  ‘He’ll want us to be married soon,’ Karl said. ‘He’ll dote upon us like a kindly old grandfather.’ He touched my shoulder. ‘Let me take you home. I have to be up early tomorrow. We have plenty to consider.’

  We left the clearing and soon we were at my door. Karl kissed me once more and we said good-bye. My head filled with thoughts about our questionable future and I didn’t feel like going to sleep. I wasn’t working in the morning so there was no reason for me to get up early. Once again, I sat in the library and waited for sleep to overtake me. I took the medallion out of my purse and turned it over and over in my hands. Nothing about it looked suspicious, but Karl would have to examine it to make sure it was safe. In the meantime, I would have to wear it and any negative thoughts about Hitler or the Reich would remain unsaid. I couldn’t even talk to myself. How could I hold in everything I was feeling inside? I was more isolated than ever and in no mood to be a bride.

  CHAPTER 11

  Karl and I were engaged in the fall of 1943. Hitler continued to press for us to be married, not directly, but through Cook and other SS officers. His actions did not come as a surprise, for he had done the same for one of his personal secretaries earlier in the year. Karl and I continued to make excuses, usually regarding the ‘danger’ of my position, but we knew we would have to be married soon – time was running out. In response to our delay, the Führer ordered me off tasting duty, but Cook’s protests were strong enough I was allowed to stay on in the kitchen as a bookkeeper and also as a backup taster if needed. Despite his feelings about our future marriage, Hitler willingly conceded his complete control because Cook trusted my judgment as a taster.

  Shortly after our tea with the Führer, Karl inspected the medallion. He thought it might house a miniature microphone; but, it was only a pin, nothing more. From th
at point on, I wore it every day when I was out, although I detested the Party and what it stood for.

  During the fall, our existence at the Wolf’s Lair became routine. I grew weary of ‘bunker fever,’ the claustrophobic prison of our cramped quarters, which now that the weather was growing cold became even more unbearable. Else and I took walks when I wasn’t with Karl. We needed to get outside and take in fresh air, even on damp, rainy days. By mid-October the clouds were spitting snow and the bunkers seemed to turn into blocks of ice. I wrapped myself in sweaters and coats and put on gloves to keep warm.

  I kept away from Dora and the other tasters because I didn’t want to answer questions about my personal life. Hitler continued his occasional travels to and from the Wolf’s Lair. Karl and I never knew the locations of his trips until he was safely back at headquarters. Then we heard, in great detail from those who accompanied him, the usually mundane saga of his trips. A rumor spread across headquarters that we would spend Christmas at the Berghof. One could rarely trust such whisperings. It was rumored the holiday would most likely be unpleasant, unlike those of former years. Cook anticipated food and merriment would be in short supply. Some of the dampness of spirit, she thought, would come from Hitler, who saw excessive festivities as wasteful and arrogant as Germany suffered, suffering he had drawn down upon it. The few times that Karl and I could be alone without someone hovering nearby, we discussed plans for Hitler’s assassination, but not in brazen words. Our language became coded; any hint of conspiracy was too dangerous to mention even in passing. I asked Karl one day why ‘our goal’ could not be accomplished sooner. ‘Patience,’ was all he said, and whenever I broached the subject, the same word would be muttered.

  In mid-November, I was in Cook’s office going over the food list when one of the orderlies interrupted me for a phone call. It was my mother. My father was seriously ill and in a hospital in Berlin. She wondered if I might be able to come home for a few days to help her take care of him. I agreed and immediately asked for the time off. I packed a few things, leaving most of my belongings at the Wolf’s Lair. The next morning, I was on a train to the city.

  My mother met me at the station on a bright November day. We took a taxi directly to the hospital, where the halls were filled with the smell of antiseptic and the fleshy odors of the ill and infirm. I later came to know these smells as ‘death.’ The hospital stunk, from the ravages of influenza to the horrific wounds of the soldiers who happened to be lucky enough to end up in Berlin. Although this was not a military hospital, many rooms were filled with soldiers. A few were swathed from head to toe in bandages and breathed through tubes inserted in the small slits of their dressings. My mother had warned me that my father had the grippe and we would have to wear gowns and masks to visit him. She’d been with him for several days and was badly in need of rest herself. The staff had warned her not to stay too long in the room because her lengthy visits increased her exposure to the disease.

  A nurse met us near the wing where my father was housed. My mother and I dressed in our medical gear and proceeded down the hall to the room. At first I couldn’t see my father because he was in a bed near a window, which looked out upon a courtyard. A cool gray light fell through the blinds. The blackout curtain had been lifted. Naked branches formed an intricate web of dark lines against the whitewashed surface of the opposite wall. We passed by the bed of an older man whose complexion was as gray as the light entering the room. My father was asleep and I signaled my mother not to disturb him. We retreated to the hall. I was relatively rested from my journey, so I told my mother to go home – I would join her later in the evening and she could return in the morning.

  I pulled up a chair near the window and soon drifted off in the quiet room. My father’s coughs awakened me. His face flushed crimson with fever.

  ‘Either I’m hallucinating or my daughter is here,’ he said in a rough whisper as he pulled off his mask.

  ‘I’m here, Papa.’ I rose from my chair, stood beside him and pointed to the mask. ‘You should put that back on.’

  ‘Your mother is not to be trusted,’ he said. ‘I told her not to send for you.’

  ‘She needs a rest from taking care of you.’ I put my gloved hand on his arm.

  ‘How are you, Daughter? I’m glad you’re here.’ His hair had turned almost gray since I’d last seen him several months earlier. The lines on his face had deepened into dark folds.

  ‘I’m fine. We can talk later. I’m here for at least three days. You should be discharged by then.’

  He sighed. ‘I hope you’re right because I can’t afford to be sick. Reichsmark are hard to come by these days. I know many men who would like to take my place at the factory.’ He pulled on the mask and hacked violently into it. Pain contorted his face until the coughing spasms subsided. A nurse appeared at the door. She administered a shot and soon my father fell into a deep sleep.

  I left the ward and wandered until I found the dining hall. I had only eaten a small breakfast on the train. When I returned to the room an hour or so later, my father was awake, eating his supper. He picked at the boiled potatoes and a small cut of meat covered in a thin brown gravy. The meals here, served to those who were sick, were so different from those served to the Führer and his staff. I felt ashamed of my good fortune.

  My father looked at me and smiled. I returned the smile under my mask and wondered what to say. I couldn’t talk about work because of the sensitivity of my job, and I debated whether to tell him I was engaged. I was afraid he would disapprove of my relationship with Karl. My mother soon showed up and put an end to any chance of a prolonged conversation. I promised to visit the next day. My mother and I stayed until ten.

  ‘I’m engaged,’ I told my mother when we arrived home, confident she would be pleased. ‘I’m a member of the Party now and engaged to an SS Captain. His name is Karl Weber. You would like him.’

  My mother showed little emotion. She sat across from me at the kitchen table, her hands in her lap, her eyes downcast upon the cotton tablecloth. The woody odor of tea wafted up from our two cups. We shared a tea bag. ‘I only have five bags left. Do you know what a tea bag costs these days? I’m saving some of these for your father when he comes home.’ She covered her eyes with her hands and burst into tears.

  ‘Mother?’ I was unaccustomed to seeing her in such an emotional state. I got up from the table and stood behind her, holding on to her shoulders. ‘Everything is in short supply.’ My words were a half-truth. Supplies were short in Germany, not at Hitler’s headquarters. ‘I can send you some money if you and Father need it.’

  She sobbed, shaking in her seat, then uncovered her eyes and stared at the wall. ‘It’s not the money. There’s no happiness in Berlin. There were bombings a few nights ago. What are we to do? I’m beginning to believe, like your father, that the Führer is a madman driving us to destruction.’ She wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. ‘I’m happy for you, Magda. At least you are safe with the Führer. You will be protected.’

  I didn’t want to cause her further distress, so I didn’t express my feelings. Soon I feared we would be no safer at the Berghof and the Wolf’s Lair than in Berlin.

  ‘I hate to say it, but I’ve envied you. It’s not good for a mother to envy her daughter. Wherever you are, you’re protected. You eat delicious food, you never worry about going hungry. You don’t worry about bombs falling from the sky, or the Gestapo taking you away in the middle of the night.’

  I returned to my seat and took a sip of the weak tea in my cup. Everything my mother said was true, but it was also a lie. I worried about being poisoned, about bombs raining their destruction. The Gestapo could easily take Karl or me away during the night. ‘Maybe you and Papa should live with Uncle Willy and Aunt Reina. It may be safer in Berchtesgaden.’

  My mother shook her head. ‘Your father would never agree to it. He would never toe the Party line like his brother and we couldn’t appear like peasants on their doorstep. Reina is the que
en of that household. The atmosphere would be stifling.’

  I nodded, for I knew the truth in her argument. ‘Should I tell Father about my engagement?’

  ‘Let him recover first. I’m not sure how he’ll take the news.’

  My mother was wise. I longed to tell my parents about my relationship with Karl and what he intended to do for Germany, but that was impossible. We finished our tea and talked about the neighborhood. Sometime after midnight, I lifted the blackout curtain covering the kitchen window. The world seemed strangely quiet and I thought I heard the buzz of bombers overhead.

  My mother and I were sitting in the kitchen the next evening when the air-raid sirens began their unearthly wail. We had taken shifts at the hospital during the day and were slumped in our chairs from exhaustion.

  Mother looked at the ceiling as if in prayer and then stared at me with eyes wide with fright. The ceiling shook from an explosion and the kitchen light swayed as if dancing to a discordant rhythm. A fine shower of white plaster dust fell from a crack and settled on the floor.

  ‘I hope it’s nothing,’ my mother said.

  I was less hopeful. The air sparkled with electricity and the bombers droned overhead. ‘We should go to the cellar,’ I said in a panic. I shot up from the table, ready to grab a few things I might drag downstairs.

  Another blast detonated closer than the previous one. The walls and furniture rattled. The intensity increased second by second and soon the house began to shake as if it had been struck by an earthquake. Searing billows of fire split the night while the white traces of flak roared heavenward from German anti-aircraft guns.

  ‘Hurry – there’s no time,’ I screamed over the blasts that pounded our ears. The bombs hammered around us.

  The more I considered the deafening apocalypse outside our window, the less I thought we should go to the cellar. I grabbed my identification papers and secured them in my belt. I took my mother by the arm and led her down the stairs to the front door. As we stood sheltered behind it, a gigantic orange fireball flashed down the street. The gutter flared with flames from dead leaves; some of the trees burst into flames. We were saved by the stone façade of our building.