The Secret Journals of Adolf Hitler: Volume 1 - The Anointed

by A G Mogan

  Unfortunately, I cannot tolerate the new school, deeply resenting the severe discipline, and the imperious attitude of the town boys. I begin resisting and protesting again until each day — nay — my whole existence, becomes very painful.

  The Christmas celebrations of 1902 find me in a deplorable state. I’ve grown noticeably taller, yet my increasingly scant zest for living keeps my body underdeveloped and frail. At nearly fourteen years of age, I feel old. I look in the mirror and despise what I see: lips too thin, nose too broad, face too lean, eyes too protruding. I do like my stare, though — deep, penetrating, self-confident. Whenever I need to gather courage, I stare into the mirror.

  I detest the holidays this year, as I am confined to my room for failing mathematics. I also have no presents under the Christmas tree, nor am I allowed to paint. Looking through the window at the children who have come to sing Christmas carols, I find myself resenting their joy. Poor Mother suffers alongside me and strives to make my punishment as bearable as possible.

  The only time Father allows me to leave my dungeon is on Christmas morning. This is not from a heart overflowing with forgiveness or sympathy, but because he wants me to watch my sisters unwrap their gifts. Another instructive lesson conceived by the old man’s evil mind, and to that end, they all gather around the Christmas tree, shivering with excitement. I am instructed to stand in a corner and not to sit or speak.

  The house smells of freshly-brewed coffee and cinnamon plum cakes, Mother’s specialty. It is one of the last times I eat these plum cakes. Over the years, their smell is enough to make me writhe in pain.

  Angela is older; and therefore, entitled to open her gift first. She beams at Father, her gaze anxiously begging for his command to begin. Her behavior mirrors that of a dog during training. I realize I am somewhat enjoying being kept away, going unnoticed, being free to observe these things. When Father’s words finally release her, she darts at the gift box and tears at the festive paper covering it. Looking inside, her shoulders drop, as well as her face.

  On the brink of hearing, she mumbles, “A poetry book … ” her eyes welling with tears of disappointment. “I shall read it with pleasure,” she continues, head lowered, and then retreats to a corner.

  In my head, I am in absolute hysterics.

  Paula comes next, and gets a doll. How shocking! I muse, which is obviously the shared reaction, once we all see it. Puzzled, my little sister stares at her present. Her new doll has dark skin and coarse, luxuriant, black hair. It resembles an African child. As I stare at it, I’m involuntarily reminded of the structure of monkeys.

  “Just so you learn, little Paula, that there are many more downtrodden children than you in the world,” Father says, answering our unspoken bewilderment. “If, one day, you might think yourself unhappy, look at this doll.”

  The lofty expression crossing his face is unnerving. He thinks of himself as so wise.

  “Thank you, Daddy! Thank you, Daddy, thank you, thank you!” Paula stutters, then laughs hysterically.

  Although I despise agreeing with Father, I do understand. I can’t help but wonder at what the black peoples must have done to displease God. I’ve always associated them with poverty, ill fortune, and dismay. Surely, He must have been terribly angry to punish a race this way.

  Suddenly, I remember the stories Mother read to me as a child. Stories about the Spartans, who killed their sickly newborns by throwing them into a pit. How fascinated I was, listening to these stories, how I worshiped the Spartan leaders, and how I marveled at the cruelty of their decisions.

  Why hadn’t I been born in their times? I think to myself, when suddenly interrupted by a nudge in my ribs.

  “For you,” says Mother, shoving something in the pocket of my shirt. “Shhh … our little secret.” She winks at me. I can’t wait to see what it is, and sway from foot-to-foot until Father’s imposed lesson ends. When it does, I return to my room, this time, voluntarily. I jump into bed and pull out Mother’s gift: a locket. I open it and find miniature pictures of me and of her, one on each side. I press my lips to it and thank the heavens for sending me to this woman.

  Another couple of days of my detention pass, when an unexpected event suddenly ends it.

  On the early morning of January 3rd, Father meets his friends at the tavern on the main street. He jabbers a few minutes, gobbles up a glass of wine, and collapses inertly to the floor. Something with his head, I learn later, and am not surprised at all.

  The bad news finds us sitting for lunch. His friends have brought him home, carrying his limp heavy body on their shoulders. For a fleeting moment, I think he must have fainted or drank himself into coma. But then, I see his eyes … which are still open. I look into them and a cold shiver travels up my back. Those eyes, so full of life’s animated spirit only a couple of hours ago, are now as cold as death, for death resides in them. It is as if two blurred glass balls have replaced them, forbidding passage into the soul that once nested behind them.

  The image paralyzes me. I suddenly remember the ghosts from the folklore tales and think their eyes must surely look the same.

  Father’s death vigil keeps me awake for two nights in a row and I do my best to preside over his visiting friends, who come by to pay their respects. Even less mourned in death than he was loved in life, he is buried without excess decorum in the village cemetery, which, as I have said, is located right behind our house. So, Father is still here … more or less.

  I wish I could say I felt devastated, and longed for another hour in his company, or that his departure left a void in my soul never to be refilled. But, that would be impossible. The people around me expect me to have these feelings, though, so I wear the best funereal expression I can possibly conceive. I even cry when he is lowered into the pit.

  But, once the funeral over, I am released from mimicking sadness, and all my regrets are buried alongside Father.

  A new era begins, which looks very bright, filled with my own truths. I will become the greatest painter. Nothing and no one is now left to stand in the way of my will. One thing becomes as clear as daylight: I will never become a civil servant. This life will never find me glued to a chair in a cage, picking lice on a strict schedule.

  And there is yet another truth: I am happy. Happy and free.

  Only a vague regret enters my head, a year later: that Father cannot attend Angela’s wedding. Now orphaned of both parents, she sought refuge in the arms of a questionable individual, a drunkard by the name of Leo Raubal, who functions as … a civil servant.

  Father would have been so very proud.

  I will not dwell long over dreadful school affairs, where I go from bad to worse. If the fear of Father and some personal ambitions led me to strive harder in school, I now see it as nothing but an annoying burden, and do everything within my power to fight against the educational doctrine.

  There are only two things I acknowledged when it came to school.

  The first was that it taught me to read, giving me the opportunity to educate myself at will by reading dozens of books on philosophy and history. The second, and most important of my entire school career, was that it allowed me to experience history classes taught by Prof. Dr. Leopold Poetsch, a laudable man and professor, whose surreal talent in recounting historical events brought tears of enthusiasm to his student’s eyes and kindled their dormant patriotism. And though I sense the stems of nationalism growing inside me, I do not let it intervene with the monumental sympathy I have toward this estimable man and his obsolete monarchist ideas.

  But for these two notable merits, the school curricula and the teaching methods are so far removed from my own ideals that I remain profoundly indifferent.

  Between courses, bored stiff, I seek out activities of interest. I begin a sort of military training, shooting at rats from the school window, using a slingshot I always carry. I sometimes skip classes and run to the Opera House in Linz to watch my favorite Wagner operas. Undersized and pale, I look younger than my ag
e, which gets me large discounts off the admission tickets.

  I fail another course; this time it’s French. I feel utterly intoxicated by school, this awful place only matching the purgatory so brilliantly described by Dante in his Divine Comedy. Soon enough, this school-intolerance reflects in the state of my health. Overcome with a lung infection, I find it impossible to continue my studies and am permitted to interrupt them. What I had secretly desired for such a long time, and had persistently fought for, now becomes a reality almost at one stroke.

  Freed from Father’s dictatorial doctrine and exempted from all that tiring schoolwork, I now discover life anew—and what an uninterrupted wonder it is. Not even my convalescence has the power to suppress my soaring spirit. Day and night I daydream about all the things I will do once I recover, and this exuberance cures my body, as well as my spirit, much sooner than expected. Each day proves to be a blessing, and this time of my life will be one of the happiest, if not the best, I was ever permitted to live. Gone are Father’s thrashings. Only Mother’s love and affection remain. Gone are the endless, nasty monologues of my teachers. Only the eternal, present moment remains. And this present moment demands to be lived freely, without wasting it confined to classroom concrete walls, and without obsessing over the merciless seconds ticking away.

  Father has left us in a comfortable financial situation and I am given pocket money daily. It’s not much, but is enough to allow me to visit the museums and Opera House in Linz whenever I wish.

  One of the most beautiful Wagnerian operas, Tristan and Isolde, was to be performed one late afternoon. I was extremely excited to attend, and though I know the story, it’s the first time I will see it in a theatre. I dress carefully, comb my hair down onto my forehead, and take the long road to Linz. I have money for public transportation, but I prefer to walk, as it releases my nervous energy and helps me, if only in my thoughts, work out applications for the many plans sprouting in my mind. My lungs are still weak, but I know the fresh air does them good.

  Arriving well before the opening, I discover that the admission ticket is quite expensive. Even at a discounted rate, I can only afford a space in the standing hall. But, I don’t really care, since I cannot sit still, anyway. Plus, the acoustics in the Promenade Hall, as the standing hall is called, are better than in any other part of the Opera House.

  I had arrived long before the performance began for two reasons.

  One was, of course, my everlasting impatience when it comes to everything regarding the arts. The other was that I absolutely must occupy the best spot in the hall, which is near either of the two pillars supporting the royal balcony. These two spots are acoustically unmatched in the entire hall, and both also offer an unobstructed view of the stage. I decide on the right pillar and hurry to it. Then, taking my coat off, I lean comfortably against it.

  Hundreds of people, all extravagantly attired, fill the seats in the hall. The lights go down, then off, and the opera comes to life. Right from the first notes, goosebumps pebble my skin and utter euphoria invades me.

  Music, I have found, is the only thing that gives me this exhilarating sensation.

  The tragic story comes so much more richly to life when told in melodic line. It is set in the Middle Ages, during the reign of King Arthur, and tells of the passionate love blossoming between Tristan, a Breton noble, and Isolde, an Irish princess. An ardent, yet impossible, love affair. Isolde is on her way to meet her future husband, King Marc, who has sent a messenger to fetch his future queen. Tristan, who is bound with the task of carrying Isolde safely to Cornwall, falls madly in love with her, yet Isolde has no choice but to marry King Marc. Despite this, the relationship between the two secretly continues. In learning of their love, King Marc forgives Isolde, but banishes Tristan, who runs to Brittany. There, he meets Izeult. He is attracted to her because her name is similar to that of his true love. He marries her, but does not consummate the marriage, being unable to forget Isolde. He falls ill and sends for his true love, hoping that seeing her will help him to recover. If she agrees to come, the sails of her ship must be white. Isolde decides to come, but Izeult sees the white sails first. Blinded by jealousy, she runs to tell Tristan that the sails are black. He dies of a broken heart. Hearing the tragic news, Isolde also dies out of grief for her lost lover.

  With the first act now over, the curtain slowly descends to hide the stage behind it. Applause coming from my left makes me wince, and I curiously turn around and look for the source. The rest of the audience turns about as well to stare thunderstruck in the same direction. The overly inspired person, a young man of about my own age, looks visibly embarrassed by the attention he has attracted. His cheeks flush bright crimson and his expression is aghast. He looks as though he is about to run away. I’ve seen this fellow before and recognize him as one of the theatre’s regulars. He leans against the other pillar, surely knowing, just like myself, that it is one of the two best places in the hall.

  I’m surprised he wasn’t aware of the unspoken rule about applause and Wagnerian staging. It’s more of a tradition than a rule, born of a misunderstanding that sprung from Wagner’s desire to maintain a tragic mood until the opera’s end. At the premiere, he had forbidden the audience to encore the actors. Confused by his strange request, they refrained from applauding as well. The tradition continues to this day, but obviously, not everyone is aware of it. I elbow my way toward the visibly embarrassed young man and smile.

  “You enjoyed the first act, I gather.”

  The tall boy with delicate features blushes again.

  “Oh, very much so. But, my gaffe!” he says, lowering his gaze. I’m immediately attracted to this young man, whose timidity I perceive as a quality that I lack.

  “Well, one thing is certain. From now on you’ll save your applauses for the end!”

  “As certain as tomorrow’s daylight!” Somehow, my presence relaxes him and he becomes chatty. “Tell me, how did you find Tristan’s performance? I declare myself utterly disappointed!”

  “You’ve noticed, too?” I exclaim, my eyes alight at finding someone to match my exigence. “It’s my first time seeing the opera, but Tristan’s character was totally unconvincing. Even I would have been a much better deal!”

  My words make him smile. “You think?”

  “I sure do! Aside from that, I held my breath throughout!”

  My new friend begins to critique the acoustics, tonality, high notes, low notes, and many other musical details. His words are foreign to me, and I even get a little envious of his expertise. In the middle of his expounding, the lights go off, signaling that the second act was about to begin. I retire to my spot and listen in silence the rest of the opera.

  Once it’s over, I decide to accompany my new friend on a stroll through the city. We exchange impressions about the opera we’ve just seen and I am pleased to discover we hold similar perspectives. My attachment to him grows.

  “Where are my manners?” I suddenly blurt, halting mid-step.

  “How do you mean?”

  “I forgot to ask for your name! Unacceptable!”

  “Oh. August Kubizek.” He reaches out to shake my hand. “I was named after the month I was born in.” He gives a shy smile, as if embarrassed by his own name.

  I pat him on the shoulder to comfort him. “My august friend! I shall call you … Gustl. It suits your kind nature better.”

  “I like it!” he says, rubbing his chin, and we continue walking.

  “Tell me, Gustl, what do you do?”

  “I am an artist. A musician.”

  “Ah! I should have guessed by all that musical knowledge you displayed earlier. What instrument do you play?”

  “Instruments, rather. Violin, trumpet, and trombone.” He no longer looks shy, but proud.

  “A complete artist, aren’t you? You surely make your parents proud. I’m also an artist, a painter, and I will soon be the best. You must never give up and practice often. Feed your imagination with dreams and you’
ll become a great musician!” I felt compelled to give advice, lest he might think himself smarter than me.

  He doesn’t reply, just stares at the gigantic cobblestones we’re stepping on.

  “Do you hear me?” I demand, halting again and pulling his arm so he faces me. “You are not to doubt any of your dreams! Work for it every day, and most importantly, do not let anyone stand in your way!”

  The dismay in his eyes intrigues me.

  “My father isn’t as excited as you are about my gift. Pure dilettantism, is what he calls it, unproductive time wasting!” He twists his face comically, impersonating his father.

  All this sounds so familiar, so similar to my own past troubles. A sudden bout of anger overtakes me and I begin to furiously gesture.

  “You ought to quit mingling with the grown-ups! These people are full of bizarre ideas and all they’ll do is hinder your plans! I talk to my relatives only rarely. They keep nagging me to learn a trade! Can you imagine?”

  My friend furrows his brows in puzzlement.

  “Promise me, Gustl! Swear it to me that you’ll quit spending time around them!”

  He looks amused, yet grateful, then exclaims, “I promise!” He straightens his back and raises his chin, as if taking an order from a mighty general.

  We burst into cheerful laughter and I know that we are thinking about the same thing: our joy at having found each other.

  I throw my arm around his neck as we tread the streets, now bathed in the warm glow from the gas lamps. Passing by large buildings, I share my ambitious architectural plans with him without sparing a single detail. He hangs on my words and responds with admiration. I notice a glint in his eyes and think that if my ideas are so fascinating, I am certain, now more than ever, that they are bound to become true.