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

by A G Mogan

  Her carriage is so close to me that the wildflowers’ scent invades my nostrils. I watch my beloved like a marble statue, fixing its onlookers with cold dead eyes. My mind whispers: if life denies us, death surely would not. No sooner do I hear this thought, than my beauty gazes back at me, and a wave of current traverses my entire body. From among the hundreds of spectators, she looks at me, she smiles at me. It is the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. She then plucks a flower from the bouquet she holds in her hands and throws it at my feet. Paralyzed by nervousness, all I manage to do is follow her with my eyes as she disappears, blocked by the next carriage. I bend down to pick up the flower, a tiny blue cornflower, emanating a divine scent. It is the scent of love, the scent of life.

  I grab Gustl by his shirt and drag him away from the crowd’s prying eyes.

  “She loves me! You saw it with your own eyes! She loves me!” I yell desperately, wiping my tears with the sleeve of my coat.

  My friend gathers his hands, as if in prayer. His eyes are glowing with happiness and relief. “I am so happy!”

  “I told you! I always knew it! It was time you saw it, too!”

  “I am so happy … ” he repeats, and I burst into laughter.

  “I am happy, too, my good friend.” I stuff the tiny cornflower inside the locket Mother gave me for Christmas.

  “ … that you gave up that dreadful plan you had. I was so afraid!” He takes his turn in weeping.

  “What plan?” I ask, faking puzzlement.

  “The Danube … the river … you wanted to─”

  “Ah, that! You didn’t really believe it, did you?”

  “Sure I did!”

  I pat him jovially on the shoulder.

  “You silly head! I just wanted to test your loyalty!”

  Only rarely have I felt the relief that invaded me a few moments ago, when my Valkyrie smiled at me. Of course she is no mortal, for a mere mortal would have never been able to bring the dead back to life. A mere mortal would have never been able to ignite such a burning flame within my soul. And yet it is guilt that grapples with my soul now, guilt at having doubted my lover’s feelings even for a moment, guilt at having doubted her intelligence, and her ability to hide that sizzling flame burning in her soul for me.

  Love truly has a special role in this world and I resolve to shatter all the barriers I have erected in its path.

  Brilliant Star

  I am in Leonding, inside the church. I ran here out of a compulsive need to hide, more spiritually than physically. Yet how could a church be an appropriate place to hide spiritually?

  For me it is, as I perceive it as the least willing of all places to scrutinize you, having enough of those self-indulgent priests, whose consciences surely need a much more thorough purgation than those of any other common mortals.

  Here, among the poor peasants, burdened by the same institution, the Church, with agonizing feelings of guilt, I feel safe. They come in droves, leaving their coins behind in the illusory hope that this would buy the goodwill of their Almighty. I look at every one of them. They all look as if they just committed a horrendous crime and ran here to await their everlasting damnation, all the while hoping their bitter money would lighten it. The poor, wretched herds...

  I mingle with the men singing in the choir, announcing the commencement of the Mass. I open my mouth to join them, but no sound comes out. It’s as if an invisible, malefic force twirled its arms around my neck and squeezes. I struggle for air, terrified and see that the men surrounding me continue to sing, as if I was a ghost.

  A frightening laugh, coming from the private praying room at the back of the church brings their chanting to a halt. I make my way toward it and push the doors wide open.

  Inside, I see a priest surrounded by strangely-attired monks. Their backs are turned to me, and they are performing some sort of ritual or sacrifice. The terrifying laughter breaks the silence again, then stops as abruptly as it started. The priest’s head snaps around to face me, and I freeze. It’s … it’s Father! My own father! He looks as he did when I last saw him, with glassy eyes and bluish skin. He looks me straight in the eyes, but his gaze is not his, it’s someone else’s … I don’t know how I know … it’s the gaze of … Death!

  “Are you afraid, boy?” he asks in Father’s voice, then laughs that horrible laugh again. I want to shout out that nothing in this world could scare me, much less Death, but only a swishing sound comes from my mouth.

  “Lost your voice. Soon, your eyesight,” he continues, his horrendous voice causing me to erupt in goosebumps.

  “And your faith in God!” says the monk beside the death-Father-priest, and when he turns to face me, I recognize Raubal, my scoundrel brother-in-law.

  One after another, the monks turn to face me, and I recognize them all: Alois and Johann, even my brother Edmund, who is now a grown man, the postman and Dr. Bloch, holding a dagger in his hand while blood flows down his sleeve, and finally, Angela, who I am surprised to see wearing monk clothes. They were all staring at me with those frozen, dead eyes.

  Further back, in a corner, I see Mother, looking so different than the rest, a glowing light surrounding her frame. Somehow, she is the only one left untouched by the cold gaze of Death. I begin to shake uncontrollably, waves of sweat flooding my entire body.

  “Good-for-naught … ” I hear the priest’s voice again. The echo of his words bounce back from all around the church…

  …good-for-naught … good-for-naught...

  Distracted by the echo, I turn my gaze away from them for a moment, and when I look back they have all disappeared, leaving dozens of black ravens behind. They flutter their wings violently, making a deafening noise. I run out of the church as fast as I can, but they catch me up and thrust their sharp beaks into my flesh, snatching big chunks of it from my body. I feel Death for what it really is.

  All of a sudden, my voice returns and I begin to scream. I jerk my hands and legs to get those beasts off me, desperately crawling to escape their merciless beaks.

  Still screaming, I open my eyes, and through semi-darkness see the familiar surroundings of my bedroom. Someone is shaking me by the shoulders and I kick my legs thinking that the monks have returned for me.

  “Shhh, my dear … shhh.” I hear Mother’s voice, as calm as ever. “You had a bad dream.” She reaches for a towel to wipe the sweat off my forehead and neck.

  I throw my arms about her neck. “You were there, among them, in the church, all dead!”

  She caresses my disheveled, sweat-soaked hair. “I am here, child, right here.”

  “But you were there, in Leonding’s church, and Father was the priest, but somehow it wasn’t really him … ”

  “And why be afraid, child? You were in the house of the Lord!”

  “No, no, no! The only one missing from there was God! Death was there, haunting his house! I felt … I felt Death biting me, snatching chunks of my flesh away!” I continue shouting and shaking. “Don’t leave me, please, don’t leave me!”

  “Shhh, I’m here, dear child. Always here.”

  I curl up at her chest, safe and protected in her arms.

  No matter how hard I try to be the stronger one, the protective one, the one on whose shoulder she could lean on, I keep returning to the role of helpless child, begging for maternal affection. Child with strong personality is how she sometimes calls me, but it isn’t true. Of the two of us, contrary to all appearances, she is the stronger one. She is the one who bravely stood up to Father for so many years, not with an iron fist, but with gentle mercy. She is the one who had to relinquish four of her children to the merciless clutches of death, surviving those tragedies with the resignation of a saint. She is the one who kept us all united until the end and who accepted her fate with the serenity of a naïve child.

  I realize, once again, that one’s strength of character lies in one’s ability to let go, to be unburdened by the fear of getting hurt. It lies in one’s ability to accept, yield, and com
ply to anything, good or bad, to keep the flame burning in one’s eyes, even in the face of disaster.

  At the same time, I also realize I am not molded in this way: mild, permissive, malleable. Rather, I was born to fight. To fight everything opposing my own way. To honestly believe that it isn’t blood flowing through my veins, but burning lava, a consuming fire that nourishes my spirit and my unshakable willpower.

  I accept being built differently, and even though I admire Mother’s qualities, I revere and honor mine ─ and take pride in my superiority over others.

  I remain awake long after Mother dozes off beside me and finally carry her to her bed. Then, throwing a sweater over my shoulders, I step out into the yard.

  The darkness still lingers and billions of stars cover the clear sky like a magical carpet. I lay on my back, eyes turned skywards, and randomly count the stars, perhaps many of them several times over, until my neck stiffens and my eyes tire. Closing them, I reflect on my earlier nightmare. I wonder what Father meant when he said I would lose my eyesight, and Raubal, my faith in God. As I recall their words, a shiver runs throughout my entire body. I am afraid still. Taking a deep breath, I struggle to banish the dream and any questions about it from my memory.

  But one persists, sticking to my brain like a leech … good-for-naught … good-for-naught …

  Spurred by an acute sense of frustration, I spring to my feet, return to my bedroom and lock the door. Nobody would bother me at this late hour, so I have no idea why I’ve done that.

  Good-for-naught, as Father, or Death, called me, didn’t sound as terrifying while I was gazing at the stars in all their greatness ─ static, massive, brilliant. I realize that I am one of them, and my value must not depend on the onlooker’s perception, but on what I already am. Simple as that. I am a star and all I need to do is show my brilliance to the world. Father was so terribly wrong.

  Sitting at the small table where I usually write my poems, I light a candle and, write the following:

  My dear Godparents,

  I cannot describe in simple words the joy I felt when I received your letter last winter. Equally, you cannot imagine the regret I now feel for not replying much earlier, but in my defense, I must say that many unpleasant things occurred after the arrival of your letter, very important things that required my absolute attention and presence. I shall recount everything to you next month when we will see each other, for I have decided to visit you. Is Vienna just as breathtaking in September as it is in winter?

  I choose my departure date to be on the 5th of September, thinking I should allow enough time for you to receive the news of my arrival, but also because at the beginning of the month the train ticket is much cheaper. The train from Linz will arrive in Vienna at 1:45 pm. To recognize me…now I am tall, slim, with brown hair. I will wear short, blue pants with braces, brown jacket, and a black hat.

  I embrace you with warmth and gratitude.

  Your godson,

  Adolf

  Content with what I’ve written, I put down the pencil and stretch back in the chair. There is one more letter I must write, but this one makes me nervous.

  I pull the backpack out of the closet, still packed from the day I received word from the doctor to come at once to his office, now some seven months ago. I remove the drawings and paintings and shove them in a bulky folder containing dozens of other paintings I had done over the past year.

  Collectively, they were in either very dark or strident shades, each representing the emotion I experienced at that moment. In one, I reproduced the Opera House in Linz, its facades heavily soaked by rain, with spectators hiding under umbrellas, their faces sad. I painted it the day Stefanie was flirting with the officer. Another reveals two aged hands that clasp a burning Bible between them. It was created upon learning of Mother’s illness. A third depicts a small cornflower against a harsh golden background. I painted it the day Stefanie threw the flower at my feet, declaring her eternal love for me.

  And so on … it is an impressive collection I am proud of, a collection that will secure my admittance at the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts.

  “Academic painter,” I whisper. The silence in my room renders these two words so real, so charged with possibilities, so close to being realized.

  When the first rays of sunlight enter my room, I jump out of bed, get dressed, grab a piece of bread from the kitchen, and step into the street. I sprint to the city center to send the letter to Vienna. The warmth of the sun caresses my face, while the crisp morning air causes my nostrils to flare. I feel happy. I feel — at peace.

  Arriving at the post office, I realize it’s not yet open. As always, my excitement made me forget that not everyone and everything revolves around my desires. Returning home is pointless, so I head toward the Cathedral, only two buildings away. As I sit on its steps, I breathe in the morning air again and pull from my breast pocket the two letters I wrote. I double-check the address on the one addressed to my godparents, and then shove it back in my coat. I stare at the second letter, written at dawn, and trace its edges with my fingers. Here, in the light of day, I can clearly see my insecurity in the shaky, uncertain handwriting. I re-read it to make sure I conveyed everything I felt.

  My beloved Stefanie,

  I know it is the first time I address words to you, and, somehow, it hurts me that they are but scribblings on a piece of paper. But there are, as you know, many reasons for which I decided as such. One would be that my social position does not allow me to court you. Not yet. The goddess of an unfavorable fate decided that I was to be born into a much needier family than yours, but this should not be a concern for you. Leave everything in my care, and you will be surprised by what I will be able to do for us. “We” sounds so good, so real, so close that I get overwhelmed with emotion. Excitement like what we both feel when we look into each other’s eyes. I feel so much admiration for the intelligent way in which you decided to hide from the rest of the world the love you have for me. Thus, I found in you an equal partner in thinking, a fact I never thought possible, especially in a girl. Please do not believe me abrasive, I just state the truth I notice with joy every day.

  Another reason is that I am still unworthy in your mother's view and attitude toward me, and to ask you for my wife, I must have a respectable job as an officer, for example, which I saw she favors. But you, my love, keep doing her bidding until I will soon come to see you. Therefore, I write these words wanting to tell you that in September I will be a student at the Vienna Academy of Arts.

  Once installed among the academics, I will rent a house I have already visualized in my imagination, and you will come to live there. All you have to do is to wait for me and never doubt my words. Ah, but what am I saying? We need not words, my dear, do we?

  If you want to write me back or anything else, write to August Kubizek, at the address you find besides this letter, as I am still not having a stable address in Vienna. Being a reliable comrade, he will immediately send me anything.

  Now to conclude, my dear, I am too overwhelmed with emotion to add much more; do not forget to count on my love and more than anything: WAIT FOR ME!

  I re-fold the letter and decide to leave it unaltered.

  My shaky writing, my grammatical mistakes, will only emphasize my intensity of emotion; hence, the love I bear in my heart for her. I decide not to sign my name either, as I know that an anonymity riddle would be a piece of cake for my beloved’s intuition to solve. I also instruct Gustl to deliver the letter only after I have left Linz.

  The following month I spend my time dreaming, my head in the clouds, fantasizing about my departure. I’ve never before felt so much passion toward my future prospects, except maybe once ─ after Father died and I tasted the sweet flavor of freedom. I know now, just as I knew then, that anything I choose to do, I can do. The only difference is that now my whole future is painted in bright colors by Stefanie’s love, which adds another dimension to my mounting excitement.

  Convincing Mother to
let me go proves to be a hard task. To my surprise, Aunt Johanna intervenes on my behalf. She not only succeeds in soothing Mother’s fears, telling her I must be set free to find my way in the world, but she also offers me an incredible amount of money, probably her lifetime savings, without any instruction on how to spend it. She is not all that dreadful, after all.

  The evening preceding my departure, I stroll one last time on the Landstrasse Boulevard, but I do not halt at the end of the bridge. Instead, I hide among the trees in the nearby park. I urge Gustl to wait alone for my beloved, while I watch her from a safe distance. I cannot bear to let her see the sadness tormenting me today, my anguish at the thought that tomorrow a great distance will come between us.

  At five o’clock sharp, I glimpse those unmistakable blonde curls. She wears a yellow dress and navy-blue sandals, with a matching lace hat.

  Today, her beauty hurts me and I stare at her, hoping her face imprints on my retina, never to be erased. She passes Gustl, then halts and turns to look him in the eyes. Her smile is gone, her eyes are searching.

  Now I know. I know that she will wait for me.

  Thousand-And-One-Nights In Hell

  The departure day has finally arrived. The day I imagined a thousand times shows its dawn. I had barely slept, tossing and turning, and when sleep finally fetched me, the trip lasted only a moment.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, I prop my head in my hands and stare at the crammed full suitcase lying on the floor. I wonder if I can carry it to the train station.