At long last the great moment arrived. Adolf, beaming with delight, came to see me at the workshop, where we were very busy at that time. ‘I’m leaving tomorrow,’ he said briefly. He asked me to accompany him to the station, as he did not want his mother to come. I knew how painful it would have been for Adolf to take leave of his mother in front of other people. He disliked nothing more than showing his feelings in public. I promised him to come and help him with his luggage.
Next day I took time off and went to the Blütengasse to collect my friend. Adolf had prepared everything. I took his suitcase, which was rather heavy with books he did not want to leave behind, and hurried away to avoid being present at the farewells. Yet I could not avoid them entirely. His mother was crying and little Paula, whom Adolf had never bothered with much, was sobbing in a heart-rending manner. When Adolf caught up with me on the stairs and helped me with the suitcase, I saw that his eyes too were wet. We took the tram to the railway station, chatting about trivialities, as often happens when one wants to hide one’s feelings. It moved me deeply to say goodbye to Adolf, and I felt miserable going home alone. It was a good thing that there was so much work waiting for me at the workshop.
Unfortunately, our correspondence of that period is lost. I only remember that for several weeks I had no news at all from him. And it was during those days that I felt most deeply how much he meant to me. Other young people of my age did not interest me, as I knew in advance that they would only turn out to be disappointing, with few other interests than their own shallow and superficial doings. Adolf was much more serious and mature than most people of his age. His horizon was wide and his passionate interest in everything had carried me along with it. Now I felt very lonely and miserable, and to find some comfort I went to the Blütengasse to see Frau Klara. Talking to somebody so fond of Adolf would certainly make me feel better.
I thought that Adolf would already have written to his mother, for after all it was a fortnight since he had left, and I would get his address and write to him, according to instructions, of all that had transpired meanwhile. Actually, not much had happened, but for Adolf every detail was important. I had seen Stefanie at the Schmiedtoreck and indeed she had been surprised to see me there alone, for that much she knew about us, that in this ‘affair’ I played only a secondary role. The chief protagonist was missing. That seemed strange to her. What could it mean? Though Adolf was only a silent admirer, he was more persistent and tenacious than all the others. She did not want to lose this faithful adorer. Her enquiring glance caught me so unexpectedly that I was almost tempted to address her. But Stefanie was not alone, being, as usual, accompanied by her mother, and moreover my friend had given me strict instructions to wait until Stefanie herself asked me. Surely, as soon as she realised that he had gone for good she would take the opportunity of running over the bridge alone to entreat me impetuously to tell her what had become of my friend. Perhaps he had had an accident, or he was ill again as he was that time two years ago, or perhaps even dead. Unthinkable! Anyhow, though that conversation had not yet taken place, I had enough material to fill four pages of a letter. But what on earth had happened to Adolf? Not a line from him. Frau Klara opened the door to me and greeted me warmly, and I could see that she had been longing for me to come. ‘Have you heard from Adolf?’ she asked me, still at the door. So he had not written to his mother either, and this made me feel anxious. Something out of the ordinary must have happened. Perhaps things had not gone according to plan in Vienna.
Frau Klara offered me a chair. I saw how much good it did her to be able to unburden herself. Ah, the old lament, which I had come to know by heart! But I listened patiently. ‘If only he had studied properly at the Realschule he would almost be ready to matriculate. But he won’t listen to anybody.’ And she added, ‘He’s as pig-headed as his father. Why this crazy journey to Vienna? Instead of holding on to his little legacy, it’s just being frittered away. And after that? Nothing will come of his painting. And story writing doesn’t earn anything either. And I can’t help him – I’ve got Paula to look after. You know yourself what a sickly child she is but, just the same, she must get a decent education. Adolf doesn’t give it a thought, he goes his way, just as if he were alone in the world. I shall not live to see him making an independent position for himself …’
Frau Klara seemed more careworn than ever. Her face was deeply lined. Her eyes were lifeless, her voice sounded tired and resigned. I had the impression that, now that Adolf was no longer there, she had let herself go, and she looked older and more ailing than ever. She certainly had concealed her condition from her son to make the parting easier for him. Or perhaps it was Adolf’s impulsive nature that kept up her vitality. Now, on her own, she seemed to me an old, sick woman.
I forget, unfortunately, what happened during the course of the following weeks. Adolf had briefly informed me of his address. He was living in the 6th District at 29 Stumpergasse, Staircase II, second floor, door No. 17, in the flat of a woman with the curious name of Zakreys. That was all he wrote. But I guessed that there was more behind this obstinate silence, for I knew that Adolf’s silences usually meant that he was too proud to talk.
I quote therefore from his own description in Mein Kampf of his second sojourn in Vienna, which by general consent is entirely truthful:
I had gone to Vienna with the intention of taking the entrance examination for the Academy. I had set out, armed with a thick wad of drawings, convinced that it would be child’s play to pass. At the Realschule I had been by far the best in my class at drawing, and since then my ability had developed quite extraordinarily, so I was quite satisfied with myself and this made me hope, proudly and happily, for the best …
So here I was for the second time in the beautiful city, waiting impatiently but hopefully for the results of the entrance examination. I was so sure of success that the news of my rejection hit me like a bolt from the blue. Yet that was what happened. When I went to see the rector and asked to know the reasons why I had not been admitted to the General Painting School of the Academy, I was told by this gentleman that the drawings I had submitted showed clearly that I had no aptitude for painting, my ability seemed rather to lie in the field of architecture, and I should not go to the Painting School, but rather to the Academy’s School of Architecture. That I had never been to an architectural school, nor received any training in architecture, seemed to him hard to believe.
Defeated, I left the monumental building on the Schiller Platz for the first time in my young life at variance with myself, for what I had been told about my ability seemed to me to disclose in a flash the discord from which I had long suffered without, hitherto, clearly realising the whys and wherefores of it.
In a few days I knew inwardly that I would become an architect. Yet this was an incredibly difficult path, for what I had missed out of obstinacy at the Realschule now took its bitter revenge. Admission to the School of Architecture was dependent on attending a technical school for building, and entrance to the latter required one to have matriculated from a secondary school. I did not meet any of these conditions and, as far as could be foreseen therefore, the fulfillment of my dream to become an artist was impossible.
He had been refused by the Academy; he had failed even before he had got a footing in Vienna. Nothing more terrible could have happened to him. But he was too proud to talk about it, and so he concealed from me what had occurred. He concealed it from his mother too. When later we met again, he had to some extent already lived down this hard verdict. He did not mention it at all. I respected his silence and did not ask him any questions because I suspected that something had gone wrong with his plans. Not until the next year, when we were lodging together in Vienna, did all these circumstances gradually become clear to me.
Adolf’s talent for architecture was so obvious that it would have justified an exception – how many less talented students were to be found at the Academy! This decision was therefore as biased and bureaucratic as it
was unjust. Yet Adolf’s reaction to this humiliation was typical. He made no attempt to obtain exceptional treatment or to humiliate himself in front of people who did not understand him. There was neither revolt nor rebellion, instead came a radical withdrawal into himself, an obstinate resolve to cope alone with adversity, an embittered ‘now, more than ever!’ which he flung at the gentlemen of the Schiller Platz just as, two years earlier, he had settled his account with his school teachers. Whatever disappointments life brought him, they were but a spur for him to brave all obstacles and to continue on the path on which he had embarked.
In Mein Kampf he wrote: ‘As the goddess of misery took me in her arms and so often threatened to break me, the will to resist grew, and in the end the will triumphed.’
* * *
Chapter 13
His Mother’s Death
I remember that Adolf’s mother had to undergo a serious operation at the beginning of 1907. She was then in the hospital of the Sisters of Mercy in the Herrenstrasse, and he visited her there daily. The surgeon in charge of her case was a Dr Urban. I forget what her illness was, but it was probably cancer of the breast. Although Frau Klara recovered sufficiently to run her household again, she remained very weak and ailing, and every now and again she had to take to her bed. Yet a few weeks after Adolf had left for Vienna she seemed to be better, for I met her by chance on the Promenade where, at that time, a street market used to be held, peasant women coming in from the country to sell eggs, butter and vegetables. ‘Adolf is all right,’ she told me contentedly, ‘If only I knew what on earth he is studying! Unfortunately, he does not mention that at all. However, I imagine that he is very busy.’
That was good news which pleased me too, for Adolf had not written to me about his activities in Vienna. Our correspondence was mainly concerned with Benkieser – otherwise Stefanie. But his mother must not be told of that, of course. I asked Frau Klara how she was. Not at all well, she said; she had a lot of bad pain, and very often could not sleep at night. But she warned me not to write to Adolf about it, for perhaps she would soon be better. When we parted she asked me to come to see her again soon.
We were then very busy in the workshop, indeed business had never before been as good as in that year, and orders came in regularly and often. Yet in spite of this heavy work, I devoted every moment of my leisure to my musical training. I played the viola both in the Music Society and the great Symphony Orchestra. So the weeks passed, and it was late in November when at last I found time to visit Frau Hitler. I was shocked when I saw her. How wilted and worn was her kind, gentle face. She was lying in bed and stretched out her pale, thin hand to me. Little Paula pushed a chair up beside her. She started at once to talk about Adolf and was happy about the hopeful tone of his letters. I asked her if she had informed him of her illness and offered to do so for her in case writing was too great an effort. But she refused hastily. If her condition did not improve, she said, she would have to send for Adolf from Vienna. She was sorry she had to tear him away from his hard work – but what else could she do? The little one had to go to school every day, Angela had enough worries of her own (she was expecting a second baby), and she could not rely on her son-in-law Raubal at all. Since she had taken Adolf’s side and supported him in his decision to go to Vienna, Raubal had been angry with her and now never showed up; he had even prevented his wife Angela from looking after her. So there was nothing left but to go to the hospital as the doctor had advised, she said. The Hitler’s family doctor was the very popular Dr Bloch, known in the town as the ‘poor people’s doctor’, an excellent physician and a man of great kindness who sacrificed himself for his patients. If Dr Bloch had advised Frau Hitler to go to Spital hospital, her condition must be grave. I was wondering whether it was not, after all, my duty to inform Adolf. Frau Klara had said how awful it was for her that Adolf was so far away. I never realised as clearly as on that visit how devoted she was to her son. She thought and planned for his welfare with all the strength that was left to her. In the end, she promised me that she would tell Adolf of her condition.
When I took leave of her that evening, I was very dissatisfied with myself. Was there no way of helping the poor woman? I knew how devoted Adolf was to his mother; something had to be done. If his mother really needed help, little Paula was too clumsy and too frightened to be of any use. When I got home I talked to my mother. She offered at once to look after Frau Hitler even though she was a complete stranger, but this was vetoed by my father who, with his exaggerated ideas of correct behaviour, thought it was bad manners to offer one’s help without being asked. A few days later I went again to see Frau Klara. I found her up, busy in the kitchen. She felt somewhat better and she was already regretting that she had told Adolf about her illness. I stayed with her a long time that evening. She was more talkative than usual and, quite contrary to her habit, she began to tell me about her life. Some of it I understood, and a lot I guessed at, though much was left unsaid; nevertheless, the story of a life of suffering was disclosed to a young man then in the full hopes of his nineteen years.
But in the workshop time was pressing, and my father was a strict boss. Even concerning my artistic ambitions he used to say: work first – then music. And with a special performance coming on, there was one orchestral rehearsal after another. Sometimes I literally did not know how to cram everything in. Then one morning, as I was energetically filling a mattress, Adolf suddenly appeared in the room. He looked terrible. His face was so pale as to be almost transparent, his eyes were dull and his voice hoarse. I felt that a storm of suffering must be hidden behind his icy demeanour. He gave me the impression that he was fighting for life against a hostile fate.
There was hardly a greeting, no question about Stefanie, nothing about what he had been doing in Vienna. ‘Incurable, the doctor says’ – this was all he could utter. I was shocked by the unequivocal diagnosis. Probably Dr Bloch had told him of his mother’s condition. Perhaps he had called in another doctor for consultation and could not reconcile himself to this cruel verdict.
His eyes blazed, his temper flared up. ‘Incurable – what do they mean by that?’ he screamed. ‘Not that the malady is incurable, but that the doctors aren’t capable of curing it. My mother isn’t even old. Forty-seven isn’t an age where you give up hope. But as soon as the doctors can’t do anything, they call it incurable.’
I was familiar with my friend’s habit of turning everything he came across into a problem. But never had he spoken with such bitterness, with such passion as now. Suddenly it seemed to me as though Adolf, pale, excited, shaken to the core, stood there arguing and bargaining with Death, who remorselessly claimed its victim.
I asked Adolf if I could help. He did not hear me – he was too busy with this settling of accounts. Then he interrupted himself and declared in a sober, matter-of-fact voice: ‘I shall stay in Linz and keep house for my mother.’ ‘Can you do that?’ I asked. ‘One can do anything when one has to’, and he said no more.
I went with him as far as the street. Now, I thought, he would certainly ask after Stefanie; perhaps he had not liked to mention her in the workshop. I would have been glad if he had, because I had carried out my instructions faithfully and could tell him a good deal, even though the expected conversation had not taken place. I also hoped that Adolf, in his deep spiritual affliction, would find comfort in the thought of Stefanie. And it certainly was so. Stefanie meant more to him in those dark weeks than ever before. But he stifled any mention of her, so deeply was he engrossed in his preoccupation for his mother.
I cannot recollect exactly when Adolf returned from Vienna. It was perhaps late in November, but possibly even December. But the weeks that follow remain indelibly in my memory; they were, in a certain sense, the most beautiful, the most intimate weeks of our friendship. How deeply these days impressed me can be gathered from the mere fact that from no other period of our association do so many details stand out in my memory. He was as though transformed. So far I had be
en certain that I knew him thoroughly and in all his aspects. After all, we had lived closely together for more than three years in an exclusive friendship that did not permit of any secrets. Yet in those weeks it seemed to me that my friend had become a different person.
Gone were the problems and ideas which used to agitate him so much, gone all thought of politics. Even his artistic interests were hardly noticeable. He was nothing but his mother’s faithful and helpful son.
I had not taken Adolf very seriously when he said that he would now take over the household in the Blütengasse, for I knew Adolf’s low opinion of such monotonous chores, necessary though they were. And so I was sceptical as to his good intentions and imagined that they would not exceed a few well-meant gestures. But I was profoundly mistaken. I did not understand that side of Adolf sufficiently, and had not realised that his unbounded love for his mother would enable him to carry out this unaccustomed domestic work so efficiently that she could not praise him enough for it. Thus one day on my arrival at the Blütengasse I found Adolf kneeling on the floor. He was wearing a blue apron and scrubbing out the kitchen, which had not been cleaned for a long time. I was really immensely surprised and I must have shown it, for Frau Klara smiled in spite of her pain and said to me: ‘There, you see, Adolf can do anything.’ Then I noticed that Adolf had changed the furniture around. His mother’s bed now stood in the kitchen because that was heated during the day. The kitchen cupboard had been moved into the living room, and in its place was the couch, on which Adolf slept, so that he could be near her during the night as well. Paula slept in the living room.
The Young Hitler I Knew Page 15
