I could not refrain from asking how he managed the cooking. ‘As soon as I’ve finished the scrubbing, you can see for yourself,’ said Adolf. But before I did, Frau Klara told me that every morning she discussed the dinner with Adolf. He always chose her favourite dishes and prepared them so well that she herself could not have done better. She enjoyed her food immensely, she insisted, and she had never eaten with such good appetite as since Adolf had returned.
I looked at Frau Klara, who had sat up in bed. The fervour of her words had coloured her usually pale cheeks. The pleasure of having her son back and his devotion to her had transfigured the serious, worn face. But behind this mother’s joy were the unmistakable signs of suffering. The deep lines, the drawn mouth and the sunken eyes showed how right the doctor had been.
To be sure, I should have known that my friend would not fail, even in this out-of-the-ordinary task, for whatever he did, he did thoroughly. Seeing the seriousness with which he carried out the running of the household, I suppressed a chaffing remark although Adolf, who was always so punctilious about his neat dress, certainly looked comical in his old clothes with the apron tied around him. Nor did I utter a word of appreciation, so touched was I by his changed attitude, knowing how much self-restraint this work was costing him.
Frau Klara’s condition was changeable. Her son’s presence improved her general state and cheered her up. Sometimes she would even get up in the afternoon and sit in the armchair. Adolf anticipated her every wish and took the most tender care of her. I had never before seen in him such loving tenderness. I did not trust my own eyes and ears. Not a cross word, not an impatient remark, no violent insistence on having his own way. He forgot himself entirely in those weeks and lived only for his mother. Although Adolf, according to Frau Klara, had inherited many of his father’s traits, I realised then how much his nature resembled his mother’s. Certainly this was partly due to the fact that he had spent the previous four years of his life alone with her. But over and above that there was a peculiar spiritual harmony between mother and son which I have never since come across. All that separated them was pushed into the background. Adolf never mentioned the disappointment which he had suffered in Vienna. For the time being, cares for the future no longer seemed to exist. An atmosphere of relaxed, almost serene contentment surrounded the dying woman.
Adolf, too, seemed to have forgotten everything that had preoccupied him. Only once, after I had said goodbye to Frau Klara, did he come to the door with me and ask me if I had seen Stefanie. But this question was now put in a different tone. It no longer expressed the impatience of the impetuous lover, but the secret anxiety of a young man who feared that fate would now deprive him of the last thing that made life worth living. I gathered from his hasty question how much this girl meant to him in those grave days, more perhaps than if she had actually been as close to him as he would have wished. I reassured him: I often met Stefanie going over the bridge with her mother and everything seemed unaltered.
December was cold and bleak. For days on end, a damp heavy mist hung over the Danube. The sun shone rarely and, when it did, appeared so feebly as to give no warmth at all. His mother’s condition deteriorated visibly and Adolf asked me to come only every other day. As often as I entered the kitchen Frau Klara greeted me by lifting her hand a little and stretching it out towards me, and a faint smile would pass over her face, now distorted with pain. I remember a small but significant incident. Going through Paula’s exercise books, Adolf had noticed that she was not getting on in school as well as her mother expected. Adolf took her by the hand and led her to their mother’s bed and there made her swear always to be a diligent and well-behaved pupil. Perhaps Adolf wanted to show his mother by this little scene that he had meanwhile realised his own faults. If he had stayed on at the Realschule until matriculation he would have avoided the disaster in Vienna. No doubt this decisive event which had, as he said later, for the first time put him at variance with himself, was at the back of his mind during those terrible days and added to his depression.
When I returned to the Blütengasse two days later and knocked softly on the door, Adolf opened it immediately, came out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. He told me that his mother was not at all well and was in terrible pain. Even more than his words, his emotion made me realise the seriousness of the situation. I thought it better to leave and Adolf agreed with me. We shook hands silently and I departed.
Christmas was approaching. Snow had fallen at last and the town had assumed a festive garb. But it did not feel like Christmas. I walked across the Danube bridge to Urfahr. I learned from the people in the house that Frau Klara had already received extreme unction. I wanted to make my visit as short as possible. I knocked, and Paula opened the door. I entered hesitantly. Frau Klara was sitting up in bed. Adolf had his arm around her shoulders to support her as the terrible pain was less severe when she was sitting up.
I remained standing by the door. Adolf signed to me to go. As I was opening the door, Frau Klara waved to me with her outstretched hand. I shall never forget the words which the dying woman then uttered in a whisper. ‘Gustl’, she said – usually she called me Herr Kubizek, but in that hour she used the name by which Adolf always called me – ‘go on being a good friend to my son when I’m no longer here. He has no one else.’ With tears in my eyes I promised, and then I went. This was the evening of 20 December.
The next day Adolf came to see us at home. He looked worn out and we could tell from his distraught face what had happened. His mother had died in the early hours of the morning, he said. It was her last wish to be buried at the side of her husband in Leonding. Adolf could hardly speak, so deeply shaken was he by the loss of his mother.
My parents expressed their sympathy, but my mother realised that the best thing was to turn to practical matters straight away. Arrangements had to be made for the funeral. Adolf had already seen the undertakers and the funeral was fixed for 23 December at nine o’clock. But there was much else to be seen to. The removal of the body to Leonding had to be arranged, the necessary documents procured and the funeral announcements printed. All this helped Adolf to get over his emotional shock, and he calmly made the necessary preparations.
On 23 December 1907, I went with my mother to the house of mourning. The weather had changed: it was thawing and the streets were covered in slush. The day was damp and misty, and one could hardly see the river. We entered the apartment to take leave of the deceased with flowers, as was customary. Frau Klara was laid out on her bed. Her waxen face was transfigured. I felt that death had come to her as a relief from terrible pain. Little Paula was sobbing, but Adolf restrained himself. Yet a glance at his face was sufficient to know how he had suffered in those hours. Not only had he now lost both his parents, but with his mother he had lost the only creature on earth on whom he had concentrated his love and who had loved him in return.
My mother and I went down into the street. The priest came. The body had been laid in the coffin, which was brought down to the hall. The priest blessed the deceased and then the small cortège moved off. Adolf followed the coffin. He wore a long, black overcoat, black gloves and carried in his hand, as was customary, a black top hat. The dark clothing made his white face seem even paler. He looked stern and composed. On his left, also in black, was his brother-in-law Raubal, and between them the eleven-year-old Paula. Angela, who was well advanced in pregnancy, followed the mourners in a closed carriage. The whole funeral made a wretched impression on me. In addition to my mother and myself, there were only a few tenants of No. 9 Blütengasse, and a few neighbours and acquaintances from their former home in the Humboldtstrasse. My mother, too, felt how miserable this cortège was, but in the kindness of her heart she immediately defended those who had stayed away. Tomorrow was Christmas, she said, and it was quite impossible for many women, with the best will in the world, to get away.
At the church door the coffin was taken from the hearse and carried inside. After the m
ass, the second blessing took place. As the body was to be taken to Leonding, the funeral cortège then went through the Urfahr main thoroughfare. The church bells were ringing as it approached. Instinctively I raised my eyes to the windows of the house where Stefanie lived. Perhaps my ardent wish that she should not desert my friend in this, his gravest hour, had called her. I can still see how the window opened, a young girl appeared, and Stefanie looked down interestedly at the little procession passing beneath. I glanced at Adolf; his face remained unchanged, but I did not doubt that he, too, had seen Stefanie. He told me later that this was so, and confessed how much in that painful hour the sight of his beloved had comforted him. Was it by intention or chance that Stefanie came to the window at that moment? Perhaps it was just that she had heard the church bells and wondered why they were ringing so early in the morning. Adolf, of course, was convinced that she wanted to show him her sympathy.
In the Hauptstrasse a second closed carriage was waiting, which Adolf and Paula entered while the procession broke up. Raubal joined his wife. Then the hearse and two carriages started off to Leonding for the interment.
On the following morning, 24 December, Adolf came to my house. He looked worn out, as though any minute he might collapse. He seemed to be desperate, quite empty, with no spark of life in him. As he felt how worried my mother was about him, he explained that he had not slept for days. My mother asked him where he was going to spend Christmas Eve. He said that the Raubals had invited him and his sister. Paula had already left, but he had not made up his mind yet whether he would go or not. My mother exhorted him to help make Christmas a peaceful occasion, now that all the members of the family had suffered the same loss. Adolf listened to her in silence. But when we were alone he said to me brusquely, ‘I’m not going to Raubal’s.’
‘Where else will you go?’ I asked him impatiently, ‘After all, it’s Christmas Eve.’ I wanted to ask him to join us. But he did not even let me finish, and shut me up quite energetically, in spite of his sorrow. Suddenly he pulled himself together and his eyes became bright. ‘Perhaps I shall go to Stefanie,’ he said.
This answer was doubly characteristic of my friend: firstly, because he was capable of forgetting completely in such moments that his relationship with Stefanie was nothing but wishful thinking, a beautiful illusion; and secondly, because even when he realised this he would, after sober reflection, prefer to stick to his wishful thinking rather than unbosom himself with real people.
Later he confessed to me that he had really been determined to go to Stefanie, although he knew very well that such a sudden visit, without a previous appointment, without even having been introduced to her, and moreover on Christmas Eve, was contrary to good manners and social convention and would probably have meant the end of his relationship with her. He told me that on his way, however, he had seen Richard, Stefanie’s brother, who was spending his Christmas holiday in Linz. This unexpected meeting had made him give up the idea, for it would have been painful for him if Richard, as was inevitable, had been present at the interview. I did not ask any more questions; it really did not matter whether Adolf was deceiving himself with this pretext, or whether he only offered it to me as an excuse for his behaviour. Certainly when I saw Stefanie at the window the sympathy which showed on her face was undoubtedly genuine. However, I very much doubt if she recognised Adolf at all in his funeral attire and in these peculiar circumstances. But of course I did not express this doubt to him, because I knew that it would only have robbed my friend of his last hope.
I can well imagine what Adolf’s Christmas Eve in the year 1907 was really like. That he did not want to go to Raubal I could understand. I could also understand that he did not want to disturb our quiet little family celebration, to which I had invited him. The serene harmony of our home would have made him feel his loneliness even more. Compared with Adolf, I considered myself fortune’s favourite, for I had everything he had lost: a father who provided for me, a mother who loved me and a quiet home which welcomed me into its peace.
But he? Where should he have gone that Christmas Eve? He had no acquaintances, no friends, nobody who would have received him with open arms. For him the world was hostile and empty. So he went – to Stefanie. That is to say – to his dream.
All he ever told me of that Christmas Eve was that he had wandered around for hours. Only towards morning had he returned home and gone to sleep. What he thought, felt and suffered I never knew.
* * *
Chapter 14
‘Come with Me, Gustl!’
Adolf had often said these words jestingly when speaking of his intention of going to live in Vienna. But later on, when he realised how impressed I was by his remarks, the idea grew in his mind that we would go there together, he to attend the Academy of Arts and I the Conservatoire. With his magnificent imagination he produced such a colourful picture of this life, so clear and so detailed, that I often did not know if it was just wishful thinking or reality. For me, such fantasies had a more practical aspect. To be sure, I had learned my trade well and satisfied my father as well as our customers by my efforts. But the hours in the dusty workshop had impaired my health and our doctor, my secret ally, advised emphatically against my continuing to work as an upholsterer. This meant for me that I would try to make my beloved music my profession, a desire which assumed a more and more concrete shape, although the obstacles were many. I had learned all that was to be learned in Linz. My teachers also encouraged me in my decision to devote my life to music, but this meant my going to live in Vienna. Thus the ‘come with me, Gustl’ which my friend had at first uttered so light-heartedly took on the character of a firm invitation and a definite goal. Nevertheless I feel that without Adolf’s determined intervention, my unadventurous nature would not have allowed me to change my profession and go to live in Vienna.
Yet my friend certainly thought primarily of himself. He had a horror of going alone, because this, his third journey to Vienna, was a quite different proposition from his earlier visits. Then, he still had his mother and, though he was away, his home still existed. He was not then taking a step into the unknown, for the knowledge that his mother was waiting to welcome him with open arms at any time and in any circumstances gave a firm and reliable substance to his insecure life. His home was a quiet centre round which his stormy existence revolved. Now he had lost it. Going to Vienna would be the last and final decision from which there was no turning back – a jump into the dark. During the months he had spent there last autumn, he had not succeeded in making any friends; perhaps he had no desire to do so. Relatives of his mother lived there with whom he had formerly had some contact and, unless I am mistaken, he had even stayed with them during his first visit. He never went to see them again and did not even mention them. It was quite understandable that he should have avoided his relatives, because he was afraid that they might question him about his work and livelihood. They would certainly have discovered then that the Academy had rejected him, and he would have suffered starvation and misery rather than have appeared to be in need of help. Nothing was therefore more natural than that he should take me with him, as I was not only his friend, but also the only person with whom he shared the secret of his great love. Since his mother’s death, Adolf’s ‘come with me Gustl’ had begun to sound more like a friendly entreaty.
After New Year’s Day 1908, I went with Adolf to visit the grave of his parents. It was a fine winter day, cold and clear, which has forever remained in my memory. Snow covered all the familiar landmarks. Adolf knew every inch of our route, as for years this had been his way to school.
He was very composed, a change that surprised me for I knew that his mother’s death had shaken him deeply, and had even caused him physical suffering that had brought him near to collapse from exhaustion. My mother had invited him to share our meals during Christmas, in order that he might recover his strength and leave for a while the empty, cold house in which everything reminded him of his mother. He had come, but ha
d sat silent and serious at our table. It was not yet time to talk to him of future plans.
Now, as he walked solemnly by my side, looking much older than I, much more mature and manly, he was still deeply immersed in his own affairs. Yet I was surprised how clearly and detachedly he spoke of them, almost as if it were of someone else’s business. Angela had let him know that Paula could now live with them. Her husband had agreed to that, but had refused to receive Adolf into the family since he, Adolf, had behaved disrespectfully to him. Thus he was relieved of his greatest worry, for the child at least had a secure home. He himself had never intended to seek asylum with the Raubals. He had expressed his gratitude to Angela and had informed her that all his parents’ furniture would go to Paula. The funeral expenses were paid out of his mother’s estate. Incidentally Angela had given birth to a baby girl the day before, who was also to be christened Angela.* His guardian, he added, the mayor of Leonding, had promised to settle the affairs connected with the inheritance and also to help him to apply for an orphan’s pension.
All this sounded very sober and sensible. Afterwards, he began to talk of Stefanie. He was determined, he said, to bring the present state of affairs to an end. At the next opportunity, he would introduce himself to Stefanie and her mother, as this had not been possible during the Christmas holidays. It was high time, he said, to bring matters to a head.
The Young Hitler I Knew Page 16
