Chapter 33

1929

While Lilian and the rest of the world flourished, the first three quarters of the new year were the winter of my discontent.

Lilian became “Germany’s Sweetheart.” She turned out a new film almost every other month; all smash hits. She was constantly on the covers of movie magazines. As her fame grew, so did her income. And she loved spending it. Furs. Jewelry. Automobiles. We moved to a multi-bedroom suite in the Adlon. She began to explore the purchase of a house in Dahlem, one of the most affluent addresses in Berlin. When she found one, she decided to keep both residences.

The world at large seemed to prosper as well. Employment in Germany was no longer a major concern. The victorious Allies had eased the pressure of their feet on Germany’s neck. In July, they agreed to reduce Germany’s war debt—eleven years after our surrender—to only twelve billion gold marks. This new plan—the Young Plan—modified the Dawes plan. The staggering sums we had to pay would now stretch over the next fifty-eight years. This new “leniency” had Germany paying reparations through 1988—seventy years after the Great War had ended!

Disquietude entered my life. The more Lilian succeeded professionally and financially, the more depressed I became. Lilian never mentioned her wealth. She never said “mine.” It was always “our house” or “our car.” When we went out—as we did to movie openings, plays, and fashionable parties—I was by her side, dressed to the nines. Lilian made sure to introduce me as her beau, else I would be taken as her bodyguard. But my moment was always brief. People were polite. Once they said, “Hello,” I was relegated to their indifference. They all wanted to be with Lilian. Be seen with her. She was important and glamorous. Not only did I not know my true identity, I barely existed as Friedrich Richard when I was by her side.

And then there were the men. Young, slim, handsome, aspiring actors buzzed around her seeking to push their careers or simply to bed her. Wealthy aristocrats and industrialists wanted to take a turn with the beautiful “star.” In fairness, she never gave any the time of day. Yet it drove me crazy.

These were my insecurities. No matter how I intellectualized that this had nothing to do with Lilian, I remained disappointed in myself. Strangely, my feelings of inadequacy began to turn into resentment of her.

While Lilian worked throughout 1929 shooting movie after movie, I picked up an occasional scoring job. Rather than be with Lilian as a third wheel, more often than not, I journeyed to Munich in the winter to help at party headquarters. In the summer, I visited Wolf at the Alpine house in the Obersalzberg, named Haus Wachenfeld, that he rented from Frau Winter, the deceased industrialist’s—Otto Winter’s—widow.

When the weather cooperated, Wolf loved to picnic in the woods. We stretched out on blankets with various friends, which always included Geli. During the cold months, there were excursions to restaurants, theater, and the opera in Munich. But, no matter the season, there was the omnipresent Geli Raubal. Wolf was a different man with her. She was his sun. He transformed life into a Copernican world that, unlike his past relationships with women, revolved around her.

Everyone speculated over one question: Were they lovers as well?

*

At the outset of September, double-barreled events were planned for the same weekend: a wedding and Wolf moving into his new apartment at 16 Prinzregentenplatz. It was September 2 to be exact. Lilian and I were invited to the Munich marriage of Martin Bormann—a minor party official—to Gerda Buch, the daughter of Chief Party Judge Walter Buch. Hitler, as a “favor” to Buch, was to be a witness at the wedding. Ordinarily, a Buch/Bormann wedding would have gone unnoticed by the party elite. With the Führer involved, the wedding became an NSDAP event.

My problem? Lilian refused to go. The night before we were to leave for Munich, I made a last attempt to budge her.

“Can’t you bend a little for me?” I asked as we prepared for bed.

“I bent when I heard Herr Hitler at the Sportpalast.”

“And I remember how energized you became. How he opened your mind to some of the party’s programs.”

“Everyone can accept the premise that the terms of the Versailles Treaty are meant to cripple us. But your Goebbels sickens me the way he continues to plaster Bernhard Weiss’s picture all over the city, calling him a filthy, Jewish pig.”

“Are you forgetting that Weiss arrested Goebbels?”

“You should have cheered when that happened. I did. How can you support a man that slanders the most important policeman in Prussia? Weiss could be Jewish, Slavic, colored, or Buddhist, what’s important is that he is a loyal German charged with keeping order. To defame Weiss is to disrespect all Germans. Your Nazi friends need to learn that concept.”

“I’m not like that.”

“If you were, we wouldn’t be together. But I can’t be two-faced and show up at the wedding or visit Hitler’s new apartment knowing how he underwrites Goebbels’s actions.”

“Just be at my side. I promise you won’t have to talk to anyone. I won’t even introduce you.”

“You’ve got it all wrong. Having me stand behind you is not protecting me, Friedrich. It’s sad that you have not considered the damage this would do to my career.”

“What are you talking about? I love you.”

“If you loved me, you would understand that I could never attend a Nazi function again, knowing how they treat Jews. Besides me being personally repulsed, what would my fellow actors say when they found out about it? My career would be damaged forever.”

“They’ll never know.”

“You’re delusional. When was the Nazi function that did not allow photographs?”

Lilian snapped off the light ending further talk.

*

The wedding was indeed a Nazi event. As the guest of honor, Hitler rode in the open car next to the chauffer, with the bride—in her snow-white wedding dress—and groom in the back seat. Hitler was in full regalia in his Brown Shirt uniform.

The reception was a who’s who of Brown- and Black-shirted glitterati. After the ceremony, Wolf sought me out. “Where’s the lovely Lilian? I looked forward to seeing her.”

“She sends her regrets but could not break away from her filming schedule.”

“I almost had the life of an artist,” he sighed. “Tell her I understand and send my best wishes.” I said I would but had no intention of adding fuel to her fire. I headed for the bar.

Hans Frank, the party lawyer, swayed side to side as I neared the punch bowl. He started to tip over when I caught him. “You know this is payback for dumping the case? Hitler had no choice but to come to this wedding,” he said, slurring his words. I knew he was referring to Maria Reiter and the other girls. I had to shut him up.

I squeezed his elbow harder. “You’ve had one too many, Hans. I’m getting you some coffee.”

He tried to shush me. “Friedrich.” I turned from his rotten breath. “You want to know what no one else knows?”

“You need coffee, Hans. And someone to take you home.”

“Buch.” He giggled. “’Scuse me. Chief Judge Buch.”

“What about him?”

“Shh. The moralist prick was ready to slam Adolf.”

I glanced about. “Lower your voice, Hans. Be careful what you say here.”

“We must be quiet,” he whispered. He teetered. I caught him as he pulled a folded paper from his breast pocket. “You’re the first person to see this.”

It was the summation of Buch’s findings on the blackmail letters before he received the sworn affidavits.

I have recently acquired an impression about a number of things and feel it is my difficult duty to tell you, Herr Hitler, that you have contempt for humanity that fills me with grave uneasiness . . .

I looked up. “He was going to censor Hitler because of those letters?”

“Worse. He was going to kick him out of the party until you saved the day with that brilliant solution of letting Geli become engaged to Emil.”

“That’s been settled, Hans. Why show me this now?”

He looked left and then right before answering. “Because Buch is not to be trusted. Keep an eye on him.”

At least this explained why Buch glowered at Wolf for most of the wedding.

*

The following morning I met Wolf at his new apartment. As we threaded our way between the painters and craftsmen, he explained the layout of the rooms. “This is the largest and sunniest room in the apartment.”

The space was sumptuous. “This room is five times bigger than your old apartment,” I said. “You will be so comfortable in it.”

“No. No. No. This is not for me. This will be Geli’s room.”

Had Lilian been here with me, she would have given me an I-told-you-so look. I could not give him a pass. “Which is Geli’s mother’s room?”

Wolf replied with indifference. “Angela will remain in the Obersalzberg to take care of Haus Wachenfeld.” The implication was clear.

“You’ll need a staff for an apartment this size.”

“I am bringing my landlady from Thierschstrasse, Frau Dachs and her daughter, as well as Anni and Georg Winter. They will be sufficient to take proper care of this apartment.”

Wolf would not let me leave without showing off his study. As we entered, he pointed to a luxurious new desk and chair, which were from Elsa Bruckmann. Then he extracted a gold watch from his pocket with his initials engraved on the outside. He made a show of flipping open the back. “This is from Elsa, too.” Inside was inscribed “To Wolf.”

Then Wolf said, “I need your help. Hoffman has taken a series of candid shots of me for publicity. I want your opinion as to which to use.”

“I’ve got a plane to catch.”

“It won’t take long, Friedrich. I trust your judgment. It would mean a lot to me. Besides, it’s on the way to the Airdrome.”

When we entered Hoffman’s shop at 50 Schellingstrasse—the studio was in the back—it was impossible to miss the girl balanced high on a ladder, stretching for an item on the top shelf of a bookcase. Her legs were, in a word, spectacular—all the more so because her skirt was impossibly short. The view stopped both of us in our tracks.

There was no need to look at Wolf to know what he was thinking. Wolf turned to Hoffman. “A very attractive girl.”

“Ja, mein Führer.”

“How old?”

“Seventeen.”

Hoffman and I both knew what would come next.

“Heinrich,” Hitler said in a soft voice, “please present me as Herr Wolf.”

“Of course, mein Führer.”

Hoffman beckoned the young lady to descend from the ladder. She was young, slim, athletic, and on the blond side with a pleasant face. The attraction was immediate.

“Eva, this is Herr Wolf. Herr Wolf, I would like to present Fräulein Eva Braun.”