Appendix 3

Christa Schroeder’s He Was My Chief

Publisher’s Note

Readers of I Was Hitler’s Chauffeur: The Memoirs of Erich Kempka may also enjoy Heinz Linge’s With Hitler to the End (Frontline Books, 2009) and Christa Schroeder’s He Was My Chief (Frontline Books, 2009). The following extracts are taken from Schroeder’s memoir.

WHEN REPLYING TO A tiny job advertisement in the German newspaper, Münchner Neuesten Nachrichten, I had no premonition that it was to determine the future course of my life. It was 1930, and aged 22, I had just arrived in Munich from Bavaria, eager to explore a new part of Germany. The post was a secretarial one and I was invited by an unknown organisation, the ‘Supreme SA leadership (OSAF)’ to present myself in the Schellingstrasse. In this almost unpopulated street the Reich leadership of the NSDAP, the Nazi Party, was located at No. 50 on the fourth floor of a building at the rear.

That the post was awarded to me, someone who was neither a member of the NSDAP nor interested in politics nor aware of whom Adolf Hitler might be, must have resulted purely from my being a 22-year-old with proven shorthand/typing experience who could furnish good references.

Once Hitler had become Reich Chancellor, stenotypists were requested to volunteer for the NSDAP Liaison Staff in Berlin. In March 1933 I arrived in the capital.

*

After seizing power, Hitler had installed himself in Berlin’s Radziwill Palace. His study, the library, his bedroom and later, alongside it, Eva Braun’s apartment were all on the first floor.

Directly opposite the door to Hitler’s study a couple of steps led to a long corridor, beyond which was the so-called adjutancy wing with the rooms for Hitler’s aides. The first room was the Staircase Room (Treppenzimmer), where at least one of us would be permanently on standby, should Hitler need to give a dictation. Then came the rooms of Julius Schaub, Hitler’s rather unprepossessing factotum, Dr Dietrich (Reich press officer), Sepp Dietrich (commander of SS-Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler, Hitler’s personal bodyguard unit) and Hitler’s chief adjutant, Wilhelm Brückner.

If one descended the staircase beyond these one came to the so-called ladies’ saloon, actually the reception room, to the left of which wing doors, always pegged open, led into the film room. To the right was the Bismarck Room, also known as the smoking room. The dining hall was next to it and annexed to the Winter Garden, which ended in a fine semicircular path. Breakfast was taken in the Winter Garden and in the afternoon Hitler held most of his talks strolling its length.

One day Hitler happened to pass the Staircase Room at teatime, saw us sitting there and asked if he might join us. This hour of easy chatter was so much to his liking that he later came to tea almost daily. The Staircase Room was a place where he felt unburdened and I always had the impression that what he said there came from a secret memory box which at all other times he kept locked shut.

He would often recall pranks played in late childhood, for example, the time as a 12 year old when he wagered his classmates that he could make the girls laugh during a religious service. He won the bet by intently brushing his non-existent moustache.

He also spoke of his mother, to whom he was very attached, and of his father’s violence: ‘I never loved my father,’ he used to say, ‘but feared him. He was prone to rages and would resort to violence. My poor mother would then always be afraid for me. When I read Karl May once that it was a sign of bravery to hide one’s pain, I decided that when he beat me the next time I would make no sound. When it happened – I knew my mother was standing anxiously at the door – I counted every stroke out loud. Mother thought I had gone mad when I reported to her with a beaming smile, “Thirty-two strokes father gave me!” From that day I never needed to repeat the experiment, for my father never beat me again.’

*

I found Hitler’s eyes expressive. They could look friendly and warm-hearted, or express indignation, indifference and disgust. In the last months of the war they lost expressiveness and became a more watery, pale light blue, and rather bulging. One could always tell his mood from his voice. It could be unusually calm, clear and convincing, but also excited, increasing in volume and becoming overwhelmingly aggressive. Often it would be ice-cold. ‘Ice-cold’ or ‘Now I am ice-cold’ were much-used phrases of his. ‘I am totally indifferent to what the future will think of the methods which I have to use,’ I heard frequently. ‘Ruthless’ (rücksichtslos) was common in his vocabulary: ‘Force it through ruthlessly, whatever the cost!’

Hitler’s nose was very large and fairly pointed. I do not know whether his teeth were ever very attractive, but by 1945 they were yellow and he had bad breath. He should have grown a beard to hide his mouth. During the years of his friendship with Ada Klein, who worked on the Nazi party newspaper, Völkischer Beobachter, he told her: ‘Many people say I should shave off the moustache, but that is impossible. Imagine my face without a moustache!’ and at that held his hand below his nose like a plate. ‘My nose is much too big. I need the moustache to relieve the effect!’

*

In 1978, Henriette Schirach [the wife of Baldur Benedikt von Schirach, head of the Hitler youth and Reich governor of Vienna during the Nazi occupation] reminded me of an encounter she had with Hitler on Good Friday, 1943. I remember that evening. While the other guests were talking, an argument developed between Henriette and Hitler, the subject of which was an occurrence in Amsterdam a few days previously. She had been awoken at night by an unusually loud disturbance and had watched from a hotel window as some weeping women were ordered forward across a bridge and disappeared into the night.

The next day she learned from her friends that this had been a deportation of Jewish women. She promised to bring the matter to the attention of Hitler, which she was now doing. Hitler answered her in a very brusque manner: ‘Be silent, Frau von Schirach, you understand nothing about it. You are sentimental. What does it matter to you what happens to female Jews? Every day tens of thousands of my most valuable men fall while the inferior survive. In that way the balance in Europe is being undermined,’ and here he moved his cupped hands up and down like a pair of scales.

‘And what will become of Europe in one hundred, in one thousand years?’ In a tone which made it evident that he considered the matter closed, he declared: ‘I am committed by duty to my people alone, to nobody else!’