It was a good deal prettier than I had imagined. The schloss is above a deep green valley surrounded on three sides by verdant Austrian territory. In the distance I could see the great blue double-hump of Mount Watzmann, its crest thick with the first snows of approaching winter. To the south lies the Königsee, a picturesque Alpine lake of the kind that finds favour in the Führer’s paintings.
Although it is now a town of leisurely pursuits, Berchtesgaden was once the home of salt mines, and later became the summer residence of inbred Bavarian kings. There has been much mad blood, bad blood here.
My coach brought me to the cable railway linking the town with Obersalzberg, five hundred metres above it. It had been snowing heavily for some minutes by the time we arrived before the elegant façade of the residence. My host’s servants were waiting in the courtyard to greet us, their hands and faces translucent with cold, and the snow that had settled like white epaulettes on their shoulders told me they had been standing there since it started.
I knew that, apart from the Berghof, here were the private homes of Hermann Goering, Martin Bormann and other Nazi leaders, that the grey concrete lumps on the hillside were their air raid shelters, their barracks, their secret installations. The people are told that my host lives a simple, unostentatious life. How easily they are taken in. I have heard his retreat described as a ‘chalet’. Berchtesgaden is as much like a chalet as Dracula’s castle. Red and gold are not so predominant here as they are at the rallies, with their endless dreary banner flags, acres of red stamped with black swastikas.
The liveried houseboys stepped smartly forward and took our luggage. I had but one small leather case, and was loath to let it leave my side, but there was the matter of security. I was told that it would be delivered to my room, but not, I was sure, before its contents had been thoroughly searched.
‘Anthony Pettifer?’ I heard my name called. In the light of what I knew about Hitler’s roll-calls, the sensation was a chilling one. I stepped into the marble foyer, and was greeted by an austere, sharp-faced gentleman by the name of Herr Kettner. Each of us was formally greeted in turn. No English was spoken; no allowance was ever made for the presence of other nationalities.
‘The Führer regrets that he cannot be present for dinner this evening. Urgent business calls him back to Berlin. We hope, however, that he will be able to return tomorrow.’
Kettner informed us that he was the head of the household, but he had the bearing of an SS guard. He showed us into the main dining room. There were four of us: myself, supposedly representing The Times, an American property magnate called Cain, the Berlin press officer Schwenner, and, of course, the radiantly beautiful Virginia Pernand, with whom I had once had an affair.
‘You see, of course, how the Führer appreciates comfort,’ said Kettner. ‘Only the best is good enough for him.’
The dining room astonished me. It was easily sixty feet long and forty feet wide. A huge oak table ran down the centre, and sat upon a vast Persian rug. Four etchings by Albrecht Dürer hung on the softly-lit walls. I had been told that the room in which Hitler usually received his guests boasted a spectacular view over the Alps, and housed his aviary of rare birds, but on this occasion the room was not in use.
‘Berchtesgaden has fourteen rooms for guests, but you four are the only ones invited this weekend,’ said Kettner, with a hint of warning in his voice. ‘Each bedroom has its own private bathroom. Dinner tonight will be served at eight o’clock precisely.’ He stopped at the foot of the great staircase and struck a commanding pose, as though preparing himself to be photographed for some kind of Berlin Nachtkultur magazine. I saw the rest of his staff hold their collective breath.
‘One more thing.’ Kettner felt inside his tunic and pulled out several typed sheets of paper. ‘These are the instructions the Führer demands that his guests obey so long as they are under this roof.’ He handed one sheet to each of us. I glanced down at mine and read:
Instructions To Visitors
There were several other clauses and codicils in the same fashion, all of which left me with a problem – how to get through the weekend alive. You see, I was here at the schloss under false pretences. My identification papers were real enough, but I was no longer employed by The Times. Indeed, they had barred me from ever working for them again, thanks to a little misunderstanding over expenses that occurred on a junket to Nice. I was here to see Greta.
I first met Greta Kehl in a hotel in Vienna, before she came to work here at Berchtesgaden as a housemaid. Over the course of my stay there I had come to know her well, and we had become lovers. At the end of the month I had asked her to come away with me, but, pursuing some strange destiny of her own, she had refused my offer, accepting a transfer to a Bayern-based cleaning company. In the weeks that followed, her face haunted my sleep. I knew that we should be together, but needed to convince her of my heartfelt intentions. My letters, addressed to the agency in the town, were returned unopened.
Luckily my skills as a journalist stood me in good stead, and I located the address of her parents in Salzburg. Mr Kehl informed me that his daughter had become a committed fascist, and longed to serve the Führer, but his wife prevented him from giving me details of her appointment.
It was a simple matter to check with the agency – I flattered the matron who ran the office with the thought that I would like to write a profile on her – and ascertain that Greta was employed at the schloss. I still possessed my journalist’s union card (although it had been cancelled) and was able to pull off a couple of favours, albeit with an element of blackmail, that had me placed on the waiting list of visitors to Berchtesgaden.
And so I had arrived in Hitler’s private residence, with forged credentials and a story that could be demolished with a simple phonecall, determined to woo back the girl I had lost in that Vienna hotel. The first of my problems was gaining access to the staff quarters from which we had expressly been forbidden. I then had to persuade Greta of my good intentions, and ensure that she did not attempt to raise the alarm and have me thrown to the SS guards.
I had another cause to be worried. In a house governed by a constricting code of acceptable behaviour, one could not afford to drop one’s guard for even a second, and as a registered sufferer of Tourette’s Syndrome, I was worried that the stress, fatigue and anxiety created by my surroundings would bring on an attack.
I had been a sufferer of Tourette’s Syndrome for six years, since I was eighteen. It is an inherited neurological disease that manifests itself in sudden violent involuntary motion, tics, grimaces, flapping of the arms, barking cries, jumping, jerking, spitting and the uncontrollable shouting of obscenities. Very little else is known about this most anti-social of all illnesses. As you can imagine, I was praying not to run into any of Herr Hitler’s staff while in the grip of an attack.
I had found that bouts could be brought on by the consumption of certain foodstuffs, and might last for days. During this time I was liable to injure myself and others. I resolved to be very careful about my meals over the weekend, and eat as little as possible.
My bedroom contained a signed copy of Mein Kampf, and several pornographic French books imported from Paris. Above the large, hard bed a sinister portrait of Hitler dominated the room. I went along the corridor to visit the little Berlin press officer, Schwenner, and found his room to be identical, down to the hand-stitched bedspread and the way the towels in the bathroom had been folded.
Schwenner had absolutely no desire to be here. He had been invited because Goebbels had insisted upon it, and there was simply no way of refusing. Like me, he was under no illusions about our host. He, too, had seen the frenzied adulation of the motorcade crowds, just as he had seen the beatings on the streets. But we were bystanders, because it was a larger history beyond our control, and we needed to stay alive in order to bear witness.
Our group – one of many such groups organised to visit the schloss that year – had been chosen in order that we might spread the word about Hitler’s good works. This was to involve spending the whole of Saturday listening to a series of boring lectures given by various high-ranking propaganda experts. The next day there would be more lectures, and we were to leave late on Sunday afternoon. But I had every intention of disappearing under cover of darkness and taking Greta with me.
The house was stuffed to the point of vulgarity with famous paintings and tapestries, all of them on permanent loan from Germany’s greatest museums. When I heard the dinner-bell sound, I was still struggling to get into my bow-tie, and was forced to rush. According to Schwenner, there had been stories circulating at his press agency of guests who had failed to arrive at Hitler’s meal table on time. What happened to them was never known; they vanished late at night.
As I made haste toward the stairs, I saw Virginia approaching, resplendent in an emerald silk gown. ‘I’m not used to coming down to dinner without makeup,’ she complained. ‘The maid came to my room and warned me about earrings; we’re not to be seen wearing them. I know he likes his farmgirls natural and rosy-cheeked, but this is too ridiculous. Why are you here, by the way? I thought they fired you.’
‘Special assignment,’ I quickly replied. ‘The Times wants to know whether Hitler is sincere about appeasement.’
‘Well, you won’t be any the wiser after this weekend. I don’t suppose the Führer will even put in an appearance. He hardly ever does these days, you know. Not that it makes much difference. One wrong foot in front of any of his staff and you’re for the chop; everything gets reported back.’
The dinner was served on finest Dresden china. When Hitler himself was present, solid silver plate from the Jewish merchants of Nuremberg, stolen by Himmler’s agents, was elaborately arranged along the table. I looked at the meal in alarm; the simple peasant fare we had heard so much about was nowhere in evidence. There were rich pâtés, soups, game and pork courses, the very foodstuffs doctors had warned me to stay away from. I tried to eat as little as possible, but servants surrounded us, watching our every move. Six members of the SS guard were present, making a total of ten diners, and a servant for every guest. I saw with a thrill that the maid standing to attention behind Cain’s chair was Greta. I had forgotten how pale her skin was, as fine as the Dresden from which we ate.
I tried to think of a way to attract her attention. The conversation from Kettner and the other SS men was stultifyingly dull. They were discussing grain imports and railways. Everyone was being careful to avoid the Jewish question. I felt ashamed about this; how complicit did this make us, if we could not even bring up the subject in an oblique fashion?
We were just placing our knives and forks together (we were carefully watching each other to make sure that nobody finished late) when I saw that Greta had recognised me. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she only just managed to turn her expression of surprise into a discreet cough. Kettner glared sharply at her. She avoided my gaze for the rest of the meal. When guards took the male guests off to the smoking room, the servants filed out into the corridor. They would not clear the table until the doors were closed between us. I made sure I was the last one to pass into the smoking room. I had but a few moments in which to act. I grabbed Greta’s wrist as she passed before me.
‘Why are you here?’ she whispered angrily.
‘I came here for you,’ I hissed back. ‘I love you. I’m sorry about Vienna, I was a fool. Please forgive me. I am leaving in the small hours of Saturday night, and I want to take you along with me.’
‘I can’t. Do you know what happens to people who try to get away from Berchtesgaden?’
‘I’ll protect you,’ I promised uncertainly. ‘I can get you out of the country.’
‘And what of my family? You think I can just leave everything behind because you suddenly want me?’ Her grey eyes narrowed angrily.
‘I beg you, at least consider my offer.’
‘Go, go in before they miss you.’ She pushed me in front of her just as the head butler turned into the corridor.
We seated ourselves in front of a gigantic ugly fireplace and were offered cigars as Kettner launched into another interminable description of the Führer’s plans for ‘rehabilitating’ those industrialists who failed to comprehend the glories of the coming world order. We were indeed fortunate, he explained, because the Führer had confirmed that he would be dining with us tomorrow night.
As Kettner spoke, I felt the first warning twitch of Tourette’s settling over me. My skin prickled hotly, and a muscle in my face began to twitch. I stilled it by resting my fist against my cheek in what I hoped was an attitude of relaxation. Only Schwenner seemed to notice that there was something wrong. At ten minutes to eleven, Kettner checked the mantelpiece clock, clapped his hands and packed us off to bed as though we were schoolchildren. ‘I must insist that you turn out your room lights no later than ten minutes past the hour,’ he warned.
‘Did you see the way Kettner looked at my dress?’ asked Virginia as we returned to our rooms. ‘Highly disapproving. I thought he was going to say something. Wait until he sees what I’m wearing for the Führer tomorrow. I’ve brought my best jewellery with me. My mother’s sapphire necklace and a pair of matching earrings.’
‘Just be careful,’ said Schwenner. ‘People are being shot for expressing “decadent” views. It doesn’t pay to look too glamorous.’
‘Darling, they can’t do anything to me,’ she replied airily, reaching her door. ‘In fact, I’m going break Rule Number One right now and have a cigarette in my bedroom.’
‘I suppose you think you’re safe because you know too much. Well, we all know too much. It’s just that you have the means of distributing the information.’ Virginia was an overseas correspondent for the BBC. ‘I bid you goodnight.’ Schwenner waited until Virginia had shut her door, and turned to me. I could hear the servants on the stairs not far behind us.
‘What was wrong with you tonight? I saw your face.’
‘Muscular spasms, that’s all.’ I tried to make light of it. ‘I’m over-tired.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’
I could tell by the look on the little press agent’s face that he didn’t believe me. A few minutes later, the maids came around to check that our lights were out. I contemplated tiptoeing down to the kitchens to search for Greta, but the lights had been turned off throughout the schloss, and I was not yet familiar enough with the layout to safely find my way back in the dark.
Frost formed on the inside of the bedroom windows. I awoke with muscles aching, my limbs numb with cold. Someone was knocking sharply on the door. ‘It’s seven o’clock, sir,’ called the maid. ‘Breakfast will be served in fifteen minutes.’
During the night, someone had entered my room and neatly laid my morning clothes out in the dressing area of the bathroom. I resented the intrusion, but at least it allowed me to reach the table on time. Cain and Schwenner were already helping themselves to the vast platters of eggs and cold meats, but there was no sign of Virginia.
‘She’s gone,’ whispered Schwenner, passing behind me with his plate. ‘The SS guards took her away in the night.’
‘How do you know?’ I asked.
‘She was in the room next to mine. I heard them come for her at around three o’clock. They didn’t even allow her time to pack. Her bedroom door was open this morning, bags gone and bed made up fresh, just as if no one was ever there.’
‘Do you think she’s all right? I mean, surely they can’t do anything.’
‘She drank too much at dinner. And she smoked in her room. I could smell it. I hope they’ll just deport her. People go missing so easily these days. The Gestapo have a little trick of releasing you but muddling your papers, so that you’re arrested by someone else. Who knows where she’ll end up?’
‘But surely the BBC won’t allow—’
‘They’ll do exactly what they’re told. Eat up, here comes Cheerful Charlie.’
Kettner was making his way past the buffet. Despite the early hour, he was in full dress uniform. ‘I trust you slept well,’ he announced. ‘We have a full day, commencing with a talk from one of our leading economic experts at eight o’clock precisely. You will find seats and documentation laid out in the drawing room.’ No mention was made of Virginia’s disappearance.
The economist, a rotund man in a cheap grey suit reeking of body odour, had greased-back hair above pale side-stubble, and a complexion like a burst sausage. His keenness to explain the workings of an economy based on a two-tier system of first and second-class citizens was fascinating in an offensive way, and typified the blinkered philistinism of the regime. The chairs were hard and the room was cold, but at least we would stay awake that way. I discreetly checked my watch and kept an eye out for Greta.
At eleven, she appeared bearing a trolley and served us with bitter coffee. By now, even Kettner had lost interest and left the room. Two SS guards remained at the door. There was never any effort made to disguise the fact that we were prisoners in the schloss. I used Kettner’s absence as an opportunity to speak with Greta.
‘Have you had a chance to think about my offer?’ I asked as I accepted a cup from her.
‘I can’t,’ she whispered, nervously watching the guards, aware that I was breaking Hitler’s second guest rule.
‘Let me worry about that. All you have to do is be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.’ I saw the nearest guard look up at us, his eyes narrowing beneath his cap, and felt a muscle in my right arm involuntarily jump, causing me to tip the cup on its side in the saucer. Coffee splashed onto the table.
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ I apologised, but the last word turned into a bark and I was forced to fake a coughing fit. An attack of this severity, I knew, could last for several days. Schwenner came over and touched my shoulder. ‘Are you all right, old man?’ he asked.
‘The coffee was too hot,’ I assured him. When I looked back, Greta had slipped from the room.
The day dragged past, one dull lecture blurring into the next: the smelting of iron ore, electricity consumption, production targets for the manufacture of jute and sisal. The question-and-answer sessions at the end of each talk grew shorter and shorter as we became enervated, weighed down by the bulk of statistics paraded before us. We were careful to be seen making copious notes, because we knew that our behaviour would be reported to the Führer.
As the hour for my dinner with Adolph Hitler approached, weariness and tension increased the strength of my muscular attacks. I decided to take Cain and Schwenner into my confidence, and explain the symptoms of my illness.
‘You mean you could just start cussing at Hitler?’ Cain complained incredulously.
‘It’s possible,’ I warned him. ‘It’s important that nothing stresses me.’ They eventually agreed, with some reluctance, to cover for me should an attack become serious.
‘He’s not come back to see us, he’s here to ask advice from Ossietz,’ said Schwenner. I had heard that Karl Ossietz was Germany’s Rasputin, Hitler’s astrologer. There were said to be five rooms in Berchtesgaden that were never photographed, apart from the ‘Eagle’s Nest’, Hitler’s private retreat high above the main building. The most important of these was the Chamber of Stars on the roof, which had a ceiling of dark blue glass showing the movements of planets and constellations. The astrologer had predicted a long and happy reign for the Führer, but no one was allowed to speak of Ossietz, on pain of death. Given the loss of control caused by my condition, I tried to forget that I had ever heard his name.
And so we attended dinner.
Hitler was smaller than I had expected, rather drab-looking and unimpressive. It was hard to imagine that this was the man upon whom the eyes of the world were riveted. His handshake was surprisingly weak and soft, without any real strength, his eyes queerly penetrating, endlessly suspicious. There was no hint of humour, curiosity or humanity about him. Having curtly greeted us, he took his seat at the head of the table and sat immobile as he was served different food by a waiter we had not seen before. Presumably this was to safeguard the risk of poisoning.
As the meal progressed he questioned each of us in turn, as though checking that we had been paying attention through the day. And yet, it was clear that he hardly heard our answers, which was just as well, as at one point I found myself inserting the word ‘arsehole’ into my reply. Greta’s presence behind my chair was making me uneasy, and this in turn exacerbated my symptoms. As the soup plates were cleared away, she deftly slipped a piece of paper onto the napkin spread across my lap. I felt sure that someone must have seen, but the Führer was in full flow, and the attention of the room was entirely focussed on him. I used the moment to unfold the note and read it. Meet me in the kitchen at midnight.
I crushed the paper and slid it into my pocket, excited that she had at least agreed to discuss the idea of coming with me. She had forgiven me for my disgraceful behaviour in Vienna, and was now prepared to place her future in my hands. I knew that she was due to finish her first duty-period tonight, and would be allowed home briefly to the town in the valley, which meant that she had a ticket and the necessary identification. We would board the train from the schloss before anyone had a chance to miss us.
I tried to pay attention to our host, who was now glaring at a salad and eating in silence. As I did so, I fought the urge to burst out with a string of filthy epithets. It was becoming harder and harder to control myself, the result of the rich food I had eaten and the increasing tension of the situation.
‘And so, Mr Cain,’ said Kettner suddenly, ‘I understand that you are purchasing a great amount of property between Köln and Bonn. I am told your profits are set to increase as the Jews move out of these cities.’
I was shocked. I had not imagined Cain to be a war profiteer.
‘Surely you would not suggest that such buildings should be left empty, to rot and collapse,’ said Cain indignantly. A foolish move on his part, I thought, to betray any strength of feeling.
‘Perhaps not, but surely these houses should be appropriated for use by those who further the glorious cause of the Fatherland rather than those who seek to line their own pockets. Before purchasing any more, I would make sure your own house is in order.’ A chill draught crept across the room as everyone concentrated intently on their food.
The Führer lowered his cutlery after taking only a few bites, and waited impatiently for his plate to be removed. He stared at each of us in turn, then, nodding a curt goodnight, rose and left the table, closely followed by his guards.
Cain breathed a sigh of relief. Schwenner took a nervous draught of his wine. I muttered a stream of obscenities and allowed the muscles in my arms to bunch. My left eyelid had begun to flutter uncontrollably.
‘Well, gentlemen, I don’t know about you but I’m exhausted,’ sighed Cain, tension trembling his voice. ‘I suggest we retire to our bedrooms.’
I had set the alarm on my clock for fifteen minutes to midnight, but was too nervous to fall asleep. By the appointed hour, the lights were out all over the schloss – with the exception of the brazier that burned day and night in the room next to the dome on the other side of the building, where Hitler sat studying the stars with his astrologer. According to Schwenner, Ossietz was due in from Berlin. The press agent sensed that something was up. He had heard that Hitler’s most trusted adviser spoke to few of his staff, and was hated by all of them. Goering, it was said, refused to stay in the same room with him. When ill-omens were received, the Führer was preoccupied and quarrelsome, dangerous to be near. His astrologer was expected to deliver a pronouncement, and who knew what trouble his predictions might cause?
The clear mountain air ensured that the grounds were bright with starlight. I knew that it would be difficult crossing the courtyard to the gates of the property. I had allowed for an escape route once we were free of the schloss, but had been unable to make plans covering the interior of the building.
The kitchens – what I could make out of them in the dark – were magnificent. Everything was electric, and of the latest design. Here was final proof that the Führer was a stranger to frugal living. In the far corridor leading to the gardens beyond, a grey-uniformed guard sat with his back to me. I crept across the flagstones, trying not to let the metal tips on my soles connect with the floor. A shadowed figure wearing a midnight blue dirndl beckoned to me. The traditional dress accentuated Greta’s slim form. She raised a white arm in the moonlight and held a finger to her lips as I approached.
‘I’m pleased to see you have reached the right decision,’ I could not help telling her. ‘I knew you would agree to come with me, and have planned everything accordingly.’ Greta pulled me back into a corridor leading to the servants’ quarters. I suddenly found myself walking on bare boards, surrounded by scabbed plaster walls. Clearly, the wealth of the Third Reich did not extend to those who served it at a lower level.
‘We must act quickly,’ I said anxiously. ‘The last train back to town leaves in less than fifteen minutes.’
Greta reached up and sealed my talkative lips with a dry kiss. ‘I’ll lead the way. I know every inch of this place.’ She moved ahead in the darkness, scurrying through the rear corridors until I sensed that we were passing behind the main dining hall. I realised now how much of the building was fake; the great stone fireplace, for example, was backed with plastered lathes, little more than an elaborate stage prop. Greta turned at the end of the passage and ascended a steep flight of steps. The muscles started to tingle uncontrollably in my arms and throat.
‘Are you sure this is right?’ I called to her softly, but she was too far ahead to hear. We emerged on the first floor at the rear of the building, just past the first set of guest bedrooms. I jumped forward and caught Greta’s wrist as she was about to climb another set of stairs. ‘We need to go down to reach the courtyard, not up.’
‘You cannot go across the courtyard. It’s constantly watched, and our footprints in the snow will betray us. The only safe way out is to the back, against the mountain wall.’ It was obvious now that I thought about it; the slopes that led to the ‘Eagle’s Nest’ were in the shadow of the mountain, and would be harder to patrol. We could make our way around and join the road further down. But in taking this route, I noted that we were dangerously near Hitler’s private observatory, and the light still shone within its blue glass dome.
We reached a corridor clearly intended for private use by the Führer himself. Its walls were covered with gold-painted astrological symbols and designs taken from the zodiac. No more than four strides away stood the wide door behind which Hitler conferred with the constellations. There was only one other exit, through an arch sealed off by another oak door. Greta opened it, and revealed a sloping corridor leading into darkness. She paused beneath the arch as though lost. Gathering her thoughts, she turned and placed a cold hand over my heart.
‘I can take you no further.’
‘What do you mean?’ It was then that I noticed the emerald necklace glittering at her throat. I reached out to touch it. ‘That belongs to Virginia.’
‘I suppose you had her as well. She doesn’t look so pretty now.’ Her cruel smile was halfway in shadow. She pushed my hand away. ‘Now you must stay here.’
‘But I thought you were coming with me.’ Electrical impulses raced through the nerve-endings in my hands, shaking my fingers spasmodically.
‘Do you seriously think I would betray my party for a weakling Englishman?’ she hissed.
‘But you can’t leave me here!’ Neurological tremors rippled deep in my musculature, and I began to shake.
‘Give me your watch.’ Her hands clawed at my wrist as I tried to prevent her from unclasping the leather strap. My own hands were beyond my control now.
She was still trying to prise open the buckle when the door to the astrology room opposite started to open. With a small cry of terror, Greta shrank back and ran off into the darkened passageway, pulling its door shut behind her. I was left alone in the zodiac corridor as Adolph Hitler emerged from his star chamber.
He was still dressed in the grey suit he had worn to dinner, and although his tie was slightly loosened he still seemed paralysed with formality, as postured as a waxwork dummy. Behind him, within the chamber, I could see the figure of another man, whom I assumed to be Ossietz.
Hitler walked slowly forward along the centre of the corridor, the forefinger of his right hand resting against his dark chin, his eyes downcast, his pace measured. A single strand of his impeccably greased hair had slipped over his forehead. The anxiety I had been feeling all night turned into a wave of wild terror as I realised that I was blocking the Führer’s path.
My heart felt as though it had stopped beating. Bitter teardrops of sweat condensed on my brow. An unrestrained string of babble rose in my throat. I bit the words off as the muscles around my mouth fought for dominance. The Führer was staring right at me.
‘Hairy cocks,’ I barked at Hitler. ‘Fucking shitty hairy fanny arse cock tits.’
The Fuhrer widened his dead, pale eyes.
I realised that he was not staring at me, but through me. He was seeing something in his mind’s eye, something so vast, so unimaginable, so nightmarish that his present surroundings were completely invisible to him. He looked as though his soul was being seized and squeezed by the Devil himself.
Hitler walked on, seeing only the vision in his head. Grabbing the moment, I fell into the corridor at my back, yanking open the door and closing the latch behind me. I had already planned to leave my belongings in my room. Now I flew as fast as my shaking legs would move, toward the rear mountain-wall exit that Greta had described.
I ran through the darkened side of the grounds, and caught that departing train with seconds to spare. I felt sure that guards would appear at the last moment to pull me out of the carriage. As I fled Germany, I wondered what the Führer had been told by Ossietz that could turn his eyes so deeply into the void. I wanted to know what he had seen inside himself.
During the months that followed, when the world witnessed what one man was capable of doing, I discovered too many answers.