Adolf Hitler woke up somewhere in the pit of the night with a dull headache. He thought that he’d just had an anxiety dream and that’s what had woken him, though the headache alone would have been enough to do the job. As he sat up in his narrow bed, staring through darkness, he realized what the problem was: these nocturnal headaches were usually unleashed by some untreated fears or a feeling that something that needed to be done hadn’t been done yet. This time, it was both.
This realization was enough to dull the headache after a short time and Hitler slid back into sleep. He woke a bit early for him the next morning – though the regular time for most of the hostel’s residents – washed and dressed, trundled down to the mess hall for a light breakfast and then set out.
He needed this early start because on this morning, he wasn’t heading straight to the city center to meet clients and attend to the other duties of a struggling artist. There was now a more another important task he had to attend to.
Vienna’s main railroad station in those days, the Westbahnhof, was too far from the Meldemannstrasse hostel, so Hitler first needed to catch a tram. But he wasn’t going to the station itself; he swung around to a small lane near the imposing structure.
As it wasn’t yet 10 a.m, the lane stank, as usual, of stale urine and spilled drink. Hitler tried to ignore the smells as much as possible, though he had always been sensitive to unpleasant odors. But he had important business on this lane and wasn’t going to let the stink deter him that morning.
He hurried to the sleazy pub near the corner of Apollogasse. Although it was early, the pub was already open. He walked in and said that he needed to see Egon Ricks. One of the scruffy-looking men leaning against the bar told him that Herr Ricks was not around; in fact, they hadn’t seen him for over a week.
But Hitler knew the duties of the gatekeepers at this establishment; he told all three men at the bar that he was an old friend of Herr Ricks from his days at the hostel. He then gave them his name and assured them that Herr Ricks would be glad to see him. After exchanging skeptical looks with his two colleagues, the first man nodded, told Hitler to wait a few minutes, then shuffled off to a back room.
A bartender appeared from another room, took his post, and asked Hitler what he wanted to drink. He didn’t really want anything, but he knew the rules of the house; he ordered a mineral water.
The bartender was just pouring the water into a foggy glass when the first man re-emerged and told Hitler he could go into the back room. Herr Ricks was “ready to receive him”. The scruffy fellow chortled at his own ironic phrasing, then guided Hitler to the door.
Egon Ricks was still lying on a beat-up mattress in a murky corner of the back room. He had obviously just woken up and was still doing some wake-up stretching. But he smiled when he saw Hitler. Then, not without some trouble, he rose to a sitting position and gave Hitler a welcoming wave.
He asked the young man if he was still staying at the hostel and when told that he was, he asked how things were “at the Meldemann”. Ricks himself had been kicked out of the hostel a few times, for fighting and other offenses, and finally earned himself a permanent ban. But he had taken Hitler under his wing in the young man’s first months at the hostel and given him a lot of practical tips about how to get along in the center, as well as how to survive in the underbelly of Viennese society.
As he had always been kind and helpful to the young artist, Hitler was sad when Ricks was expelled for the final time. But he had run into Ricks on the street about a year later, and the two stayed in touch since then. Hitler still found that Ricks could be very helpful, especially when it was not possible to stay completely within the stiff confines of the law.
“So, Herr Rembrandt – did you bring me a painting to put up in my little palace chamber here?”
“Oh course, mein Herr. It’s a work I did especially for you. I couldn’t think of a better person to present it to.” He then reached into his leather case, pulled back a few sheets, and then slipped out a painting. The watercolor of the Kronprinz Rudolf Bridge was actually one of about a dozen renditions of the landmark Hitler had recently painted, but he presented it to his old comrade as if it were a unique product. Egon Ricks took it graciously, examined it and smiled broadly.
He then made it to his feet with some difficulty. Except for shoes and a street shirt, he had slept in his clothing, so there was no need for embarrassment as he stood. He held the watercolor up to the light, then searched for a suitable place to hang it. He finally chose a place near the door and said he would have to get a nail later to affix it “to its honored spot”. He then put it on a table from where he also grabbed a pack of cigarettes and a matchbox. He offered Hitler a stick, but the young artist politely turned down the offer. Ricks lit his own cigarette, and after the first drag, got down to business.
“So, Adi, is this just a social visit or can I help you with something?”
Hitler gave a sheepish smile. He suddenly realized how dry his throat and mouth were and wished that he had been served that mineral water before he entered this back room. He swallowed twice, then got it out. “I need a weapon.”
“A weapon?”
Hitler again nodded. “A knife. A battle knife. I mean something that’s the right size for defending yourself.” He then held his hands about six inches apart, to indicate the size of the knife he was considering. “I think there may be somebody after me. I need a knife so I can defend myself if I get attacked.”
A look of total surprise filled Egon Ricks’ face. It was followed within seconds by a look of pride. It was almost like a teacher’s pride that a star student had learned his lesson well. He had mentored this young man in the laws of the street, had shown him the ropes, and now this scraggy fellow was ready to go out there and take care of himself. He took two long drags of his cigarette, then nodded sagely.
“A knife, is it? Why not a gun? I can get you a gun, no problem – though that will probably take me a few days.”
“No, I don’t want a gun. No gun, thank you. Just a knife big enough, sharp enough to protect myself.”
“Sure … of course. Anyway, the gun would probably cost more than you could afford right now.” He took two more drags of his cigarette, then told Hitler to wait there while he went to see what he could do.
As he moved into the main room of the pub, a new arrival there barked out, “Egon! I can’t believe my eyes – it’s barely 10 a.m. and you’re already up and about. What, did the whore you brought back last night snore too loud?”
“Go to hell, Kremmer. No, I just received a surprise visit from a dear relative. All the way from Linz. What do you think, he just arrived at the Westbahnhof, and the first thing he did, before anything, was come to see his Uncle Egon.”
This loud pronouncement, and the lies at its core, embarrassed Hitler. He was even more embarrassed when the new arrival, joined by the three others at the bar, turned and stared in at this “nephew from Linz”. He smiled sheepishly, then turned away, as if he suddenly needed to explore something at the other side of the room.
Ricks, meanwhile, had slipped into the side room from where the bartender had emerged earlier. Hitler continued studying things of no interest to him just to keep from looking out again into the pub itself. He was breathing shallowly, wondering what he could say if one of them came to the doorway and started asking him questions about his “uncle”.
But the only one who came was Ricks himself, who returned after about five minutes that seemed like an hour. He was holding a faded grey towel that he dropped onto the table next to Hitler’s watercolor. It made a loud clang as it landed. Hitler quickly realized why.
“This was the best I could do at such short notice,” Ricks said as he spread the towel open. “See if any of these is what you were thinking of.”
Hitler stepped over to the table to examine the wares. There were four knives there, of different shapes and sizes. One of them seemed to be a butcher’s knife, with a heavy handle and a long blade.
As Hitler studied the four knives carefully, Ricks took the last drags from his smoke, then dropped it right onto the floor and stubbed it out with his foot. Hitler picked up one of the four knives. Though it was actually the smallest of the four, it seemed just right for his purposes. The blade was long enough to go right through someone of Hitler’s girth and could still put a significant notch into even a burly man. As the blade was also reasonably thick, it was enough to kill or seriously wound just about anyone. More importantly, the handle fit nicely into the soft artist’s hand. He gave it a test thrust into the air; it felt good, reassuring actually, when he clutched it.
Most importantly, he measured it against his jacket pocket and saw that it would just fit into that space. Hitler turned to Ricks and told him this was the item he was interested in.
Ricks nodded. “I would usually charge someone five kroners for that piece. But I’m giving it to you for three. This painting you gave me more than makes up for the difference in price. I’d even let you have it for two, but I’m a little short of cash at the moment.” He paused there. “By the way, can you pay me right now?”
Hitler nodded. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small purse and removed the three kroners in coins. He handed them to his old mentor. He knew that this extravagance meant he would probably have to skip at least one meal for each of the next few days. But it was well worth the sacrifice, he told himself. What did it matter if he was well fed and that killer should confront him on the streets and decide to silence him?
Following this transaction, Hitler told Ricks that he had to hurry downtown as there were a number of clients there who wanted to discuss purchasing his paintings, maybe even commissioning him to paint something. Ricks said he understood and ended by making “Adi” promise that he wouldn’t become a stranger. He wanted him to drop in again from time to time – but, he stressed, at a decent hour next time.
Hitler and Ricks then shook hands, Hitler gathered up all his belongings, including his new purchase, and rushed out of the bar, nodding politely to the men out front and wishing them a pleasant day.
As he hurriedly made his way back to the Westbahnhof (from where he would catch another tram), Hitler reached into his pocket and fumbled with the knife. It felt good, quite good, and he was proud of himself that he had had the guts to go there and procure the weapon.
It was the perfect choice, too. Weapons were strictly forbidden at the men’s hostel; possession of a weapon meant immediate expulsion with probably a permanent ban attached to it. Bringing in a gun, or even a large knife, would risk the end of his residency there.
But this piece was perfect: if someone from the administration there found it, Hitler would claim that he needed it for his work as an artist … to slice paper, maybe other materials. Sometimes he even needed such a knife to reshape a corner of a picture frame, he could say.
No, this weapon would not get him into any trouble. More importantly, it might be able to get him out of some trouble. Serious trouble.