Berlin, July 1938
The trees looked lovely this morning as I walked along the Wilhelmstrasse on my way to the Chancellery. The city gardeners perform an excellent service in keeping the place neat and trim and shipshape. It was a pleasure to be abroad and on such a fine morning.
A tedious incident which took the edge off my good humour and benign disposition: one of the guards, presumably new on the duty roster, stood in my way and asked to see my papers. He obviously didn’t know who I was and remained obdurate when I informed him that I was a member of the Sanctum.
‘Papers,’ he insisted, barring my way.
I repeated my name, laying emphasis on the Doktor, and added that I was Leibarzt to the Führer. He looked rather startled at this, but the buffoon had been given strict instructions and was determined to carry them out to the letter.
When I had presented my papers he went rigidly to attention, his eyes frozen and dead like those of a statue. I told him that if he ever stopped me again, for any reason whatsoever, it would be the worse for him. I think we parted in mutual understanding.
The days pass hectically but none the less pleasantly. There is much activity all around – political activity I refer to – which imbues the whole place with a sense of urgency and purpose. Three new departments have been set up in the past month and there are clerks scurrying everywhere carrying files and memoranda and bits of paper. I enjoy the comings and goings precisely because I am detached from them, an observer rather than a participant – though it is difficult at times not to become involved. However, I follow my own course, quietly and without attracting attention: the time will come when moves have to be made and decisions taken. For the moment I am content to wait.
One advantage of this detachment is the overall view it gives me of those closest to the seat of power and their assorted jockeying for favour and position. I have marked out Bormann as being one of those who will repay close attention and careful study: he is quiet, unobtrusive, but I have noticed in conference that he is ever-watchful, missing nothing with those dark shrewd eyes of his. In particular he watches Himmler, alert to his every political ploy, though it has to be said that the two of them get on well together – that is, they show all the signs of being on close, friendly terms, often dining together and patronizing the same whorehouse.
Of the rest it is hard to choose who would win the award of Prize Idiot at the annual Chancellery ball. They posture about the place, seeking to outdo the others with the splendour of their uniforms and the size of their bodyguards. New notices go up almost every day directing one to this or that new department, the theory being, I suppose, that importance, prestige and power are in direct proportion to the volume of paperwork any one department can manufacture. The more departments, the greater the avalanche of useless confetti.
The only member of the Sanctum I should disassociate from this observation is Reichsminister Goebbels, head of Information and Propaganda, whose visits to the Führer are businesslike and without the ostentatious foolery of motorcycle escorts and fleets of cars and stamping salutes. He is a small, slim, dark-haired man, quietly-spoken, with a lean ascetic countenance. On the numerous occasions when I have been in conference with him he has always displayed an astute intelligence, a ready grasp of essentials, and occasionally a droll sense of humour, very welcome, which completely goes over the heads of the other dolts.
A good man to have on your side, I would have thought: loyal, a keen mind, well organized, and not one to suffer fools gladly, if at all.
*
My duties are not arduous but I think it wise to keep up the pretence of being fully involved and hard at work; it is easy enough to do: ordering supplies from the Clinic in the Ziegelstrasse, circulating minor queries to and fro between myself, Brandt and von Hasselbach, inspecting the medical orderlies and making sure they have enough adhesive plaster and clean bandages, supervising the Führer’s meals and rest periods. He has been liverish for the past couple of days and I managed to obtain a large consignment (six gross packs each containing 100 tablets) of that old standby remedy Dr Koester’s Antigas Pills, a compound of strychnine and belladonna. Two tablets after each meal, eight daily, seemed to do the trick. He is much settled.
I heard from my cousin Felix yesterday about our joint scheme to manufacture the nerve tonic. Felix has taken out a lease on some premises in Budapest and is already advertising for a small labour force of women to start production later this year. It was fortuitous to come across the complete description of the tonic (including chemical formula) in an American medical journal. One minor problem, as Felix has pointed out, is that some of the ingredients are difficult to come by and rather expensive, so I have written back recommending certain cheap substitutes which are easily obtained in bulk. The effects shouldn’t be all that different; and in any case it’s difficult to tell with nerve complaints whether or not an improvement has been made.
I spoke to Elisabeth Schroeder, one of the Führer’s private secretaries (charming creature!) and we discussed the forthcoming visit of the British Fascist leader, Gerard Mandrake, in a few weeks’ time. We both agreed that Goebbels has done a splendid job of propaganda in publicizing the meeting as one intended to promote peace and a lasting alliance between our two great nations and thus pave the way for a United Europe. The British newspapers have really gone to town on the affair, heralding it as ‘A New Era in European Solidarity’.
The French press, I notice, are sour and generally suspicious, talking about the ‘Anglo-German Conspiracy’ and forecasting a build-up in militarization. As if we gave a fig for their opinions. Their pathetic Maginot Line has made them the laughing-stock of Europe, and the Channel won’t present much of a hazard, given the domination of British naval power.
When I suggested to Elisabeth that we go out to dinner one evening she blushed and pressed her head into her shoulder in a manner I found wholly enchanting. These strutting Rhine Maidens bore me, I must confess, with their loud voices and red cheeks and heavy bosoms. Elisabeth is dark, petite, and soft-spoken. Dare I say it – almost Jewish in appearance.
‘I would be very pleased and most honoured,’ she said, ‘but perhaps you should know that I already have a young man. SS Sturmbannführer Heinz Mueller, a member of Himmler’s intelligence staff. It would not be … proper for me to deceive him, Herr Doktor.’
‘Herr Doktor?’ I chided her gently. ‘Surely you know me a little more intimately than that. After all these months. You must call me Theo.’
Elisabeth smiled shyly. ‘I hope I have not offended you … Theo. I am most grateful, indeed flattered, that you should invite me out. It is an honour.’
‘Nonsense. Just because I am of high rank. You are a very pretty young woman. Beautiful, I should say. And I am not offended, not in the least. But I do not take no for an answer that easily. If your young man, your Heinz, should be posted away from Berlin – beware!’
We laughed together at this, and I could see her narrow pointed pink tongue and her small white teeth inside her soft red mouth, and the desire and conviction grew together that I would have her. An army officer, of course, would have blundered in with both jackboots and frightened the poor creature and alerted her young man. But there are ways and ways. More than several ways, as the English say, of skinning a cat.
I have a new concoction. Like many of my ideas it came to me in the middle of the night. I had woken with the need to relieve myself and on returning to bed had lit a cigarette, one of the special brand made to my personal requirements.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, there popped into my head an idea for vitamin tablets. He’s been babbling on for days now about supplementing soldiers’ diets and it occurred to me – why not make them into sweets? Or better still, chocolate! Vitamin chocolate in each soldier’s pack, what could be simpler, or easier to take?
I haven’t so far mentioned this to anyone, not even the Führer, because ideas have a habit in the Chancellery of walking off and ending up on someone else’s desk. Goering’s, for example, that fat slothful beast. The idea I had for curing vertigo in trainee pilots was one day Item 9 on the conference agenda – proposed, it said, by the Reich Marshal himself! I racked my brains trying to recall who I’d discussed the idea with, but to no avail. And then I had to watch in silence as the fat pig positively swelled up with pride as he put forward ‘his’ idea and saw the raised eyebrows and approving nods.
So this time I will talk to Felix first and ask his advice. If he assures me that the idea is practicable (and I don’t see why it shouldn’t be) we can go ahead and produce a trial batch in the factory. Then will be the moment to announce it to the jabbering apes.
Had a quiet word with Goebbels during the afternoon. He was passing by my office – deliberately going out of his way it seemed to me – and stopped to inquire after the Führer’s health. I assured him that he was well and in good spirits, whereupon Goebbels lowered his voice and asked had I noticed the slight trembling in the Führer’s left hand. As a matter of fact I had, and told him so, remarking that in my professional opinion it was nothing serious, probably nervous strain due to overwork.
‘We are in the Führer’s hands,’ Goebbels said in his quiet, even tone, always the mark of an educated man. ‘And the Führer is in yours. Never forget that. I wish you to know that you have my fullest confidence.’
‘Thank you, Herr Reichsminister,’ I replied. ‘If I can perform my duties with the same zeal and expertise as your good self none of us need have any worries.’
A brief bleak smile passed across his face, and not being a man ready with his smiles it was reward enough. We understand and respect each other; that is my abiding impression.
I congratulated him on the birth of a son – his third or fourth I think it is – and he said, ‘There are many ways of making Germany strong. Frau Goebbels and I believe we have a sacred duty to build for the future. Young German manhood – our finest investment.’ Then his lean sallow face took on a humorous aspect and he said in a teasing manner:
‘I trust you are investing in the future, Morell, even though you are a bachelor.’
I assured him in the same jocular fashion that I was doing my utmost to ensure the potency and longevity of the Reich in an unofficial capacity.
‘You do not have a regular ladyfriend?’
‘Not as such,’ I answered carefully. ‘I would rather spread my investment. There is a particular young lady, Eva – I do not think you know her, Herr Reichsminister, a mutual friend of Hoffman—’
Goebbels narrowed his eyes. ‘The photographer?’ He has an astounding memory for faces and names, even those he has met once and only briefly.
‘That is correct. She works as a photographic model for fashion plates and the like. She is a good friend and companion. I will introduce her to you, if that is permitted. She would be thrilled to meet you.’
‘It is always my pleasure to meet charming young ladies,’ said Goebbels.
While he was in this relaxed frame of mind I thought it a suitable moment to ask his opinion of the imminent visit by the British Fascist leader. Did he share the Führer’s hopes that the meeting would set the seal on our plans for the next three years?
Goebbels considered for a moment. He is never one to utter rash pronouncements, without due thought. ‘A great deal depends on the attitude of the British Press. If there is the merest hint of warmongering I think the meeting could prove detrimental to our purposes. Mandrake is a clever man but sometimes his cleverness oversteps the boundary of plain common sense. He is not a pragmatist; he wants results now, quickly, without the bother of discrete and calculated moves in the right direction. We must send him home with something to crow about – but it must be the right thing, eminently sensible and praiseworthy in the eyes of the British people.’
‘You have discussed this with the Führer?’ I inquired.
‘The Führer, I think, appreciates the need for caution; his excesses will be held in check. But yes, to answer your original question, I believe the meeting to be absolutely crucial. Which is why the Führer’s health concerns me. Everything possible must be done to safeguard his stamina and performance. I think you understand me.’
‘I do indeed, Herr Reichsminister. May I repeat that you need have no qualms in that direction. The Führer will be well cared for in every conceivable respect.’
This chat enlivened my spirits considerably. Within the Chancellery it is easy to become secretive to the point of paranoia, believing everyone to be plotting against you in one way or another. Now I feel that my work has not gone unappreciated: Goebbels has tremendous influence and to count him as an ally in the maelstrom of inter-departmental intrigues is reassuring to me privately and prestigious in the day-to-day politicking which is such a wearisome feature of public office.
It has also been useful, I will not deny, in encouraging me to experiment with other preparations. One I have in mind is a sulphonamide compound which was injected into rats to increase their resistance to influenza and was by all accounts a great success. It hasn’t been tested on human beings yet, though I don’t see why it shouldn’t have a similar prophylactic effect: In any case I can begin with small amounts and, all being well, increase the dosage over a period.
One fly in the ointment (felicitous phrase, ha-ha) is the constant interference by von Hasselbach, who just because he has treated the Führer in the past thinks he has sole authority to decide what medication should be prescribed. I will not tolerate this busybodying, and already I have a little plan hatching to put von Hasselbach’s nose out of joint. If he isn’t careful he’ll find himself as junior medical intern in one of the camps Himmler is constructing in the Eastern Province. If the truth be told he’s afraid that he’s lost the confidence of the Führer and is now trying to stir up trouble at the slightest opportunity. He said to me the other day: ‘How can you prescribe those devilish Antigas Pills for stomach cramp? Heaven knows what foul poisons they contain.’
My answer was that they did the trick: the Führer reported an immediate improvement – in a matter of hours, I told him – and was able to perform his ablutions without discomfort. These old-fashioned practitioners are really laughable in the way they cling to so-called ‘simple and natural’ methods of treatment. Give me chemicals any day. ‘What are drugs for,’ I asked him, ‘if not to be used to treat patients? Next you’ll be telling me to bleed him with leeches.’
At this his face turned purple and the veins in his neck swelled up. ‘The question is one of diagnosis,’ he blustered. ‘Stomach cramps could have any one of a dozen causes, some of them serious. How do we know that the condition isn’t operable?’
There I had him. The Führer, as is well known, cannot stand the sight of blood; the mere thought of it makes him feel faint and sickly, and so I said, ‘Are you, my dear Hans, proposing that we butcher the Führer? Are you going to open him up and poke around inside? And are you going to be the one to tell him?’
His face had lost some of its colour and his eyes went very small in his head. The idea of broaching the subject of surgery to the Führer had a tranquillizing, one might almost say (hee-hee) paralysing, effect. Von Hasselbach licked his lips and then blathered on for a while about ‘symptoms’ and ‘diagnoses’ and the dangers of what he termed ‘untried remedies’.
‘Then by all means put your point of view forward,’ I encouraged him. ‘You have my permission. I’m sure the Führer will listen to what you have to say in his usual calm and receptive manner.’
I was smiling as I said this, and judging from von Hasselbach’s expression he gathered from my kindly suggestion the inference intended. There was nothing more to be said. But any more pigheaded meddling from that quarter and I shall spike his career once and for all. In the Eastern Province he can meddle to his heart’s content.
Returning from luncheon I saw Elisabeth and her young man eating their sandwiches in the Tiergarten. He is tall and blond and, I suppose, handsome in a brutal sort of way. All shoulders, arse and boots. I have never understood the mesmerizing effect that uniforms have on women. She was looking at him like a helpless young fawn, obviously totally entranced by his blond hair and black uniform and large red ears. He holds a lowly position in Himmler’s circle of depravity but no doubt his true Aryan characteristics will guarantee a swift rise through the ranks.
Of that we shall see.
Berlin, August 1938
Mandrake made a splendid first impression on the Proletariat.
He has a tall, thin figure, ramrod-straight. Striking in profile and a natural showman. On the way from the airport he rode through the streets in an open car, standing next to the Führer, the pair of them saluting the cheering crowds and whipping them into a frenzy of excitement. Girls ran alongside and threw garlands of flowers into the car: a great festive occasion and just the right image to convey to the press and film cameras.
I was following in a staff car with Goering, Bormann and a member of the Abwehr, our much vaunted and totally useless Intelligence Service run by that dolt Canaris. Goering commented that the Führer seemed to have gained several inches in height, for he was on a par with Mandrake and yet on level ground shorter by a head. I saw Bormann and the Abwehr man exchange glances, though nothing was said. The fact of the matter is that I personally had anticipated what the drive might entail, i.e. the saluting, cheering crowds and so on, and had spoken to Erich Kempka, the Führer’s chauffeur, and suggested that a small wooden platform be discreetly fitted into the car to make it appear that the two men were of equal height. This was done, thus saving the Führer from losing face (and height), and had been the cause of Goering’s uncharitable and typically boorish observation.
Thank goodness we rarely see the man; yet even once a month in conference is once too often, and his disruptive and negative influence even then is disastrous to many a carefully laid scheme. ‘The Father of the Luftwaffe’ indeed – it’s a wonder we have an air force at all with that cretin in command.
Mandrake spoke from the balcony of the Chancellery – in faultless German I am pleased to record – and it was quite apparent that the crowd had taken him to their hearts. Then the Führer stepped up to the microphone and delivered a magnificent speech, in full hot-blooded fervour, emphasizing once again the close links between our two great nations and calling on the rest of Europe to pay heed to ‘these two cousins’, as he referred to them, joining together in selfless interest to promote the ‘New United Europe’. ‘Let us be strong,’ he concluded, ‘because only in strength can we be magnanimous!’
This brought such a roar from the crowd that the Führer smiled and beckoned to Mandrake, who stepped up to the microphone and the two leaders linked arms in a stirring symbolic gesture which will surely go down in history as one of the most emotional and heart-warming embraces of all time. The noise was stupendous. I confess that my eyes were blurred at that moment, but blinking away the tears I caught sight of Goebbels, smiling and nodding enthusiastically, his narrow lean face aglow with the impassioned ferment of the crowd, the speeches, the spectacle. It was superlative stage-management.
Afterwards a reception was held in Mandrake’s honour and I was introduced to him. He is a charming man, incisive, witty, and one of the shrewdest political analysts I have ever known. He gave his opinions frankly, yet at the same time was sympathetic to our difficult position vis-à-vis the Polish question. Interestingly enough he found parallels in Great Britain’s attitude towards France, saying that the harassment of British shipping by the French Navy was something that, were he Prime Minister, would not be tolerated. This I took to be a reference to the recent incident in the English Channel when French gunboats intercepted a British cargo vessel and escorted her into Le Havre on the pretext that she was running contraband into the Channel ports.
A trumped-up charge, Mandrake maintained, and yet so far the British Government had hesitated to make any positive move apart from a tentative protest through diplomatic channels.
‘It’s a question of honour, is it not?’ I said, and Mandrake readily agreed. I then asked what was the reaction of the British people to Press reports that the Reich was gearing itself for war. Did they accept such reports as being objective statements of fact?
Mandrake thought not. He said that the Press was sharply divided. Some newspapers and journals, notably those with a left-wing bias, were making all kinds of ridiculous claims about the so-called ‘German militarization programme’ while other sections, the more sober-minded and sensible, calmly pointed out that every sovereign nation had the right and the duty to protect itself from potential aggression.
His final judgement, I surmised, was that the British people wanted some form of tangible reassurance that Germany was a peace-loving nation whose leaders sought nothing more sinister than to join hands with their ‘island cousins’.
Bormann, standing nearby, had listened to all this in silence, just occasionally raising his heavily-lidded eyes, his square stolid face betraying no emotion. Now he spoke up and said that in his opinion the British people were short of only one thing – leadership. The people would follow if others were willing to lead. There was to be an election in the autumn, was there not? What better opportunity to put the hypothesis to the test?
Whether he was testing Mandrake or merely voicing an opinion I do not know: Bormann is an odd fellow, taciturn, morose, a real cold fish, and like the rest of his fishy race possesses a mind which normal warm-blooded creatures find difficult to comprehend.
In any case Mandrake would not be drawn. He nodded once or twice, which might have indicated assent or perhaps the politeness of a guest hiding his yawning indifference before one of his host’s bumptious buffoons. The upshot of this was to increase my respect for Mandrake and harden the distrust and suspicion I already felt for the secretive and molelike Bormann, second-in-command to Hess.
*
It is three a.m. and I have just this minute returned from the Führer’s bedroom. He relies on me more and more.
After the reception the toadying von Hasselbach suggested he rest for an hour, not knowing that I had injected him twice that morning with 250 mg. of dextrose and concentrated hormones. Consequently the Führer was in peak condition (essential for such an important occasion) and still keyed up with nervous energy. He gave von Hasselbach one of those blank yet curiously hypnotic stares which chill the blood of most people, saying that he would rest when he felt like resting and not a moment sooner. Von Hasselbach seemed to shrink visibly in front of us all, a gathering of forty or more in the Führer’s private apartments overlooking the Chancellery gardens.
Goering, Himmler, Ribbentrop and several of the others looked at von Hasselbach piteously and then turned away as if he were a leper; his days in the Sanctum are numbered, of that there’s little doubt.
Mandrake retired early, exhausted after his flight and the day’s hectic celebrations, leaving about a dozen senior members of the Chancellery and their personal attendants. We stood in a large informal group with the Führer as centre-piece, still elated with the day’s events and what he regarded as his own personal triumph of political strategy: the appearance of two great leaders in agreement over Europe and in perfect harmony.
His spring, you might say, was being wound tighter and tighter. As he talked he got carried away with his own inner vision, which in turn fed his eloquence and he went on and on, swivelling on the heels of his boots, his fingers jabbing stiffly to make a point, his right fist jerking up and down to drive home the importance of what he was saying, and then the fleshy smack as the fist hit the palm of his hand, doing this again and again and again.
His colour was high; his blue-grey eyes had taken on that dulled vacant expression as when a person is not in full possession of his faculties but following blindly the tenuous line of some driving inner compulsion. It was all there in his head: the others, to judge from their faces, didn’t doubt it for a second. Yes, the vision was there all right, locked inside that cranium, but only he could see it – they saw it through him – being enacted in front of them by this short stumpy man with the glossy slicked-down hair and abrupt black brushstroke of a moustache.
I remember glancing at my watch and seeing that he had been talking without pause or interruption for almost forty minutes. The rest of the party, I’m sure, hadn’t noticed the passage of time; they were spellbound by the Führer’s voice as it went on and on with that barking staccato stridency which over a period tended to numb the senses. I could see he wouldn’t last much longer. I looked over my shoulder and caught the eye of Julius Schaub, the Führer’s adjutant. He read my meaning and moved quietly to collect my bag from the window alcove, placing it on a chair within easy reach. I indicated the assembly and nodded towards the tall doors leading to the ante-room, holding up five fingers, a prearranged sign that in five minutes the Führer would collapse and he was to clear the room and lock all the doors.
I was thirty seconds out in my calculations. The Führer paused in mid-sentence, his colour changed, almost as swiftly as it takes to set down the fact, and he took two faltering steps backwards. It might have been deliberate on his part, the others weren’t to know, and for ten seconds there was absolute silence as everyone watched his rigid figure, the right fist curled and poised to crack into the palm, a faint smear of saliva gleaming wetly at the corner of his mouth.
Goebbels looked at once in my direction, sensing that something was wrong, and I nodded to Julius and pointed at the door. The room was cleared in under a minute, the doors were locked, and Julius returned to help me. Together we laid the Führer down on one of the couches, loosened his clothing, and from my bag I took out the syringe I had prepared: a 500 mg. solution of picrotoxin and morphine sulphate, a powerful stimulant combined with a narcotic relaxant. It was rather a large dose, the biggest so far, but his resistance to drugs is increasing at an astonishing rate.
His breathing was hoarse and erratic and his left hand, the entire arm in fact, was shaking uncontrollably as in palsy. At that moment he was probably unaware of his surroundings, though his eyes were wide open, staring, the eyeballs protruding.
‘We should get him to his bed,’ Julius said.
‘Not yet. The injection must take effect first. He’ll be all right in a minute or two.’
‘Is he in any danger?’ Julius raised the Führer’s head and slipped a cushion underneath.
I didn’t answer right away; it never does any good to let the layman believe the answer is simple, or alternatively that the doctor hasn’t a clue what is wrong with the patient. If I let him sweat for a while it would increase his respect and dependence on me. So I pursed my lips and clicked my tongue, the learned practitioner mulling over the forces at war within the human organism, the mysteries of life and death.
‘Julius,’ I said at last, gravely. ‘I will speak to you frankly. I wouldn’t take you into my confidence if I didn’t believe you to have the well-being of the Führer closest to your heart.’
‘Yes?’ He moistened his lips. ‘Yes? What is it?’
‘The Führer has an incurable disease,’ I said sombrely. ‘I have not told him this and neither must you. It is a secret known to just two people in all the world. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ he whispered. His face was grey.
‘We can save him, you and I, we can keep him alive – providing he is given the correct drugs in precisely the right amounts at certain times each and every day. Without these drugs he will die. Now I repeat, the Führer does not himself know of his true condition. He thinks it is nothing more than nervous strain due to overwork. The secret is between the two of us, you and I. No one, absolutely no one, must ever know the truth.’
‘You have my word, you can trust me,’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘On the body of my mother. Oh my God!’
The awesomeness of the moment, and of the knowledge I had sacredly imparted to him, suddenly struck home. His face, even his lips, were the same drab shade.
I said, ‘The value of your service to the Reich will be increased a millionfold if you can carry this secret within your heart. The Führer and the Fatherland depend on you.’
After this little stirring speech, which almost brought tears to his eyes, I asked to be left alone with the patient, saying that it was necessary for me to observe him undisturbed for at least half an hour.
‘We must allay the fears of the others,’ I told him. ‘I rely on you to make the announcement that the Führer is under sedation. Tell them he is all right and there is no cause for alarm. Say that I will issue a medical statement later this evening.’
‘And by the way. If von Hasselbach requests, or even demands, to be admitted you must adamantly refuse. We cannot risk any further upset to the Führer’s constitution at this critical stage.’
‘Very well, Herr Doktor. I understand. No one will be allowed to enter without your express permission.’
A useful man, Julius; so trusting and obedient, determined to do his duty.
On receiving the injection the patient’s eyes had grown heavy and gradually closed, but now as I pinched the skin on the back of his hand they fluttered open again. His gaze was vacant, still a little dull, though the pupils were no longer dilated. His skin was suffused with blood as the combined narcotic stimulant worked their way through his system. His first response on gaining consciousness was to start weeping.
‘There, there now,’ I soothed him. ‘Nobody’s going to hurt you. Everything is all right. Just lie still.’
‘I thought I was dead,’ Adolf said in a tiny voice like a child’s. ‘I didn’t die, did I?’
‘No, of course not, silly goose. You’re alive, here with me.’ I stroked his hand.
His eyes came into focus and he looked at me properly. ‘You’re not my mother. Where’s my mother? She said I mustn’t talk to strange men.’
‘Now now now,’ I chided him, ‘let’s have no foolishness. This is Theo, your doctor. You’re in the Chancellery, remember? Your name is Adolf Hitler. You’re the Leader of the Third Reich, Architect of the New Order, Führer of the united German peoples.’
‘Am I?’ he said, blinking at me stupidly.
‘Of course you are. Now pull yourself together, Liebling, we can’t let your disciples see you in this state. Come along now.’
He struggled to sit up, the black slick of hair falling across his forehead. His left hand, I noticed, had slowed to a hardly discernible tremor.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Everything went suddenly dark. There was a rushing noise in my head. I didn’t make a fool of myself, did I? The others, they didn’t see …’
‘Julius got rid of them, they saw nothing. It’s all right, Adolf, there’s no need to worry. Take it easy.’
‘What would I do without you, Theo? You’re such a comfort. I’m all alone, nobody understands the burdens I have to bear, the tremendous responsibility. They all think I do it without effort, as though it doesn’t require the most tremendous sacrifice and self-discipline.’ His hand gripped my shoulder.
‘Depend on me, mein Führer.’
‘My dear friend Theo.’ He was about to blub again.
‘Don’t cry, Lieblichkeit*, Theo is here to look after you.’
I took his hand from my shoulder and clasped it in both of mine. We remained like this for a while, Hitler weeping softly, and at length I cradled him in my arms and rocked him to sleep. The stimulant had done its job of reviving his shattered metabolism and now the narcotic was lulling his senses into deep slumber. In this semi-waking, semi-dreaming state I had found him to be at his most receptive. In the past I had implanted the seeds of a number of ideas (the vitamin chocolate for one) which had borne fruit days, sometimes weeks, later. Now was the time.
‘This has been a wonderful day, Adolf,’ I began, rocking him to and fro. ‘A great personal and political triumph. The world will have to listen; the combined might of Germany and Great Britain is invincible. Every nation on earth shall bow before it and pay homage.’
‘Invincible,’ he murmured sleepily.
‘You are a great man,’ I continued. ‘The greatest military strategist of all time. Nothing can stand in your way.’
‘Nothing …’
‘But I am concerned for you, Adolf. Some of your personal staff, those in whom you place implicit trust, are suspect in their devious motivations and insatiable ambitions. Certain members of Himmler’s staff, for instance. I do not accuse Heinrich himself but I fear he is being misled by certain officers in his command.’
‘Mmmmzzz,’ Hitler mumbled, snuggling closer.
‘You know it is not in my nature to harbour a grudge, Adolf, and I am loath to name names. But one SS Sturmbannführer Mueller is highly suspect, I might almost say treasonable. Certainly undesirable in a position of such potential power.’
Sooner or later this would become manifest in orders of the day: a direct command that Himmler would have no choice but to carry out forthwith.
He was now, or so I thought, fast asleep, but as I laid his head on the cushion he stirred and said drowsily, ‘Do not leave me, Theo. I am so alone in all the world. Nobody really cares for me. Nobody.’ There was a catch in his voice.
‘What you need, little friend,’ I said softly, the idea popping into my head from out of nowhere, ‘is the tender loving sympathy of a woman. Someone to listen to your troubles and care for you as I am doing. Wouldn’t you like that, eh, wouldn’t you, Liebling?’
‘That sounds very nice. My own sweet edelweiss to comfort me in the dark hours before dawn. Find me someone, Theo, Blonde. Blue eyes. Healthy. A quiet sensible girl …’
His voice drifted away.
‘I will find you someone.’ I smiled. ‘I have someone in mind already. You will like her, mein Führer. My little piece of horse manure.’
He slurped his chops and started to snore.
Berlin, September 1938
Felix has sent me a sample of the vitamin chocolate and a report which pronounces it a great success. He has tried it out on the female workforce and apart from giving one or two of them diarrhoea it seems to be most effective. He even makes the claim that it might possibly possess the qualities of an aphrodisiac. Several of the workers, he reports, have been constantly in heat. (Not those suffering from diarrhoea, I hope! Ha-ha!)
Paid my customary visit to see Eva and spent a pleasant evening listening to the gramophone. She is not yet too keen on my proposal and I went to considerable lengths to stress the benefits: money, travel, luxury accommodation, security, etc. However, when she wants to be, Eva can be a stubborn girl, practically pigheaded, and I had to resort to a little touch of emotional blackmail.
There are two main obstacles to her agreeing, as I see the situation. First, the foolish tart professes to be in love with me (which naturally I can use to my advantage) and secondly – perhaps the major stumbling-block – she despises and detests the man.
Now this could prove a real hazard to my plans. Nothing, I have found, is so intransigent as the body chemistry of the female. I explained to her that personal feelings didn’t enter into it – this was merely ‘an arrangement’ and that she should regard it as an unpleasant task that would bring great rewards.
‘But how long will it go on?’ she demanded, obviously distraught at the prospect of spending months or even longer in the intimate company of somebody she found odious. ‘If it was one night I could get drunk and last out somehow till the morning. But you’re talking about a relationship, something that could drag on for years.’
‘Darling,’ I said, ‘hush. Listen quietly now.’
She turned to look at me, her face wistful in the lamplight. She has this maidenly habit of lowering her eyes demurely and glancing up through her fair lashes; very fetching it is, altogether quite effective; I’m sure he would fall for it. And something else in her favour: she is not a perfect beauty. He wouldn’t go for that. But her winsomeness, the common-or-garden prettiness of a healthy outdoor girl with roses in her cheeks and fine unobtrusive features – yes, these are the ideal attributes.
‘Now listen,’ I said, stroking her bare shoulder, ‘hasn’t it occurred to you that you and I will see much more of each other? Here in Berlin and in Obersalzberg during the summer? Where he goes I go – we will be together, the three of us. And when he isn’t looking …’
‘You don’t love me, Theo,’ she said pettishly. ‘If you did you couldn’t bear the thought of another man touching me. Especially him. After all you’ve said about his personal bodily habits and the disgusting things he does in the bathroom.’
She wrinkled her nose and shuddered.
My hand moved down to her waist underneath the bedclothes. She shivered and goose-pimples appeared on the soft hanging flesh of her arm.
‘Listen to me,’ I said. ‘Think of it as a chore, a task that has to be done. It needn’t be every night. You could ration him to once a week. In any case he’d be away some of the time on those mad schemes of his. You know how he likes dashing about, keeping people on their toes, pretending to be busy.’
‘Then you’d be away too,’ she pouted, arching her back in response to my silky explorations.
I held her nipple between finger and thumb and pinched it. It stiffened instantly. ‘Eva …’ I crooned softly. ‘I’m asking you very nicely.’
‘Oh Theo, no, not even for you.’ She pushed my hand away. ‘You say you love me but you don’t. You don’t.’
‘Of course I do, my little horse-radish. Do this for Theo. It will make us very rich.’
‘Filthy rich?’ she said, giving me the sidelong glance that someone, possibly her first boyfriend, had told her was provocative. On a good day I’d give it six out of ten.
‘Richer than all our dreams,’ I said, taking hold of her hands. ‘Ten times richer. A hundred times richer.’
She pulled her hand from mine and brought it to rest on me beneath the bedclothes. Her eyes grew round. ‘One condition,’ she said, sounding out of breath. ‘That I can have this whenever I want it.’
‘Whenever he isn’t looking,’ I qualified.
‘You are a wicked, wicked man.’
‘Which is why you love me.’
I clasped her buttocks and pulled her towards me; then disengaging one hand I took a piece of confectionery from the bedside table.
‘A little present for you, dear heart.’
‘Oh Theo,’ she squealed. ‘Chocolate. How sweet of you.’ I popped the chocolate into her mouth. ‘You do think of me after all.’
‘That’s my trouble,’ I sighed. ‘I’m just a foolish old sentimentalist at heart.’
*
The news from abroad couldn’t be better. On his return to England Mandrake was given the kind of reception usually reserved for conquering war heroes. With only two exceptions the British Press were ecstatic about his triumphant visit and the cordial welcome of the Chancellor and the entire German nation. There has been a good deal of speculation about the election to be held in October and how this new peace initiative will affect Mandrake’s chances of becoming the next Prime Minister.
Today we received the newsreels, flown over by special courier, and Goebbels arranged a private showing during the afternoon. I thought this an opportune moment to introduce Eva to the Führer and telephoned the apartment, asking her to be at the Chancellery by two o’clock.
All went according to plan. We assembled in the conference room where the long table had been moved aside and the gilt chairs set in rows facing the screen. I was pleased to see that Eva had chosen a simple outfit for this important first meeting: a plain white blouse decorated with a subtle motif of alpine flowers (the Führer’s favourite), a straight dark-green skirt and black low-heeled shoes. I had calculated that in flat shoes she would be smaller than him by five centimetres, which was absolutely crucial if the occasion was to be a success, and I was pleased to see that this was indeed so: the Führer ‘towered’ over her, as much as he is able to tower over anyone.
After we had assembled I led her forward, having told her to keep her eyes downcast in a shy, diffident manner.
‘May I crave your indulgence, mein Führer, in presenting to you Miss Eva Braun, who has implored me so many times to be allowed the privilege and honour of meeting you.’
The first impression, I knew at once, was favourable, and several minutes passed in agreeable chatter. The Führer complimented Eva on her appearance and she responded with a small curtsy and a maidenly blush. The Führer smiled at this, glancing about him with eyes twinkling, and made what I think was a joke. Everyone laughed merrily.
When we sat down Eva was behind and slightly to one side of the Führer so that when he turned his head she was tantalizingly there at the corner of his vision. A quiet word with Julius had procured this happy arrangement.
The lights were dimmed and the screen flickered with numbers. The soundtrack crackled and then we saw a twin-engined aircraft coming in to land against a typically English sky of dark rainclouds. Mandrake stepped out and was immediately engulfed by an excited crowd. He was smiling in that rather tight-lipped way of his as he was led forward to a small platform and a cluster of microphones, surrounded on all sides by reporters and photographers. It seemed that the British Press regarded this as a major news story.
Goebbels had in his usual thorough way provided a transcript of the commentary and Mandrake’s speech and I saw the Führer holding his copy to catch the light (he pretends that his English is good but actually he knows only a dozen words).
The camera had been moved nearer so that we had a large close-up of Mandrake, the wind ruffling his neat black cap of hair and the piece of paper he held in his hand. He smiled and nodded and started to speak:
‘This morning I had a further meeting with the German Führer and we are agreed in recognizing that the question of Anglo-German relations is of the first importance for the two countries and for Europe. We both regard our meeting as symbolic of the desire of our two peoples never to go to war with one another again.
‘We are resolved that the method of consultation shall be the method adopted to deal with any other questions that may concern our two countries, and we are determined to continue our efforts to remove possible sources of difference and thus to contribute to assure the peace of Europe.
‘My very good friends, this is the second time in our history that there has come back from Germany “peace with honour”. I believe it is peace for our time. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. And now I recommend you to go home and sleep quietly in your beds.’
There was a great shout of laughter at this closing remark and even Goebbels was laughing aloud, a rare event. The lights went up and all eyes turned to the Führer, who was nodding enthusiastically and with a broad grin on his face. I saw him glance for just a second at Eva who was sitting primly with her hands folded in her lap. She was obeying my instructions to the letter, remaining quiet and unobtrusive, seemingly in awe of the company and the occasion. The first phase had gone without a hitch, as was confirmed to me later when Heinz Linge, his personal manservant, remarked in a quiet aside that ‘the Führer finds Miss Braun quite charming. He would not be averse to seeing her at the Chancellery in the near future.’
‘I’m sure Miss Braun would be delighted to attend,’ I answered.
Eva was standing by one of the tall ornate windows overlooking the Wilhelmstrasse and I strolled across and touched her lightly on the shoulder. She turned, the cold clear light emphasizing the slant of her high cheekbones. For some reason I remembered the mole on the inner curve of her right breast.
I said, ‘You were tremendous. He is very taken with you.’
She looked at me and forced herself to smile; her eyes remained drab and without emotion. ‘Give me one of your cigarettes, those with the funny taste.’
‘My own special brand,’ I said, lighting it for. her.
She coughed and said, ‘What a pathetic trumped-up little fart he is. I can’t stand people with no sense of humour.’
‘He has a sense of humour. The trouble is that he laughs at all the wrong things. And the man himself is humourless.’
‘Yes, I suppose he must have a sense of humour,’ Eva said, holding the fixed smile like a mask, ‘otherwise with a face like that why bother to get up in the morning?’ She looked into the room. ‘Do I really have to sleep with that bow-legged short-arsed toad?’
‘Careful. Some of them can lip-read. I shouldn’t worry too much about the sex thing. I’d be surprised if he could get it halfway up.’
‘What are you giving him at the moment?’
I caught Bormann’s eye and nodded to him pleasantly. ‘Do you mean medication? Too many different things to remember offhand. I should say somewhere in the region of thirty different preparations. I might try something new on him in the morning, I haven’t decided.’
‘Add bromide to the list, for Christ’s sake,’ Eva said, smiling up at me with empty eyes.
*
The factory in Budapest is now in full swing and Felix is putting a new ‘line’ into production: a sulphonamide we have called Ultraseptyl, which should be on sale to the public by Christmas. This is a compound I came across by accident when I was messing about in the Clinic one day. Felix says it tastes revolting, but people don’t believe medicines are doing them any good unless they taste nasty; the nastier the better, I say.
The last three or four months have been extremely satisfying and fruitful – not to say lucrative. As concessionnaires for the combined armed forces we have our fingers, Felix and I, in many pies. And certain schemes which I instigated are coming along nicely, with just the odd nudge to keep them on course. Altogether a gratifying state of affairs.
Yesterday afternoon I came across Elisabeth crying in one of the offices upstairs. It seems that her young man (I vaguely recall he was on Himmler’s staff) has been given a posting, without any warning whatsoever to the Eastern Province. I commiserated with her and suggested that dinner in a quiet restaurant I knew in the Unter Den Linden might help to take her mind off this painful separation.
She was reluctant until I happened to mention that I was on good terms with Reichsführer Himmler and that he might be persuaded to countermand the order. ‘There can be no harm in trying,’ I said, patting her shoulder. ‘After all, he’s only human.’
Elisabeth thanked me for my kindness and agreed to accept my invitation. We dined by candlelight at the Biarritz and she, in her misery I expect, drank more wine than was good for her. In any event I had to support her as we left the restaurant and she fell asleep on my shoulder in the cab. I rummaged in her bag and found the key to the front door and had to carry her upstairs to the first floor apartment.
Once inside I dumped her on the bed and went into the tiny kitchen to make black coffee. I do not like women passing out on me: it is rather futile, I always think, and such a waste when a woman cannot accommodate her partner’s desires in the conscious state; besides which it is insulting to the partner to be faced with dry orifices in a comatose body.
Carrying her up the stairs had set the ache off in my shoulder, memento of a skiing accident in my youth when I had fallen heavily and lacerated the flesh. I swung my left arm a couple of times to ease the pain.
Elisabeth was still insensible. I made her swallow three tablets and wash them down with coffee. They stimulated her nervous system and she came groggily to her senses by which time I had undressed her and was preparing to mount. When she had recovered sufficiently to realize my intention she struck out with her fists and struggled to extricate herself from beneath my squatting embrace (I was astride her abdomen).
‘Elisabeth,’ I said, catching hold of her wrists and pressing her arms to the eiderdown – she hadn’t shaved her armpits, I noticed: ‘there’s no need for all this. It’s only me, Theo. You remember, Theodor Morell. I promised to speak to Himmler on your behalf.’
She calmed down and lay there staring at me. Her eyes were tense, frightened, though there was also a look – of sacrifice? – of resignation? – I did not recognize.
‘That’s better,’ I said, smiling down on her. ‘You won’t help your young man by struggling, will you, Liebchen?’
She lay still, her breasts rising and falling, watching me, saying nothing, the rush of air audible in her nostrils.
‘Open your legs for the doctor, there’s a good girl.’
She did so and it gave me pleasure to see her eyes contract and the spasm of pain cross her face as I entered her. She was tight and smooth, perhaps not quite slippery enough.
Pumping away, my face next to hers, I could see from the corner of my eye the dark straggle of hair underneath her arm and it suddenly occurred to me (all my best ideas come thus, instantaneously, out of nowhere) that if I could manufacture lice powder in bulk and supply the entire Germany Army my fortune would be made.