Obersalzberg, April 1943
However much one detests Bormann it has to be admitted (and I’m never one to withhold praise where praise is due) that he has done a splendid job with the Führer’s Berghof residence. The setting is magnificent. From the balcony the panorama of mountains, valleys and lakes quite literally takes the breath away, and the air is so clear that it is possible to see pleasure steamers on one of the far-distant lakes, at least ten kilometres away. The climate must be good for the Führer and can do nothing but improve his health, which has been wretched these last few months. It has been a worry to me, I must confess, and I have it in mind to concoct some new preparations to prevent further deterioration in his condition. The Ultraseptyl – even a 250 mg. dose twice daily – doesn’t seem to perk him up as it used to; it would seem something stronger is required.
Speaking of Bormann, he’s been tremendously active recently, poking his nose here, there and everywhere. Hardly surprising, I suppose, since he had that remarkable piece of good fortune when Hess flew to Leningrad in ’41 on some madcap scheme or other. This left our friend Martin in the happy position of being next in line as head of the Party Chancellery, and I know for a fact that Goering was incensed at this and repeatedly warned the Führer about him, but wooden balls chose to ignore the advice as usual. Now Goering and Bormann detest each other almost as much as I detest the pair of them. What bothers Fatty Hermann, of course, is that Bormann might supersede him as next in succession to the Führer: with Bormann living in Hitler’s pocket, so to speak (he even keeps the same ridiculous working hours, 2 p.m.-5 a.m.) and Goering always away in Karinhall, his country palace in the Schorfheide, the fear is by no means groundless. I’m watching developments with interest.
Yesterday morning (Sunday) we went for a walk down to the village. There were seven of us in the party including a personal bodyguard to the Führer, SS Hauptsturmführer Bornholdt, a member of the special SS security guard, Führerbegleitkommando. The locals can never get over seeing Hitler strolling about (perhaps hobbling would be a more accurate description) without a heavily-armed escort. He must seem to them like a god descending from Mount Olympus, this legendary figure from on high hobnobbing with mere mortals. Naturally they’ve seen him often enough before, but always in newsreels on grand state occasions, surrounded by thousands of people, or visiting troops at the Front, patting the heads of the sick and wounded. One old fellow yesterday actually got down on his knees in the dirt as if to receive a saintly benediction, and our gracious Führer limped over and touched the man’s bowed head. We were all deeply moved.
Eva dawdled a little so that the two of us were some distance behind the main party and asked in a low voice why I hadn’t been to her room recently. She was, she said, ‘dying for it’, and I had to point out that with Bormann hovering around, his black molelike eyes alert to everything, we had to be extra careful. ‘He only needs a hint of the slightest impropriety,’ I told her, ‘and he’ll be slithering in to the Führer and spreading evil rumours about us. He has to leave soon for Berlin, and then …’
I let my hand fall casually behind and gripped her buttocks, giving the meaty swell a good hard squeeze. It will be enough to keep her going a while longer.
*
Felix reports that the difficulties experienced with transportation of supplies have now been overcome – and not before time. It was particularly galling that they should arise just when production of Vitachocs had reached one million units per week. They were being stockpiled in the factory at an alarming rate and the Military in Budapest were refusing pointblank to provide the necessary rolling-stock to ship them out, making the tame excuse that armaments en route for the North Africa campaign had to be given priority. This was an intolerable state of affairs and might have seriously jeopardized our projected target figures for the year; therefore a quiet word in the Führer’s ear was called for.
I recall that at the time he had been suffering from a severe attack of stomach cramp accompanied by almost continual migraine, so I prescribed an increased dosage of Dr Koester’s Antigas Pills, from twelve up to eighteen tablets daily, and in addition to the usual injections a further six injections of dextrose, hormones and vitamins in variable quantities. It was my belief that sooner or later we would strike a happy balance. The final injection of the day, at ten o’clock, was the heaviest, so that he was usually fairly groggy for an hour or so, and it was then I happened to mention that supplies were becoming more and more difficult to obtain. When he demanded to know why, I told him that the Military was withholding shipments and he at once issued a Personal Directive, dictated to Gertraud Junge (firm body and substantial thighs) to the effect that supplies from the factory in Budapest were to be given priority over and above all war materiel.
This decision, I later learned, angered General Jodl, but of course he was powerless to do anything about it. ‘Loyal sons of the Reich are laying down their lives in the desert wastes of Africa,’ the old buffoon was reported as saying, ‘and our vital transportation links are given over to bars of chocolate!’
Felix is also pleased at the success of the ‘Russia’ lice-powder since it was made compulsory for all the armed forces. Demand now exceeds supply several times over and he is busy recruiting new labour, taking the healthiest and strongest women from local concentration camps. In his last letter he interjects a little joke: ‘Very handy, dear Theo, to be able to treat the workers with the product they are making – saves a great deal of time and expense.’ I had to grin when I read it.
So all in all things are progressing most satisfactorily. Some busybody academics at Leipzig University tried to cause a fuss by saying that our patented sulphonamide, Ultraseptyl, was harmful to the nervous system, but the so-called ‘proof’ they came up with didn’t convince me – nor the Führer when he read it. These academics are nothing but charlatans; they haven’t a clue when it comes to treating actual patients. It was just the same when I invented penicillin: the American Secret Service stole the formula and passed it on to one of their universities who published the research before I could get round to it. I still fume about that every time I think of it.
Anyway, the academics could do nothing to halt production of Ultraseptyl which is now, so I’m told, the leading product of its kind in Germany. Things are happening so quickly that it’s difficult to keep track of my personal wealth; my income must be approaching ten thousand marks a month, though I don’t know the exact figure. One day I must add it all up and see how much I’m worth.
News from the various battle zones has been mixed these past few weeks. The British 8th Army, under Montgomery, has met with an unexpected setback in West Africa. The Nippon-American force commanded by Patton made a series of night landings on the coast and formed a pincer movement which split the British force, and the worst of it was that the forward battery of 18-pounders was separated from the munitions convoy, some thirty kilometres to the north. Montgomery had no alternative but to withdraw his support troops and leave the artillery to face the enemy alone. The most recent report says that 150 were killed or wounded and over 400 taken prisoner. It was not a happy day when the Führer received that particular dispatch.
For obvious reasons the news disseminated by the newspapers and over the wireless bears little or no relation to the truth. When the reports from the various fronts are gloomy or depressing they are either totally suppressed or altered to such an extent that what has been a defeat is made to seem a victory; or if the news is good it is amplified and exaggerated so that what might have been a routine military operation appears as yet another victory for the great and glorious Third Reich. This is Goebbels’ genius: he has a total stranglehold on every organ of mass communication and is so adept at patriotic speeches which rally the nation whenever there is the slightest cause for concern over public morale. My admiration for his skill knows no bounds.
Talking with Willi Johannmeier, Wehrmachtattaché to the Führer, about this very subject the other day and he remarked that if the Proletariat ever learned about the débâcle in Yugoslavia last summer there would be a real stink. Nothing at all leaked out about the episode – not a single word – despite the fact that we lost several divisions, both German and British, three Panzer corps, and Rommel himself admitted that the Yugoslav partisans in the mountains were a match for any army, however well trained, equipped and led.
I confessed to him that I had never understood how Goebbels had managed to cover up the defeat so successfully; after all, wouldn’t the survivors talk about it on their return home? It needed just one soldier to reveal the truth and the ‘rumour’ would spread like wildfire.
Willi smiled in that calm, lazy manner which, were one not careful, could deceive by its gentleness, and asked me had I ever heard of the Werewolves. I had heard of them but that was about the sum of it.
‘They are commanded by SS Obergruppenführer Hans Pruetzmann,’ said Willi. ‘After the Yugoslavian compaign he was ordered by the Reichsführer to detain every last soldier, wounded or not, and to hold them at a camp near Modra, a small town to the north of Bratislava.’
I must have reacted visibly to this because Willi said, his smile intact, ‘No, no, Theo, they were not exterminated. Crack fighting troops are too valuable to feed into the ovens.’
‘Then what was the reason?’
‘Pruetzmann held them at the camp for two weeks’ intensive indoctrination. He didn’t try to fool them into believing the defeat had never happened – no, he was much more subtle than that. In fact his instructions were explicitly the reverse.’
‘From Himmler?’
Willi nodded, his eyes lazy with amusement. ‘Pruetzmann had a comprehensive and detailed dossier on the families of every man there: wives, sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. He told them a dozen times each day, every day for two weeks, that if one word got out concerning what had actually happened during the Yugoslavian campaign the Werewolves would attend to the lot of them – eliminate every relative down to the last babe-in-arms. They believed him too, and well they should, for he was deadly serious.’
‘The Werewolves are trained assassins, I take it.’
‘An underground organization,’ Willi confirmed. ‘Their original purpose was to organize a German resistance movement should we be occupied by foreign invaders, but of course the Führer will not entertain such a notion for an instant. Therefore the Werewolves had to be found a new role.’ He paused and drew on his fat cigar, leaning back in his chair, comfortably at ease. ‘A little story which might amuse you. You’ve met SS Brigadeführer Walter Schellenberg, Head of RSHA Amt VI, I believe? He was given the task of forwarding, via Himmler, a confidential report compiled by Major-General Gehlen on the Polish underground movement. It contained some useful ideas on how one should go about organizing such a movement if it seemed necessary. Well, Schellenberg submitted the report personally and waited while Himmler read it.’
Willi’s face creased into a smile.
‘The Reichsführer went berserk. “This is complete and utter madness!” he shouted. “If I were to discuss such a plan with General Wenck I should be denounced as the first defeatist in the Third Reich. The fact would be served up to the Führer piping hot!” Poor Walter. Filled with such good intentions that always seem to go wrong.’
Yet it was evident that Willi revelled in poor Walter’s discomfiture, not even bothering to hide his delight. I reflected, looking at Willi, how cautious one has to be, even (or especially!) with one’s closest associates; not one of them would hesitate to stab his dearest friend in the back if there was anything to be gained by it.
We moved on to talk of other matters. Willi was unrelievedly gloomy about the spring offensive in the Far East. ‘The British can’t fight the Japanese,’ was his opinion. ‘They’re too much the gentlemen playing a jolly game of cricket. The Japanese have their code of honour too, but it doesn’t prevent them butchering the Filipinos. Do you know, Theo,’ he said, looking at me keenly through the cigar smoke, ‘I sometimes wonder what it would have been like to have had the Japanese as allies instead of the British. The Japs believe in total war too, you know. Weltmacht oder Niedergang*.’
‘You think Mandrake has let us down?’ I asked, watching him carefully.
‘No, not Mandrake himself. The British people. They’ve no heart for this fight. No stomach for it either. They’d never have ventured so far east if it hadn’t been for Australia and New Zealand.’
‘It’s a difficult war out there. The conditions aren’t what they’re used to. Now in France and the Low Countries their rule is strict and absolute. Their invasion went even more smoothly than ours when we took Poland.’
‘What days those were,’ Willi said dreamily, a rapt smile encapsulating his cigar. ‘That was the Reich at its best, the flower of German manhood in full bloom. “Our finest hour”, as Mandrake said.’
‘It was a brilliant speech,’ I agreed. ‘A graceful compliment.’
‘Do you think the Allies will win?’ he asked abruptly, gazing at the ceiling as if the question was of no consequence.
I considered my reply. ‘I think America is the stumbling-block. They’re not yet fully committed to the war effort. If they decide on complete mobilization then the Allies could be up against it. We need to strike at them, not wait for them to come to us.’
‘True, true.’ Willi lowered his head and glanced round the room. ‘You’re closer to the Führer’s privileged circle than I am.’
‘I’d hardly say that,’ I smiled modestly.
‘Come now, Theo, you know it’s true.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Have you heard any talk of a secret weapon? A wonder weapon? Something that could be used to knock both Russia and America out of the war at a single stroke?’
I gazed at him without, I hoped, any expression. Was he testing me? Was there some doubt as to my political loyalty? This would need delicate handling. ‘Not a wonder weapon as such,’ I replied ambiguously.
‘But you have heard of U235?’
‘It hasn’t even been mentioned in conference yet – ultra top secret known to just a select few. Christian put me wise.’
‘Christian?’
‘Eckard. Chef Luftwaffenführungsstab.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘The scientists are almost at the stage where they are ready to test it. Apparently – I find this impossible to believe, quite frankly – they say it will decimate an area ten thousand kilometres square.’
‘That’s what I heard too.’
‘Can you imagine it?’ He waved his cigar in the air. ‘With a device like that we could wipe out Moscow, Leningrad, New York, Washington, San Francisco, Tokyo …’ He became lost in dreadful contemplation, a small bemused smile on his lips.
‘How big is it, this device?’
‘No idea,’ Willi said. ‘Not a clue. Eckard says it contains some kind of new material, very unstable stuff by all accounts. That’s what they call U235. But how it works and what the actual device is like he couldn’t say.’
‘An area ten thousand kilometres square.’
‘Tremendous, eh? That’d teach ’em who was boss.’
‘And we’re almost ready to test it?’
‘Later this year. They’ve selected the Ukraine as the site. Wipe out a few million more peasants. My God, they’ll wonder what’s hit them.’ He emitted a little squeak of amusement and choked on the cigar smoke.
‘Probably why they call it the wonder weapon,’ I said, punching his arm.
*
20th April, a great celebration: the Führer’s birthday!
Unfortunately he wasn’t feeling very well and we had to curtail the festivities. An informal party for about fourteen people had been arranged, to take place during the afternoon, but when I attended him shortly after 2 p.m. he was in a dreadful state. His left arm and left leg were shaking uncontrollably and when he rose to his feet his stoop was even more pronounced than usual. He complained of a headache and said that his vision was affected; there was also a strange pallor to his skin, like a mottled grey. Most odd.
Immediately I prepared a triple injection: 200 mg. of Amylobarbitone to calm the nervous system, 60 mg. of a parasympatholytic (Hyoscyamine) to relieve the tremors in his limbs, followed by 6 mg. of Picrotoxin to act as a stimulant.
He became lethargic for half an hour, went into convulsions (probably the effect of the Picrotoxin) and then revived and seemed to be his old self once more. It was important that he look fit and healthy because Goebbels had sent a film camera team along to take some newsreels of the Führer on the balcony, enjoying his birthday celebration. By about three-thirty he was able to stand and walk unaided, so we went outdoors and Hitler played with Blondi, making a great fuss over his Alsatian. Eva had put on (at my insistence) a bathing costume and we frolicked about for twenty minutes or so for the benefit of the camera.
In a brief respite later on, standing by the rail and pretending to be drinking in the marvellous alpine scenery, I asked Eva what she had heard of this device known as U235. She said that it had been mentioned but that was all, and I told her to find out everything she could about it.
Obersalzberg, May 1943
More meddling interference from Brandt and his cronies. ‘We are concerned,’ they write in a memorandum, ‘for the health of the Führer. His general demeanour we find disturbing and we think it advisable to meet with yourself and discuss in some precise detail the medication you are prescribing.’
It is signed Dr Karl Brandt, Begleitarzt (Surgeon to the Führer); Dr Hans Karl von Hasselbach, Deputy Surgeon; Dr Erwin Giesing, E.N.T. Specialist.
If the idiots think I am going to allow them to step in now, after all these years, and make a mess of all I’ve worked for, the careful planning, the scrupulous diagnostic case-work, the hours of preparing new compounds and mixtures – if they really believe I am going to stand aside and let them queer the pitch they must be out of their heads.
Himmler arrived this morning bearing more bad news. As if the North African and Middle East campaigns weren’t going disastrously enough, the Reichsführer now brings word that the anticipated breakthrough on the Eastern Front hasn’t materialized and isn’t likely to in the foreseeable future. The Russian forward position (‘the thin red line’, as Himmler remarked of it contemptuously), when just on the point of breaking, received American and Japanese reinforcements; not a large force, so it appears, but they were equipped with the new GM tanks and Mitishubi armaments. The result – stalemate.
I wasn’t present when the news was given to the Führer but I heard later that he was speechless, eyes bulging, foaming at the mouth, and he had another bout of the twitches. This from Julius, who keeps me informed of everything that goes on during my absence.
The strategic dilemma, it seems, is that the Allied General Staff is very much afraid that if a breakthrough isn’t made during the summer months the fierce Russian winter will bog down the troops of both sides till the spring of ’44 at the earliest. The Führer will not stand for this and Himmler’s mission is to agree an immediate strategy and carry the decision posthaste to Field-Marshal Reichenau. However, I very much doubt whether Hitler is in sufficient possession of his faculties to make any kind of rational appraisement of the situation; nor is he able to form a workable or even coherent plan of action.
Julius also mentioned that, during his audience with the Führer, Himmler broached the subject of a special squad, to be known as the SS HADER Unit, whose purpose, as near as I can make out, is to create discord and strife amongst the civilian population of occupied territories. Why it is necessary to do this I haven’t a notion, unless the Reichsführer believes it will hinder their resistance movements. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that the idea emanated from Wulf, Himmler’s personal astrologer, who has a strong influence on all his decisions.
I haven’t confided this to anyone, not even to Eva, but the behaviour of many of the high-ranking officers seems to me of late to be verging on the lunatic. They are more concerned with building their own little empires than with trying to win the war. At this rate it will drag on for years and might even lead to the unthinkable possibility of defeat for the Third Reich.
Felix and I have discussed this matter before, on several occasions, but I think it might be advisable in the very near future to open an account in Switzerland. Should the worst happen and all assets are frozen it would be foolish to be left holding millions of marks which wouldn’t be worth the paper they’re printed on. The plan would entail a discreet transfer of capital to Switzerland, buy gold, deposit it in a numbered account, and make preparations for a speedy departure.
I shall inform Felix of my intention without delay. One never knows.
*
Another disturbed night: they seem to be occurring much more frequently now.
I had settled down with a good book, a nightcap, and a box of my own special brand, and after reading for about an hour was drifting off into a beautifully relaxed sleep when my bedside telephone started ringing. It was Heinz Linge, the Führer’s manservant. He told me to come at once and tend to the Führer who had, in his phrase, ‘gone cuckoo’. I put my dressing-gown on, picked up my bag, and hurried along to the Führer’s private apartments on the floor above.
The bedchamber was in a frightful mess. The dressing-table had been swept clean, there were bottles and jars all over the floor, including several vials of Dr Koester’s Antigas Pills; the wall drapes had been torn from their fitments, and one of the wardrobe doors had all but been wrenched from its hinges. The large ornamental mirror of Venetian glass had a splintered crack from top to bottom and all the lightshades were askew.
The Führer was standing amidst the debris, arms taut at his sides, fists clenched, eyes fixed as in a trance on some distant non-existent object. He was wearing pyjamas and a silk dressing-gown embroidered with his initials, one letter on each lapel in large gothic script.
Although my attention was on him I caught the fleeting impression of Eva’s white strained face amongst the crumpled bedclothes, tear-streaked, watching me with a kind of dumb terrified pleading. I motioned to her to remain calm and stepped up quietly behind the Führer.
He seemed to be in the grip of a catatonic brainstorm, totally rigid except for his jowls which were quivering and his nostrils flaring and closing, the harsh breath rasping in his throat.
This requires careful handling, I thought to myself. He doesn’t seem very well, probably a tummy upset; the news from the Eastern Front must have disturbed his gastric juices. However, I have seen him suddenly lash out on such occasions, blindly, completely oblivious to his surroundings, and I didn’t want to receive a black eye or a broken jaw for my pains.
‘Are you all right, mein armes, krankes Kälbchen?’*
His breathing faltered at this familiar phrase and he whimpered a little down his nose. I put both hands on his shoulders and gently pushed him towards a chair. He sank down into it, I could feel his body trembling, and it was as though someone had released the strings on a puppet and the tiny wooden limbs and tiny wooden head are slackly at rest.
‘Have you had the visions?’ I asked, taking his limp wrist and feeling for the pulse. ‘Have they been troubling you again?’
He stirred and lifted his head a fraction, apparently seeing me for the first time; the dull blue-grey eyes hardened into focus, the lips moved, the moustache twitched, and he said:
‘I couldn’t get it up.’
‘Get what up?’
He made a weary indication with his head in the direction of the bed.
‘Well, you are a bad boy,’ I said. ‘I gave you some tablets for that, don’t you remember? And some ointment to rub on it.’ I released his arm and it flopped into his lap.
‘I took the tablets and used the ointment but they didn’t work. I just felt dizzy. What am I to do, Theo? I can’t do the trick. I want to but I can’t.’
‘Now, now, don’t upset yourself.’ I glanced over his head at Eva and she was making a strangling gesture with both hands round an invisible throat and miming instructions to go with it. I cautioned her with a slight gesture and she stuck her tongue out at me.
‘Is it the spirits, do you think?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘You told me that the spirits of the body sometimes get angry and take their revenge by disobeying the owner’s wishes.’ He was looking at me beseechingly.
‘That might be the reason. It’s very complicated. It might be the spirits but it could well be the signs. Have you studied the omens recently? If the omens are not propitious it’s possible that the spirits of the body are fighting amongst themselves. The juxtapositions are all-important.’
He sighed heavily. ‘I wish I understood it more clearly. Where did you learn all these things, Theo?’
‘It took many, many years to become an adept. I studied the mystical chronicles and drank deeply at the well of ancient wisdom. It is a gift, this understanding, not given to many.’
‘What would I do without you, Theo? All the rest are vermin. They think they can fool me with their degrees and their paper qualifications. But they couldn’t even relieve me of the cramps.’
I sat down in the chair opposite and took his hands in mine. ‘Dismiss them from your thoughts, süsses, armes Kindchen* Adolf. If they had their way they would butcher you – slit you open and poke around inside. Why, only the other day von Hasselbach—’ I checked myself. ‘Not that it matters. Let us forget it.’
‘Forget what?’ he said, his body stiffening.
‘Never mind, it isn’t important. In any case they don’t really mean it.’
‘What don’t they really mean?’ His hands were clammy and cold in mine. ‘What is it, Theo? What have they been saying about me?’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘If you must know, mein Führer, if you insist on dragging it out of me …’
‘Yes. Yes. I do. What is it?’
‘They say you have Parkinson’s disease.’
He looked at me thunderously. ‘They dare say that? Those quacks, those cretins say I have a disease? I have never met the man. Whose son is he? Have I met him? Is it contagious?’
‘Whose son do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Parkin’s.’
‘No, you misunderstand, Liebchen. The disease is called Parkinson’s. It is a nervous complaint.’
His lips were working, his jaw thrust forward pugnaciously. ‘Nervous?’
‘Otherwise known as shaking palsy.’
His eyes bulged and the veins in his neck stood out. His hands, held within mine, were like claws. He tried to speak but the words were strangled in his throat.
‘Characterized by rigidity of the facial muscles,’ I added.
Tiny specks of foam escaped his lips. His left eye developed a nervous tic. He tried again to speak but nothing came out.
‘It produces, so they say, a mask-like expression,’ I informed him. ‘There’s also muscle weakness which leads to a peculiar stooping gait. It’s a disease usually associated with people approaching old age, caused by deterioration of the brain cells.’
‘Urglhhmaaach!’ went Hitler.
‘I’ll read you the full definition if you like,’ I said, reaching for my bag. ‘I have a medical dictionary with me.’
His head moved jerkily to and fro in what I took to be a negative reaction.
‘You’d better give him something, Theo,’ Eva said. ‘He’s about to have another fit.’
‘Not yet, I want him to remain conscious. I can’t talk to him if he’s flat out.’
I patted his hand and made soothing noises for a few minutes and gradually he regained control of his motor functions. A semblance of colour returned to his face, though once again I noticed the peculiar discoloration of the skin: blotches of sickly pasty grey on his cheeks and forehead. I must give him some calamine for that, I remember thinking.
When he had recovered I led him back to bed and tucked him in. ‘Don’t worry your head about von Hasselbach and the other quacks,’ I said. ‘While I’m here nobody will harm you.’
Eva looked at me and then raised her eyes to the ceiling in mute despair.
I said, ‘We shall have to consult the signs and omens. The spirits of the body are unsettled; they are unhappy.’
‘I only wanted to get it up.’
‘I know, I know,’ I placated him. ‘Quite natural. When was the last time it was hard? That you can remember.’
Hitler gazed into the room and after a moment’s hesitation said, ‘Don’t know,’ somewhat sulkily, and I thought I saw a tear in his eye.
I sat down at the bedside and stroked the silken sleeve of his dressing-gown. ‘Listen. I have some new stuff that’s supposed to work wonders. It’s been tested on captured Russian airmen and the reports up to now have been very favourable.’
He turned to look at me, one eye obscured by a lock of greasy black hair. ‘Will it do the trick?’ he asked morosely.
I grinned. ‘Eva will be able to answer that for you,’ and reached down into my bag. ‘It’s a tincture of strychnine, a mild variety, you understand. No harmful side-effects.’
It was true about the Russian airmen: they were kept in tanks of freezing water for six hours and then put into bed with two Jewish whores. They had a problem similar to the Führer’s (though the cause was somewhat different) and were given strychnine to stimulate the respiratory and cardiovascular centres. It worked too – though in one or two cases the drug caused tremors and convulsions and eventually death from respiratory paralysis. I didn’t want to alarm him unnecessarily and I omitted to mention the tedious details.
He took 8 mg. orally and we awaited results.
Eva lay propped on one elbow, an expression of absolute deadening boredom on her face. She wrinkled her nose at me and crossed her eyes. I made a funny face back at her. With her eyes she signalled Will it send him to sleep? I raised my eyebrows to indicate that I hadn’t the faintest idea, whereupon she sighed and pulled down the corners of her mouth. I let my eyes drift from her face down to her nightgown: through the flimsy material I could see the vague dark ovals of her nipples. She noticed the direction of my gaze and lowered her eyes, glancing at me through her lashes and licking her bottom lip with a soft pink tongue.
For some time now I hadn’t found her in the least desirable, but this simple stratagem rekindled my interest and I took it into my head to have a poke at it at the next opportunity.
‘How do you feel?’ I asked the Führer. ‘Anything stirring?’
His eyes were glazed and it occurred to me that perhaps the dose had been too strong. On reading the label carefully I found that it prescribed a gradual increase from 2 mg. to 8 mg. over a period of days. Well, it was too late now. No good crying over spilt strychnine.
‘I don’t feel to be here,’ he said, and indeed his voice did sound odd. ‘I feel to be …’
‘Anywhere in particular?’
‘I think I can see God.’
‘Oh mother,’ said Eva.
‘You can see God,’ I said. ‘That’s interesting.’
Eva tapped her temple with her forefinger and pointed at Hitler. I nodded and murmured, ‘As a hatter.’
‘What?’ the Führer said, blinking rapidly and trying to sit up.
‘Take it easy now. No cause for alarm. Can you see anyone else besides God? Any angels? Visions?’
He has often mentioned to me, in confidence, that he receives ‘visitations’. Sometimes there are ghosts present, and once he said that he could see right through me and tried to poke his finger into my chest until I insisted that I was perfectly real and solid and what’s more he was hurting me.
I leaned closer and said in his ear, ‘Can you feel anything yet, Messiah of the Reich? Is anything twitching down below? Is the little worm coming out of its nest?’
‘Oh bollocks,’ Eva said impatiently, ‘let me have a feel.’ She rummaged under the bedclothes.
‘Anything?’
‘Not a sausage.’
‘I must have given him too much.’
‘You didn’t give him enough.’
‘It would have killed him.’
‘Exactly.’
‘The visions, the visions …’ mumbled the Führer.
‘Yes, the bleeding visions,’ I said.
‘They’re speaking to me, giving me instructions.’
‘Ask them if they can give you a hard on.’
‘I shall rule the world with my wonder weapon,’ he burbled.
‘And pigs might fly,’ Eva said.
‘Quiet,’ I said. ‘This could be interesting. Which wonder weapon are you referring to, mein Führer?’
‘The most powerful weapon on earth.’
Eva had another feel. ‘He really is delirious.’
‘Shush.’
‘I have not come into the world to make men better but to make use of their weaknesses,’ he droned. ‘Now I have the means. Total annihilation. The skies will darken, the bombs will rain down on the cities, blood will flow in the gutters. Nature is cruel, therefore we too may be cruel. If I can send the flower of the German nation into the hell of war, without the smallest pity for the spilling of precious German blood, then surely I have a right to remove millions of an inferior race that breeds like vermin!’
‘How will this be achieved, mein Liebling?’ I asked softly.
‘The ultimate weapon,’ Hitler gloated, his blank eyes lost in visions. ‘The brilliance of German science and technology has given the Reich the miracle of U235. Now nothing on earth can stand in our way. We are truly invincible. The visions tell me of greater glories ahead. I see, I believe, I will act. God wills it.’
‘And we have it – the most powerful weapon on earth?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Hitler breathed, his eyes alight with phantoms. ‘We have it. The Atomic Bomb.’
Obersalzberg, June 1943
This must surely be the loveliest time of the year. Difficult to believe, here amidst this idyllic alpine landscape, that throughout Europe, Russia, Africa, the Middle East, the Far East, the Pacific, on every continent and ocean, bloody battles are being fought and men, women and children are dying in the most sordid inglorious circumstances. Life is funny that way, I suppose. Some must die so that others might live. So it goes.
Goebbels paid a brief visit to the Berghof. He didn’t look at all well and wasn’t, I might add, in the best of moods. Indeed he took the Führer to task for not putting in an appearance in Berlin for over two months. The gist of his complaint was that the German people were having to suffer an increasing aerial bombardment by the Americans and the Russians, cities and towns were being knocked flat, and yet the Führer hadn’t once, visited the devastated areas to bring cheer and comfort to those living under daily threat to their lives. Goebbels himself, as is well known, is constantly touring the industrialized areas on morale-boosting missions; couldn’t the Führer, if only for propaganda purposes, leave Obsersalzberg and see at first-hand the destruction that was being inflicted? The German people would respond magnificently if they saw the Führer taking a close personal interest.
Hitler was taking tea at the time of the interview. He had, as I recall, just eaten a cream bun and was licking the cream from his fingers. He looked at Goebbels with that fixed unwavering gaze of his, the blue-grey eyes staring and dead, lacking animation, like those of a somnambulist.
‘The bomb-terror,’ he declared, ‘spares the dwellings of neither the rich nor poor; before the offices of total war the last class barriers have had to go down. Under the debris of our shattered cities the last so-called achievements of the middleclass nineteenth century have been finally buried.’
Goebbels started to interrupt but the Führer cried:
‘There is no end to the revolution! A revolution is only doomed to failure if those who make it cease to be revolutionaries. Together with the monuments of bourgeois culture there crumble also the last obstacles to the fulfilment of our revolutionary task. Now that everything is in ruins we are forced to rebuild Europe. In the past, private possessions imprisoned us in the class structure: now the bombs, instead of killing all Europeans, have only smashed the prison walls which held them captive. In trying to destroy Europe’s future the enemy has only succeeded in smashing its past; and with that, everything old and outworn has gone. Gone for evermore.’
Several of us applauded this speech and the Führer looked up as if awakening from a trance, and Goebbels sat sullen and stiff, his hands sunk deeply in the pockets of his black leather greatcoat.
‘Is this the message I have to take back with me?’ he asked. I have never seen him so depressed and spiritless, bereft of all hope.
‘Tell them to trust in the Führer and in the stars. It is written in my horoscope that the second half of the year will be the turning-point for us. This is June the eleventh. It is the turning-point!’
At this Goebbels stood up abruptly and begged to be excused. He left immediately for Berlin accompanied by his adjutant SS Hauptsturmführer Guenther Schwaegermann and other personal aides.
*
At last I have found someone who talks sense about this mysterious substance U235, the vital constituent of the ‘Atomic Bomb’.
An officer arrived at the Berghof bringing a confidential dispatch for the Führer, and after discharging his duty, spent an hour or so relaxing on the balcony in the hot sunshine: it was there we struck up a casual conversation. A young man, mid-twenties I should say, close-cropped sandy-coloured hair, an over-eagerness of speech which made him stutter.
Nicolaus von Below, Wehrmachtattaché (Luftwaffe) to Goering, acting as liaison officer to the Führer’s headquarters. I had no idea what the dispatch contained but happened to remark that it must have been of vital importance if the authorities had to employ the services of an Oberst der Luftwaffe.
‘It concerns the B-B-Bomb,’ said von Below, rather rashly I thought, not knowing what my security clearance was. ‘Of course you are familiar with the project, being so c-c-close to the Führer.’
‘U235,’ I said knowledgeably.
‘It will win the war for us. Neither the Soviets, the Americans nor the Japanese have anything like it. In a year from n-n-now – all over.’
‘Why a year?’
‘The process is extremely complex,’ said von Below, and went on to explain that U23s is composed of the lighter atoms of natural uranium. A team of physicists, working under the direction of Professor Max Steenbeck, has developed a very high speed centrifuge which separates these lighter atoms from the rest, eventually producing what he termed ‘enriched uranium’. This 2-4 per cent concentration of active uranium is then incorporated in a device which, when triggered, has the explosive power of 100,000 tons of TNT.
‘They call it a chain-reaction. When the U235 has reached the right level of c-c-concentration something known as fission takes place – the atoms go out of control and the result is a m-m-massive explosion.’
‘Staggering,’ I said, shaking my head in wonderment and admiration. ‘This proves once and for all the invincible superiority of German technology.’
‘It is a new era,’ von Below confirmed with shining eyes. ‘The Atomic Age. Nothing known to m-m-man can stand in its way. There is no defence against it. The Reich will triumph. Historical N-N-Necessity and Justice will prevail in the end!’
In answer to my questions he informed me that the device, though large, could be carried quite easily by heavy bomber and dropped from 25,000 metres on to the target. At approximately 1,000 metres the Bomb would be detonated by a built-in automatic altimeter system. I expressed surprise at this and von Below explained, ‘It is detonated in the air to achieve m-m-maximum effect. In addition to the heat-blast the Bomb spreads a form of radiation which will give the enemy population skin cancer. And this isn’t all—’ he was becoming more and more agitated ‘—the radiation sickness will last through m-m-many generations. Babies in the womb will be born deformed, with no arms and legs and with shrunken b-b-bodies. The sperm and egg-cells of those who survive will c-c-carry the sickness so that their offspring will be mutants too – laughable parodies of human beings.’
I was very impressed with Nicolaus von Below: his boyish enthusiasm and unwavering loyalty to the Reich are qualities not in abundant supply at the present time and which many could do worse than emulate, especially those in positions of high command. My only criticism is that he might have been more circumspect in his handling of top secret information; not everyone is trustworthy, even amongst those (sad to say) who are privy to the Führer’s most intimate confidences.
*
If victory is sweet, revenge is sweeter.
This observation is prompted by a feeling of secret bubbling exultation. This morning, shortly after eleven o’clock, a ‘deputation’ arrived without warning: Brandt, Giesing and von Hasselbach on a mission which had quite obviously been planned weeks ahead and down to the smallest detail.
The appointment had been made, it transpired, through the administrative network of the security guard, Reichssicherheitsdienst Dienststelle I. The first I knew of it was when Heinz Linge called me in great alarm and said that Giesing had been poking around in the medicine cabinet and discovered several cartons of Dr Koester’s Antigas Pills and had demanded to know what in heaven’s name these were for. Heinz had said (he was flustered) that they were part of the Führer’s personal medication as prescribed by me, whereupon Giesing turned pale and rushed out of the room.
I sensed immediately that something was afoot and went directly to the ante-room of Hitler’s private apartment. Julius informed me that the three doctors were in consultation with the Führer and that I would be well advised, under the circumstances, not to intervene unless summoned. I reminded him of his pledge to me, on behalf of the Führer and the Fatherland, he had given five years before at the Reich Chancellery in Berlin. I went on:
‘You have seen for yourself the precarious hold he has on life; do you think those butchers have the faintest inkling of the delicate nature of his constitution? It is our right and our duty to protect him from the blundering interference of such meddlesome quacks.’
Just then (destiny smiles on the audacious) the buzzer sounded, summoning Julius inside, and I unhesitatingly followed, to be greeted by thunderous scowls on the faces of the three doctors.
The Führer was sitting at his desk, leaning slightly to one side, his chin resting in the palm of his hand, smoking a cigarette in a holder, a haze of blue smoke obscuring his head.
There was a lengthy silence which no one seemed keen to interrupt; Julius stood attentively by, awaiting instructions. I surmised that someone had finished speaking the moment we entered – von Hasselbach I gathered, judging from his flushed appearance and fidgety manner.
At last the Führer spoke, a voice issuing from the pall of blue smoke. ‘I was about to send for you, Theo. I have just this minute heard the most remarkable thing. Would you like to hear what it is?’
‘Certainly, mein Führer, if you think it concerns me.’
‘I think it does; wouldn’t you say so, Herr Doktor Brandt?’
Brandt had been glaring at me but now he seemed taken aback. ‘Why, yes, of course – of course—’ He was plainly confused.
‘These three wise men,’ said the voice in the smoke, ‘these three learned physicians inform me that I am being slowly and systematically poisoned. What do you think of that?’
I looked at them one by one. ‘Is that what they say?’
‘Not in that way precisely,’ said von Hasselbach. ‘What we were saying was that, in our opinion—’
‘Did I invite you to speak?’ the Führer said. A billow of blue smoke rolled ominously across the desk like a thundercloud.
‘Forgive me. I wasn’t thinking. My abject apologies.’
More silence.
‘How long have you been attending me, Theo?’
‘Seven years, nearly eight, mein Führer.’
‘Have I suffered one head cold in all that time?’
‘No, mein Führer.’
‘Have I been admitted to hospital in all that time?’
‘No, mein Führer.’
‘Have you diagnosed any disease or infection during those seven years?’
‘Except for a mild complaint of the inner ear, no, mein Führer.’
‘If I may be allowed, sir, to interject at this point,’ Giesing spoke up. ‘We—’
‘Shut up!’ Hitler screamed. ‘Shut up! Shut up! You dolts! You cretins! You imbecilic swine! Do you think I’m an idiot? Do you think I’m not familiar with your charlatan’s tricks? You think I have a disease – don’t deny it – I can-see it in your faces. You believe, all three of you, that I’m suffering from some nervous disorder. Don’t deny it! Don’t deny it! For four years I have directed a war on a global scale. I am the greatest military strategist of all time, and yet you in your infinite quackery think my health is impaired. What understanding do you have of political affairs? None! What do you know of military matters? Nothing! Yet you blunder in here and try to tell me – me! – that I am being poisoned, that my judgement is at fault, that I have lost all control.’
Brandt stepped forward.
‘Mein Führer, forgive me, we have never for an instant doubted your political or military genius. It is purely on a medical basis that we are concerned for your—’
‘Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!’ He smashed the top of the desk with both fists. Ash cascaded over the lapels of his double-breasted light-grey jacket. He said to Julius, ‘Am I ill? You see me every day. Am I sickening for anything? Am I nervous? Tell them. Tell them!’
‘No, mein Führer.’ Julius caught my eye and swallowed. ‘You are not nervous. You are in perfect health.’
‘You see?’ Hitler yelled at the top of his voice. ‘He sees me every day, several times a day, and he says I am in perfect health. Per. Fect. Health!’
Brandt, von Hasselbach and Giesing averted their eyes from him and each other. Silence came down like a shroud.
‘Give me a cigarette,’ the Führer said, and Julius hurried to comply. When it had been inserted in the holder and was going satisfactorily he said, ‘You are men of paper, you three. Academics. Intellectuals. Out of touch with reality. Morell here is a qualified doctor, just as you three are, but he understands that real medicine isn’t concerned simply with flesh and muscle and bone. There are spirits of the body that have to be tended, cared for, treated with respect, and occasionally appeased. What do you know of these spirits? You, Giesing, what do you know?’
Giesing shuffled his feet and tried not to meet anyone’s eye. ‘I know very little about spirits,’ he admitted. ‘If you mean the psychological treatment of patients—’
‘Psychological!’ the Führer bellowed, his eyes protruding from his head. ‘You dare to mention in my presence the perverted theories of a Jew? You tell me to my face that you subscribe to Jewish methods of treatment? You believe – believe—’
He was incoherent with rage. There was a glazed film over his eyes and his face had broken out in large grey blotches. I thought for a moment he was about to have a seizure.
‘What the Führer says is quite correct,’ I put in quietly. ‘Modern medicine pays no attention to these all-important spirits. It treats the symptoms but ignores the causes. Unless one understands the dynamic metabolism of the body, the ebb and flow of vital forces, the astrological effects of the spheres on the bodily processes, then medical treatment is of no practical value. You might as well put sticking plaster on a gangrenous leg in order to cure it.’
Brandt was gaping at me as though I was talking gibberish. Both von Hasselbach and Giesing had been cowed into stunned silence. My God, they were sorry they’d ever thought of this!
‘You, a trained doctor, do not believe in orthodox medical practice?’ Brandt said. I cannot accurately describe the expression on his face; it was ludicrous in the extreme.
‘You mean the so-called “body of knowledge” compiled by professors in their academic ivory towers?’ I said mockingly. ‘All those learned old gentlemen with strings of letters after their names? I prefer to trust my own instincts than follow the outdated ramblings of cretinous old fools.’
The Führer had regained his composure. He was now icily calm. A shadow had fallen over the room, as of that cast by the outspread wings of a hovering eagle about to swoop down on its prey. He said, his voice under strict control:
‘As from today – as of this minute – you are relieved of all medical appointments and political offices. I shall not require your services again, nor your advice, nor do I want any of you admitted into my presence ever again. You are hereby dismissed.’
‘If victory is sweet,’ I said to Eva later that day, ‘revenge is sweeter.’
‘Don’t go on so,’ she said, pulling my head down. ‘Kiss me again.’
‘I’ll do more than kiss you,’ I said, throwing the bed covers out of the way. ‘I’m going to shaft the arse off you.’