Читать книгу Her Hidden Life - V.S. Alexander - Страница 11

My hands trembled as Cook busied herself with various mushrooms, vials and small bowls containing powders. Her thin arms hovered over the oak table. My first class in poisons occurred early one morning in a corner of the kitchen while the rest of the staff went about their business.

I had no appetite for breakfast and my stomach churned as I looked at the items laid out before me. I sat because I felt too nervous to stand.

‘We will deal with four areas,’ Cook began. ‘Mushrooms, arsenic, mercury and cyanide. We can’t possibly cover everything today, but this will be our starting point.’ She pointed to the mushrooms. ‘One of these is safe to eat, the other isn’t. Can you tell them apart?’

Dread crept over me. I had no idea. They looked the same to me. She pointed to two white spheres that looked like puffballs. ‘Come now, which of these is poisonous?’

I shook my head.

‘I can see we have a long way to go.’ She pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and held one of the funnel-shaped mushrooms in her hand. ‘This is Omphalotus olearius. It grows in Europe. It’s rarely deadly, but can cause severe illness. It looks similar to Cantharellus cibarius, a Chanterelle, which grows here as the Pfifferling. It has a peppery taste.’ She broke off a small piece of the Chanterelle and held it on the tip of her finger. ‘Go ahead. Taste it.’

I took the yellowish-orange meat between my fingers and was about to put it into my mouth.

‘Wait,’ Cook cautioned. ‘Smell it first.’

I felt silly smelling and tasting mushrooms, but this was to be part of my daily routine.

I put the piece to my nose and sniffed. ‘It smells like an apricot.’ I popped the bit into my mouth and let it slowly dissolve until the peppery taste was too much. I swallowed it and swished my tongue trying to get out the taste, worrying that Cook was playing a horrible trick. Did she want to poison me?

‘Look at the Omphalotus. It grows in America and Asia as well. It has unforked gills and the interior is orange – not like the Chanterelle.’ She split the two mushrooms in half to demonstrate the difference in color. ‘The Führer rarely eats mushrooms. He doesn’t really like them, but see how easy it would be to grind, chop or mince the Omphalotus and slip it into his egg and potato casserole. You must be aware of the colors and smells of the poisonous foods and be on the lookout for their evidence.’

Cook then explained the difference between the two puffballs that lay on the table. One was deadly, the second not. My eyes must have glazed over, for other than the size and the amount of soil on both, the mushrooms looked strikingly similar. I could not tell the difference. Cook shook her head as if chastising a lazy student for her stupidity. ‘You will learn,’ she said in a firm voice.

Or die.

We moved on to arsenic. Cook took a small amount of the powder and heated it in a pan. It smelled like garlic. She also took a piece of the grayish-white granules and struck them with a hammer, causing friction and heat. The odor of garlic filled the air. ‘The poisoning causes symptoms very similar to cholera: diarrhea, vomiting, cramps and convulsions,’ Cook said. ‘That’s why it was easy to hide such poisoning hundreds of years ago. Cholera was prevalent. The pain from arsenic is acute. Real garlic is an antidote against a slow poisoning.’ She ordered me to put on gloves and sniff the arsenic, which smelled metallic rather than like garlic. My hands shook when she told me to taste a small particle. My jaws clenched shut. Cook gave up, pried my mouth open and placed the tiny piece on my tongue. It tasted faintly of iron, hardly enough to notice.

She then held up a brown bottle of Mercury Chloride. ‘This was used to treat the syphilitic disease of sexual intercourse, but it can kill as a poison. It causes profuse sweating, high blood pressure and rapid heartbeat. No need to taste it – it has no taste.’ Cook handed me the small bowl of white salts and had me examine it. A faint smell of chlorine wafted from the bowl, but I may have imagined it, the odor was so weak.

Finally, we dealt with cyanide. This was the poison, Cook said, that would most likely be used against the Führer. The white granules had a faint smell of bitter almonds. Cook was pleased when I noticed the odor. ‘Some can’t smell cyanide. It’s a genetic trait. You’re lucky you did; otherwise, you might have had to find other work.’ I was shocked at my own misfortune. If I had lied about the smell, I might have been assigned as the kitchen bookkeeper or to another less dangerous task. Instead, through my ignorance of poisons, I’d secured my job as a taster.

Cook swirled her gloved finger in the granules. ‘Cyanide salts are exceedingly poisonous. It knocks you unconscious and you can’t breathe; your skin turns blue.’ She pointed to a metal vial on the table. ‘Unfortunately, a few of our officers have already committed suicide in this manner. Breaking a cyanide capsule with your teeth will cause death in a matter of minutes. Nothing can be done once the poison’s in your system.’

The liquid looked harmless enough, almost colorless, but I was surprised at how quickly death could come. I would take Cook’s word as to the assessment of the poison.

My head spun with all that had been shown to me. One of the other cooks needed to see Fräulein Schultz, so she stepped away for a few minutes. I held the cyanide vial in my hands and looked at the thin glass ampoule. I replaced the vial on the table and looked around the kitchen. Cook was supervising Hitler’s breakfast preparations. I could only wait. As I sat in my chair, I marveled at how such a small glass capsule might change the course of history, if only someone had the courage to carry out a plan. Hitler was no hero to me, but I dared not speak what I thought.

Captain Weber asked me to a movie the first night I tasted food for Hitler. Karl arranged our date through Eva Braun. Apparently, his looks and standing in the SS were important enough to get himself positioned occasionally within Eva’s circle. Since Karl and I had talked in his quarters, I had seen Eva several times in the kitchen. Her presence was a special event that disrupted the cooks and orderlies, for she demanded that attention be paid to her wishes. Cook told me Eva was the Führer’s companion and the social mistress of the residence. She appeared in fine dresses that flattered her figure even as she walked about inspecting the ovens and stoves. Mostly, she wanted to know what the staff was preparing for her invited guests, not for Hitler. She talked to each of the cooks and even asked to taste a lamb dish as it was being prepared. This caused much consternation to Cook, who scolded Eva without insulting her, and stated that she could not guarantee her safety if she continued such unorthodox actions. Eva tossed her head, shaking her curls, and laughed. She exuded an air of invincibility, as if no disaster could ever befall her.

Cook had told me that Hitler professed to be a vegetarian, but rumors circulated that he ate meat: squab, some fish and even chicken. When I questioned her, Cook said Hitler never ate anything but eggs, fruits and vegetables. Eva ate meat and enjoyed it, as did most of her invited guests. Hitler didn’t impose his eating habits on others, but he made sure the meat-eating guests at the table were uncomfortable. He often talked about butcher shops and slaughterhouses and how horrible they were. Cook said some officers left the table because these luncheon and dinner stories were so filled with blood and envisioned entrails that stomachs turned.

I had not seen the Führer, so everything I knew about him I learned from others. Much of the Berghof’s gossip was spread in shadow. One never knew if the Colonel was around the corner with his ear pressed to the wall.

One late morning, after Eva had visited the kitchen, Cook pulled me aside and whispered, ‘The Führer thinks Eva is too skinny. He likes a woman with more meat on her bones. You’ll see what I mean, if you get to know him. He always pays attention to women with curves.’ She chuckled. ‘God forbid Eva should change the way she looks. She put her hair up once and he hated it. He told her he didn’t recognize her. Eva never did it again, although he complimented one of his secretaries when she did the same.’

I wanted to laugh, but the irony caught in my throat. The rumors of Germany’s defeat were in opposition to what I saw and heard at the Berghof: the nonchalance of Eva Braun, who strolled the grounds with her guests and dogs; conversations about dresses and hairdos; the bucolic scene of Albert Speer’s children in the kitchen asking for apples. Even Hitler, Cook said, was a gentleman host, more of a mountain prince than the leader of a war machine. Everything was peace and plenty in the rarified atmosphere of the Berghof.

I was so inquisitive, I asked Cook what the Führer was really like. I’d seen nothing of Hitler’s rumored rages at his officers or the cold, calculating persona that terrified those weaker than he.

‘He’s like your grandfather,’ she said, and I laughed at the thought. ‘I’ve never seen him mad,’ she continued. ‘Upset, yes, but furious, no.’

The Colonel appeared at the kitchen door, all spit and polish, looking the picture of the perfect SS man.

‘See him,’ Cook said, and looked his way. ‘It’s typical for him to show up out of nowhere. He’s watching us now.’ She discreetly put a finger to her lips. ‘Be careful what you say around him. I would never get in his way because I don’t trust him. He protects the Führer better than Blondi. The Colonel has repeatedly told me that if there are setbacks in winning this war, they aren’t the Führer’s fault. The Allies have caused our misfortunes, he says, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he blamed the German people.’

The Colonel walked past us into the kitchen, surveying the sinks, the counters, the tabletops, like they were his own domain. He made me nervous. The rumors circulating through the mountain residence made it seem as if the Berghof were resting on a slowly melting iceberg while everything around sparkled in sunshine.

Hitler always ate about 8:00 p.m. in the dining room. Around seven, Cook lined up the dishes for me to taste, as well as the food for his guests. Ursula had been given the night off to attend to a family matter in Munich. Normally we both tasted the food. The other girls worked at breakfast or lunch or were at the other headquarters. Cook had given me a few more lessons in poisons, including other mushrooms and salts. I studied them as much as I could, but was not convinced of my ability to save the Führer from being poisoned.

Cook placed the Führer’s meal in front of me: a plate of eggs and diced potatoes scrambled together, yellow and fluffy; a thin porridge; fresh tomatoes sprinkled with olive oil and pepper, a green salad with peppers and cucumbers, a plate of fresh fruit sprinkled with sugar. The tomatoes, along with the salad vegetables and fruits, had been grown in the Berghof’s greenhouses.

I looked at the food and thought this could be my last meal. A tight grip of fear shot through my arm as I lifted the spoon. My indecision showed.

Cook’s voice sounded sharply in my ears. ‘Think what you’re doing! Don’t just taste the food.’

I considered what she meant. ‘Of course. I’m sorry.’ I lifted the plate to my nose and sniffed. The odor was completely normal; the warm, comfortable smell of scrambled eggs and fried potatoes wafted into my nostrils.

‘Go ahead,’ Cook said. She urged me to action with a sweep of her hands. ‘We haven’t got all night.’

The other cooks stared at me, as if I were a lunatic. Ursula was used to tasting, but I found it hard to rid my mind of the fear of taking my last breath. Cook crossed her arms, so I steeled myself and put the food into my mouth.

The dish was delicious. There were no smells or tastes out of the ordinary. I relaxed a bit and made my way down the table, sampling the food. The cooks and orderlies returned to their preparations and ignored me. I tasted asparagus, rice, cucumbers, tomatoes, a melon and a piece of apple cake, Hitler’s favorite dessert. Soon I had eaten enough for a meal.

‘Now what?’ I asked Cook.

‘Now you wait.’ She said these words simply and without emotion, as clinically as a heartless physician telling a patient she only had a short time to live.

I took a seat at the small oak table in the corner and watched as the dishes were placed on their serving platters in preparation for the evening meal. It struck me that any of the cooks or the orderlies, as they served and delivered the food, could administer a poisonous dose to Hitler. However, only one cook and a few orderlies were allowed to touch the food I’d tasted. This was a form of life insurance. If something happened to the Führer then most of the kitchen staff would be exonerated – only those who had the responsibility of serving would be suspect.

After the last plates were taken away about eight, I was allowed to leave the kitchen.

‘See, there was nothing to worry about,’ Cook said.

Her blasé attitude concerned me. She didn’t taste food like I did, although I had seen her dip a spoon into dishes now and then. My fate rested in my own hands – more the reason to be prudent when tasting.

I returned to my room, changed clothes, fussed with my hair and tried to read a book.

Karl knocked on my door about ten. My heart fluttered a bit when I saw him. His hair was neatly combed, uniform sparkling and pressed, boots polished to a slick shine. He smiled and then bowed slightly.

I closed the door and placed my left arm through the arch he created with his right. We walked toward the Great Hall, the large sitting room I’d heard about but never been in. Before we reached it we came to a flight of stairs that led downward. ‘Dinner conversation was dull as usual,’ he said. ‘Eva talked about her dogs and Hitler carried on about Blondi. Then Bormann got to talking about his children.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘That was fascinating. I can outline each of their school careers and his plans for them. It’s so much more pleasant when Speer is here. At least he’s not a boor.’

‘Where is the Führer?’ I held on tightly to Karl as we descended the stone steps.

‘He’s in the Hall with his generals for his evening military conference. Fortunately, I’m not part of that. That will go on until midnight, or later, when we may be called in for tea. That usually lasts until two, sometimes longer.’ He put a finger to his lips as if to tell a secret. ‘That’s why he and Eva sleep so late. The rest of us must tend to our duties.’

‘I’m lucky I’m only the taster.’

Karl released my arm and stopped on the stairs. ‘Your job is important, perhaps one of the most important in the Reich. You stand between Hitler and death. You must always remember that.’

An uncomfortable shudder swept over me as I pondered the immensity of my task yet again. Was I really all that stood between Hitler and death? There were fourteen others who were in the same position. Did they feel as I did? My task didn’t fill me with a grand sense of importance. In fact, in the past several weeks I’d preferred to think of it as only a job. Knowing the Führer’s fate was intertwined with mine was too much to bear. I changed the subject. ‘What movie is being shown?’

‘Gone with the Wind. Everyone is excited to see it. Eva said it’s very romantic. Most American films are.’

He took my arm again and we reached the bottom of the steps. A long hall with several doors on each side stretched out before us. Karl opened the one nearest us and laughter danced on the air. The room was filled with men dressed in suits and women attired in fine dresses. Eva and her friends sat in chairs lined up in the front row on either side of the projector while other guests sat behind them. Negus and Stasi, Eva’s dogs, were nestled at her feet. We were in a small bowling alley constructed under the main rooms of the Berghof. A screen had been placed at the far end of the lanes. Two young men I knew from the kitchen took orders and then returned with trays brimming with drinks.

Karl and I sat near the rear in plush high-back chairs. They were somewhat stiff, and I wondered if they’d be uncomfortable to sit in through an entire movie. When the alley went dark, Karl reached across and touched my hand. Warmth spread through my fingers and up into my arm. The shock touched my heart and I struggled to catch a breath.

‘Is something wrong?’ Karl asked.

‘No,’ I whispered. ‘I tasted tonight for the first time. Perhaps it’s a reaction to the food.’

Karl twisted in his seat and took my hands. ‘If you’re sick, I will get the Führer’s personal physician.’

I leaned back. ‘Please, Karl, I’m fine. Let’s enjoy the movie.’

He nodded and relaxed somewhat. The lights flickered, the music swelled from the speakers and we turned our attention to the film. I made sure to keep his hand in mine. He squeezed my fingers as Scarlett teased the Tarleton twins. I had the same reaction when, later in the film, Scarlett kissed Rhett Butler.

About one in the morning, a telephone call interrupted the film. We were only about two-thirds of the way through, but the picture was finished for the evening. Those who wanted to see the ending would have to wait for another time. Karl escorted me back to my room, kissed my hand and disappeared down the hall. I got into bed and dreamed that night of making love to him.

Over the days, my fear of tasting lessened. One afternoon, I called my parents for the first time since arriving at the Berghof and told them I was working with Hitler. The Reich had informed them previously of my service. However, I did not tell them what I was doing. I could tell my father was not pleased with my new position because his silence gave away his thoughts. I also knew someone, probably an SS man, was listening to our conversation. I suspected my father did as well.

My mother was more effusive and pressed me about my job. I told her I was in service to the Führer and left it at that. It was best not to give either of them any more information. When I hung up, it struck me how much I lived in a world of distrust and fear. Perhaps my father’s cold replies amplified what I was feeling. At the Berghof, we lived in a monastic world: secluded, insular, broken off from the realities of the war. Hitler and his generals bore the psychological brunt of the fighting. We never saw or heard the reported rages, or experienced the tensions that apparently permeated this mountain retreat. We only heard rumors. We could either choose to believe or not. I didn’t like feeling this way because I wanted the world to be ‘normal.’ After the conversation with my parents, I realized how far and how fast I’d slipped away from the everyday. I wondered whether everyone in Hitler’s service felt the same. I was being seduced by the singular drama in which we played. We were all Marie Antoinette asking the world to eat cake while the earth burned to ashes around us.

After about two weeks, I finally tasted a meal without some degree of shaking. Ursula and the cooks had teased me, so unmercifully, in fact, that eventually I forced myself to relax. They assured me that no poisons would get by them. The ‘last meal’ became a joke around the kitchen. Despite their assurances, I still suffered from a nervous stomach now and then.

Captain Weber and I spoke often when we passed each other in the halls and sometimes we enjoyed leisurely conversations in the kitchen. Cook raised as much of a fuss as she could, but it was Karl’s right to oversee as he saw fit. One night he suggested we go to the Theater Hall for an impromptu dance. I, of course, accepted with Ursula’s urging.

Karl called for me at my room and accompanied me up the slope to the Hall. The air was fresh, the night chilly, as we walked. A small dance floor had been formed by pushing chairs aside to the walls. The lamps were dimmed, barely enough to light the room. Records, mostly waltzes, crackled out of an old table phonograph. The music flowed into the room from a gold-colored, blossom-shaped speaker. Two other couples were dancing. A few of the men, lacking women, danced together, not touching each other except for their hands. They shot looks of envy our way when Karl pulled me close and swung me into a waltz. We flowed naturally into each other.

The night melted into stars and warmth. I loved being next to Karl and, judging by the content smile on his face, he loved me as well. We danced for several hours, hardly saying a word. If love was an energy, a force, it passed between us that night. When I finally left his arms, my body tingled.

As we were leaving the Hall, we heard a cough. Karl grabbed my hand tightly and guided me out of the building. I looked back. The Colonel walked out of the shadows, cigarette in hand, the smoke drifting through the dim light. His gaze followed us as we left.

‘How long has he been watching us?’ I asked Karl.

He did not look back. ‘All evening,’ he said.

One afternoon in late May, I accompanied Karl and Ursula on a trip to the Teahouse. It was my first visit. I had seen it once from the terrace that ran along the north and west sides of the Berghof. I sneaked a peek at its round turret rising through the trees below when no one was about but an SS guard enjoying the air. He recognized me and didn’t mind that I shared the view.

The mountains to the north were often misty and veiled in clouds, but the first day I saw the Teahouse the sky was crisp and blue. Looking out upon the scenery, I realized why Hitler had chosen this particular spot as his own. He’d purchased the property – claimed it, some had said – and begun renovations a short time later. The view gave its owner the psychological superiority of one who might believe he was a god. To look upon the magnificent rocky peaks was to feel on top of the world while those below were mere specks, dirt beneath his feet. Hitler was indeed master of all he surveyed.

Karl, Ursula and I set off to the Teahouse shortly after one o’clock. The blue sky above the Berghof held today as well, but a band of high clouds was approaching from the northeast. We walked down the driveway and then cut off on a trail that descended through the forest by way of a wooded path. At one magnificent bend, rails of hewn logs kept the walker from tumbling over the precipice of the Berchtesgaden valley. A long bench had been constructed there so Hitler could ponder the magnificent view to the north. Karl told us that Eva and her friends liked to use the rails as a kind of gymnastic bar, balancing upon them and pointing their legs over the cliff, at least for the sake of photographs. She was always posing and using her new film camera, he said. Hitler was often uncomfortable with her filming, but grudgingly obliged her hobby.

The Teahouse, less than a kilometer from the Berghof, soon came into view. It was like a miniature castle planted on a rocky hillside. The path ended at stone steps to its door. Karl had a key because the kitchen staff was so often called to serve there.

‘I really shouldn’t be doing this, but I want you to see it,’ he said. ‘It’s quite charming. Hitler relaxes here and invites others to join him. He’ll be down later.’

Karl opened the door and Ursula and I peered inside. A round table decorated with flowers and set with silk tablecloths, sparkling china and polished silver sat near the middle of the room. Plush armchairs decorated in an abstract floral pattern of swirling bellflowers added to the medieval atmosphere of the turret. A kitchen and offices lay behind this large circular room. We stepped inside and Karl urged me to sit in one of the chairs. I did and luxuriated in its soft cushions.

‘That’s where he sits,’ Karl said.

I jumped out of the chair.

Ursula laughed. ‘Scaredy-cat,’ she said. ‘He’s not here.’

‘Why did you tell me to sit there?’ I asked Karl, irritated by his prank. ‘I don’t want to get into trouble.’ I felt foolish.

‘You won’t. Sit and enjoy the view.’ I returned to the seat and looked out the windows that encircled the front half of the tower while he and Ursula whispered in the doorway.

‘What are you two plotting?’ I asked.

Karl turned to me, his face sullen. ‘Nothing. I’m talking with Ursula about her mother – she’s been ill, you know.’ The night Karl and I had gone to see Gone with the Wind, Ursula had been called to Munich.

I sat for several more minutes as they continued their secretive discussion. Finally, I got up, explored the other tables and chairs and then stood behind them. They abruptly stopped their conversation when I got too close.

‘We should be getting back,’ Karl said. ‘We can’t hang about here too long.’

As we walked, I wondered why we had come in the first place. I didn’t have a good feeling about our visit to the Teahouse. Something gnawed at my stomach and I knew my discomfort centered on Karl and Ursula. They were up to something.