V.S. Alexander - Her Hidden Life

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.’