V Alexander - The Taster

We stopped in a clearing on the path between the bunker and my quarters. Karl wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close. I felt warm and safe against him as he kissed me. I nuzzled my lips against his neck and he sighed.

“Imagine the Führer having the time for such details,” Karl said between kisses.

I started to speak, but he held his fingers against my lips and pointed to the box I was holding. After a few moments, I figured out what he wanted me to understand. The medallion. Karl pointed to it and then to his ear—as if the medal might be an object for spying on us. The thought hadn’t crossed my mind.

“It’s a beautiful pin,” he said. “You should be very proud that the Führer has taken such an interest in us.”

“I’ll let you look at it tomorrow,” I said. “For now, let’s savor the evening.” I pressed against him, offering more kisses.

He stopped me and lifted my chin with his fingers until my eyes were aligned with his. “Perhaps we should be married,” he said.

My breath caught in my throat. “Married?” In a different world, I would have jumped at the chance, but our future was so uncertain. I turned away from him, not wanting to share any disappointment. “We should talk about this tomorrow.” Making plans seemed so absurd, I almost wanted to laugh. “After all, now that the secret is out, there’s no reason to rush things.”

“He’ll want us to be married soon,” Karl said. “He’ll dote upon us like a kindly old grandfather.” He touched my shoulder. “Let me take you home. I have to be up early tomorrow. We have plenty to consider.”

We left the clearing and soon we were at my door. Karl kissed me once more and we said good-bye. My head filled with thoughts about our questionable future and I didn’t feel like going to sleep. I wasn’t working in the morning so there was no reason for me to get up early. Once again, I sat in the library and waited for sleep to overtake me. I took the medallion out of my purse and turned it over and over in my hands. Nothing about it looked suspicious, but Karl would have to examine it to make sure it was safe. In the meantime, I would have to wear it and any negative thoughts about Hitler or the Reich would remain unsaid. I couldn’t even talk to myself. How could I hold in everything I was feeling inside? I was more isolated than ever and in no mood to be a bride.

Karl and I were engaged in the fall of 1943. Hitler continued to press for us to be married, not directly, but through Cook and other SS officers. His actions did not come as a surprise, for he had done the same for one of his personal secretaries earlier in the year. Karl and I continued to make excuses, usually regarding the “danger” of my position, but we knew we would have to be married soon—time was running out. In response to our delay, the Führer ordered me off tasting duty, but Cook’s protests were strong enough that I was allowed to stay on in the kitchen as a bookkeeper and also as a backup taster if needed. Despite his feelings about our future marriage, Hitler willingly conceded his complete control because Cook trusted my judgment as a taster.

Shortly after our tea with the Führer, Karl inspected the medallion. He thought it might house a miniature microphone; but, it was only a pin, nothing more. From that point on, I wore it every day when I was out, although I detested the Party and what it stood for.

During the fall, our existence at the Wolf’s Lair became routine. I grew weary of “bunker fever,” the claustrophobic prison of our cramped quarters, which now that the weather was growing cold became even more unbearable. Else and I took walks when I wasn’t with Karl. We needed to get outside and take in fresh air, even on damp, rainy days. By mid-October the clouds were spitting snow and the bunkers seemed to turn into blocks of ice. I wrapped myself in sweaters and coats and put on gloves to keep warm.

I kept away from Dora and the other tasters because I didn’t want to answer questions about my personal life. Hitler continued his occasional travels to and from the Wolf’s Lair. Karl and I never knew the locations of his trips until he was safely back at headquarters. Then we heard, in great detail from those who accompanied him, the usually mundane saga of his trips. A rumor spread across headquarters that we would spend Christmas at the Berghof. One could rarely trust such whisperings. It was rumored the holiday would most likely be unpleasant, unlike those of former years. Cook anticipated food and merriment would be in short supply. Some of the dampness of spirit, she thought, would come from Hitler, who saw excessive festivities as wasteful and arrogant as Germany suffered, suffering he had drawn down upon it. The few times that Karl and I could be alone without someone hovering nearby, we discussed plans for Hitler’s assassination, but not in brazen words. Our language became coded; any hint of conspiracy was too dangerous to mention even in passing. I asked Karl one day why “our goal” could not be accomplished sooner. “Patience,” was all he said, and whenever I broached the subject, the same word would be muttered.

In mid-November, I was in Cook’s office going over the food list when one of the orderlies interrupted me for a phone call. It was my mother. My father was seriously ill and in a hospital in Berlin. She wondered if I might be able to come home for a few days to help her take care of him. I agreed and immediately asked for the time off. I packed a few things, leaving most of my belongings at the Wolf’s Lair. The next morning, I was on a train to the city.

My mother met me at the station on a bright November day. We took a taxi directly to the hospital, where the halls were filled with the smell of antiseptic and the fleshy odors of the ill and infirm. I later came to know these smells as “death.” The hospital stunk, from the ravages of influenza to the horrific wounds of the soldiers who happened to be lucky enough to end up in Berlin. Although this was not a military hospital, many rooms were filled with soldiers. A few were swathed from head to toe in bandages and breathed through tubes inserted in the small slits of their dressings. My mother had warned me that my father had the grippe and we would have to wear gowns and masks to visit him. She’d been with him for several days and was badly in need of rest herself. The staff had warned her not to stay too long in the room because her lengthy visits increased her exposure to the disease.

A nurse met us near the wing where my father was housed. My mother and I dressed in our medical gear and proceeded down the hall to the room. At first I couldn’t see my father because he was in a bed near a window, which looked out upon a courtyard. A cool gray light fell through the blinds. The blackout curtain had been lifted. Naked branches formed an intricate web of dark lines against the whitewashed surface of the opposite wall. We passed by the bed of an older man whose complexion was as gray as the light entering the room. My father was asleep and I signaled my mother not to disturb him. We retreated to the hall. I was relatively rested from my journey, so I told my mother to go home—I would join her later in the evening and she could return in the morning.

I pulled up a chair near the window and soon drifted off in the quiet room. My father’s coughs awakened me. His face flushed crimson with fever.

“Either I’m hallucinating or my daughter is here,” he said in a rough whisper as he pulled off his mask.

“I’m here, Papa.” I rose from my chair, stood beside him and pointed to the mask. “You should put that back on.”

“Your mother is not to be trusted,” he said. “I told her not to send for you.”