V Alexander - The Taster

He offered his hand. “I understand.” His eyes shifted from business, as if he understood my plight. “My name is Karl Weber. I’m an officer in the security detail assigned to oversee the kitchen and dining. Not exactly an exciting job, but I suppose I’ve earned it. I fought in Poland and France. The fighting was pretty rough, but not as rough as our troops on the Eastern Front have had to endure.”

“Were you wounded?”

“No, I was lucky.”

We sat for a moment and I was unsure of what to say. My fate had been sealed by the Reichsbund and there was little I could do about it. To leave would bring disgrace upon my parents. My aunt might throw me out on the street. I remembered I needed to call Willy and Reina to let them know what I was doing. “May I make a phone call? Do I have that privilege?”

He laughed. “You’re not a prisoner. Of course you can make a call. However, every telephone conversation at the Berghof is monitored. You have no privacy here. Whom do you wish to call?”

“I told my aunt and uncle I would let them know where I was.”

“Don’t bother. They and your parents have been informed you’re in the Führer’s service. They were all pleased; however, they don’t know what you will be doing. I wouldn’t recommend telling them. Also, it’s best now that you have limited communication with those outside the Berghof.”

“I have few friends to talk to, but I should ignore my mother and father as well?”

He studied me and leaned forward. “Fräulein Ritter, please understand a few things about your job. One, you are under my and the cook’s command. More important, you serve the leader of the Third Reich. Two, your life from this point on will never be the same. Three, if you wish to leave you must do it now because there will be no turning back once I leave this room.” He looked at me intently. “You’re not a Party member, are you?”

I shook my head. Being a Party member was apparently something I couldn’t escape.

“Perhaps you should be.” He looked out the window toward the mountains, whose colors were shifting in the morning sunlight from purple to dark green. Still facing them, he said, “I was the one who chose you. Cook wanted another girl, but I insisted.”

“Cook?”

“Fräulein Schultz. She had another in mind, but I recognized something different in you. I couldn’t explain it. She wouldn’t have understood my reasoning. But now that I’ve met you, I realize I was right in my assumption. Otherwise, I would insist that you leave.” He turned to me.

I twisted in my chair. “Should I be flattered?”

His jaw clenched. “No, you should be frightened for your life. But I know you are fit for this job. I understand you, and, in time, we will get to know each other.”

He stood at attention before me and raised his right arm stiffly toward the wall. “Sieg Heil!”

I got to my feet but didn’t salute and said nothing. Oddly, I felt distracted and somewhat soiled, as if I had been hoodwinked by the Reichsbund and Captain Weber. The officer gave me a look, but it was thoughtful, not one of anger or defiance. He showed little emotion, seeming to accept I had no use for politics or war.

“You will use the salute when it is needed,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’m sure you know how.” The salute was used everywhere. He opened the door and left me alone.

For several weeks, I learned the kitchen routine. I scrubbed and washed pots, helped carry food to the servers, cleaned the stoves and refrigeration units and watched with interest as the cooks prepared the meals. Cook laughed when I asked if Hitler was in residence. “Of course,” she said. “Why would we go to such trouble otherwise? Not for Bormann or Göring. They have their own chefs. And certainly we wouldn’t work this hard for some minor bureaucrat.”

Captain Weber checked on my progress almost daily. The kitchen was small enough that we saw each other quite often. Many times he stood nearby watching me and Cook, until she became irritated and with a scolding look ushered him out of the room.

“You have better things to do than waste time with us,” she said.

He smiled back and told us he wanted to make sure everything in the kitchen was up to the Führer’s high standards.

I knew this was only a ploy on his part to get close to me. My head and heart turned to him when he was in the room. It was hard to concentrate on work when the handsome Captain stood nearby. I enjoyed his attention.

Cook also issued instructions: I should never wander alone in the Berghof, only speak when spoken to and never disturb or interrupt a conversation, particularly one involving the Führer—if I ever encountered him, which according to Cook would be a rarity. She also told me that the SS were everywhere and knew everything we were involved in, including our personal habits. This unsettled me so much I had an uneasy feeling every time I went to the bathroom. I searched the walls and ceiling for a microphone.

An SS officer I only knew as a Colonel in the Leibstandarte often lurked nearby. He had a pleasant face with round blue eyes, a square jaw and a prominent cleft in his chin; however, a veneer of icy impenetrability masked any warmth he might have carried. Everyone in the kitchen kept their distance unless they were serving him.

“Stay away from him,” Cook warned. “He would turn on his mother.”

I wasn’t sure why she had warned me. Perhaps a member of the kitchen staff had gotten in trouble with the Colonel. I didn’t ask. I heeded my aversion to the man and kept my distance.

My roommate was a young woman from Munich by the name of Ursula Thalberg, who had worked at the Berghof for several months. Ursula had an oval face framed by blond curls. She also exhibited an outgoing and buoyant personality. Her face was often lit by smiles when she talked. Like most of us, her politics were fueled by what we knew of the Party through the Reich papers and radio broadcasts. Ursula was more concerned with the “Faith and Beauty” program, a voluntary plan espoused by the Reich to make us into model German women, than with politics. I knew of the program, but had little use for it. For the most part, Ursula and I were content to take mountain walks and practice our outdoor gymnastics in pleasant weather. Ursula also was a taster.

Our room was small but comfortable, with two single beds, a desk, a chair and a phone. A few books and mementoes lined the shelves, and a tiny closet held our uniforms and civilian clothing. My stuffed monkey found a home on my pillow.

Ursula smoked, but only when she had no fear of being caught. Cook had said Hitler strongly discouraged men and women in his service from using tobacco. One night, not long after we had met, Ursula turned off the lights, opened the window and exhaled the smoke under the sill as we talked. I hadn’t taken up my position yet and was full of questions.

“Aren’t you scared of being poisoned?” I asked.

She chuckled. “Not really. I’m much too young to die. Besides, the Führer is so well protected, who could possibly poison him? The traitor would be found out immediately and die a horrible death.”

I was amazed at her nonchalance. “What’s it like being a taster?” I was determined to find out more about my job, despite the ugly possibility of being poisoned. The more I knew, the less chance I had of dying.

Ursula puffed on her cigarette, parted the floral-print curtains and blew the smoke out the window. “There’s not much to it, really. The cook spoons out a serving from each dish. The serving is taken from various points in the dish—not from one spot. Several of us taste the food and then we wait. Sometimes we drink as well, if a bottle has been opened. We have to eat an hour before the Führer, in case…”