We rise from the bed slowly, my body filled with soft ripples coming down from such exaltation. If we had time, I would press against him briefly. Being so charged, I could ignite us again. But this is selfish thinking. We have a stronger purpose, and he’s already begun to put on the common soldier’s uniform to place the Iron Cross on the left side of his tunic. He holds a picture of his mother tightly in his hand.
I put on the black dress with pink roses stitched near the neck, smooth the material down against my firm swimmer’s hips. I press a yellow tulip between my breasts.
He’s silent. It’s what Goebbels calls “Teutonic solemnity.” And I can only say Rilke’s words to comfort him:
We arrange ourselves on Adi’s blue and white sofa where dots of blood linger from his piles. Soon more of his blood will crest the velvet. It’s early morning, but we only know that because of the small ticking clock on the table next to us. All the concrete blocks surrounding us seem closer than ever.
He’s brushing his hair with my “E.H.” brush, stroking so hard the bristles bend. When he holds the brush out to me, I drop it on the floor and calm down his hair with my hands.
Cyanide vials are held by his fingers so much shorter now. He’s withered wonderfully, thinned, relaxed. Wrinkles are gone from his face and he’s lost the unseen presence of conquest. Only his genius remains. He’s not what one will expect of a dead man. How beautiful will be the corpse of a man who doesn’t drink or smoke.
St. Perpetua, the strange saint we studied in school, was killed by a Roman pagan by guiding his sword to her throat. I put my hand on His and guide the capsule in his fingers to my lips.
We will die never knowing we are dead, side by side, a capsule soon on our tongues. We have only to bite down.
My notebook is on my lap, the pencil still in my hand. Adi is proud of me, proud that I’m happy to record each and every glorious moment till the end.
All I ever thought about down here, wished about, dreamed about was that I’d never be left behind. I hear the shells above. The Bunker shudders. The naked lights sway and flicker. Adi is beside me. When Bormann finally burns us, that trail of smoke we leave behind will be the “one long truth.”
I wish I could taste His ashes, my mouth pulpy with His power, destruction full of meaning, twilight of the Gods.
How much smoke will we make to taint the wind up above? Will my diary survive?
“Say something,” I implore Adi.
Holding his gun firmly, he’s silent.
“A genius always says something poetic on his deathbed.”
My husband leans the back of his head against the sofa carefully forming his words through the sifting dust. His lips slowly move.
“Mohnstrudel,” he says.
I know that nestled in our eternity, I will find this strudel for him no matter how hard it may be.
The shelter throbs and then moans in the seizure of a second tremor, the concrete gorging on us.
I will not let Him shoot the Führer. I take his gun. He doesn’t resist, and the sheer weight of the weapon reminds me I’m still alive. I lift the Walther 7.65 Caliber with my strong swimmer’s left hand, prop the barrel against His right temple while I hold tightly to my pen, ready to record every second to the end. The capsule on my tongue lightly touches my teeth.
Oh, history, you are mine now!
Pulling the trigger… I start to bite down as I… am… do… innnnnnnnnnnng…
Reader’s Guide
with
Author’s Note
and
Discussion Questions
Author’s Note
This book does not pretend to be the history of Hitler and the Third Reich. I wish to give a portrait of a madman in the eyes of his mistress, Eva, who does not see him as mad. Her point of view allows us to go beyond the “crazy/sick” understanding that according to Primo Levi is almost to justify his actions. Henry Fielding in Joseph Andrews referred to his characters as “species,” something more than individuals and less than universal. That applies to my rendition of Hitler’s court.
We cannot indict only Hitler. His political sycophants were enamored and in awe of him as were many German citizens. Equally dangerous were the “common” men and women such as Eichmann, Hoss, Stangl, Magda Goebbels and Eva Braun.
It is tricky to write about a villain. Irwin Shaw attempted this in his novel The Young Lions, in which he portrays a psychological portrait of the Nazi soldier Christian Diestl. It would be easy to turn Diestl into a one-dimensional character. Yet Shaw makes him a tender lover and intellect, sensitive to black market dealings and the rough manners of his fellow soldiers. Yet Diestl accepts Nazism and the mass killing of Jews. Most critics believe that keeping Diestl from becoming only evil personified is the craft of true art.
Hitler is thus complex. Simplicity in marking the evil person—which Irwin Shaw avoided—would be a trap here as well. Hitler was capable of being brave, receiving the 2nd class Iron Cross in World War I, something rarely given to a corporal. He was a vegetarian who did not drink or smoke and was the first in advocating “no smoking” in a scientific move against cancer. He loved his mother, was thoughtful to his secretaries, always speaking to them kindly and bringing them chocolates. Yet… he masterminded machinery to kill men, women and children in a ruthless manner. There have always been wars, but none have ever included such organized assembly-line extermination, particularly of civilians.