Two
ALL EYES IN THE cabaret were on Geli, standing onstage by the microphone. She cut a striking figure, with her long legs and chestnut curls. But her nerves were evident from the start.
“Thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to sing, Herr Kubizek,” she said into the microphone with a slight tremble to her voice. “And Uncle Wolf, thank you for all the vocal lessons in Vienna.” The audience chuckled politely. The Führer nodded, beaming with pride.
The song, “Wenn Ich die Blonde Inge,” was light, upbeat jazz, perfect for the small band present, a tune the audience knew well.
Geli was shy, standing still at the microphone, nearly overwhelmed by the accompanying horns and strings and piano.
The song was a safe choice, and she delivered a pleasant performance.
A fine, enjoyable piece with a fine, enjoyable vocal performance. A song nicely sung but no more.
Geli looked relieved when it was over. She wiped sweat from her brow self-consciously.
Nobody clapped more loudly than the Führer, soon joined by the remainder of the room. Geli blushed and curtsied and moved away from the microphone.
The owner, Herr Kubizek, placed his hand on her arm. “Encore? That was lovely!” He looked directly at the Führer, as did Geli. “Why not another song?”
The Führer paused only a beat before calling out, “Why not, indeed?”
As the audience applauded, the musicians conferred briefly with Geli.
The lights dimmed slightly, the central spotlight casting a more radiant glow on Geli.
When the music began again, it was only piano.
No more hiding behind instruments. The song was “Das Bist Du!,” a playful, upbeat piece that better showcased her talent and range.
Geli’s soprano voice resonated throughout the room, velvety and melodic.
Her confidence seemed to pick up with the pace.
Suddenly, the microphone was in her hand; she was slow-walking about the stage like a veteran performer, voluptuous and confident.
The song ended on a higher octave, Geli belting out and holding the final note masterfully, as if she had sung the song countless times, as if it belonged to her and her alone.
The crowd was momentarily silent, stunned, by all accounts, by the sheer command of her voice. Geli looked out over the crowd, blinking hard, as if awed, as if she hadn’t realized her potential.
She no longer seemed like the Führer’s cute, bubbly niece. She seemed like a sensual woman.
The Führer was speechless, gazing at Geli as if spellbound.
The pianist took advantage of the pause and began playing another tune, this one “Sag Warum?,” a softer, mellower piece where the piano merely faded into the background, giving the vocalist full and free rein.
Geli again rose to the occasion with her hypnotic, silky soprano voice, swaying, eyes closed, head tilted upward, consumed in the moment, lost in the music.
Whatever self-consciousness she’d had when she began had now evaporated.
It was not merely a song well sung; it was a commanding performance.
The room was hers. In no more than ten minutes, Geli Raubal had transformed from a sweet girl with a nice voice to a star dominating the stage.
When it was over, Geli had tears in her eyes. She had surprised her audience—she had surprised herself—with the power of her voice.
The audience rose to their feet, clapping and cheering wildly as Geli handed the microphone to the club owner. She hugged the pianist, embraced the other musicians, then stepped off the stage.
The lights came back up, but the cheering continued as Geli reached her table. The Führer remained standing, opening his hands to his niece as she gave a final thanks to the audience and took her seat.
“Wonderful,” said the Führer, beaming. He looked about the table. “Was my niece not wonderful?”