11
The Brown House
Hitler’s office was on the building’s top floor, overlooking the Konigsplatz (the King’s Square), and featured a life-sized portait of American automaker Henry Ford, a bust of Italian dictator Benito Mussolini, and a massive painting of the Prussian king Frederick the Great.
Down the hallway was the Senatorensaal conference room, with portraits of Hitler and swastikas and Nazi flags draping the walls. Beneath a banner featuring the Nazi crest—an eagle atop a swastika—Hitler’s closest aides huddled over plates of roast duck and cabbage, and glasses of schnapps.
Between bites, Joseph Goebbels said, “I still think mental instability plays best. Geli was always an impetuous girl. Who is to say she did not suffer from mental illness?”
Hermann Goring, busy chiseling the last bit of meat from a bone, grimaced. “We have no evidence of that, Joseph. None.”
“Perhaps she confided in the Führer and only the Führer,” said Goebbels.
“No.” Rudolf Hess pushed himself out of his chair. “That would require the Führer to give evidence. We cannot have that.”
“Then… we’ll just say it,” said Goebbels.
“What do you mean?” Goring refilled his glass of schnapps. “We cannot very well say something that we can’t prove.”
“Why not?” Goebbels lit a cigarette. “Of course we can.”
Goring wiped his mouth and left the table, carrying his schnapps to the leather couch, where he dropped his heavy frame. “Something more subjective is better, Joseph. She was flustered about her lack of musical ability.”
Hess flapped his arms. “Again, this idea. How many people heard Geli sing that night? She was magnificent. Nobody would believe she was insecure about her talent.”
“Fine. Not insecure.” Goebbels lifted an ashtray, holding his drink and cigarette in the other hand, as he paced along the long red carpet. Despite his limp, it was how he did his best strategizing. “Frustrated. She believed she deserved more.”
“And what?” asked Hess. “The Führer stifled her growth? Refused to let her pursue it? We obviously cannot have that narr—”
“Rudolf, really, you’re giving me a migraine.” Goebbels sighed, then raised his chin and closed his eyes in thought. “Everyone saw the Führer applauding and encouraging her at the kabarett. Of course, he supported Geli in any and every way to be happy. But this frustration angle seems workable.”
Goring waved his glass. “You’re the propagandist. I’m just a fighter pilot. And where, by the way, is the chicken farmer?” he asked, referring to Heinrich Himmler by his former occupation.
Martin Bormann entered the room and shrugged off his coat. “Himmler is meeting with Hans Frank, the lawyer. And preparing for tomorrow.”
“Ah, here now.” Goebbels raised his hand. “Geli believed in herself but was being rejected in her attempts at advancement.”
“What attempts?” Hess moved closer to Goebbels.
“Unspecified. She was hoping for advancement but was unsuccessful. Her applications were denied. Her wonderful singing at the kabarett only added further to her frustration. She grew despondent. In a fit of immature, melodramatic rage, she took her life.”
“That’s a lot of words,” said Goring.
“That’s hardly the biggest problem,” Hess added.
“No, no—Hermann is right.” Goebbels squeezed his eyes shut in concentration. “It must be a short phrase. No different from a political slogan. No more than three or four words.”
As Hess started to protest again, Goebbels raised a hand like a stop sign. “Rudolf, please. Absence of proof is not proof of absence. All we need is something catchy, and then we repeat it again and again. People will eventually believe it. Isn’t that what our Führer constantly reminds us?”
“Joseph—”
“Here.” Goebbels set down his drink and ashtray. His hands free, he framed them as headlines. “Unsatisfied artistic achievement,” he said.