14
Zentralfriedhof (Vienna Central Cemetery)
THE DRIVE HAD BEGUN at three in the morning under the cover of darkness.
Joseph Goebbels sat silently in the back cabin of the Mercedes with the Führer and Rudolf Hess.
They had decided that Heinrich Himmler would stay behind if any further exertions of influence were necessary, and Martin Bormann would maintain contact with the Justice Ministry.
A heavy sorrow continued to engulf Adolf Hitler, his eyes frequently downcast or shut entirely, his movements tentative. Though he had begun to rebound and regain his old form, his mood swung wildly; he would still revert to the abject torment that plagued him immediately after Geli’s death.
Goebbels watched him carefully, if circumspectly.
He’d never known the depths of Hitler’s relationship with Geli.
There were rumors, of course. And there was no doubt that Hitler had been entranced with his niece, and deeply, jealously possessive of her.
Yet he had routinely renounced the notion of marriage—his only bride, he often said, was Germany.
“Rudolf,” said Hitler now, his head rising from his hands, “tell the staff at Prinzregentenplatz that the door to her room shall be locked. No one shall enter but Frau Winter, who shall place fresh flowers in the vase by her bed every day. Otherwise, the room shall not be changed.”
“Yes, mein Führer.”
“Chrysanthemums,” said Hitler. “Those were her—” He could not finish the sentence, choking on his words. He hooded his face with a hand.
“I will see to it, mein Führer.”
After a long silence, Hitler cleared his throat. “I want busts commissioned. And portraits. In every bedroom in the flat and at the cottage. I want busts and pictures of Geli. And of my mother.” A tear zigzagged down Hitler’s cheek.
“Yes, mein Führer.”
Goebbels felt his stomach rumbling. He’d had nothing to eat since a light dinner. But eating had been a sensitive subject around the Führer since Geli’s death. Hitler had sworn off meat and could stomach nothing more than an occasional plain toast.
They soon arrived at the Zentralfriedhof, the Vienna Central Cemetery, a one-square-mile plot of land filled with lush greenery and Art Nouveau architecture.
Established in 1874, the cemetery was a reflection of Viennese history, including among the buried composers Beethoven, Brahms, Schubert, and Strauss.
Angela, Geli’s mother and Hitler’s half sister, had chosen this resting place. Father Johann Pant, the priest here, had been the family’s confessor when Angela and her daughters lived in Vienna, before Hitler had summoned them to Munich.
“When is she arriving?” Hitler asked while staring out the window.
Hess cleared his throat. “Mein Führer, your sister will not be arriving for another two hours.”
Hitler nodded and glanced over at Goebbels. “And you’ll handle this, Joseph.”
“Of course, mein Führer.”
Goebbels exited the car as the sun peeked its head over the horizon. Two other Mercedes pulled up from behind, carrying other NSDAP dignitaries, a significant presence of SS troopers, and of course the hearse containing Geli’s coffin.
The St. Charles Borromeo Cemetery Church towered over the cemetery’s Catholic section. At the top of the building’s grand exterior staircase stood a priest.
Noting Goebbels’s obvious limp, the priest walked down the stairs to greet him. “Herr Goebbels,” he said.
“Father Pant.” They shook hands. “Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”
Father Johann Pant was a rather tall man with kind eyes and a lined face. He walked with his head bowed but spoke in crisp and even tones. “Yes, Herr Goebbels,” he said. “Of course, I understand the sensitivity.”
“And I understand that our conversation will remain… confidential?”
“Our conversation is protected by the confessional seal, Herr Goebbels. I would be forbidden to repeat it.”
It helped to hear the priest say the words.
Because if this conversation ever became public, it could blow the lid off everything.
Goebbels discussed with Father Pant the family’s desire to have Geli buried in the Catholic cemetery. “You must understand that the Führer—”
“Herr Hitler. I’ve known him for twenty years, Herr Goebbels, though it’s been quite some time since we’ve spoken.”
“He speaks quite reverentially of you, Father. He holds you in the highest regard. And surely you understand that he is a man of great prominence.”
“Indeed. But surely you must understand that those who die by suicide cannot be buried on consecrated ground,” Father Pant reminded him. “It is against Catholic doctrine.”
“Yes, of course, Father. Which is why I wanted to speak with you. Fr?ulein Raubal is guilty of no such sin.”
“Suicide was the official pronouncement of the Bavarian authorities, was it not?”
“Indeed it was, Father. But what we know for certain is that Fr?ulein Raubal would have never committed suicide.”
“Ah.” Father Pant looked up at the sky. “I must tell you, having known Geli as a girl, I would’ve never believed it. She was such a lively, energetic spirit.”
“And that vibrance and love of life—it never left her, Father. She was a young woman of great promise. Her death is the greatest of tragedies.”
“Then—”
“Father, I will be blunt. Like any man of great stature and power, especially one all but certain to be the next president of Germany, the Führer has many political enemies. We believe that one of these enemies killed poor Geli in the home they shared for the express purpose of injuring him politically. Embarrassing him. And likewise allowing them to smear him with innuendo. I trust you’ve read many newspaper accounts. ”
“I have, I have.”
“All with smears against the Führer. Suggesting an improper relationship and the like. Perhaps even implicating him personally in the murder. Which of course is ludicrous. The media is playing directly into their hands. Giving them the very result they desired.”
“I would agree that the accounts have been… unflattering, yes.”
“Just so. They are engaging in the most vile of political axioms—if you say something enough times, no matter how ridiculous, people will start to believe it.” Goebbels struggled to keep a straight face while quoting his personal motto for propaganda but assigning it to Hitler’s enemies instead.
The priest let out a small chuckle. But then he grew quiet. “My understanding, though, is that Herr Hitler’s political party has embraced the suicide theory. Something about unresolved artistic—I cannot remember the exact phrase—”
“Father, rest assured, we do not believe for one moment that Fr?ulein Raubal took her life. But right now, we are lying low, if you will. We are trying to unveil the true killer. But the Weimar government is against us. Why, did you see that the Munich Police were kicked off the case? That the Bavarian minister of justice took over the investigation? That is highly, highly unusual. So we must work under the cover of secrecy. We must act without anyone knowing we are doing so. We will bring the killer to justice, but we have to do so without drawing attention.”
Propaganda was propaganda, whether conveyed to the masses or to a naive, somewhat sympathetic man of the cloth.
Goebbels and his associates had orchestrated every last bit of the cover-up, but here he was, standing before a priest, blaming it all on unknown “political enemies” within the Weimar government.
Father Pant stopped and turned to Goebbels. “You are Catholic, my son?”
“I am, Father.”
“I have your word that Fr?ulein Raubal did not take her life?”
Goebbels made the sign of the cross. “You have my solemn vow,” he said.
Father Pant looked him over, wet his lips.
“And if I may,” Goebbels added, “it would absolutely break Angela’s heart if she could not bury her daughter here, with you, her beloved priest, presiding.”
Goebbels bowed his head. He didn’t need to hear the father’s answer. He already knew it.
The justice minister had already shut down the investigation into Geli Raubal’s death. In just hours, they would bury her body. Yes, there would still be stray news stories, but the trail would go cold.
The worst was over.