57
His inside man—Emil Maurice, the Führer’s disgruntled former chauffeur who had loved Geli—told him that Hitler was in Berlin for the week and that his housekeeper, Anni Winter, whom Bauer had grilled at the police station, had been given the week off with her husband to visit family.
Bauer figured that there would be no one else here who might recognize him from a year ago.
Still, the shaved head and thick beard provided a measure of insurance.
“Hello, Herr Berger.” Eva Braun was in the parlor near the front door, dressed in a red floral dress and holding a champagne flute in one hand, a bottle of Moet in the other. Her eyes had the glassiness of intoxication, the curve of her mouth the hint of mischief.
“So glad to join you, Fr?ulein Braun.” He extended his hand, but she opted for the alternating cheek kisses. Her floral perfume could not hide the smell of booze and cigarettes.
“Let me show you around,” she said, looping her arm through his like a natural hostess.
She guided him through the parlor, the elaborate study and library, the simple dining room, and various bedrooms. When they reached the corner room—Geli’s room—Braun said, “That one is locked. Nobody uses it.” Bauer didn’t press the point.
“How did you and the Führer meet, Fr?ulein Braun?” he asked as they walked, though he already knew.
“It’s Eva, silly,” she said, squeezing Bauer’s arm.
“We met five years ago, when I was working in Heinrich Hoffmann’s studio.
You know Heinrich, the photographer? The Führer came in.
Heinrich introduced him as Herr Wolf. He was so imposing.
He had a force of will about him, you know?
But he’s always had a soft spot for me. Even back then, when I was seventeen.
I have no doubt that we’ll marry one day soon, once he settles these political matters. ”
Bauer thought otherwise—the word was that, for political purposes, Hitler deemed it advantageous to remain single—but assured his hostess that she was surely correct.
“The parlor will be the most comfortable place to chat,” she said. “We’ll get some champagne and sit.”
One hour and one bottle of champagne later, Bauer and Braun remained in the parlor, still not a photograph taken, with Braun sinking deeper and deeper within herself as the alcohol worked through her.
She talked about her parents (Fritz, a schoolteacher, and Fanny, a seamstress), her sisters (Ilse and Margarete, or Gretl, with whom she remained close), her schooling (Catholic secondary school in Munich, then a year of business school at the Convent of the English Sisters), and her favorite activities (swimming and skiing and, more recently, photography).
Through it all, Eva Braun continued to press Bauer as to whether he was bored, if he found her interesting, if it was all right for her to continue, if she was prattling on too much.
It took little time for Bauer to recognize that, beneath her elaborate makeup, her long lashes and rosy cheeks and dyed blond curls, her cheerful banter and coy flirtation, Braun was incredibly lonely, unaccustomed to people showing any particular interest in her, constantly seeking validation.
She was Hitler’s hostess but nothing more, never given a status of any substance, never allowed to be seen with the Führer in public.
“His public image is political,” she explained. “He says that his bride is Germany. He can’t be seen with a woman. Not romantically, at least.”
Bauer nodded and ignored the obvious—that the Führer had routinely been seen in public with Geli before her death.
Braun touched Bauer’s arm. “That will all change, obviously, when we marry, which should be very soon now, once the politics are sorted out.” It was the second time that, without solicitation, she had predicted soon becoming Hitler’s wife.
A second bottle of champagne was summoned. As Braun drank—more than Bauer would have believed possible, given her petite size—her words grew more slurred, her thoughts more scattered, her mood considerably darker.
“I hope I have not bored you to tears,” she said as she lit a cigarette.
“Not at all,” said Bauer.
“It’s just that…” She turned to him. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be defined completely by your relation to someone else? To have no identity of your own?”
“I cannot imagine. But I am sure the Führer realizes how lucky he is to have you.”
It was a rather standard compliment, though it seemed to trigger something. A sheen of emotion came over her eyes. “Sometimes he needs a reminder,” she whispered.
She pulled down her neckline. For a moment, Bauer thought she was about to expose herself, to flash him like a prostitute. Instead, she uncovered a thick scar above her heart.
“Did—?”
“No, no.” She shook her head and readjusted her dress. “He wouldn’t bother. He wouldn’t deign to touch me. No.” Her lips curled downward. “The word is self-inflicted.”
She had tried to kill herself? Bauer hadn’t heard that. But then again, the intelligence on Eva Braun was next to nil.
“Oh, but I got his attention, didn’t I?” She popped off her chair, waving her arms. She was intoxicated enough that Bauer feared she might fall to the floor. “Can’t have a second suicide in two years, can we?”
She rested her hand against the wall, her head drooping. She looked as if she might vomit.
Bauer did not know what to do or say. The silence hung heavy. “Eva—”
“I am alone,” she whispered. “I am always and completely alone.”
Bauer felt a pang of guilt for playing on her loneliness and lack of self-esteem, making her feel important enough to be featured in a famous American magazine.
He felt a surge of anger, as well. Eva Braun was clearly placed on an island much like Geli—a prison, more aptly stated, forced into seclusion except when Hitler beckoned. He was dominating this young woman the same way he dominated Geli.
“My goodness, I am so sorry, Herr Berger. Promise me you’ll write none of this.”
“Of course not,” said Bauer. “I would never print a word without your permission.”
She turned to him. “Thank you. I am clearly not at my best right now. Perhaps we could continue at another time?”
“Of course. If I may, before I leave,” said Bauer, “I brought a small token of appreciation.” He reached into his leather bag and removed the antique clock. “It’s a replica of a clock owned by Frederick the Great. I understand the Führer is an admirer. I thought it might look nice in the library.”
“Yes, he is.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “And yes, it would.”
She led him there, a long room near the front of the flat overlooking Prince Regent’s Square, surrounded on three sides by generous bookshelves full of Hitler’s favorites, from political and philosophical works by Nietzsche and Schopenhauer and Gandhi to more classical literary texts—Don Quixote, Gulliver’s Travels, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, a collection of writings by Kleist, and leather-bound copies of Müller’s translations of Shakespeare.
A thick red rug ran through the room. A round oak table with eight chairs took center stage beneath a chandelier.
One large window brought sunlight into the room.
On each side of the window, small cabinets of shelves held various statuettes and framed photographs, including busts of Frederick the Great and Benito Mussolini.
“Perhaps here,” Braun said, making room on a shelf beside the window, inching over a photograph of Hitler with his staff at the mountain retreat at Berchtesgaden. Very near a window and very near the round table where Hitler met with his aides. “It fits in perfectly.”
Yes, Bauer thought. It certainly does.
He extended his hand. “Eva, may I speak frankly with you?”
“Please,” she said, her eyes welling with tears.
He lowered his volume. “You are a talented and formidable woman,” he said. “Don’t let anyone take that from you. Not even him.”