31
The Brown House
THE POST-SPEECH CELEbrATION LASTED well into the night.
In the Senatorensaal conference room of the Brown House, several dozen loyalists drank champagne and feasted on ham-wrapped figs, liver dumplings, onion tarts, spinach maultaschen, potato pancakes, and marinated cheeses.
The mood was heady, electric, as the invitees discussed the upcoming presidential election.
Hitler had yet to formally declare—he was still Austrian, not even a German citizen!
—but there was no doubt he would be a candidate.
Near ten o’clock, Hitler excused himself. The party continued, if anything growing more raucous as his inner circle and their wives or mistresses consumed over sixty bottles of some of the finest sparkling wine, from Giesler to Pommery to Pol Roger.
One particular invitee who had scrupulously minded his alcohol consumption was the clean-cut and bespectacled Father Bernhard Stempfle.
Though Stempfle had long stopped serving as a Catholic priest, pouring more and more of his effort into his anti-Semitic writings, including promoting acts of violence against Jews en masse, he chose to retain the moniker.
He had become a close confidant to Hitler, in no small part due to the perceived confidentiality of their conversations.
And had likewise served time in Landsberg Prison after the failed Beer Hall Putsch.
As Stempfle chatted with Heinrich Hoffmann, the Führer’s personal photographer, Rudolf Hess entered the room and caught Stempfle’s attention.
“The Führer will see you now,” Hess told him.
Stempfle entered Hitler’s office. The Führer was not at his desk overlooking the King’s Square but in the sitting area, where an embroidered couch and matching chairs faced a wood-burning fireplace.
On a walnut coffee table, alongside a bowl of fruit, lay a leatherbound copy of The International Jew by Henry Ford, the only American who received favorable treatment in Mein Kampf.
Stempfle, who had edited those passages, was well aware of the mutual admiration between Hitler and the American carmaker.
“Bernie. Please, sit.” Hitler looked exhausted but relaxed, having now changed back out of his uniform into lederhosen and stockings. “Franz told me of your request for party funds.”
“Yes, mein Führer,” Stempfle said. He had brought his appeal to the NSDAP treasurer, Franz Xaver Schwarz. “I thought it best to talk to the treasurer and not bother you with the matter.”
Hitler brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. “Franz said you needed the funds to purchase drawings of mine from a seller. What type of drawings?”
Stempfle took a moment, gathered his thoughts. “They are… very personal sketches, mein Führer. Of Fr?ulein Raubal.”
“Personal sketches?” Hitler’s face began to flush.
“They are, mein Führer.”
“Have you seen them?”
“I would not dare do so, mein Führer. They were described to me.”
“And how were they described to you?”
Stempfle broke eye contact. “They were described as… extremely intimate. And anatomically explicit.”
Hitler looked up at the ceiling. His eyebrows rose. “How many drawings?”
“I was told four.”
“Only four?”
“I was told four, mein Führer.”
Hitler pushed himself off the couch and stood over the fireplace, which was not currently in use. “Who is this seller, Bernie?”
“I do not know his name, mein Führer. He approached me, I believe, because he was aware of our acquaintance. My plan was to buy them, and then, of course, destroy them immediately without looking at them.”
Hitler, arms crossed tightly, shook his head. “How did he come into possession of these drawings?”
“He did not say, mein Führer.”
Hitler nodded. “Franz said he is asking for five hundred marks?”
“Yes, mein Führer.”
“Very well. Proceed as planned, Bernie. You can tell Franz that I authorize the expenditure of the funds. But do not destroy the drawings.”
“What would you have me do with them, mein Führer?”
“Bring the drawings to me,” said Hitler, his eyes stone cold. “I should like to keep them.”