Hitler's Niece

She’d decided. Although Hitler snidely objected, she was given his grudging permission to go to Mass at St. Michael’s Church on Sunday, and afterward walked the few blocks to Adolf Vogl’s house to cancel her September lessons and to inquire whether he knew of anyone she could study with in Wien. Because he was a party member, she told him she’d be there for just a few months. Vogl thought she should audition for his own former voice teacher, Professor Otto Ro, and he gave her a letter of introduction.

On Monday, September 15th, Willi Schmidt, an important music critic in München, welcomed Geli into his office and leaned to his side in his high-backed writing chair as he listened to her sing “Domine Jesu” from the Requiem of Mo

zart, and “Lacrymosa” from the Requiem of Verdi. And then he penned a three-paragraph recommendation that called the young lady delightful, graciously praised the beauty of her voice and the evenness of her breathing, and offered the opinion that she would be far better suited to lieder.

She agreed. She told Schmidt, who was not a party member, that she would be in Wien permanently.

“What a pity,” he said. “Why are you leaving Germany?”

She frankly told him, “My uncle is molesting me,” but she took no joy in Schmidt’s surprise. She hurried out.

She strolled down Briennerstrasse to the Brown House, waving, as she went inside, to the SS man who’d been shadowing her. She found Hitler in the oak-and-gold elegance of the cellar restaurant just under an oversize portrait of Dietrich Eckart and holding forth to Otto Wagener, the party’s economic adviser, whom he seemed to be striving to impress with his phenomenal memory of agricultural, financial, and industrial statistics. Without looking at his niece, Hitler condescendingly patted a spot beside him on the upholstered horseshoe bench. She seated herself and slid over.

Otto Wagener was a fat, friendly, chain-smoker with a face that would look fairly similar if it were upside down on his head. Changing the subject for fear of boring the fräulein, Wagener asked if she were a university student.

With false excitement, Geli said, “I was. But Uncle Alf always knows the right thing to do, and he decided I should be a singer.”

“A singer!” Wagener said. “Really, Herr Hitler, it isn’t fair. An abundance of talents have been apportioned to your family, leaving little for the rest of us.”

In the famished, never-enough of his vanity, Hitler found a moment in which to smile. “We are good stock,” he said. “It’s true.”

“And he is so generous,” Geli said, “that Uncle Alf is sending me to Wien for lessons.” She saw her uncle try not to look startled.

Wagener said, “There’s no place like Wien for an opera singer. Are you leaving soon, Fräulein Raubal?”

“Wednesday,” she said. She felt the scald of Hitler’s eyes, but then a waiter was there, softly putting a saucer and teacup and spoon in front of her, and she paid attention to that.

Wearing a black SS uniform, a frail Heinrich Himmler hurried in and sidled up behind Hitler to whisper in his ear. His face seemed as wan and featureless as the sand dunes of the Chiemsee, and his pince-nez flashed with chandelier light so that they huddled against his nose like silver coins.

Staring at his niece, Hitler asked Himmler, “Who?”

Himmler said the name again in hushed tones.

And Geli turned to Wagener to say, “I have introductions to the finest teachers there, and the famous music critic Willie Schmidt has flattered me with a letter of recommendation.”

With formality, Himmler offered a secret idea to his leader, and Hitler smiled. “She is going to Wien for a few weeks,” he told Wagener, “for finishing touches only. And then, if she finds the courage, she’ll be performing at the Prinzregenten Theater in December.”

Wagener was not ignorant. Choosing to ignore the intriguing on both sides, he asked, “And what do you foresee in the crude-oil markets, Herr Hitler?”

Hitler expatiated. Calmly, Geli sipped tea.

Wednesday, September 16th, she left München with just one suitcase in order to make it seem she was indeed on a journey of only a few weeks. She had no savings; she’d given no thought to a job. She just wanted out.

She took the railway to Berchtesgaden, where Angela picked her up in the Wanderer automobile she’d gotten from her half-brother in January, and they talked about three women’s boardinghouses where she could stay, if not with Aunt Paula. To hide her intentions from her mother, Geli packed only a few fall and winter clothes from the upstairs closet at Haus Wachenfeld, and she waited until after dinner to nonchalantly telephone the Salzburg railway station to find out about Thursday departure times for Wien. She whistled as she helped with the dishes.

Angela found a place for the leftover oxtail soup in the icebox and said, “I haven’t seen you this happy in months.”

Geli fanned the wetness from the dish towel, and folded and hung it as she fraudulently answered, “I was so homesick for Wien.”

Angela smiled. “I ought to tag along with you and add some old-fashioned gloom just for balance.”

“Oh, you needn’t, really,” Geli said. “I hear they have Nazis there, too.”

Angela shifted a chair under the kitchen table. “We’ll have none of that,” she said. “I’m a Nazi.”

“You’re deluded, Mother.”

“Oh, you. You think you know everything, you.”