Through the Eye of Time (7 page)

He has a tall, thin figure, ramrod-straight. Striking in profile and a natural showman. On the way from the airport he rode through the streets in an open car, standing next to the Führer, the pair of them saluting the cheering crowds and whipping them into a frenzy of excitement. Girls ran alongside and threw garlands of flowers into the car: a great festive occasion and just the right image to convey to the press and film cameras.

I was following in a staff car with Goering, Bormann and a member of the Abwehr, our much vaunted and totally useless Intelligence Service run by that dolt Canaris. Goering commented that the Führer seemed to have gained several inches in height, for he was on a par with Mandrake and yet on level ground shorter by a head. I saw Bormann and the Abwehr man exchange glances, though nothing was said. The fact of the matter is that I personally had anticipated what the drive might entail, i.e. the saluting, cheering crowds and so on, and had spoken to Erich Kempka, the Führer's chauffeur, and suggested that a small wooden platform be discreetly fitted into the car to make it appear that the two men were of equal height. This was done, thus saving the Führer from losing face (and height), and had been the cause of Goering's uncharitable and typically boorish observation.

Thank goodness we rarely see the man; yet even once a month in conference is once too often, and his disruptive and negative influence even then is disastrous to many a carefully laid scheme. ‘The Father of the Luftwaffe' indeed – it's a wonder we have an air force at all with that cretin in command.

Mandrake spoke from the balcony of the Chancellery – in faultless German I am pleased to record – and it was quite apparent that the crowd had taken him to their hearts. Then the
Führer stepped up to the microphone and delivered a magnificent speech, in full hot-blooded fervour, emphasizing once again the close links between our two great nations and calling on the rest of Europe to pay heed to ‘these two cousins', as he referred to them, joining together in selfless interest to promote the ‘New United Europe'. ‘Let us be strong,' he concluded, ‘because only in strength can we be magnanimous!'

This brought such a roar from the crowd that the Führer smiled and beckoned to Mandrake, who stepped up to the microphone and the two leaders linked arms in a stirring symbolic gesture which will surely go down in history as one of the most emotional and heart-warming embraces of all time. The noise was stupendous. I confess that my eyes were blurred at that moment, but blinking away the tears I caught sight of Goebbels, smiling and nodding enthusiastically, his narrow lean face aglow with the impassioned ferment of the crowd, the speeches, the spectacle. It was superlative stage-management.

Afterwards a reception was held in Mandrake's honour and I was introduced to him. He is a charming man, incisive, witty, and one of the shrewdest political analysts I have ever known. He gave his opinions frankly, yet at the same time was sympathetic to our difficult position
vis-à-vis
the Polish question. Interestingly enough he found parallels in Great Britain's attitude towards France, saying that the harassment of British shipping by the French Navy was something that, were he Prime Minister, would not be tolerated. This I took to be a reference to the recent incident in the English Channel when French gunboats intercepted a British cargo vessel and escorted her into Le Havre on the pretext that she was running contraband into the Channel ports.

A trumped-up charge, Mandrake maintained, and yet so far the British Government had hesitated to make any positive move apart from a tentative protest through diplomatic channels.

‘It's a question of honour, is it not?' I said, and Mandrake readily agreed. I then asked what was the reaction of the British people to Press reports that the Reich was gearing itself for war. Did they accept such reports as being objective statements of fact?

Mandrake thought not. He said that the Press was sharply
divided. Some newspapers and journals, notably those with a left-wing bias, were making all kinds of ridiculous claims about the so-called ‘German militarization programme' while other sections, the more sober-minded and sensible, calmly pointed out that every sovereign nation had the right and the duty to protect itself from potential aggression.

His final judgement, I surmised, was that the British people wanted some form of tangible reassurance that Germany was a peace-loving nation whose leaders sought nothing more sinister than to join hands with their ‘island cousins'.

Bormann, standing nearby, had listened to all this in silence, just occasionally raising his heavily-lidded eyes, his square stolid face betraying no emotion. Now he spoke up and said that in his opinion the British people were short of only one thing – leadership. The people would follow if others were willing to lead. There was to be an election in the autumn, was there not? What better opportunity to put the hypothesis to the test?

Whether he was testing Mandrake or merely voicing an opinion I do not know: Bormann is an odd fellow, taciturn, morose, a real cold fish, and like the rest of his fishy race possesses a mind which normal warm-blooded creatures find difficult to comprehend.

In any case Mandrake would not be drawn. He nodded once or twice, which might have indicated assent or perhaps the politeness of a guest hiding his yawning indifference before one of his host's bumptious buffoons. The upshot of this was to increase my respect for Mandrake and harden the distrust and suspicion I already felt for the secretive and molelike Bormann, second-in-command to Hess.

*

It is three a.m. and I have just this minute returned from the Führer's bedroom. He relies on me more and more.

After the reception the toadying von Hasselbach suggested he rest for an hour, not knowing that I had injected him twice that morning with 250 mg. of dextrose and concentrated hormones. Consequently the Führer was in peak condition (essential for such an important occasion) and still keyed up with
nervous energy. He gave von Hasselbach one of those blank yet curiously hypnotic stares which chill the blood of most people, saying that he would rest when he felt like resting and not a moment sooner. Von Hasselbach seemed to shrink visibly in front of us all, a gathering of forty or more in the Führer's private apartments overlooking the Chancellery gardens.

Goering, Himmler, Ribbentrop and several of the others looked at von Hasselbach piteously and then turned away as if he were a leper; his days in the Sanctum are numbered, of that there's little doubt.

Mandrake retired early, exhausted after his flight and the day's hectic celebrations, leaving about a dozen senior members of the Chancellery and their personal attendants. We stood in a large informal group with the Führer as centre-piece, still elated with the day's events and what he regarded as his own personal triumph of political strategy: the appearance of two great leaders in agreement over Europe and in perfect harmony.

His spring, you might say, was being wound tighter and tighter. As he talked he got carried away with his own inner vision, which in turn fed his eloquence and he went on and on, swivelling on the heels of his boots, his fingers jabbing stiffly to make a point, his right fist jerking up and down to drive home the importance of what he was saying, and then the fleshy smack as the fist hit the palm of his hand, doing this again and again and again.

His colour was high; his blue-grey eyes had taken on that dulled vacant expression as when a person is not in full possession of his faculties but following blindly the tenuous line of some driving inner compulsion. It was all there in his head: the others, to judge from their faces, didn't doubt it for a second. Yes, the vision was there all right, locked inside that cranium, but only
he
could see it –
they
saw it through him – being enacted in front of them by this short stumpy man with the glossy slicked-down hair and abrupt black brushstroke of a moustache.

I remember glancing at my watch and seeing that he had been talking without pause or interruption for almost forty minutes. The rest of the party, I'm sure, hadn't noticed the
passage of time; they were spellbound by the Führer's voice as it went on and on with that barking staccato stridency which over a period tended to numb the senses. I could see he wouldn't last much longer. I looked over my shoulder and caught the eye of Julius Schaub, the Führer's adjutant. He read my meaning and moved quietly to collect my bag from the window alcove, placing it on a chair within easy reach. I indicated the assembly and nodded towards the tall doors leading to the ante-room, holding up five fingers, a prearranged sign that in five minutes the Führer would collapse and he was to clear the room and lock all the doors.

I was thirty seconds out in my calculations. The Führer paused in mid-sentence, his colour changed, almost as swiftly as it takes to set down the fact, and he took two faltering steps backwards. It might have been deliberate on his part, the others weren't to know, and for ten seconds there was absolute silence as everyone watched his rigid figure, the right fist curled and poised to crack into the palm, a faint smear of saliva gleaming wetly at the corner of his mouth.

Goebbels looked at once in my direction, sensing that something was wrong, and I nodded to Julius and pointed at the door. The room was cleared in under a minute, the doors were locked, and Julius returned to help me. Together we laid the Führer down on one of the couches, loosened his clothing, and from my bag I took out the syringe I had prepared: a 500 mg. solution of picrotoxin and morphine sulphate, a powerful stimulant combined with a narcotic relaxant. It was rather a large dose, the biggest so far, but his resistance to drugs is increasing at an astonishing rate.

His breathing was hoarse and erratic and his left hand, the entire arm in fact, was shaking uncontrollably as in palsy. At that moment he was probably unaware of his surroundings, though his eyes were wide open, staring, the eyeballs protruding.

‘We should get him to his bed,' Julius said.

‘Not yet. The injection must take effect first. He'll be all right in a minute or two.'

‘Is he in any danger?' Julius raised the Führer's head and slipped a cushion underneath.

I didn't answer right away; it never does any good to let the layman believe the answer is simple, or alternatively that the doctor hasn't a clue what is wrong with the patient. If I let him sweat for a while it would increase his respect and dependence on me. So I pursed my lips and clicked my tongue, the learned practitioner mulling over the forces at war within the human organism, the mysteries of life and death.

‘Julius,' I said at last, gravely. ‘I will speak to you frankly. I wouldn't take you into my confidence if I didn't believe you to have the well-being of the Führer closest to your heart.'

‘Yes?' He moistened his lips. ‘Yes? What is it?'

‘The Führer has an incurable disease,' I said sombrely. ‘I have not told him this and neither must you. It is a secret known to just two people in all the world. Do you understand?'

‘Yes,' he whispered. His face was grey.

‘We can save him, you and I, we can keep him alive – providing he is given the correct drugs in precisely the right amounts at certain times each and every day. Without these drugs he will die. Now I repeat, the Führer does not himself know of his true condition. He thinks it is nothing more than nervous strain due to overwork. The secret is between the two of us, you and I. No one, absolutely no one, must ever know the truth.'

‘You have my word, you can trust me,' he said, his voice shaking. ‘On the body of my mother. Oh my God!'

The awesomeness of the moment, and of the knowledge I had sacredly imparted to him, suddenly struck home. His face, even his lips, were the same drab shade.

I said, ‘The value of your service to the Reich will be increased a millionfold if you can carry this secret within your heart. The Führer and the Fatherland depend on you.'

After this little stirring speech, which almost brought tears to his eyes, I asked to be left alone with the patient, saying that it was necessary for me to observe him undisturbed for at least half an hour.

‘We must allay the fears of the others,' I told him. ‘I rely on you to make the announcement that the Führer is under sedation. Tell them he is all right and there is no cause for alarm. Say that I will issue a medical statement later this evening.'

Julius went to the door.

‘And by the way. If von Hasselbach requests, or even demands, to be admitted you must adamantly refuse. We cannot risk any further upset to the Führer's constitution at this critical stage.'

‘Very well, Herr Doktor. I understand. No one will be allowed to enter without your express permission.'

A useful man, Julius; so trusting and obedient, determined to do his duty.

On receiving the injection the patient's eyes had grown heavy and gradually closed, but now as I pinched the skin on the back of his hand they fluttered open again. His gaze was vacant, still a little dull, though the pupils were no longer dilated. His skin was suffused with blood as the combined narcotic stimulant worked their way through his system. His first response on gaining consciousness was to start weeping.

‘There, there now,' I soothed him. ‘Nobody's going to hurt you. Everything is all right. Just lie still.'

‘I thought I was dead,' Adolf said in a tiny voice like a child's. ‘I didn't die, did I?'

‘No, of course not, silly goose. You're alive, here with me.' I stroked his hand.

His eyes came into focus and he looked at me properly. ‘You're not my mother. Where's my mother? She said I mustn't talk to strange men.'

‘Now now now,' I chided him, ‘let's have no foolishness. This is Theo, your doctor. You're in the Chancellery, remember? Your name is Adolf Hitler. You're the Leader of the Third Reich, Architect of the New Order, Führer of the united German peoples.'