HATRED & INTEGRITY
Two Short Tales of Historical Fiction
By RICH DiSILVIO
© 2009 – Revised for this edition © 2016 Rich DiSilvio
Published by DV Books, an imprint of Digital Vista, Inc.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Cover art by © Rich DiSilvio.
Cover photos of FDR and Churchill statues by the author, Hitler photo public domain.
Author’s Website: www.richdisilvio.com
CONTENTS
HITLER: The Making of a Monster
FRANKLIN & WINSTON: Saviors of Civilization
The Author
Other Books by Rich DiSilvio
Special Note to the Reader
HITLER: The Making of a Monster
Dark ominous clouds loomed over the cobbled streets of Vienna as an unusually cold and damp April wind howled. Down a grimy brick alleyway in the ghetto district stood the Stumpergasse. Peering out of a cracked and dilapidated window of Flat 29 was the recently-turned orphan, Adolf Hitler. The year was 1908.
As a raw downdraft whipped through the alley, it forced its way through one of the cracked windowpanes, sending a rippling wave across Adolf’s face. “Gustl, my friend, here it is my birthday, once again, and I’m still trapped inside this wretched domicile.” His jaw stiffened as he spat, “This is not what my life should be! I’m no mongrel dog, I deserve better than this.”
Adolf closed his eyes and grit his teeth, while his hands tightened into fists. Opening his eyes, he continued, “This bug-infested rat hole doesn’t even offer me a glimmer of the real world, Gustl, if there even is one out there. No, no, all I get to look at is this sooty rear wall of a hideous building.”
He glanced back at Gustl, then back out the window; pressing his index finger against the cool glass. “Look at that! It looks like a brick box. Tell me, how is it architects like that secure work, while we starve? It’s not fair. They should force those hacks to live in these odious tombs themselves.” He glanced around their cramped and meagerly furnished flat. Then with an unexpected surge, he slapped the windowsill. “It’s infuriating! I feel as though I’m locked in a penitentiary!”
August Kubizek, nicknamed Gustl, who had previously worked at his father's upholstery shop, but now attended the Conservatory of Music to be a musician, looked up from his rented grand piano and smiled. He was well accustomed to his friend’s monologues and sudden outbursts of anger. “Come, come, Dolfie. You sound as though you’ve been eternally bricked inside Poe’s ghastly Cask of Amontillado.” Adolf squinted, not familiar with the American poet, as Kubizek continued, “You’re only nineteen years old today, not ninety! You have plenty of time to do something with your life, especially once you get accepted into the art academy. But it would help if you got a job.”
Adolf just grunted and pressed his forehead against the soiled window. The cool glass further numbed his brain, as dank smells of paraffin, which permeated the room, rose up into his nostrils. The rancid smell caused his esophagus to shudder as he released a series of small gags. Quickly, he covered his mouth and held his breath. Staring with revulsion at the filthy brick and mortar obstruction before his eyes, he gasped for air, then discharged a hefty cough. As his two piercing blue eyes rolled up, they inadvertently connected with the top of the grimy brick wall, then with the undulating sky above. His eyes widened. “Gustl! I can actually see a small patch of blue sky! Perhaps divine providence will present me with a good omen after all.” Yet as he pressed his face against the window to gain a better view, the restless clouds devoured the cerulean patch. Dejectedly, he barked up phlegm, swallowed with disgust, and moaned, “But how fitting, once again, it has been consumed by gray clouds.”
Kubizek looked up. “Ah! Yes. Gray clouds, that reminds me.” His head spun around as his eyes excitedly scanned his stack of scores by his side. “I recently found an obscure piece by Franz Liszt by the same name. How fitting, indeed!” he said.
But, alas, Adolf was still locked inside his own gray clouds of gloom, and just grunted as he sank even deeper into a melancholy mist.
Meanwhile, Kubizek located the score and righted himself at the piano. Slowly, he began playing the opening bars of Nuges Gris. The dark, brooding melody mysteriously blanketed the room, as the resonance of the piano’s lower register reverberated deep within Adolf’s chest. The somber tones slowly vibrated upward, gently caressing and soothing his stressed frame. As the musical massage began to lure his consciousness, it finally triggered Adolf to turn. “Hmm, that’s an unusual piece, Gustl.” He rubbed his chin. “It’s amazing how Liszt could paint such gloomy moods with sound. It actually reminds me of a Böcklin painting.”
Kubizek signaled with an agreeable nod and continued playing. Meanwhile, Adolf slowly paced the cramped room, amounting to three steps to and fro, with one hand firmly behind his back as the other moved from his chin to his lapel.
As the brief melody drew to its mystifying conclusion, Adolf abruptly stopped. “Well, good music can surely purge the soul. How about something else?”
Kubizek smiled, happy to have broken his friend’s morbid malaise. “I actually have a few other obscure pieces by Liszt. Would you care to hear another?”
Adolf moved his hand from his lapel and planted it firmly on his hip. “Now, now. You know Liszt and a select few are exceptions to my rule, but no. I’m now in the mood to hear something German. Yes, strictly German. How about something from our master, nay, the ultimate master, Richard Wagner? Play something from Lohengrin or Götterdammerung.”
Kubizek’s lips furled with disappointment. “Well, I don’t have all of the Wagner transcriptions, Dolfie, but give me a minute, I’ll try to dig up something.”
Kubizek turned toward the rickety table by his side and began sifting through his disheveled pile of sheet music.
As Adolf once again paced, three steps to and three steps back, his mind reeled. “Well, it’s time to focus on the good things, Gustl; your friendship, great music, and of course my love for art and architecture. In fact, I can’t wait until October to take my second stab at that entrance exam for the Academy of Fine Arts.” Adolf squinted. “That reminds me, Josef Neumann will be stopping by today.”
Kubizek continued his search as he replied, “Oh, is he going to sell some more of your artwork?”
A warm glow lit up Adolf ‘s face. “Yes, he and a few others will be buying some of my watercolors.” He chuckled. “It seems those darn Jewish fellows are the best salesmen for my works, Gustl. So, perhaps after this recital I should take out my Indian ink and paints.”
“Sounds like a fine idea, Dolfie. I know sales haven't been satisfactory. And as they say, practice makes perfect.”
Kubizek continued his search, sifting page after page, when suddenly his eyes caught a winner. Slipping it out of the pile, he rejoiced, “I have one of your favorites!”
Adolf stopped pacing and turned. “Well, what is it?”
Kubizek smiled and teasingly remained silent. Prudently, he set up his sheet music on the piano board, drew in his bench, and then ripped into the ivories.
Adolf’s flaccid cheeks swelled. “Rienzi! Gustl, my friend, you know me well. The man of the people who led them to victory. A better birthday gift I could not ask for!"
Marching boldly to the triumphant music, Adolf’s face beamed with determination as his mind drifted into a Wagnerian mist.
Kubiz
ek and Adolf only remained roommates for several months during their four-years-long friendship. During that time they had spent countless hours attending Wagner operas, which they could ill afford, and discussing the master’s life and works. As fate would have it, Adolf also failed the second art exam and remained unemployed, becoming deeply demoralized, and by the latter part of 1908, Hitler coldly broke off their relationship, and disappeared.
Thirty-one years later, Kubizek was barely making ends meet with a municipal job, when he was astonished to learn that his old friend had risen to the eminent (and newly created) position of Führer. Kubizek had previously written a congratulatory letter to Hitler back in 1933 for having been elected Reich chancellor, and the two managed to physically connect, yet only briefly. Just recently, in 1939, Hitler sent Kubizek an unexpected invitation to rendezvous in Bayreuth. Kubizek eagerly accepted.
Having arrived by train, Kubizek disembarked and strolled anxiously down Burgerreuther Strabe and then onto Siegfried-Wagner-Allee. Kubizek was elated; there he was in the Mecca of his musical master, Richard Wagner, and soon to encounter Germany’s new and ultimate master—the Führer. His body was aquiver as he could feel his nerves hastily creating unwanted beads of perspiration.
As Kubizek walked toward the Wagner Festspielhaus his eyes were glued to the iconic structure in the distance as he walked along the countrified road. His mind reflected on how Wagner designed this grand, yet architecturally mundane, edifice as almost a shrine to exclusively honor his own magnificence. Overcome with emotion, Kubizek suddenly began to feel as if a humble parishioner, one who was about to be thrust before his god, nay, gods!
Just then, an ominous rumble shook the pavement as a long motorcade of black Mercedes rolled into view. Two small red flags, each dotted with a white circle and black swastika, decked the two front fenders of each vehicle. Coming to a halt, several Gestapo quickly exited the forward cars. The black-uniformed bulldogs forced the crowd back into safety zones, either along the grass or on the street, which was so congested that the motorcade was unable to approach the Festspielhaus. Kubizek, too, was nudged some distance back, despite numerous efforts to explain his affiliation.
In frustration, Kubizek pushed himself upward with his toes, but his line of sight was still obscured. All he could see were the broad backs and high hats of spectators. Swaying from side to side, Kubizek could barely get a glimpse of the motorcade as it crept forward. Finally, the last and all-important staff car rolled into view and stopped. The crowd grew restless, as shouts of “Heil Hitler!” mounted.
Suddenly, the car door swung open, and the crowd roared to fever pitch. Rising out of the black Mercedes W150 was the almighty Führer. As he stood erect, he awkwardly stomped his left foot, and quickly thrust his right hand into the air. The crowd exploded with hysteria!
In awe, Kubizek gazed at the electrified crowd, which chanted in a crazed and pagan-like frenzy. A cold shiver ran down his spine as the cacophony vibrated his torso and rattled his eardrums.
With a slow robotic gait, the enigmatic figure moved across the sidewalk, while Kubizek strained to get a peek. As the Führer came within several meters, Kubizek could finally recognize his old friend’s face, albeit some thirty years older. The shock of the emotionally charged moment froze Kubizek, so much so, that he remained mute as the Führer and his entourage cascaded by.
Instinctively, Kubizek broke free of his comatose and began wrestling spectators out of his way, as he cried, “Dolfie! It is I, Kubizek!”
Two Gestapo officers quickly turned and seized the screaming man by the arm. Simultaneously, the Führer, now realizing something was afoot, turned about.
With a half-cracked smile, he ordered, “Let him go, he is with me.”
As Hitler walked toward his old friend, the dense crowd mysteriously parted. It was as if a huge, negatively charged magnet had been pushed through a pile of positively charged shrapnel.
Kubizek beamed. There, standing before his eyes, was Adolf Hitler, the Nazi Führer and leader of the Third Reich.
Extending his arms, Hitler exclaimed, “Gustl, how good to see you!”
As they firmly clasped hands, Kubizek said, “I just can’t believe it, the Führer!” He stepped back, eyed him up, and added, “Who could have guessed?”
Hitler cracked a devious smile. “I could have guessed, Gustl. And yes, many things have changed, my friend. It’s been a long time. Come, walk with me.”
Hitler motioned to his Gestapo, who dutifully nudged the crowd backward. With that, the Führer then marched stridently toward the Festspielhaus, some three hundred meters away, while Kubizek trailed several steps behind.
Hitler swung his head backward. “So, Gustl, tell me, why haven’t you become a famous conductor or pianist?”
Kubizek anxiously propelled himself up to the Führer’s side. “I guess the same reason you never became a famous artist, Dolfie.” Kubizek’s shoulders raised as he embarrassingly grit his teeth. “Pardon me, mein Führer. I guess I shouldn’t call you Dolfie anymore.”
Hitler half-smiled as he stridently marched forward in his brown military uniform. It was adorned with his World War I Iron Cross, the Golden Nazi Party Pin, and the black Wound badge with swastika on his left arm. “No, no, my friend. You may use my nickname. But I would suggest that you only do so in private.”
“Yes, of course,” Kubizek replied. “Anyhow, as I was saying, I just couldn’t earn enough Reichsmarks, especially after the Great War. I did conduct for a time in Marburg, though. But alas, it has now become just a hobby.”
As the dictator returned Hitler salutes to the mounting crowd, some citizens greeted him with, "Guten Tag, mein Führer."
Hitler nodded and, while keeping his gaze upon his flock, said to Kubizek, "It's extraordinary how quickly this formula has become popular, Gustl." He glanced at Kubizek. "My title, that is. You see anybody can be made a president, but it's not possible to give the title 'Führer' to a nobody. The people spontaneously bestowed that honor upon me." Again, he glanced at Kubizek, then back at the crowd, as he continued, "Another good thing is that every German can say 'My Führer.' No such utterance can be used for a president." With a swipe of his hand across his forehead, Hitler pushed the three wanton strands of hair neatly back into place, as he added, "So here it is, I've killed the third person terminology of president and dealt a deathblow to the last vestiges of servility, those survivals of the feudal age."
Kubizek smiled. "I was wondering where the term came from. But I’ve been meaning to tell you; I recently came across a few of your old watercolors. It appears people are scrambling to locate them. Some are fetching a handsome price these days, now that you’re our Führer.”
Hitler turned his scrutinizing gaze away from his adoring crowd and looked at Kubizek with his piercing eyes. “Please, Gustl. You know as well as I, they are not worth a single heller. They’d be better served by buying some piece of modern trash, like a Klimt.”
Kubizek smiled nervously, sensing that Hitler’s failed art career was a topic best left alone, and he switched gears. “Well, can you believe that we’re both here, about to enter our master’s Festspielhaus?”
“Yes indeed,” Hitler said with a reflective smile, “this brings back many good memories. My, my, Gustl, back in Vienna we spent more on Wagner tickets than on food. And now look, I can not only afford to pay your entire fare, but even introduce you to my dear friend, Winifred, and the whole Wagner family.”
Kubizek’s face swelled with excitement. “This is surreal, Dolphie, just like a Dali painting!”
Hitler’s smile withered as he slowed his pace slightly and gazed at his friend. “Well, Gustl, I’m not a fan of that madman, or that other Spanish lunatic, Picasso. While the one has technical skill and senseless dreams the other has no skill and makes a mockery of high art, especially with his childish and demented painting, Guernica.” Hitler waved his hand briskly, terminating the topic, and added, “But let me give you some good news, Gustl. I
hear you have three sons, my friend, and I insist on paying for their education. No talented child should suffer like we did.”
Kubizek almost tripped in shock as his bulging eyes began to well. “Dolfie, I don’t know what to say. Your generosity defies words. I…I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
Hitler nodded robotically, then raised his hand, as if to say no problem. Meanwhile, the supercharged crowd continued to strain their necks to get a glimpse of their mighty new leader as he strolled along the pavement with his friend and military entourage. Their devotion to the man who stood firm against Britain and France to defy the reprimands of the unjust Treaty of Versailles and drive their nation out of a depression was euphoric, and the passion of the crowd was electrifying.
Kubizek, however, was still trying to process the disjointed conversation, as he shook his head and blinked hard. He was prepared to drop the topic of art, but Hitler’s remarks fired his conscience to make a response. “Well, Dolfie, I must admit, I’m quite curious. I’m not a fan of Picasso either, but his interpretation in Guernica was very unique and quite disturbing, just like that horrible incident. After all, our warplanes bombed and killed over fifteen hundred innocent men, women, and children in Guernica. So shouldn’t his painting likewise be disturbing?”
As the Gestapo continued to press the crowd back, Hitler kept walking, and with a condescending smirk, replied, “Ah, Gustl, that was politics, something you never had an interest in or could ever understand. You see, that mission was authorized to test my good friend Hermann Göring’s Luftwaffe. It was critical to assess our capabilities. Do you realize that that was the first aerial attack on a civilian city? And to our surprise, we leveled it to the ground. We made history, Gustl. So, we were very fortunate that Franco requested our assistance.”
Hitler flipped his arm up, returning a Hitler salute to several spectators lined along the street, as he continued, “But as for Picasso, Gustl, that childish hack is nothing but a sick degenerate. The only thing that wretched Spaniard represents is the downfall of civilization, in which we now find ourselves pitifully immersed.” Hitler’s face unexpectedly contorted with angst as his thoughts now dug into his favorite reservoir of rhetoric. “And that goddamn Versailles Treaty, Gustl, is what summoned the beginning of our hell! Those feeble, liberal parasites in Weimar stole our country and ripped Germany’s mighty heart out. Then they destroyed our hawkish soul, only to replace it with a decrepit dove. That draconian treaty crippled us, yet our own government cowered and sold us out. That is the reason I entered politics, Gustl!” Hitler turned his head abruptly, peering at Kubizek with his piercing, big eyes—his fragmented mind now jumping back to his friend’s comment. “But do you mean to say that you are fool enough to acknowledge Picasso?” Shaking his head, he added, “As well as that other demented Spaniard, Salvador Dali?”
Nervously, Kubizek nodded as they continued walking, while a sea of spectators stood obediently in long lines under rows of Nazi red banners, each emblazoned with a black swastika encased in a white circle.
Kubizek’s mouth had gotten dry with anxiety, as he replied, “Well, Dolphie, like I said, Picasso’s Guernica is quite unique, but, I do agree, the rest of his oeuvre leaves much to be desired.” Swallowing hard to regain saliva, he continued, “However, Dali’s visions may at first seem bizarre, but you must give pause to consider this; the human mind is the most amazing creation in all existence. It is the one thing that truly separates mankind from all other species. As such, the creative visions of the human imagination, when expressed through art and science, are truly the apogee of human endeavor. Things need not be so literal anymore.”
Hitler returned his typical tepid salute to the crowd, then glanced at Kubizek with a smirk. “Ah, my dear Gustl, I see your passion for fine art is misplaced.” As his eyes glanced up at the huge red banners lining the street, he added, “However, I have uncovered the true power of art, Gustl. I am incorporating many artistic elements into my regime that are vital to its effectiveness. My party and I have studied Mussolini and his Fascist regime, and I clearly realize how their artistic endeavors are the true apogee of high art; namely, to convey an ideology and psychologically affect millions. Just as the ancient Romans utilized grand architectural structures, city planning, arches of triumph, or the eagle as a symbol throughout their empire, we great leaders of today realize the importance of icons to bind a people. This, my dear friend, is the only art I can devote my attention to at this time. As you know, I'm a fervent advocate for all the arts, as a great nation's identity is firmly dependent upon its greatest assets, that being the great men who give life to such beauty. Hence, why we now embark upon hearing Wagner. But, as for the fine arts, Gustl, I still believe that striving for realism and the perfection found in nature constitutes the pinnacle of man’s artistic endeavors.”
Kubizek struggled to keep up with Hitler’s quick pace, as he replied, “Well, to reproduce nature, as is, takes great technical skill, Dolfie. But countless artists have already achieved that milestone ever since the Renaissance. Da Vinci reached the pinnacle of combining scientific perspective, anatomical proportion, and capturing the human spirit, as that was the goal of Renaissance masters. But progress must move civilization forward, Dolfie. As such, subsequent artists focused on new challenges, such as Caravaggio’s dynamic arrangement of figures drenched in chiaroscuro, or Andrea Pozzo’s illusionary quadratura technique that made ceiling frescoes appear as if an extension of the building itself. These advances continued until the invention of the camera, which made artists realize that a machine could easily capture a portrait or a landscape.”
Gazing at Hitler, whose eyes were intently scanning the crowd, Kubizek continued, “Therefore, Van Gogh, Cezanne, Monet, and others all sought new avenues to communicate, hence giving birth to impressionism.”
Despite Hitler’s apparent loss of interest, Kubizek doggedly continued, “So, nowadays, technical mastery alone is truly insufficient, since it lacks the one true ingredient that only humans can muster…imagination.”
Seeing that Hitler’s attention was firmly diverted to his adoring crowd, Kubizek raised his voice as he drove home his lucid point. “So, even though some of Dali’s surreal images may seem unworldly, or enchantingly strange, you must remember, Dolfie, no creature on Earth shares this remarkable ability. So, in essence, these visions or dreams are the most human, as odd as that may seem. Therefore, they are the most unique and precious.”
Hitler walked forward without even a flinch of recognition. Then quite unexpectedly, Hitler turned and headed down a small private path that led into a rear entrance of the Wagnerian edifice. Kubizek had awkwardly walked past the cue point, and embarrassingly stopped short. Nervously, he pivoted about and dutifully ran to catch up.
Looking ahead at the rear entrance, Kubizek was overcome with an immense feeling of privilege. As he finally approached Hitler’s side, he exclaimed, “Ah! Special treatment. I remember back in the old days in Vienna when we gladly accepted standing-room-only tickets. Despite our poverty, we did see some grand performances; Puccini’s Tosca, Verdi’s Aida, and now we get to witness Wagner as Wagner intended!”
Hitler’s head swiveled sharply ninety degrees as he continued marching forward. “Ah, yes, Wagner was truly a god among men, Gustl. I’ll never forget when Gustav Mahler conducted his last performance of Tristan und Isolde. I believe it was May of 1906. He really knew how to make Wagner soar.”
“Absolutely!” Kubizek exclaimed. Yet his enthusiasm died. “But it was an utter disgrace how Mahler was forced to resign.”
Hitler stopped cold in his tracks as blood surged up the spidery veins in his swollen neck and filled his now ruddy face. Like a fuel-injected carburetor, the bloody surge fueled the pistons in his mind and his lacerating tongue. “Gustl! Where lies your loyalty? Mahler was a good conductor, but he was a Jew! A damn, pathetic Jew! Never forget that!”
Kubizek recoiled as his blood ran cold. Standing paralyzed, like a scold
ed child, Kubizek remained mute as Hitler detonated a second charge, “This is what really boils my blood, Gustl! The fatherland has become infested with these wandering leeches that suck our pure German blood and claim it as if their own. They’re sub dwellers that cling on to our rich heritage, rob our culture, and then make us feel like the outsiders. It’s an outrage! You know how Mahler dominated Vienna. You know how he hired hordes of his fellow brethren. He spawned a whole sea of Jews that flooded our illustrious opera house. The Jew might be able to perform the servile task of conducting, but there never was or will be a masterful Jewish composer, Gustl. Mahler's compositions were cheap imitations, as are all those of his Jewish riff-raff. Can a Mendelssohn or Meyerbeer ever compare to a Beethoven or Wagner? Never! Fortunate for Mahler he learned how to conduct the works of his Aryan masters otherwise he never would have managed to earn a day's pay. Good he was, but go he must! Can’t you see that?”
Kubizek’s nerves quivered as he stood motionless and silent. Timidly, he shrugged his shoulders.
Unrelentingly, Hitler continued, “You see? That is also what I mean. Just like our nation, you stand there meek and mute. Do you realize how much the Jewish population has grown over the past several decades?”
Kubizek hesitantly shook his head, as Hitler continued, “Well, that old liberal fool, Emperor Franz Josef, was to blame for that, Gustl. You can’t trust an Austrian to do a German’s job. That Franzi feline of a man gave these cultureless nomads a safe haven, and once a few grew rich, it was like a matador’s red flag; thousands more charged the fatherland to reap and rape our heritage. The Jews are the most diabolical creatures in existence, and at the same time the stupidest. They can't produce a musician, or a thinker. No art, nothing! They’re scum, just like the damn Slavs and those pathetic Poles. They’ll be the first to go.”
As the Gestapo officers stood several meters away, equally shocked at the Führer’s sudden burst of rage, yet with satiated smiles, Hitler continued, “These parasites all swarm into the fatherland and boldly devour our jobs. Why do you think this country is drowning in poverty, Gustl? Can’t you remember how we were forced to live like animals in squalid tenements? Was the stinky Stumpergasse a place for proud Germans? Of course not! That rat hole is where we should have dumped all the Jews. My rise to power, Gustl, has been because I refused to be oppressed by these invaders. I remember quite clearly as a boy in Linz when the Japanese defeated the Russians. All the Czech boys in my class cried. But no, not I, I cheered! Do you hear me, Gustl? I cheered! Let the Japanese devour the Russians, I had said. What the hell, they’re all subhumans anyway. Now the Linzer Post, that was another story. What a paper! They had great articles that I’ll never forget. Do you recall how they advocated the slogan ‘Don’t buy from Jews?’”
As Kubizek remained mute, Hitler doggedly continued his scathing monologue. “They rightfully said: 'If the Jews’ money supply was cut off, then they themselves would retreat, and Austria would be rid of that disgusting lice infestation.' Now that’s perceptive reporting, Gustl.
“In fact, I make it a habit of collecting various quotes, some of which I carry with me at all times. This strengthens my resolve, Gustl. Here, I’ll show you.”
Hitler reached into his uniform's inner pocket and pulled out a little black book. Thumbing randomly through it, Hitler then stopped, and began to read, “‘The Jews are the abomination of the human race. Everything that to us is sacrosanct is contemptible to them, while they are permitted to do anything that is an outrage to us. They are the lowest of all peoples.’ Do you hear that, Gustl?” Hitler said, now looking up at Kubizek. Eliciting no response, Hitler glanced back down to locate the name of the author. He smiled and looked back up at Kubizek. “And that, my good friend, was written by a man named Tacitus. He was an historian who lived during the reign of the Roman emperor Hadrian, in AD 100. Do you hear me, Gustl? AD 100!”
Kubizek looked at Hitler, his anxiety subdued with a modicum of resolve, as he uttered, “Actually, I never bank on the opinion of a single person, Dolfie, especially one that was a pagan. I’m still a devout Christian, and I firmly believe that forgiveness is something we all should embrace.”
Hitler sniggered and rolled his eyes. Then peering at his Gestapo escorts, he signaled for their patience with a slight wave of his finger. As they scanned the area around the rear entrance of the Festspielhaus, Hitler gazed back at his captive friend. Taking a deep breath, he resumed his charge, yet in a moderate tone. “Gustl, my friend. As you know, I attended catechism and studied the Bible well. God had first promised the Holy Land to Abraham and his chosen Hebrew flock. Then Moses appeared, and God handed the Promised Land over to him and his Israeli flock. Then Jesus entered the scene, and that’s when all hell broke loose! Suddenly, Jew hated Jew, Jew betrayed Jew, Jew crucified Jew, and then some Jews even became Christians. This confusion caused many to get the wrong message, Gustl, but not me. No, no. You see, God rightfully terminated his Covenant with the Jews and passed it onto us Christians. Jesus made that clear. The Jews were in error and they rightfully lost God’s grace. Jesus was not the pacifist or the meek lamb that Christians erroneously worship. Oh, no, he was the fighter, Gustl. The warrior. Yes, the warrior that had the courage to stand up to the Jews that defiled the Holy Temple. And Jesus didn’t just yell at them, Gustl. No, no! He aggressively whipped them out!”
Hitler’s face beamed with an eerie glow, as he continued, “Jesus died, Gustl, because of those gallant actions. Make no mistake; Christianity opened its doors to the pagan Romans to effectively cleanse the religion of Jewish blood. Tacitus may have been a pagan, Gustl, but many Christians throughout history have shared similar judgments about these parasitic Jews, especially our fatherland’s hero, Martin Luther. So, listen carefully; the meek shall never inherit the Earth, Gustl. So, never mind secondhand words; look at Jesus’ actions.”
As several Gestapo nodded with smiles, enjoying the opportunity to eavesdrop on their illustrious leader’s rousing conversation, Hitler added, “The Germans have been meek little sheep for far too long, Gustl, and that’s why they need someone to cattle prod them back into real men, men that will stand and fight for what is truly theirs. So, by warding off the Jews I too am a warrior fighting for the Lord’s work!”
Kubizek lowered his eyes and sighed. Then gazing back up, he uttered, “But the Jews are successful people, Dolfie. You even used to admire how Josef Neumann sold your watercolors so well. Why can’t we Germans just mirror their good traits and accomplish this goal without fighting or hatred?”
Hitler shook his head adamantly as he slipped the booklet back into his pocket. “No, no. History repeats itself for a reason, Gustl. Some people habitually do the same thing over and over again, and disrupt pure nations from achieving greatness. Long before Moses, when Jacob and his son Joseph lived during the reign of a peaceful pharaoh, who was very much like that Austrian fool, Franz Josef, he allowed those Jews to settle and build in the land of Goshen. The Jews in that territory soon gained power and influence that infringed upon and eventually stole Egyptian culture, so much so that when a new pharaoh came into power, he enslaved the Jews and put them in their rightful place.”
Kubizek cringed. “You’re not suggesting that we enslave the Jews, are you?”
Hitler smiled. “Hell no, Gustl. But, from a historic perspective, keeping them alive as slaves was Egypt’s fatal mistake, as that allowed Moses to rise and rebel. So, you see, Gustl, we are still plagued, for these wretched Jews have been a thorn in the side of civilization since its very creation. Be assured, that I will rid Deutschland of this ugly infestation, and the fatherland will be purified. We will become the pinnacle of civilization!”
As the snooping Gestapo officers’ chests inflated with Aryan pride, Kubizek’s heart dropped. “Dolfie, I remember well how you passionately engaged people in our youth with lengthy and potent monologues, and although that hasn’t changed, I can certainly say, other things have.”
Irritabl
y, Hitler shook his head, then stared at Kubizek with his cold, shark-like eyes. “Yes, Kubizek, things certainly have changed. And as you will one day see, for the better. Know this, my humble little friend, Hitler will not do things in half measures, or squeak out passive refutable reforms. I will bark out firm incontestable orders, orders that will change the order of this whole ass-backward world. I am a special breed, Kubizek, destined by Providence to guide our nation to higher ground. While other empires have fallen within two hundred years, the Third Reich shall last a thousand!”
Kubizek stood petrified, like a sacrificial lamb, while Hitler gazed condescendingly at his easy prey. With disgust, he continued, “This chat, Gustl, is getting old, and I don’t have time to teach you the facts of life, history, or especially politics. You always were a child in such matters. But do know this, I will never concede to your passive worldview. We must rise up and become like Nietzsche’s supermen, not your meek interpretation of being poverty-loving Christians. The volk have vacillated for far too long. I alone know the road to glory for Deutschland, Gustl. So leave the driving to me! Now, come. We have a date with Wagner and we mustn’t be late!”
With that, Hitler turned and marched obstinately forward. Kubizek stood frozen for an odd moment as a disquieting chill ran down his spine. Unbeknownst to him, two Gestapo officers stood directly behind him, who then impatiently cleared their throats. Startled, Kubizek glanced back to see four cold-blue eyes staring out of two stone-cold faces. It was clear they had listened in on their Führer’s toxic monologue and wholeheartedly agreed.
Uncomfortably, Kubizek turned and nervously tried to catch up to the volatile dictator, whom he barely recognized anymore as his old friend.
Entering the theater, Kubizek avoided making eye contact with Hitler as they were attentively escorted to their seats. As Kubizek sat beside his toxically transformed friend, he found himself uncomfortably speechless. Fortunately, with the rise of the curtain, both were soon captivated by their master’s musical drama.
It wasn’t long before the riveting performance saturated their senses, subduing the tension. At times the two even glanced at each other with warm satiated smiles, rekindling their younger days. For several brief moments, Kubizek felt somewhat at ease; for it appeared the explosive bomb next to him was effectively diffused.
With the last luscious chords of the performance, Hitler sprung to his feet and applauded as the audience gazed over and parroted their leader. With a quick jolted turn, Hitler patted Kubizek briskly on the shoulder. Pressing lightly on his shoulder blade, Hitler directed Kubizek down the rear aisle and into the backstage area. With a warm grin, the Führer introduced Kubizek to the Wagners.
After a brief round of pleasantries, they were escorted some ten minutes away to the Wagner estate of Wahnfried to view Richard Wagner’s grave. Located in a secluded, wooded enclave at the rear of the estate and encircled by a slate pathway, the plain flat-slab of granite sat in the middle of a bed of ivy. Hitler took that moment to bow his head, as he silently thanked Wagner for his illustrious contribution to German art and for supplying him with the Rienzi Overture, which he had appropriated and used as an effective piece of propaganda for his Nazi party.
The dramatic visual spectacles of Hitler’s red banners, swastikas, and eagles that glorified his precious Third Reich needed the appropriate aural accompaniment, and Wagner’s emotionally charged symphonic music was the ideal fit. As Hitler raised his pious head, he affectionately gazed at Winifred Wagner, widow of Siegfried Wagner. “It’s so good to see you again, Winnie.”
Winifred acknowledged Adolf with a smile, yet curiously glanced at Kubizek. She and Adolf had an intimate yet celibate relationship, and she wasn’t sure just how open and affectionate she should be. Especially since the Führer addressed her by her pet name.
Hitler noticed her trepidation and smiled. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Speak freely. Gustl is an old friend of mine, who happens to be a very good musician.” He turned toward Kubizek. “In fact, I’d be happy to offer you a conductorship, Gustl, anywhere you like.”
“That’s very kind,” Kubizek replied, finding it odd how Hitler detested Mahler for engaging in nepotism yet now found the shoe on the other foot to be quite comfortable. “But I’ll pass, mein Führer.”
Hitler shrugged the refusal off, but appreciated that Kubizek remembered to drop his nickname. He looked back at Winifred. “Gustl also plays the piano quite well, Winnie. In fact, when we were young, he used to play Wagner for me to my heart’s content.”
Kubizek smiled with relief, realizing that the Führer was at least able to reconnect when engaged in sentimental reminisces. “Yes, indeed I did,” Kubizek said, as he turned his gaze toward Winifred. “Luckily, I had Liszt’s piano transcriptions of your father-in-law’s richly orchestrated operas, otherwise no one could have played Wagner on the piano. That, in itself, was a daunting task for any composer to undertake, yet Liszt’s sublime skills did so to great effect.”
Winifred’s once amiable face turned cold. “Well, the best thing about Franz Liszt, Herr Kubizek, was his daughter Cosima. She was a loving and devoted wife to Richard, a great advocate, and more importantly, an able administrator for the Festspielhaus after his death.”
Kubizek’s eye twitched. He may have been German and adored Wagner’s operas, but being a pianist, his heart and soul ultimately sided with the Hungarian. “I beg your pardon, Frau Wagner, but Liszt was the supreme master of the piano, with legendary skills. He not only invented the piano recital and master class, but as a composer, he invented the symphonic poem. And who can possibly deny that his Faust and Dante symphonies are pinnacles of the Romantic Era?” Without waiting for a response, he added, “But most importantly, Liszt was the pioneer who not only astounded but also educated our great master, Richard Wagner.”
Winifred nearly choked, but recovered from the charge against Richard that was gaining credibility. Many were realizing that Wagner’s music had advanced significantly after befriending Liszt, with some pieces, such as his famous Tristan chord, being a direct plagiarism.
Winifred managed to muster a sad rendition of a smile and responded through her teeth, “Yes, Herr Kubizek, you might have a point, but Adolf and I don’t wish to dawdle on such matters. All artists gain inspiration from someplace. It’s the end results that matter most.”
Kubizek’s lips twisted. “Isn’t that a bit Machiavellian?”
Winifred chuckled. “It’s simply the way of the world, Herr Kubizek. Only the strong survive.”
“You mean only the sly and unscrupulous,” Kubizek retorted.
“No, no. You take things the wrong way,” she said as she glanced at Hitler, wondering how a man like this could be his friend, then added, “Moreover, German art stands on its own lofty pedestal, Herr Kubizek, apart from and instinctively higher than all others. That includes Hungarian, Austrian, and especially Jewish, Slavic or Polish ones.”
Kubizek was about to unleash a scathing retort but caught a glimpse of Hitler’s razor-sharp glare. Added to that were the loyal Germanic smirks of onlookers standing nearby. Kubizek took a deep breath and replied tactfully, “My apologies, Frau Wagner. I thought music was the universal language. I stand corrected.”
Taking Kubizek’s remark at face value, Hitler and Winifred unwittingly smiled.
Hitler’s smile, however, soon dissolved. “Winifred is absolutely right, Gustl, particularly in regard to Jewish composers. The Jew has created a new inversion of values by attempting to replace the loveliness of music with dissonant noise. Schoenberg and his ilk are representative of this degenerate movement, which they foolishly think they can impose upon us. But mark my words, their decrepit and artless voices shall be silenced.”
After a few enthusiastic handclaps by several guests and some further small talk, they all walked across the rear lawn and entered Wahnfried. A refined cocktail hour awaited them, as the congregation imbibed schnapps, white wine, and hors d'oeuvres, while they conversed with the
Wagner family about art and music. Kubizek was in his element.
Meanwhile, in the corner of the opulent room, a quartet played a medley of instrumental extracts from Wagner’s operas. As distinguished friends of the Wagners’ mingled and engaged in conversation, Kubizek quietly meandered over to the violinist, who was tuning his instrument between numbers.
“Excuse me,” Kubizek said, “but do you know any pieces by Liszt?”
The violinist’s eyebrows pinched. “Yes, but why do you ask?” His eyes furtively scanned the room. “You do know that I’m not permitted to play anything but Wagner.”
Kubizek smiled as he slipped the violinist a 20-reichsmark and winked. “Fret not, my friend, I’ll take the heat. Play something, anything by Liszt.”
The violinist placed the money discreetly in his pocket, then turned toward his fellow musicians and whispered the plot. With nervous smiles, they all nodded.
Meanwhile, Kubizek managed to slip back into the gathering unnoticed and took a seat at the main table. Winifred, Hitler, and other guests were deeply engaged in conversation, and Kubizek glanced at each of them with anticipation.
Off in the corner of the room, the violinist cautiously spun his precious Stradivarius upright as a gleam of light reflected off its ripened varnish. Gently placing his violin under his chin, he then raised the bow and delicately lowered it to the catgut. With a mournful stroke, the first strains of Liszt’s Consolation No. 3 gently caressed the ears of the congregation. Several guests lifted their heads and cocked them sideways, directing their ears toward the enigmatic sound.
The romantically lush melody vibrated off the Stradivarius’ soft maple plate and sang as it oozed out of its two elegantly shaped f-holes. Meanwhile, Frau Wagner and a few other guests also took notice and leaned backward in their chairs. All eyes fixated on the violinist’s bow as it lovingly massaged the Stradivarius’ four soulful strings. The ancient relic’s warm tone filled the room like a transcending tapestry woven in soft, rich hues, while the accompanying cellists and violist added their lush layers to the alluring melody.
Meanwhile, Kubizek maintained his cover and hidden delight as he watched the crowd’s curiosity consume their cognizance.
One of the guests turned, and uttered, “I don’t recall this piece, Frau Wagner, it’s most beautiful. Please, excuse my ignorance, but from which opera is it?”
Winifred tried to suppress her bewilderment as she replied, “Well, actually, I must confess. I’m a little bemused myself. I know I’ve heard it before, but I can’t quite place it. I wish Siegfried were still alive, he knew every note that his father wrote.” Then raising her finger to her temple, she bellowed, “Ah! Yes, of course, I believe it is from Parsifal, because it is solemn yet divinely ethereal.”
Another guest interrupted, “No, no, it must be from Tristan and Isolde, because it’s very romantic. Listen to that resplendent tone. It’s just beautiful.”
Hitler looked up, emerging from an intense conversation with two Wehrmacht officers, and charged, “What matter does it make? It’s Wagner. His genius has traversed the ages to speak to us in our rich German tongue.”
As the party applauded the Führer’s meaningful words, Kubizek politely stood up and smiled. “I apologize for the deceit, but you are all wrong. I paid the violinist to play not Richard Wagner, but Franz Liszt.”
The faces of Hitler and Frau Wagner turned indignant and mortified respectively, as the music abruptly died. The musicians nervously lowered their bows and turned various shades of Antique White, as a thick blanket of discomfort choked the room.
Finally, one guest stood up and cut the silence as he cordially began clapping. Slowly, one after another, other guests followed suit until a warm atmosphere of applause filled the room. As they looked at Kubizek, they all began chuckling at the clever ruse turned rouse.
Frau Wagner shook her head and cracked a half smile. “So, Herr Kubizek, you managed to successfully inject your radiant Hungarian into our lofty German shrine after all.”
Kubizek smiled as he respectfully took his seat and replied humbly, “It was not only to prove the worth and genius of Liszt, Frau Wagner, but also to prove the worth and genius of a diverse brotherhood; a brotherhood that might not speak the same language with their tongues, but do so with their hearts.”
Despite the nodding approval of many guests, it was clear Kubizek’s words did not resonate with Hitler, who was conjuring up a stern reprisal.
“Sehr gut!” one of the Nazi guests bellowed unexpectedly, as he added, “Like Beethoven’s Ninth, a brotherhood of man is a very noble and German idea!”
Instinctively, Hitler turned and smiled. “Naturlich! All the best ideas are German.”
All the guests laughed and then clinked their beer and wine glasses in good cheer, as the quartet resumed their Wagnerfest.
Outside, the cool August winds rattled the windowpanes as twilight turned into night.
As they sat around the long mahogany table, several servants, neatly decked out in fine silk jackets—akin to what their master, Richard Wagner, wore—served the guests healthy plates of eisbein, jagdwurst and sauerkraut. As they ate, Kubizek noticed that the Führer’s pensive mood had taken his mind elsewhere.
After a robust dessert of apfelstrudel, Black Forest gateau, and other pastries, they all bid their farewells as Kubizek stood up and turned to his old friend with a genial smile. “Well, what can I say, Dolfe, it has been a fantastic evening. Thank you.”
Hitler looked up as if awoken from a trance, and intuitively shook his hand. “Yes, it has been nice seeing you again, Gustl. Too bad I don’t have more time to spend with you, but I have pressing matters of state on my mind. I hope that we may see each other again soon. Until then, be productive for the fatherland. Be well, my old friend.”
Hitler stood up, patted Kubizek on the shoulder, and the two men parted ways.
Much was indeed on the Führer’s mind that night, for two weeks later, September arrived, and Hitler invaded Poland. The monster had fully formed and all the beast’s pent-up anger and hatred would soon be unleashed upon the world. The descent into Hell had begun.
POSTSCRIPT
This narrative vignette, although fictional, incorporates many factual events. Hitler and Kubizek had in fact been close friends for four years and did room together. Kubizek later stated that he was Hitler's only friend during those years, as Adolf had no desire to form intimate relations with anyone, bordering on a phobia, yet loved observing the human events that afflicted German people and scrutinizing the flaws in city planning and its mundane architecture. And as stated, the two did meet up again some thirty-years later.
However, Kubizek may not have been the saintly soul as indicated, as the book he wrote after the war—despite an apparently good attempt at being unbiased—demonstrated his deep and loving friendship with Hitler as being perhaps the highlight of his life. And while his claim of being a-political and only joining the Nazi Party late in 1944 may be true, his memoir never makes a single comment about the global devastation Hitler caused. Could Kubizek's love and admiration have been compartmentalized to such a great extent as to separate best friend from beast? That, we'll never know. What we do know are the words he left us.
The touching and humane picture he painted of the young Hitler, as a loner with grandiose visions and sketches of rebuilding Germany, while never attaining a job, seemed plausible. But Hitler's diversion from those ideals to knowingly invade other countries, and break treaties, such as he did with Stalin, conflict greatly with the man who told Kubizek during the World War that he never wanted war, and had only sought to rebuild Germany with the architectural plans that had emanated from his prodigious mind as a teenager. Whether Kubizek was truly ignorant of Hitler's real intentions, or concealed those facts in his memoir are things Kubizek took to the grave in 1956.
However, in creating this fictionalized scenario I felt it was mandatory to contrast Hitler’s toxic personality with someone holding a di
sparate point of view, as the hate infused into Hitler’s dialogue (a sizeable amount of which was factual, such as his cold-hearted bombing of Guernica, the vile Linzer Post article, his hateful retort in school, his hatred of Jews taking over key positions, including his remark, 'The Jews are the most diabolical creatures in existence, and at the same time the stupidest,' and the view of Jesus as a warrior, among others) demanded some form of rebuke.
That I presented Kubizek as too fearful at times to respond also had to be included, both for dramatic effect and to convey the actual fear that Hitler instilled in most people when enraged. Even a prominent, battle-hardened war hero like Herman Goering confided that when Hitler spoke fervently, even he quaked. Therefore, my intention and hope is that this vignette demonstrates some crucial aspects about Hitler (some drawn from his actual private discussions during the war, which did reveal a more accurate portrayal of his true agenda) and acts both as entertainment and somewhat historically accurate.
In a further effort to counterbalance Hitler’s hatred, I have included the following vignette. It features the valiant two leaders who had the integrity and resolve to stand up and confront Hitler’s Nazi regime, namely Franklin Roosevelt and Winston Churchill. Hence, we now go from Hitler’s Nazi nadir of hatred and darkness into to sunlight of the Allied Forces’ fight for freedom.
FRANKLIN & WINSTON: Saviors of Western Civilization