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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.”
58
December 23, 1932
Wirtshaus tavern
Au
AFTER HIS PATROL SHIFT ended, Thomas Bauer sat in a tavern east of the city center. He nursed a single dark beer, as he wanted to keep his wits. The lighting was dark and the mood roughly the same, save for some drunken laughter. A Christmas tree, dilapidated as it was, wore bright ornaments and long strings of candy in the front window, a festive gesture in an otherwise depressing establishment.
At least business was good. The sale of alcohol thrived during the devastating economic hardships Munich faced, probably even more so as Christmas approached. Holidays in Munich, in Bauer’s experience, always led to upticks in crime and suicides.
Emil Maurice, dressed in his long winter coat and fedora, leaned over the bar next to Bauer and called out to the barkeeper for a stein of ale.
“Wednesday,” he said without looking in Bauer’s direction. “Seven o’clock.”
