Page 26

“Chrysanthemums,” said Hitler. “Those were her—” He could not finish the sentence, choking on his words. He hooded his face with a hand.

“I will see to it, mein Führer.”

After a long silence, Hitler cleared his throat. “I want busts commissioned. And portraits. In every bedroom in the flat and at the cottage. I want busts and pictures of Geli. And of my mother.” A tear zigzagged down Hitler’s cheek.

“Yes, mein Führer.”

Goebbels felt his stomach rumbling. He’d had nothing to eat since a light dinner. But eating had been a sensitive subject around the Führer since Geli’s death. Hitler had sworn off meat and could stomach nothing more than an occasional plain toast.

They soon arrived at the Zentralfriedhof, the Vienna Central Cemetery, a one-square-mile plot of land filled with lush greenery and Art Nouveau architecture. Established in 1874, the cemetery was a reflection of Viennese history, including among the buried composers Beethoven, Brahms, Schubert, and Strauss.

Angela, Geli’s mother and Hitler’s half sister, had chosen this resting place. Father Johann Pant, the priest here, had been the family’s confessor when Angela and her daughters lived in Vienna, before Hitler had summoned them to Munich.

“When is she arriving?” Hitler asked while staring out the window.

Hess cleared his throat. “Mein Führer, your sister will not be arriving for another two hours.”

Hitler nodded and glanced over at Goebbels. “And you’ll handle this, Joseph.”

“Of course, mein Führer.”

Goebbels exited the car as the sun peeked its head over the horizon. Two other Mercedes pulled up from behind, carrying other NSDAP dignitaries, a significant presence of SS troopers, and of course the hearse containing Geli’s coffin.

The St. Charles Borromeo Cemetery Church towered over the cemetery’s Catholic section. At the top of the building’s grand exterior staircase stood a priest.

Noting Goebbels’s obvious limp, the priest walked down the stairs to greet him. “Herr Goebbels,” he said.

“Father Pant.” They shook hands. “Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”

Father Johann Pant was a rather tall man with kind eyes and a lined face. He walked with his head bowed but spoke in crisp and even tones. “Yes, Herr Goebbels,” he said. “Of course, I understand the sensitivity.”

“And I understand that our conversation will remain… confidential?”

“Our conversation is protected by the confessional seal, Herr Goebbels. I would be forbidden to repeat it.”

It helped to hear the priest say the words.

Because if this conversation ever became public, it could blow the lid off everything.

Goebbels discussed with Father Pant the family’s desire to have Geli buried in the Catholic cemetery. “You must understand that the Führer—”

“Herr Hitler. I’ve known him for twenty years, Herr Goebbels, though it’s been quite some time since we’ve spoken.”

“He speaks quite reverentially of you, Father. He holds you in the highest regard. And surely you understand that he is a man of great prominence.”

“Indeed. But surely you must understand that those who die by suicide cannot be buried on consecrated ground,” Father Pant reminded him. “It is against Catholic doctrine.”

“Yes, of course, Father. Which is why I wanted to speak with you. Fräulein Raubal is guilty of no such sin.”

“Suicide was the official pronouncement of the Bavarian authorities, was it not?”

“Indeed it was, Father. But what we know for certain is that Fräulein Raubal would have never committed suicide.”

“Ah.” Father Pant looked up at the sky. “I must tell you, having known Geli as a girl, I would’ve never believed it. She was such a lively, energetic spirit.”

“And that vibrance and love of life—it never left her, Father. She was a young woman of great promise. Her death is the greatest of tragedies.”

“Then—”