nerve to ask the question. ‘Am I to work for the Führer?’
His lips parted in a thin smile and his eyes met mine. ‘I have nothing to do with your assignment. I’m only here to make sure you are not deficient in any area required by the Reich. That’s all I can say.’ He stood and bowed slightly. ‘Good day, Fräulein Ritter.’
I closed the door. Through the office window I saw him place my examinations and photos back in my file. I didn’t smoke and I rarely drank, but at that moment I wished I had some vice to indulge because my nerves thrummed like a plucked violin string.
Over the next two weeks, I trained for my unnamed position. I rose early and arrived home late, but my schedule created little hardship for my aunt and uncle except for the disruption of having me as a houseguest. During training, the Party served us breakfast, lunch and a small supper. My aunt did not have to cook for me. That suited her.
One of the things I enjoyed most was my group’s excursions into the countryside surrounding Berchtesgaden. The staff judged us in calisthenics. The tests were conducted in a serene Alpine field near the Hoher Göll mountain. My lungs acclimated to the rarified air and I soon realized I was more coordinated than some of my new friends. I ran fast, particularly in sprints. My long legs served me well. Every night I fell exhausted into a dreamless sleep. After an initial soreness, my muscles grew stronger and tighter. I lost weight. I never got around to joining the Party. Frankly, I didn’t want to.
After my training was over, I had one day of rest and relaxation at Willy and Reina’s before beginning my mysterious new post. The woman who had interviewed me at the Reichsbund called to say I should be ready to depart at 5:45 the next morning with my bags.
My aunt and uncle talked later than usual after supper. Willy was excited about my new job; his freckled face beamed with pride. We said our good-byes and I promised to call them once I arrived at my new duties.
Pink clouds streaked the sky the next morning. My uncle stood at the door, dressed in his police uniform. My aunt, in her long blue housecoat, looked over his shoulder. A black Mercedes touring car pulled up in front of the house and an SS chauffeur got out. SS corps flags fluttered above each headlight. Without a word, for he must have known me from my pictures, the driver placed my luggage in the trunk and held the door open for me. I took my place in the plush leather backseat. I will always remember the look on my aunt’s face – it was one of happiness mixed with jealousy. Now she knew my job was important. Other civilian servants were not treated in such a royal manner.
I waved as the car pulled away and the driver turned east toward the Obersalzberg. I had no idea where we were headed. We drove through the pleasant valley that cradled Berchtesgaden and passed the tidy farms surrounding the town. The driver said little to me as we headed higher into the mountainous terrain; the deciduous trees became fewer as stands of fir and spruce carpeted the hillsides. The valley spread out below and I could see the church spires of Berchtesgaden.
Eventually, my curiosity got the better of me and I asked the SS driver where we were headed.
He took his eyes off the road for a moment, looked into the rearview mirror and said, ‘The Berghof.’
I’d heard of Hitler’s ‘mountain court’ from my parents and my aunt and uncle. Before the war, it had become a tourist attraction after the Führer had taken up residence. People had gathered on the long driveway outside the main house to catch a glimpse of him. Often he stepped out to greet the adoring crowd and shake hands with well-wishers.
My heart raced at the thought that I would be working at his secluded retreat. My feeling arose more from excitement about my post rather than any admiration for Hitler. I imagined seeing the diplomats, the foreign visitors, the important Party members: Bormann, Göring, Speer, Goebbels, many of whom visited the Berghof almost daily.
Soon we came to an area cleared of forest as the road climbed upward. Through the driver’s windscreen a rustic-looking gatehouse appeared beside a gated archway. The rough-hewn structure rested on a rock base. Several SS men peered through a window as our car approached. One of the guards stepped out and pulled back the gate. He must have known the driver, for they exchanged nothing more than a wave. Another guard stood in the gatehouse doorway, his weapon strapped over his shoulder. They barely gave me a look, unimpressed with my presence. They were used to seeing kings, princes and diplomats from all over the world.
As we drove past the gate, I caught sight of the Berghof. It sat perched on the hillside, like an eagle preparing for flight. Its chalet style had been modified to monumental architecture, yet the sloping wings of the roof gave it an inherent lightness. Perhaps the mountain air made it seem delicate and airy, unlike the fortified home of a leader at war. The sun glinted off the white exterior giving it a welcoming look. I watched in awe as it slipped past my eyes. The car rounded a corner near a linden tree and headed toward a small driveway that split off from the one we were on. The driver was taking me to the entrance of a long building on the east side of the structure. He stopped the car and opened the door.
‘You are to see Fräulein Schultz, the Führer’s cook. I will take your luggage to your quarters.’
‘The cook?’ I was dumbfounded. Although I had experience preparing meals for my family, I hardly felt qualified to cook for the leader of the Third Reich.
‘Those are my orders.’ He shifted his head toward the door and a guard stepped out of the shadows. ‘Take Fräulein Ritter to the cook.’ The driver got into the car, turned it around and drove toward the main entrance of the Berghof.
The guard stepped forward, opened the door and led me through the halls to the kitchen. Although it was early, a large staff had already gathered for meal preparation. The room was well appointed with modern equipment. Several stoves and ovens were set against the walls, as well as racks of dishes and cookware. Cookbooks lay scattered across a large table. Men and women dressed in service uniforms were kneading dough, preparing eggs and cutting fruits and vegetables. A tall woman with an oval face and wavy brown hair stood out from the crowd. She projected authority in her dark dress covered by a white apron. She was talking with a man at a black stone sink. When she spotted me, she stopped her conversation and walked over.
‘You must be Fräulein Ritter,’ she said.
‘I am.’ I shook her hand. ‘You are Fräulein Schultz?’
‘Yes. The Führer’s dietician and cook.’ She looked at me with concern. ‘What have they told you about your position?’
I shrugged. ‘Nothing.’
‘Come with me to my office off the kitchen. You’ll be staying here in the east wing so you can be close to me, the kitchen staff and the other tasters.’
I didn’t understand. We went into the hall past the kitchen to a series of doors. Hers was the first. She opened it with a key and we stepped inside the small room. She took off her apron and sat at her desk while I took a seat in the guest chair. A window faced north, the same direction as the Berghof, looking out upon the sprawling view of the Untersberg. She turned to me with her hands folded in her lap.
‘You have been chosen,’ she began, ‘by me and Captain Karl Weber, the SS officer who oversees the security of my staff. You are one of fifteen.’
I shifted in my seat. ‘Fifteen what?’
‘Tasters who work for the Führer at his headquarters.’
‘Tasters?’ I had no idea what she was talking about. ‘Perhaps you could explain what that means.’
She looked at me like a teacher who was irritated with a student. ‘You, and others, taste the Führer’s food. Your body is offered in sacrifice to the Reich in case the food is poisoned.’
My breath fled, horrified as I was at her words. The cook must have recognized the distress in my face, for she reached across and held my hand.
‘There’s no need to panic,’ she said. ‘I will tell you frankly, he is obsessed with being poisoned. He thinks the British have it in for him – it’s all very Shakespearean if you ask