Hitler showed Hoffmann great affection and forbearance, as he did with other old comrades from the early days of the Party. While he would dismiss or demote members of his staff or generals without a qualm if they opposed him, or if someone slandered them, he would excuse many failings in his old companions◦– personal defects or flaws of character that had a far worse effect on the Party cause and Nazi ideology than honest, down-to-earth disagreement openly expressed.
It certainly upset him a lot to see that Hoffmann was so devoted to the bottle and had a reputation as a womanizer, but he knew nothing about the Professor’s orgies in Vienna and Munich, and on his estate at Altötting, and the indignation they aroused among the people. Well, who was going to tell him? Who would have dared speak out against a friend of Hitler? The only person who did try to intervene was Eva Braun. She told Hitler: ‘You really must do something; Hoffmann’s behaviour is terrible. He’s drunk the whole time, always eating and drinking massively, and at a time when most people don’t have enough to eat at all.’ So then Hitler did get angry and told Hoffmann off, but it didn’t work for long. ‘His first wife’s death hit Hoffmann so hard,’ Hitler explained, by way of excuse. ‘He just couldn’t get over it, and that’s when he began drinking. He used to be a good husband.’ But apparently even in his prime Hitler’s comrade in the Party struggle hadn’t despised a good drop of something, for Hitler himself told many anecdotes showing that Hoffmann had never been known for his abstinence. For instance, Hitler once amused the company at table by describing a drive with Hoffmann in the 1920s. ‘Hoffmann had bought a new car, a Ford, and he insisted that I must try the car out with him. I said, “No, Hoffmann, I’m not going for any drive with you.” But he kept pestering me, so finally I gave in, and we set out from Schellingstrasse. It was already evening, it had been raining too, and Hoffmann went tearing round the corners like an idiot, almost ran into the corner of a building, ignored street junctions. “Hoffmann,” I said, “watch out, you’re driving like a madman! This is terribly dangerous.” “No, no, my Führer, it just seems that way to you because you haven’t had a drink. If you’d put back a good glass or so of red wine like me you wouldn’t notice a thing.” At that I got out, and I never went for a drive with him again.’
Since the beginning of the war Hoffmann had had few opportunities to see the Führer. He had no business at headquarters, so the Berghof was the only place where Hitler could meet him. At first the Führer was always glad to see his faithful supporter again after an interval of many months, but soon Hoffmann began getting on his nerves. ‘Hoffmann, your nose looks like a rotten pumpkin. I think if we struck a match under your nostrils your breath would catch fire and you’d explode. Soon there’ll be red wine flowing in your veins instead of blood,’ he once told Hoffmann, when he turned up at a meal and even the Führer couldn’t help noticing that he’d had too much already. At least Hoffmann never used to arrive drunk in Hitler’s presence, and the Führer was sorry to see his old friend and comrade letting himself go so badly.
Finally Hitler told his adjutants Schaub and Bormann, ‘Please make sure that Professor Hoffmann is sober when he comes to see me. I’ve invited him because I want to talk to him, not so that he can drink himself into a stupor.’ So poor Hoffmann had some difficulty finding drinking companions. All of a sudden none of Hitler’s entourage seemed able to find Hoffmann a nice bottle of something, and no one had time to drink with him. Our guest later took to bringing his own supplies, but that annoyed Hitler so much that Hoffmann was hardly ever invited again.
For the time being he could still amuse the Führer and the rest of the company at table with his jokes and reminiscences. For instance, he once told the following joke. ‘Here’s a riddle, my Führer: you, Himmler and Göring are all standing under an umbrella in the middle of the road. Which of you gets wet?’ No one could guess, so Hoffmann told us the answer. ‘None of you, my Führer, because it isn’t raining.’ Hitler shook his head. ‘Dear me, Hoffmann, you’re getting old!’ Everyone laughed. ‘And just think, my Führer, the man who told me that joke is in Dachau now!’ ‘I don’t believe you, Hoffmann, that’s a really stupid joke,’ said the Führer. ‘Oh, but he really is in Dachau, my Führer◦– he lives there,’ said Hoffmann triumphantly, which made Hitler laugh a lot. ‘You’re worse than Count Bobby,’ he said.
Then there were long conversations by the hearth in the evening about art galleries and their curators, and the exhibitions in the House of German Art, organized by Hoffmann. These conversations bored everyone else terribly, but Hitler loved painting, and Hoffmann knew his taste◦– and above all he knew the financial value of the old masters.
Once Hoffmann’s daughter, the wife of Baldur von Schirach,[47] came too. She was a nice, natural Viennese woman,[48] with a delightful flow of talk, but she had to leave suddenly when she raised a very unwelcome subject in tea-time conversation. I wasn’t present myself, but Hans Junge told me about it. As Hitler was sitting by the hearth with his guests, she suddenly said, ‘My Führer, I saw a train full of deported Jews in Amsterdam the other day. Those poor people◦– they look terrible. I’m sure they’re being very badly treated. Do you know about it? Do you allow it?’ There was a painful silence. Soon afterwards Hitler rose to his feet, said goodnight and withdrew. Next day Frau von Schirach went back to Vienna, and not a word was said about the incident. Apparently she had exceeded her rights as a guest and failed to carry out her duty of entertaining Hitler.
In early April◦– Hitler was now feeling well rested and relaxed – preparations began for the big state receptions. Ribbentrop came for talks with Hitler almost daily, and had lunch with us. Hewel really had his hands full. Almost all the leaders of our allied states were to be received. The guesthouse of the German Reich was near Salzburg. It was an enchanting little Baroque castle built by Fischer von Erlach and splendidly fitted out by Hitler. He held his ‘great state receptions’ here at Schloss Klessheim; the Berghof wasn’t so suitable for them.
The first and most important foreign guest was Mussolini. Hitler was in a particularly good mood on the day before his visit. ‘The Duce is an outstanding statesman. He knows the way his people’s minds work, and considering how lazy the Italians are it’s amazing what he’s made of the country in this short time. But he’s not in an easy position, standing between the Church and the royal family. The King may be a fool, but he has many supporters. Victor Emanuel is the smallest king I know. When I went to Rome in 1938 in my special train I warned my companions just before we came into the station. I told them we were now arriving, and if they saw a man with a lot of gold braid on his uniform apparently kneeling down on the platform they mustn’t laugh, because he was the King of Italy and had never grown any taller. Of course that really amused my own tall fellows, and I oughtn’t to have said anything about it in advance. It was a funny sight to see the King at table sitting next to the Queen, who was two heads taller. As long as they were seated they looked much the same height, but as soon as they got up the King seemed to slip down lower and the Queen grew even taller. It was wonderful in Rome, though. Italy is an enchanting country, but its people are very idle.’
47
Henriette von Schirach, née Hoffmann,
48
Although Frau von Schirach was born in Munich, at this time she was indeed living with her husband, the Gauleiter and Reich Governor of Vienna, in the capital of Austria, then known in Germany as the ‘Ostmark’.