I looked at her with alarm. “Who?”
“Spirits of the dead. The war has caused so many to walk the earth, so many horrible stories remain untold.”
“I would tell you, but—” I pointed to her son.
“Rolf, go into the front and stay until you’re told.”
The boy reluctantly left us and closed the French doors that had muffled our screams that terrible night. I told her the story and she wept.
“The house is filled with tragedy,” she said. “Rolf,” she called out, “bring out the suitcase that was left here.”
The doors soon opened and the boy dragged a beat-up suitcase across the floor. The woman lifted it to a table so I could inspect it. Her eyes glistened with tears. “It was buried in a corner, covered by a bloody mattress. Your name is written in pen inside. I kept it, thinking that one day the owner might return.”
“Thank you,” I said, and clasped her hands. “What happened here was no more tragic than what happened to others.”
“It had been rifled through,” the woman said apologetically. “I hope you will pardon me. I pushed everything back inside and closed it.”
I hugged her and then opened the lid. I had forgotten that years ago I’d written Magda Ritter in blue pen on the inside. My watch had disappeared, but a few dresses and some undergarments still remained. And beneath them lay my stuffed monkey. It had remained in Berlin waiting for my return. I clutched it to my chest and cried.
“Mother,” Rolf said, “the lady is crying over a toy.”
The woman nodded and said, “It’s much more than a toy. You will cry someday—over a memory.”
I’ve cried many days over memories. I never found my father. I heard that Cook had been captured by the Russians. She disappeared from my life after I left her on the tracks beneath Berlin. Karl died in 1995 from an aneurysm. We, of course, had no children, but we spent many happy years together. I went on with my life and never remarried. No man could replace Karl.
As I consider what happened to me as I approach the end of my life, I give thanks for what I’ve learned. I want to share my knowledge with others. What happened in Germany in those terrible years must never happen again. As much as humanity strives for good, cruelty remains.
I, Magda Ritter, was one of fifteen women who tasted food for Hitler so he would not be poisoned by the Allies or traitors to the cause. As far as I know, only two attempts to poison him were made—one by Ursula Thalberg, the other in the Great Hall. He lived much longer than he should have.
As I said in the beginning, so it is in the end. The secrets I held so long inside needed to be released from their inner prison. I have been punished enough by the past. Now that you’ve read my story perhaps you will not judge me as harshly as I’ve judged myself.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The idea for The Taster came from an Associated Press news story of April 26, 2013. The report, by Kirsten Grieshaber, chronicled the life of Margot Woelk, a taster for Adolf Hitler. Ms. Woelk had kept her previous profession a guarded secret until she turned ninety-five. She told the reporter that for decades she had tried to shake off the memories of her days with Hitler but that “they always came back to haunt me at night.” The Taster is not an account of Ms. Woelk’s life, although I based several scenes in the novel on her experiences. Nor is the novel intended to be a veiled biography of her life.
I have been interested at various times in reading about the Nazi Party, Adolf Hitler and World War II. When I told a colleague about my intention to write The Taster, she said she hoped I would refrain from turning it into a celebration of fascism and the German dictator’s life. I assured her that I had no such intention. I’ve met so many people who have been fascinated by Hitler—not because they admired the man who was responsible for the death of millions but because they, like me, wondered how this terrible tragedy could have happened. And, more important, how we could prevent a similar occurrence from happening in the future. Unfortunately, as we know, history repeats itself. What were the factors that led to the rise of fascism and its embrace by most of the German people? How did Hitler fool the world? These are complex questions that historians, sociologists and psychologists have struggled to answer. I make no pretense at providing answers. If I, as an author, have allowed the reader to remember, to never forget, then I have succeeded in my task.
Most will read this book as a novel, a fictional account of a life in a significant time period. Others may read it as history. And it is to those latter readers that I issue a caveat: The Taster is not intended to be a strictly historical account of the Third Reich. For example, Joachim Fest in his book Inside Hitler’s Bunker (2002) makes the astounding statement that the circumstance of Hitler’s suicide in the Berlin bunker “has by now become impossible to reconstruct.” Was a third party involved in his death? Historians have speculated on such a possibility. That question opened up my novel for me. It allowed me to place Magda in the bunker with Hitler.
I researched The Taster to the best of my ability; however, historical accounts and timelines do vary. The reader should know I made every attempt to marry history with fiction. In reconstructing the day-to-day life at the Berghof, I relied on many sources, some of which differed. I inserted real people, now dead, among my characters. Hitler had a knack for keeping company with those who served him personally. A major character in the book, Cook, is a composite of several hired by the leader of the Reich. Hitler had many cooks who served him with varying degrees of success. My main model was Constanze Manziarly, but she was not serving at the Berghof when my heroine, Magda Ritter, arrives in the late spring of 1943. Such is fictional license.
The timeline of Hitler’s stays at his various headquarters and travels is well documented. The Nazis were, if anything, meticulous in their detail. Again, I have tried to honor history, although there may be, for the sake of fiction, occurrences where action and timeline don’t necessarily coincide. For example, I placed Hitler in the Berghof during Christmas 1943. Other sources say he spent an unobserved holiday at the Wolf’s Lair during that time. Some historical details were difficult to track down. I advanced the timeline somewhat for Bromberg-Ost, a concentration camp for women. Try as I might, I found no photos and little information about this camp, except for details about female guards who were later hanged for their crimes.
Many readers may ask the question: Did the rank-and-file SS, Wehrmacht and German citizens know about the death squads, the camps and the corresponding atrocities? The answer is open to debate. Several books have questioned whether all Germans were complicit in the Nazi undertakings. Or were they just blithely unaware? Certainly high-level officials and some officers within the Party knew what had been ordered, but to indict all officers, Party members and nationals is misleading, I think.
From that viewpoint, I also wanted to portray the plight of the German people during this time. Not all of them were fervent Nazis. The SS “conspirators” and other officers who spearheaded the July 1944 bombing at the Wolf’s Lair knew details about Reich activities that were not available to the German people. Had the public known what was going on, the propaganda machine perpetrated by Joseph Goebbels might have taken a very different turn. But even today, historians disagree on why the attempt was made on Hitler’s life. Was it because the war was going badly and the officers wanted to save their necks, or because they knew about and abhorred Hitler’s atrocities? History favors the former supposition.