Until Berlin fell

Come to me, Ravenheart,

            Messenger of evil.       

1912–1913 years.

      In recent years of the Habsburg dynasty's prosperity in Vienna, the capital of a great empire located in the heart of Europe, an atmosphere of merriment and charm prevailed, which always set it apart from other capitals of the world. No city in the West could compare with it, not only in terms of its architectural wealth, but also the geniality and refinement of its inhabitants, who were brought up on baroque and rococo.       Located on the banks of the blue Danube, amidst the hills covered in golden−green vineyards, the place seemed like a marvel of nature, captivating the imagination of visitors and making the Viennese believe that the Almighty was especially benevolent towards them. The enchanting music of Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, and Schubert − the most genius composers Europe had ever known − flowed from every corner. In the years leading up to the First World War, the irresistible waltzes of Vienna's darling, Johann Strauss, were constantly heard.       I was fortunate enough to admire the lavish baroque from childhood, and life sometimes felt like a wonderful dream. The people of Vienna danced and indulged in wine day and night, chatted in cozy cafes − the establishments on Breunerstrasse were particularly popular. They listened to music, immersed themselves in a world of dreams by visiting the drama theater, opera, and operetta, and indulged in love − in other words, they dedicated a large part of their lives to pleasures and dreams. Of course, someone had to govern the empire, lead the army and the fleet, establish communications, engage in business, and simply work. However, few Viennese worked overtime or even a full workday.       When my mother fled from Hallstatt − a community nestled in the picturesque scenery on the western shore of the eponymous lake, surrounded by the Alps − I was not yet four years old. I couldn't grasp the full grandeur or immerse myself in the centuries-old spirit of the Austrian capital at that time. But with all my childish curiosity and mouth slightly open in astonishment, I walked hand in hand with her and admired St. Stephen's Cathedral, strolled along the Ringstrasse, and breathed in the city air on Postgasse and Singerstrasse. On Beckerstrasse, one of the shops baked the most delicious rolls I had ever tasted in my life. I still remember that taste. The shop's owner was a small Jewish merchant, and, as I would later be told, it survived until the Anschluss of Austria.       We left not because of poverty, but to be with my aunt, who had serious health problems. My mother always said that her sister would have lived to a ripe old age in Hallstatt, but in Vienna, at the age of forty−five, she fell ill − all because the capital lured her, opened its arms, and where could one resist such temptation? My aunt passed away within two years, and we ended up staying in Vienna − it was my persuasive mistake. Back then, I wanted to be a part of this city, now I wouldn't mention it in a lifetime.       A few days after my eighteenth birthday, full of energy and enthusiasm, I took the entrance exams at the Royal Academy of Music and Performing Arts on Lisztstrasse. The violin had been my lifelong companion, a beloved friend that my mother did not approve of − instead of being skilled with ladles and frying pans, I confidently held only a bow in my hands. I had to hand it to mother, because I never learned how to cook.       To be honest, my musical education also proved useless.

***

You are shadow of forgotten dreams.       

You come to take away my hope on your black wings.

      I closed my eyes, pushing the heavy door.       Immediately, a cold breeze hit me in the face. Slowly descending the damp steps, I paused with each strike of the drizzling raindrops on the stone staircase. Having reached the area beyond the Academy, I was finally able to breathe a sigh of relief. I had been overstaying until late in the evening, to the point that even my music tutor, who worked with me on Thursdays and Saturdays, waved me away as I rehearsed the most difficult part of one of Paganini's symphonies for the hundredth time.       Not hailing a taxi, I leisurely made my way to Stock−im−Eisen Square, an extension of Stefansplatz. I stopped, feeling that today I simply lacked the strength to take another step forward. I immediately regretted my decision to walk. My feet in the high−heeled shoes were aching. I silently prayed to God: but still, I continued on. Graben Street, which was my usual route home, looked suspiciously empty. Not even the wind rustled. My not particularly sensitive senses detected the pressure of the humid air, surely indicating a deterioration in the weather. A fleeting glance at the sky confirmed my fears: several flickering dots were blocking the grey clouds. They seemed to be bubbling, despite the lack of wind. The lower layer of clouds was a dark grey, but another layer, slightly tinged with crimson, was visible through it.       Once I reached the intersection of Kohlmarkt and Tuchlauben Street, I hurried to seek shelter from the unpleasant drizzle in a cozy café that seemed so close from afar. I desperately wanted to have a cup of black tea with bergamot and treat myself to a cherry soufflé. I had never noticed this establishment before, its interior suggested that it had recently opened: grey walls, minimal furniture, and a foul smell of sweat, dirt, and dampness emanating from a group of unsightly men. Well, the owners should have thought not only about the interior. I didn't linger there, but rather wrapped myself tighter in a dark crimson coat, adjusted my wet hair, and hurried outside. Later, I realized that it was an underside of life in Vienna, about which I had vaguely pondered. Of course, like in other cities, there were poor people here, living in slums, undernourished and poorly dressed. And this place was supposed to serve as a humanitarian aid center for the poor. That evening, I even «luckily» encountered one of such citizens, who resembled a bohemian. His long, worn−out black coat, resembling a kaftan, which, as I later found out, was given to him by a Hungarian Jew who traded in used goods. A dirty jockey cap, tangled hair falling in disarray behind onto a worn-out collar, stubble visible on his cheeks and chin. He looked quite extraordinary.       — Excuse me, do you happen to have a cigarette? — I had only had my last cigarette in the morning, smoking was my harmful habit that I couldn't bring myself to quit. He, leaning against the wall as if it threatened to collapse on him, straightened up with difficulty and looked at me, tired and broken. His gaze expressed total powerlessness. I felt uneasy because for a moment it seemed as if I had intruded on the forbidden territory of this young man's own world, which was clearly outside of prosperous Vienna.       — I don't smoke, — he replied coldly, instantly filling the air with the sharpness of smoke, and made me take a step back. He expressed complete dissatisfaction with being bothered.       — Alright, — the corners of my mouth twitched in a forced smile, and for the next few minutes, I borrowed a cigarette from a passerby. The atmosphere invited me to linger under the canopy, although there was still no movement in the air, but the clouds started moving faster. The sight was ominous, as if the heavens obeyed their own will.       The stranger demonstratively moved further away from me, waving his hand in front of his face. With a keen look, I noticed a fresh scar on the back of his left hand. The thought of its origin had not formed in my mind when his voice shook the heavy air like thunder in broad daylight.       — Are you mocking me? — he asked nervously, sharply. He looked straight ahead, without blinking. His eyes in the weak street lighting I compared to the sky above our heads. Hazy, slightly tinged with blue in impenetrable grayness. — I said I don't smoke.       — That just proves that you don't have any cigarettes, — I shrugged and smirked, marveling at my peculiar companion. — Don't be so categorical, just step aside.       — You could have done the same.       — What's your name, Herr?       He adjusted his cap and folded his arms across his chest. The unfriendly gaze slowly turned into curiosity. I was sure that not many people had such a simple conversation with him. If anyone at all, apart from those like him.       — My name won't tell you anything.       — Stop it, a name can say a lot about a person, — I stubbed out my cigarette and smiled again, trying to connect with the homeless man. As usual, these people hid a lot within themselves and were unlikely to have ended up on the streets from a good background. Not everyone in the world was weak and lazy.       The man hesitated. Apparently, he figured that I must be too rich and overly happy, showering him with smiles and words. Irritation, weariness, and the fact that I was genuinely interested in him fiercely battled inside him.       — Adolf. Adolf Schicklgruber, — he finally said.       — Annabelle, — I reached out my hand.

***

Of love and hate the singers tell, but I feel more, more of both.

      The human brain had a rather pleasant ability to hide unhappy memories in the farthest corner and even forget them. But for some reason, I couldn't erase that cold August evening in 1912 from my memory. I replied to him with a slight smile that a name can say a lot about a person, and if I truly knew how much, then the chain of subsequent events would never have happened.       Until December, Adolf and I would meet in the same place every few days. I was ruled by pity and the best intentions to help a poor man, but what was happening in his head remained unknown to me to this day. We strolled leisurely through the long streets of Vienna and discussed, as he put it, «the ideals of governance and the universe»*. Although he was not involved in politics, he was keenly interested in the activities of the three main parties of old Austria: the Social Democratic Party, the Christian Socialists, and the Pan−German nationalists. It was then that I noticed that this regular visitor to charity kitchens had developed the first seeds of political insight, allowing him to see the strength and weakness of contemporary political movements with astonishing clarity. I, too, sometimes shared his reasoned hatred for the Social Democratic Party. However, he was too clever not to overcome this feeling later on, in order to ultimately understand the reasons for its popularity. Once, we happened to witness a demonstration by Viennese workers, and for over two hours, we stood, holding our breath, and watched as a huge and intimidating crowd passed by. Adolf afterwards looked completely disheveled and exhausted.       On Christmas Eve, we met at Am Hof square. People seemed to have gone mad: merry, partially drunk, they sang and danced, and someone even brought an donkey to the square to ride and entertain the local children.       Adolf was not prone to the vices of youth: he didn't smoke or drink alcohol. He was quite timid and blushed every time I accidentally touched him. But on that evening, he took a tiny step forward, which cost him incredible effort and moral hesitation due to the many aspects of our social positions and worldviews that differed: he cautiously took my hand, intertwining our fingers. He didn't look at me at all, and I just squeezed his hand tighter to confirm that I had also been waiting for and wanting this. I was not at all bothered by the situation then: through months of spending time together and exploring Vienna in every way possible, with Adolf's efforts, he had acquired a human appearance − clean clothes, neat hairstyle; we visited libraries and bookstores, which was one of our favorite pastimes. He read a lot and thoroughly. He devoted almost all his free time to it.       Adolf shared with me that by «reading», he meant something different from the average representative of our so−called intelligentsia. He knew those who «read» a lot, but it was difficult to call them well−read individuals. Naturally, they had accumulated a lot of information, but their abilities did not allow them to properly organize and fix the material they received. On the other hand, a person who possessed the art of reading properly immediately subconsciously selected everything that, in their opinion, deserved to be firmly memorized, either because it corresponded to their goal or contained useful information. The art of reading, like the learning process itself, consisted of the following: to remember the main points and forget all the excess. Only such reading could be considered meaningful and purposeful.* In the future, this knowledge would become very fruitful, valuable, and necessary for his further life.       A life in which he would take away millions of others.

***

      More than heaven and hell.

I take a bow to destiny.

      Adolf constantly and painfully possessed the fear of sinking to the level of a proletarian, performing physical work*. However, before he met me, he worked as a «humble artist», and in May 1913, we decided to leave Vienna with the meager funds we had accumulated. He gradually developed internal rejection of the Habsburg state, a conglomerate of various ethnicities that filled the capital. I would lie if I didn't say that his views slowly but surely started transitioning towards mine. I didn't have a strong hatred towards anyone, but I was repulsed by the fact that the city, which had become almost my hometown, was turning into a «multiethnic barn».       My mother tried to convince me to stay, but her efforts were in vain. Adolf's parents were no longer alive, and she strongly disliked him, finding him to be a soulless person with the gaze of the devil himself. Of course, she would never say this to him directly; she whispered it to me as she tried to dissuade me from the idea of running away with him. I laughed infectiously at her foolish prejudices and warnings. What could be so frightening about an ordinary wandering artist? I didn't care about his wallet; I just tried to understand his soul, which he didn't rush to open up to me. I wasn't afraid of difficulties and financial problems; we were rulled by youth and our own unrealized ambitions. We headed to Germany, as it was there that his cold heart belonged. It's a pity that I didn't realize this from the beginning. At that time, he was twenty−four years old, and I was five years younger than him.       To everyone, except for myself and him, he seemed like a complete failure. He didn't become an artist or an architect. For many, he was nothing more than a tramp, though a fairly well−groomed, eccentric, and well−read one. He had no friends, no steady job, and no home. However, he possessed an unwavering confidence in himself and his destiny. What made me leave the academy and silently follow him, I still cannot find an answer.       And my mother seemed to see him through and through at that time.       We rented a small room in the northwest part of the old town of Munich. At night, when Adolf had his tenth political dream, and I couldn't sleep, I would closely examine his impassive profile, the line of his chin, lips, sharp nose, and high forehead. He wasn't particularly handsome, and I had encountered and will encounter in the future men far more attractive than him in my life. But something kept me inexorably attached to this person. There were times when I scolded myself for rashness, foolishness, and haste. How on earth could I just go to another country with a man whose soul was darker than coal and whose heart was frozen in coldness and hatred? And I will be certain of this until Adolf opens for me a tiny door into his past, specifically his childhood. He didn't like to remember it, just like the hungry years in Vienna, where he was turned away from the Academy of Fine Arts. Adolf was sometimes amazed at my immense understanding and empathy towards people, particularly towards him, which simultaneously scared and fascinated him. I was considered a sheltered plant, grown under favorable conditions, while he had to fend off the cruelty and injustice of the world. This strength within him interested and attracted me. Dissonance in views and characters often stood as a solid wall between us. We could engage in debates and discussions for hours, but in the end, neither of us wanted to give up, and finding a compromise was difficult. Even without a formal education, he would find arguments that could leave me speechless. However, both of us possessed enough knowledge to continue challenging each other. When he opened up to me, passionately narrating, I observed in him the qualities of a good speaker, and, as the future showed, I was not mistaken about that. Even in Vienna, he would speak in homeless shelters, charity kitchens, and on street corners. I was his eternal companion at these events and supported him in every way. It is worth noting that he also allowed me the opportunity to speak. We didn't gather large crowds, of course, but a couple of dozen people were always present. Adolf saw the benefits of our partnership; people were more receptive to the speech of a strong woman who had been denied the right to speak for centuries.       Adolf believed that the source of power lay in the magical attraction of spoken words, and in that alone*. Starting from 1910, Adolf reached the age of conscription, but the Austrian authorities couldn't reach him while we were living in Vienna. They only found him in Munich, and he was ordered to appear for examination in Linz. He engaged in lengthy correspondence with the Austrian military authorities regarding the fact that he moved to Germany not to avoid military service. Citing a lack of means, which was, of course, a blatant lie, he asked for permission to undergo examination in Salzburg, which was not far from Munich. We went there in February 1914, and Adolf was deemed unfit for active duty and even auxiliary service due to his weak health − he had some issues with his lungs.       God knows, I sighed with relief back then that we weren't separated, but the happiness didn't last long.

***

Now I have really learnt my part.

Once loving him, now hating love.

      

1914−1918 years.

      At the end of June 1914, an event occurred that shook almost all of Europe. Everyone was gossiping about the discord on the global stage, and they were not optimistic. At that time, I enrolled in the Munich Royal Academy of Music, often performing on the streets, and my mother would sometimes send me small sums of money. Adolf, on the other hand, painted small pictures of views of the Bavarian capital and advertisement posters for shopkeepers to sell. He never did this at home: at first, there were no conditions, and later, when we moved to an apartment with one large room and a spacious balcony that we purchased for very little money from a tailor named Popp, this activity no longer seemed interesting to him. None of us even thought about returning to Vienna. We had settled thoroughly in Munich − the place of his ambitions and secret love.       Soon, the war began, engulfing us along with millions of other people in its merciless and bloody grip. In early August, Adolf submitted an application to the King of Bavaria to allow him to volunteer for the regiment being formed there, and his request was granted, causing unprecedented excitement. His desire to serve his newly regained homeland was so great that it genuinely surprised me, and I worried about his health. He saw it as a struggle for Germany's future.       After three months of training, Adolf was assigned to the sixteenth Bavarian reserve infantry regiment as a liaison for the first company.       As he left, his eyes seemed, to me, full of happiness, while mine were filled with pain and uncovered despair. Tears burned my face, and the fear for Adolf's life clouded my mind, completely preventing critical thinking.       — Adolf, damn it, Schicklgruber! — my knees hit the wooden floor as I grabbed his hand, breathing heavily. — I won't let you go! You'll perish!       He didn't look at me, only squeezing my hand in response. Later, he would tell me how painful my tears were for him. How something in his chest pained him so much. But he couldn't understand what it was. He wasn't afraid of death at all, but he felt so guilty leaving me alone. Yet he had no right to act differently.       — Annabelle, I will return, — he whispered barely audibly, and a strand of my light hair moved from his breath. For a second, his gaze rested on our joined hands, and then suddenly darted to my face. He leaned in, and I felt his warm lips on mine. And it made both of us tremble. Adolf pulled me towards him, his hand around my neck, burying himself in my hair.       Time froze at that moment, along with us. The kiss was broken with a wet, lingering sound. Perhaps, for the last time, we looked at each other like this. Two stunned individuals, losing their sanity, and hearts flying towards each other. Reality weighed on our shoulders along with the enveloping darkness.       — Please, Adolf... — something in my chest broke and crashed with a whistling sound. I was feverish, sobbing through every word.       Point. The point of no return. The point where the beginning of the end started.       — Don't leave Munich, — he said firmly. — I will write to you.              — Adolf...       He cast a farewell glance at me.       — I love you, Annabelle.

***

Will I get back?

Who I adore?

      At the end of 1914, my mother came to Munich, and I managed to get larger apartments, which were unbearable without Adolf. My mother's appearance was extremely poor: she had lost a lot of weight, dark circles appeared under her eyes, wrinkles mercilessly ate away at her skin, and there were already signs of grey hair. She once again tried to persuade me to return to our homeland, but this time to Galstatt for safety reasons. I flat out refused and offered her to stay in the Bavarian capital. Fear tightened the rope around my neck every day, tighter and tighter. Lonely nights in our bedroom with Adolf were often filled with sounds resembling the howl of a wounded animal. I writhed in the cold bed, clutching my sharp knees to my body. Salty trails rolled down my sunken cheeks. I was terrified, my throat constricted. The subdued, angry whisper of my inner voice tormented me. It struck violently and mercilessly. It prevented me from sleeping until morning. It made me pity and hate myself at the same time. War is a terribly strange thing. I wanted to think rationally, to understand that if Adolf didn't come back, it wasn't God's will, it was just logical, but my heart refused to obey the laws of logic.       Two weeks after he left for the front, a letter arrived saying that after four days of fierce fighting, his unit suffered heavy losses in the first battle of Ypres, where the English managed to halt the German advance towards La Manche. The battalion's strength was reduced from three and a half thousand to six hundred, with only thirty officers remaining alive, and four companies had to be disbanded. He urged me not to worry as much as possible and promised that Germany would win.       1915 turned out to be eventful both on the front lines and in civilian life. I successfully completed my training at the Academy, found a permanent job, and helped my mother, who stayed with me. In July, Adolf was granted leave: he came not alone, but with a stray dog that had attached itself to him on the front lines. He named her Fuchsl and taught her many tricks, and she became his favorite companion, but it was decided to leave the loyal friend in Munich until his return. I saw how enthusiastically Adolf told me about his life as a soldier, about successes and failures, about being awarded the Iron Cross second class for bravery, which both delighted and upset me at the same time. I also yearned for the war, wanting to take courses and become a nurse, but his strict prohibition on my self−employment thwarted the idea.       At that time, I made another attempt to show Adolf in a better light to my mother, but it was also unsuccessful. Frau Weiss categorically rejected him and didn't want to hear anything about the approaching legalization of their relationship and settling down in Germany.       — I will never welcome you if you marry him, — she lamented when Adolf left Munich. He caused her baseless dissatisfaction, and I genuinely didn't understand it. — Mark my words, he will break your heart, Annabelle!       — We don't choose love, we are insignificant before it − it chooses us, — I replied calmly and confidently, which only further frustrated my mother.       — What kind of love is this? It lasts a week!       — We have been together for three years, — I sighed helplessly.       There was so much cutting in my mother's eyes that it sent shivers down my spine.       — Fine, — she almost hissed. — If your fate is this country's devil, so be it. You will descend to hell with him and never escape.       — Are you a prophet?       — Such people can be spotted immediately. Misfortune follows in their shadow.       — Enough, — I cut her off sharply.       We didn't return to this topic again, although my mother made several attempts to «reason» with me. I inherited stubbornness from her, because neither of us wanted to give up or give in. Throughout my life, she had her own idea of how I should behave and what I should do. Apparently, that included only getting married when permitted and to whomever she chose.       That was the case with her own marriage, and now she tried to impose it on me by all means possible.       Later on, I realized one thing: in childhood, we love our parents. As adults, we judge them. And sometimes, we forgive them.

***

Thus spoke the raven: nevermore.

      In October 1916, during the Battle of the Somme, Adolf was wounded in the left thigh by a shell that exploded near the entrance of the messenger's dugout. I knew he begged them not to evacuate him.       We left everything behind and fled from the capital of Bavaria, which was under bombardment from French bombs. Mother and Fuchsle were transported to Hallstatt, while I went to the Brandenburg region, to Belitz, where I spent nearly two months in a Red Cross hospital near his bed. Adolf was recovering slowly and with difficulty. I didn't cry, didn't pity him – I simply couldn't afford to be weak when he needed that pillar of strength in me. Throughout his time in the hospital, he would try to send me anywhere, just so I wouldn't witness his own weakness, but I wouldn't give in. I knew I had to be by his side and help him overcome the pain in the warrior's heart from not being able to be on the frontlines, fighting for his country.       Later, we received orders to report to the Bavarian capital. On the way to the assembly point in Munich, Adolf confessed to me that he had silently admired my loyalty and strength of will all these months. Returning home, I still held onto hope that he might change his mind, take care of himself, and fully recover. However, everything crumbled when I learned that he had written to his commander – Hauptmann Fritz Widmann – requesting to be called back to the regiment, as he couldn't bear to stay in Munich, knowing that his comrades were on the frontlines.       In March 1917, Adolf joined the List Regiment, named after its first commander, and I returned to our apartment from temporary shelter in the suburbs of Munich. Through letters, I would learn that he had been promoted – he was now a corporal. I was immensely proud of him but at the same time, each such news multiplied my fears a hundredfold. In the summer, he participated in the battle for the French town of Arras and in the Third Battle of Ypres. Nights when I could get lost in peaceful sleep were scarce, and with each visit from the postal worker delivering letters from the front and correspondence, I prayed that their content would be good. Throughout the war years, I truly believed in the Almighty, attending church twice a week and observing all the fasts. I never told God that I had a problem; on the contrary, I turned towards the problem and said that God was with me. Faith in His protection for us helped me endure the horrors of this prolonged war.       My mother's communication with me became less and less frequent. From the one letter she sent me in almost a year, I understood that she had finally found her personal happiness after my father's death: she had met a merchant and went with him to Wolfsberg, taking Adolf's dog and all her desire to correspond with her daughter. I couldn't find an explanation for her motives, this holy certainty that Adolf could only bring misery, not just to me but to the whole world. I scolded her for the absurdity and foolishness of her thinking, even though I passionately wished to maintain at least a semblance of a good relationship with her. However, sacrificing my own interests and the person I loved was not something I wanted to do. So I reasoned that leaving everything as it was would be the best option. Sooner or later, my mother would realize that she was wrong.       Or perhaps it would turn out that I myself was wrong after all.

***

I have made mistakes, my Ravenheart.

      In February 1918, Adolf took advantage of his leave and we spent almost three weeks in Berlin. The pain of bidding him farewell back to the front gradually subsided. My heart felt that the end was near, but who would emerge as the victor of this bloody world slaughter remained a big question. Despite all the setbacks, we believed that it would be our country.       Oh, how deeply mistaken we were...       The battalion in which Adolf served found itself in the midst of the final, desperate offensive of the German army in spring and summer 1918. In August, he was awarded the Iron Cross, First Class, for capturing fifteen Anglo–Saxons, a rare honor for ordinary soldiers in the imperial army.       On the night of October 13, during the battle near Ypres, Adolf fell victim to a massive gas attack by the British south of Wervik. I learned about the actions of the British side the next day when an old lady burst into our apartment, whom I often visited and listened to her «Munich stories from Grandma Eichenwald's youth» over a cup of tea, as she called it. She lived one floor above and started shouting wildly about how the English had gone mad. I immediately sensed that something was wrong.       However, at that moment, there were no letters or calls yet. I was in the dark. With Grandma Eichenwald, we went out onto the streets of Munich and listened to what the people were whispering about. It didn't give us any clarity. Panic slowly took hold of me, and a bad premonition was inexorably approaching its peak.       — Your boy, Wolf, oh... — Grandma lamented, casting sympathetic glances at me.       — He is alive, I know it, he is alive!       The old lady only heightened the tension and even gave me a nervous tic.       However, my belief in better things soon shattered against the sharp bayonets of harsh reality.

***

      In a couple of days, I was already on my knees by the bed of the blinded Adolf in a hospital in Pasewalk, in Pomerania. He had lost his voice, the skin around his eyes resembled charred coals, and my life at that moment was divided into «before» and «after».       The doctors gave no guarantees and shrugged their shoulders. They had dozens of patients like Adolf. Some were luckier, others less so.       — Darling... — I placed my cold, delicate fingers into his hand, marked with numerous scratches. — I need you.       He weakly squeezed my hand in response. I knew he heard me. I knew that as soon as he recovered, I would be scolded for my recklessness. If anything happened, the wind would carry me who knows where: amidst the sounds of artillery, into the distance, towards him.       And I was not alone in this. Girls and wives of wounded soldiers flocked to hospitals from every corner, to be by their soldiers' side in difficult times and to help others. And each of them protected their loved ones in the same way, as long as they did not see all the horrors of war, the soldiers' weakness in moments of agony, so that they would not cry for those who were not destined to see Victory. But women were determined – and in their bravery lay true strength.       On November 10, 1918, on a gloomy autumn Sunday, we experienced an event that Adolf would later call the greatest villainy of the century*.       The residents of the hospital were brought breakfast early in the morning, and just as I reached for a plate to help Adolf eat, the pastor burst into the room. His voice trembled, and he sobbed as he announced that the Kaiser had abdicated and fled to Holland. A day prior, the republic had been proclaimed in Berlin. At dawn on November 11, in Compiegne, France, the signing of the peace treaty was scheduled to take place.       The war was lost.       Germany had to rely on the mercy of the victorious allies.       After the announcement of this unbelievable news, dead silence engulfed the hospital for painfully long minutes. The mind was plunged into ice. Thinking was slow and deliberate, battling the pulsating pain in every tense muscle. Thoughts tangled, stubbornly refusing to accept the ruthlessly encroaching reality.       — I can't bear this, — Adolf whispered. And this whisper suddenly drowned in the cries of indignation and outrage from the others.       — I... I can't believe it, — I thought this must be a dream, and I was convinced of it until the pastor showed us all a fresh newspaper confirming his words.       Adolf buried his face in my shoulder. I gently embraced him.       — It was all in vain. All the sacrifices and suffering, when, overcoming mortal fear in our souls, we, despite everything, fulfilled our duty, — he continued to whisper through clenched teeth. — The deaths of two million people were in vain. Did they give their lives for this? Was it only for a handful of contemptible criminals to possess our homeland?       For the first time since he stood at his mother's grave, Adolf cried. He couldn't help himself. He gasped for air and held my hand tightly.       Then it seemed to us that this was the end. We could not acknowledge and never accepted the staggering fact that Germany had suffered defeat on the battlefield.       When the pastor left, terrible days and even more horrific nights awaited us.       We realized that everything was lost. Only fools, liars, and criminals could hope for lenience from the enemy.       I witnessed with my own eyes how, on those nights, hatred awakened in Adolf towards those responsible for all this – towards the pathetic and insignificant criminals.       And then he understood what he had to devote himself to, which he immediately told me: politics.       This decision, God forbid, would become fateful.

Adolf and Annabelle got married in April 1925 and remained loyal to each other until the last minute of their lives. Frau Weiss lived to a venerable age in such seclusion that was never marked on the maps of Austria and, as it turned out, was completely right in her prediction that Adolf Hitler would destroy Annabelle and drag the whole world with him straight to hell.