Hitler's Diaries: The Wrath of God By Adolf Hitler et al. (Edited, compiled, analyzed, etc., by Rhawn Joseph, Ph.D. ) Chapter 1 April 20, 1945 Today is the anniversary of my birth, and for reasons I cannot yet explain, I find myself thinking more and more about my dear mother, Klara, and those soft downy years of so long ago. As part of the celebration, we decided to grant the citizens of Berlin extra allocations of crisis rations: two pounds of sugar, a pound of sausage, a half pound of rice, an ounce of coffee, and 250 peas--enough to last eight days. The Allies have decided to celebrate the day of my birth with another raid on Berlin. A thousand bombers fly overhead. The Fuehrer Bunker shakes from the unceasing hammer blows. Dust fills the air. Bits of plaster and concrete fall to the floor. The allies have no honor. They seek only the complete destruction of Germany. They bomb day and night. Berlin! Germanica! The capital of my thousand year Reich, is in ruins. Three billion cubic feet of debris litter the streets, enough to create a mountain over a thousand feet high. Everywhere smoke drifts across the soot-blackened ruins. Gutted buildings gape up at the skies. Entire neighborhoods have vanished. The bomb-cratered streets have become great canyons piled with mountains of rubble and rotting corpses. Death! Death! And more death! Berlin has become a coffin. Schoneberg and Wilmersdorft, the districts closest to the center of the city, have been obliterated, 200,000 are homeless. Fifty thousand Berliners are dead. It is better this way. The weak deserve to die. We had a small party, a celebration, this afternoon, in honor of this great day, the anniversary of my birth. Duty required that I meet with a delegation of Hitler Youth who were eager to offer me congratulations. I didn't want to leave the confines of my underground Fuehrer Bunker. It pains me to see what has become of Germany: Berlin, Nuremberg, Hamburg, Hanover, Munich, the martyrdom of Dresden--all tumbling into rubble and ruin. The boys had assembled in the ruined Reichskanzlei garden which is pitted with bomb craters. The air smelled of burning pines and death. I could hear, in the distance, muffled echoes of artillery. The boys were from the front. Iron youth. Blond and hard as Krupp steel, the pride of Germany. They had fought well and distinguished themselves, I was told, and so I spoke a few words of encouragement and patted one or two upon the head. "Hope," I told them, "we must have hope that the war can still be won." I also accepted birthday congratulations from the men of the Courland Army and a dozen SS troops from the Frundsberg Division. I walked down the line and shook hands with them all. "The Russians will be defeated at the Eastern wall," I told them. The men cheered and I turned away. It pains me so to see what has become of Berlin. The streetcars no longer run. The subway system is in ruins and used only for the transport of essential workers. Mounds of uncollected garbage rot in the street. The mail is no longer delivered. The zoo has closed its gates. And everywhere there are refugees, old men, women, children, invalids, and beaten Wehrmacht veterans tramping in constant retreat, defying my orders to "stand and fight to the last man and the last round. Stand and fight." Instead, they betray me. They do not deserve to live. They are not worthy of me. I have ordered that water, gas, electrical, boiler and subway installations are to be destroyed. Factories are to be leveled. If the Russians succeed in taking Berlin, they must find nothing but devastation and hate. Hate, hate, and more hate. There is nothing that sustains you like hate! I returned to the confines of the Fuehrer bunker, down, down beneath the earth, to continue the celebration in the military situation map room. The bunker has an almost cheerful look. Eva has placed vases of colorful tulips along the corridors and in all the little anterooms. Eva has always loved tulips, and today she even decorated the map room with dozens of these fragrant flowers. All my comrades in arms, the old guard, the old fighters, were there to toast me and offer congratulations. Goebbels, Goering, Himmler, Ribbentrop, Bormann, and my generals, Krebs, Jodl, Keitel, Doenitz. We had pastry and cake. I even consented to a sip of champaign. Goering, who has always been so concerned about the splendor of his attire, has changed his uniform. It is surprising. Gone are his two inch wide gold braided epaulets, medals and other trappings. His silver gray uniform has been replaced by olive drab clothing which makes him look like an American general. Does he think the enemy will mistake him for an American? Goering is eager to escape Berlin. He argues an escape is possible if we leave at once and take the north-south route through the Bavarian forest. Everyone has urged me to leave Berlin. Reluctantly, I consented, and agreed to direct the last stand of the Third Reich from my beloved mountain fortress. Almost all of my ministerial offices have been trucked south. Most of my household staff has also been sent to Berchtesgaden to prepare my mountain villa, the Berghof, for my coming. Yet, unforeseen consequences have detained me. The Americans and the Russians have nearly reached a junction at the Elbe, and the British are at the gates of Bremen and Hamburg. Austria too is in danger. The Russians have captured Vienna. Germany may soon be cut off from Denmark! Escape, except to the south, is nearly impossible. Yet, I have faith. A conflict between East and West is inevitable! A miracle is at hand. The Allies and the Russians will soon be at each other's throats. The Russian armies will be destroyed and will be driven back. It is inevitable. It is written in the stars! It is the Will of Divine Providence. More worrisome is the American Seventh Army. It is sweeping toward Munich--the birthplace of my beloved Nazi Party! Yet, the Americans too shall be driven back, as they are an inferior race, a mongrel peoples who are lacking in courage and have no will to fight. Goering and the others are defeatists. Escape, a break out, may soon be impossible, they say. If that is so, it is fate. Fate has decided my destiny. I shall lead the last stand in Berlin, the capital of Germany. I wait instructions from the Voice. ******* I have always wanted to write, to be an author. Wars pass by and come and go, but the only things that continue to exist for all eternity are the works of human genius. I feel the need to write to explain what has come to pass, why God chose me for this mission, though the shaking of my hand makes writing painful and difficult. So far, of course, my only major literary achievement has been Mein Kampf, which was published in two volumes, the first of which I began and completed in 1924 while a prisoner in Landsberg, and which I had dictated first to Emil Maurice and then later, to Rudolf Hess. The second volume I dictated at the Haus Wachemfeld in Platterhof in Upper Salzberg. Mein Kampf was originally titled, "Four and One Half Years of Battle Against Lies, Stupidity and Cowardice." It is one of the greatest works ever written! It was Max Amann, my publisher, who suggested I shorten the title to Mein Kampf --My Struggle. Why have I resisted publishing my thoughts since the writing of that monumental work? Because all enormous world revolutionary events have not been brought about by the written word, but by the spoken word. In the beginning was the word, and when the Voice spoke, I spoke. And so begins the history. I have volumes of notes, ideas, and theories that I have put down on paper, but have not yet published. It has always been my plan, once the revolution was completed and the war was over, to devote five or ten years to clarifying my thoughts, organizing these notes, and then publishing additional volumes and books where I explain the nature of reality, the future, and the past. I decided as long ago as the year 1919, to someday write the greatest book of all time, greater even than Mein Kampf. It was to be called the Monumental History of Humanity (Die Monumentalgeschichte der Menscheit). In it, I was to explain the origins and development of civilization, culture, mankind, and the course and future of human history. Human history begins and ends with the eternal conflict between Aryans and Jews. Racial purity is the highest principle, which is also the belief of the Jew who view all other species of humanity as subhuman. The Jew wishes only to enslave and mongrelize all other races so they may destroy them. And this is why the Jew must be driven from Europe or exterminated, in order to maintain the purity of the Aryan race. This is the source of the eternal conflict between Aryan and Jew. The Jew has almost succeeded in degrading the Aryan race. He has poisoned and polluted our blood through race mixture. It is the mixture of blood which was the original sin for which we, the German people, were cast out of paradise, the Garden of Eden. The Aryan gave up the purity of his blood and therefore he also lost his place in the Paradise he created. He became submerged in race-mixture, and lost his way. People do not perish by lost wars, but by the loss of that race resistance which is contained only in the pure blood. All that is not purity of race in this world, is filth and trash. It is subhuman. The Jews threaten the purity of race. This is why I was chosen to drive them from Europe, and to exterminate those who refuse to go. It is the will of God. This is why I had been chosen by Divine Providence. To save Germany. It was God's will that I lead His people back to the Fatherland, to the Promised Land. Salvation can come only through a dictator of genius and unmerciful thinking about truth and reality. I am that salvation. I am the saviour. I am that reality. And reality is: whatever man possesses today in the field of culture is the culture of the Aryan race. The Aryan has stamped his character on the whole world. The Aryan race is manifestly the bearer of all culture, the true representative of the highest forms of humanity. All inventions, our entire industrial science, must be credited to the members of our race. All great composers from Beethoven to Wagner, are Aryans including those born in Italy or France. Man owes everything that is of any importance to one race. Take away the Nordic Germans and nothing remains but the dance of apes. And Jews! Through all of history, the Jew has never been in the possession of a culture of his own. The basis of his spiritual and literary activity has always been furnished by others, the Egyptians, the Babylonians, and all Aryan peoples. At all times his intellect was developed through the culture that surrounded him. The Jew has sought only to steal from the Aryans, to take credit for achievements not their own. Everything is purloined, or rather, stolen, and this is the character of the Jew. It is their religion to steal and destroy, to poison and pollute the Aryan race while preserving the blood line of their own. And then they excuse their crimes by claiming a mandate from God, when in fact they are the children of the devil - which is why they do not believe in a Hereafter. I have been called evil. I shall never forget that time, after the fall of France, when a woman in Paris took one look at me and shouted: "The Devil!" and then she slammed her shutters; as if evil could be barred by doors or windows. It is the Jews who are evil incarnate. It is the Jews who are the subhumans. Is there any form of filth or profligacy, particularly in cultural life, without at least one Jew involved in it? If you cut even cautiously into such an abscess, you will find, like a maggot in a rotting body, often dazzled by the sudden light-a kike! As I would have explained in the Monumental History of Humanity, I was chosen by Divine Providence to excise that abscess, to cut it out and cleanse the wound. It was my mission as dictated by Providence, to remove all the Jews from Europe and to wage war and ruthless intervention against the Jewish peril which threatens all of civilization. It is the goal of the Jew to conquer and destroy the world, and this is why they have made a religion of it. As written in their Bible, in the Talmud, and the Protocols of the Elders of Zion: they are the chosen people, the master race, who shall rule over all mankind. One can only understand the Jews when one realizes their final purpose: To master the world and then destroy it. The Jews may deceive the world, but they cannot deceive me. Life is struggle, the struggle of the lower races against the dominant, higher races. My commitment to anti-Semitism is not based on emotion, but cold brutal reasoning and a systematic legal fight whose ultimate goal must be unalterably the elimination of the Jews altogether. It was the will of God that I drive them from Europe, and this has been my political mission from the beginning. We wage war not to destroy humanity, but to save it. This is the will of Divine Providence. This is why I had been chosen by God. Thus, I am convinced, even in this, our darkest hour, that we shall prevail. ******** The Voice. The Voice. I await instructions from the Voice. On this, the day of my birth, I feel compelled to lay out my vision about what has and what will come to pass and why. I had always intended to explain my thoughts and philosophy in depth. In the Beginning, there was the urge, the Will, and the Voice: The Voice of Divine Providence. It was in the cold cruel evening of a blustery April that Ostara, the ancient Germanic Goddess of spring, the Goddess of Fate, deemed I should be born. Spring is the season of new birth, of new beginnings. Of resurrection. It was on that evening, April 20, 1889, Easter Eve, that my mother gave birth to the new Messiah: the saviour of Germany. Consider the 11 letters of my name: Adolf Hitler, and the 11 letters of the name of Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ = Adolf Hitler! This cannot be a coincidence! It is destiny! Like Jesus I was born in humble surroundings, the Gasthof zum Pommer which was but a modest inn. I was born on the eve of His resurrection, and my mother gave birth to me in an inn. And I had been brought into this world by the helpful hand of an evil wise man. It was a Jewish physician who tended my birth. I was introduced to the vile face of the enemy of mankind, the poisoner of nations, on the day I was born. It was then, as I opened my eyes and gazed into the light and the face of the doctor, that I first saw the cunning face of the Jew. It was God's Will. The Lord decreed that a Jew should help introduce me to this world so that I could someday cleanse Europe of the Jews and lead His people back to the Promised Land. It had been explained by the Voice. The Voice of Divine Providence. The Voice spoke: I had been chosen for a great mission. It was the will of Divine Providence. It was God's will that I lead the people, His people back to the land of their fathers and create a great nation! This was my destiny and the destiny of His people, for it was God's Will! This war was inevitable. I am blameless. A thousand years before I had been born He had already decreed our destiny. God had written the future in the stars. I had been chosen by God to fulfill His Will on Earth as it is in heaven. Yes. There is a higher ordering, and we are all nothing else than its agents. ******** This war has always been about the Jews; driving the Jews from Europe and obtaining living space for God's people, in the East. I fought this war to serve the Lord, to save the Motherland, the promised land, the land of the fathers. Like the father of Jesus, the Messiah, it has been said that my father's blood had been corrupted by a Jew. This cannot be a mere coincidence. It is fate! Jesus was not a Jew. And I am not a Jew. Those who claim otherwise, lie. My enemies have always whispered that my father was half-Jew. They have said he was conceived by a Jew who impregnated my 45-year old grandmother, Maria Anna Schickelgruber, when she worked as a servant in a Jewish home. These are lies. Filthy lies. My blood is pure. Those who suffer from impurity of the blood, those whose blood has been poisoned and contaminated by the blood of mongrel races, are like a disease, a cancer that must be eliminated before it destroys the Motherland. Alone the loss of purity of blood destroys the inner happiness forever; it eternally lowers man and never again can its consequences be removed from his body and mind. It was a half-Jew who stabbed Germany in the back after the disgraceful ending of the first world war. It was a half-Jew who accepted the hated Versailles Treaty. It was the illegitimate son of a servant girl and her Jewish employer who betrayed our people and caused the collapse of the Motherland after the ending of the great war. All of us are suffering from the ailment of mixed, corrupted blood. How could we purify ourselves and make atonement? By removing the Jews! By protecting the purity of German womanhood. I was the new Saviour. I had been given a mission, a purpose, by Divine Providence. My mission, as dictated by the Voice, was to purify the race. I was to drive the Jews from Europe, and to isolate those poisoners of nations and corrupters of the purity of race, of blood. In 1935, we passed the Nuremberg Racial Laws and The Law for the Protection of Blood (Blutschutzgesetz). In Paragraph 3 I made a special point of emphasizing that "Jews cannot employ female household servants of German or related blood who are under 45 years of age." In this way, we insured that Jews could not seduce Aryan women in their employee. In this way we could insure the blood purity of the Fatherland. Have I been poisoned by Jewish blood? I fear I shall never know for certain if my father's blood had been contaminated by a Jew. At my orders, numerous investigations into my father's ancestry were conducted by the Gestapo. The Gestapo repeatedly visited my father's ancestral village in Austria, questioning and threatening anyone that had been associated with his family. Again and again we searched for the truth, in 1932, and again in 1935, 1938, 1940, and twice in 1942, and again in 1943 and in January of 1944. Even if it were true, to be a Juden, requires that one's mother be a Jew. Yet did not the Jewish patriarchs trace their ancestry from father to son? My father was nothing like the peasants of lower Austria, the breeding stock that produced my grandmother. My father was ambitious, shrewd, intelligent. Successful. He was a brutal tyrant. I always obeyed my father, but I never loved him. Everything about him, and his ancestry, was noxious to me. In 1938, soon after annexing Austria, I had a survey made of the farming village of Dollersheim, where my father was born and where he and my grandmother lay buried. I had it turned into an artillery range for the Wehrmacht. I made it disappear. I obliterated it. Wiped it out completely. Turned it into a question mark, a blank spot that has no existence. No one must know where I came from. Once, when Speer and I were motoring through the countryside in rural Austria in 1942, he told me he saw a sign in front of a little farmhouse in Spital which read: "The Fuehrer Lived Here in His Youth." I became enraged and shouted for Bormann. "How many times have I said that this village must never be mentioned. Never! It is forbidden! People must not know where I came from. Remove that plaque at once," I screamed. Where I came from, my ancestry, know one must know. After my father was born, my grandmother left the paternity question unanswered. She left the line completely blank on the baptismal certificate and refused to identify the father of her son. I have always been plagued by the meaning of that question mark, by that blank spot in my ancestry. I have always feared my blood may have been poisoned by the Jews. During my rise to power, there were always the rumors, the blackmail threats and that lurking fear the rumors were true. Even my nephew, William Patrick Hitler, the son of my half brother, Alois jr., tried to blackmail me. In November of 1930, he threatened to go public with information proving I had a Jewish grandfather by the name of Leopold Frankenreiter--a name I had not heard before. I ordered my personal attorney, Hans Frank to conduct an investigation. Later, I would appoint Frank to become the president of the Academy of German Law. The results of the investigation were unsatisfactory. The only Leopold Frankenreiter Frank could identify was the son of a Catholic, a butcher, and had been 10 years old at the time my father was born, in 1837. Frank confirmed, instead, what was already well known: my grandmother, Maria Anna Schickelgruber, had in fact become pregnant, at age 45, while working as a domestic in the home of a Jew. However, the name he came up with was Frankenberger, who had resided in Granz. If that were true, it would make me part Jew! I explained to Frank that it was all rubbish. Lies. Filthy lies. Just to be sure no one would ever draw such a disgusting conclusion and link me with that Jew, after I annexed Austria, I ordered all records from the Jewish congregation in Granz be seized. All mention and the very existence of the Frankenberger family name was expunged and erased from the records. Frank also reported that a Granz Jew had paid hush money to keep the paternity secret. I had heard that story: a Jew had been tricked into believing he was the father of my father, Alois. and had paid money for the support of his illegitimate little boy. I knew that money had been paid, my father had bragged of it once when he was drunk. Others have said the money came from the Rothchilds. It was the Rothchild Jew who had been tricked into believing one of his sons was the father. The rumor mongers said it was the Rothchilds with their government connections, who had paved the way for my father, Alois, to become an imperial customs official. What is true? What is truth? Has my blood had been contaminated? When drunk, my father bragged of being a Baron's son, the son of a rich Jewish scion. Some said his father was Baron von Rothchild or that my grandmother had been impregnated by one of Rothchild's sons, from which power, money and opportunity had sprung. And were not my father's few friends, and even my godfather, were they not Jews? After I came to power in Germany, Austrian Chancellor Dollfuss ordered the Austrian secret police to conduct a thorough investigation. Dollfuss not only dared to investigate my origins but then tried to blackmail me with what he found. That scoundrel! Dollfuss, like the other blackmailers and rumor-mongers claimed to have proof that my grandmother, Maria Anna Schickelgruber became pregnant while living as a servant in the Rothchild household. Dollfus claimed my father, Alois Schickelgruber, was therefore the half-Jew illegitimate son of the Rothchilds, and that I was therefore, part Jew. When I orchestrated the anschluss of Austria and German trooped marched in, I ordered that that all documents related to that investigation be destroyed. It is for this reason that in 1938, I ordered the obliteration of my family's ancestral village, Dollersheim, and all neighboring towns. When my armies marched in they cleared out and forcibly evacuated the villagers, and then I made it disappear, erased it from the face of the earth. My armies bombed Dollersheim and all neighboring villages into oblivion as part of a training exercise. The Voice had spoken: No one must know who I am. No one must know where I came from. Even more astounding, soon after I came to power, a gravestone was found in a Jewish cemetery in Bucharest, inscribed with Hebrew characters that spelled out: Adolf Hitler. The Jewish Adolf Hitler had been born in 1832, five years before my father. Has my blood been poisoned? Was my father a half-Jew? My father was nothing like the peasants of lower Austria. He had the intelligence and drive of a Rothchild. At the age of 13, my father left the family farm in the village of Spital, to make his fortune in Vienna. For several years he worked as an apprentice to a boot maker. Yet, he believed this work beneath him. At age 18, he applied to and was accepted by the Austrian Civil Services in the Department of Inland Revenue. Alois, my father, became a member of the Royal and Imperial Officialdom, and privileged to wear its uniform. Some whispered he could only have obtained this rank through the influence of the Rothchild jews. Twenty one years later, at the age of 39, my father, Alois Schickelgruber, decided to change his name. Shrewd and ambitious, my father was presented with an opportunity to become a man of property; and the name of that opportunity was Johann Hiedler who had lived in the town of Weitra. Johann Hiedler died at age 84 without wife or children--a condition that normally would result in the confiscation of his estate by the Austrian government. My father instantly seized this opportunity and made arrangements with the local parish priest to alter the parish birth and adoption records. The priest scratched out the name "Schickelgruber" and penciled in "Hiedler." But here the hand of destiny again shaped fate. Alois altered the spelling to make it sound more pleasing. Alois "Hiedler," became Alois Hitler. Abram became Abraham! Some rumor mongers claimed my father changed his name to advance his career as a government official. He wished to erase all rumors of his Jewish ancestry, they said, and this was accomplished by having his new name and thus his ancestry legitimized in a Christian record book. Lies. Disgusting lies. My father was not a Christian. He despise the Church. He also despised Germany and all things German. Instead, he loved his uniform. He loved lording it over the peasants. My father believed that Germans, Catholics, and the peasants of Austria, were beneath him. They were his inferiors. My father was a government official, and he had power. And he demanded that his inferiors treat him with respect. I respected my father, but I never loved him. My father, Alois, was nothing like the peasants of Waldviertel. And like Abraham before him who packed up his worldly possessions and journeyed from the Chaldees in search of a better life, Alois laced his tiny knapsack and left his home in Spital, plunging himself into the unknown, only to become, a servant to the people. My father became a full inspector of customs at Braunau on the Inn River, just across from Germany. And just as Abraham had many women to share his bed, my father married twice before he married my sweet mother, Klara. My mother, Klara, was a saint! At the tender age of 16 she left her family farm to tend to her uncle Alois, his sickly wife, Fanni, and their two children, Alois jr., and Angelea. Klara selflessly devoted herself to the care of others only to be banished by Fanni. But this was also the unshakable plan of God: Patterns of eternal recurrence that had been written in the stars and requiring only the vision of genius to decipher. Abraham gave birth to a nation as numerous as the stars. But Sara, his cousin and niece, required a handmaiden who was of pure and noble Aryan-Egyptian blood. And so, Fanni, the wife of Alois, she too required a handmaiden. They sent for Klara, his cousin. And Sarah, the Jew, sent Hagar away into the desert. And Fanni, the wife of Alois, sent my mother away. She banished this saintly woman who desired only to tend her needs, and that of my father and his two children. Klara called my father "uncle" and he called her "niece." Were not Abraham and Sarah uncle and niece? This cannot be a coincidence! It is the will of Divine Providence! It is Fate! Destiny! My dear mother was a devout Catholic. She was very religious, always careful to remain free of sin, and then to atone, atone, atone for the transgressions of my father. But Fanni died, and Abraham married my mother Klara, and then I was born on the day of the resurrection: Easter Eve. I was the Saviour reborn! The chosen one! So spoke the Voice. I was chosen! The others were weak and died. Alois married my dear mother, Klara, when Fanni, his second wife had passed on. Klara was already pregnant, but their first born son, Gustav, was destined to die. Gustav died! And this too was the Will of Divine Providence. God has always favored the second born son. Adam, whom God created after his day of rest, was His second son, not His first who was fashioned on the sixth day. God chose second son Abel over Cain, Isaac over Ishmael, Jacob over Isau, Solomon, the second born son of David over the first born son who died. Gustav was destined to die. I was the second born. I was the second son. It was I, the second born son, who was destined to rise up and lead a great nation back to the Fatherland! It is the Will of Divine Providence! So spoke the Voice. I always loved my mother. Two pictures hang within my bedroom here in the Fuehrer Bunker: That of Frederick the Great, and my mother. The picture of my mother has always hung on the wall above my bed, so she could watch over me. I have happy recollections of those first few years of downy softness, nestled in her arms. The soft caresses and tender kisses. Her sweet voice: I was special, I was the chosen, she had sung, I was her only one, the only one who lived. I was the chosen one who would fulfill all her dreams. The dreams of the motherland. My mother loved me so! We often slept together in the big bed. She would hold me close for company and nourish me with her breasts. The wolf Romulus feeds at the breast of his mother, and gave birth to the Holy Roman Empire. Is not the Third Reich but the Holy Roman Empire reborn? Was I not the Saviour, reborn? We must remind ourselves again and again: It is the mother who shapes the son. I loved her so. I remember how we would lay together in the downy softness of the big bed. Together. Forever together. These are my earliest and most pleasant memories. My mother's love was so great it was impossible to keep her from constantly making every effort to help me, to pamper me, look after me, and even try do my thinking for me. This is natural, normal. What mother would allow her son to sew on his own buttons, darn his socks, mend his linen, and wash the dishes? The laziness of youth makes it natural to let themselves be pampered by their mothers. Of course, the result is nicer when Mother does it, and there's less breakage. But such a rascal grows into a "master," and his mother becomes his "slave" or his "maid." As a general rule, a son inherits the characteristics of his mother, and not those of his father. It is because of my mother, Klara, that I have never told a lie. Never in my entire life. And it is because of her kindness, that I have been too kind. This is why we have not and have never murdered one single opponent. My mother shaped me with kindness. She lived strictly for her husband and children. They were her entire universe. Never in her entire life did she utter a harsh word. She never harmed anyone. She never threatened anyone. She was a saint! Yes. I gave my sacred word to the German people and the world. I had no intention of threatening anyone. I had no territorial demands of Europe. I had no intention of interfering with the internal affairs of Austria. "Peace will never be broken by us," I declared. I guaranteed the inviolability of the territory of our neighbors. That was not just a phrase. It was our sacred will. It is the Jews who started this war! It is the Jews who have sought to attack, rape, and destroy the Motherland! The Motherland. The Fatherland. The great nation that shall arise in the East: so the Voice did speak. And the Voice spoke of Jews, those poisoners of nations, despoilers of the soul, who seduce Aryan women and lead them into temptation and tragic consequences, passing on their blood poisoning to the children, thus betraying the nation and the Holy Grail of racial purity. My father, "uncle" my mother would call him, administered brutal discipline! He was a drunk. The rapist of my mother! A tyrant raging, spewing hate. Hate of the German people. Hatred of Catholics. Hatred of Christians. Hate hate hate and more hate. My father had the basest possible outlook. He infected our home with his drunken rantings: Nothing good remained of humanity, no institution remained unassailed; beginning with my teachers, the church, and up to the head of the German government. Whether it was a question of religion or of morality as such, of the state or society, it was all the same, everything was reviled in the most obscene terms and dragged into the filth. Everyday it was the same, my father staggering home from the taverns, drunk and enraged in his resplendent uniform, always in his uniform. And as always he was parted from his last cent. This is the way it was in our home - this was my personal experience hundreds of times. The fighting and quarreling, my father becoming more intimate with alcohol. He was drunk every Saturday. And, with her instinct of self-preservation for herself and her children, my mother had to fight to get even a few pennies out of him; and, to make matters worse, he spent his money in the barroom. When at length as he becomes more intimate with alcohol, and, when he comes home drunk and brutal, such scenes occur that God have mercy! At the age of six the pitiable little boy knows the existence of things which can inspire even an adult with nothing but horror. Brutal attacks of the father against the mother. Drunken beatings. I experienced this hundreds of times. At first I was repelled and outraged, but later I understood the whole tragedy of this misery and its deeper causes. The most shameful humiliating experiences of my youth were when I had to fetch my father from the local tavern. How well I know what a devil alcohol is. My father taught me--alcohol and my father, the greatest enemies of my youth. I never loved my father - no never. I feared him. I respected him. But love? Never! For a few years we lived in a basement apartment, consisting of two stuffy rooms. I was 3, the age at which my first impressions were made. Talented persons retain traces of memory from this period down to advanced old age. I remember: The very narrowness and overcrowding of the room did not lead to favorable conditions. Quarreling and wrangling were frequent. In these circumstances, people do not live with one another, they press against one another. Every argument, even the most trifling, which in a spacious apartment can be reconciled by a mild segregation, here leads to loathsome wrangling without end. These battles were carried on between our parents, often taking the form of brutal attacks of my father against my mother, of drunken beatings. It is hard for anyone to imagine the horror and the forms which for vulgarity often leave nothing to be desired. By the age of six I had experienced things which can inspire even an adult with horror. Did he love us? Mother said so. But how could this be love? Yes, there was the downy softness of my mother's love. But my father's drunken bouts of violence, of rape, made me, during my earliest beginnings, familiar with misery and treachery. She loved me! Klara loved me. And she would oppose him for the children's sake. And then there would be the fighting and quarreling, the beatings, the brutal drunken rapes; forcing her to submit to tragic consequences. My father, with his poisoned blood, drunk and brutal. And God have mercy! He would even beat our dog. Kicking and beating.! I couldn't protect her! And she couldn't protect me! Staggering drunk, he would come for me. Force me. Beat me. I was repelled, outraged. And he would do to me what no man should ever do to a son, or to a woman. I respected my father because I feared him. But what I felt most of all was hate. Hate! Hatred! And more hate! There is nothing that sustains you like hate. It is better to be anything but afraid. I still have the nightmares. He comes for me. Takes me. My mouth. I couldn't breath. I was suffocating. Splashing his slime upon my face. It was at the tender age of 3 that I had my first shock. It was like a bolt out of the blue! A scene of utter horror. Klara was attacked by my father. He was hurting her. She was crying out. Screaming. Moaning. She was in so much pain. Naked, on the floor. Naked on the big bed. Moaning, crying out. These are my first impressions of him, of my father. An old man whose blood had been poisoned with alcohol. Staggering, leering. I was three years old. This is the age at which a child becomes conscious of his first impressions. I remember it all clearly: The drunkenness, the quarreling and nagging. His pushing down on top of her. The fighting. His yelling. His never ending yelling. He never spoke to us. He never talked with us. He yelled. He gave orders. He made drunken brutal demands. Watching him. Watching them in that small room. Nothing was left to the imagination. This was my visual education. Brutal attacks on the part of my father on my mother. Assaults due to drunkenness. By age six, I had been completely morally infected. The whippings, the beatings, the brutal rapes. I had seen things. Things were done to her, were done to me, that would make a grown man shudder. I witnessed this. I experienced this personally hundreds of times and always with disgust and indignation. Drunken brawls and beatings. Lord Have Mercy! And then he would come for me. I would not surrender. I will not surrender! No. Never. I trust in the Voice which has protected me and guided my entire life, so that I could undertake a great mission: the protection of the Motherland and the destruction of all European Jews. ******** The Fuehrer Bunker shakes and shudders. Messengers of doom besiege me. The entire eastern population of Germany is flowing west in a panic. German divisions are in full retreat. Columns of refugees and Allied prisoners uprooted from their camps, are fleeing in terror as Ivan attacks German fortresses and pours through the gaps between them. The Russians sweep forward with thousands of tanks! German soldiers and tens of thousands of refugees are being crushed, mowed down in a blood smear of horses and humans by Soviet tank columns racing toward Berlin. Five hundred thousand refugees are fleeing from the Soviet-occupied eastern provinces and the crushing Russian advance, carrying with them horrifying stories of Russian atrocities. German women have been nailed by their hands to the farmcarts that had been carrying their families, and then raped by hundreds of Soviet soldiers. German men, women, and children, tortured, disemboweled, and burned to death--but not before Ivan rapes and mutilates the women. I have seen the Russian manifesto and translations of the Soviet broadcasts to the troops of the Red Army: "Kill! Kill the evil German race. Break the pride of Germanic women. Take them as your lawful booty. And Kill as you storm onward. Kill! Kill! Kill!" And now the terrified refugees, with their nightmarish stories of rape and rapine, have infected the women of Berlin with horror and madness. Berlin has become a city of frightened women. The air is thick with the scent of female fear of rape and murder. There are few men to protect them. Soon there will be fewer still. The women will be defenseless. I have ordered ten Volkstrumm battalions and anti-aircraft defense units of the Berlin Guard regiment to join forces with the Ninth Army and to hold second line defense positions. Berlin will be stripped of almost all able bodied men and will become a city of terrified women: 2,000,000 women, and less than 700,000 young boys, the terribly wounded, and very old men. The stench of female fear is palpable. Every woman, from age 8 to 80, can expect to be raped, and then, possibly, mutilated and murdered. I have seen reports. Suicides among German women are epidemic. Those who have been raped, women who have seen their families annihilated, and those infected by the fear, they not only kills themselves, but some have killed their children to spare them the horrors. Defeatism and talk of suicide are everywhere. District doctors and druggists are besieged by women seeking poisons that promise a speedy death should the city fall and the Russian hordes capture the city. Which is why we must fight to the death! Stand and fight! To the last man. The last woman! Catastrophe! We gave suffered two great hammer blows due to the treachery and cowardice of my generals. All the German troops within the Ruhr pocket have surrendered to the Allies! Aerial photographs show that Zhukov's Red army has breached the ridge defense lines west of the Oder river and have firmly established three beach heads! I will have all traitors shot! Heads will roll in the sand. Orders have been issued: All German gold reserves are to be removed and hidden deep within a salt mine in Thuringia. I have decided that the Reich will be divided into two separate commands. Donitz shall be in charge of the northern sector. Field Marshal Albrecht Kesselring who commands the Western front is probably the best choice for commanding the southern sector. Either Kesselring or Goering. I will leave it to the Voice to decide. We still maintain positions on the East bank of the Oder, at both Kurstin and Frankfurt. So there is hope. Yet, the situation grows ominous. The Russian general Zhukov has posted large batteries of artillery, side by side, in plain view and in a straight line along all the roads and railways, and without benefit of camouflage. The Russians obviously have no fear of the Luftwaffe. Zhukov! Like me, this Russian General had begun his career as a private; Zhukov in the Czar's Imperial Dragoons. Like me, Zhukov, too is known as the "soldier's soldier." Yet, Zhukov betrayed his Czar. As a cavalryman he fought his old comrades with such ferocity that the Bolishiveks made him an officer. Because he has fought at the front, as a common soldier, he has a reputation for leniency. This soft heartedness surprises me. Yet, he is the harshest of disciplinarians with his officers. If they fail him, they are given a choice: commit suicide or serve at the front line, as a common soldier, in the thick of battle. Once, Zhukov reduced a general to the rank of private and ordered him to lead a suicide attack, where he was killed instantly. Zhukov and his armies now stand poised on the eastern banks of the river Oder. If Zhukov succeeds in taking Berlin, the people can expect no mercy. Zhukov hates all things German! This is a time for miracles. For supermen! I have ordered all jet fighter planes to be placed under the command of Hans Rudel. Rudel! What a man! A fine fellow! With his Stuka diver bomber he single handedly knocked out over 500 Red tanks, and sunk a Russian battleship. Rudel tried to decline the assignment. "It is only a matter of time," he argued, "before the Allies and the Russians meet, thus splitting Germany into two pockets, which would make jet operations impossible." I assured him: conflict between East and West was inevitable. The Allies will soon realize the only way to combat Bolshevism will be to join forces with Germany; a Germany under my leadership! "Why not seek an armistice in the West," Rudel asked. "Then victory can be achieved in the East." I said nothing. I had already defied the Voice and to no avail. Since 1943 I had tried to make peace with the West. But the Allies only persist in demanding an unconditional surrender. We will never surrender! No. Never. If we lose this war we will drag a whole world with us, a world in flames. ****** I am besieged by a succession of Job's messengers. Cowards and imbeciles all. I heard thunder this evening: the thunder of Russian heavy artillery. As he conducted the military briefing, I asked General Krebs about it. "The Russian bombardment began at 5:50 this morning," he explained. "They are closing in. Berlin will be encircled with a few days. You must order an immediate withdrawal, or Busse's Ninth Army will be surrounded and utterly destroyed." "No! Never," I shouted. "They must stand and fight. Stand and fight," I screamed. Goering has taken up the chorus. Goering is so convinced Germany will be defeated, he has not only planned his escape, but destroyed his beloved castle, Karinhall, which he named after his first wife. He blew it up, with dynamite, as a convoy of 24 luftwaffe trucks, loaded with his furniture, paintings, silver, and antiques waited outside the gates. He could not bear to see his castle fall into the hands of the Russians. "That's what you have to do," he said, "when you're a crown prince." The "crown prince," now wishes only to escape. He suggests I do likewise. The Generals are cowardly fools. Like Goering, they have urged me to leave Berlin this evening, and head for the south. I must leave now, they whined, for the Russians will soon cut off the last escape corridor. I refused. I refuse to accept their cowardice when bold thinking and lightning action are required. It makes me sick. The thought, the appalling possibility that the capital of the Third Reich might be captured by the Bolsheviks, is more than I can bare. General Keitel has taken up the chorus: "Negotiate for peace," he implored, "before Berlin becomes a battlefield..." But I cut him off. I will never forget that Keitel saved me at the time of the Attentat, and he got me safely out of Rastenburg. He made the right decisions and took the right actions. But in this he is wrong. I know what I want. I will go down fighting. Ivan will be pushed back and then stopped dead, at the Oder river! The Eastern Wall is impenetrable! I am confident that the Will of Divine Providence shall prevail. The Asiatic hordes will be stopped at the Oder, at the Eastern Wall, and then beaten back and destroyed. I have complete faith in Army Group Weichel and Colonel General Gotthard Heinrici who are defending the Eastern Wall. General Hasso von Manteuffel's 3rd Panzer Army is covering his northern flank, and General Busse's 9th Army is covering the South and the only direct route into Berlin. Even if the Russians should breach Busse's defenses, the land mass between the Oder River and Seelow heights, the direct route to Berlin, is flat, unprotected, swampy terrain--easily defended and no place for tanks. It will be a turkey shoot! I have instructed the party newspaper. The word for the day is: "Clench your teeth! Fight like the devil! Don't give up one foot of soil. The hour of decision demands the last, the greatest effort." I have also issued orders: Defeatists are to be strung up and hung. Final victory will be ours! ***** Goebbels, my faithful Goebbels, had sat up reading to me last night. I hate sleeping alone! It was a chapter from my favorite book, Carlyle's History of Frederick the Great. Frederick, too, had faced the darkest days of his seven year's war, his cowardly ministers urging him to give up and die. And then: the Miracle of the House of Brandenburg, and the dawn sun rose again to smile upon his fortunes. I await a miracle! We dragged out the horoscopes, the one prepared on January 30, 1933, the day I took office. Also, the horoscope of the Weimar Republic that had been drawn up in 1918, the day of the Republic's birth. It is utterly amazing. Both predict the outbreak of war in 1939, the victories until 1941, the unfortunate reversals with the hardest blows falling in 1945, and then after a few years of incredible hardship: Germany will rise again! My power is the power of will. Through my will alone, and the Will of Providence, we shall prevail. I know how to enforce obedience. Through terror and fear. Wotan, the Destroyer, is fear and terror. The power of the Lord is fear and terror. Fear the Lord. Fear your Fuehrer and obey. Like Jesus, the Lord was my father, for it was the Will of Divine Providence that I be born to lead a great nation back to the land of their fathers! This is why I believe a miracle is at hand. Who is more powerful than the Lord? The Lord's Will shall prevail on earth as it is in heaven. It is all coming to pass as determined by fate, including the suffering and death of the German people. Those who followed Moses through the desert, did they not suffer? Did not six hundred thousand die in the desert? Did not the first Christians suffer? Did not thousands of Christians die in the Roman arenas? It is God's will, a baptism in blood, to weed out the weak and leave only the strong, only those worthy of living, which is why we shall achieve total victory and destroy our enemies. We will annihilate them with hate! God is invincible. Germany is invincible. My every action has been dictated by the stars, by Providence. And no one can defy destiny, which is why I shall lead the people, His people, to the promised land, to the land of their fathers. I am convinced! Our darkest days are behind us. It has been decreed by Divine Providence. It is written in the stars. The true quality of genius is its consciousness and its sure knowledge of coming change, and I, the Fuehrer, Adolf Hitler, know the exact hour of its arrival. A miracle is at hand! The Russians are going to suffer their bloodiest defeat before they reach Berlin. I will do all in my power to save the Motherland from the rape of the Jews! The sanctity of the Motherland shall be preserved! ****** The Voice! The Voice first spoke to me when I was still but a tender youth of 17. It was clear and insistent, and although the words spoken were not clearly of the German tongue, Divine Providence decreed understanding. I was the resurrected, the Messiah, the promised one, destined to become the saviour of Germany. I had been chosen to gather up and lead a great people, back to the land of their fathers. I was Wotan, the God of War and destruction. Before I was born, I was destined to be a great military leader, and the people would obey. As a tender youth, directed by Divine Providence, I developed a passion for war games and we played them by the hour. I was always the Supreme Leader, deciding what we would play, and who would be friend and foe. I learned then, how to dominate and command by the power of my tongue! I gave the orders and we would become the Boers and fight the English. We would become the American Cavalry and fight the redskins. We would destroy all inferior peoples. The boys of the village, my playmates, Baldwin, Franz, Johann, all gladly followed my leadership. They were my first storm troopers. Under my command, we went forth and waged war! Throughout these early years, the tender years of youth, even as a lad of only six, I had a sense of my greatness to come. It came to me, whispering in the wind, speaking to me from the trees, and I would answer. Yet, even then, as I stood speaking to the wind, the Voice cautioned and commanded: You are destined for Greatness! But tell no one of the Voice! Tell no one of the Voice! My father was always restless, on the move. We moved from here to there, again and again. At first we lived in a small apartment in the Gasthof zum Pommer; father, mother, my half-brother Alois jr., and half-sister Angela. But it was only one room and much too small, so we moved to larger accommodations in the Linzerstrasse. When I turned 3, my father was promoted to the position of Higher Customs Officer at Passau, which was on the German side of the border. Passau was an ancient city. There were castles, towers and Medieval Churches, all of which fired my imagination with all things German. We lived in Passau for 3 years and it was paradise; even more so because my father was appointed to an even higher post. He left us behind and moved away to Linz. Now I was able to do whatever I wanted as he was forced to leave us in Passau. Then again we moved, this time to a small village, south of Linz. I recall quite clearly the splendid view of the Salzkammergut mountains. It was heaven. But all did not remain paradise. My father had retired, and decided to try his hand at farming and beekeeping. I still vividly remember those bees. And the bee stings. It seemed to me that it was the most normal thing in the world to be stung by bees. Then we moved again. For six months we lived on the third floor of the Gasthof Leingartner, just across from the Benedictine monastery where I attended choir and school. The Benedictine monastery was over 800 years old--and it and the priests, made a profound impression on my young mind. I remember quite distinctly having to pass beneath an imposing stone arch upon which was carved the Monastery's coat of arms: The swastika. The swastika seemed to be everywhere: Carved into the ornamental gateway, over a stone well, on the coat of arms of the Abbot. I could even see the swastika from the window of our apartment. Although as yet unconscious, I could feel the upwelling of the call of the Lord. It was a religious calling. There were churches everywhere, including the famous Paura Church which had been built in the form of a triangle--the holy trinity: Three towers, three gates, three windows, and three altars, all of which I sketched. I was already quite the artist. At first, however, I did not think of becoming an artist, but a leader, born to command. Perhaps, I thought, I shall become a priest and then a Bishop! Everything about the church and its rituals fascinated me. I became intoxicated with the solemn splendor of the brilliant and dazzling church festivals, the black robbed monks, how the abbot ruled over them like a king. As was only natural, the abbot seemed to me, as the village priest had once seemed to my father, the highest and most desirable ideal. Soon I created my own priestly vestment which I draped around my shoulders. Dressed in the priestly attire of my own creation, I would stand upon a chair and deliver impassioned sermons. I did not understand it then, but I was being called by the Lord. Mine has always been a religious movement, and I the Saviour, a god, would stride like a colossus past solid phalanxes of wildly cheering Nazis. Tens of thousands of Swastikas billowing in the wind, the streets lined with women and men, their faces transformed by my presence. I was a god. Men wanted to follow me, they wanted to be dominated, to stand in awe before a god--before destiny, and to worship me. When I came to power in 1933, the country was in chaos, the future appeared hopeless. Within five years I had given Germany stability and a vision for the future. I was the saviour who had eliminated unemployment. I was the saviour who had stabilized the currency and ended inflation. I built magnificent new highways. I humbled England and France and wiped out the shameful treaty of Versailles. I created a triumphant Germany before which the world shuddered. It was exactly as foretold by the Voice: The Voice of Divine Providence. Even Winston Churchill was forced to admit, when he gazed upon my accomplishments in1937, that my achievements were "among the most remarkable in the whole history of the world." I have always been a leader, even as a little boy. When not leading my comrades in battle and war, I was leading them on raids of plunder and glory. It was in those early years that I discovered James Fenimore Cooper and Karl May and their stories of cowboys and noble and cowardly Indians. I still remember the name of the school boy, Fritz Seidl, who said, when he saw me reading The Last of the Mohicans: "Fenimore Cooper is nothing. You must read Karl May." The first book of his I read was The Ride through the Desert. I was carried away by it. And I went on to devour at once the other books by the same author. I used to read him by candle-light, or by moonlight with the help of a huge magnifying glass. The immediate result was a falling-off in my school reports. The works of Karl May became my obsession, and I would often lead my school friends in violent reenactments of these stories. It was the stories of Karl May which opened my eyes to the world. I owe him my first notions of geography. I read and reread every one of his 70 novels, the hero of which, was Old Shatterhand, a German immigrant who became a cowboy. Old Shatterhand had a penchant for butchering redskins, especially the wicked Ogellallah Indians who were just like Jews: Thievish, cunning, lying, cheating, devoid of all virtues and completely unlike the noble savages, the Apaches. I read A Ride Through the Desert, by candlelight. An incredible marksman, Shatterhand could knock the eyes of out a redskin at 50 yards with his 48-shot rifle, and, after slaughtering the Jewish redskins, he would quote from the Bible and proclaim his greatness. Yes, I loved Old Shatterhand, who despite staggering odds always defeated his enemies through bravery, pure will, and treachery. Reading has always been a source of great pleasure. When I became Chancellor, I had a special shelf, a place of honor, built in my library, which held my entire collection of Karl May stories. And once the Russian campaign began, I ordered every officer to carry Karl May's books with him, so he would best understand how to fight the Jewish redskins. That's how Ivan fights. Like an Indian, hiding behind trees and bridges and then jumping out for the kill. I was the wild boy and we acted out all of Shatterhand's adventures. And I spent as much time away from home as possible, leading my comrades into battle. It was not uncommon for me to return home, late in the evening, after a day of running wild with my comrades, with my trousers torn and my arms and legs scratched from the day's adventures. It was when I returned home that my father would give me a sound trashing. He beat me almost every day. Why? Because I would not capitulate. No. Never. I refused to shed a single tear when he beat me. And when I wouldn't cry, he would drag me to the upstairs room and lock me in. But I would not allow him to win. He could not defeat me. His beatings only made me stronger, more determined. Locked away in my room after a severe thrashing, I would seek refuge in books and stories. I have always loved reading. It was while still a youth, in the year 1899, that I discovered two illustrated magazines devoted to the Franco-Prussian war of 1870. I was spellbound and soon this great historic struggle between France and Germany had become my greatest inner experience. Now it was not just cowboys and Indians, but war that fascinated me. The Boer War, between the English and Germans defending the German colonies, broke out that same year, 1899. From then on I became more and more enthusiastic about everything that was in anyway connected with war or, for that matter, soldiering. The Boer War was a great inspiration! The Boer War inspired Austrian and Germans with German patriotism. I was soon leading my comrades and school mates in reenactments of the Boer War, and into hot battles against the English. Of course, when I returned home in the evening, I was forced to fight yet another battle, as my father would thrash me. The next day, I was leading another war party. Woods and meadows are the battlefields on which the conflicts which exist everywhere were decided. It was also then, in 1899, during this epoch struggle between England and Germany that I recognized that somehow we, living in Austria, were cut off from the Motherland--and that my father was responsible. I began to yearn for the Motherland, to defend her against all enemies. Bismarck was for us a national hero. Even though we lived in Austria, almost all my boyhood friends experienced the same yearning for German nationalism. We sang German songs, including those we were forbidden to sing. It was, in fact, a crime in Austria to possess a sketch of Bismarck. But that did not stop me from teaching these songs to my friends and from passing out sketches I had made of gallant Boers and our hero, Bismarck. But why was love for the motherland against Austrian law? I wondered. Why were we forbidden to openly support a German victory? For the first time, a question was forced upon my consciousness: Was there a difference between the Germans who fought these battles and other Germans, like my father, who were living in Austria? Why hadn't Austria taken part in this war; why hadn't my father and all the others fought? Are we not the same as all other Germans? Do we not all belong together? This problem began to gnaw at my little brain for the first time. I asked cautious questions and with secret envy received the answer that not every German was fortunate enough to belong to Bismarck's Reich. Many Germans were forced to remain apart and separate from the Motherland. My father was a stout advocate of the Hapsburg regime. He was proud to be an official of the anti-German Austrian monarchy. He hated all things German, he hated the Motherland, and so too did the rulers of Austria, the Hapsburgs. My father. The hater of all things. But as to myself, I was German! I did not have dark hair. I did not have dark eyes. My eyes were blue. My hair blond. I was already one with the German people. As a tender youth, I had already begun to feel a yearning for the Motherland and a hatred for Austria. And a hatred for school and for my teachers. I must say, I have the most unpleasant recollections of the teachers who taught me. Their external appearance exuded uncleanliness; their collars were filthy and greasy, and their beards were unkempt. Those who become schoolmasters invariably belong to a type of man who has no chance of success in the independent professions. In the days of my youth, and until I came to power, few teachers knew how to teach. And it is a rare individual indeed, who understands how to teach history. Few teachers understand that the aim of studying history is not the learning of historical dates and events by heart or to recite them by rote. Who cares as to exactly when this or that battle was fought, when a general was born, or even when a monarch was crowned king. No, by the living God, this is very unimportant. I long ago learned that what is most important in learning and in the art of reading, is to retain the essential and to forget the non-essential. To "learn" history means to seek and discover the causes leading to those effects which we subsequently perceive as historical events. It was my good fortune that providence provided me with a history teacher who understood how to teach history and the history of the German race: Dr. Leopold Potsch, my professor at the Realschule. His lectures on the ancient Teutons, which were illustrated by colored slides, fascinated me. His dazzling eloquence not only held us spellbound but actually carried us away. Even today I think back with gentle emotion on this gray-haired man who, by the fire of his narratives, sometimes made us forget the present; who, as if by enchantment, carried us into past times and, out of the millennial veils of mist, molded dry historical memories into living reality. On such occasions we sat there, often aflame with enthusiasm, and sometimes even moved to tears. What made our good fortune all the greater was that this teacher knew how to illuminate the past by examples from the present, and how from the past to draw inferences for the present. As a result he had more understanding than anyone else for all the daily problems which then held us breathless. He used our budding nationalistic German fanaticism to educate us by appealing to our sense of national honor. This teacher made history my favorite subject. And although he had no such intention, it was then that I became a little revolutionary. For who could have studied German history under such a teacher without becoming an enemy of Austria, a state which, through its ruling house, exerted so disastrous an influence on the destinies of the nation? And who could retain his loyalty to a dynasty, the Hapsburgs, which in past and present betrayed the needs of the German people again and again for shameless private advantage? Did we not know, even as little boys, that this Austrian state had no love for us Germans? Did not my father teach me, with the whip, that he hated all things German? Was not Vienna visibly becoming more and more an un-German city? I hated Austria, this mongrel state. I hated the Hapsburgs. And I hated school. I was filled with hate. Hate hate and more hate. I was choking with hate. My father hated the German people and he labored to turn my mother against her Catholic faith. My father forced her to turn against her own children. Because of my father, she abandoned me to the care of Angela, my older half-sister. Then she abandoned us all, because of my father. I can still remember the day that Edmund died. Edmund, my little six year old brother. And I remember the day he was buried, alone in the ground. I stood there, alone, watching as the earth swallowed up my rival. And where was my mother? With her "uncle," visiting in the town, while her dead son was buried in the sacred earth. My brother, Edmund, died at age 6, when I was 11. This was a confusing time. After six long years of wishing for his death, he died. Yes, I wished it. I was staggered by my power. Edmund, like my father, had come between me and my mother. Edmund, sickly Edmund was her new darling. Yes, my rival was now dead, and I was beset by guilty feelings. And my mother, like the fickle Goddess of Fate, had now abandoned us both. It was not her fault, but my father's. Edmund died in March of 1900, at the dawn of the new century, and was buried in the church graveyard. But neither my mother or my father attended the funeral. Instead, they spent the day in Linz, on holiday. I stood there alone, during a driving snowstorm, watching them lower my rival into the ground. My father never even provided him with a tombstone or marker. I have always hated snow. But then, Edmund's death, this too was Providence. Destiny. I was the second son, the only one who lived. There were no rivals. I alone had been chosen --so spoke the Voice! I am the only one who survived. I have always survived and this is because I have a charmed life! I had been selected by Destiny and would forever survive dangers that would cause others to die.. And now, again, I am all alone. I have again been abandoned to my fate. Alone and betrayed by cowards and traitors. Who will watch over the Motherland, and protect her from the rape of the Jews if I am dead and gone? ***** Himmler left the Fuehrer Bunker a few hours ago. He drove away among the falling bombs and falling rain. Himmler thinks I do not know what he is up to. He doesn't fool me. He is to meet with Masur, the representative of the World Jewish Congress. Masur! Jewish swine! There is absolutely nothing one of these spiritual robber barons will not do to achieve his savory aims. Masur cares nothing about his Jews--but only in defeating their common enemy: Aryans and the Motherland, the German nation. Yes--of course the International World Jewish Congress is willing to do anything to free its Jews. No sacrifice is too great! In this they are united! Rubbish. In the Jewish people the will to self-sacrifice does not go beyond the individual's naked instinct of self-preservation. Their apparently great sense of solidarity is based on the very primitive herd instinct that is seen in many other living creatures in this world. It is a noteworthy fact that the herd instinct leads to mutual support only as long as a common danger makes this seem useful or inevitable. The same pack of wolves which has just fallen on its prey together disintegrates when hunger abates. The same is true of horses which try to defend themselves against an assailant in a body, but scatter again as soon as the danger is past. It is similar with the Jew. His sense of sacrifice is only apparent. It exists only as long as the existence of the individual makes it absolutely necessary. However, as soon as the common enemy is conquered, the danger threatening all averted and the booty hidden, the apparent harmony of the Jews among themselves ceases. The Jew is only united when a common danger forces him to be or a common booty entices him, the plundering of their fellow men. If these two grounds are lacking, the qualities of the crassest egoism come into their own, and in the twinkling of an eye the united people turns into a horde of rats, fighting bloodily among themselves. If the Jews were alone in this world, they would stifle in filth and offal; they would try to get ahead of one another in hate-filled struggle and exterminate one another. We shall exterminate them instead. The Voice has spoken: Kill the weak. Preserve the strong. But kill me six million. So spoke the Voice! And I have obeyed. I have ordered and ordered again that Himmler is to evacuate all the concentration camps before they are overrun by the Russians, who will free the Jews. If the Jews are too weak or sick to evacuate, then kill them. Kill them all. And still, despite my orders, Sachsenhausen, Buchenwald and Bergen-Belsen have not been completely evacuated! Not a single Jew has been transferred from Ravensbruck! Himmler hopes to save the Jews in order to save his own life. He shall fail. There is no making pacts with Jews; there can only be the hard: either-or. Europe and the Motherland shall be forever cleansed of the filthy Jews. Jews! I never wanted this war. No! Never. It was forced upon me by the Jews. International Jewry. Since time immemorial, the Jew has been splashing his slime into the face of humanity. I am acting in accordance with the will of the Almighty Creator: by defending myself against the Jew, I am fighting for the work of the Lord. It was the Will of the Voice that all Jews were to be driven from Europe; and from the Motherland. They were to be deported. But the Jews rose up and resisted the Voice. Many of those who were driven from Germany, returned! Other nations refused to take in these scoundrels! These Jewish vermin! Parasites. Jewish Parasites. The Jew has always been a parasite in the body of other peoples. That he sometimes left his previous living space has nothing to do with his own purpose, but results from the fact that from time to time he was thrown out by the host nations he had misused. His spreading from nation to nation is a typical phenomenon for all parasites; he always seeks a new feeding ground for his race. A Jew never thinks of leaving a territory that he has occupied, but remains where he is, and he sits so fast that even by force it is very hard to drive him out. My father was like that. Austria, always Austria. All entreaties to return to the Motherland were met with stony silence or hate-filled rage. My father. The Jews. These seducers of Aryan women, the despoilers of Aryan youth. If you close your hand upon them, they become a jelly-like slime which pours through your fingers. This is why, ultimately, there is only one final solution--If the best men are dying at the front, the least we can do is wipe out the vermin. Yes, the Jew is and remains the typical parasite, a sponger who like a noxious bacillus keeps spreading as soon as a favorable medium invites him. And the effect of his existence is also like that of spongers: wherever he appears, the host people dies out after a shorter or longer period. As we pushed East we came into contact with millions of these blood suckers, these disease carriers, the Eastern Jewish proletariat, an army of Jews infected with typhus and all manner of disease, threatening to attack and infect our troops, defying the Will of Divine Providence by refusing to immigrate. And then the Voice spoke: Kill six million. Curtail the Jewish epidemic by building huge crematoria and allow me to savor the sweet scent of their burning flesh -So said the Voice! And I obeyed. It is my God-given mission to save the Motherland and to save the world from the menace of International Jewry, and their new religion: Bolshevism. If, with the help of his Marxist creed, the Jew is victorious over the other peoples of the world, his crown will be the funeral wreath of humanity and this planet will, as it did thousands of years ago, move through the ether devoid of men. Eternal Nature inexorably avenges the infringement of her commands. Hence by killing the Jews, by driving them from Europe, I am acting in accordance with the will of Divine Providence. I am protecting the Motherland. ******* Treachery! Cowardice. The Motherland has been betrayed! Contact between the Third and Ninth armies has been lost. Russian tanks have broken through, again, to the north and south of Wielding's army and have punched holes throughout the defenses in Muncheberg area. The left flank of the 9th Parachute Division has all but been destroyed. Panzer Division Muncheberg has also been overrun by Russian tanks! Now there is a danger of the entire front breaking apart between the Ninth Army and the Third Army! I have ordered SS Panzer Division Nordland to fill the gap, though I am concerned about the fighting spirit of these troops. This division consists almost entirely of Danish, Swedish, and Norwegian volunteers. Treachery is everywhere! The Russian Second Armored Army has succeeded in breaking through our front and are threatening the left flank! Again I have ordered: Stand and fight! Stand and fight! To the last man! To the last round! Despite my commands General Weidling has retreated and fallen back to Muncheberg. Disaster! The Russians have breached the Muncheberg-Waldseiversdorf line. The Hitler Youth battalions were completely wiped out. The left flank is now completely exposed! The boys, rather than surrender, fought until every member of their unit was killed. I have ordered that the18th Panzer Division be thrown into the battle to close the gap. The heavy 88mm antiaircraft units in the Strausberg area are to be placed under Weidling's command. Unfortunately, they are immobile and are of limited use. More treachery. The heavy 88mm antiaircraft units have been abandoned. The generals have again retreated and have moved the front to the lake line in the Strausberg area. Enemy aircraft are everywhere! The village of Altlandsberg is now in Russian hands! Petershagen and Elisenhof may be next! I have again issued orders: Stand and fight. Stand and fight. Yet the Generals only wish to defy me. General Alfred Jodl, my Chief of Operations, now he too has urged me to join the flight of the "Golden Pheasants" --the Nazi elite. Almost two thousand of the Golden Pheasants, those who are privileged to wear the golden gilded swastika, including Admiral Raeder, have abandoned Berlin in the last 24 hours. Cowards! Let them scurry away like rats abandoning ship. Good riddance! Soviet troops are now only15 miles to the east, and are attacking at Muncheberg and Strausberg. And there is yet another Russian drive, from the south: The Soviet's Fourth Guard Tank Army have sliced, like a dagger, right through the heart of German defenses. In the last 24 hours, they have covered 38 miles and are fighting on the outskirts of Zossen, the Headquarters of the German High Command! Elements of the First Ukrainians, are now only 25 miles from Berlin! The fronts are shrinking by the hour, Jodl reports. Berlin will be completely encircled in a matter of days. "You must make your escape now," he pleaded. I interrupted him: "The battle for Berlin presents the last and best chance to prevent total defeat. The Russians shall be defeated before they reach Berlin," I assured him. Despite this treachery, despite the cowardice and incompetence of the Generals, we shall win this fight. We shall win this war. Of this I have unshakable confidence. The Russians will be thrown back. We shall prevail. I have ordered Reich Hitler Youth Leader, Artur Axmann, to provide General Weidling with a battalion of Hitler youth. Axmann lost an arm on the Russian front, in 1941. He is utterly fearless. The boys shall be placed in a blocking position directly behind the northern flank, in case Russian forces manage to break through. Volkstrumm civil defense battalions have also been ordered to the front. I told Jodl: "Victory is at hand! The bombers of the Luftwaffe are even now destroying all approaching Russian tanks, including those threatening Zossen." Jodl dropped his eyes and then informed me that the Luftwaffe had not destroyed a single Russian tank. What they had bombed were the buses and trucks of the OKH command column. The Luftwaffe had destroyed our own command convoy as it was pushing south, to escape Zossen. Unbelievable! More bad news. General Krebs claims that Busse's Ninth Army will be trapped unless orders to withdraw are issued at once. The 56t Panzer Corps, despite all its counterattacks against the Soviets, is being pushed further back. General Heinrici is demanding freedom of movement for the Ninth Army. I could hardly control my rage. "No. Never. I forbid it. No withdrawal. Busse is to hold on the Oder River! The Army group must hold the front line in its present position. There must be no retreat. The men must stand and fight," I screamed. I refuse to be defeated! I shall fight as long as the faithful fight alongside me, and then, if it comes to total defeat, I shall shoot myself. More treachery! General Heinrici has defied me. Heinrici ordered General Reyman to disobey my orders and that no bridges into the city are to be destroyed. He has also ordered up the last of the city's defenders who are to join with the Ninth Army. "And why is that?" I screamed. "By preserving the bridges and by pulling out all defenders," General Reyman explained, "Heinrici hopes to insure that all fighting takes place outside the city and not in it." "Not in it? I roared. "Idiots. Fools! The Russians will be defeated before they reach Berlin. I want all bridges destroyed. I want all factories destroyed. And if the Russians do attack the city, I want Heinrici's Army to fall back into the city. I don't care if our tanks will be unable to maneuver. I don't care if our artillery cannot be used because of the buildings. I don't care if there will be an enormous loss of civilian life." Heinrici hopes to avoid the horror of block-to-block and hand-to-hand street fighting? If the Russians conquer the city, the people, and the Fatherland, deserve to die. ******** I often wished my father would die. My father became even more brutal as he aged. More authoritarian, autocratic, opinionated, and bad tempered. He believed himself an expert on all matters and considered his word law. I used to occasionally say to him: "Father, just think..." He used to immediately interrupt me: "My son, I have no need to think, I'm an official." He had no use for my older, half-brother, Alois jr., who did poorly in school. Alois jr., was finally sent packing. Instead, he focused all his brutal and unwanted attention on me. My father had always beaten me, but after Edmund died, when I turned 11, our confrontations became even more violent. My father decided I would follow in his footsteps and become a civil servant. A civil servant? No never. But at first I held my tongue. In those early years, I thought to become an artist was my destiny! There was no doubt as to my talent for drawing; it had been one of my father's reasons for sending me to the four year Realschule, in Linz, in September of 1900. But never in all the world would it have occurred to him to give me professional training in this direction. On the contrary. The Realschule, admittedly, was somewhat of a financial hardship for my father. But it was not love, but pride, self-pride that stirred my father to undergo this hardship. He was going to reshape me in his own image. He was destined to fail. I was not going to be a civil servant, but an artist. I had developed a talent. I loved to paint and draw. Yes. Even as a youth, I was already dreaming of tearing down buildings and erecting new ones and spent hours sketching out my creations. During the afternoons I would often visit the sites for the very buildings that still existed only in my mind's eye. Oddly, I knew that the buildings I had drawn and created first in my imagination, would someday be erected--and they were, by me, after I came to power. My belief that I would one day carry out all these tremendous projects was unshakable -the Voice had spoke, and so called "rational reasoning" was overwhelmed by this absolute faith in my destiny --though exactly what my destiny was to be, was not, as yet, completely clear, other than, I believed I was destined for greatness. I would be a great artist. As for schooling, this no longer held my interest. I hated school. I hated my teachers with their greasy collars. My teachers seemed to me to be little more than congenital idiots. Of course, my teachers were not at all happy with me either. They considered me argumentative, autocratic, opinionated, bad tempered, and unable to submit to school discipline. And it was true. I no longer wished to waste my time with the drudgery of study. Why should I study what did not interest me? Why should I fill my head with useless facts? Finally, I announced my intention of becoming an artist. But my father thought differently. He argued with me. He was determined that I would become a civil servant. It was the pride of the self-made man which made him want his son to rise to the same position in life. He even forced me to accompany him to the customs house, one day, where he worked. It made my hair stand up on end. It was if I was struck by a bolt of lightning. All these little men, these customs officials cooped up in little cages. I told him: No. Never. I would rather die than spend my days sitting locked up in a cage, deprived of liberty, ceasing to be master of my own time, being compelled to force the content of a whole life into blanks that had to be filled out. The whole idea made me sick to the stomach. And of course it was simply inconceivable to him that I might reject what had become the content of his whole life. Consequently, my father's decision was simple, definite, and clear; in his own eyes I mean. I would become, he decided, a civil servant. I refused. When for the first time, after once again rejecting my father's favorite notion, I was asked what I myself wanted to be, and I rather abruptly blurted out the decision I had made, my father was struck speechless. "Painter? Artist?" He doubted my sanity, or perhaps he thought he had heard wrong or misunderstood me. But when he was clear on the the seriousness of my intention, he opposed it with all the determination of his nature. Any consideration of any artistic abilities I might really have was simply out of the question. "Artist?" he said. "No, never as long as I live!" He thrashed me. Neither physical persuasion nor 'serious' arguments made any impression on my resistance. I did not want to be a civil servant no, and again no. All attempts on my father's part to beat me into submission or to inspire me with love or pleasure in this profession by stories from his own life accomplished the exact opposite. I knew what I wanted to become: a painter, an artist. "Artist? No, never!" he declared. But since his son, among various other qualities, had apparently inherited his father's stubbornness, the same answer came back at him. Except, of course, that it was in the opposite sense. And thus the situation remained on both sides. My father did not depart from his "Never!" And I intensified my "Oh, yes!" The consequences, indeed, were none too pleasant. He forbade me to nourish the slightest hope of ever being allowed to study art. I went one step further and declared that if that was the case I would stop studying altogether. As a result of such 'pronouncements,' of course, I drew the short end; he beat me, then he beat me again. My father thrashed me so badly one evening, my mother thought I would die. But I didn't die. I was the Chosen One. So said the Voice. When he beat me, I often thought of Old Shatterhand and the Indians of Karl May's stories. The Indians refused to cry out under torture. So after yet another refusal to follow in his footsteps, when my father beat me with a cain, I remained silent and counted up every blow, and when he was exhausted from hitting me, I announced: "My father gave me 230 blows." I would not capitulate. I will never capitulate! No. Never. And I prevailed. My father died, on January 3, 1903. He died with a drink in hand, and left his family almost penniless. After my father's death, and during my days in Linz, I was deliriously happy. Finally, free to paint and draw and to live my life as I saw fit. Free of the authoritarian control of my father. Forever free of his tyranny! The first few years after my father died were the among the happiest of my life. No more would the "old gentleman" whistle for me like a dog, beat me at will, or demand absolute obedience and above all: Silence. Never again would I be subject to his drunken beatings. Now, I thought, I would be able to fulfill my dreams: I would become a great artist. My dear mother, although she had her reservations, agreed to support my desires, but only on the condition that I continue my studies. My wish became her command. My command, her wish. I was allowed to move to Linz, so I would not have to endure the long journey to school, and rented a room in the home of an elderly lady, Frau Sekira. Five other boys also lived in the house. It was paradise on earth. I was free to explore my talents and my interests in the arts. I completely ignored my studies. I joined the Linz library and museum, and never missed an opera. I have always loved opera, especially those of Wagner. Upon turning 12, I attended my first Wagnerian opera, Lohengrin, at the Linz Opera House. I was entranced with the mythological figures from Germany's heroic past and felt the power of the primal urge of race and German nationalism stirring in my veins. Now that my father was dead, I could attend the opera as well as pursue my desire to become a great artist. For those few years, and especially after my dear mother sold the house in Leonding, I was able to live my life as I pleased, and could dress in a manner befitting a patron of the arts; well cut tweed suits, white shirts, stick pins and cravats, a broad brimmed black hat, and a silk lined black overcoat. I was the envy of every young man in town. Yet, for my mother's sake, I continued in the Realschule, though, with the exception of history, I was purposefully failing every subject. I hated school. And it was with hate that I finally completed my examinations on September 16. Upon being awarded a certificate of completion, insofar as I was concerned, I had finished forever with school. The certificate was enough. I could not bear the thought of undergoing the final examinations for a diploma. With certificate in hand, my comrades and I celebrated that evening. We secretly gathered over a quart of local wine. For the first and last time in my life, I got drunk. I have completely forgotten whatever happened during that night of hard drinking. I only remember being awakened the next morning by a milkmaid who had found me lying unconscious on the highway, on the road from Steyr to Karsten. I was sick. My head hurt. I vowed then and there, to never, ever again to repeat this dreadful experience. I made a promise to myself that I would never get drunk again, and I've kept my promise. I was in a lamentable state when I got back to the house, had a bath and drank a cup of coffee. Then, Petronella, the mistress of the house, asked me whether I had obtained my certificate. I wanted to show it to her. I rummaged in my pockets, I turned them inside out. Not a trace of my certificate! What could I have done with it, and what was I to show my mother? I was already thinking up excuses: I had unfolded it in the train, in front of an open window, and a gust of wind had carried it off! Petronella did not agree with me, and suggested that it would be better to ask at the school for a duplicate of the document. And, since I had drunk away all my money, she carried her kindness so far as to lend me five gulden. So it was off to the Realschule to ask for a duplicate. The director was livid with rage and kept me waiting for a long time. When he summoned me to his office he spoke to me in the most vile of terms and then handed me my lost certificate which was smeared with shit. My certificate had been brought back to the school, but torn into four pieces, and in a somewhat inglorious condition. It appeared that, in the absent-mindedness of intoxication, I had confused the precious parchment with toilet paper. It was only then that I remembered: I had used it that night for toilet paper. And in retrospect, that was all it was good for. This shit stained certificate was my final verdict on my teachers and our education system which sought only to make learning boring and intolerable. I detested school. Most of the priests, the teachers, were perverts and congenital idiots. Once I came upon one of them masturbating in a hallway. It made me sick. When I recall my masters at school, I realize that half of them were abnormal, and somewhat mentally deranged. My teachers were weak minded and stupid--and I have always hated weakness and stupidity. As a student, one of my few pleasures was making fools of my teachers, those idiots with their greasy collars yellow with dirt. A bright schoolboy can always get the better of a professor dulled by the grind of years of teaching. I loved baiting them. We had a methodical plan, according to the season of the year, for fomenting riot and chaos in the classroom. In the spring, a very successful trick was to release a swarm of cockroaches in class and then exclaim in unison: "O-Oh, sir! How can we study with all these cockroaches in the room." Before the lesson in natural science, we used to strew the floor of the classroom with grass and nutshells, and explain innocently that we had been studying botany. In the Steinstrasse, my teacher, Father Schwarz had a female relative, of the same name as himself, who kept a little shop. We used to visit her in a group and ask for the silliest objects: women's bloomers, corsets, etc. Opposite the school, in the Herrengasse, there was a convent. One day a new student arrived from Vienna, a real scamp. He used to blow kisses to the nuns when they passed a window. One day, one of them smiled back at him. At once, Father Schwarz, the old prude, got up and drew the curtain violently. Half an hour later, our Rector gave us a scolding, expressing his amazement at our lack of respect. Before Easter, we had lessons to prepare us for confession. It was a tremendous rag. As we had to give examples of sins to confess, we chose them in such a way as to tease Father Schwarz. During break, I wrote out on the blackboard a terrifying confession, headed by the words: "I have committed fleshly sin, outside of marriage." I was busy at work when there was a warning whistle from one of the boys who was posted to keep watch. I was so startled I knocked the blackboard over as I rushed to my seat. When it was set upright, the words I'd written came into sight: "I have committed fleshly sin, outside of marriage." Father Schwarz studied the handwriting, and recognized it as mine. He asked me if I was the author. I explained to him that this was an example of deep introspection. He sputtered in rage: "You, Hitler, keep your examples to yourself. Otherwise, I'll make an example of you." Later, when I saw he had dropped his filthy handkerchief, I decided to make an example of him. During break, when he was talking with some other teachers, I went up to him holding the handkerchief at arm's length, while pinching my nostrils with disgust: "Here's your handkerchief, sir." He grabbed hold of it, glaring at me. At that moment, the other boys, who had gathered around me, burst out into a noisy, artificially prolonged laughter. Often, I promised myself to moderate my ways, but I couldn't help it, I couldn't endure all those hypocrisies. I can still see that Schwarz, with his long nose. I saw red when I looked at him. And I retorted as best I could! I have always had a bit of a mischievous streak. When I became Chancellor of Germany, I loved to have an aide telephone a subordinate and then frighten them nearly to death by yelling "Fuehrer's orders." As a joke I would have the aide pretend I was angry with whomever I had him call, and that the gestapo was on the way to arrest them. I would always listen in, and sometimes I would whisper instructions as to what to say in order to induce the greatest terror and make the game even more amusing. My teachers were easy to terrorize, the fools. I had a particular liking for the delicate subjects in the Bible, and I took a naughty pleasure in asking embarrassing questions. Father Schwarz, our teacher, was clever at giving me evasive answers. So I kept on insisting until he lost his patience. Father Schwarz, when he could take it no more, finally declared I was to be counted among the damned. He even took me aside and began to preach: "You poor unhappy boy..." "I'm not at all unhappy," I interjected. "I find you and the other priests quite amusing." "You will never go to heaven," he hissed. I laughed. "Not even if I buy an indulgence?" I taunted. Indulgences, of course, are something you buy from the priest which entitles you to sin. "You will be sorry in the next world," he sputtered. "I've heard about a scientist who doubts whether there is a next world," I answered. When I bearded him with my ill-digested scientific knowledge, I drove him nearly out of his wits. The fools! Those shit heads. Then he wanted to know if I ever said my prayers. "No sir" I replied. "Why should God be interested in the prayers of a schoolboy?" No--I did not believe in the Catholic god--I had always thought that Christianity was full of so many absurdities that it should be left to old women and priests. Besides, even then, I knew there was a higher ordering, that I had a calling. But as to the exact plans of Divine Providence, that would not be revealed for three more years, after I turned 17. It was then, while living in Austria, that the Voice spoke clearly and explained: I was to become the leader of Germany. I was to lead God's people to the heights of freedom: to the promised land. This has always been my mission: To lead His people back to the land of their fathers. This war, driving the Jews from Europe, was God's Will. By forcing the Jews from Europe, by killing those who remained, was a mission entrusted to me by the Lord. Yes, there is a higher ordering, and we are nothing less than its agents.

Hitler's Diaries

Adolf Hitler in His Own Words: Cruelty is impressive. Cruelty and brutal strength. The masses want it. They demand it. They need the thrill of terror to make them shudderingly submissive. -Adolf Hitler The joy of killing brings men together. -Adolf Hitler When I came to power, I did not want the concentration camps to become old age pensioners homes, but instruments of terror. -Adolf Hitler Hate, hate, and more hate. There is nothing that sustains you like hate! -Adolf Hitler My morality is that of the magnificent blond beast, roaming wantonly in seach of prey and victory. -Adolf Hitler Yes, we are barbarians. We want to be barbarians. It is an honorable title. -Adolf Hitler We shall not capitulate... no never. We may be destroyed, but if we are, we shall drag a world with us... a world in flames. -Adolf Hitler

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