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People don't know it yet, or at least the secret remains that of a 
dream for [unreadable] around him. It is this blueprint in the Fuehrer 
House in Munich, carefully drawn to meet every condition, that this man 
Hitler believes will fasten that mystic hold of his on the people within 
Germany after he dies. This blueprint, if ever it materializes, 
visualizes a great square in Munich on the spot where the city's present 
railway station is located. All these tracks, all those rambling low 
buildings of the station, and scores of big hotels and buildings 
immediately facing it vanish from sight on that blueprint. From the huge 
square emerging here would unfold also an avenue of majestic proportions 
leading straight through the city to the historic street and square 
down which he and his brown-shirted Nazis walked in 1923, to


_Pierre J. Huss: The Foe we face. 1942_

meeta [sic] blast of machine-gunfire and therewith the end for another 
ten years of their beer-hall putsch. On that blueprint it is to be an 
avenue with an arch such as only the Caesars dreamed of. Hundreds of 
houses which would have to be razed on either side never offered it's 
draughtsman a moment's qualm of conscience. As Hitler designed it with 
that over-busy pencil of his, a great squat and square mausoleum is to 
rise in the exact center of that Munich square, forming the basic mantle 
of a gigantic square column to rise some seven hundred feet into the air. 
On top of the column is to stand a great Nazi eagle holding the swastika 
in its claws. The spread of the wings, according to the specifications on 
that blueprint, from one tip to the other would measure two hundred and 
twenty-five feet. Columns and pillars, like the Roman temples of old 
would provide the chief architectural relief to the eye in the vast 
structure of the mausoleum. Inside, and this actually inside the hollow 
column above, the sarcophagus of Fuehrer I of the Third Reich would 
stand on a high pedestal. It would be a masterly work of German stone 
and artisanship, simple in its exterior design but impressive to the eye. 
Here, amid the eagles and flags and wreaths of Nazidom, guarded day and 
night by steel-helmeted men, who marched with him or the sons who come 
after them, Hitler could lie and keep his hold on the masses. As far as 
I know, he has not yet definitely decided whether it would serve his 
purpose best to follow the methods of Lenin in Red Square in Moscow and 
give the pilgrims to the shrine a glimpse of himself through a glass 
aperture. There are many around him he consults, or used to, with 
astrologers and psychologists alike on this point -- who are inclined to 
believe that mystery and the unseen are more powerful than the opposite. 
One school of thought in the Reich, for example, is convinced that the 
actual sight of Lenin's body under its glass case in Moscow detracted from 
the mystic effort desired and secured largely a physical reaction. This 
school feels strongly, too, that with a glass aperture the crowd filing 
past naturally would stare only through the glass and fail to get into 
the spirit of its surroundings. In fact, they say, the average man or 
woman in his eager and excited state of mind at seeing Fuehrer Hitler 
through the glass would probably never notice or glance at anything else.

Be that as it may, am important role would naturally be played by the 
spectacular decoration surrounding the tomb. There is an idea for the 
moment of huge torches burning in an eternal flame of red fire, the smoke 
being drawn off through special air filters but nevertheless offering 
just a touch of incense.

The soft blue light always filtering upon the tomb of old Emperor 
William I in Berlin -- so famous and effective that tourists from all 
over the world used to make a beeline for it -- also has come into 
consideration. There would be a specially soundproof floor, carefully 
designed to deaden the footfalls of the passing crowd and and thus 
preserve the glorified silence.

Leading into and away from the shrine itself would be the doors into 
the various ante chambers comprising in part the museums and exhibition 
rooms of the things held most sacred to Nazidom. There could be seen, 
in one section of the structure, all the uniforms and personal things 
used by the Fuehrer in life. The boots, the hats, the caps, the shoes. 
In a special glass case the iron cross he won World War I [sic] and 
perhaps the Nazi-party button he originally put on as party member 
Number 7, back there in the roaring days of Munich of the 
Buergerbraeukeller and street fights with Communists. Another case no 
doubt would show the Fuehrer's pen-and-ink sketches and the water colors 
drawn by him in the lean and hungry daysbefore [sic] the World War I 
and later in the trenches, sold for a pittance until he came to power, 
when the price for each of them went sky high and the Nazis combed out 
all art shops and attics in the hope of taking up every last one of 
them. Those and the designs for his highways and Nazi edifices now 
standing around all over Germany as laid down in paper by him will 
all be in a glass case in


_Pierre J.Huss: The Foe we face. 1942_

[unreadable] that exhibition room. The idea would be to let the visitor 
see for himself the Fuehrer as he was in private life and as the leader, 
always stressing the simplicity and the miracle of this man. It would be 
effective preparation on the mental side and indelibly stamp into the 
mind that hero in the shrine next door lay more than just an ordinary 
mortal. It would be a privilege to the wandering pilgrim to come near 
him, even as it was in life. All this and much much more was contained 
in that locked-up blueprint in Munich, where Hitler always had felt more 
at home than in Berlin.

Pierre J.Huss: The Foe we face pp. 219, 220, 221, 222

_Pierre J.Huss: The Foe we face. 1942_

Hitler is afraid. 
But he does not say so.

I saw him scarcely a month before he declared war on the United States, 
and talked to him at length. It was not until the interview had long 
proceeded past the stage of bombast and boasting that I was able to 
sense the fear that is nibbling upon his strange mystic soul, keeping 
him awake at night.
But as ashield [sic] to these innermost feelings he shouted:
"I will outlast your President Roosevelt; I will also outlast this crazy 
man Churchill; I can afford to wait and take my time to win this war my way."

Beneath that close-clipped little mustache the pursed lips of this man 
Hitler parted for just the fraction of a second, reflecting a pin point 
of Russian sun in that upper gold tooth of his. His eyes of watery blue 
looked at me with a vacant expression, lost in thoughts far away from 
that spot known to the world as Fuehrer headquarters. He stood there amid 
the park like scene, hands folded behind his back and the great coat of 
rubberized field gray nearly touching his boots.
I stood on the beaten path of hard sand already slightly edged with 
snow and waited. The Fuehrer was doing the talking; I knew from previous 
experience that this was no time to interrupt him.
"I am Fuehrer of a Reich that will last for a thousand years to come," 
he said suddenly, as if coming out of a distant mental space. His hands 
sprang into gesticulate action and his gray suede glove slapped the 
empty palm of his ungloved hand.
"No power on earth can shake the German Reich now, Divine Providence 
has willed it that I carry through the fulfillment of a Germanic task.

Hitler stamped nervously with the polished right boot, a familiar habit 
of his and hard on the carpets.
We walked with a loose stride toward the little lake amid the birch and 
pine woods, scarcely aware of the birds still chirping in the wintry sun. 
It isn't always easy to walk with Hitler; it is an unwritten rule that 
you keep step no matter what the pace. Hitler is an erratic walker 
falling at one moment into a slow lope caused probably by a twinge of 
rheumatism periodically bothering his right leg; the next moment, on the 
urge of a sudden torrent of speech, he changes to a light and


_Pierre J.Huss: The Foe we face. 1942_

almost dainty quickstep, turning sidewise to talk while slapping the 
palm of the left hand with his glove. Curiously enough he never looks 
back over his shoulder.

I stopped along with him, keeping just a fraction of a pace behind. Some 
years before, when I had first met and interviewed the Nazi Fuehrer high 
up in his Bavarian alpine chalet in Berchtesgaden, I had learned from 
brief instructions preceding the interview to keep my hands in plain 
sight. Even here in the open woods it would be a faux pas to put your 
hands in your pocket in company of the Fuehrer. He might get nervous, 
and if not his lynx-eyed bodyguard and uniformed shadows would definitely 
dislike your attitude. Even his field marshals and generals scarcely do 
otherwise, and by common consent they leave their service sidearms behind 
when around the Fuehrer.

We can to a turn in the path leading back to Fuehrer headquarters. On the 
sun bench alongside the lake's edge a squirrel was busy gathering supplies 
for the winter. Hitler slowed up and motioned to me to look. He reached 
into the pocket of his coat and brought forth a paper bag of hazelnuts. 
Quietly, and with a half-smile on his pinkish face, he walked forward 
toward the squirrel, holding some nuts in the open palm of his right hand. 
The bushy-tailed little fellow looked with bright eyes at the man and his 
nuts, and waited to be coaxed. Then, with a quick jump, it ran up his coat 
and climbed into his hand, calmly gathering the nuts in its paws and sit 
there [sic] chattering. The Fuehrer and master of nearly all of Europe was 
pleased as Puncj [sic]. He chuckled and talked to the little animla [sic]. 
forgetful of the world around him and the thousands fighting and dying at 
his command far out there on the Russian steppes.
"Ja, if the world would only mind its own business like this little 
squirrel," he said suddenly and brushed bushy-tail aside. We resumed a 
slowerwalk [sic], and the half-dozen S.S. guards and yes men always 
around him moved forward at appropriate distance behind us.

"It gathers in food [sic] to live and keeps itself busy in the business 
of getting it all its life. That was all I wanted to do before the madmen 
made me change my plans and fight for the existence of Germany. I had 
plans and work for my people for fifty years to come, and didn't need a 
war to stay in office like the Daladiers and Chamberlains. And for that 
matter, Herr Roosevelt of America."

My ears pricked up a slight edge of annoyance in the voice of the Fuehrer 
when he mentioned Roosevelt. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye 
and saw his brow pucker beneath the visored cap with just a slight frown. 
Instinctively I felt thatwe [sic] had touched a sore spot, easy to guess 
and easy to irritate into a mental outburst. He was inwardly bitter and 
vindictive against the man he obviously considered his greatest political 
and personal foe, a man at the head of a state more powerful and more 
resourceful in a different way than his own, and therefore to him a 
direct menace and danger. I felt intuitively that just for that second 
and [sic] icy chill had creptbetween [sic] us. It struck me suddenly, 
with unmistakable clarity, that I had stumbled on a secret locked within 
the Fuehrer's breast, a secret he would never let out and which he may 
never admit having.

_Pierre J.Huss: The Foe we face. pp.


_Pierre J.Huss: The Foe we face. 1942_

"Ja, Herr Roosevelt and his Jews!"
The now-scowling Hitler added this as an afterthought. He seemed to be 
talking to himself, forgetful of the American at his side, and brooding 
over the man he hated.

A cold rain mixed with a bit of sleet had begun despite the patches of 
sunlight peering out of fast driving clouds. We reached the glass door 
leading into the central house of Fuehrer headquarters that looked not 
unlike a comfortable hunting lodge. Inside the small hall with its 
mounted deer heads, flunkies with booted black pants and white coats 
without ornament took our things and deferentially stepped aside. So 
did everybody else around that house, giving you the uncomfortable 
feeling that no one but the Fuehrer should be heard or seen, lest perhaps 
a blitz of unrestrained temper and authority hit the man nearest the 
volcano. That has happened time and again, coming and going with the 
destructive and startling force of a whirlwind.

Hitler walked around the plainly furnished reception room with its little 
round table surrounded by easy chairs and a sofa. The whole was the 
familiar reproduction in mixture of Hitler's personal style in reception 
rooms and chancellories at Munich and Berlin and Berchtesgaden., all 
slightly on the stiff side with a restrained reach for the dignified.

A fire of split logs blazed cheerily on the hearth. A shepherd dog with 
a swastika collar strolled lazily up to Hitler and nuzzled his hand. He 
stroked the head, motioning me to sit down opposite. Others like his 
unimaginative Press Chief Otto Dietrich and Chief Interpreter Schmidt, 
also came around to sit there and listening silent obedience.

By no stretch of the imagination could one call a partylike [sic] this 
a gay or inspiring occasion. A taste of the formidable, mixed with 
suspense and the uneasy feeling of something unreal, pervaded the room. 
It seemed very warm around there suddenly. and on the back of my neck I 
felt the slight moisture of perspiration. Yet I do not perspire easily.

The Fuehrer looked at a message held before him on a tablet by one of 
his military adjutants. Without glancing at the man who had brought the 
message, he scribbled on the pad and pushed it away. He sat forward 
again and held his hands between his knees.

There was a moment of hesitation as his eyes came to rest upon me, 
striving, no doubt for a split second to identify again this mortal 
before him.

"I know how to wait," the nervous mouth said suddenly with a quick draw 
of breath. "Ja, and I can wait. I waited three years for Austria, and at 
the end of that time, despite all the mischief and opposition again me 
paid political criminal and elements in and outside of Europe, I got 
back Austria without firing a shot.
He began rubbing his knees in growing agitation.
The right boot dug into the carpet again, this time almost viciously.

Hitler talked on, scarcely pausing for breath. Inside his peculiar mind 
he was then and there already at grips with Roosevelt, mentally grasping 
for the throat of his deadly foe and tearinghim [sic] to bits in an 
inborn rage over wrongs and grievances he believes he has suffered at 
the hands of the man with the smile in Washington.

I sat there listening to his tirade of bitterness rooted in fear; he 
gave the impression of a man who had had a vision in his grasp only


_Pierre J.Huss: The Foe we face. 1942_

to have it torn out of his hands again bythe [sic] elusive foe who 
haunted his dreams.

Pierre J.Huss: The Foe we face. 1942. pp.

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