THE YOUNG HITLER I KNEW by AUGUST KUBIZEK (Page 4 of 6)

The head of the Conductors' School of the Conservatory, Gustav Gutheil, was also the conductor of the Vienna Concert Society. But our special favourite was Ferdinand Loewe, the director of the Conservatory, who occasionally conducted the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra; he was a great admirer of Bruckner. The musical life of Vienna at that time was still dominated by the Brahms-Bruckner controversy, although both masters had been dead for over ten years. Eduard Hanslick, the formidable music critic, whom we always called “Beckmesser,” was also dead, but his pernicious influence was still noticeable. Hanslick who was our declared enemy, if only because he had attacked Richard Wagner violently and not always fairly, had firmly supported Brahms and fought furiously against Anton Bruckner. In Ferdinand Loewe, on the other hand, Bruckner had an inspired partisan; and also Franz Schalk, later director of the Vienna Opera, was a Bruckner supporter.

For our part, we had no difficulty in making up our minds in this controversy. I loved Bruckner and Adolf, too, was thrilled and moved by his symphonies. Besides, Bruckner came from our part of the country, and in exalting his work, we were exalting our homeland. Yet this was no reason for us to reject Brahms. In this dispute, we regarded ourselves as representatives of the younger generation, paid our tribute to both masters and smiled at the zeal of the older people, which seemed to us utterly superfluous. As for Adolf, he went even further. Justas Bayreuth had become the centre of Richard Wagner's most impressive work, he said, so Linz should become the shrine of Anton Bruckner's works. The Linz Concert Hall, plans for which he had just finished, should be consecrated to Bruckner's memory.

There he sat in his free seat in the Concert Hall blissfully enjoying Beethoven's brilliant Violin Concerto in D Major and was happy and contented. Yet, on looking round the hall, he could count only four or five hundred people who had come to hear the concert. How puny was this number in comparison with the thousands who could not hear it. No doubt there were many, not only among the students, but also among the artisans and workers who would have been as happy as he was to be able to hear this immortal music either without payment, or at a price they could afford. And it was not Vienna alone one had to consider, for in Vienna it was comparatively easy for music lovers to go to concerts. But outside Vienna, the small places, the provincial towns. Oh! he had seen it himself in Linz, how little was done to satisfy the cultural needs of these places. This must be changed. The enjoyment of concerts should no longer be the privilege of the lucky few. The system of free tickets was no cure, however much he benefited from it personally; a radical remedy was called for.

This kind of thinking was typical of Adolf. Nothing could happen around him from which he would not draw some general conclusions. Even purely artistic experiences, like listening to a concert, which others accepted passively, roused his active interest and became problems of universal concern, for nothing was allowed to remain unimportant in the “Ideal State” of his dreams. The “Storm of the Revolution” must fling wide open the gates of Art, which hitherto had been locked to so many — “social reform” even in the field of artistic enjoyment.

The first indication that he was working on a particular idea was always some peculiar phrase that would crop up in his diatribes, or in our discussions, some special expression which he had never used before. So long as he had not firmly decided what was the purpose of his idea, his phrase would keep changing. Thus, during the weeks of his frequent concert-going, he would speak at first only of “that orchestra which tours the provinces.” I thought that there really did exist such an orchestra in Vienna, and that Adolf was speaking of an actual fact. Later, however, I discovered that this “mobile orchestra,” as he came to call it (because the word “touring” reminded him too much of second-rate theatrical companies), existed only in his imagination. As he was never satisfied with half measures, he soon made of it a “mobile Reichs orchestra.” I still remember that Adolf, after we had laid down the plans for this organisation, was so enthusiastic about his creation that he planned to setup and send out ten such orchestras, so that even the remotest corner of the Reich could enjoy Beethoven's Violin Concerto in D Major.

One evening when he was speaking for the first time at greater length of this orchestra, I asked him why on earth it was just musical matters to which he devoted his attention. I thought he was intending to become an architect? His reply was short and to the point, “Because, for the time being, I have you around.” By which he meant that as long as I was at hand, he could always take advantage of my advice and of my special knowledge as a future conductor. This, of course, flattered me. But when I took my courage into both hands and hopefully asked him to whom he would entrust the direction of his orchestra, he immediately saw through me, laughed sarcastically and exclaimed, “Certainly not you!” But, serious once again, he added that perhaps he might actually contemplate making me the conductor of the mobile Reichs orchestra. However, I was offended and replied that I could do without this honour, for I was interested in becoming the conductor of an orchestra which actually existed, not a nebulous dream orchestra. That was enough to bring on an outburst of fury, for he could not bear it if one doubted that his plans would be realised. “You will be only too glad if I appoint you to such a post,” he screamed at me.

The basic idea of this mobile Reichs orchestra was very plausible, and I had often thought about the problem myself. Adolf's solution was both brilliant and simple: an orchestra under a gifted conductor would be organised, capable of performing classic, romantic and modern symphonic music and sent out to the country according to a pre-established plan. Adolf asked me what size, in my view, this orchestra should be. The mere fact that he asked my advice, instead of looking it up in his books, filled me with pride. I can still see us building up this orchestra, the strings, the woodwinds, the brass and the percussion and remember how Adolf wanted to be informed about every trivial detail, how he questioned me about the peculiar orchestration of symphonic works, so that he would not overlook anything and would make the orchestra perfect in every respect. This was the strange, enigmatic trait in his character, a contradiction that I could not explain: he would build projects on a foundation of thin air, but at the same time make them quite unassailable in themselves. The more the whole plan was only a matter of wishful taking, the more elaborate had to be its details.

The night was half over before we had finished our work. The orchestra which we had built up consisted of a hundred players, a respectable body of sound, which would be able to compete with any one of the big orchestras. Equipment was the next problem. Adolf was rather startled when I enumerated the requirements. Not only first-class instruments, whose careful transport had to be safeguarded, but an ample music library, and moreover desks, chairs and so forth. He agreed that a first-class cellist could not sit every night on a different chair. Finally he asked me to approach the Secretary of the Orchestra Society for further information about these purchases, and to make enquiries at the Musicians' Union about the engagement of musicians, and then work out a budget. Adolf was satisfied with the result of my inquiries. He dismissed the high amount of the budget with a disdainful gesture; but we had a heated argument about a uniform dress for the orchestra. Naturally the orchestra had to be pleasing to the eye. I suggested a suitable uniform, but Adolf was against it. We agreed in the end on a dark outfit, distinguished but unobtrusive.

We differed strongly over the planning of the program. Adolf wanted to know how much rehearsal time an orchestra would need for a symphony, and was annoyed that no fixed rules could be applied. He categorically refused to accept my view that there were no earlier German composers - and on German composers solely he positively insisted - than Bach, Gluck and Handel, and perhaps Heinrich Schhtz. “And what was before that?” he inquired. “Nothing suitable for an orchestra,” I replied. “Who says so?” he shouted. I told him, calmly, that in this instance he could safely rely on my answer, unless he wanted to study the history of music himself. “And so I will,” he said, angrily. And that brought our discussion to an end.

I had not taken his words seriously, for the study of the history of music is not a simple matter, apart from being outside the range of his professional interests. Moreover, he knew that I was really well versed in this field, as I was attending lectures at the University. I was the more surprised when on the next day I found him immersed in a heavy volume. The Development of Music in the Course of Time. He was quite unapproachable for a few days, but the book did not quite satisfy him. He asked me for other writings on the history of music and ploughed steadily through them.

From the time when we first set up the mobile Reichs orchestra, Adolf prepared himself a special notebook, which I quite well remember. It was a small book, easy to slip in the pocket, in which, after every concert he attended, he wrote the titles of the works, the name of the composers and the name of the conductor, as well as his own opinion of them. It was the highest praise a work could earn if he said, “This will be included in our program.”

For a long time to come I thought a bout the “mobile Reichs orchestra.” It is true the gramophone already existed. To be sure it was a pitiable, scratchy monster of a thing but, with it, the path to “mechanical” music was already opened. Wireless telegraphy was still in its infancy. Meanwhile, in spite of the fact that records and radio have since triumphed to such an extent that it looks as though “performed” music only exists to supply the needs of “mechanical” music, the basic question which my friend tried to solve with the help of the mobile Reichs orchestra still remains for all intelligent, genuine art lovers: How to bring to the people who appreciate it fine music, perfectly performed, directly — that is to say without any mechanical aids — wherever they may live.

To be continue…………..

“Its not even certain, yet, whether you will be passed as fit,” he remarked more calmly. “After all, its only a year since you nearly went under with that bad attack of pneumonia. If you are unfit, as I hope, all this excitement will have been in vain.”

Adolf suggested that I should go to Linz and present myself before the medical board according to instructions. In case I should be passed as fit, I should forthwith cross the border into Germany secretly, at Passau. On no account was I to serve in the Austro-Hungarian army. This moribund Hapsburg Empire did not deserve a single soldier, he declared. As my friend was nine months younger than I, he did not expect his call-up until the following year, 1909. But, as was now evident, he had already made up his mind in this respect and was determined not to serve in the Austrian army. Perhaps he was quite pleased to use me as a guinea pig and find out how his suggested solution would really work in practice.

The next morning I went to the Director of the Conservatory and showed him my call-up papers. He explained to me that, as a member of the Conservatory, I was entitied to serve only one year, but he advised me, as the only son of a businessman, to register with the Reserve. There, I should only have to do eight weeks training, and later on, three further periods of four weeks. I asked him what he thought of the idea of my going to Germany to escape military service altogether. He was shocked by this unusual suggestion and energetically advised me against it.

For Adolf, even the idea of my serving in the Reserve was too great a concession to the
Hapsburg Empire, and he went on and on, trying to persuade me to fall in with his plan right up to the moment I had finished my packing.

Fortunately I still have the letter he wrote in reply, addressed to the “stud. mus. Gustav Kubizek”:

Dear Gusti,

While thanking you for your letter, I must tell you immediately how pleased I am that your dear father is really coming with you to Vienna. Providing that you and he have no objection, I will meet you at the station on Thursday at 11 o'clock. You write that you are having such lovely weather, which almost upsets me as, if it were not raining here, we too should be having lovely weather. I am very pleased that you are bringing a viola. On Tuesday I shall buy myself 2 crowns' worth of cotton wool and 20 kreuzers' worth of paste, for my ears naturally. That— on top of this - you are going blind affects me very deeply; you will play more wrong notes than ever. Then you will become blind and I gradually mad. Oh, dear! But meanwhile I wish you and your esteemed parents at least a happy Easter and send them my hearty greetings as well as to you.

Your friend,
ADOLF HITLER

The letter is dated April 20, so Adolf had written it on his birthday. In view of his circumstances at that time, it is not surprising that he does not mention it. Perhaps he had not even realised that it was his birthday.

After the long, dull winter, spring was making its appearance. Since I had seen once again, on my visit to Linz, the familiar meadows, woods and hills, our gloomy back room in the Stumpergasse seemed to me gloomier than ever. Looking back on our countless walks throughout the length and breadth of the countryside around Linz, I tried to persuade Adolf to make some excursions into the country around Vienna. I had more time to spare now as my pupils, having successfully passed their examinations, had returned home, but not without giving me a nice little present, which came as a pleasant surprise; so that there was once again a little money in the kitty (so far as I was concerned, at any rate). When, in the gardens along the Ring, the blossoms came out and the mild spring sunshine enticed us, I could not stand the stifling walls of the city any longer. Adolf, too, was longing to get out into the open.

I knew how fond he was of the open country, the woods and, in the distance, the blue range of mountains. He found a solution to this problem, in his own way, long before I did when it became too close and stuffy for him at Frau Zakreys' and the stink of kerosene became unbearable, he went off to the Schonbrunn Park. But this was not enough for me. I wanted to see more of the country around Vienna. So did Adolf, but first, he explained, he had no money for such “extra expenses.” That could be got over, as I invited him to be my guest on such excusions and, to make sure of it, I bought provisions for both of us the day before. Secondly — and this was much more difficult— if we really wanted to make a full day's excusions, he had to get up early. He would rather do anything than this, as it was a most difficult thing for him.

To try to shake him awake was a risky undertaking — he was likely to become utterly impossible. “Why do you wake me so early?” he would shout at me. When I told him that the day was well advanced, he would never believe me. I would lean right out of the window and twist my head upwards so that I could see the small strip of sky. “Not a cloud in sight; the sun is shining brightly,” I would announce, but even as I turned round, Adolf was fast asleep again.

He would not stick to the conducted tour, but sought everywhere for secret passages and hidden steps which would take him to the foundations; he wanted to examine how these had been built into the rocks. Indeed, one could almost believe that the mighty pile had grown out of the stone. After that, we spent a long time in the beautiful library.

Then we went, on the steamer, through the glory of Maybedecked Wachau. Adolf was a changed person, even if only through being on the Danube, his beloved river, again. For Vienna was not so closely built about the Danube as was, for instance, Linz, where one could stand on the bridge and await the approach of a distinguished, blond maiden from Urfahr. He missed the Danube almost as much as he still missed Stefanie. And now the casties, the villages, the hillside vineyards passed us gently by. For it did not seem as though we were moving forward; but rather as though we were standing still with this wonderful landscape floating by us in a peaceful rhythm. What a romantic world. It acts on us like magic. Adolf stands in the bows, engrossed in the landscape. Till long past Krems, sailing along through the broad monotonous woods that line the river on either bank, he does not utter a word. Who knows where his thoughts may be?

As though this magic trip needed a counterbalance, our next trip was down the Danube to Fischamend. I was disappointed. Was this really the same river that had so delighted us, our dear, familiar Danube? Wharves, warehouses, oil refineries, and in between them miserable fishermen's huts, slums, and even real gypsy encampments. Where on earth had we to go? This was the “other” Danube which no longer belonged to the picture of our homeland, but was part of the strange, eastern world. We went home, Adolf very thoughtful and I disillusioned.

Neither Adolf nor I had the faintest idea of mountaineering. The highest “mountains” we had conquered in our lives were the gentle hills of Muhlviertel. The Alps, themselves, we had till now only seen at a distance. But we were now in the midst of them and very impressed by the thought that this mountain was over two thousand metres high.

As always with Adolf, his will had to make up for whatever else was lacking. We had no food with us, because we had originally intended just to walk down from the Semmering heights to Gloggnitz. We did not even have a rucksack and our clothes were those that we wore for our strolls through the city. Our shoes were much too light, with thin soles and without nails. We had trousers and jacket, but not a scrap of warm clothing. But the sun was shining, and we were young — so forward!

The adventure we had on our way down overshadowed our upward climb so completely that I can no longer tell which route we took. I only remember now that we climbed for several hours before we reached the plain at the summit of the mountain. We now seemed to be on a peak, though it might not have been the Rax. I had never climbed a mountain peak; I had a strange, unfettered feeling, as though I no longer belonged to the earth, but was already close to heaven.

Adolf, deeply affected, stood on the plateau and said not a word.

And no house, no hut, no kind of shelter wherever we turned. Adolf was not at all put out by the thunder and lightning, the storm and the rain. To my surprise he was in a splendid mood and, although soaked to the skin, became more and more genial as the rain grew heavier.

We skipped along the stony path and suddenly, just off it, I spotted a little hut. There was no sense in continuing to run in the rain, besides, it was getting dark, so I suggested to Adolf that we should stay in this little cabin overnight. He immediately agreed — for him the adventure could not go on long enough.

I searched the little wooden hut. In the lower half lay a pile of hay, dry, and sufficient for us both to sleep in. Adolf took off his shoes, jacket and trousers and began to wring out his clothes. “Are you terribly hungry, too?” he asked. He felt somewhat better when I told him that! was. A sorrow shared is a sorrow halved; apparently that applied to hunger too.

Meanwhile, in the upper part of the hut, I had found some large squares of canvas, which were used by the peasants to carry the hay down the steep mountain sides. I felt very sorry for Adolf, standing there in the doorway in his soaking underclothes, chattering with cold as he wrung out the sleeves of his jacket. Sensitive as he was to any kind of chill, how easily he could catch pneumonia. So I took one of the big squares, stretched it out on the hay and told Adolf to take off his wet shirt and pants and to wrap himself in the cloth. This he did.

I still remember what a job it was to get Adolf to wake up. When he was finally roused, he worked his feet free of their wrappings and, with the canvas wrapped round him, walked to the door to look at the weather. His slim, straight figure, with the white cloth thrown toga-wise across the shoulders, looked like that of an Indian ascetic.

This was our last great excursion together.

Just as my journey to the medical board had unpleasantly interrupted our stay in Vienna, so were these walks and adventures beautiful and extremely welcome interruptions in our gloomy sunless existence in the Stumpergasse.

That comfortless, boring life in the back room in the Mariahilf suburb, which he himself called a “dog's life,” how much more beautiful it would have been made by a friendship with an attractive, intelligent girl! Was not Vienna known as the city of beautiful women? That this was true, we needed no convincing. What was it, then, that held him back from doing what was normal for other young men? That he had never considered this possibility was proved by the very fact that, at his suggestion, we shared a room together. He did not ask me at the time whether that suited me or not. As was his habit, he took it for granted that I should be willing to do what he considered to be the right thing. As far as girls were concerned, he was doubtless quite pleased about my shyness, if only for the reason that it left me with more free time to spare for him.

One small episode has stayed in my memory. One evening at the Opera, as we went back to our places in the Promenade, a liveried attendant came up to us and, plucking Adolf by the sleeve, handed him a note. Adolf, in no way surprised but as though this were an everyday happening, took the note, thanked him and hastily read it. Now, I thought, I was on the track of a great secret, or at least the beginning of a romantic one. But all Adolf said, contemptuously, was, “Another one,” and passed the note over to me. Then, with a semi-mocking glance, he asked me whether perhaps I would like to keep the suggested appointment. “Its your affair, not mine,” I replied, a bit sharply, “and anyhow I wouldn't like the lady to be disappointed.”