Hitler and the Habsburgs Read online

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE LION AND THE LAMB

  “Vienna was and remained for me the hardest most thorough school of my life.”

  —ADOLF HITLER

  “She was the ideal partner for such a high strung man and she knew how to handle him.”

  —ARCHDUCHESS ZITA

  on Franz Ferdinand’s wife

  On December 2, 1908, Archduke Franz Ferdinand hosted the culminating events for Emperor Franz Joseph’s Diamond Jubilee celebration. The glittering afternoon soiree at the Hofburg Palace was attended by all the Habsburg Archdukes and Archduchesses. His own wife had not been seen in Vienna since delivering a stillborn son in early November. He and his family deeply grieved over the loss, but the tragedy was ignored by the Habsburg court.

  That same evening, a musical concert titled The Emperor’s Dream was presented at Vienna’s opera house. Rapturous ovations greeted Franz Joseph as he entered and left the event. The tableau featured an actor portraying the thirteenth-century founder of the Habsburg dynasty, Rudolf, dreaming of Austria’s coming greatness. Showcased were scenes from the 1515 royal wedding that brought Bohemia and Hungary under the Habsburg crown, the 1683 defeat of the Ottoman Turks before the gates of Vienna, Empress Maria Theresa and her children listening to a 1762 recital by Amadeus Mozart, the 1815 Congress of Vienna, and other glorious triumphs in the Empire’s long history.

  The female narrator representing the “Future” predicted, “What you have planted, you see blossom again… love binds people and ruler.” Actors dressed as the nationalities united under Franz Joseph’s crown proclaimed a “vision of the monarchy as a harmonious mosaic of peoples and cultures moving into the future with confidence, guided by the experience of the sacred House of Habsburg.” The culmination of the evening was a merging of all the voices on the stage “with the collective singing of the state hymn.”

  To outward appearances, the Habsburg dynasty seemed at the pinnacle of its power and glory, but beneath the luminescent surface were deep fissures. At the conclusion of the pageant, the Emperor was discreetly handed a coded message from Prague. Fighting between Czech and German nationalists had forced authorities to declare martial law there. The stone face the monarch displayed throughout the evening betrayed no hint of the dispatch’s contents.

  The next day, a front-page article in the Prager Tagblatt stated, “Of all the Emperor’s dreams, the dream which he had harbored since his youth of creating peace among his peoples materialized the least and had become the most cruelly destroyed.” Franz Joseph dreamed of a peaceful future, even as the foundations of his restless Empire shifted beneath his throne. If Adolf Hitler had not been in such a downward spiral, he might have celebrated the schism between the Habsburg Emperor and his Czech subjects. He no longer lived in the apartment he once shared with August Kubizek because he could no longer pay the rent. Unwilling to face his friend, he moved into a cheaper room, but poverty and hunger followed. He relocated to poorer and poorer neighborhoods, unable to escape the frustrations, anger, and despair dogging him. Along the way, Hitler was forced to sell his overcoat, his ivory-tipped walking stick, most of his books, and even his art supplies. Finally, unable to make the smallest rent payment, he became homeless.

  Hitler came to the city to receive an education, and received one in its slums. He later wrote of this time, “I had been so busy with my own destiny that I could not concern myself much with the people around me.” Once park benches and doorways became his bed, it was the invisible people he had ignored who taught him how to survive, and much more. The experience did not increase his empathy, but it gave him a rare insight into the thinking, feelings, and anger of the underclass.

  Hitler had always scorned what he dismissed as “bread and butter jobs,” but the police, drunks, rain, and an early winter convinced him to take a job as a construction worker. “I looked for work only to avoid starvation, only to obtain an opportunity of continuing my education.” His fellow construction workers, many of them socialists, communists, and trade unionists, tutored him in their worldview:

  These men rejected everything: the nation as an invention of the “capitalistic” classes (how often I was forced to hear this single word!); the fatherland as an instrument of the bourgeoisie for the exploitation of the working class; the authority of law as a means of oppressing the proletariat; the school as an institution of breeding slaves and slaveholders; religion as a means of stultifying the people and making them easier to exploit; morality as a symptom of stupid, sheep-like patience, etc.

  Hitler asked himself:

  Are these people human, worthy to belong to a great nation?… If it is answered in the affirmative, the struggle of my nationality really ceases to be worth the hardships and sacrifices which the best of us have to make for the sake of such scum; and if it is answered in the negative, our nation is pitifully poor in human beings.

  Heated political arguments with his coworkers and threats of “terror and violence” convinced him to return to the ranks of the unemployed. Hitler wrote, “A few of the spokesmen on the opposing side forced me to either leave the building at once or be thrown off the scaffolding.” Free time allowed him to spend hours avoiding Vienna’s harsh weather by sitting in the warmth of the parliament building and listening to the cacophony of debates and multitude of dialects and languages there. The sights and sounds of the Empire’s “liars and sneaks” provided him a link to his emerging favorite villain. “Only the Jew can praise an institution (such as parliament) which is as dirty and false as he himself.” To Hitler the parliament was worthless. Debates were allowed in ten languages with no interpreters. To him, it was multiculturalism gone mad, one more example of the Habsburg government’s failure to protect and champion the German language and German people.

  Life on the streets drove Hitler to seek asylum in a large homeless shelter in the city’s poor working class Meidling neighborhood. The shelter sat literally on the other side of the tracks behind the massive South railway station. Franz Ferdinand’s Belvedere Palace stood on a nearby hilltop. Many, including Hitler, considered it the most beautiful palace in Vienna. It must have seemed a taunting mirage to him.

  The tiny space Hitler once shared with August Kubizek was luxurious compared to the overcrowded shelter where he came to live. Men, women, and children lined up early in the day hoping to be given a five-day pass to be admitted there, but despite its large size, there was never enough room for the homeless. In the winter, guards turned hundreds away. Newspapers regularly reported the grisly discovery of frozen bodies near its locked entrance. The Emperor was the asylum’s royal sponsor, but its upkeep was paid by ennobled Jewish philanthropists. When Hitler had first moved to Vienna, he often walked past the five-story Ringstrasse mansion of a benefactor of the shelter. He could have never imagined as a finely dressed, newly arrived opera patron that he would one day be living in a homeless asylum paid for by the Jewish nobleman whose mansion he admired.

  It was in the Meidling dormitory that Hitler found a new friend who helped him navigate the underbelly of Viennese society. Reinhold Hanisch was a Sudetenland German who had traveled throughout Germany and Austria. Hanisch taught him to “never approach a drunk,” where to find food, and how to earn money. Mornings they walked to the Sisters of Mercy Convent where the nuns served warm soup to the homeless. Midday they walked two-and-a-half hours to another charity sponsored by a Jewish philanthropist. The soup and bread they received there was often their last meal until the next morning. Hitler earned tips carrying luggage for passengers arriving at the rail station, but his slight size and unkempt appearance caused most travelers to avoid him. People were quick to reject the scruffy porter wearing thin layers of clothes that failed to protect him from the dropping temperatures. As Christmas 1909 approached, Adolf Hitler looked like hundreds of other Vienna tramps with long dark hair hanging over his frayed collar, scraggly facial hair, and outstretched hand.

  It was that winter when he foun
d himself shoveling snow outside the Hotel Imperial, a night he never forgot. The reception inside the magnificent hotel was for Archduke Karl Habsburg, Franz Ferdinand’s nephew and heir. Since Franz Ferdinand’s marriage was morganatic and his sons were not legally Habsburgs, they could not inherit the throne. His nephew Karl was his designated successor and would become Emperor after him. Despite Hitler’s hatred of the Habsburgs, at times he was dazzled by the pomp and ceremony of their court. That night was not one of those times. As he shoveled snow in the freezing cold, he watched in silent contempt as the twenty-two-year-old Prince entered the hotel to warm applause and cheers. Karl, only two years older than Hitler, seemed to have the world at his feet.

  During the Christmas Hitler spent at the crowded homeless shelter in Vienna’s slums, Franz Ferdinand’s nearby Belvedere Palace sat empty. He and his family had many houses where they might enjoy the holidays. None was more stunning than Belvedere. The palace had been built for the French-Italian emigrant Prince Eugene of Savoy who became a famous Austrian general, diplomat, and statesman. Sophie affectionately referred to it as “Our Belvedere” after their son Max was born there. Yet Konopiste Castle, thirty miles southeast of Prague, was where she and her family traditionally celebrated Christmas. It was where the couple had honeymooned, began their married life, had their first child, and retreated for family holidays. Most importantly, Konopiste was the only home where she could be the hostess and undisputed mistress of the house.

  Sophie was not permitted to be her husband’s hostess at Belvedere. An empty place setting and chair could be set for her, but court protocol forbade her to use it. When the Archduke left the palace for more than a few hours, its guards and gatekeepers were withdrawn. Since no member of the House of Habsburg was present, they were recalled to their barracks until the heir returned. Franz Ferdinand’s children were delighted at their absence. In the magical thinking of childhood, it gave them an opportunity to play in the empty guardhouses.

  Max, Ernst, and Sophie Hohenberg were never told about the significance of the absent guards or why two sets of carriages were kept in Belvedere’s stables. Those trimmed in gold were reserved for their father as a member of the royal and imperial family. When they rode in a carriage with him, they were driven by a coachman dressed more elegantly than many field marshals. If they joined him in his huge chauffeured Graf and Stift automobile, gentlemen doffed their hats and ladies and children bowed. When they rode without him in simpler carriages, they were ignored.

  Nine years after the only genuinely happy marriage in the Habsburg family, the court continued keeping the Archduke’s wife completely isolated from his public life. The Oath of Renunciation permitting him to marry their mother was no secret to his children. Franz Ferdinand told his daughter it was his gift to her and her brothers. The Oath would allow them to marry for love, just as he and their mother had done. Sophie, named for her mother, later recalled:

  We never asked our parents about the problems they were facing, and I can never remember them sitting down and explaining any of the difficulties to us. The situation was just unmentioned, as though it didn’t exist. But of course we knew it. We were always nervous at being taken to court because we sensed we were in a different category.

  Their mother was permitted to attend court functions, but not allowed to enter or exit with their father, sit or share a court meal with him, or be seen with him when he reviewed military units or received their salute. Much to his frustration, Franz Ferdinand was even forbidden from using the term “My wife and I” during any public event or address.

  The Archduke protected his family in a gilded cage that obscured most of the insults and harassment directed at them. Whenever possible he took them on endless holidays to escape the snobbery and rejection of the Habsburg court. During January and February, the height of Vienna’s Winter Carnival season, they enjoyed winter sports at St. Moritz. In March they celebrated the Duchess’s birthday at Miramar Castle on the Adriatic Sea. The Belgium coast was visited in June, cool Carinthia during the heat of August, Eckartsau and Blühnbach for fall hunting. Depending on the court social calendar, and hunting, Vienna was generally avoided. Only Konopiste remained home. To Hitler and other critics, the arrogant Archduke snubbed Vienna—the largest German-speaking city in Europe. To the Archduke, he was protecting his family from the antagonism of the Habsburg family and Imperial Court. Few people understood the dynamics and truth behind his marriage. One who did was Archduke Karl’s wife, Zita.

  Franz Ferdinand’s family loved music, but they were forbidden to use the Imperial Box at Vienna’s Opera House. He kept a private box next to it so he and his wife, Sophie, could entertain guests there. Shortly after their wedding, Karl and Zita were invited to join them at the opera. When Sophie entered their box, Zita rose to kiss her hand, but her aunt fled into the shadows. She whispered to her niece, “Please, you must never again do that in public.” Zita was shocked and said, “But I always kiss my aunt’s hands when greeting them.” Franz Ferdinand’s wife explained she had received hate mail, even death threats, over such simple gestures. That event at the opera, more than any other, provided Zita an insight into the straitjacketed life her Aunt Sophie lived in Vienna. She later wrote of her:

  Aside from her striking good looks and very feminine charm, it was her air of quiet calm which made her so irresistible. She was the ideal partner for such a high strung man and she knew how to handle him. She could nearly always make him relax, and whenever he had one of his angry outbursts, she would quiet him by simply pressing his arm and saying, “Franzi, Franzi.”

  The Archduke’s wife took on the role of Androcles to his long-suffering lion. She became adept at soothing his pain and calming his explosive outbursts. In appreciation, he presented her with a small lamb broach set with exquisite diamonds and pearls. When his volcanic temper erupted, she gently stroked the broach, which she wore over her heart. The simple gesture more than words usually pacified him. For the rest of their married lives, he regularly gifted his wife with small ceramic lambs kept in a glass case at Artstetten Castle. The lion and the lamb became a symbol of their love, but the public and private restrictions, slights, and petty snubs continued.

  Konopiste remained their refuge. Franz Ferdinand had bought the castle as a young man after inheriting a huge fortune from a distant cousin named Este’. Adding Este’ to his name kept it from becoming extinct and provided him a lifetime of financial security. It took him five years to repair, restore, and modernize the seven-hundred-year-old castle, installing indoor plumbing, electricity, telephones, central heating, a dozen hot and cold running baths, and the first electric-powered elevator in central Europe. Hunting trophies, antiques, and mementos from his childhood filled the eighty-five-room palace. One entire wing was devoted to the collection of mediaeval armor inherited from his cousin Este’, but more than anything else, it was a family home.

  The Archduke saved the crumbling fortress and rebuilt it into a modern, comfortable, peaceful citadel. Its ancient foundation and façade had been saved, but within its walls he created a model of all that was new and good in the twentieth century. He hoped to do the same for the Habsburg Empire.

  The castle held a special place in his heart unlike any other. After his childhood lung problems erupted into the tuberculosis that claimed the life of his twenty-eight-year-old mother, he spent a lonely Christmas sailing on the Nile River seeking the warmth of the Egyptian sun. Only a small evergreen sent from Konopiste eased his homesickness.

  His health dramatically improved following his marriage and he made Konopiste a shrine to the shared interests of his wife, children, and himself. Family portraits and photographs hung on every wall. The fifteen-hundred-acre estate was surrounded by heavily forested woods, lakes, and a five-hundred-acre rose garden. He claimed to know every plant and tree on the grounds, telling his estate manager, “I can rebuild roads and houses, but trees are irreplaceable. Someday these woods will belong to my children. I won�
��t cut down their inheritance.” The Archduke relished his good health, his wife, his family, and the home he shared with them at Konopiste. Twice they spent Christmas elsewhere, but both times their Christmas trees came from Konopiste.

  Despite his ongoing frustrations with the court, Franz Ferdinand found much to celebrate as 1909 drew to a close. His close friend Prince Konrad Hohenlohe had received a warm and positive response in St. Petersburg to his personal appeal for peace and dynastic solidarity with Russia. In October, the Emperor begrudgingly gave his wife the title Duchess of Hohenberg, elevating her status in the Empire and abroad. Only the Habsburg Archduchesses now ranked above her at court. Sophie had even been given the public honor of christening the Empire’s newest battleship. Earlier in the year, he and Sophie made a triumphant trip to Rumania where she was warmly accepted by the Rumanian royal family. The success of that trip seemed to have forced the Emperor’s hand.

  An equally successful trip to Berlin followed. There in the capital city of Austria’s closest ally, the Archduke and Duchess were entertained in grand style by the German Emperor and Empress. The Kaiser had initially opposed their marriage, confiding, “If I give way, I’ll find my sons one day marrying a lady in waiting or even chambermaids.” But political reality prevailed. King Edward VII of England predicted sooner or later the royal families of Europe, including the Habsburgs, would have to “face facts” and accept Sophie.

  Times were changing. Shortly after the birth of their second son, Ernst, in 1904, the Archduke had written his devoted stepmother, Archduchess Maria-Theresa. She had been instrumental in finally persuading Emperor Franz Joseph, through the personal intervention of Pope Leo XIII, to permit their marriage: