Chapter Four
10 March 1943. Outside the Berghof, perched on the Obersalzberg on the fringe of the old frontier of Germany and Austria, the snow lay thick, the temperature was low and an awesome silence which was almost a sound lay over the desolate mountains.
Inside a large room in the Berghof, Hitler's private retreat, it was not so silent. A nightmarish scene was taking place inside the room which was a wilderness of large mirrors. They were positioned at varying angles so that the man performing could judge the effect he was creating all round.
Clad in a military uniform exactly like Hitler's, Heinz Kuby was making a speech, his only audience himself. Shrieking at the top of his voice, increasing the volume, he gestured violently. His right hand shot forward in an emphatic movement. A lock of dark hair fell over his forehead.
'I will no longer tolerate that bloody swine, Benes!' he shouted. 'He is crucifying the Germans in the Sudentenland. I will crucify him ..!'
His small moustache bristled with venom as he raised both fists in a threatening stance. And as he worked himself up, Kuby studied with care the seven Hitlers reflected in the mirror images. He observed right profile, left profile, the twist of his shoulders in the rear view.
In the cinema in the basement of the Berghof he had spent long hours studying films of the Fuhrer making speeches and attending functions – films provided by Martin Bormann.
An actor by profession, he had noted Hitler's every mannerism – down to his occasional odd twitch of the right shoulder accompanied by a slight jerk of the left. There were two Adolf Hitlers he had observed. The modest, retiring man who smiled shyly and displayed great charm and consideration. And the incredible demon of energy he was now imitating as he hypnotized an audience of thousands.
Kuby had spent equally long hours listening to records of the Fuhrer's voice, playing them over and over again so he was familiar with every intonation of speech. Staring now into the weird ring of mirrors, he raised right arm and head at the same moment – a well-known gesture as the Fuhrer reached the climax of a speech.
The images gyrated, the voice climbed to a manic scream. The nightmare was reaching its peak. ' Benes is a bloody murderer! He is knee-deep in the blood of our German brothers and.. '
A second image appeared in the mirrors, the image of a fair-haired attractive girl. The many reflections emphasized that, although attractive, she was not overburdened with brains. Confined to the Berghof while the Fuhrer was at the Wolf's Lair, she had grown bored, bored – bored!
She liked dancing but read nothing more mentally demanding than the pages of women's fashion magazines. Now she waved her hand as Kuby frowned and broke off his speech. Knowing interruptions annoyed him – the two men were rather alike in character as well as the astonishing duplication of appearance – she coaxed.
'Heinz, enough is enough. Come to bed..'
' Mein Fuhrer!' he corrected her. 'How many times do I have to tell you..'
' Mein Fuhrer,' she began submissively, 'let's go to bed..'
He was in a daze and clasped the extended hand automatically as she led him upstairs out of the mirror room. Eva Braun was a girl who liked male attention and the Fuhrer seldom provided it. And there was something gloriously erotic about climbing into bed with the Fuhrer's twin. Besides, Kuby was a more vigorous lover.
An adjutant at the Berghof had told Martin Bormann about Heinz Kuby in October 1938 some months after Germany had merged with Austria. Bormann's original intention on hearing about Kuby had been to arrest him on some trumped-up charge so he would disappear for ever inside a concentration camp.
'This Heinz Kuby,' the adjutant had informed Bormann, 'performs in a small private night club in Salzburg. He imitates the Fuhrer – makes fun of him..'
'In Salzburg!' Bormann was more scandalized by the creature's brazen impertinence, insulting the Fuhrer on his own doorstep. He was taken to the club in the back streets of the Old Town by the adjutant that same evening.
The earlier acts were charades recalling the wild days of the pre-1930s Berlin. There was even a tall, slim- legged girl in long black stockings rather like Marlene Dietrich. Bormann watched as she stretched her right leg full- length.
'Disgusting!' he murmured to the adjutant, his eyes glued to the suggestive movements of the leg. The adjutant kept a poker face. At the Berghof it was well- known no secretary was safe from advances from Martin Bormann, who also kept his wife permanently pregnant.
But nothing the adjutant had said prepared Bormann for Heinz Kuby.
'The likeness is incredible,' he whispered. 'I thought you said he made fun of the Fuhrer…'
'Well, doing that on a stage..'
The adjutant was lost for words. He had also lost Bormann who was staring fixedly as Kuby proceeded with his act. He noticed the uneasy hush which had descended on the small audience, uncomfortably seated at the closely packed tables.
Heinz Kuby was not caricaturing the Fuhrer – he was giving an impersonation of the German leader which was so life-like it was quite uncanny. Had he not known, had the surroundings not been so unsuitable, Bormann would have been convinced he was staring at the Fuhrer himself. He was very thoughtful as Kuby completed his performance.
'We'll go backstage and see him at once,' he announced.
'We arrest him, of course. The charge will be.. 'Perhaps you will remember it is I who give the orders,' Bormann snapped.
His interview with Kuby in a cramped room hardly larger than two 'phone kiosks and smelling of stale face powder and grease paint was brief. He had been born in Linz, quite close to Hitler's birth-place – which accounted for the Austrian accent so uncannily like that of the Fuhrer.
'Any relatives?' Bormann demanded.
'No, sir.. Kuby was frightened, recognizing his visitor who had not taken the trouble to introduce himself. 'Both my parents died in a car crash when I was..'
'How old are you?'
'Forty-seven…'
More and more remarkable. Kuby was only two years younger than the Fuhrer. The manager of the club opened the flimsy plywood door and peered inside, gazing at Bormann in disbelief.
'Is anything wrong? We can always cancel Kuby's act..'
'Already cancelled,' the small fat Nazi told him. 'And if you value your life you have never seen me. Heinz Kuby is leaving with us. Now, get out of my way..'
'Will he be coming back?' the manager enquired. 'The playbill for next week has to be prepared.. 'You will never see him again.'
One week later when Hitler arrived at the Berghof from Berlin his secretary, Bormann, was careful to choose the right moment to raise the subject. It was ten o'clock at night. The Fuhrer had finished his evening meal of spaghetti and apple rind tea and was settling himself in front of a great blazing log fire made up of small tree trunks. Bormann began tentatively.
'I am always searching for new methods to protect you from the attack of a madman..'
'Very commendable,' Hitler agreed affably, staring into the leaping flames. He seemed to find some comfort in the destruction of the massive trunks.
'I found someone in Salzburg the other day who could provide a novel form of protection. May I bring him in?'
'By all means, my dear Bormann..'
With a dramatic flourish he opened a door and ushered in Heinz Kuby who was now wearing a suit of the Fuhrer's – earlier Bormann had been astonished to find it was a perfect fit – with an armband carrying the swastika symbol. Hitler rose slowly to his feet, staring at the apparition, his face expressionless.
' What is this?' he asked after staring for a whole minute.
'Your double, mein Fuhrer…' He hurried on, sensing that something very serious had gone wrong. 'On
