The Munich Affair

by James Patterson, David Ellis

Genres: Crime Fiction; Historical Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

In 1931, in Munich, Germany, Adolf Hitler murders his beautiful twenty-three-year-old lover—and half-niece—Geli Raubal.

So begins the most suspenseful novel in years.

A determined detective, Thomas Bauer, obsessively pursues Hitler—putting Bauer’s Jewish wife and children in grave danger.

A courageous journalist, Fritz Gerlich, writes story after story detailing the murder—making Gerlich a target for Hitler’s Gestapo.

An American professor, Eleanor Robbins, picks up the trail of evidence from present-day Neo-Nazis guarding the Führer’s long-held secrets to the death.

The suspense builds to a shocking ending inside the bunker below the Reich Chancellery.

 

Release date: September 21, 2026

Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

Print pages: 528

Sample

September 18, 1931

The Franz Kabarett

Munich

THE FRANZ KABARETT NEAR the city center was a vision in gold, from its wallpaper to the lanterns that hung from the ceiling to the gilded bar in the corner serving every possible liqueur. Seats rose on platforms two stories high, with gold chairs arched around each table, while high-tops with white linen tablecloths dotted the main floor around the stage. Onstage, a small jazz band belted out “Ich bine die fesche Lola” as tobacco smoke rose to the ceiling painted in hues of gold and green, a glittering mural of dragons and other creatures. It was a place to escape reality, at a time when people were looking to do so.

Humiliated in defeat just over a decade earlier, the German people as a whole felt saddled by the reparations demands made by the victorious Allies in the Treaty of Versailles, humbled by the crushing worldwide economic depression, and altogether skeptical of the fledgling post–Great War democracy that had thrust austerity programs upon its citizens. The people wanted new. They wanted better. They wanted something—anything—different.

No political party understood the nation’s mood better than the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei, or NSDAP. Known in English as the National Socialist German Workers’ Party, or—by the critics who derided them and the intellectuals who dismissed them as unserious, opportunistic, bigoted hacks—as the Nazis.

The Nazis had stunned all political observers and captured the second-highest number of seats in last year’s national legislative elections. Their leader was a man who knew how to appeal to their particularized interests. He seemed able to quench the thirst of whatever group he addressed, to touch the masses with speeches so electrifying and intimate as to border on the erotic. A man who was addressed not by name but only by title: the Führer.

“He’s here. That’s his car!”

Over the clamor of chatty merriment and jazz music inside the club, Rudolf Hess, a square-jawed and handsome man in a gray double-breasted horsehair suit, clutched the arm of the club’s owner as they looked through the window onto the street, the black Mercedes limousine pulling up to the curb. “I must confirm once more the details of the show tonight. There will be no political humor?”

“None,” said the owner, Walter Kubizek. “I screened the content of every performer, as you asked.”

“Will there be nudity of any kind or sexually suggestive dance?”

“No—”

“And nothing…” The man lowered his head and his voice. “Nothing portraying homosexuality, I trust.”

“No, Herr Hess,” Kubizek sighed. The cabaret, known for its hedonistic nightly revue of burlesque dancers, sexually liberated performances, and political humor aimed in all directions—including at the Führer—had drastically toned down its show that night in anticipation of its guest of honor, Adolf Hitler.

Joining Rudolf Hess, the Führer’s personal secretary and adjutant, were the rest of the inner circle of NSDAP. Hermann Göring, the portly war hero, stood alongside his sickly wife, Carin, the Swedish baroness. Heinrich Himmler, the leader of the SS, NSDAP’s security unit, stood next to Bunny, his mistress and personal assistant. Then there was Joseph Goebbels, the only one nearly the Führer’s equal in understanding the power of propaganda—a good man, the Führer believed, so much so that he was willing to overlook Goebbels’s deformed foot and unsightly limp. With him was his fiancée, Magda Quandt.

Goebbels crushed his cigarette in an ashtray and handed it to a waiter. Der Führer was vehemently opposed to tobacco, having dropped the habit years earlier.

“Oh, one moment, my dear,” Hess said to his wife, Ilse. He rushed back to the club owner and whispered in his ear. “There are no Jews in attendance, I hope?”

“This I could not say, Herr Hess.” Kubizek’s eyebrows rose. “I can think of no reason why I would bother to ask such a thing.”

Hess, displeased, straightened his tie and patted down his suit coat. “I assured him this cabaret would be tasteful.”

“I’m surprised he’d want to come at all, Herr Hess.”

“He didn’t.” The hint of a frown appeared on Hess’s lips. “She did.”

The chauffeur opened the rear door of the limousine. Out stepped the Führer, wearing a black trench coat, his hair slicked and sharply parted as always.

Hitler stood at attention a moment, looking over the Franz Kabarett before he put out his hand for the woman accompanying him. She took it with her delicate, manicured fingers and emerged from the Mercedes.

As the couple entered the cabaret, the bustle and gaiety inside ceased with the suddenness of a gramophone needle screeching off a record.

“Heil, mein Führer!” Hitler’s trusted lieutenants and their women extended their right arms at forty-five-degree angles in the familiar (and among party members, mandatory) salute. Other patrons quickly followed suit, heels clacked together and arms thrust outward. The room was split in that way, roughly two-thirds of the people on their feet in salute, the others looking at the man with the truncated mustache whom they’d heard so much about during the last elections. Some were energized by the charisma of the movement, others suspicious and wary, but all agreed that this man was a force.

While the jazz band played onstage before the festivities were to begin, the Führer worked the room. He wore a black tailcoat and waistcoat, cut in Bavarian provincial fashion, with the Iron Cross First Class on his lapel and his ever-present riding whip on his side. He shook hands and waved, spoke briefly to patrons congregating around him, smiled and even laughed. He was, in this way, a politician like none Germany had ever known. No politician had ever tried to charm them before.

Upon his release from prison six years ago after the unsuccessful coup attempt, Adolf Hitler had started building a coalition of followers—town by town, beer hall by beer hall, speech by speech—claiming to feel their pain and share their outrage, and pinning all the blame for the loss of the war and the decrepit state of the democracy at the feet of two groups: the Communists and the Jews.

But if the Führer held the room’s respect and curiosity, nearly all the attention was devoted to the young lady who had entered on his arm, with her expressive eyes and wide smile. She wore a sleeveless blue silk dress with a low-cut tight bodice, and a form-fitting skirt that complemented her curves.

Twenty-three-year-old Angela Raubal, called Geli, was the Führer’s niece—more accurately his half niece, daughter of his half sister.

They were the perfect pair: the authoritative, severe-looking politician and the sweet, demure lady at his side, lighting up the room with their charm and chemistry. Geli complemented her uncle—whom she called Uncle Wolf—in every way, attentive to his comments, smiling broadly, laughing easily, playfully grabbing his arm, deflecting praise onto the Führer. “Uncle Wolf is being modest,” she would say, or “I owe it all to Uncle Wolf.”

It was, said many patrons that night, as if they were man and wife, not uncle and niece.

“Pardon the interruption, Herr Hitler.” The tuxedoed owner, stooped at the waist, hands together, nodded to the Führer. “We’re aware that among her many talents, Fräulein Raubal is quite the vocalist. Would she honor us with a song?”

“You’re kind to ask, Herr Kubizek.” He turned to Geli, her face colored in a blush.

“Oh, I am certain nobody wants to hear me sing,” she said. She had taken years of lessons but had never performed before an audience.

“But you have a lovely voice, my dear.”

“Thank you, Uncle Wolf.” She looked at the owner. “You’re very gracious, Herr Kubizek, but I don’t know…”

The Führer surveyed the table where he stood, then raised a hand. “I think it would be an excellent idea! It’s decided. One song, Geli.”

The others at the table, and the crowd surrounding them, joined in until Geli broke out into a nervous smile. “Well, maybe just one short song,” she said.

ALL EYES IN THE cabaret were on Geli, standing onstage by the microphone. She cut a striking figure, with her long legs and chestnut curls. But her nerves were evident from the start.

“Thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to sing, Herr Kubizek,” she said into the microphone with a slight tremble to her voice. “And Uncle Wolf, thank you for all the vocal lessons in Vienna.” The audience chuckled politely. The Führer nodded, beaming with pride.

The song, “Wenn Ich die Blonde Inge,” was light, upbeat jazz, perfect for the small band present, a tune the audience knew well. Geli was shy, standing still at the microphone, nearly overwhelmed by the accompanying horns and strings and piano. The song was a safe choice, and she delivered a pleasant performance. A fine, enjoyable piece with a fine, enjoyable vocal performance. A song nicely sung but no more.

Geli looked relieved when it was over. She wiped sweat from her brow self-consciously.

Nobody clapped more loudly than the Führer, soon joined by the remainder of the room. Geli blushed and curtsied and moved away from the microphone.

The owner, Herr Kubizek, placed his hand on her arm. “Encore? That was lovely!” He looked directly at the Führer, as did Geli. “Why not another song?”

The Führer paused only a beat before calling out, “Why not, indeed?”

As the audience applauded, the musicians conferred briefly with Geli. The lights dimmed slightly, the central spotlight casting a more radiant glow on Geli. When the music began again, it was only piano. No more hiding behind instruments. The song was “Das Bist Du!,” a playful, upbeat piece that better showcased her talent and range.

Geli’s soprano voice resonated throughout the room, velvety and melodic. Her confidence seemed to pick up with the pace. Suddenly, the microphone was in her hand; she was slow-walking about the stage like a veteran performer, voluptuous and confident. The song ended on a higher octave, Geli belting out and holding the final note masterfully, as if she had sung the song countless times, as if it belonged to her and her alone.

The crowd was momentarily silent, stunned, by all accounts, by the sheer command of her voice. Geli looked out over the crowd, blinking hard, as if awed, as if she hadn’t realized her potential.

She no longer seemed like the Führer’s cute, bubbly niece. She seemed like a sensual woman.

The Führer was speechless, gazing at Geli as if spellbound.

The pianist took advantage of the pause and began playing another tune, this one “Sag Warum?,” a softer, mellower piece where the piano merely faded into the background, giving the vocalist full and free rein. Geli again rose to the occasion with her hypnotic, silky soprano voice, swaying, eyes closed, head tilted upward, consumed in the moment, lost in the music. Whatever self-consciousness she’d had when she began had now evaporated. It was not merely a song well sung; it was a commanding performance.

The room was hers. In no more than ten minutes, Geli Raubal had transformed from a sweet girl with a nice voice to a star dominating the stage.

When it was over, Geli had tears in her eyes. She had surprised her audience—she had surprised herself—with the power of her voice.

The audience rose to their feet, clapping and cheering wildly as Geli handed the microphone to the club owner. She hugged the pianist, embraced the other musicians, then stepped off the stage.

The lights came back up, but the cheering continued as Geli reached her table. The Führer remained standing, opening his hands to his niece as she gave a final thanks to the audience and took her seat.

“Wonderful,” said the Führer, beaming. He looked about the table. “Was my niece not wonderful?”

OUTSIDE THE CABARET, JULIUS Schreck, Hitler’s chauffeur, bodyguard, and longtime loyalist, smoked a cigarette as he leaned against the grille of the black Mercedes, a black 1929 630 K limousine. The vehicle was a gift from Helene Bechstein, the wife of the owner of the Bechstein piano company and a fervent nationalist who had supported Hitler since long before his botched coup attempt in 1923, and who continued to bankroll his endeavors.

Schreck startled to attention and cast aside his cigarette as Hitler, with Geli in tow, emerged from the club far earlier than expected. “Heil, mein Führer,” he called out, posture erect, arm extended, heels clacked together.

He opened the rear door as Geli bounded inside without a word.

Geli, still buzzing from her performance, nudged a sweaty strand of curls from her forehead and turned to her uncle as he sat at the far opposite side of the spacious rear cabin. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why did we have to leave so soon?”

For a moment, she thought Hitler would continue stewing, punishing her with his silence as he was wont to do. “Uncle Wolf—”

“It was a disgusting spectacle,” he spit. “I could tolerate it no longer.”

Geli frowned. In private, when he would shed his meticulously molded public face, Uncle Wolf could be moody, distant, bitter, recalling petty grudges—the wannabe artist twice rejected by Vienna’s Academy of Fine Arts, the man convicted of treason after an embarrassingly ill-conceived coup attempt.

Sometimes, she had confided in friends, it seemed as if his only true motivation was getting back at those who had disrespected him.

“Disgusting? A spectacle?”

Hitler looked out the window. “One song is enjoyable,” he said. “Three songs is a spectacle. I am the future leader of Germany. I am not to be upstaged.”

“Upstaged? I—but—you told me to sing. It was your idea. The encore was your idea, too—”

“Sing a nice song and be done!” he exploded. “But prancing around onstage like some common whore? This is the thanks you show me?” He shook his head furiously. “It was a mistake to come. I do you this favor, and you repay me with sabotage!”

“A… common whore? I was only singing a song, Uncle Wolf. And I didn’t sabotage you. People enjoyed it!”

The Führer belted out a hearty, mocking laugh. “You think they applauded because they enjoyed your performance? They applauded because I applauded. They followed my lead. They were just as embarrassed by your performance as I was. But they wouldn’t dare say so.”

Geli fell back against the seat, brooding. She’d experienced such a wonderful high on that stage, and now she was being yanked firmly back to earth.

“We’ll finish this conversation at home,” said the Führer.

“I don’t want to go back to that…” She shook her head, her curls bobbing.

“That… what? That what, Geli? What was it you were going to say to your Führer?”

She turned to him. Though he was in shadow, his eyes, steely and intense, shone bright.

“Nothing,” she said.

Prinzregentenplatz 16

Munich

ALONG THE BOULEVARD, NEAR the right bank of the river, was a fashionable square called Prinzregentenplatz—Prince Regent’s Square—which featured not only the theater and a large stadium but a series of residential buildings, a fountain, and, in a small park area, a massive stone monument of the composer Richard Wagner—Hitler’s favorite—in a seated pose modeled after the famous Tischbein portrait of Goethe.

Among those residential buildings was Prinzregentenplatz 16, a gray, four-story granite structure. Hitler had lived there in a luxurious flat since 1929, courtesy of another devotee, the Romanian princess Elsa Bruckmann.

The lavish, sprawling fifteen-room flat occupied the entire third floor, including a parlor, study, and library, four bedrooms plus servants’ quarters, two bathrooms, and a spacious dining room overlooking Prince Regent’s Square. The furnishings, also purchased by Elsa and her publishing magnate husband Hugo Bruckmann, were relatively modest, in keeping with Hitler’s desire to cultivate an image of humility.

Previously, Hitler had lived in an ordinary Munich flat where his half sister, Angela, served as his housekeeper, a not-uncommon arrangement for widowed siblings. Angela had arrived in 1925, bringing along her two daughters, including seventeen-year-old Geli. Hitler was immediately entranced with his half niece, soon squiring Geli around Munich and the surrounding countryside, bringing her to the opera, to cafés, the cinema, and on picnics near his mountainside retreat in Berchtesgaden.

When Hitler was bestowed the flat at Prinzregentenplatz 16, he determined that Angela would go to care for his Berchtesgaden chalet, and Geli, then twenty-one years of age to Hitler’s forty, would move in with her uncle.

As soon as the Mercedes pulled up to Prinzregentenplatz 16, Geli sprang out and rushed straight inside. Hitler followed briskly but refused to chase her, certainly not while in public view, so unbefitting as it would be for a man of his stature.

When he reached the flat, he first looked into the parlor, with its walnut paneling and embroidered armchairs, then caught a glimpse of Geli moving toward her bedroom.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” asked the Führer. “We have not finished our conversation.”

“I’m going to bed,” she said.

“No, you’re not. There’s something I want first. You know what it is.”

Geli stopped dead in her tracks. She slowly shook her head. “No, I’m not doing that. I won’t do that anymore. Not ever again!”

“You certainly will, mein prinzesschen. You will do as I say. I’ve already prepared things for our routine.”

A shiver visibly ran through Geli. She continued to her bedroom and closed the door behind her.

Hitler stood in the hallway, stunned. She would come back out. Of course she would. Her Führer had given her a command, had he not?

He would give her a moment to come to her senses. She always did. She could be willful, but she understood her place. It wasn’t the first time she started with no. It would change to yes.

His fury rose to a boil over the next five minutes, as he waited futilely for his niece to obediently reappear. Finally, he marched down the hall and pushed through the double doors into her bedroom, a lovely and spacious room decorated at Geli’s direction with dainty furniture and light green walls, several works of art—including one by Hitler of a Belgian landscape—a pricey radio/phonograph in one corner, and a bed with a canopy and embroidered sheets next to a vanity with a mirror.

When he entered, he found her seated at her desk, a piece of antique oak purchased in Vienna two years ago. Geli was writing a letter on her personal stationery but jumped to her feet when he burst in.

The Führer looked over at the bed, on which lay an old, coffee-colored leather portmanteau with some clothes already packed inside.

“What is this nonsense?” he demanded.

“I’m leaving,” she said, moving toward the bed. “I’m going to Vienna.”

“That trip is not for several days—”

She turned to face him. “I’m going tomorrow! I can’t be here anymore. I can’t live in this… this…”

His eyebrows rose. “Again, you don’t finish your—”

“This prison!” she shouted, though it came out more as a plea.

“Prison? This luxury home you have? All the privileges you enjoy? The way you’re treated as royalty in this town?” Hitler put his hands on his hips. “I have spoiled you. This is the problem. You’ve become an ungrateful brat. We need reminders, clearly. Now it’s time, Geli. You know what I want. I want it right now.” He moved to the corner of the room, to a box atop a mounted shelf near the double doors, and flipped a switch.

Geli walked to her dresser, removed some clothes, and threw them into the suitcase. “You make me do disgusting things. You never let me leave without your henchmen following me. You never let me go anywhere—”

“I let you go to Vienna for your precious vocal lessons,” he said. “But I can see from your performance tonight that this instructor must have no talent. So those lessons are canceled. As of now, no more trips to Vienna.”

Geli went back and forth from the dresser to the suitcase, dropping in more clothes.

“Stop that,” he said. “Your Führer is ordering you to stop.”

She did stop, leaning over her suitcase on the bed. She took a deep breath. “I just want my own life,” she said quietly.

“A life as an ordinary, common girl?” he said with a mocking laugh. “Are you sure? You haven’t enjoyed all the attention and privilege of your association with me? Everyone laughing at your jokes? Currying your favor? Doing your bidding?”

“Not anymore.” Geli arranged her clothes, then buckled the portmanteau. She took a breath and turned to face him. “I’m leaving. I’m going to Vienna.”

“You are not. That instructor is a talentless hack. I’ve long suspected he’s a Jew, as well—”

“I love him.” She stood tall, lifted her chin, though he could see that it took considerable effort for her to maintain eye contact.

The look on her face was like nothing the Führer had ever seen from his niece. He’d seen defiant. He’d seen stubborn. He’d seen determined. But never had he seen Geli look at him with a full measure of conviction, calm and collected, leveling him with her eyes.

“He wants to marry me,” she said. “And I want to marry him.”

THE FÜHRER ABSORBED GELI’S words like a punch. He was momentarily stunned by her stupidity, her arrogance. Silence hung between them like a curtain.

Suddenly, Geli pulled the heavy, boxy portmanteau to the floor. Hitler’s eyes narrowed with anger.

“No!” he yelled at her. “You will not leave this house.”

He was the Führer. He didn’t reach his high position through weakness. He’d risen as the undisputed leader of NSDAP not by compromise, not by give-and-take or negotiation, not by asking permission. He took it. He declared absolute authority, even infallibility—it is right because I say it is right—and he didn’t stop until he got it. The political graveyard was filled with bodies—Strasser, Stennes, von Salomon, to name a few—who had dared challenge him.

He removed his tailcoat, already overheated with rage. He raised a finger. “You will not… go to Vienna,” he said, his voice strong, commanding. “Not tomorrow. Not ever. You will not marry him. You will never see him again or even talk of him in my presence.”

Geli moved toward him. Her back straight, jaw set, eyes up, she said: “I am marrying him. I’m not asking for permission. And as long as we’re clearing the air—yes, you’re right, he is Jewish—”

The Führer’s fist flew forward, striking Geli hard on the nose, his knuckles breaking cartilage. Arms flying out, she flailed backward, butting hard against the dressing table. Bottles of her perfume and makeup flew. A mirror fell from the wall, crashing onto the vanity.

Geli landed awkwardly on her side and an elbow. She made no immediate sound. She was stunned. In shock. Clearly hurt.

The Führer fished a handkerchief from a pocket and tossed it to her. “Clean yourself. You’ll need makeup tomorrow. We will speak again at breakfast.”

“No.” Blood spilling from her nose, her eyes watering, she stumbled to her feet. “No! No! No! Not anymore. I don’t belong to you.”

He bull-rushed her, grabbed both shoulders, shook her hard. “You little fool. Do you not understand what sacred privilege you have? The status you enjoy? The things you and I do together—”

“They’re disgusting,” she hissed. “The things we do make me sick to my—”

“Enough!” He shook her one last time then shoved her away.

It was only then that he saw the gun in her hand.

“You sneaky girl.”

He hadn’t felt her hand, hadn’t noticed the sly movement. He patted his side, feeling his holster, searching for his sidearm. The Walther pistol he carried for security—it wasn’t there.

Now Geli raised the pistol. Both of her hands were trembling.

“Give me the gun,” he demanded. “I won’t ask a second time. I’ll call my guards. They will kill you, Geli.”

“I’m leaving Munich. I’m leaving you!” she screamed. An ugly bruise was already forming across her face. Her nose was surely broken. Maybe a concussion.

He grabbed the gun’s barrel and pulled hard, yanking the gun from Geli’s hand. Her body was shaking terribly.

“You’ll see a medic in the morning. Hess will see to it. You tripped and fell. Yes. You tripped and fell. You can’t be reasoned with in this condition.”

He turned away from her and started for the door.

“My… condition,” she whispered.

“Yes, your condition. You’re hysterical and emotional. Like most women—”

“I’m pregnant,” Geli said.

He turned his head, almost as if he hadn’t heard her correctly.

“I’m pregnant with his child. We’re going to marry—”

Hitler responded instantly. He pulled the trigger of the Walther. He heard the loud report of gunfire. He smelled cordite.

Then he lowered the gun to his side and watched. Coldly. Objectively. He saw the hole blown through her chest, above the diamond brooch on her bodice. The expression of shock on her beautiful face; the small o her mouth formed; the rush of blood from the wound; the slurping sound as she struggled for air; the panic in her eyes; her long legs buckling before she fell face forward to the carpet.

“Nobody says no to the Führer,” he said. “No one. Not even you. Stupid cow.”

He left the bedroom, finding the telephone down a long hallway.

His voice was deep and hoarse, in command, as he spoke into the phone.

“Rudolf,” he said, “I need you at once.”

Present Day

Prinzregentenplatz 16

Munich

IF YOU’RE READING THIS book, then I am both grateful and surprised. Grateful, because while pieces of this puzzle have emerged over time, this book—if it ever even sees the light of day—will be the first time they are put together in a coherent story. And surprised, because if you are reading this, I must have survived at least long enough to get a draft of this manuscript to a publisher. (Unless, I suppose, someone else finished my work.)

My name doesn’t matter, except to me, but it is Eleanor Robbins. I am two years shy of sixty, blind in one eye, divorced, and now childless after the death of my daughter to cancer six years ago. I have led what I call a “small life” as a tenured history professor at the University of Chicago until one morning a month ago, when a man named Francis Linderman requested a meeting. He had materials he wanted to show me, he said, that he felt I could turn into a book for publication.

The materials? They included letters, notes, newspaper articles from Germany in the 1930s, and other assorted documents. But the most significant part consisted of two journals, written by two different men—and for very different reasons.

Luckily for me and for you reading this, he sent those materials in advance.

Luckily, I say, because before we could ever meet, Francis Linderman took his own life.

I pored over the materials again and again, over many days and nights. At first I found the pages difficult to believe, yet impossible not to take seriously. Reading the old-fashioned German handwriting was a struggle, but as you will soon find for yourself, the contents are quite extraordinary.

They included a brilliant plot to murder Adolf Hitler in Berlin in 1945.

What’s more, the plot succeeded.

So I took a leave of absence to write this book. But there are holes in the research given to me. Some proof I do not yet have, that I must find in Europe. And if my instincts are correct, there will be people who desperately do not want me to find it.

I stand on the street in Munich, looking at the once-residential building where Adolf Hitler’s half niece, Geli Raubal, died. I lift the lid on my coffee and take a small sip. The warmth feels good going down. The morning weather is cooler than forecast.

Prinzregentenplatz 16 is now a Bavarian government building, including the Munich Police on the floor that Hitler once inhabited. Outwardly, it looks no different, save the POLIZEI sign, and that is by design. Germany does not hide from its past, but neither does it wish to advertise this building, lest it become a shrine for sympathetic neo-Nazis—who are unfortunately a growing movement in Germany (though outlawed) as well as throughout Europe and America.

I can’t help but marvel at the sheer oddness of Hitler and Geli’s relationship. But perhaps it wasn’t so odd to Hitler. After all, his mother and father were in some way related, such that they had to get a papal dispensation to marry; Hitler’s extraordinary attempts to conceal the details of his childhood have left scholars debating whether his parents were also uncle and niece, or cousins. But we know this much of a startling parallel: Hitler’s father, Alois, was twenty-three years older than his wife, Hitler’s mother, Klara, not so very different from the nineteen-year difference between Hitler and Geli. And throughout his parents’ marriage, Klara referred to her husband as Uncle Alois, not unlike how Geli called Hitler Uncle Wolf.

Indeed, by the time of Geli’s death, Angela later said, she had assumed that her half brother and her daughter would marry one day.

Just thinking about it sends a shudder through me.

A man approaches me, a police officer in a light blue shirt, dark vest, and a white cap with