The Devil’s Mistress

Eva Braun in August

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3 August 1929

A day of repose.

For reasons of my weight, I’ve taken an intense interest in gymnastics — especially work on the uneven parallel bars. Vati would be pleased if I compete nationally like my sister does. I have begun training with this secretly in mind. Perhaps I can win Vati’s admiration?

Static stunts are discouraged. First the grips:

Regular grip

(I prefer it with thumbs around the bar.)

Reverse grip



Mixed grip

reversed, when the turn is in the opposite direction.

7 AUGUST 1929

Word leaked out to Oische about my “evenings” with “him.” She does not approve. But then again, I do not approve of her “attachment” to her doctor/boss/amour who—though famous in München—is “older” and a driver, a Jew?

Oische bragged haughtily, You are naive, all Müchen knows Herr Wolf is in love with his half-sister’s daughter. Her eyes slid from side to side when she talked.

She’s the one who is naive. All of München doesn’t include me, who has never—except by him—been kissed by a man.

Tell more, I begged, shocked, yes, but curious too.

She told me that his niece is twenty-two years old. It’s known that the niece actually sleeps in a room that adjoins his bedroom. I felt bubbles in my stomach. I asked, Is there more?

They are seen everywhere together—the Heck, the Carlton for tea, the Prinzregenten café near Brown House, the Stephanie after lunch, and the Osteria after opera.

What does this “niece” look like? Perhaps I have seen her through the window at the Heck?

She looks like you!

8 AUGUST 1929

I’ve begun setting-up exercises before bedtime prayers. Tonight a summer thunderstorm blew the chestnut tree against the window making eerie scraping noises.

9 AUGUST 1929

A surprise! Herr B. invited me to Fasching. I discovered that Herr B. is the party secretary.

We sat at a small table in the most lively beer tent drinking and eating while I nibbled on a giant white radish cut into spirals, and a plate of bright red Mettwurst. Like Vati does, I dipped the radish into salt.

Shaven-headed waiters are so strong they carry large trays with at least ten miniature cathedrals.

Across the tent I saw Herr Wolf arrive with a girl older than me.

Who is that monkey-faced girl? I asked, suddenly moist under my arms.

Herr H., who I just learned is head of his special police, skulked by and tipped his hat to us. And who is this fresh-faced Fräulein? he barked. (Obviously he doesn’t remember me.)

My niece.

My escort burst out laughing at his own joke. Rude, like a chicken farmer laughs. I’m sure I went red. Through the crowd I could see nothing more of Wolf and his niece.

31 AUGUST 1929

Again his “visits” to the shop have ceased. His tongue no longer paints across my lips and cheeks. So much for my mad interlude! So much for dreams of playing the accordion, of keeping company with a high personage in politics rather than a poor, blunt Catholic boy.

Today to keep busy I waited for Mitzi after work. Two “working boys” asked to walk us home. The one who chose me had fuzz on his upper lip, a limp excuse for a mustache.


Just when I thought that surely he had forgotten me, the telephone rang at the studio. My boss handed me the telephone.

I’ll send someone to fetch you gnädiges Fräulein.

Before I could climb into the car, he clasped me tightly by the elbow and pressed his palm against my rump.

Glad that he had not forgotten me, I pressed back while he studied my new hairstyle with a critical eye.

He barked, pressing more. How would I look if I changed the way I comb my hair?

Perhaps no one would recognize you, I ventured. The thought made me want to laugh.

At Herr H.’s I had seen him comb his dark brown hair by bending forward and combing it straight over his eyes. I’d seen how carefully he parted it, then combed back the left side, then, how he had jerked his head so that a lock fell across his forehead. I heard that his mustache was clipped always the same too.

I thought: I’ll punish the girl—the crouching ape—who cut my hair this way. I’d make sure she was sorry.

Beside the car he gazed down at me, his body thrust forward. I heard his breath come in pants. He reached under my coat and dress, and clasped my woolen stockings. His blue orbs narrowed, causing me to roll my pupils back, to also show him my very wet, lolling tongue.


I’ve heard nothing from him once again but now I always know his whereabouts because they are reported in the Völkischer Beobachter, which I buy and scan for news of him. Vati curses if I leave this newspaper in the sitting room, so at work I skim the paper for his activities.

On the streetcar I push this forbidden newspaper under my seat.


With glee Oische pushed a copy of yesterday’s newspaper under my nose. I sat with Vati and Mogerl. Yes, our baby sister is home from convent for good. I read every word and my palms got boiling hot:

…his niece, age 23, shot herself through the heart with his Walter 6.35 revolver near

midnight on September 18 and shortly thereafter died locked in her room.

He had been in Nürnberg at the time delivering a speech to his organization.


After Vati had gone to bed, I stole a few Pfennig from Mutti’s household purse, and ran out into the rain to purchase today’s evening newspaper. I held it up under a streetlamp and read:

The suicide resulted from a violent argument between him and his niece over her desire to leave his apartment and settle in Vienna where she intended to marry a young Viennese.

An unmailed letter to a girlfriend in Vienna was found in the apartment that said she was leaving ….

9 AUGUST 1934

In the newspaper are photographs of him taken in Berlin. He is surrounded by beautiful screen actresses: Anny Ondra, the wife of boxer Max Schmehling, Jenny Jugo, Renate Müller. Also women of standing and prestige like Frau G., the wife of the propaganda minister, old Winifred Wagner, Frau von Dirksen, all photographed at his side.

In one photo he’s posed with Gretl Slezak, the daughter of world-famous opera singer, Leo Slezak. What can I do? Nothing. With unemployment dwindling and order everywhere restored, he’s more popular than ever. Why would he want to be photographed or even seen with an unknown convent girl?

I worry most about Gretl Slezak and Henrietta because they are so bosomy.

Henrietta’s reputation is spotty while her bosom is big.

17 AUGUST 1934

He takes “me” nowhere. When I ask whether he’ll ever marry he replies that he’s married to Germany. With me he doesn’t want to talk. My conversation is usually ignored. My breasts are minute no matter how much I pull at them. I’m so short!

He has also allowed me—very occasionally—to ride in his car with him. If his mind is not elsewhere, I part my knees. We sit side by side on the plush leather seat. I sit straight but I shift my torso, part my pig thighs. Desperate for some sign of recognition, I lick at him, pant, peering into his face.

I pull at his arm until he drops his hand into my blouse and presses my narrow nipple. I breathe spasmodically while his hand caresses me. My ears droop, my head rests against the seat. Then—contented—I watch the scenery rushing past. Our Bavaria!

Loudly enough for all to hear, he tells me, I wish you a good night’s rest,

Then I reply in a stage voice, Good night mein Kanzler. Sleep well.

After our farce, I timidly wait for him near in a corridor. If he’s so inclined he takes me to his bedroom. It contains a white metal bed decorated with ribbons, also, a painted chest of drawers, a straight greatest man in Bavaria and all of the country, certainly.

Then he reaches inside my clothes again … promises mad love. His tongue drips copiously.

20 AUGUST 1934

The half-sister takes every opportunity to humiliate me at Haus Wachenfels. Usually when I arrive she claims that the guestrooms are all occupied. She said about me: The disgraceful blonde who chases the Chancellor. Worse than a common street walker.

I am hurt. My hurt is like her frantic canary.

24 AUGUST 1934

Again my weight is going up! And no 100-Mark, no envelopes. I’m desperate. I need more money, but my boss refuses an advance on my salary. All day today despite the heat, my boss growled out errands for me to run or else kept me in the back room organizing his dusty stock. He must have drunk too much at lunch, he gave me a sharp nip on my arm for no reason at all.

26 AUGUST 1934

He was seen at the theatre with Olga Tschechowa and Lil Dagover! Photos in the newspapers of him in Berlin with beautiful actresses.

I can do nothing. Even my lottery tickets are Nieten. All I can do is look pretty, go to work, run errands, smile “lavishly” at the customers, and then come home at the end of the day to listen to the radio tell of boring routes planned for our Autobahnen.

Nightly, I feel a burning in my stomach. Rather than responding to “invitations” by other men—young men, free men, virile men—I wait for “his” call. On weekends I’ve begun to master positions on the parallel bars. In this order:

Front support

Rear support

Stride support

Front lying support

Rear lying support

Long hang

At night, if the telephone call does not come, I await the news that he has discarded me for someone else. If only I had never met him.

I long for this madness to let go of me.

[***Excerpts from]

The Devil’s Mistress, The Diary of Eva Braun,

The Woman who Lived and Died with Hitler


Page 100 – The Devil’s Mistress


 20 JULI 1938

… I have been slimming non-stop and his face fell when I removed my clothes. He complained, When I first met you, you were nice and chubby and now you’re thin as a rail.

This is my reward now that my thighs no longer stick together in the heat, and pop when I part my legs.

21 JULI 1938

At lunch I sat silently across from him. There were eight of us at lunch. He ranted the whole time about Herr Chamberlain: If that silly old man comes interfering here again with his umbrella, I’ll kick him downstairs.

Then he forgot about Chamberlain. He turned his eyes on me once more. Women are always saying they want to be attractive to their men, but then they go and do the very opposite.

He ate potatoes baked in the oven with raw linseed oil poured over. He offered me a portion, but I turned up my nose at anything that had been “tainted” with raw linseed oil. My feelings were “hurt.”

I ate thin slices of roast meat that had been squeezed to get rid of grease, then washed thoroughly so no trace of salt was left. Seeing the meat, he began his familiar harangue to the carnivores, gleefully describing the workings of a slaughterhouse, how live pigs are ground into sausage. He described young girls in rubber boots who work standing in blood up to their ankles.

I must laugh.
As usual, one of us “carnivores” had to leave the table.
He pointed at the departing, pale-faced guest, That couldn’t happen to me. I can watch someone pulling up a beet root, collecting eggs.
I pushed my plate away at that point.
How cowardly people are, he remarked, They can’t face doing certain horrible things themselves, can’t even bear to watch them being done, but they enjoy the benefits without a single pang of conscience.

I could. I thought.

19 AUGUST 1938

I have not seen him for a month. I bought a new musk coat.

So many women I see are pregnant these days, their clothes are dowdy and shapeless. Since make-up is frowned upon, their faces are lackluster too.

I’ve bought ten lottery tickets. Nieten. Nieten to them all.
Not one bowling partner to be found. I refuse to bowl alone!

29 AUGUST 1938

I cannot bear any longer to wait night after night so Mutti and I have decided to make a voyage together in a ship called the “Milwaukee” to the North Cape.

Much to do. Much to buy.


Mutti was immediately seasick. My cabin, small, but fruit and wine were waiting in a basket, which I sampled and quickly rang for more. The evening meal on the ship – Schnüsch aal Grün.

I wore my new musk evening coat. its very soft, very fluffy, has wide sleeves and a little train. It bucks me up.


Mutti is feeling better. She has begun a needlepoint of the feet of a unicorn. …

[The Devil’s Mistress,

[The Diary of Eva Braun,

The Woman who Lived and Died with Hitler

available as a book and as a kindle on


Page 1 – The Devil’s Mistress



*****Page 1 – The Devil’s Mistress; The Diary of Eva Braun*****

The trail led me to Zell-am-See.

The boy who approached me had bulldozed hair, amber bristles pocking his skull. He was wearing a brown bomber jacket, bruised Doc Martens with steel toe-caps threaded by white laces that were untied. Both sides of his head had been tattooed in black and brown ink with double-bladed axes. The two helves crossed at the pink nape of his neck.

His right ear and the bridge of his nose were pierced. When he spoke his tongue lolled out, revealing that it too was pierced through the taste buds with a lightweight aluminum diaper pin, and that his teeth had been mended with gold. He told me to follow him, so I paid up.

Crossing the concrete parking structure, his attitude was belligerent. The lock on the rear door of the car rattled him into surly confusion until I popped the lock from the panel on the driver’s side for him, so that he could open the door.

He sank into the leather back seat, cupped his hands between his legs.

So? I asked.

He mewled out driving instructions. These led us to a beaver-brown statue of falling leaves that had been cast in bronze but on second look I saw that it was a monument depicting the feet of an archaic unicorn. I locked the car, told the boy to wait.

I gave my name to the receptionist. I had barely admired the peach sepia etching behind her desk, when a voice called out with excessive Gutmütigkeit, Enter, please.

A man in a suit stretched out his hand. He was splashed with an astringent aftershave. Laid out, were: a bridge of nine dentures in yellow metal, a cap with gold insignia, leather gloves, and a dog leash.

I mentioned a price. For the lot, I told him.


Wirklich. I can go no higher without authorization.

From whom?

From the organization.

He gave his price. In cash.  

When I agreed he put my purchases into a plastic shopping sack. We shook hands.

I rubbed my hands together with satisfaction. Two telephones were ringing at once when I closed the door.

The boy was beside the car, leaning back on his heels, slightly crouched, urinating up at the windshield. He directed the copious yellow stream back and forth with his hand. When he saw me looking at him with distaste, he rocked farther back and directed the stream onto the hood of the car. I know where are more souvenirs, he barked, thumping his stumpy penis he pushed it back inside his trousers.

He told me where to go. Shortly we were on the main road speeding in fourth gear toward the border. I punched the Blaupunkt the whole time…


Rosebud two


Watching news footage of recent Trump rallies, am reminded of folks who visited my novel The Devil’s Mistress. Meet three of them in the following short extract: a young man, a young woman and a grandmother.  Also meet the grandmother’s pet dog:

The boy was beside the car, leaning back on his heels, slightly crouched, urinating up at the windshield. He directed the copious yellow stream back and forth with his hand. When he saw me looking at him with distaste, he rocked farther back and directed the stream onto the hood of the car. I know where are more souvenirs, he barked, thumping his stumpy penis on my rear view mirror, then pushing it back inside his trousers.

He told me where to go. Shortly we were on the main road speeding in fourth gear toward the border. I punched the Blaupunkt the whole time. We skirted the mountains. Rivers threaded into the horizon, homey chalets with red-colored geraniums in window boxes dotted the terrain. At Chiemsee I was forced to slow. On the water, steamers crossed. In rhwm women dressed as brides, their veils waving in the wind.

We followed the A-11 east past Rosenheim then north until I could see the Olympic tower. After passing Siemens, BMW, and the Hellabrunn Zoo, he told me to veer into the outskirts of München where he directed me to a dingy wine bar.

 DevilI stood at the bar with the boy, my good Italian shoes sticking to the floor. The boy stalked the dance area, pulled open his pants, then lunged at a girl wearing nothing except wide straps crossed between her muscular breasts and buckled on the belly side. A third wide strap from the back of her waist went under her body and fastened up front.

The place smelled like carrion. The girl had a shaved head. The two circled around each other in play, then the boy began to throw tiny darts into the girl’s cyclamen-colored genital opening until I couldn’t distinguish whether they were dancing or copulating, and both their bodies were glistening wet.

When she walked toward me, I saw a snail ornately tattooed on both sides of her head. Her nostrils were pierced. Also her septum, nipples, and clit-hood. The area was entirely shaved. On her pubis, another ornate snail. Radiating away from her pubis, whitish scars in the form of widening circles that gave her a kind of striping. The word Helix was branded across the back of each hand in ornate lettering.

When I left with her, he held a stein of beer in one hand, and was waving his erection at her with the other.

Outside, she draped a green bomber jacket across her shoulders and directed me to the center of München. She gave me instructions: Meet Grossmutter—Frau Monalisa Hochschmidt—across from the Richard Strauss fountain.

I followed the instructions: I parked the car and crossed over to look at the fountain, admired the dramatic scenes sculpted along the shaft and the veil of falling water that revealed—then hid—the operatic scenes depicted from Salomé. I crossed back and found a table in the Pschorr Brewery. Because I was watching for fatty foods, I ordered a plate of radish from the cold menu.

The waiter told me, The cutting of it by free hand depends on a stiletto, a good ability to judge by the eye, and a calm hand. It is better that you cut the radish before drinking your second mug of beer.

With this he unfolded a long list of beers. We have one-hundred forty to choose from, he said.

But I was happy with ordinary light beer.

The waiter cut one radish into a perfect rose, the other into a gnome’s head.

The woman finally arrived. She had skin loose around her lips. She was unwilling to sit down but took me by VW Golf to a terraced housing development on the outskirts of München. Her yard had a gravel path, red geraniums in pots. It was fenced and protected by a growling mongrel of indeterminate origin at the end of a short chain. Black leaves were heaped in piles.

With Gutmütigkeit, I drew her out:

I didn’t need to prod any more.

I jog every day, she told me. My feet impacting the ground has kept my bone density from decreasing. In the last years I’ve run thirty-six thousand kilometers. I still wear weights for resistance …

She didn’t notice my waning curiosity and spoke in a monotonous skip-a-long………


It’s January 17th


In this short excerpt from The Devil’s Mistress:The Diary of Eva Braun the Woman who Lived and Died with Hitler we visit Eva Braun on another January 17th. Based on extensive research and supported by a factual armature, this novel of evil takes the reader into the hidden erotic life of Hitler and (as she was affectionately nicknamed) Freulein Effie. Beyond most nonfiction accounts of that place and period, this book creates a personal life for Hitler and his sycophants to give the reader the look and feel of what it must have been like to dwell in such perdition.

17 JANUAR 1945

I took a nap. I dreamed I saw a cardinal in his robes who undressed me, caressed the most sensitive places, made love to me Greek-style. When I gathered up my clothes, he reproached me for too much love of gaiety.

I just woke with a bilious attack.

He is in conference.

Frau Hochschmidt was due to arrive, but has not, so I began without her. I need routine and am working painstakingly on the front lying cast to squat position on my parallels. I finished in a squat on the low bar on the balls of my feet.

Alas, a kink in my calf, and I had to stop. Just then Frau Hochschmidt swooped down. She insisted that—despite the pain—I buckle on two kilo weights and do leg lifts, then hang.


I’m still experiencing pain in my calf. I summoned the hairdresser, had my hair done. Then I walked Stasi and Negus in the Tiergarten where they went their separate ways, smelling and watering their special spots, balancing on hind legs, cocking legs in the air. A few drops here. A few there.


He’s in conference.

I summoned the dressmaker. The ambitious woman told me, My work rooms have been bombed, but I’ve found other work space. I’m at the Kaiserhof Hotel, which may collapse at any moment.

I ordered three new dresses though I’m low on cash.

 The stupid “broom girls”—the half-breeds—continue to sweep the streets ten or more hours a day but still the streets are dirty.

… and I highly recommend!

Read this touching five-start review left on for The Devil’s Mistress by reviewer Jojo Rose:

“Alison Leslie Gold’s fascination with the Holocaust has led her to try and imagine the inner life of Eva Braun (Adolf Hitler’s mistress). Alison sheds reality and tries to create from the bare bones of history a fleshed out inner life of Eva Braun. Her tool for entering the mind of Eva is a fictional diary written first hand from “Eva’s” point of view.
Alison Leslie Gold’s other books on the Holocaust are non-fiction, and I highly recommend them. This book is a fictionalized account and must be read and relished as such. She brings to life the desperation of a young seventeen year old Eva, desperate to prove herself to her family, desperate to excel at something, anything. Her only form of valuable currency is her youth and beauty.
Alison Leslie Gold in no way romanticizes her characters, in fact her strong distaste and disapproval of the characters about whom she writes comes though clearly. You could say that her repugnance of Eva and Herr Hitler are a character in themselves that runs through the book like a dark thread.
This dark world entrances and revolts in equal measure. Ms. Gold finds success in the difficult task she laid herself. I recommend this book for all who seek a deeper perspicacity on the possible motivations of those people reviled by history.”


Soup, a salad and two true stories

The new TMI’s reissues are:

Two novels:

1. The Devil’s Mistress

The story of the woman who lived and died with Hitler — Eva Braun.

(The soup)

2. Clairvoyant, The Imagined Life of Lucia Joyce

The story of James Joyce’s daughter who she was diagnosed as schizophrenic and spent over 40 years in mental hospitals though her father believed that she was a genius, like him, and that she was a clairvoyant who could see beyond normal reality.

(The salad)

Two nonfictions:

A Special Fate, Chiune Sugihara, Hero of the Holocaust

The story of the Japanese diplomat who went against his government’s orders and saved over 5000 Jews who were running for their lives to escape Hitler, and, by doing so, destroyed his career and future written for ages 10 – 14 but accessible to anyone.

Fiet’s Vase and Other Stories of Survival, Europe 1939-1945

25 true stories of survival by Jews and others during World War II


Found myself nodding MeToo while watching the following video received on FB this morning. One needn’t watch it entirely as it’s a bit long, but, even a few minutes of viewing gets the message across — that people in Iran are like me and I’m like them. We’re not oil and water but more like oil and vinegar. Seems obvious. Indeed, something I was taught while sitting on a small chair in a kindergarden classroom. Perhaps, because it was so long ago, I needed to be reminded by this clever, amusing (albeit a bit rough on Bollywood) video, and yes, literally nodding my head.

Now back to packing for a trip, drinking coffee, working to promote my two new (still bottle fed) children THE WOMAN WHO BROUGHT MATISSE BACK FROM THE DEAD and ELEPHANT IN THE LIVING ROOM (Oneiro Press, UK).  Finally, with one more coffee, work continues proofing four books soon to be reissued with new intros, new covers, entirely refreshed by TMI Press in Providence, RI. Lucky me. Lucky books.

Dare I post a little appetizer of this coming new series?  Oh, what the hell. The Devil’s Mistress….