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When I saw the Führer for the first time after the failed assassination attempt, I was deeply moved. I could not have spoken a word. He came out of the small living bunker of his headquarters, not tired, but calm, not bowed, but with his head slightly tilted forward, a sight that could only move the heart. I wished in that moment that the entire German people could have witnessed such a sight.
There would never have been a doubter in Germany again. During the subsequent meetings, I imagined the millions of men who endure terrible things in war and the millions of women who suffer terrible things in war as listeners. All complaining and lamenting would have ceased in Germany at once. Everyone would have immediately known that those who bear the heaviest burden in war are those who feel the responsibility as an eternal weight on their shoulders, day and night, awake and asleep.
What a miracle that this man remains inexhaustible in his wealth of thoughts and his deep faith, that he goes his way undeterred and unmovable, feeling himself in the hands of a higher providence, which, even if sometimes in roundabout ways, always leads him safely to his goal.
When I was recently with the Führer, on a long night in which massed assaults by our enemies against our defensive lines were reported from almost all fronts, he spoke of the people’s state of the future, which will and must emerge from this war. Everything he said was clear, logical, modern, and exclusively aimed at the welfare of the people. One had the feeling that this man harbors no personal desires, only the desire to rebuild our destroyed world himself. He stands so far beyond everything ordinary in humanity that one feels very small before him. He belongs to those rare men of whom Frederick the Great once said that they are called to shape the world, but not to enjoy it.
He is the epitome of modesty. If the noon and evening tables of our entire nation were as modestly set as the Führer’s, then we would have no worries about the German food supply. He lives and resides in a style of personal simplicity that is more than worthy of times of war. His sleeping quarters are not much larger than a compartment on an express train, and it contains only a field bed and a small table, piled high with memoranda, maps, plans, and statistics. During a meeting, he only needs to reach into it to immediately find the materials for discussions he holds with his collaborators, though this is seldom necessary since he has almost all the data and figures readily available in his memory.
The Führer stands in the sixth year of this global struggle at an age when Frederick II, after the conclusion of the Seven Years’ War, was already being called “Old Fritz” by his soldiers and his people.
In contrast, he appears almost youthful. His eyes shine with an undimmed brilliance, his facial features are calm and even, his high forehead bold and noble, and only a faint silver sheen runs through his hair, a testament to countless days filled with work and worry, and to lonely nights spent awake. The great rebel against a deceitful enemy world, against the world of empty phrases and false appearances, strides toward the completion of his historic work amidst the thunder of battles. I have never doubted for a second that Providence has called him to this task and that no power on earth can prevent him from fulfilling his mission. The great suffering that burdens the entire world today will one day find its sudden release in the abrupt transition to the ecstasy of a deeply soulful humanity. From the ruins that cover our cities, new houses and streets will rise—grand, spacious, imposing witnesses to the cultural and social will to rebuild of the first people on earth.
