Chapter Text
Munich, November 1924.
The air in the cramped office of Gregor Strasser’s newspaper headquarters was thick with the scent of ink, stale coffee, and the faint tang of cigarette smoke that clung to everything.
Joseph Goebbels, a wiry, sharp-eyed man of 27, hunched over a cluttered desk, his fountain pen scratching furiously across a notepad. His new role as Strasser’s secretary was a stepping stone, nothing more—a way to claw his way into the murky world of Munich’s political underbelly.
The National Socialist German Workers’ Party was a fractured beast, reeling from its failed putsch the previous year, and he, ever the opportunist, sensed opportunity in the chaos.
But his thoughts were not on policy or pamphlets today. They were on her—Adolfa Hitler, the enigmatic figure whose name was whispered in every beer hall and backroom in Bavaria.
Goebbels leaned back in his creaking chair, tossing his pen onto the desk with a clatter. “Gregor,” he called, his voice sharp but tinged with a conspiratorial edge, “have you heard the latest about our fearless Führerin?” The word dripped with sarcasm, though he kept his tone light.
He hadn’t met Adolfa Hitler, not yet, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. The woman was a puzzle, a contradiction—a tall, blonde, blue-eyed Valkyrie who carried herself like a man but lived, so the rumors went, like a pampered heiress on the dime of her wealthy patrons.
Gregor Strasser, a burly man with a soldier’s bearing, looked up from a stack of papers, his brow furrowed. “What now, Joseph? More gossip from the Munich rumor mill?”
He didn’t hide his exasperation, but there was a glint of curiosity in his eyes. Strasser, a pragmatic nationalist, had thrown his lot in with Adolfa’s party, but he wasn’t blind to its leader’s eccentricities.
Goebbels smirked, leaning forward, his elbows on the desk. “Oh, it’s better than that. Word is, our dear Adolfa has holed herself up in that fancy country house of one of her patrons—the Bechsteins, is it? Up in the Alps, playing the tragic heroine. Fresh out of Landsberg Prison, and what does she do? Mopes about, surrounded by her sycophants, living off the generosity of those rich fools who think she’s the second coming of Bismarck.”
He shook his head, his lips curling. “She’s got half of Munich eating out of her hand, and the other half laughing behind her back.”
Strasser snorted, setting his papers aside. “Careful, Joseph. She’s still the leader of the party. You don’t want to be caught badmouthing her when she’s back in the game. And she will be back. You mark my words.”
Goebbels waved a dismissive hand, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. “Leader or not, she’s a woman playing at revolution. All that talk of destiny and the Volk—fine words, but what’s she done since the putsch? Nothing but sulk. She and that old warhorse Ludendorff thought they could march into Munich and topple the government like it was some operetta. And now? She’s out, free as a bird, and what’s the word from her camp? ‘Oh, I’ll be fine soon,’ she says to her men, like some debutante recovering from a fainting spell.”
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know what I heard? She’s got her cramped place in Thierschstraße decked out like a queen’s palace. Persian rugs, crystal decanters, the works—all paid for by her patrons. The Eckarts, the Hanfstaengls, that crowd. They’re pouring money into her like she’s their personal prophetess. And she laps it up, Gregor. Lives like a baroness while the rest of us scrape by, printing pamphlets and dodging the police.”
Strasser chuckled, though there was a hardness in his eyes. “You’re jealous, Joseph. Admit it. You’d kill to have half her charisma. The woman’s got a way about her—those speeches of hers, before the putsch, they had men ready to die for her. Blonde, blue-eyed, tall—she’s a vision, and she knows it. That’s half her power.”
Goebbels’ face twisted, a mix of disdain and reluctant admiration. “Charisma? Maybe. But it’s all theater. She’s a performer, not a leader. A woman like that—tall, striking, sure, but still a woman—can’t hold a movement together. She’s too soft, too dependent on others. What kind of revolutionary lives off handouts? I’d wager she’s up there in Berchtesgaden right now, crying into her silk pillows, feeling sorry for herself while her ‘loyal men’ fetch her tea and tell her she’s Germany’s savior.”
He paused, his mind conjuring an image of Adolfa Hitler. He’d never laid eyes on her, but the stories painted a vivid picture: a statuesque figure with piercing blue eyes, her blonde hair pulled back severely, her voice low and commanding, yet capable of softening into a disarming warmth.
The men who’d heard her speak swore she could make you believe in anything—Germany’s resurrection, the betrayal of Versailles, the coming Reich. But he wasn’t so easily swayed.
He’d seen plenty of Munich’s political bigwigs, men and women alike, strutting about with their grand ideas and empty promises. Adolfa, he suspected, was just another one, cloaked in a myth of her own making.
“Depressed, you say?” Strasser mused, leaning back in his chair. “That’s what I heard, too. Prison took something out of her, no doubt. Nine months in Landsberg, even if it was more like a country retreat than a proper jail, would wear anyone down. And that coup—her and Ludendorff marching on the Feldherrnhalle like they were storming Valhalla—it was a fiasco. She’s lucky she wasn’t shot.”
“Lucky?” Goebbels scoffed. “She’s untouchable. The courts went easy on her because she’s a woman, mark my words. If she were a man, they’d have locked her up for life—or worse. But no, they let her out, and now she’s back to her old tricks, playing the martyr. I heard she’s writing some grand manifesto up there in her mountain hideaway. A book, Gregor! As if anyone’s going to read the ramblings of a failed revolutionary.”
Strasser raised an eyebrow. “You underestimate her, Joseph. That’s a mistake. Adolfa’s got a knack for turning defeat into victory. She’ll spin this prison stint into a legend, you watch. And those patrons of hers? They’re not just funding her lifestyle—they’re betting on her. They see something in her that you don’t.”
Goebbels’ eyes narrowed. “What I see is a woman who’s all talk. She’s got no substance, Gregor. No plan. She’s not like us—she doesn’t know what it’s like to scrape by, to fight for every inch. She’s got her glad rags, her rich friends, her adoring followers. But what happens when the money dries up? When the crowds stop cheering? She’ll crumble. Women like her always do.”
There it was, the undercurrent of the times, the quiet misogyny that colored even his calculated disdain. He didn’t hate Adolfa because she was a woman—not entirely—but he couldn’t shake the belief that a woman, no matter how tall or commanding, couldn’t lead a movement like this.
Not in 1924, not in Germany, where men like him clawed for power in smoke-filled rooms and bloodied streets. Yet even as he spoke, a nagging doubt gnawed at him. What if Strasser was right? What if Adolfa’s charisma, her larger-than-life presence, was more than just theater?
Strasser stood, stretching his broad shoulders. “You’ll meet her soon enough, Joseph. She’s not staying in that country house forever. Word is, she’s already planning her comeback—reorganizing the party, rallying the faithful. And when you do meet her, don’t be surprised if she wins you over. She’s got a way of doing that.”
Goebbels snorted, picking up his pen again. “Win me over? I’m not one of her starry-eyed devotees. I’m here for the cause, not for some blonde messiah with a flair for drama.”
But as he spoke, his mind wandered back to the stories—the way Adolfa’s voice could silence a room, the way her blue eyes seemed to see right through you. He hadn’t met her, but already she was a specter in his thoughts, a challenge he wasn’t sure he was ready to face.
In the Bechsteins’ elegant country house, high in the Bavarian Alps, Adolfa Hitler sat alone, her tall frame curled into an armchair by a roaring fire.
Her blonde hair, usually so meticulously pinned, fell loose around her shoulders, and her blue eyes stared into the flames, lost in thought.
Prison had left its mark—not on her body, but on her spirit. The putsch had been a gamble, a desperate bid for power, and it had failed.
Yet she wasn’t done. Not yet. Her patrons’ money kept her comfortable, but it was her will, her unshakable belief in her destiny, that kept her alive. She would rise again, she told herself. Germany would hear her voice.
And down in Munich, Joseph Goebbels, scribbling away in his cramped office, had no idea how soon their paths would cross—or how completely Adolfa Hitler would upend his world.
₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧
Weimar, 11 July 1925.
The air in the Recreation Club was thick with anticipation, the low hum of voices mingling with the clink of glasses and the faint rustle of papers.
The room, a modest hall with faded wallpaper and heavy wooden beams, was packed with the leaders of the National Socialist German Workers’ Party, a motley crew of idealists, opportunists, and battle-scarred veterans.
Joseph Goebbels, a year deeper into his role as Gregor Strasser’s sharp-tongued secretary, sat near the front, his dark eyes scanning the crowd. His pen rested idly in his hand, the notebook on his lap untouched.
He was here to see her—Adolfa Hitler, the woman whose name had haunted his thoughts for months, a figure he’d disparaged in private but couldn’t ignore. Today, in this smoky hall in Weimar, he would finally meet the NSDAP’s enigmatic leader.
The party was at a crossroads. The failed putsch of 1923 had left it fractured, banned, and scattered, but Adolfa, released from Landsberg Prison eight months prior, was rebuilding.
Her manifesto, Mein Kampf, was set to be published in a week, and whispers of her return to the political stage had drawn this gathering of loyalists and skeptics alike.
Goebbels, ever the cynic, had spent the past year grumbling about her—her reliance on wealthy patrons, her theatrical flair, her gender, which he couldn’t help but see as a liability in the brutal world of German politics.
Yet he was here, drawn by curiosity and ambition, eager to measure the woman against the myth.
The room fell silent as Adolfa Hitler stepped onto the small platform at the front. She was impossible to miss—tall, her blonde hair swept into a low bun, with soft marcel waves framing her face in a style that lent her an almost youthful glow.
Her blue eyes, sharp and piercing, swept over the crowd, commanding attention without a word. She wore a tailored black suit, its clean lines accentuating her statuesque frame, and a simple white blouse that softened her otherwise severe presence.
Joseph, despite himself, felt a jolt of surprise. She didn’t look like the depressed recluse he’d imagined, holed up in a country retreat. She looked… formidable.
Her speech began slowly, her voice low and deliberate, each word chosen with care. She spoke of Germany’s humiliation, the betrayal of Versailles, the need for a new Reich born from the will of the Volk.
Her hands moved with precision, punctuating her points, and as her voice rose, so did the energy in the room.
Joseph, who prided himself on his own oratorical skills, found himself grudgingly impressed. She wasn’t just reciting a script—she was weaving a spell, her words igniting something primal in the audience.
Men leaned forward, eyes gleaming; even the cynics, like he himself, couldn’t look away. She was no mere politician. She was a force.
When the speech ended, the room erupted in applause, shouts of “Heil!” echoing off the walls. She stepped down, her expression composed but her eyes alight with fire.
Joseph clapped, his hands moving mechanically, his mind racing. He hadn’t expected this. He’d come prepared to dismiss her, to see through the façade of the “blonde messiah” he’d mocked to Strasser.
But now, watching her move through the crowd, shaking hands and exchanging words with her inner circle, he felt a flicker of doubt. Maybe Strasser had been right. Maybe she was more than a pampered figurehead.
As the crowd thinned, he lingered, his notebook still blank. He was debating whether to approach her when she turned, her gaze locking onto him. His breath caught.
Those blue eyes, so often described, were even more intense up close, like twin flames boring into him.
She crossed the room with long, confident strides, her comrades—Ernst Röhm, Rudolf Hess, Hermann Göring, and Ernst “Putzi” Hanfstaengl—trailing behind her like a royal entourage.
“Dr. Goebbels, isn’t it?” her voice was warm, almost disarmingly so, but there was an edge to it, a challenge.
She extended a hand, her grip firm when he took it. “Gregor speaks highly of you. A doctorate in literature, yes? Heidelberg, no less. Quite an accomplishment.”
He felt his face flush, a rush of heat that caught him off guard. He wasn’t used to being noticed, not like this. His doctorate, earned four years ago, was a point of pride, a badge of intellect in a world that often valued brawn over brains.
To hear it acknowledged by her, the woman he’d spent months criticizing, was both flattering and unsettling. “Thank you, Fräulein Hitler,” he managed, his voice steadier than he felt. “Your speech—it was… inspiring.”
She smiled, a small, knowing curve of her lips. “I’m glad you think so, Doctor. We need men like you—thinkers, writers, men who can shape the minds of the Volk.”
Her eyes held his for a moment longer, as if weighing him, before she turned to her comrades, who were watching the exchange with varying degrees of amusement.
Röhm, a burly man with a scarred face and a penchant for bluntness, clapped Adolfa on the shoulder. “Well, Adi, you didn’t end up like Rosa Luxemburg after all, did you?” he teased, his voice booming.
The nickname—Adi—drew a ripple of laughter from the group, though Goebbels noted that only Röhm dared use it. Her lips twitched, a flicker of irritation quickly masked by a playful roll of her eyes.
“Careful, Ernst,” she retorted, her tone light but pointed. “I’m not in the mood for your nonsense today.” She touched her hair, the marcel waves catching the light. “Besides, I’ve got enough to deal with, keeping up with Putzi’s wife and her French fashion advice.”
Helene, Putzi’s American-born wife, laughed from her husband’s side. “It suits you, Adolfa,” she said, her accent softening the German words. “Those waves make you look younger—chic, like a Parisian. I told you to try it.”
Adolfa shrugged, but there was a hint of self-consciousness in the gesture. “If it keeps me from looking like a frumpy revolutionary, I suppose I’ll take it.”
The group laughed again, and Goebbels watched, fascinated despite himself. This was a side of Adolfa he hadn’t anticipated—a woman who could command a room with a speech that shook the rafters, yet banter with her comrades like an old friend. It humanized her, made her less the untouchable icon and more a person, flawed and real.
Hess, ever the loyalist, steered the conversation back to politics, murmuring something about the party’s next steps. Göring, his bulk filling the space beside her, nodded enthusiastically, while Putzi, towering and jovial, launched into a story about a recent meeting with a potential donor.
She listened, her expression attentive but distant, as if her mind were already elsewhere—on the book, perhaps, or the next speech, or the Reich she envisioned.
Joseph, still standing on the fringes, felt a pang of exclusion. These were her inner circle, her trusted allies, and he was still an outsider, a newcomer with a sharp pen and sharper ambitions.
As the group drifted toward the back of the hall, Adolfa glanced back at him, her blue eyes catching his once more. “We’ll speak again, Dr. Goebbels,” she said, her voice carrying a promise—or a warning.
Then she was gone, swallowed by her comrades’ laughter and chatter, leaving him standing alone, his heart pounding.
He returned to his seat, his mind a whirlwind. He’d come to Weimar expecting to confirm his prejudices, to see Adolfa Hitler as a spoiled, overrated figurehead coasting on charisma and patronage.
Instead, he’d found a woman who was both more and less than the myth—a leader with a voice that could move mountains, yet a person capable of teasing and being teased, of vulnerability beneath the steel.
Her acknowledgment of his doctorate, brief as it was, lingered in his mind, a spark of validation that both thrilled and unnerved him. He hated how much it mattered.
As he opened his notebook and began to write, his pen moving with newfound urgency, he couldn’t shake the image of her—tall, blonde, blue-eyed, her marcel waves framing a face that was younger, sharper, more alive than he’d expected.
Adolfa Hitler was no mere Munich bigwig, no pampered dilettante. She was something else entirely, and for the first time, Joseph wondered if he’d underestimated her—and what that might mean for his own place in the storm that was coming.