Hitler Was My Friend - The Memoirs of Hitler's Photographer

291 Pages·2013·6.58 MB·English

by  Heinrich Hoffmann

Hitler’s personal photographer, Heinrich Hoffman, assists in compiling evidence
against late Führer’s henchmen.

Hitler was my Friend

This edition published in 2011 by Frontline Books,
an imprint of
Pen & Sword Books Limited,
47 Church Street, Barnsley, S. Yorkshire, S70 2AS
www.frontline-books.com

Email [email protected] or write to us at the above address.
Copyright © Heinrich Hoffman Introduction © Roger Moorhouse
9781783030705
The right of Heinrich Hoffman to be identified as the author of this work has
been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of
1988.

Publishing History Hitler was my Friend was first published by Burke
Publishing Company Ltd, London, in 1955. This edition has a new introduction
by Roger Moorhouse.

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CIP data records for this title are available from the British Library
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Printed in Great Britain by CPI
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Preface
Introduction
Chapter 1 - My Camera and the Kaiser
Chapter 2 - Wanted – A Photograph of Hitler
Chapter 3 - No Photographs Allowed
Chapter 4 - Our Diplomatic Excursions
Chapter 5 - With Hitler in Poland
Chapter 6 - Hitler – Religion and Superstition
Chapter 7 - Women and Hitler
Chapter 8 - Hitler and the Arts
Chapter 9 - With Hitler at Home
Chapter 10 - Hitler’s Headquarters – And Mine
Chapter 11 - The End for Both of Us
Epilogue
Index
Preface
MY IMMEDIATE REACTION on reading the manuscript of Heinrich
Hoffmann’s Hitler was my Friend was a feeling of satisfaction that, though it
features him so prominently in its title, this was not ‘just another book on
Hitler’, about whom so much of both fact and nonsense has already been written,
but the autobiography of a man, remarkable in both character and experience,
already established long before Hitler was ever heard of, as one of the foremost
photographers of his age: and one who merits interest in his own right and richly
rewards the interest we accord him.
A man who has achieved so outstanding a success in his own profession must,
I felt, be both ripe in experience and interesting in his reminiscences; a man who
enjoyed Hitler’s friendship and complete confidence for twenty-five years, and
by so doing incurred the implacable and jealous hatred of the other Nazi leaders
– and still survived – must possess both wit and resource; a man who, on the
threshold of old age, suffers such violent reversals of fortune – from riches to
penury, from security and comfort to the stark rigours of gaol – and still faces
life with undiminished zest and vigour, must possess both character and courage
to a high degree; and finally, a man who, on interrogation, was so swiftly and
unconditionally released by our American allies cannot, obviously, be a criminal
or, indeed, a bad sort of chap at all.
I was myself not ignorant of the Nazis and their ways. As a staff officer on
special intelligence duties I had fenced with them and delved into their activities
and secrets; as a prisoner in the hands of the Gestapo I had indulged in a
desperate battle of wits, and had acquired a thorough insight into their methods
of interrogation; and as an inmate for more than five years of Sachsenhausen and
Dachau concentration camps, I had had more than a taste of their treatment of
prisoners; and so, when I was invited to go to Munich and discuss the translation
with Professor Hoffmann, I accepted with alacrity.
The figure I met was that of a short, comfortably tubby little man. Crowned by
a shock of iron-grey hair was a strong and purposeful face, marked with the
unmistakable stamp of suffering, which was belied by a pair of bright, merry and
quickly twinkling eyes. The hand stretched out in greeting to me was small,
tapering and beautifully moulded – the hand of an artist. Round the corners of a
firm but sensitive mouth the lines drawn by bitter experience struggled in vain
for mastery with a smile of irrepressible and bubbling good humour. His speech
and gestures were rapid and expressive, and all his movements had the engaging
swift pertness of a bird.
The plea of no interest or participation in politics is an apologia that we have
recently heard ad nauseam from so many Germans, that we are rightly inclined
to treat it with extreme scepticism. But my contact with this genial, happy-go-
lucky bon viveur, this essentially bohemian, artistic Heinrich Hoffmann quickly
convinced me that in his case, at least, the statement was completely true; and I
cannot but feel that the reader, when he reaches the end of this book, will share
my conviction.
I spent some weeks in constant daily company with Hoffmann, and in that
time an impulsive, spontaneous creature, such as he is, will draw a picture of
himself, crystal clear for anyone with eyes to look and ears to listen. He is a
typical bohemian, grandiloquent in phrase and gesture, generous, unpractical,
perhaps not always strictly accurate, but a born raconteur; in many ways a child,
yet withal a shrewd judge of men; and whatever else might be said of him, he
would never do a shabby thing, and he is steadfast in his loyalties.
To say of anyone so close to the Nazi throne that he hated injustice is to invite
incredulity and derision. But Heinrich Hoffmann did hate injustice, and he hated
cruelty. Whenever he came into personal contact with some case of stupid
injustice or senseless cruelty he boldly called – not upon the Führer and
Reichskanzler, but on his friend, Adolf Hitler, to rectify it; many a man
incarcerated by a ruthless Gestapo was released as a result of his intervention –
and a mass of grateful letters bears eloquent witness to the fact. ‘You know,
Colonel, this book of mine is a bit of a patchwork,’ Hoffmann assured me in, for
him, quite earnest tones, when we came to the end of our labours. ‘A patchwork
of reminiscence and impression; of events in which I took part and of people
who played leading roles in them and whom I knew intimately. But it does not
claim to make any particular contribution to history.’
In this I am inclined to think he is being overmodest. The responsible
historian, with archives and records at his disposal, strives to give an accurate
and factual account of events, to add perhaps to the sum total of our historical
knowledge and, with comment justified by his profound research, to submit
explanations and perhaps some new light for acceptance or rejection by his
readers.
In this sense, admittedly, Hoffmann makes ‘no particular contribution’. He
confines himself to purely personal aspects, and while the earlier portion of his
memoirs, from the peace and security of the opening years of the century
through the turmoil of the first war and its aftermath, make lively, interesting and
entertaining reading, it is, in the nature of things, on his uniquely intimate
association with Hitler, from the earliest beginnings of the Nazi Party to its final
annihilation, that our interest is primarily concentrated.
As colour and the deft addition of highlights to a portrait bring life, warmth
and reality to what is otherwise merely an academically correct drawing, so
Hoffmann’s personal descriptions – the atmosphere in the Führer’s personal
entourage, the vanity and jealousy of Ribbentrop, the keen intelligence and
scathing sarcasm of Goebbels, the ruthless brutality of Bormann, the verbal
snapshots of leading international statesmen, Hitler, the man – his shyness and
austerity, his devotion to art, his attitude towards, and his influence over, women
– all these things add highlights to the bare findings of historical research, and
by so doing do, surely, make a contribution, and quite a fascinating contribution,
if not to history itself, then at least to our better comprehension of it.

R.H. STEVENS
Introduction
HISTORY HAS NOT been kind to Heinrich Hoffmann. At best, Hitler’s former
‘court’ photographer is viewed as a genial buffoon; a ‘useful idiot’ whose artistic
talents were exploited for Hitler’s benefit. At worst, he is seen as an active and
convinced acolyte; an aider and abettor of the 20th Century’s most infamous
dictator.
Whatever the precise degree of his complicity, Hoffmann’s importance to the
history of the Third Reich is incontrovertible. From their first meeting, in the
sweaty, seething beerhalls of post-First World War Munich, Hoffmann and Hitler
forged a personal friendship and professional alliance that would prove highly
beneficial to both. Hitler secured the services of a photographer of considerable
talent and ingenuity, whilst Hoffmann would, in time, hold a highly lucrative,
virtual monopoly over pictures of the Nazi leader. And, though Hitler was far
from being an ingenue in matters of public image and propaganda, it was
Hoffmann who was chiefly responsible for converting his ideas into celluloid
and print.
It was Hoffmann, therefore, more than any other, who shaped Hitler’s public
image and charted the rise of the Third Reich. Hoffmann’s pictures of the Führer
were sold worldwide, used for newspapers, magazines, postcards, placards and
posters, even postage stamps. His pictures were ubiquitous: adored in countless
German homes, just as they were often vilified abroad. His published works
alone – richly illustrated, coffee-table volumes – tell the story of the Third Reich
as it presented itself to its own people. One series, for instance, shows the
evolution and propagation of Hitler’s image; Hitler wie ihn keiner kennt, “Hitler
as Nobody knows him” (1935), Hitler abseits vom Alltag “Hitler off-duty”
(1937) or Das Antlitz des Führers, “The Face of the Führer” (1939). Another,
charts the expansion of Hitler’s Reich; Hitler baut Grossdeutschland, “Hitler
builds Greater Germany” (1938), Hitler befreit Sudetenland, “Hitler liberates the
Sudetenland” (1938) or Mit Hitler in Polen, “With Hitler in Poland” (1939). In
this way, Hoffmann provided the primary visual record for an entire generation
of Germans.
Hoffmann’s influence was not restricted to the realms of art and propaganda,