Cardinal Eugenio Pacelli
Chapter 28
14 September 1924
Munich, Germany
“Your collection of art is truly magnificent,” Hitler said, his eyes drinking in each piece of artwork adorning the cardinal’s library.
“Thank you. I’ve devoted considerable effort amassing this collection,” the cardinal responded, a hint of pride in his voice.
Art had always held a magnetic pull on Hitler, even as a child. Despite the brutal beatings from his abusive father, young Adolf’s rebellious spirit never wavered from wanting to nurture his artistic talents.
Hitler scrutinized every detail of the Monet hanging on the wall. He was captivated by its intricate brushstrokes, the masterful interplay of light and shadow, the spatial imprecision. A pang of jealousy stirred within him at Monet’s natural skill.
“I see you’re quite taken with my Monet. It’s an original, naturally.”
“Very impressive, Your Excellency. Art has always been a passion of mine.”
“Tell me about this passion,” Pacelli urged, sensing the opportunity to gain more of the leverage he needed over Hitler. With Hitler’s deepest desires exposed, Pacelli could manipulate him along the path to power, thereby advancing the Council’s grand plan.
“My father never permitted me to chase my dream,” Hitler confessed, his voice tinged with a melancholic remembrance of that oppressive chapter of his life. “When I was about seven, he enrolled me in a technical school. But I yearned to attend a classical school and become an artist. I thought that my poor grades would force him to withdraw me from the technical school and enroll me in the classical one instead.”
“Did you ever make it into the classical school?”
“No. My father passed away when I was just thirteen. After that, my inclination towards that art school dwindled,” Hitler confessed, a shadow of sorrow crossing his face.
“And then what happened?” Pacelli probed, eager to delve deeper into Hitler’s hidden desires.
“When I turned sixteen, I passed the final exam and bid farewell to my school days, vowing never to return,” Hitler shared, his voice heavy with the weight of his past. Suddenly tiring of standing, he moved away to seek the comfort of the leather chair in front of Pacelli’s desk.
Pacelli’s gaze followed Hitler, observing his somber demeanor as he sank into the chair. The cardinal remained silent, providing a safe space for Hitler to continue his narrative.
“At the age of eighteen, I applied to the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna only to face rejection twice,” Hitler confessed, his gaze dropping as he relived the crushing disappointment of his dreams.
“That must have been traumatic.”
“Nothing compared to the devastation of losing my mother that Christmas,” Hitler admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Still, in the presence of the cardinal, Hitler felt a sense of security. It was as if he could share his deepest secrets without fear of judgment. Pacelli seemed to truly listen and understand him, much like his mother had.
“After that, I embraced a bohemian lifestyle,” he said, his posture straightening as he recalled this transformative phase of his life. “I believed that was how true artists should live, and I wanted to experience it firsthand.” He looked up at Pacelli, searching for any signs of disapproval, but all he found was empathy and understanding in the eyes of the esteemed diplomat. It was clear why Cardinal Pacelli was a respected ambassador of the Vatican in Germany.
“I attended Wagner’s opera production, Lohengrin, ten times,” Hitler said, a hint of enthusiasm creeping into his voice. This opera was one of his favorites by the renowned German composer.
“Is that so? Amazing. I had the extraordinary honor of attending his awe-inspiring opera Tristan and Isolde,” Pacelli said, sharing his reverence for the brilliant composer.
Hitler, visibly moved, leaned forward in his seat, his eyes sparkling with exhilaration. “Then you understand my sentiment. He is not just a composer, but the epitome of musical genius,” Hitler proclaimed, perched on the edge of his seat, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of discovering a shared passion with the esteemed cardinal.
“You mentioned earlier the Academy in Vienna rejected your application not once, but twice?”
“Yes.” Hitler’s demeanor hardened, his face a mask of stoicism at the painful reminder.
“What if the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts wasn’t the only path to recognition?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Your Excellency.”
“What I’m suggesting is, what if you were to establish your own museum?” Pacelli watched as the gears in Hitler’s mind began to turn, his face illuminated by the tantalizing prospect.
“My own museum,” Hitler echoed, the words slipping from his lips like in a dream.
“Envision it, surpassing the magnificence of the Louvre in Paris, the British Museum—even the Smithsonian in the United States.”
Hitler’s gaze drifted off into the distance, his mind lost to the vision of a museum of such monumental scale.
“All the world’s most influential leaders boast impressive art collections, Adolf. But yours, yours would be unparalleled, the most expansive collection the world has ever seen.” Pacelli’s voice tolled like a bell throughout the room, his words painting a vivid picture in Hitler’s mind. Hitler found himself entranced—his gaze remained fixed on the world outside the window yet his mind was elsewhere, lost in the gloriousness of this vision.
“Now, picture your own work, Adolf. Visualize the prized pieces you painted hanging in the same space as the masterpieces of Monet, Degas, Van Gogh. Imagine the awe and respect that would command.”
Envisioning a world where he was the curator of his own grand museum, Hitler found himself entranced by the idea. He could almost hear the soft whispers of visitors, their reverence marveling at his masterpieces. He could feel the cool metal of the barrier keeping crowds at a safe distance from his gems. Their gaze captivated by the vibrant colors and delicate brush strokes of his artwork. A surge of pride, potent and intoxicating, coursed through his veins. This dream, so grand and audacious, was beyond anything he’d ever dared to imagine. And now it was within his grasp. He knew, with a fierce certainty, he would stop at nothing to make this dream a reality.
“Consider it the ‘Führermuseum’,” Pacelli suggested, his eyes keenly observing Hitler devouring the tantalizing prospect laid before him. Everyone had their Achilles’ heel, their irresistible lure. For Hitler, it was art. Pacelli was well aware of this, and so he’d masterfully fanned the flames of this passion. It was the ultimate bait, a desire so potent it eclipsed all others in Hitler’s heart.
“Why not erect this monumental edifice right in the heart of Linz?” Pacelli suggested, his voice echoing with a sense of splendor.
“Linz,” Hitler murmured, his mind’s eye painting a picture of a colossal museum, a testament to his vision, standing tall amidst the cityscape of his childhood. Despite the bitter memories Linz held for him, the idea of exacting a form of poetic justice by constructing the world’s largest museum there held a certain appeal.
“To fill the halls of your Führermuseum, you would need to amass an unprecedented collection of artwork, Adolf,” Pacelli continued, his tone matter-of-fact.
“That’s right, Your Excellency. How might I acquire such a vast collection?” Hitler questioned, the image of his grand Führermuseum disappearing in the face of this daunting obstacle.
“The answer lies with the Jews. Remember those who betrayed the Germans in the Great War?” Pacelli’s words hung heavy in the air.
“The Jews,” Hitler echoed, his voice laced with bitterness as he recalled the greed of the Jews, their betrayal of the Germans for personal gain.
“Wouldn’t it be fitting for the Jews to bear the cost of the retribution imposed on the German people by the Treaty of Versailles?”
Hitler nodded, his mind filled with images of the priceless artwork that adorned the opulent mansions of the Jewish elite.
“Of course, you wouldn’t sell the artwork to repay the treaty’s demands, Adolf. You would seize it for your Führermuseum, for the world to marvel at,” Pacelli clarified, his vision of the future clear and compelling.
Hitler looked at Pacelli. His mind reeled from the enormity of the dream being woven before him. In the presence of this great man, his ambitions soared to heights he had never before imagined.
“Adolf, you must understand that this museum, this dream, can only become a reality if you are the leader of Germany,” Pacelli said, his gaze steady on Hitler.
“I understand, Your Excellency.” Hitler’s voice was firm with newfound resolve.
“Your primary objective must remain crystal clear, Adolf: you are destined to become the leader of the German empire. Once you are appointed as the Führer of the Third Reich, you will command the respect of global leaders. Your word will be law.” The authority girding Pacelli’s voice sent shivers down Hitler’s spine.
