#like the one post with someone calling an ice covered staircase their path to good mental health

[i-am-the-egg]

passed peer review

[in-the-shadow-of-the-blog]

We’ll Keep Each Other Warm

Summary: Sebastian wants to swap scarves with MC. Also kissing. (Sebastian Sallow x Hufflepuff f!MC)

Rating: PG

Warnings: None!

Word count: 500

A/N: inspired by this post by @witchywriter18, I combined the scarf bit with another idea I had. I think they’re stronger together just like Sebastian and MC. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

—

Their empty butter beer glasses clinked as MC and Sebastian set them down on the table. They were celebrating the end of a rather lovely Christmas break, like all the other students that had crowded into the Three Broomsticks, and had spent the better part of the day talking about, well, everything.

“Back to Hogwarts, then?” Sebastian nodded to the darkening sky outside the window.

“Probably best.”

MC reached across the table and picked up her scarf. She almost had it halfway on when she realized the colors were wrong. “Sorry Sebastian, I-“

She looked up to find that Sebastian had taken her Hufflepuff scarf, and already settled it around his neck. He grinned at her over the stripes of black and yellow. “Go on then, wear it.”

Grinning despite herself, MC wound the green and silver scarf around her neck, draping it over her shoulders. She breathed in, letting his Slytherin scent fill her nose. A mixture of Feldcroft pine, library books, and dittany. It made her wonder what Sebastian was smelling on her scarf now… probably niffler.

Snow covered the roofs and lanes of Hogsmeade. More fell around them now, though it had slowed a great deal. The fresh powder was hiding patches of ice, which MC discovered quite by accident. One misplaced step sent her reeling, but she righted herself before she could fall into the snowbank beside the path.

Sebastian took her arm, laughing. “I think someone had one butterbeer too many tonight.”

“Nonsense! I just slipped on some ice.”

“That delightful flush on your cheeks says otherwise. Rather a good look on you.” The lightness in his tone and mischief in his eyes made MC’s stomach flip.

Or maybe she did have one too many butterbeers.

Sebastian cupped her face in his gloved hands, thumbs tracing the curves of her cheeks. They leaned closer, lips about to touch, when one of them found the icy patch again. With nothing to grab onto but each other, Sebastian and MC tumbled into the drift of snow. MC grunted as Sebastian’s weight pressed her into the ground, and he quickly raised himself up on his arms.

“Sorry,” he said, the flush in his cheeks matching hers.

MC grabbed him by the scarf - her scarf - and pulled him into a kiss. For a moment she thought they might melt the snow piled around them. When their lips finally parted, icy flakes still surrounded them, clinging to their hair and clothes.

“Sebastian?”

“Yes, MC?”

“It’s really cold down here.”

“That it is.” A little reluctantly, he stood and offered her a hand up.

They were more careful of the road as they trekked back to Hogwarts. That wasn’t the only thing that kept their arms linked and their shoulders huddled close, though.

Sebastian insisted on walking her back to the Hufflepuff common room, even though his joke about her overindulgence in butterbeer was long forgotten. They stopped to say goodnight at the top of the staircase that led down to the kitchens.

“Don’t you want your scarf back?” MC asked, fingering the wool at her throat.

“Nope,” said Sebastian, grinning. “I’m keeping yours. We’ll switch for a while.”

“But…”

“We can keep each other warm even when we’re apart.”

Speechless and blushing, MC noted the satisfied grin at her reaction. He turned and headed toward the Slytherin common room, calling over his shoulder in a singsong voice, “Good night, MC.”

-

Masterlist

[packsbeforesnacks]

Harmony Hall || Mercy & Winn

TIMING: Thursday, July 9th, 2020, Evening LOCATION: The Western Archives (Mercy’s Loft) PARTIES: @cryxmercy & @packsbeforesnacks SUMMARY: Mercy offers an explanation. Winn faces the truth about his lost years. WARNINGS: None

The lighthouse was intimidating, Winn thought, but no more intimidating than meeting someone for the first time… again, apparently. ‘Cause apparently this ‘Mercy’ woman knew him, said he’d lived in White Crest before he remembered livin’ in White Crest. The possibility had never crossed his mind, that there would be — could be — someone with the answers to the riddle of the years that had been taken from him. Winn would need to buy Rio something nice, if this panned out. Boy deserved, like, a fruit basket, bare minimum. Winn made his way up the staircase, twisted up in the lighthouse like a coiled spring, ready to pop out at any time and remind him why he was actually here.

An explanation. Mercy had promised one and Winn wasn’t about to let his only real chance at fixing all of this slip through his fingers. No one — Rio, Darwin, his dad — had been able to turn up any real leads, and there wasn’t a magic Facebook, where Winn could just post until someone said they’d fix his memories. He’d gotten lucky. He knew it. The chance of him findin’ another person with access to mental magic was too big of an ask. Luckily for him, White Crest kept an eye on wishes.

One of the many problems that came with living as long as Mercy had was that inevitably the past would circle back around at some point, either to bite you in the ass, or simply make life more complicated. She wasn’t quite sure which category the current bit of her past fell into. Winn was a good guy — it was why she’d helped him in the first place all those years back -— so perhaps it fell into neither. Perhaps it was simply the right thing to do. Because Mercy had seen first hand what missing memories could do to a person. How confused and lost they could become. Wondering what had happened to them in a span of time they couldn’t remember. It could drive a person mad.

So Mercy didn’t blame Rio for sending Winn her way. Even if she wasn’t sure what she could tell him, other than what the young wolf had asked of her all those years back, and the events that had followed. Perhaps that would be enough. Even if it didn’t bring the memories back. Because Mercy didn’t know how to do that. So she’d made sure the tower would let Winn pass through, that the roses that grew in the field outside wouldn’t harass him. And when she heard footsteps on the spiral stairs, Mercy looked towards the open door of the small flat at the top of the tower. Her tone was warm and easy as she spoke. “You can come in. I don’t bite.”

Winn passed through the open door with more confidence than he felt. He racked his memory, trying to figure out if he’d known her, some time ago, but there wasn’t even the faintest pulse of recollection. He took a seat, movements a bit stiff, as he considered the woman. There wasn’t much he could tell from just her posture and voice; if he had to pick an age— Well, ‘sides bein’ rude, he couldn’t really do that anymore. Living in a lighthouse wasn’t the most unusual thing about this situation, but it was as good a place as any to break the ice. “Sooooo,” he drawled, “you lived in White Crest long?” He wasn’t sure how to broach the subject of her knowin’ him. “This lighthouse looks old. Beautiful, though, the roses are lovely.”

A compliment, a well-placed smile. She knew Winn. But that didn’t mean she had liked him, in whatever history they shared together. He scanned the room, looking for another point of conversational topic, but his eyes drifted back to the woman’s. It occurred to him that, well, she might know him by his old name. He should clear up any confusion, introduce himself again. “Um, sorry, right. I’m Winn. Winn Woods. Winner Lycus Woods. Said that on the phone.” He gave a small wave, feeling incredibly awkward. What was it about this woman that put him on-edge? Or was it just that she knew more about him, perhaps, than he did? There were no easy answers, and so, he admitted what she’d probably already guessed: “Do I… know you?”

“About six years,” Mercy said, watching Winn as he took a seat. “Going on seven.” He was wondering about her, she knew. Who she was. Probably even what she was. Mercy hadn’t told him much over the phone. But that was deliberate. This was a conversation that needed to happen face to face. “Thank you. I… acquired it some years back.” She smiled at him, small and knowing. “The roses are just a bonus.” And a damn fine security measure. In case anyone who was unwelcome thought they could just waltz up to her tower.

Mercy’s eyes didn’t leave his face as he looked around. The room was small, but cozy. Full of shelves and books and benign things of interest that she’d brought up from down in the archives. There was evidence of Arthur here and there as well. A chess set she’d dug out of one of the rooms for him. New journals and fountain pens stacked neatly on a nearby table, along with a stack of scrolls and manuscripts still covered in dust. There was also a small bed in one corner, a tiny kitchenette, a small bathroom behind a closed door, and a woodburning stove. It was very liveable, even if Mercy usually stayed elsewhere. Winn’s gaze came back to her eventually, and Mercy waited a moment as he introduced himself.

“You did. Once. My name’s Mercy.” She watched him for a short but weighted moment. “I’m the one that took your memories.”  

Well, huh.

Winn wouldn’t pretend there wasn’t a part of him that had been… hoping for this. When Darwin had told him that they weren’t buried, but missing, he had been ready to abandon this entire ‘quest.’ Rio’s message, askin’ to give Winn’s information to one of his allies, had been a Hail Mary, as far as Winn had been concerned. But then, Rio had messaged him back, gave him a number to call. Winn had leapt at the chance.

Once. Maybe… Maybe, even if Winn couldn’t get back his memories, she could tell him about himself. It was another confirmation. When something went missing, there had to be a force behind it. Darwin had given him the information, Mercy had revealed herself as the thief herself. He took a deep breath, in, out, almost like he was preparin’ for Darwin to take another look around his mind. But, really, Winn knew that, if he let himself make assumptions, Winn would be transformed in the middle of this flat. That wouldn’t help anyone, least of all him. So, before he’d climbed the tower, he’d ran through scenarios in his head.

And… Well, this hadn’t been the worst. Could be bleedin’ out. Winn locked eyes with Mercy, and said, strong and far more confident than he felt: “Why?”

Mercy often wondered if her long life — or perhaps her nature — had made her some sort of… beacon… for lost and wayward souls. She seemed to cross paths with them more often than not. If that was the case, it was ironic really, since she had no power whatsoever over the souls of mankind. Unlike the Valkyries of her homelands legends.

What she did have was knowledge. Centuries upon centuries of it. But with great knowledge came great power, as they say. And what good was knowledge if it wasn’t shared? At least when it was for the better. So while Mercy had also prepared for the worst, she didn’t pull any punches in answering Winn’s questions. She wasn’t afraid of the young wolf. Never had been. That said, she was very aware of the damage one could do. To her, and to their surroundings. And Mercy was in no mood to deal with an angry shifter tonight. Or at any point in the near future.

Mercy waited on Winn to process what she’d said. She watched for any signs he was going to lash out or react badly. Any tells that his emotions were going to get the better of him, and the wolf would take over to protect him. Or to get revenge for a perceived wrong. Thankfully, that didn’t happen. And Mercy let out her own internal sigh of relief.

Her tone was soft and even as she didn’t hesitate to answer his follow up question. “Because you asked me to.” There was more, obviously, but Mercy wanted to give him time to process the main parts before overloading him with the rest of the details. Of which there were many.

Winn felt like he’d been smacked with a sledgehammer, like the ‘brain freeze’ he’d felt at Darwin’s probing had been only an appetizer for this main course. The memories weren’t stolen. The memories were given. And his mind scrolled and scrolled through scenarios, trying to figure out what could have happened — what he could have done — that would make him do this.

He put his head in his hands, trying to stave off yet another anxiety attack. Winn had been preparing for an answer, even this one, for nearly a month — two, if he counted that first inkling that there was something inside of him. Finally, scrubbing the fresh tears away from his eyes, he met Mercy’s gaze with tired determination. He had to know.

“Tell me more. Please. I can… I can handle it.” Winn tried to give a weak smile, ended up somewhere in grimace, and settled back down into a flat line.

Mercy watched as Winn started to absorb what she was saying. It wasn’t easy to be told things about your past that you couldn’t remember. This wasn’t the first time Mercy had been in such a situation. She had learned, however, that giving too much all at once could send some people over the edge. Others did better receiving things in one big lump. Mercy wasn’t sure which category Winn fell into just yet. He’d survived the giving away of the memories. But that didn’t mean the opposite would be true. When he got himself together and looked up, tears staining his face, Mercy felt her heart ache for him. He was a good kid. It’s why she’d helped him in the first place.

“We met a few years back when you signed up for my self-defense classes. Didn’t take me long to realize you weren’t human. Took you a bit longer to realize the same was true for me.” Mercy explained how they’d come to be friends, and later, how Mercy had come to be a confidant of sorts for Winn. And how eventually Winn came to confide his personal traumas to Mercy. Who had already encouraged him to stand up to what frightened him. To take back control of his life, by not letting the past control his present, or his future. That effort — thanks to Mercy’s Fury nature — doubled when she found out what the hunters had done to him.

“One day you came to me and asked if I knew how to get rid of unwanted memories.” Mercy sat a book — bound in worn leather wrappings — and an ornately carved wooden box on the table between them. She opened the lid of the box, revealing a pair of ravens — carved from obsidian — nestled inside. Each was small enough to hold in one’s hand, and covered in delicately crafted patterns and runes. “This is the how.” She indicated the book and the stone ravens before looking at him evenly. “Are you absolutely certain you wish to know what memories you wanted gone? And why?”

There was a part of Winn that wanted to laugh at Mercy, to tell her that there was no way that she was right. It was a stubborn, temperamental part of himself that he hardly recognized. But, as she spoke, he realized that… well, that what she was sayin’ made sense. Winn had been in a bad way, after he left the pack. That… That was where the memories got fuzzy, where the train stopped because the track had been cut off. He’d always thought the wolf had finally gotten fed up with him, ran on a Full Moon and stayed transformed that way until Winn could get his shit together.

But none of that was true.

“I… kind of hate that you know more about me than I do,” Winn admitted, honestly. “So, I came to you to erase two whole years? That seems,” Winn grabbed one of the stone ravens to inspect it, “excessive.” His head pulsed, his vision blurred. Shit got weird. And painful.

“I’m used to it,” Mercy said of being hated, her voice holding a hint of something that might’ve been weariness. Or perhaps regret. Maybe both. But her expression turned to a true frown as he told her that— “Wait—” Mercy held up a hand, her tone one of shock. “You’re missing two years? Two entire years?” But Winn never got the chance to answer.

He reached for the raven… and collapsed to the floor.

Mercy was instantly on her feet, both out of concern for Winn, and to be ready in case she ended up with a fully shifted, angry werewolf in her flat.  

“Please…” Winn heard himself begging Mercy and a robed figure behind her. The room was barely lit, but Winn could make out himself, younger, and speaking in broken sobs. It looked like the loft, but… different, in the pieces he could see. “Mercy, I did something I can’t take back. Ever. I want… I want a second chance. I’m not… I don’t want to be this person. I— I wanted my life back, but not like this. I didn’t— He didn’t—” There was a crackle in the air as he looked up, meeting the eyes of the fury. “I want this. No going back.”

The scene cut out, Winn heard three words in a language he didn’t recognize. Then, there was darkness.

In Winn’s memory, Mercy looked on in sympathy at the young wolf’s pain. The air hummed with static. “If this is your wish, if you believe with all your heart, that this is what’s right for you… that your life can only be better for forgetting, then so be it.”

When the spell had been cast, Mercy had merely been an observer, until the caster had come to the final seals. How fortuitous it was that she was there, and capable of speaking the three runes that activated the spell and set it in motion.

When Winn came back to himself, in the present, he was on the floor of the loft, holding his head in pain, tears streaming down his face, claws and fangs extended and digging tiny cuts into his skull and lip. Fuck. Fuck. His ears rang, his heart was racing.

“... What did I do?” Winn asked, finally, when he had just enough energy to pull himself off the floor. He couldn’t look at Mercy, not now. Not until he knew.

In the present, Mercy had moved to place herself between Winn and the door to the stairs, just in case. She knew he was in pain. She could see the partial shift his body had gone through in response to such huge amounts of stress. Mercy waited, relaxing slightly as moving towards him as he came back to himself. And asked the million dollar question.

Mercy sighed, wondering where the hell to start. Perhaps the cut and dry version would be best.

“You started this… one-man ‘protect the wolves’ mission… tracking down and killing the hunters, and others, that were hurting them… You were ruthless. Vicious even. You grew numb to it. Or so you said. Until one day… you killed a hunter in front of his children.” Mercy squatted down so she could be level with the wolf. “That was when you realized all those people, those hunters, were people too. With families. Children. People who loved them.” Mercy knew all hunters weren’t created the same. But that didn’t mean she thought Winn had been in the wrong for what he’d done. How many lives had he saved by taking the ones he had? Though it wasn’t what Mercy thought that mattered, was it? This was about Winn. “It set something off inside you… and you couldn’t live with what you’d done. You wanted it gone.”

She watched him for a long moment. “You’re not a bad person, Winn. I know bad people. You’re a good person that bad things have happened to.”

“Okay,” Winn said finally, curling in on himself on the floor, taking it all in. Numb, Mercy had said. Well, Winn didn’t feel very numb right now. He felt… he felt awful. And part of it was recovering from the stress of touching the raven, but… It was true. There was no denying it. Mercy had no reason to lie to him, and, fuck, was that what Winn had seen at the carnival? Killing a hunter, apparently the last in a string of killings. Winn had found his answer. Or, part of it. And that answer was awful, ripping into him and carving at his heart. He could hear his heart hammering in his chest. Winn sat there, just… thinking.

Until: “Wait, then… Why? Why two years?” Winn said, finally looking up and into Mercy’s eyes. “It doesn’t— Tell me I wasn’t… killing people for two years.” Not that it mattered, he supposed, in the grand scheme of things. Just more bodies to the count. Fuck. Fuck.

Mercy waited patiently while Winn processed everything. She was used to this too, after all. It was the story of her life. Waiting and watching… sometimes for months, even years at a time. But when he asked his next question, the only answer Mercy had was, “I don’t know why the spell took two years away. But no. You weren’t. It was… a few months. Maybe.”

“I’m a coward.” Winn sighed, looking up at the ceiling and away from Mercy’s gaze. He’d run away again. He couldn’t stop running away. “And I’m… I don’t know if I’m a bad person, Mercy, but I… I don’t think I can be a good person, if I did that, if I hurt all of those people — and you said, you said others? So, not all of them were hunters? I mean, that… that makes it worse, right?” Would it be better, if it had only been hunters? No. No, Winn didn’t think so. Even without his memories, without his apparent realization, he knew so many hunters now and he knew they were just… people. Fallible and too, too human.

Mercy’s jaw clenched as he called himself a coward. She remembered a moment very like this one, where she’d told him he should take control of his fears, his doubts, his demons… face them and conquer them. She couldn’t help it as the air in the flat started to hum with static. “A coward wouldn’t be sitting here in my tower, asking to remember things he once thought so terrible that he begged to have them removed from his mind forever.”

“The fact that you feel remorse for any of it…” Mercy shook her head, her expression softening slightly. “Bad people don’t feel remorse, Winn.” What did that say about Mercy, and all the people she’d killed over the centuries that she hadn’t thought twice about? The thought was fleeting, and thankfully didn’t settle in Mercy’s head. So she pressed on. “We can’t judge ourselves for the way we deal with trauma. That’s why it’s called trauma. Because it’s a deeply disturbing experience. Something we can rarely control. The only thing we can do… is learn from it. And try to be better in the end.”

Mercy’s words were as much for herself as for Winn, even if she didn’t realize it. But even then, there was nothing more she could say that hadn’t already been said. So again, she waited. Where they went from here was up to Winn.

And try to be better in the end.

Winn pulled himself off of the floor of the flat, scrubbed at his eyes, and looked at Mercy. She was right, even if he couldn’t believe it right now. Had Winn learned from it? When Winn got the memories back, would time have helped? Or would he just be back to that broken man, cryin’ at his friend to take it all away?

No. No, he refused.

Winn had barely finished saying, “I want them back,” though, when he collapsed, again, to the floor, unconscious and still.

[paharvey99]

No Waitrose October 7 - Days 24-26

Day 24

Saturday, Saturday, Saturday… Saturn’s Day. The Saturdays were a band, weren’t they. I still think of them as a new band, they’re definitely not new. Can’t remember a single one of their songs. Always found it strange that a band would choose to have the word “turd” in the middle of their name as well, but then I notice things like that. Who was in The Saturdays anyway? I think I know some of them… Frankie! Una! Mollie! Rochelle! Another one! Rochelle’s all over the telly these days isn’t she, she presents a terrible music quiz show with her husband Marvin off of JLS, the one with idiots trying to recognise songs. And she does Ninja Warrior UK with Ben Shephard and Chris Kamara, we quite like that one. It’s essentially the Eliminator from Gladiators but over and over and over again, isn’t it. It’s like they went “Oh, how can we make Gladiators but for no money?”, that’s how Ninja Warrior started, I bet you.

Sorry about all that rubbish, I’m stalling because it’s now Monday evening and I literally can’t remember what happened on Saturday. That’s the problem with this pandemic thing, all the days are blurring into one.

Oh, I remember, here we go, let’s start now. I’ll need you to think back to a previous blog, day 18, where I compared writing this blog to running a marathon. Well, one of the main reasons I did that was with the aim of annoying my readers who are marathon runners, namely my older sister. Anyway, on Saturday my older sister, having read day 18 and recognised that I’d set out to annoy her, decided to annoy me by sending me a number of lengthy WhatsApp messages detailing exactly why what I’d said about marathon running wasn’t really correct. To give her her dues, this did really annoy me as I kept having to read lots of messages about marathon running and try to think of something to say about them. I’ll get her back somehow, don’t worry.

What we did do on Saturday was loooooads of baking. First of all we made some pizza dough to have pizzas for the four year-old I live with’s tea, then while that was proving we made some fairy cakes with chocolate icing and sprinkles on the top, then we finished off making the pizzas for the four year-old I live with’s tea and cooked them and ate them.

I did that thing of getting out all the toppings for the pizzas in separate bowls so that the four year-old I live with could put the toppings on herself. I was showing her all the toppings and when I got to the mozzarella I asked if she knew what it was, and she said no, and I was like “it’s CHEESE!”. And she was like, “no it’s not”, so I was like, “yeah, it’s CHEESE! It’s called… MOZZARELLA!” and she said “I don’t like mozzarella” and then it became a Thing. And as anyone who has ever met a small child knows, the last thing you want is for something to become a Thing, you just have to Tony Blair it, change the terms of debate. But stupidly, I couldn’t let it lie, I was all “NO, you DEFINITELY like mozzarella, EVERY SINGLE PIZZA you have EVER eaten has had mozzarella on it, there is simply NO WAY you do not like mozzarella, I will NOT accept that.”

Obviously, this was pretty much the silliest thing I could have said, as the four year-old I live with then dug in even deeper and shouted at me until I went and got the big wodge of Pilgrim’s Choice from the fridge and we grated that all over her pizza and she was happy.

I said we did looooooooads of baking, but actually we just made fairy cakes and pizza, but by the time we’d done that and with the mozzarella meltdown it felt like we’d been through the wars.

We also carved a pumpkin, that’s what we did. I let the four year-old I live with draw a face with a Sharpie and then I did all the carving. I told her to draw a big face, so she drew a tiny face, but to be fair to her it does look pretty scary, I was very pleased with it.

I hadn’t been out all day, so while the person I live with was putting the four year-old I live with to bed I went out for a walk in the wind and rain and immediately regretted it. It was strange though, I went down to the end of my street and at the end of my street there’s a restaurant called Mekan. It used to be called Fishmekan and it’s a huge cavern of a restaurant that never, ever has anyone in it. The person I live with and I exchange regular updates on how empty Fishmekan is, it’s a running joke in our house. Except on Saturday night, there were people in it. It was busier than I’ve ever seen it. I couldn’t believe it. Good luck to them, I’m pleased for them, I suppose we’re going to have to find another struggling business to make fun of now.

Vanessa, that’s the other Saturday, I went and looked it up for you.

Didn’t go to Waitrose.

Day 25

The clocks went back overnight, marking the end of British Summer Time and the beginning of hellish doomscape nightmare time. Have you noticed that nowadays when the clocks change it’s confusing in a different way because your phone seems to do it for you. So instead of thinking “Oh hell, which way do I need to change this clock” you’re looking at your phone thinking “Is that the actual time? Has it definitely changed? How will I know?”. I looked out of the window at the cricket club clock opposite and it said the same time as my phone, which confused me even more, because that suggested that someone had been in the cricket club at the crack of dawn on a Sunday to change the clock for the benefit of pretty much precisely no one.

I thought about sharing this observation with the person I live with, but decided that she probably wouldn’t be interested, so I kept quiet.

The weather was mad all day, it was quite nice and sunny for the most part but with regular yet mercifully brief torrential downpours. After lunch (the rest of yesterday’s pizzas) we decided to brave the elements and go for an outing to the Knepp Estate near Horsham.

I first went there last November after one of my friends, also a reader of this blog (hello Ian), asked me if I’d been to the Knepp Estate near Horsham and I’d never heard of it. I don’t like not having heard of things, so I looked it up and found out how to get there and went for a walk on my week off on my own. Ever since, I’ve been trying to find the time to go back to the Knepp Estate near Horsham with the people I live with in tow for a walk, but haven’t quite got round to it.

It’s a bit ridiculous it’s taken until now, to be honest. The main thing that has kept us sane since March has been going on walks in the countryside. I realised quite early on that if you went anywhere even vaguely off the beaten path in Sussex, you could easily walk for hours without seeing anyone. So that’s what we did. Almost every weekend over the summer we packed a picnic, found an obscure footpath on an OS map and went exploring. Hamsey, Cooksbridge, Chiltington, Laughton, Barcombe, Chailey, Wiston; it was a real roll call of places that barely exist. (I got those names off of my Instagram, I hadn’t remembered any of them).

The best walk we went on, though, was to Paul McCartney’s house. I’ve known for ages that Paul McCartney has a house in Sussex, so every time we went to some obscure place for a walk I’d say, “Oooh, do you reckon that’s Paul McCartney’s house?” and the person I live with would say “No, of course that’s not Paul McCartney’s house, Paul McCartney wouldn’t live THERE”. It got to the point where I actually looked up where Paul McCartney’s house in Sussex is, and it turned out to be near Peasmarsh, which is near Rye over on the Kent-Sussex border. It’s not that far away as the crow flies, maybe 40-ish miles, but the roads are so awful it takes about an hour and a half to get out there from Brighton so we don’t bother very often.

Anyway, it turned out that the person I live with’s sister was on holiday in Kent in August and wanted to come and meet us for a walk and so I was like “OMG WE CAN GO TO MACCA’S GAFF” and somehow everyone agreed to this.

To get to Paul McCartney’s house, here is what you do: drive to Jempson’s supermarket in Peasmarsh and park your car there (Jempson’s is some crazy supermarket/café/petrol station/post office brand that only exists on the Kent-Sussex border, it’s fancy). Then walk up out the back of Jempson’s, across the field, up the lane, down the path, through the wood, along the track, through the gate, across another field and then you get to Paul McCartney’s field. You can tell it’s Paul McCartney’s field because it’s really nice. It’s clearly not a field owned by a farmer, because it’s covered in wildflowers, and there’s a wide grassy path been mown in it for you to walk across. It’s the nicest field I’ve ever been in. 

When we were walking across it some deer turned up and ran over the brow of the hill, towards Paul McCartney’s house. However, I didn’t know that that was Paul McCartney’s house over the brow of the hill, I thought it was a different house, so we ended up going and hanging around a house that we thought was Paul McCartney’s house but it wasn’t really and peering in the garden. Then we walked back to Jempson’s and bought miniature tubs of ice cream, ate them in the car park and drove home.

So actually we never did see Paul McCartney’s house this summer, but we had a nice time anyway, and that was the main thing.

Where was I? Ah yes, the Knepp Estate near Horsham, we finally made it to Knepp. It’s a private estate, there’s not a visitor’s centre or anything I think, but there are public footpaths across it so we stuck to those. This would be a good point to explain about the rewilding project that they are doing at the estate, but I know sod all about it, you’ll have to look it up yourselves if you’re interested. It’s owned by a woman called Isabella Tree, she’s on the radio sometimes. We saw some nice trees and Knepp Castle and a mill pond and some historic eel traps. Then we went up a wooden staircase up a tree to a viewing platform, then across a boggy field and did some squelching in mud, which we all enjoyed.

At this point it was getting dark, and the person I live with said “Oooh, it is getting dark early now isn’t it”, and I said, well, that’ll be the clocks going back. Then the person I live with admitted she hadn’t noticed the clocks going back until that point, which made me wish that I had mentioned it to her earlier.

We were walking back to the car along the track that goes up to the main house on the estate when a Land Rover came along, so we got out of the way and as it went past it became apparent that the driver was about 11 years old. He had a load of what looked like responsible adults in the car with him, so I think it was probably ok. He was so proud of himself though, he gave us a little wave as he went past, I think he was over the moon that someone else had seen him driving. Then we saw some deer and went home.

One of the more curious things about Knepp is that it’s a stone’s throw from the A24. There’s a McDonalds drive through about half a mile away. On the way there the McDonalds was so busy that there were hordes of people outside and some of them had spilled onto the central reservation of the A24 to eat their burgers. It seemed to me unnecessarily punishing in a pandemic to eat your lunch in the middle of four lanes of traffic, but I’m not judging. Sundays can turn out like that, can’t they.

Didn’t go to Waitrose.

Day 26

God, I’ve gone on a bit about the weekend, haven’t I? Monday, worked a bit, played a bit, made some banana bread, watched University Challenge, went to bed.

Didn’t go to Waitrose.

[architectnews]

Fountain Villa, Prague

Fountain Villa, Prague House Renovations, Czech Republic Property Redevelopment, Architecture Photos

Fountain Villa in Prague

6 Oct 2020

Fountain Villa, Prague

Design: Mjölk architekti

Location: Prague, Czech Republic

Fountain Villa

Smells are perceptions. If the smells are pleasant, we can call them scents. These perceptions can be acquired through olfactory receptors. Combining several specific scents creates the scent of a home. From an early age, Greta has associated the scent of a home with the scent of caramelised sugar and fruit juices which was permeated with the smell of freshly watered flowers in the conservatory, where fruit cakes were also served. Last but not least, the scent of home included the musty smell of old paper guidebooks from perhaps the whole world. These quietly laid in the library in the living room for decades as reminders of the journeys of young parents to states that no longer exist today.

Klára opened the window and let the morning breezy air into the bedroom. She gets up like this every morning and she enjoys their house, which is no longer newly renovated. Today is Greta’s twentieth birthday. Peter went to pick up some flowers and he’s heading to the airport, Klára has to quickly bake a blueberry pie which Greta likes so much. The kitchen smelled of leavened dough with crumbs and sweet puffs leaked from the opened oven. Greta is on her way from Vienna, where she’s studying at the university. The gate has been unlocked and that means the two had arrived from the airport. “Kilian, get down, your sister is here!” Klára shouts at the teenager and rushes through the door. Before she enters the hallway, she realises that Greta took the other way around the fountain to surprise her mother. The suitcases slam against the pavement in the conservatory and Greta says, “Uh, finally home.”

Petr looked at a gentleman whose appearance and behaviour resembled someone from Kludský or Berousek family. A well-built guy with a casually unbuttoned shirt and hairy chest was to become their partner for the reconstruction. This guy’s vocabulary could easily assure someone that the reconstruction would be a piece of cake, but Petr didn’t feel that way. The strange shivers going down his spine indicated that this reconstruction would have a story.

Pavel arrived on time for this meeting. His used Škoda Superb masterfully swept a few holes as he passed the broken road in Prague 5 and announced to passers-by that he had travelled across Europe to sunny Croatia a few times. Just so that his crew would get some tan and have the curled hair on their chests lighten under the Mediterranean sun. However, being on time to meet new clients is essential, so the car jumped over a few more road craters and stopped at the place where the meeting was arranged. The informal environment with the odour of the cigarette past and the sour beer presence will be a good test of the courage of the people who decided to build a house with him.

Kilian ran down, stopped in the conservatory and watched the sun dance on the surface of the fountain, throwing dozens of golden pigs to the ceiling. Once again, the hot summer was burning lawns and helping local gardeners grow the sweetest strawberries far and wide. The sister waited, smiled, swung over the ladder and jumped into ice-cold water. Mom just raised an eyebrow and started slicing the cake.

“Hello, Jakub and Honza. Thank you for coming to us from Liberec, it was nice to meet you in person. As promised, we are sending the plans and a short summary of our situation.” said the e-mail. But I’m not Jakub, Lukáš complained, and started reading the confusing introduction of the message once again. It was half past four in the afternoon, the sun was shining through grey curtains and uncompromisingly drying all the faded flies that had reached hell between the window and the curtain. The air conditioning was buzzing, and the studio was full of the typical smell of coffee, mixed with the smell of cigarettes and air conditioning. If someone ever wanted to make Mjölk perfume, the body would consist of these ingredients.

The villa with a fountain is a renovated weekend house from the era of the First Republic. When we first saw it, it didn’t look like it does today. It was burdened with deposits that had stuck to it over the years, and its First Republic spark was long gone. Today, the villa shines again. Robust pines stretch over its roof and silver flags of light bounce off the water’s surface into the conservatory. In the distance you can hear a train passing by while here and there you can smell the river which flows in the valley near the house.

Technical information Architectural design is based on cleaning the existing one-family house from an inconvenient garage extension. Instead of a garage, a simple entrance mass is designed in harmony with the original character of the villa. The covered parking space with a straight exit on the main road is located on the lot line and is accessible by an adjusted pedestrian path to the main entrance and to the existing terrace. Also, the existing fencing towards the street was reconstructed in the length of 47.5 m. Due to layout changes in the interior, some openings in bearing walls had to be enlarged, some partitions had to be demolished and all openings on the garden-facing facade had to be enlarged. The character and the main mass of the house had been preserved. The design in the exterior included a replacement of window panels, an insulation of the building, a new plaster and a new roof.

Material and colour solution The simplicity of the design is reflected in material and colour solution. Materials used in the original building were only replaced with new ones. Both roof and facade have similar character as before the start of reconstruction. The facade was insulated and all window panels were replaced.

Layout and operational solution This one-family house is designed for 4 people which corresponds to the simple layout. The main entrance is from the north-west of the street. The entrance with a vestibule is materially separated from the living area. Through the vestibule with built-in wardrobes you enter the hall where a staircase to the 2nd floor is located, along with access to the guest room, the kitchen and the main living area of the house with an access to the terrace. On the 2nd floor, there is a room for two children, study room and main bedroom with bathroom and walk-in closet.

Fountain Villa in Prague, Czech Republic – Building Information

Architects: Mjölk architekti

Project location: Prague, Czech Republic

Completion year: 2020 Built-up Area: 130 sqm Gross Floor Area: 260 sqm Usable Floor Area: 184 sqm

Collaborator Architect: Lukáš Holub Construction company: All Real Garden architects: Atelier Partero

Photographer BoysPlayNice

Fountain Villa, Prague images / information received 061020

Location: Prague, Czech Republic

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[justtideguard]

(Valid IC Content) Somewhere at some given time you are attacked! Either a gunshot from afar, a knife in the shadows, or just taking a wrong turn in the city. Your attacker is -extremely- skilled with disheartening endurance to damage; often shrugging off blows that would kill an Orc. Your attacker, whoever it is, would be coated in the least with chainmail, with various sheets of plate to cover their vitals. Their armor is black and gold... Good luck!

A long night as usual, this seemed to be a growing trend as of late as the businesses she was involved in began to pick up. Her last consult, the arms dealer in Old Town was...revolting, to say the least. The way he eyed and tried to paw at her the entire meeting brought a sickly churning to her stomach, but, it was the plan she’d hoped for. His reputation preceded him, and she dressed for the occasion, which as a result, resulted in her gaining the resources for the Company that she’d need, even if it did cost her some dignity. At least one thing was able to salvage the night, the dress she’d spent hours with the tailor for had finally been finished. She’d miss the wedding of Galleia’s father tonight, but now, now she was prepared to see hers at least.

Making her way around the corners, through the dark alleys she’d finally reach her inns’ doorstep along the back side of a dilapidated exterior staircase. Dress over shoulder she reached for the doorknob with a quick quirk of her head. Quarter turn. She always left the doorknob at a full turn with the lock, having to use a piece of thin bark to keep it jammed that way. Opening the door slowly she held it at a crack for a moment, the light of a nearby lamp post finding it’s way through the opening for her. With a sudden swing of the door she’d push it all the way inside showing the room bare, save for all of her papers and little things. Paranoid, probably someone mistaking the room for their own was all.

As she made her way in she’d shut the door behind her, latch it and toss the dress onto her filthy cot. With a few steps she made it over to her desk and reached for the first drawer, within, a few matches lay waiting sprawled out across the bottom of the tray. With a quick strike of the match she went to lower it to light her candle before the glint caught her eye. Through the dirt-caked mirror behind her desk she saw the shine of gold and steel behind her. Before she could turn, she was out of breath, the air being torn from her lungs as she dropped the match, extinguishing itself as it fell to the floor. The assassins’ garrote tightened about her throat as he began to pull her backwards up into the air to hold her elevated in her strangulation. Legs kicking wildly and fingers fighting to grab hold of the chord, she couldn’t slip through it’s restraint as her eyes welled with her face going red.

“I’d hoped you would be more of a challenge.” The man said through idle grunts to keep her both restrained and elevated from the ground. “But I’ll make due before the others.” As everything began to twist and haze over in her vision, Tide clawed backwards at the man’s face to no avail as she couldn’t think from the oxygen deprivation. In her last breathing moments she was able to remember something from earlier in the day, and by the Light, the man who taught her had forgotten the blade which might save her. Fumbling for the dirk that lay tucked in her belt she was finally able to grip it. With white knuckled hold her eyes shifted aside, and through the tears she spotted her target. Full force, drive it the fuck through. Using all she had left she pulled the knife back and plunged it through the man’s forearm, seeing it through one side, and out the other. The assassin’s grip immediately loosened before dropping her to the ground, leaving Tide choking and gasping for air as she fought to unwind the wire around her neck.

With a pained, yet determined grunt the assassin tore the blade from his arm, seeming unconcerned by the blood pouring out as a result as he reached down to Tide. Pulling her up by the scalp he began striking her repeatedly in the ribs on either side. Strike after strike she felt her ribs splintering. Like a twig beneath a mans boot, her ribs crunched and snapped each time the man punched behind those plated gauntlets. With a cry out in pain Tide fell limp in the hands of her assailant before he carelessly tossed her towards her window. Looking up she could see it through the light of the moon shining through on her windowsill, maybe her only salvation; A button.

Forcing herself to stand she grabbed the button and braced herself against the wall as she watched the assassin step forward again. Drawing a knife from his side he’d twirl it between his fingers before raising it over head with each step forward. Without any safety left, Tide did the only thing she could. She pressed the button with a firm slam of her palm and turned to throw her weight against the window. As she began to fall the at least twenty feet downwards, a beautiful plume of fire and chaos erupted out of the window she’d flown from. The explosion rang out deafeningly as Tide hit the ground like a rag doll, papers and embers falling down like leaves to greet her. Blinking up to the sky her eyes felt heavy, but she knew she couldn’t sleep yet. Shards of glass remained jutting out of her arms, legs, and anything else that seemed inconvenient for the time really. The last thing she could see floating down from the room was the tattered remains of her new dress, scorched and in shreds as it blew into one of the nearby gutters.

Knowing she could not rest, but feeling as though she could barely move through the pain, she couldn’t stay here. With painful yells and obscenities Tide was able to finally bring herself to stand with the aid of a nearby cart she was forced to crawl to. Limping and stumbling every few feet she pressed onward, looking for salvation, or something, anything, to stop the bleeding and the pain. What felt like hours passing of her restless trudge through the empty city streets finally resulted in her reaching the Cathedral Square. As she neared the fountain she could go no further, her body would not allow it before leaving her to collapse onto the cobblestone path. Arms sprawled out and bleeding to death she prayed to anything that would heed the call, the Light, Shadows, the Balance...please send a priest, a druid...someone. Whether she deserved saving, or would receive it she did not know before her eyes finally fell too heavy. Maybe just a little rest, just for a little while.

[nebris]

Hitler's secretary, Christa Schroeder, with Hitler, 1939 

I was Hitler's secretary

As Hitler's right-hand woman, Christa Schroeder had a unique insight into his  intelligence, his temper, and his quirks. In this exclusive extract from her  memoir, she describes her time at his side

by Christa Schroeder

7:00AM BST 26 Apr 2009

When replying to a tiny job advertisement in the German newspaper, Münchner Neuesten Nachrichten, I had no premonition that it was to determine the future course of my life.

It was 1930, and aged 22, I had just arrived in Munich from Bavaria, eager to explore a new part of Germany. The post was a secretarial one and I was invited by an unknown organisation, the 'Supreme SA leadership (OSAF)' to present myself in the Schellingstrasse. In this almost unpopulated street the Reich leadership of the NSDAP, the Nazi Party, was located at No. 50 on the fourth floor of a building at the rear.

In the past, the man who would later become Adolf Hitler's official photographer, Heinrich Hoffmann, had made his scurrilous films in these rooms. The former photographic studio was now occupied by the Supreme SA-Führer, Franz Pfeffer von Salomon and his chief of staff, Dr Otto Wagener. Later I learned that I had been the last of 87 applicants. That the post was awarded to me, someone who was neither a member of the NSDAP nor interested in politics nor aware of whom Adolf Hitler might be, must have resulted purely from my being a 22-year-old with proven shorthand/typing experience who could furnish good references.

Once Hitler had become Reich Chancellor, stenotypists were requested to volunteer for the NSDAP Liaison Staff in Berlin. In March 1933 I arrived in the capital.

Tea with the Führer  

After seizing power, Hitler had installed himself in Berlin's Radziwill Palace. His study, the library, his bedroom and later, alongside it, Eva Braun's apartment were all on the first floor.

Directly opposite the door to Hitler's study a couple of steps led to a long corridor, beyond which was the so-called adjutancy wing with the rooms for Hitler's aides. The first room was the Staircase Room (Treppenzimmer), where at least one of us would be permanently on standby, regardless of the hour, should Hitler need to give a dictation. Then came the rooms of Julius Schaub, Hitler's rather unprepossessing factotum, Dr Dietrich (Reich press officer), Sepp Dietrich (commander of SS-Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler, Hitler's personal bodyguard unit) and Hitler's chief adjutant, Wilhelm Brückner.

If one descended the staircase beyond these one came to the so-called ladies' saloon, actually the reception room, to the left of which wing doors, always pegged open, led into the film room. To the right was the Bismarck Room, also known as the smoking room. The dining hall was next to it and annexed to the Winter Garden, which ended in a fine semicircular path. Breakfast was taken in the Winter Garden and in the afternoon Hitler held most of his talks strolling its length.

One day Hitler happened to pass the Staircase Room at teatime, saw us sitting there and asked if he might join us. This hour of easy chatter was so much to his liking that he later came to tea almost daily. The Staircase Room was a place where he felt unburdened and I always had the impression that what he said there came from a secret memory box which at all other times he kept locked shut.

He would often recall pranks played in late childhood, for example, the time as a 12 year-old when he wagered his classmates that he could make the girls laugh during a religious service. He won the bet by intently brushing his non-existent moustache whenever they glanced at him.

He also spoke of his mother, to whom he was very attached, and of his father's violence: 'I never loved my father,' he used to say, 'but feared him. He was prone to rages and would resort to violence. My poor mother would then always be afraid for me. When I read Karl May once that it was a sign of bravery to hide one's pain, I decided that when he beat me the next time I would make no sound. When it happened – I knew my mother was standing anxiously at the door – I counted every stroke out loud. Mother thought I had gone mad when I reported to her with a beaming smile, "Thirty-two strokes father gave me!" From that day I never needed to repeat the experiment, for my father never beat me again.'

Hitler's tailor

For Hitler, clothing was purely functional. He hated trying things on. Since he made lively hand and arm movements to emphasise points he was making in his speeches, and also liked to extend his body while strolling in conversation, especially when the subject was one which excited him and which he did mainly by raising the right shoulder, he had an aversion to a close fit. His tailor had to shape all uniforms and suits for comfort in this regard. This occasional raising of the right shoulder may have been due to the left shoulder being stiff. During the putsch of November 9 1923 Hitler fell to the pavement, dislocating his left shoulder. Dr Walter Schultze, the leader of the SA medical corps, could not convince Hitler to have it X-rayed. Hitler feared being 'bumped off' at the hospital. The shoulder was therefore never properly fixed and remained stiff ever afterwards.

'Imagine my face without a moustache!'  

I found Hitler's eyes expressive. They could look friendly and warm-hearted, or express indignation, indifference and disgust. In the last months of the war they lost expressiveness and became a more watery, pale light blue, and rather bulging. One could always tell his mood from his voice. It could be unusually calm, clear and convincing, but also excited, increasing in volume and becoming overwhelmingly aggressive. Often it would be ice-cold. 'Ice-cold' or 'Now I am ice-cold' were much-used phrases of his. 'I am totally indifferent to what the future will think of the methods which I have to use,' I heard frequently. 'Ruthless' (rücksichtslos) was common in his vocabulary: 'Force it through ruthlessly, whatever the cost!'

Hitler's nose was very large and fairly pointed. I do not know whether his teeth were ever very attractive, but by 1945 they were yellow and he had bad breath. He should have grown a beard to hide his mouth. During the years of his friendship with Ada Klein, who worked on the Nazi party newspaper, Völkischer Beobachter, he told her: 'Many people say I should shave off the moustache, but that is impossible. Imagine my face without a moustache!' and at that held his hand below his nose like a plate. 'My nose is much too big. I need the moustache to relieve the effect!'

'His face turned to stone'

Hitler set great store on hygiene. He bathed daily, often several times a day, particularly after meetings and speeches, from which he would return sweating. Harsh and inflexible as Hitler could be with others, he did not exempt himself. He would reject tiredness and would call upon endless reserves of energy. No wonder that the trembling left hand was such an embarrassment to him. The knowledge from 1944 onwards that he was no longer master of his own body was a heavy burden. When surprised visitors saw his trembling hand, he would cover it instinctively with the other. Yet to the end he remained master of his emotions. Should bad news arrive during a private conversation the only clue would be a movement of his jaw. I remember him receiving the report about the destruction of the Möhne and Eder dams, which flooded much of the Ruhr. As he read it his face turned to stone, but that was all. Nobody could have gauged how deeply the blow had struck him. It would be hours or days before he would refer to such an event, and then give full vent to his feelings.

Memory man

From his youth onwards Hitler had a great lust to read. He told me one day that during his youth in Vienna he had read through all 500 volumes at the city reference library. I was always amazed at how precisely he could describe any geographical region or speak about art history or hold forth on very complicated technical matters. In the same way he could describe with amazing detail how theatres, churches, monasteries and castles were built. The Oberbürgermeister of Munich, with whom Hitler enjoyed discussing the expansion and beautification of the city, related how surprised he was when Hitler recalled the minute details of a conversation they had had months previously. Hitler had reproached him: 'Six months ago I told you I wanted it done this way!' and then repeated word for word their conversation, a fact confirmed by architects Speer and Giesler post-war.

It is confirmed that from his youth onwards Hitler had the gift of an unusual memory, but his secret was that he trained and expanded it every day. He said that when he was reading he tried to grasp the essence of a thing and fix it in his mind. It was his practice or method during the tea hours and when chatting at the hearth over a subject he had been reading about to repeat it several times in order to anchor it more firmly in his memory. Despite the effort Hitler made to surprise people with his rich trove of knowledge, and to show them his superiority, he made sure he never let them know the sources of this knowledge. He was expert at convincing his listeners that everything he said was the result of his own deliberations and critical thinking. Nearly everybody was convinced that Hitler was a profound thinker, and a wonderfully sharp, analytical spirit.

Once I began working for him, I wanted to get the thing straight. One day Hitler launched into a philosophical dissertation on one of his favourite themes. To my astonishment I realised that he was reciting a page from Schopenhauer, which I had just finished reading myself. Summoning all my courage I drew the fact to his attention. Hitler, taken a little aback, threw me a glance and explained in fatherly tones: 'Do not forget, my child, that all knowledge comes from others and that every person only contributes a minute piece to the whole.'

Dictation with the dictator  

Back in the Staircase Room I would wait on standby until a valet shouted through the wing door: 'The chief is asking you to come for dictation!' He would open the door to the library and shut it as he withdrew, hanging a notice on the latch: 'Do not disturb.' As a rule Hitler would be standing at or bent over his desk, working on the punch lines for a speech, for example. Often he would appear not to notice my presence. Before the dictation I would not exist for him, and I doubt whether he saw me as a person when I was at my typist's desk. A while would pass in silence. Then he would close in on the typewriter and begin to dictate calmly and with expansive gestures. Gradually, getting into his stride, he would speak faster. Without pause one sentence would then follow another while he strolled around the room.

Occasionally he would halt, lost in thought, before Lenbach's portrait of Bismarck, gathering himself as it were before resuming his wandering. His face would become florid and the anger would shine in his eyes. He would stand rooted to the spot as though confronting the particular enemy he was imagining. It would certainly have been easier to have taken this dictation in shorthand but Hitler did not want this. Apparently he felt himself as if on wings when he heard the rhythmic chatter of the typewriter keys.

The typewriter had its own mechanical noise. As Hitler would never be seen wearing spectacles in public, typewriters were later manufactured with 12mm characters so that he could read the script in public without glasses. The 'Silenta' brand machines had the advantage of typing quietly but the keys tended to tangle if one typed over a certain speed. Since Hitler did not – or did not want to – notice this and kept on dictating, this was naturally very unsettling for the typist and often made her very nervous. One became anxious that while unscrambling the keys a sentence might be missed and the text would not flow.

On one occasion I did not like the way he had phrased something. When I dared mention it, he looked at me, neither angry nor offended, and said: 'You are the only person I allow to correct me!' From the outbreak of war Hitler would never deliver a speech without a manuscript. 'I prefer to speak, and I speak best, from the top of my head,' he told me, 'but now we are at war I must weigh carefully every word, for the world is watching and listening. Were I to use the wrong word in a spontaneous moment of passion, that could have severe implications!'

The smoking ban  

The day at FHQ Wolfsschanze had been as dull as any other. After dinner I saw a film in the hope of relieving my boredom, then I went to the officers' mess from where Hitler's manservant winkled me out just as I was getting comfortable. In the hope that the tea session would perhaps not last too long, I promised to return to the mess afterwards. Torn from a convivial environment, I now came to a Führer who wore a frown. I knew that he would be in a bad mood, for the situation at the Russian Front was not good.

Today's theme was that old chestnut, smoking. He would start out with special reference to narrowing of the arteries caused by smoking. How awful a smoker's stomach must look. Smokers lacked consideration for others, forcing them to breathe in polluted air. He had really toyed with the idea of outlawing smoking anywhere in Germany. The campaign would begin by having a death's head printed on every cigarette pack. 'If I should ever discover,' he often said, emphasising the depth of his antagonism to smoking, 'that Eva were secretly smoking, then that would be grounds for me to separate from her immediately and for ever.'

At that time I was a heavy smoker. Hitler said that because tobacco products were distributed to them freely, even young soldiers who had not been smokers previously had now taken up the habit.

They should be given chocolate, not cigarettes. Everybody nodded in agreement, but I, already in a rather spirited frame of mind from my visit to the officers' mess, chipped in and declared: 'Ah, mein Führer, let the poor boys (I might even have used the word 'swine' here) have this pleasure, they don't get any others!' Ignoring my idiotic outburst, Hitler went on to explain how nicotine and alcohol ruined people's health and addled the mind. Now I brought up the big gun and said, referring to photographer Heinrich Hoffmann, 'One cannot really say that, mein Führer. Hoffmann smokes and drinks all day yet is the most agile man in the shop.' At that Hitler clammed up.

Without another word he rose quickly and took his leave – 'ice-cold' and with an aggrieved expression, from which I finally saw what I had done.

Next afternoon when I inquired of the manservant in what mood the boss found himself today, Hans Junge gave a colleague and myself a long look and said that tea would be taken today without the ladies. Albert Bormann had been told to inform us officially. When I asked him, Bormann admitted in embarrassment that the boss was annoyed with me and would not be requiring the ladies' company at tea.

I no longer existed for him. It was to be many months before Hitler forgave my faux pas.

'You are sentimental'  

In 1978, Henriette Schirach [the wife of Baldur Benedikt von Schirach, head of the Hitler youth and Reich Governor of Vienna during the Nazi occupation] reminded me of an encounter she had with Hitler on Good Friday, 1943. I remember that evening Eva Braun had sat at Hitler's right before she went upstairs, and to the left of Henriette.

While the other guests were talking, an argument developed between Henriette and Hitler, the subject of which was an occurrence in Amsterdam a few days previously. She had been awoken at night by an unusually loud disturbance and had watched from a hotel window as some weeping women were ordered forward across a bridge and disappeared into the night.

The next day she learned from her friends that this had been a deportation of Jewish women. She promised to bring the matter to the attention of Hitler, which she was now doing. Hitler answered her in a very brusque manner: 'Be silent, Frau von Schirach, you understand nothing about it. You are sentimental. What does it matter to you what happens to female Jews? Every day tens of thousands of my most valuable men fall while the inferior survive. In that way the balance in Europe is being undermined,' and here he moved his cupped hands up and down like a pair of scales.

'And what will become of Europe in one hundred, in one thousand years?' In a tone which made it evident that he considered the matter closed, he declared: 'I am committed by duty to my people alone, to nobody else!'

'He Was My Chief: The Memoirs of Adolf Hitler's Secretary' by Christa Schroeder, introduced by Roger Moorhouse (Frontline Books, £19.99), is available from Telegraph Books for £17.99 + £1.25 p & p. Call 0844 871 1515 or visit www.books.telegraph.co.uk

WHO WAS CHRISTA SCHROEDER?

Working as Hitler’s secretary from 1933 until his suicide in 1945, the young Christa Schroeder never knew a private life. In 1938, she became engaged to Yugoslav diplomat Lav Alkonic. When Hitler refused to give his blessing to the liaison, Schroeder raised the possibility of leaving his employment. Hitler replied: ‘I would know how to prevent that.’ The engagement was broken off in 1941.

After the collapse of the Third Reich Schroeder was arrested by the US Army Counter-Intelligence Corps (CIC). Initially convicted as a war criminal, she was later reclassified as a collaborator and released days later, on 12 May 1948. Dr Karl Brandt, formerly Hitler’s emergency surgeon, described Schroeder under interrogation at Nuremberg: ‘Clever, critical and intelligent, she had a turnover of work which no other secretary matched, often spending several days and nights almost without a break taking dictation. She would always express her opinion openly...and in time became sharply critical of Hitler himself. Her boldness undoubtedly put her life in grave danger.’ In civilian life, she worked in the metal and insurance industries, retiring at 59, and living in Munich until her death, aged 76, on 28 June 1984.

Christa Schroeder was never a National Socialist in the true sense: ‘I was told I had to join the Party since only NSDAP members could be employees. I suppose I went a few times to the big assemblies, but I felt nothing in common with the speakers or the masses and I must have appeared terribly stupid.’

An alternative view of her appears in a US Army intelligence report of May 22 1945: ‘Mr Albrecht… interrogated her. She was rather stupid, dumpy and an ardent Nazi.’ Schroeder wrote of this event: ‘After the interrogation was over, Lt Albrecht...had a very friendly conversation with me. When I expressed regret that my whole life, all the years, had been for nothing, he replied, “No, everything has a purpose, nothing is wasted”.’

Anton Joachimsthaler

@evahitler