Banality of Evil: My Visit to the Obersalzberg

By Hans Mahncke

Evil is often associated with malevolent figures committing heinous acts. However, hidden within everyday life is a disturbing truth: the banality of evil. Coined by political philosopher Hannah Arendt in her analysis of the trial of Adolf Eichmann, this concept challenges our traditional view of evil, showing that it can appear not only in blatantly wicked actions but also in the ordinary routines of daily life. This normalization of evil within societal norms and bureaucratic structures is what makes it insidious. It enables individuals to rationalize their actions, separating morality from obedience and distancing themselves from the consequences of their actions.

I spent many years wondering how an otherwise advanced society like Germany, with such a rich cultural heritage ranging from Beethoven to Kant, was able to murder six million Jews as if it were a perfectly normal thing to do. I too heard the excuses. We didn't know what was going on; everyone was kept in the dark, etc. But that never passed the smell test. At a minimum, it would have been obvious that all the Jews had suddenly disappeared. 

The answer finally came with Covid. Ordinary people are capable not only of looking the other way but also of condoning, and even demanding, the unconscionable. It became commonplace to demand that the unvaccinated be locked up in their homes, denied healthcare, have their children taken away, or even that toddlers whose parents happened to be unvaccinated be denied life-saving surgery. The corporate media cheered on the craziness, writing lengthy pieces that rationalized the denial of basic human rights.

All of this now seems like a distant memory to most. But it happened, and at the time, it was not only seen as perfectly normal, but those of us who objected were cast as troublemakers.

All of that left a huge impression with me. I finally began to understand how the Germans were driven into mass psychosis. It appears to be part of the human condition, involving a combination of fear, envy, conformity, and compliance.

But what about the perpetrators? That part is still unclear to me, a point that moved into sharp focus over the past year. 

That is mainly because I finally got around to reading John Toland's seminal 1,120-page biography of Adolf Hitler. It is a truly remarkable book in terms of depth, research, and writing. In meticulous detail, the book traces Hitler's rise from his humble upbringing in Austria to becoming the Führer, and ultimately to his final demise. Some of those details appear to have been directly carried over into the movie “Downfall,” but the book provides a much more detailed account. What stood out most to me was the apparent humanization of Hitler. Not unlike the banality of evil that we saw in our fellow citizens during Covid, Hitler apparently had many characteristics that we would never associate with him. On the surface, his upbringing seems to have been mostly ordinary. His gratitude as a young adult towards the Jewish doctor who saved his mother's life seemed genuine, with no indication of what was about to come. His quest was to become an artist, earning a meager income by selling self-made postcards to tourists in Vienna. His first dog, Fuchsl, was with him in the trenches throughout World War I. Several other dogs followed, with the most famous being Blondi, the German Shepherd who was with Hitler until the end in the Führerbunker in Berlin. How could a man who loved dogs be so evil? How could this man rise to become one of history's worst mass murderers? And then there are the kids. Childless himself, Hitler appears to have had a genuine affection for the children of his associates and underlings, such as Albert Speer's son, the Goebbels children, and even random children from Berchtesgaden, the nearest town to Hitler’s Berghof (“mountain court”) retreat in the Bavarian Alps.

And this takes us to the Obersalzberg, the mountain on which the Berghof was located. It is a little known fact that Hitler spent more than one-third of his twelve years in power at the Berghof. It was literally a second seat of power, right after Berlin. 

Almost all of the private footage we have of Hitler is at the Berghof. There are numerous photos as well as extensive movie reels made by Hitler's mistress, Eva Braun, who was a hobby cinematographer. Much of the footage is in color, showing numerous scenes of Hitler sitting on the terrace, playing with his dogs, or entertaining children.

Hitler first visited Berchtesgaden, the nearest town to the Obersalzberg, in 1923. Soon after, he was imprisoned for his role in the Beer Hall Putsch, a failed coup d'état. During his time in prison, Hitler wrote the first part of his autobiographical manifesto, Mein Kampf. A lesser-known fact is that after he was released from prison in 1924, Hitler started to regularly visit Berchtesgaden. It became his sanctuary, and it was at the Berghof that he wrote the second part of Mein Kampf. At the time, the Berghof was a simple mountain chalet called Haus Wachenfeld, which Hitler rented. Using the royalties generated by sales of Mein Kampf, Hitler bought Haus Wachenfeld in 1933 and started the process of rebuilding and expanding it. In 1935, Haus Wachenfeld was renamed the Berghof.

The Berghof then and now (credit: University of Wisconsin–Madison Libraries; Hans Mahncke)

It was at the Berghof that Hitler had some of history's most momentous meetings. One of the most notable meetings was the visit of Neville Chamberlain in 1938, which led to Chamberlain's infamous “Peace for our time” declaration. Other notable visitors included one of Chamberlain's predecessors as the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, David Lloyd George, Italian dictator Benito Mussolini, and, of course, Prince Edward, Duke of Windsor. Edward, who apparently favored a British alliance with Hitler, visited shortly after he had relinquished the throne of the British King in order to marry the American divorcee Wallis Simpson.

As I drove from Berchtesgaden to the Berghof, two things immediately struck me: the sheer beauty of the landscape with its imposing mountains, and the steepness of the road. I had not expected the Berghof to be situated so high up the mountain. I wondered how the Nazis managed to transport large quantities of building materials up and down the mountain when they expanded the Berghof and later constructed a vast tunnel system beneath it. This was especially notable considering that the road would have been covered in ice and snow for many months of the year.

Nestled in the Bavarian Alps, it was initially thought that the Allies could not reach the Obersalzberg. However, in 1943, British bombers managed to do just that for the first time. This prompted Hitler to order the construction of a giant underground network of tunnels beneath the Berghof. The tunnels remain there to this day. But more on that in a moment.

After Hitler's suicide on April 30, 1945, SS personnel burned down the Berghof. But its shell remained intact. American troops arrived at the Berghof on May 8. The Berghof was subsequently looted of whatever remained there. In 1951, the regional Bavarian government decided to completely destroy the Berghof and its surrounding buildings. All that remains visible to this day are the foundations and the southern retaining wall, which was presumably kept in order to prevent the steep slope from collapsing.

Berghof retaining wall (credit: Hans Mahncke)

For half a century, the ruins of the Berghof remained untouched, and a lush forest began to grow where houses once stood. The famous view from Hitler's terrace, which is depicted in many of Braun's home videos, is now obscured by trees. But for the retaining wall and the odd chunk of cement, a casual hiker would have no idea what once stood in this place.

Under the direction of the Institute of Contemporary History (“Institut für Zeitgeschichte”), an institute established by the German government at the behest of the Allies after World War II, a museum was built near the site of the Berghof in 1999. Interestingly, the museum is located a few hundred yards to the west of the Berghof, and casual visitors are neither directed nor encouraged to visit the Berghof site. The site remains in its untouched, overgrown state. I presume authorities want to keep it that way, so visitors are instead directed to the museum site. Despite being located to the west of the Berghof, the museum incorporates a stunning array of the underground tunnel and bunker network built by the Nazis in 1943. In fact, that tunnel network is far bigger than the Berghof footprint ever was and incorporates everything that one might have needed, from complex air filtration systems, to fuel storage facilities, to Hitler's private office. Even though one could easily spend an hour walking through the parts of the bunker that are part of the museum, those sections represent only a fraction of the entire network. Most of the tunnel network, especially the Berghof sections, are sealed off.

Berghof bunker (credit: Hans Mahncke)

Hitler’s bunker office (credit: Hans Mahncke)

One thing that struck me was that every visitor I came across at the museum was American. Now, to be fair, I visited the Obersalzberg on a damp Monday morning in April. Nevertheless, I found it notable that only Americans had made the journey on that dreary day, which is over two hours by car from Munich. At the Berghof site, I did not encounter anyone at all. It was completely deserted, with only a few bits of cement, lots of trees, and me.

View from above the Berghof (credit: Hans Mahncke)

After a short climb up the mountain behind the Berghof's retaining wall, I sat on a slab of cement, looked down into the valley and across to Austria, and kept reflecting on how so much evil could have been conjured up in such an incredibly tranquil place.

I don't have an answer. All we know is that for Hitler, this isolated sanctuary became a fertile breeding ground for sinister thoughts and plots. As I walked and climbed around the Obersalzberg, I couldn't help but constantly ponder the chilling reality that darkness can thrive amidst the beauty of the natural world, casting a long shadow over the human soul.

(Note: I did not visit the Eagle's Nest (“Kehlsteinhaus”) as it is closed at this time of the year. The Eagle's Nest is a building that the Nazis constructed as a gift to Hitler for his 50th birthday atop the summit of one of the mountains in the area, the Kehlstein. Hitler apparently did not like the Eagle's Nest and only visited 14 times.)