Vogue’s Turn to the Right

By Thomas Vinciguerra

“In yet another twist in the escalating Marie Antoinette-ifying of Syria’s first lady, Vogue magazine has removed from its Web site last year’s highly flattering—and controversial—profile that hailed Asma [al-Assad] as a conspicuously under-accessorized modern woman. . . . The fawning 2011 Vogue purple-prose-and-photo spread . . . ‘coincided with the Syrian government’s crackdown on anti-regime protesters.’”

—Annie Groer in, March 24.

It is a few minutes past noon and Eva Braun is scrambling around her gleaming Alpine kitchen, apologizing for not having lunch on the table.

“I’m so sorry,” says the tall, clean-limbed embodiment of Aryan womanhood, straining the liver dumplings into a rustic, Bavarian-style tureen. “We had such a late night. Hermann and Heinrich just wouldn’t leave!”

Domestic tranquility can be a challenge when you’re the consort of Europe’s most famous dictator. But Ms. Braun, who gave up a high-powered career as a photographer’s model and assistant for her man, has no regrets.

“I just adore Adolf,” she says, her golden hair shining like a nimbus in the early-afternoon Berchtesgaden sunlight. “I like to tease him about his moustache. Yet no matter how many times I make fun of him, he tells me, ‘Liebchen, you are the Schlag in my Schokolade.’”

   Spend even a few minutes with Ms. Braun and you find yourself wondering, How does she do it? Here she is, casually pouring the peppermint tea, slicing up the Stollen, apparently without a care. But she isn’t just your average rosy-cheeked Hausfrau. The burden of her front-row seat to the prospective destruction of Western civilization is never far from her mind.

“I guess I do see myself as Adolf’s partner in world domination,” Eva says, drawing her smiling, peaches-and-cream visage into an ever-so-pensive study in introspection for a moment. “He has so many countries under his heel and so many yet to conquer. He needs someone to unburden himself to. It’s not always easy. Sometimes I have to say, ‘Liebchen, I need my living space, too.’”

She looks at her guest conspiratorially. “Would you mind if I smoke? Adolf’s not around and he just hates it when I light up in front of him.” In a flash her pursed lips, elegantly daubed in a pale gloss—keep things modest, Der Führer insists—are puffing Gauloises.

“They’re French,” she titters. “I wonder what Adolf would think about that?”

Truth be told, Eva is not all that interested in international affairs Get her started on fashion, though, and she takes on all the animation and force of a blitzkrieg.

“I worship Hugo Boss,” she says, her lilt reminiscent of the thrushes that chirp outside the chalet-style Eagle’s Nest. “I mean, look at what they did for the SS—those smart black jackets and jodhpurs, those shiny jackboots, those adorable Totenkopf insignias! They’re so much nicer than those grubby brown Stormtroopers’ uniforms.”

Right now she is dressed for relaxing in the mountains—a rakish Tyrolean hat, dark green lederhosen, heavy stockings pulled up over her gazelle-like calves, at which Herr Hitler’s German Shepherd Blondi is busily nipping. “Oh, you rascal!” she says happily, tossing her a dumpling.

It’s a full, rich life, to be sure, and yet you have to ask: Will Adolf ever pop the question? Eva has been waiting practically since the Night of the Long Knives for her diamond; some of her friends are even quietly suggesting that she give her man a deadline. But she’s in no rush to get married.

“Oh, please,“ she says, pouring another cup of tea and throwing her head back in an exasperated laugh. “Adolf has a war to fight. He doesn’t have time for such nonsense!”

Thomas Vinciguerra is the editor of “Backward Ran Sentences: The Best of Wolcott Gibbs from The New Yorker.” This article, which grew out of a Facebook discussion with Raymond Vasvari, first appeared in the Philadelphia Inquirer.