What's in a name?
Petronella Wyatt
hat is the story of the week? That of the unfathomable machinations of a mad tyrant intent on wreaking misery on the world. I am speaking, of course, of Adolf Hitler. According to a German academic. Lothar Machtan, Hitler was gay. He had not only one but several homosexual relationships. This is why he later persecuted homosexuals in Nazi Germany and arranged for the assassination of Ernst ROhm, the openly gay head of the Brownshirts.
What next? Who is to say, now, that every tyrant or leader in history was not gay, or, as modern biographical parlance puts it, 'a repressed homosexual'? What, incidentally, is meant by 'a repressed homosexual'? No one is ever called a 'repressed heterosexual'. Logically, a repressed homosexual is someone who shows no evidence of being homosexual at all. You could say that Churchill was a repressed homosexual. Who could prove the contrary? And what of Roosevelt? From that wheelchair his homosexuality must have been very repressed indeed.
Anyway, this German historian, who has written Hitler's Secret: The Double Life of a Dictator. claims that Hitler's homo-erotic relationships ceased in the late 1920s. Before that, he lived in Vienna for four months, sharing an apartment with a friend called August Kubizek. Both delighted in wearing the same clothes. But then Kubizek was out in the cold.
The real question, then, is why did Hitler change his mind about his sexuality? Why did this decadent Viennese painter go straight all of a sudden? Could it be possible that someone 'turned' the Fahrer-to-be?
Would it be immodest as well as improbable to suggest that it might have had something to do with me? Or at least another Petronella. There aren't many Petronellas about but what few there are seem to be present at the turning points in history. St Paul had a daughter called Petronella. To prevent her from seeing men he locked her up, and she was later made a saint. Then there was the case of Eleanor of Aquitaine and her arrant sibling. Everyone assumes it was Eleanor who called the shots but its wasn't, it was her younger sister Petronella. When she wanted to marry the wrong man she forced her sister into a full-scale war to enable the match.
A Petronella hid with Anne Franks's family in Amsterdam during the second world war. Which brings us back to Hitler. A few days ago, my historian friend Andrew Roberts sent me an extract from Hitler's table talk of the night of 8 January 1942. In it Hitler recalls being a lodger in an Austrian town called Steyr. His landlady's name was . . Petronella.
The young Hitler and Petronella obviously formed a warm attachment. Hitler said:
Our landlady was very fond of us. She regularly took sides with us against her husband ... she used to attack him like a viper. I remember the sort of quarrel they used to have. A few days before I had asked my landlady to give me my coffee a little less hot. On the morning of this quarrel I pointed out to her that it was already half past the hour and I was still waiting for my coffee. Then the husband intervened. Petronella,' he said, 'it's twenty-five to.'
At this remark she blew up. The husband decided to leave the house. When he had gone. Petronella bolted the door. The husband at once injured his nose on the shut door, and politely asked his wife to open. As she didn't react, he ordered her to do as she was told. but without any success. The result was that he spent the night out of doors and could not return until the next morning with the milk, pitiful and cowed. How I despised the wet rag! Petronella was 33 years old. Her husband was bearded and ageless. He was a member of the minor nobility and worked as an employee in the service of the municipality.
Hitler finishes by asking. dare I say it, wistfully:
I wonder whether Petronella is still alive. We were very fond of her. She looked after us in all sorts of small ways and never missed an opportunity of stuffing our pockets with dainties.
You can see it, can't you. Well, can't you? An attractive, sexually frustrated woman and her young and eager lodger. We all know how poor Hitler was in those days. How could he have afforded to pay the rent? Or did Petronella waive it for sentimental reasons? What were the 'all sorts of small ways' in which she looked after young Adolf? Why was the bearded husband in a bad mood? Why did his wife want to lock him out for the whole night?
We have enough here for a divorce suit. No wonder that later on the newly heterosexual Hitler decided there was no room for Rohm. I tell you, we Petronellas, we get everywhere. The only disadvantage of having a name like mine is that impertinent smart-arses occasionally attempt to abbreviate it. Once upon a time, when I was working on the Peterborough column of the Daily Telegraph, my colleague James Delingpole thought it would be amusing to call me Petsy.. This name then began to appear elsewhere, or rather everywhere. Years later, I have managed to stamp out its use. But I feel towards people who remember me as 'Petsy' as Hitler did towards those who could recall his homoerotic friendships. I warn you now. There are no lengths to which I will not go. Don't forget, I was the Eiihrer's landlady.
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