Eager not to disappoint his furer, he spent two hours discussing the upcoming annexation of Austria with Hitler.

The following day, he experienced a fever and a rapidly worsening toothache.

He contacted his dentist who prescribed a short course of paricodine pills, a mild morphine derivative that had recently been developed.

5 days later, Guring called Blushka demanding more pills.

Blushka refused to prescribe more, but Guring soon found his own source.

By the end of the year, he was taking about 10 pills a day when the suggested intake was one pill every 8 hours for a time delimited by the doctor.

Guring’s paricodine pills were a habit he would continue until his capture by the Allied forces in 1945.

When the allies captured Guring, the man looked like a fat, lazy fool.

Upon finding his two suitcases stuffed with paricodine, American officers thought he was a drug dealer or a small-time Nazi drug peddler.

not the second most important man in the Third Reich.

According to official reports, at the time of Guring’s capture, he possessed the entire German stockpile of paricodine.

And since the drug was not produced outside Germany, he was recorded as possessing the entire world supply.

One source estimated that he had over 20,000 pills at the time of his capture, a gesture that showed the narcotic desperation of the head of the Luftvafa and the Gestapo.

Paricodine pills caused his own allies to lose both their fear and respect for the Nazi leader.

There are records in which German officers speak of Guring as nothing but a self-indulgent, pleasure-seeking, drugaddled sack of lard with whom the furer has lost patience.

As the war progressed and his influence waned, other Nazis appear to have dismissed Guring as little more than a drug addict.

During the Neuremberg trials, one SS commander stated that Guring’s drug addiction and corruption made him dismiss Hitler’s right-hand man as any kind of moderating influence on the Furer’s increasingly erratic behavior, while one of Joseph Gerbles’s aids claimed that Dr.

Theodore
Morell, Hitler’s personal physician, had said that Guring was becoming increasingly a slave to his addiction.

Still, we’re talking about a brilliant mind, one who knew how to impart cruelty with a bloodthirsty thirst beyond his opiate habit.

Several times, Holocaust deniers have tried to defend Guring by attributing his evil to his vices.

But morphine, while it can generate temporary altered states and outbreaks of violence, lacks the power to create a long-term planned genocide.

Nor does it provide the ability to lead an organization as intricate and sinister as the Gestapo.

Guring was a monster beyond his opiate addiction and none of his sinister actions can be associated with anything other than his morbid and macabb ingenuity.

Theodore Morel or Chancellor Needles Hitler’s personal physician who kept him drugged despite the horrific acts committed by the most prominent members of the Nazi party in the midentth century.

There are some figures who have been questioned even by sinister men like Herman Guring and Hinrich Himmler.

One of them, perhaps the most extravagant, was Theodore Morell, better known as Chancellor Needles, who served as Adolf Hitler’s personal physician from 1936 to 1945.

But the most interesting thing about this curious doctor wasn’t the fact that Hitler’s entire inner circle hated or avoided him, even though the Furer believed his every word, but that as his personal physician, he kept the Nazi leader drugged until his dying day.

Much has been said about the Furer’s addiction to narcotics, but rarely mentioned is the fundamental role Morel played in helping Hitler spend the last years of his life sustained by methamphetamines, cocaine, and other narcotics.

One day, Adolf Hitler was
having lunch with his inner circle when Albert Spear, his minister of armaments and war production, told him that he had been suffering from a health problem for some time.

The Furer didn’t hesitate for a second and recommended that Sharia visit his personal physician, a man named Morel.

Trusting the words of the most important man in Germany, the minister didn’t hesitate to visit Morell.

In his biography, he would later say about this encounter.

In 1936, when my circulation and stomach rebelled, I called Morell’s private office.

After a cursory examination, Morell prescribed me intestinal bacteria, dextrose, vitamins, and hormone tablets.

For safety, I asked to be examined by Professor von Bergman, the internal medicine specialist at the University of Berlin.

He concluded that I was not suffering from any organ problems and that I was only suffering from nervous symptoms caused by overwork.

After slowing down my work pace as much as possible, the symptoms disappeared.

In order not to offend Hitler, I pretended to be following Morell’s instructions.

This would be one of the Furer’s first friends to consider his personal physician a walking danger.

Other Nazis such as Guring and Himmler also visited Morell’s office, leaving never to return.

Eva Brown herself near the end of the Nazi era declared that she never wanted to see the doctor again due to his poor personal hygiene and that his office looked like a garbage dump.

Some after the end of World War II went further, even claiming that Morell used Hitler as a guinea pig for his personal experiments.

But who was this mysterious figure? Theodore Morurell was born in 1886 and studied medicine in the French cities of Grenobyl and Paris.

Later in 1910, he specialized in obstetrics and gynecology in Munich.

He served as a doctor on the front lines during World War I before settling in Berlin where he practiced independently and gained some influence.

As a professional, Morell was recognized by figures such as the sha of Persia and the king of Romania, two monarchs who wished the man to become their personal physician.

But the doctor had other plans and he preferred to remain in his country.

Little is known about Morel’s life during the inter war years, but he himself stated that he studied biology with Nobel Prize winner Ilia Mechnikov, and he also taught at Germany’s most prestigious universities.

Although Morell called himself a professor, none of this was ever confirmed.

In 1933, Morell joined the Nazi party, more out of necessity than desire, although he would later reveal himself to be a great admirer of Hitler.

By this time, all his clients were Jewish.

The Furer’s rise to power left the doctor practically jobless and he had to turn to national socialism to recover his income.

Truly, it was the best decision he could have made.

In a very short time, he became one of the most respected doctors in Berlin and in 1936 he treated Hinrich Hoffman, Hitler’s personal photographer.

After curing him of gonorrhea, Morell won the artist’s favor, who without hesitation introduced the doctor to Adolf Hitler, who needed professional help.

At that time, the Furer was suffering from a skin and intestinal disease of unknown origin which could not be cured.

Morell told Hitler that he could alleviate his condition in less than a year and after the Nazi leader agreed to the treatment, he gave him high doses of vitamin E and an Eoli bacterium called mutafllor.

Fortunately for Morell, the furer recovered quickly.

Hitler was fascinated by the doctor and shortly after meeting him, he brought him into his inner circle, making him his personal physician.

This story also raises suspicions that Hitler had syphilis, a disease associated with Jews at the time.

The truth is that this was never proven and is more a hypothesis created by historians than a documented fact.

What is known about this link between Morell and Hitler as attested by various members of the Furer circle is that the doctor overloaded the German dictator with chemicals from innocent vitamins through drugs like barbiterates, cocaine in the form of eye drops, methamphetamines like pervatin to very specific substances like potassium bromide, bacteria and animal sedatives.

Morell injected Hitler with everything at his disposal.

Due to his tendency to use inoculations or chemicals in every situation, the doctor earned the nicknames the needle chancellor or the injector minister.

Both nicknames given by close friends of the furer.

Between 1936 and April 29th, 1945, the day of his death, Hitler’s health was in the hands of a man who had some drug or narcotic as the answer to any ailment, no matter how innocuous or worrisome.

In fact, many surviving Nazis as well as historians of the time placed the blame squarely on Morell for Hitler’s rapid decline in health during this period.

Of course, the Furer in most cases did not know what chemicals his doctor was giving him.

These only became known many years later when Morell’s closely guarded medical records were found.

Along with the list of substances he used on Hitler, some experiments were also found, such as when he treated the Nazi leader after an attempt on his life had seriously injured him.

After the failed operation Valkyrie, Morell took care of the Furer’s wounds and took the opportunity to test topical penicellin, an antibiotic that was still in its experimental stage at the time.

By 1945, Hitler was taking 28 pills a day and receiving regular injections from Morell prescribed prescription drugs which were mostly a mixture of vitamins and methamphetamines to alleviate the depression that plagued the furer toward the end of the war.

During this period, Hitler also developed a tremor in his hands which was recorded several times on camera and associated with Parkinson’s disease.

It is also considered a side effect of cocaine abuse which Morell administered daily in high doses in the form of eye drops.

The last conversation between Morell and Hitler took place on April 22nd, 1945, a week before the Furer took his own life.

Immediately after the fall of Nazism, Morell fled Germany.

But curiously, due to his poor health, he died 3 years later in 1948 of a stroke.

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(1848, Macon) Light-Skinned Woman Disguised as White Master: 1,000-Mile Escape in Plain Sight

The hand holding the scissors trembled slightly as Ellen Craft stared at her reflection in the small cracked mirror.

In 72 hours, she would be sitting in a first class train car next to a man who had known her since childhood.

A man who could have her dragged back in chains with a single word.

And he wouldn’t recognize her.

He couldn’t because the woman looking back at her from that mirror no longer existed.

It was December 18th, 1848 in Mon, Georgia, and Ellen was about to attempt something that had never been done before.

A thousand-mile escape through the heart of the slaveolding south, traveling openly in broad daylight in first class.

But there was a problem that made the plan seem utterly impossible.

Ellen was a woman.

William was a man.

A light-skinned woman and a dark-skinned man traveling together would draw immediate suspicion, questions, searches.

The patrols would stop them before they reached the city limits.

So, Ellen had conceived a plan so audacious that even William had initially refused to believe it could work.

She would become a white man.

Not just any white man, a wealthy, sickly southern gentleman traveling north for medical treatment, accompanied by his faithful manservant.

The ultimate disguise, hiding in the most visible place possible, protected by the very system designed to keep her enslaved.

Ellen set down the scissors and picked up the components of her transformation.

Each item acquired carefully over the past week.

A pair of dark glasses to hide her eyes.

a top hat that would shadow her face, trousers, a coat, and a high collared shirt that would conceal her feminine shape, and most crucially, a sling for her right arm.

The sling served a purpose that went beyond mere costume.

Ellen had been deliberately kept from learning to read or write, a common practice designed to keep enslaved people dependent and controllable.

Every hotel would require a signature.

Every checkpoint might demand written documentation.

The sling would excuse her from putting pen to paper.

One small piece of cloth standing between her and exposure.

William watched from the corner of the small cabin they shared, his carpenter’s hands clenched into fists.

He had built furniture for some of the wealthiest families in Mon, his skill bringing profit to the man who claimed to own him.

Now those same hands would have to play a role he had spent his life resisting.

The subservient servant bowing and scraping to someone pretending to be his master.

“Say it again,” Ellen whispered, not turning from the mirror.

“What do I need to remember?” William’s voice was steady, though his eyes betrayed his fear.

Walk slowly like moving hurts.

Keep the glasses on, even indoors.

Don’t make eye contact with other white passengers.

Gentlemen, don’t stare.

If someone asks a question you can’t answer, pretend the illness has made you hard of hearing.

And never, ever let anyone see you right.

Ellen nodded slowly, watching her reflection.

Practice the movements.

Slower, stiffer, the careful, pained gate of a man whose body was failing him.

She had studied the white men of Mon for months, observing how they moved, how they held themselves, how they commanded space without asking permission.

What if someone recognizes me? The question hung in the air between them.

William moved closer, his reflection appearing beside hers in the mirror.

They won’t see you, Ellen.

They never really saw you before.

Just another piece of property.

Now they’ll see exactly what you show them.

A white man who looks like he belongs in first class.

The audacity of it was breathtaking.

Ellen’s light skin, the result of her enslavers assault on her mother, had been a mark of shame her entire life.

Now it would become her shield.

The same society that had created her would refuse to recognize her, blinded by its own assumptions about who could occupy which spaces.

But assumptions could shatter.

One wrong word, one gesture out of place, one moment of hesitation, and the mask would crack.

And when it did, there would be no mercy.

Runaways faced brutal punishment, whipping, branding, being sold away to the deep south, where conditions were even worse.

Or worse still, becoming an example, tortured publicly to terrify others who might dare to dream of freedom.

Ellen took a long, slow breath and reached for the top hat.

When she placed it on her head and turned to face William fully dressed in the disguise, something shifted in the room.

The woman was gone.

In her place stood a young southern gentleman, pale and trembling with illness, preparing for a long and difficult journey.

“Mr.

Johnson,” William said softly, testing the name they had chosen, common enough to be forgettable, refined enough to command respect.

Mr.

Johnson, Ellen repeated, dropping her voice to a lower register.

The sound felt foreign in her throat, but it would have to become natural.

Her life depended on it.

They had 3 days to perfect the performance, 3 days to transform completely.

And then on the morning of December 21st, they would walk out of Mon as master and slave, heading north toward either freedom or destruction.

Ellen looked at the calendar on the wall, counting the hours.

72 hours until the most dangerous performance of her life began.

72 hours until she would sit beside a man who had seen her face a thousand times and test whether his eyes could see past his own expectations.

What she didn’t know yet was that this man wouldn’t be the greatest danger she would face.

That test was still waiting for her somewhere between here and freedom in a hotel lobby where a pen and paper would become instruments of potential death.

The morning of December 21st broke cold and gray over min.

The kind of winter light that flattened colors and made everything look a little less real.

It was the perfect light for a world built on illusions.

By the time the first whistle echoed from the train yard, Ellen Craft was no longer Ellen.

She was Mr.

William Johnson, a pale young planter supposedly traveling north for his health.

They did not walk to the station together.

That would have been the first mistake.

William left first, blending into the stream of workers and laborers heading toward the edge of town.

Ellen waited, counting slowly, steadying her breathing.

When she finally stepped out, it was through the front streets, usually reserved for white towns people.

Every step felt like walking on a tightroppe stretched above a chasm.

At the station, the platform was already crowded.

Merchants, planters, families, enslaved porters carrying heavy trunks.

The signboard marked the departure.

Mon Savannah.

200 m.

One train ride.

1,000 chances for something to go wrong.

Ellen kept her shoulders slightly hunched, her right arm resting in its sling, her gloved left hand curled loosely around a cane.

The green tinted spectacles softened the details of faces around her, turning them into vague shapes.

That helped.

It meant she was less likely to react if she accidentally recognized someone.

It also meant she had to trust her memory of the space, where the ticket window was, how the lines usually formed, where white passengers stood versus where enslaved people waited.

She joined the line of white travelers at the ticket counter, heartpounding, but posture controlled.

No one stopped her.

No one questioned why such a young man looked so sick, his face halfcovered with bandages and fabric.

Illness made people uncomfortable.

In a society that prized strength and control, sickness granted a strange kind of privacy.

When she reached the counter, the clerk glanced up briefly, then down at his ledger.

“Destination?” he asked, bored.

“Savannah,” she answered, her voice low and strained as if speaking hurt.

“For myself and my servant.

” The clerk didn’t flinch at the mention of a servant.

Instead, he wrote quickly and named the price.

Ellen reached into the pocket of her coat, fingers brushing the coins William had carefully counted for her.

The money clinkedked softly on the wood, and within seconds, two tickets slid across the counter, two pieces of paper that were for the moment more powerful than chains.

As Ellen stepped aside, Cain tapping lightly on the wooden floor, William watched from a distance among the workers and enslaved laborers, his heart hammered against his ribs.

From where he stood, Ellen looked completely transformed, fragile, but untouchable, wrapped in the invisible protection granted to white wealth.

It was a costume made of cloth and posture and centuries of power.

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