Occupied

She pursues me to the garden, Kehlsteinhaus, the office, the auto...I can't even go for a drive! The most powerful man the world has ever seen, but here I hide. Where would my solace reside if not on this private, closeted throne? Ridiculous!

Stalin has no need to hide. That reckless, over-mustachioed, Soviet midget wore Nadezhda down until she killed herself. Now he’s free.
But Eva is more clever than that. She tames me. But, I should not be tamed. I am a lion! She could tame the Soviets, I think, no problem. The Soviets could never tame Eva, though. I should drop her on Leningrad. She would belittle their best defenses.


How did Father do it?

He was a strong man, I know. But Mother was stronger. She could not lift the bales in the fields at Rauscher Gut like Father but that didn’t stop her from getting the job done. “Alois, you will have those bales moved to the shade before the end of the day, won’t you?” She believed that her strength was in the unspoken threats and insinuations of reprisal. In reality, Father knew that arguing with the woman was more work than baling so he simply complied and completed the task as suggested.

I remember Father telling me “I was incomplete until I married your mother. After that I was finished.” For him, maybe it was true. But I am not incomplete. I am pressed from God’s own mold and He has further gifted me the power, ingenuity and resolve to reform the world’s fractured people and to filter their polluted blood. I am not only God’s art. I am also his chisel and I will reign blows on those nations that resist His will and I will turn their granite ignorance to dust!

That’s good. I will write that down...

But, how Eva wears on me. How she turns me to dust. I’m sick of her low, hypnotic, disdainful, meddling voice.
“Adolf, maybe you are too bold with Stalin?”
“Adolf, how will you deliver so much concrete in France?”
“Adolf, if you fight on too many fronts, you will come to be surrounded.”
She spends too much time with my advisors. I am suspicious of their loyalty. Especially Wilhelm. She has too much faith in him and not enough in God. Or in me. I started brawling in the trenches and I never stopped until I conquered Europe and united the Arians! Not Von Papen. Not Wilhelm. Not Eva! Donkey!


“Uhhhhhh...ugh...” Oh, stench! How does Wurst turn so putrid in the gut? And the damned window is frozen shut...


“Adolf, Walther has planted edelweiss on the terrace. I want alpenrose. Be sure to make him change them, won’t you?”
“Adolf, your flatulence is the result of a poor diet. Eat fewer pastries.” She may be right.
“Adolf, we must properly unite. We need each other. When will we marry?”
I should respond: “Eva, I will marry you as soon as either you are mute or I am deaf.” She would be too quick to find a foghorn before I could return with scissors, if I know her.

And why should I marry her? I don't have time to be her husband. I certainly don’t have the need. What would she gain? What would I lose? Everything, on both counts! I would have to be mad!
But why do I tolerate her at all? How has she rooted her tenuous vines in the crevices of my soul? At times, she is as illuminating as the sun. At others, she is grating like sand between my teeth. She awes me, either way.


I should kill her.

But how should I kill her? Drown her? Shoot her? Poison? The gallows? The “showers”? I don’t want her to suffer. It should be quick. Suffocate her while she sleeps? I think she would still suffer. Her eyes would bulge out at me and she would claw at my face. Even worse, there is a fair chance that she is strong enough to fight me off! The consequences would be unbearable.
But I suffer, don’t I? Doesn’t she make me suffer? Am I not suffering now, sitting here, in this cold, insect infested, tiled commode? Yes, I am! And still, I could not hurt her.

A bullet in the head doesn’t hurt. The Jews only sob and scream before the bullet strikes, not after. It’s quick, painless. I can shoot her from behind so she doesn’t know it’s coming. But the blood. It’s not civilized. That’s not the man the world should know. And they would know. They always find out. People can overlook the violence of war but not the violence of love.
Dammit! I can’t kill her. I couldn’t even have her killed. The guilt already turns my stomach...


Do you remember when I was Man Of The Year, Henry? Do you? I was Man Of The Year when it meant something! Before Winston, Franklin and Joseph sullied the honour. Henry, I see your eyes behind that glass. You are a captain of industry. You are a brilliant man! You don’t know it but the People’s Car was to be built in factories that were to be of your design.

I was once proud to have your portrait in my study for all to see but now you hang here, in my malodor, in shame of your country. You should have stayed out of Europe. It’s not your fight, Ford! It’s not America’s fight either! I will smash your countrymen and the People’s Car will smash your automotive empire!


But Eva... I do love her. If I were any other man, I would surely marry her.

Would I?

Of course! No one has ever hurt me so well. And when she provokes me with her red-stained hair and wild eyes, naked except for her youth skirt and neck tie, she makes me believe that I could love Satan!

Just as our ascendants did, we would raise pigs and pheasants back home in beautiful Austria. Our gaily painted little cottage would be the envy of the meadow. My paintings would command a healthy income and Eva would raise and teach our five beautiful children.

They would be so tall. So strong. They would be pure and noble with the blood of their ancestors; the blood of the true, pure human race. My blood. They would fight to strengthen their community, even long after I was gone. They would lead strong men and women to victory over the pestilence of the impure and naive subhumans and they would unite my Aryan people to recreate the undivided humanity as per God’s decree! They would eradicate the untermenschen Jews, once-and-for-all! My children would eliminate them!

I will eliminate them!


Enough! This war has no sympathy for my bowels.
And, so I see, neither does Walther.
“Walther! The infernal toilet won’t flush! Again!”

God, I should’ve been a fucking priest.