Hitler:
Five Impossibly Possible Love Stories
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I: 1918
Shortly before hospitalization,
Hitler met a "nurse"
who noticed he could use
girlish
hospitality.
She took him to an apartment
and made tomato soup.
Upon the kitchen walls he spat
red
ejaculations.
She provided comfort
by applauding every word,
assuming his rage another post
war
reaction.
Still, she thought he must be joking
when he spoke about the Jews,
for else how could he speak such
gut
offal?
Doing dishes without his help,
she turned and lifted his shirt.
He resisted; she persisted.
"Can't --"
" Must --"
She did not move or moan;
he was like a virgin brother,
she thought, soon to die of
boy
cancer.
Within days he was certain
that he would be a great man,
for great men often suffered
tertiary
syphilis
or had before the cure,
which he accepted
because the chancre burned
like
poison.
He wished to thank
her for his place in history,
but the pages mentioned
only
numbers.
II: 1918 part 2
As an informer
in the barracks,
after the war
and before the war,
in between
in Munich,
Hitler topped a bunk bed.
One night, he was informed
by a long-armed veteran
that hands through pajamas
easily slipped,
despite a target so nervous
that the bunkmate below
had little to hold
his interest for long.
Hitler swapped bunks
at the price of his boots,
remembering in socks
that ancient Greeks
thought powerful men
could be as attractive
to one gender as the other.
He awakened
to the white light
of his monomania,
back stiffening,
close but no cigar
for the bunkmate,
who would never know
what mercy had been shown
when he was shot in the head
running at Stalingrad
instead of a barbed wire fence.
III: 1931
" For the last time, no!"
Hitler shouted,
and with the slam of the door
came the slam of a bullet
that pierced her
in that way he refused.
"But
why? But why?"
her dying mind cried;
they were so close
and he said such things
as lovers say
and was almost
-- what was that word --
surreal,
spooled shadows
splattering the screen
under her skin.
What about the chauffeur?
That would have showed him.
Instead, once again
when she reached
Hitler's hand resisted
as though he were a young girl:
"Not
there!"
Hand pushing. "No!"
Sad resolved
that if nothing happened again
her finger'd find a new place
after he slammed the door.
And to make it easy he shouted,
" For the last time, no!"
Her finger found the trigger
and she was killing him,
and he would learn why,
and he would learn how.
IV: 1938
Mitzi hangs from a rope
with skies for eyes.
She falls but is caught
by the cutter,
and the sound of the knife
slashing the rope
reminds her of Adolf
whipping his dog.
"Why
not whip me?"
But that would require
allegiance, dedication,
more than he had written
in her signed copy
of Mein Kampf.
He would kiss her
and kiss her and kiss her
as if soaking up her atmosphere,
as if using her like a resource,
oil refinery
or copper mine.
"Thank you," he
said,
and she knew why.
It was true that he took
and always came out
ahead in the end,
until the end;
she still loved him then.
V: 1945
In the summer
at the Berchtesgaden
they slept upstairs
in separate beds,
usually.
With the windows open
the smell of war
was far, far away,
and so was he,
usually.
She romped, as radiant
as the acrylic light
of mountain skies.
Little Eva, so happy,
usually.
"What
happened?"
Her friends would ask.
" Tell us, tell us: Do you?"
"
Not," she said,
"usually."
But even when the war
drifted with the wind
to Berchtesgaden and Berlin
he never hurt her,
usually.
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