CHAPTER 12

On a vividly sunny afternoon at Berchtesgaden in the German Alps.

Eva Braun suns herself in the nude outside the chalet, behaving like a common street prostitute, driving him crazy when she does that. Hitler has locked himself in the bathroom.

Propped against the sink is a drawing done by his favorite artist, who had done many of him in heroic poses, drawings framed and shown in places of honor throughout the Third Reich, on fireplace mantles, and in meeting halls and churches. Everywhere. Or else.

The artist had done sketches for him of a nude Eva too, her legs spread, displaying the filth between them. The sketches have little effect on him, aside from disgust.

EDITORIAL NOTE: Hitler really should lighten up on her. Eva stuck with him until the very end in the Führerbunker when most of his upper echelon set their sights on Argentina and Paraguay. On 4/29/1945, they tied the knot in a small civil ceremony (when he popped the question is unknown). Their honeymoon was quite short in both time and extent of travel. On April 30, she bit down on a cyanide capsule while, with a pistol (a Luger?), he blew out what remained of his brains.

Nevertheless, Hitler focuses on the drawing. It’s infinitely more erotic than Eva sunning herself.

The artist has incorporated the photographs Hitler had taken from Lisbon, the prints of the Radium Girls with the worst poisoning, with one of Winston Churchill. The drawing is a masterpiece. Churchill’s fat face is emaciated, jaw receding in advanced necrosis, nose bleeding, face covered with pustulating sores, his crotch eaten away as if by worms. He is in excruciating pain.

It is now Hitler’s second favorite piece of art, trailing only the one done of him standing on a platform at a meeting, enlightening the very first National Socialists. It was 1920 and the widely-distributed print was entitled In the Beginning was the Word.

Mesmerized by the agonized Churchill and masturbating furiously, he ejaculates. Dizzy from the exertion, gasping, seeing spots, the Führer grabs the counter before he loses his balance and falls against the toilet.

As he wipes semen from his hand and penis, Hitler feels no letdown, no guilt as he now and then does with Eva on the rare occasion when he is able to perform, and only after she squats, a foot on each side of his prone abdomen and defecates. Often there is a second arousal after she spanks him vigorously, repeatedly shrieking Juden.

Otherwise, Adolf Hitler is incapable of guilt.

His thoughts turn to that radioactive powder that will torture Winston Churchill to death for real and millions of Londoners too. A photograph of an agonized Churchill will produce an orgasm like no other.

The scientists had promised “weeks at most” before it was ready to use on London. Adolf Hitler is an impatient man. The old saying, Rome wasn’t destroyed in a day, does not apply. ‘Weeks at most’ is too long, he decides. The lightning-fast blitzkrieg came to pass because of his genius and his alone. It must continue is every aspect and form.

The Führer pulls up his trousers, adjusting the organs within, his one and only testicle (a secret) and a circumcised penis (a State secret!). And since he will be burned to a crisp outside the Führerbunker five years later, after his and Eva’s suicides, what nobody including himself can know without an autopsy is that Adolf Hitler has an ovary. He isn’t hermaphroditic, but the ovary makes possible a mesmerizing soprano pitch at the height of his frenetic speeches to the masses, without loss of volume or psychological force. This ability isn’t, as he believes, a gift from God, but the effect of a recessive gene.

Hitler cinches his belt, thinking of the Lisbon operation. This deadly-radiation project was Reinhard Heydrich’s bright idea, his and Himmler’s. Hitler loves the sobriquets bestowed upon Reinhard by his enemies: The Hangman, the Butcher of Prague, the Blonde Beast, and Heydrich and Himmler together, the Dark Twins.

To Hitler they are all badges of honor. Reinhard Heydrich is totally, unquestioningly obedient and he knows how to crack the whip. He is impatient to liquidate each and every subhuman on Earth, as quickly and efficiently as possible, a man after his own heart.

Next order of business, after a final underwear adjustment, is to pick up the telephone and order Reinhard immediately to Lisbon to change the weeks-at-most promise to a days-at-most ultimatum.

And too, have him look into a report by Portuguese intelligence operatives passed along to the Gestapo that American agents in Lisbon have developed a secret ray machine that renders one invisible. The Portuguese are an inferior race and their PVDE has much to learn, so Hitler takes the report with a grain of salt. But Reinhard can follow up on it while there. Anything, too, he can learn of Lisbon locals harboring refugee Jews will be a bonus.

Hitler checks himself in the mirror. He dabs off remaining perspiration and slicks down his hair.

That magical uranium powder, he thinks, smiling at himself.

Eight million dead Londoners. It will be like an early Christmas present.