Adolf Hitler was not known for his skiing ability. He was not comfortable on the hill. The incline frightened him. To be blunt, he was a terrible skier, a bundle of conflicting limbs and joints all colliding at the groin. The whooshing sound of speedy skiers made him jumpy. He did not take well to icicles forming on his manicured mustache. He resembled a walrus pup with narrow ice fangs, a look flattering on some gentlemen, but on his face not so at all. When asked, if you could be any animal, what would it be? as cold-blooded and smooth-skinned as he himself was, the walrus, or any sluggish lower mammal for that matter, was not on his list, even if he gave an amphibious impression of breathing through gills rather than nostrils and mouth. Yes, he was fond of the whiteness of the snow, just as Ahab was mesmerized by the whiteness of the whale, but he was a complainer; he whined about cold temperature, moaned about fatigued thighs, his lace-up boots pinched his flat bony feet, and to make matters worse, he had wobbly ankles. The T-bar and Poma-lift disturbed his balls. Hitler read Moby Dick in translation, a gift from Goebbels, in the privacy of his own prison cell, while he was writing Mein Kampf. The salad days. He never learned English, unlike today’s ambitious multilingual Europeans. Like so many lonely men of that period, and many still today, he masturbated to the scene in Melville’s novel where all the shipmates join hands in a bucket of whale sperm and squeeze the gooey coagulants and sing a brotherly tune of labor and soul. If only Leni Riefenstahl could’ve put such a sequence together in Triumph of the Will. But it probably would’ve disturbed the mise-en-scene. Hitler did not own his own pair of skis. In order to appear like the common man, a volk-skier, he rented. On a similar note, Hitler was eager to trade in his penis for something less drowsy, but organ transplants, or substitutions, in that area of the body were not foolproof, and, as history has proven, severing one’s own penis and surgically grafting on a new and better one, a bigger, more charismatic jimmy, is frowned upon and remains an unsafe practice. Hitler’s penis floated about his crotch like a hollow pinky. He wanted his cock to sway, a slab of meat that commands respect, that could be pounded against tables and the tops of people’s heads, and if it were to be weighed on a postage scale would register at the very least four pounds. How could a man of modest physical stature, he often fretted in the bathroom mirror, convince the population of a master race, when he himself, and his faithful but never-to-be-fully-trusted assistants (a group of unsavory men, some tubby and slow, others skinny with pockmarked faces), were, in a sense, the furthest thing from a sight for sore eyes, or for that matter, a thing of beauty? Handsome they were not. Der Fuhrer & Company were specimens of ill health, poor diet, and cryptic exercise. He dreamt that boys would drop their knickers and salute him, not with a raised arm, but with their young erections—long rows of adorable poles all at 45-degree angles. Hitler could only snowplow. He fell often. He pouted. He’d lie in the snow and curse. He’d try to stand up with his skis pointed downhill only to fall again. He couldn’t follow instruction. Then along came Miss Braun, a great skier: bumps, downhill, GS, deep powder, and aerial jumps. The fraulein was a hot dog. Yes, Eva was fearless, to a fault. It almost cost her her life. After a day of flirty skiing with Olympic champions Gunter, Heinz, and Klaus, Eva would catch up with Adolf on the bunny hill. She’d stop abruptly and spray a blast of snow all over him, and then giggle madly. Sometimes she’d throw out a hip, knock him to the ground, and sing, “Dolfy on his duffer.” She was always trying to get a rise out of him, bless her naïve heart. Unfortunately his response was always, “I’ll kill you.” She’d cry. He’d kiss her on the nose, he’d say meow, and as with most couples, the little hurt would disappear from the mind. Hitler painted a watercolor of a man sawing off his own cock. The idea haunted him. Of course, he threw the picture away. If you can’t salute with it (the veiny human wurst) or eat with it (like a shovel) or fight with it (like a sword), what good is it for, huh? he wondered, wiggling lifeless all one’s life, waiting for the kindness of strangers to bring it happiness (don’t hold your breath); indeed, more often than not it was the sweaty obliging palm of one’s own. Hitler painted snow scenes. Those he kept. Some he gave away to friends. He painted a male figure licking an ice-cream cone. A ski instructor tried to teach him stem Christy but Herr Hitler would catch an edge and plant his poles like he was digging for oil. Hiding his true feelings, he insisted he loved skiing. Politics and athletics were a difficult combination but he forced the issue. Similar to the certainty and assurance of a slow-moving tank he was content with the stiff ungraceful snowplow. Why learn something new if it’s going to get you into trouble and make you look foolish? During a lunch break Hitler drew a sloppy swastika in the snow with his urine. Then he drew an upside-down heart. Then he dropped his ski pants and crossed them both out with a loose splatter of feces. The great outdoors, he thought. Traveling without the proper ointments was a serious problem. He wouldn’t permit anyone to film him skiing. The only conceivable image was of the headman standing with his skis at his side, or on his shoulder, or exiting the chalet, striding toward, never away, from the camera. He had a flat uninspiring butt which he would’ve also liked to have traded in for something else, something more solid and global. He scratched his anus like a monkey infested with ticks. He’d smell his fingers and fall asleep. He dreamt he was caught in an avalanche, buried under 10 feet of snow. A St. Bernard came to his rescue. Hitler was fond of dogs. He preferred dachshunds. The large hound spoke German. It said, Wiedersehen. And then, for no apparent reason, it defecated on his face. And yet, and this is the amazing part of the dream, the heat from the feces prevented him from getting frostbite and saved his life. Another close call. Sure, it was only a dream, but wow, what a good one, and then of course you might ask, why so much shit? Interesting question. It was three in the morning. Maybe a shit facial, he thought, with its many organic properties, would cure him and his ministers of their dire complexions. He craved chocolate. So much for heading in the right direction. He nibbled away. A fudgy night. Yes, a bar of chocolate, always by the bed. He closed his eyes and thought, I hope someone remembers me like this.