Content Warning: Violence, abuse
As she fried his eggs, she smiled. They had been married eleven years. All she ever wanted, since she was a teenager in Germany working in a photo shop, was to be married to him. She didn’t care what the world still thought of him. She smiled, frying her husband’s eggs.
He laid in bed thinking, wondering, how in hell did he end up hiding in this jungle, this jungle in Brazil? He had almost conquered the world. It was the people, the German people who had let him down. And in that underground bunker with artillery shells exploding all over Berlin, he married that crazy woman in the kitchen. At least the young men who guarded his house were blond and blue-eyed. He had tried to make the perfect race. He tried to rid the world of the mental lunatics, those others with no arms or legs and the Jews, those Jews. Where the hell were Bormann and Mengele? He hadn’t seen them in weeks. He yawned, scratched his stomach with his shaking right hand. He thought of those traitors, Himmler and Göring. And that crazy Rudolph Hess, another traitor. It had all gone wrong, never should have declared war on America, should have invaded England, instead of Russia. That could have waited. He scratched under his nose.
He even had to shave his mustache off. Should have stayed in Berlin, he thought. But, after what they did to Benito, he fled Berlin like a coward. First out of Berlin on a small plane to Norway, then on a U-boat to South America. Eleven. Eleven years ago. Here, in this house, in this jungle with this crazy woman who had taken to wearing blue jeans and t-shirts. Married in an underground bunker with Russian artillery shells exploding all over Berlin.
“Dolfie,” she called. “Dolfie, your breakfast is ready.”
Dolfie, he thought. He hated that nickname. He told her time and time again not to call him Dolfie. She wouldn’t listen. I should have stayed in that bunker — the Russian artillery or tanks would have probably killed me before I ended up like Benito. He scratched the naked skin under his nose again and rose out of bed.
“Good morning Dolfie,” she smiled at him.
He grunted.
She placed the plate of eggs in front of him. He never ate bacon, he was a vegetarian. But, he did eat eggs?
“Dolfie, I’ll get your tea.”
He grunted again.
She placed the tea on the table for him. Then she went to the radio on the kitchen counter.
The rock and roll song of Chuck Berry blasted out of the radio:
Way down Louisiana
Close to New Orleans
Way up among the woods
Among the evergreens
Stood a log cabin
Made of earth and wood Where lived a country boy
Named Johnny B. Goode!
With disgust he watched her dance around the kitchen in blue jeans and t-shirt.
“Turn it off,” he screamed. “It’s communism, turn it off.”
“Dolfie, it’s rock and roll.”
He rose up from his chair with his shaking hands, he grabbed the frying pan, he then smashed the radio to pieces. “Dolfie, you ruined the radio,” she said.
Without hesitation and with angered strength, he slammed the frying pan with his shaking hands onto her skull. She fell on the kitchen floor.
“Dolfie, no,” she cried.
He hit her head again and again with the frying pan.
In blue jeans and t-shirt, Eva Hitler died.