Vater

“Ahh, those were the days, mein lieber Junge.”

My great-great-grandfather reminisced more often because he was dying and knew it. At least that’s what my dad said. He’s over one hundred years old, so has been dying for quite some time now, regardless of what he knew. I’ve always wondered what memories his milky eyes were seeing. What a man like him would want to remember most as his days ended.

My Vater, as he liked to be called, was some sort of senior level official for the Nazis. Growing up, he never talked about that life much. Everything I knew was only because my grandpa, Vater’s only grandchild, squeezed my great-great grandmother for details before Alzheimer’s took her. Grandpa told what he knew to my dad and then my dad told me when Vater came to live with us.

As murky as the details of his life were, how he escaped prosecution during the Nuremberg Trials was a conspiracy. No one talked about it, so I’d visit Vater in his retirement village to sit by his bed and listen to him talk. He’d drift in and out of lucidity, but when he was present, he’d be happy to speak. He never answered my questions, but he had stories for days. I never understood why the nurses hated him, but I eventually settled into gleaning answers from his stories.

“Back when I was around your age,” Vater said. “I almost gave up on life.”

“Why?” I asked. He told my father and I this story a million times, but it felt good to indulge the sweet old man.

“It all started when I was a soldier during World War One.” Vater said, leaning back in his pillows. “Did I ever tell you I fought not ten miles from Churchill, that British Blockflötengesicht.”

I laughed out loud. He’d never said that before, but the disdain has revealed its hereditary nature. History always praised Churchill, and he did a few good things, but none of the Pölzl men, including me, liked him. At first I thought it was ridiculous, but then I read about what he did to India. The former Prime Minister was incredibly racist and cruel to those he considered beneath him. In a time when rubber production shortfalls took the hands and feet of innocent Africans, nations considered Churchill’s actions heinous. And yet, history adored the man and shoved pictures of him and his cigars into our faces as a hero of the 20th century. It’s ridiculous.

“When the Great War ended,” Vater continued once I calmed down. “I stayed in the army, making my way up the Intelligence ladder until I found myself in other endeavors that fostered greater ambitions. Ambitions that would’ve immortalized me, but alas…”

“You are likely the oldest man alive, Vater,” I cheerily said. “That must count for something, right?”

My great-great-grandfather began coughing a wheezing laugh, spittle flecking the sides of his mouth. I picked up a washcloth from the nightstand next to his bed and tenderly wiped away the saliva. He motioned to a cup of water next to the lamp and I cradled his snow white hair as I gently lifted the cup to his lips. When he recovered enough, Vater smiled as he looked at me.

“You remind me so much of myself,” he said affectionately as I set the cup down and leaned back. “I wish we would have won. You would have made an incredible Fuhrer, mein lieber Junge but the world demonized me. Made my memory an evil thing…along with the rest of the Nazis.”

“Vater, I love you, but I mean come on.” I said. “Killing Jews in the millions? How is that right? In any context?”

Vater shrugged weakly. “I will not defend the concentration camps, but what else was I… were we supposed to do?” He asked sadly. “I will admit it, the Jews are an honorable, hard-working people when raised correctly, but back then the Deutschland was suffering. Those ficken Triple Entente members and their ficken reparations. We didn’t start the war! But they made us pay for it and we suffered terribly during those dark times. So many died, but did those arrogant people care about our suffering?”

“What does that have to do with Jews?” I asked.

“What does Islam have to do with terrorism?” Vater asked, smiling. “I will not say how I feel about this detestable government and the traitors they took in after the war, but they learned from us well. Point the people toward an enemy and if there is no enemy, create one.”

“Just like that?”

Vater smiled. “We learned well from how America treated blacks. With how poorly the Deutschland was faring, people will take any glimmer of hope. So when I left the army, my party battled in Parliament, but then the Great Depression happened. So I guess you could say the Nazis were born from the inherent greed of a true capitalist nation. There is more to it, but not even my time in prison could stop what was coming.”

“You went to prison?” I asked, flabbergasted. The revelation was shocking, something no one had ever even mentioned.

Vater waved me down. “It was for less than a year. I used the time to write a book.”

“And you wrote a book?” These revelations were why I visited my Vater, but now that I was getting them, it was more than a little disorienting.

Vater lifted his chin proudly. “It’s one of the greatest pieces of Deutschland literature.”

“What is it called? I want to read it!”

“My Struggle,” Vater said, smiling. “I’m sure you can find a copy somewhere.”

As excited as I was to pierce the veil of my Vater’s life, I frowned as I thought about what he just said. My Struggle? Banned? Banned from where and why? Wait, what was My Struggle in German?

“You know,” I said as I tried to remember what little German I knew. “I never understood how you evaded the Nuremberg Trials.”

Vater smiled and looked around conspiratorially. “No one ever looks for a dead man, now do they?” He fought his laughter as I leaned in. “The Allies were so happy to be rid of me, they accepted the burned bones of one of my body doubles as proof that I was dead.”

“You mean like Hitler?” I asked sarcastically.

Vater hesitated, then chuckled. “Yes…just like that bastard Hitler.”

The hesitation was odd, but Vater was an old man. Hitler was the man who caused his downfall and nearly cost him his life. Of course, he still had a few hangups with the despised dictator. Well, at least he wasn’t foaming at the mouth when talking about Jews. My grandpa said he used to look like a rabies patient around anything Jewish.

“Yes, I took your liebe alte Mutter to Columbia and disappeared while those witch trials were going on,” Vater said.

“What did you do for work?” I asked, getting ready to give up on the translation.

“I didn’t have to.” Vater said, but then his thin shoulders slumped. “I had a few masterpiece paintings in my possession and sold them to make ends meet.”

I nodded slowly, connecting dots while racking my brain for the translation.

“Those black market thugs had absolutely no appreciation for the beauty of what they had.” Vater said, shaking his head miserably. “There were contingencies in place, but they could only last so long and I refused to have your liebe alte Mutter starve, so I did what I had to.”

“You mean the Nazis really have stolen art hidden somewhere?” I asked.

Vater nodded. “At one point we did, but I can’t be sure anymore. It’s been so long, I’m sure someone destroyed or sold everything to some private buyer. The shame.”

He fell silent for a bit and closed his eyes as my mind continued to race on the translation, but then it suddenly hit me.

“Mein Kampf,” I whispered

Vater’s eyes snapped open, and he stared at me.

“You told me your book was called My Struggle.” I said, growing surer in my translation. “Mein Kampf means My Struggle in German. So are you saying you wrote Mein Kampf for Hitler? Like a ghostwriter or contributor or something?”

Vater still didn’t speak, and that’s when it hit me. The dots finally connected. I saw the picture, and I shot up from my seat, the chair clattering behind me following my violent reaction. He just closed his eyes and laid his head on the pillow.