I - Hitler

‘He regains consciousness.’

Oaaahhh...my head. What a crash...

Well, the guy on the radio was obviously right. ’In the mornings and evenings, increased game crossing is to be expected.’

After all...fortunately someone is still on the road at this time. Probably also cyclists or hikers. Alone in the middle of nowhere - and soon night falls...not a pleasant thought. Although it feels like spring today, it still gets uncomfortably chilly at night in early February in the beautiful heights of the Black Forest. My colleagues would certainly have worried at some point and called if I hadn’t come to the regulars’ table and maybe even informed the police...but they would also just be standing in front of an abandoned mobile somewhere in my flat. Hmmm...I should inform Juergen or Stefan. Hope someone has one and will let me call...

A man’s voice, commanding tone. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please step back so I can examine the Fuehrer.’

...?

‘My Fuehrer, can you hear me?’

My Fuehrer? Which guide is he talking about? Oh my God, I must have hurt someone. But there were just those damn wild boars, weren’t there? Guide...hmmm...maybe a mountain guide? Although…this is the Black Forest, not the Alps...you don’t need guides here.

A second male voice, concerned. ‘My Fuehrer, say something.’

I open my eyes and recognise a stucco ceiling. A hospital? That would explain male voice one...but still…who is this guide?

A face approaches. Hmmm...where have I seen that before...

‘Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh’

Male voice two, deeply concerned. ‘The Fuehrer must be in terrible pain. What a bloodcurdling scream. And now he’s turning pale as a sheet.’

Male voice one, reassuring. ‘This is the shock after the fall.’

I can only agree with that diagnosis. However, not due to the abrupt, wild boar caused end to my rushing downhill - but because of Hermann Goering’s face rising like a pale, fat moon above my field of vision. Apart from my eyelids, which immediately banish the image of one of the most notorious Nazis from my retina, I am completely paralysed and desperately trying to grasp a clear thought: Dead and in hell? The craziest hallucination ever? Against it speaks my head, which almost explodes...hooah...now my forehead is touched, I feel it very clearly...and then Goering. This is not a hallucination…Fuehrer...are they talking about...me?

After this question, my mind decides to quit service and an unknown voice sounds. ’Hannes, don’t be frightened...it’s me, your survival instinct. So far, we’ve never had the pleasure of working together, but now it’s good that my colleague is in the parking bay for a moment - and I’m taking over. Because just suppose the unthinkable has become reality and you are in Hitler’s body, then frankly, I think it would be unwise for you to greet with ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, thank you very much for your help. My name is Hannes Resle, resident in Baden-Baden, Head of Research & Development in the Renewable Energies Division of the Bienle Group and, as you can see, a passionate mountain biker’, because then, for sure, you have a very, very serious problem. And by that I don’t mean no one in the Third Reich understands what the heck a mountain bike is. Listen, how about a question instead? You can’t go wrong with that, can you? Look, you just say

‘Whaaattthhhaaapppeeennneeeddd?’

By the way, you should open your eyes. Looks strange otherwise.’

Not sure if that was a good idea, since the immediately following cheering roar ‘Hooorrraaayyy...the Fuehrer speaks’ massively exceeds my current decibel tolerance threshold. So, I laboriously press out a ‘Dddooonnn’tttbbbeeesssooolllooouuuddd’ and get the hoped-for response ‘Psssssttttttt’.

Goering, whisper mode. ‘My Fuehrer, you stumbled and hit your head against the wall.’

Male voice one. ‘The Fuehrer needs rest. Men, carefully lift him onto the stretcher and take him to his chamber. Linge, please get an ice pack to relieve the pain, ditto Aspirin.’

A chorus of ‘Yes, Mr Morell,’ then strong hands grab hold, stucco patterns change and after a short while, we stop in front of a massive door. I lift my head a bit – damn, that hurts... – and recognise four enormous swastikas.

‘Let me pass, so I can close the curtains.’

‘Yes, Mr Morell.’

‘Gently put him in bed, shoes off, and carefully place the ice pack on his forehead.’

‘Yes, Mr Morell.’

‘My Fuehrer, you should rest now. You were fortunate beyond belief, because apart from a huge bump, I couldn’t find any external injuries. If you require assistance: I’ll put the bell apparatus right next to your bed, ditto Aspirin and a pitcher of refreshing spring water.’

As if remote-controlled, I let myself sink into the pillow with an approving groan. Everyone leaves the room. Then silence.

With me, it’s just the opposite. After the immediate danger to my life is averted, my mind is coming back. At first hesitantly, then faster and faster, thoughts rotate to finally come up with another suggestion: Am I the leading actor in the new TV show ‘Germany’s next Super-Fuehrer’ and have I lost my memory in an accident? The private broadcasters will stop at nothing to increase their viewing figures. There is only one way to find out: I need a mirror. With difficulty I get out of bed and carefully walk through the semi-dark room...there, that looks like a bathroom. Next to the toilet, a shower, a washbasin and - a mirrored cabinet. I feel for the light switch and find it. Take a deep breath, three, two, one...and the most notorious mass murderer in history is staring at me.

At some point, the right hand begins to carefully palpate the face...what a bump...ahhhh...it’s real...and a last, desperate cry for help from my mind gets through to me: Maybe just a very good job by the make-up artists?

Fingers make their way to the ultimate test, tremblingly approaching what is probably the most famous moustache in history, grabbing, pulling...the pain gives me certainty and even if it defies all laws of nature: Real. It is him. I am in Hitler’s body.

‘Hannes, me again. You really need to have a serious talk with your mind...not truly stable. So, good...first of all, slowly back to bed...yes, that’s it, one foot in front of the other...great, you made it. Then an aspirin in your hand, into your mouth, down with it and now hold the glass, bring it to your lips and take a little sip. Veeeery nice...The cool water is good, isn’t it? Caaaaalm down. Watch out: Imagine you are not you at all, but your best friend. You analyse the situation and check possible options for him. Well, he could reveal himself, but then there will most likely be such unpleasant things as a closed psychiatric ward, torture, imprisonment or execution. Escape is out of the question thanks to his notoriety. Suicide isn’t his thing, and besides, he still has this very last resort. I think we both agree I’m right, don’t we? Well, then, there is only one way out: He comes to terms with the situation and makes the best of it.’

Hmmm...sounds conclusive. Thanks to the skilful speech of my survival instinct, I feel myself getting calmer and my just scolded mind is coming back, too. Let’s see: What could benefit me? Of course, I’m from 2026 and in my current situation, history instead of biology as a second advanced course next to physics was definitely the better choice and all the documentaries on TV about the Third Reich were time well spent. Secondly, my mechanical engineering and information technology studies and more than twenty years of professional experience. Even if I’m no longer up to date in all areas of technology, my knowledge more than 80 years ahead of the times. What else: Basic military service, a good memory for names and, probably most importantly, my membership in an amateur acting club. Well, that will be the role of my life then…hopefully resulting in some more lifetime. Okay, what’s next? Hmmm…explore the environment and gather information.

Cautiously, I lumber towards the curtain and pull it aside. It’s a sunny day and the Statue of Victory greets me in the distance. So, I am in Berlin and then most likely in the Reich Chancellery. ([1]) There is an alarm clock on the bedside table, it is shortly before 10 a.m. Just above is a toggle switch. I flip it and a huge chandelier illuminates the room with yellowish light. My gaze falls on a wall of cupboards. I open all doors and recognise several rows of grey folders next to trophies and hotchpotch, count them off and come up with 81. Let’s see, what do we have here under ‘G’: Goebbels, Josef and Goebbels, Magda, directly behind them Goering, Hermann and Goering, Emmy. The same appearance for all: A portrait photo on the cover page, followed by a detailed curriculum vitae. I’ll take a closer look later, but now I’ll move on to the next room.

In the semi-darkness, a huge desk can be seen, on the right side a swivel lamp. I switch it on. Next to a stack of protocols lie several maps. The largest shows the front around Kiev, is dated 20 September 1941 and shows the advance of German armed forces, the Wehrmacht. Interesting...having accepted by now that I’m in Hitler’s body, my mind no longer seems to care about the paper evidence of the jump back in time and is instead focusing on the change of the frontline over the last two weeks. You don’t have to be a military strategist to realise that the defenders are in a losing position, and it can only be a matter of days before the city falls. Kiev, Kiev...Resle, try hard, try to remember...Yes, now: The encirclement battle of Kiev. Victory of the Wehrmacht and capture of more than half a million Russian soldiers.

But...that wasn’t all...damn, something happened afterwards...I take a closer look at the map. Then I recognise it, not far from the city at all - and hear the voice of my history teacher Dr Riehle as if it were yesterday:

’A few days after the end of the battle of Kiev, in a concerted action by units of the SS ([2]) and Wehrmacht, more than 33.000 Jewish men, women and children were murdered in the nearby Babyn Yar Gorge. To date, the single-greatest crime of the Second World War and another terrible step towards the killing of more than six million Jews.’

I stare motionlessly at the map. Until just now, it only affected me. And I have begun to come to terms with it, try to somehow survive. But now it’s bigger, much bigger...and I’m afraid…too big for me. I stand and stare - until at some point, something speaks to me from a layer much deeper than mind and survival instinct.

’No, Resle, wrong: Not ‘were murdered’ - but ‘would be murdered’ instead. By now, at the latest, it must be clear to you: This does not happen by chance. You know the history of the Third Reich and as Hitler, you have the power to change it. You must at least try. Your knowledge and intellect will help you, and, by the way, before I get too emotional: Time is short, so don’t stand around any longer.’

It pushes me into the third and last room. Hmmm...a strangely shaped floor lamp. Looks like a movie prop from that Fritz Lang film...yes, Metropolis. Could even be right, because obviously, I’m in Hitler’s home cinema. A massive projector is enthroned on a pedestal and dozens of film reels are stored in boxes on the wall. Besides ‘Best of GroeFaZ’, ([3]) there are, remarkably, also some US westerns. Behind a curtain, I discover a screen and several large mirrors. Obviously, his posing studio. Immediately, the actor in me awakens - perfect place for rehearsing Hitler’s speech, gesture and facial expression. ([4])

After exploring all three rooms, I return to the bedroom. By now, it is already shortly after 11 a.m. How much time for recovery will I be allowed? I would guess six to seven hours at the most. Hmmm...damn little to sift through the material and become Hitler.

So, hurry back to the first room to check the folders. But first, one more aspirin. On the way, I feel a human need and happen to look in the bathroom mirror and for a moment, it’s as if he’s telling me: Fuck off, let me back into my body.

Hmmm...I wonder what happened to him. Body switch? Will Bernd Hoecke, Germany’s best-known right-wing extremist, soon have a congenial partner? In that case, one can only hope for the omnivorous wild boar...

His bladder ends my thoughts by more than insistently urging me to empty it. As a modern man of 2026, I sit down on the toilet seat as a matter of course and at the same moment, I realise: For the first and last time. Surely, no man does that in 1941. I can already see the headline in the Voelkischer Beobachter ([5]) in front of me: ‘Vigilant cleaning woman unmasks false Fuehrer - missing urine traces gave him away’. As I’m about to get up again, it occurs to me that numerous Allied vituperative songs are about Hitler having only one testicle ([6]), let’s see...yes, that’s right. And since the first part of the body check is done, I immediately continue and undress completely. The look in the mirror is sobering: This is supposed to be the GroeFaZ? More likely the SkinnyFaZ, because standing in front of me is a lanky male with a huge bump and, for his estimated height of 1.75 metres, enormous feet. ([7]) Let’s see what his strength and condition is like...Yep, SkinnyFaZ, because after just ten knee bends and five push-ups performed on my knees, I’m sweating like after a mountain bike tour up the Obersalzberg. ([8]) So, after a short cold shower, conclusion is: What a weakling.

Dressed again, I start looking at the folders. Apart from blah-blah and adulations, I also come across some really interesting sections, recognizable by red stamps stating ‘Doubtful loyalty to Fuehrer and Fatherland’. 17 of the 81 are marked in this way. One name in particular sticks in my mind: Wilhelm Canaris, head of the intelligence service and, to quote my history teacher again.

’A contradictory personality, torn between allegiance and resistance. From 1938 to 1940, he was involved in plans to overthrow Hitler, but like the other conspirators, he could not bring himself to act. On the other hand, he saved the lives of several hundred Jews by sending them abroad as alleged agents. Because of his diary, in which he had meticulously described the overthrow plans, and which fell into the hands of the Gestapo ([9]) in 1944, he was arrested and executed shortly before the end of the war.’

I thumb through all the files and try to memorise the names and faces of those I don’t know from history lessons or documentaries. It would be impossible to read everything, so I have to allow for some gaps - if necessary, I can rely on a little retrograde amnesia. In the meantime, my concentration is waning, time for a water and aspirin break. Shit…it’s already 2 p.m. - that means I have at best four hours left. Now I’d better take the alarm clock with me.

On the way back, I sense that something is wrong, or rather, missing. At the same moment: A face and a name. Martin Bormann, personal adjutant to the Fuehrer. I look under ‘B’ and sure enough, no Bormann. Which probably clarifies who created this archive.

Next, and almost relaxing: Practicing Hitler’s signature. There are plenty of templates on the protocols. Here, I must confess to my shame that some years of my school career were marked by a disturbed relationship to discipline and willingness to learn, so that here and there, I felt compelled not to burden my parents unnecessarily with the obligatory written notice of suboptimal work results and behavioural conspicuities, but to take this into my own hands. Or, to make a long story short: I am an accomplished signature forger. After less than a quarter of an hour, the original is indistinguishable from my copy and the writing attempts await, in small snippets, my next, but then time-conform, bladder emptying.

Back at the desk, a somewhat hidden drawer catches my eye. I pull it open and discover several folders labelled ‘Secret matter - Weapons in development’. Hmmm... Let’s see if they really were researching this super weapon that was supposed to turn the tide of war. Can only be the A-bomb, after all, and indeed there is one with ‘Atomic research’ printed on it. Since we had discussed the construction and functioning of nuclear weapons in physics, even I recognise that the explanations are very superficial and incomplete. In contrast, there is extensive material on chemical weapons. Perversely, a development called X-7 was discontinued with the following justification: ’The colourless and odourless gas works reliably and quickly, but the test subjects were only unconscious.’ A glance at the alarm clock: Already shortly after 3 p.m. Damn, so late? Time to get back to the home cinema.

After a brief perusal, I decide on three films: Hitler’s last speech on the occasion of the anniversary of the Buergerbraeuputsch ([10]), Hitler in the circle of his generals and Hitler in private on the Obersalzberg.

First, the reel with the Buergerbraeuputsch speech. I watch the film for 10ish minutes, then stop it and stand in front of the mirror. But after only a short time, I have to state: The result is pitiful. The speech may be acceptable, but gesture and facial expression are just lousy. Hmmm...I obviously set my goals too high for the beginning.

So, I lower the level of difficulty and put in the third reel: Hitler in private life. So far, I’ve only seen short excerpts of this film, and after a quarter of an hour I’m somewhat amazed, because Hitler is charming, courteous, humorous - a completely different person. Mr Hyde becomes Dr Jekyll. Afterwards I stand in front of the mirror - and after not even ten minutes, I’m satisfied with my performance.

Now, level two: Hitler in the circle of his generals. After 15 minutes, I switch off the projector and realise why I failed earlier: I can imitate the nice Hitler, for me same as for him, it is merely a role. But to be the other, the real Hitler, I have to think like him.

Well…I am the greatest Austrian - uh...German - of all time, founded a 1000-year empire, am more infallible than the Pope and outshine Louis XIV, the Sun King. Only thanks to my brilliant strategic decisions, which my incompetent generals, blessed with the intellectual abilities of overripe meat tomatoes, can only follow in exceptional cases, we have overrun all our enemies. I stand in front of the mirror, begin and...he stands there. I am really scared - as it looks so deceptively real.

No time to think about whether I should think about it...because it’s approaching 4:15 p.m., so just a short break to drink some water. Fortunately, my headache is blown away. Obviously, the aspirin has worked very well.

So, let’s move on to the supreme discipline: The Buergerbraeuputsch speech. I put in the reel, inhale the first ten minutes and then run up the GroeFaZ turbine. After a slow, evocative start, I pick up speed, exaggerate, mock, vary tempo and volume, get into the flow, get into him, nothing can stop me...

‘My Fuehrer, you should rest and yet I heard you from afar. I must also confess that I have been watching you for the last few minutes and, my Fuehrer, I have seldom seen you so vigorous, so full of energy. How happy and grateful we all are that you have recovered so well.’

A visibly touched Bormann stands before me. I am paralysed and hear my sweat dripping onto the floor. After a few deep breaths, I regain my composure and gratefully notice my stomach is growling. An unsuspicious topic for conversation.

‘Thank you very much, my dear Bormann. I am feeling much better and even have a slight appetite. Could you see to it that my dinner is served?’

‘Of course, my Fuehrer. I will inform Linge without delay. One question: Will we still have our briefing with the generals at 7 a.m. tomorrow? I would then pick you up at 6:55 a.m.’

‘Of course. My dear Bormann, what would I do without you?’

‘My Fuehrer, you are too kind’.

Stifling a tear, he retreats.

Pooh...that could have gone wrong. But I stayed calm and apparently even managed to convince my personal adjutant. Yet, I must not be mistaken in him: He could pass for a helpful neighbour, but he is a fanatical Jew-hater and one of the driving forces behind the Holocaust. By the way, in view of the briefing scheduled for tomorrow morning, my program for the evening is set: Back to the desk, swotting up on protocols and frontlines.

But first out of the sweaty clothes. After looking through the wardrobe - unsurprisingly, brown is the trend colour this autumn - another quick shower, get dressed and there is already a knock at the door. A tall man rolls a serving trolley in the room and sets the table.

‘My Fuehrer, if I may take the liberty: We are all unspeakably glad that you survived your accident so well. I was standing only a few metres away and was expecting the worst. Shall I come back later or clear away after breakfast?’

‘Linge, thank you very much. I am touched by your sympathy. Please do that tomorrow morning. Since I have slept a few hours, I still need to work.’

‘Of course, my Fuehrer. As always, you sacrifice yourself for our Fatherland and do not spare yourself. I hope you will enjoy your meal and wish you a pleasant night’s rest.’

Looks as we have something in common: Both of us are workaholics.

‘Thank you and good night to you too.’

Hungry and full of joyful anticipation, I lift the polished cloches - only to drop them on the table immediately afterwards, disillusioned. I know Hitler is a vegetarian and I’m by no means a meat fanatic, but this stuff reminds me a lot of the university canteen and - as I realise after a few seconds - tastes like it. The only bright spot is the potatoes. In the end, however, my stomach forces me to eat, continues to growl angrily and presses the bell button. After what feels like less than a few seconds, Linge is standing next to me.

‘Could I have a second helping of potatoes? I must say that today’s excitement has made me very hungry.’

‘Of course, my Fuehrer. It will be done immediately.’

After I have eaten the potatoes and drunk the last sip of herbal tea, I get back to work. Two things still have to be done: Firstly, I must prepare for the briefing, and secondly, I need a plan on how to proceed.

So back to the desk and peruse the protocols of the last few months. There is relative calm on the Western Front after the air battle of England went down the drain. But there is lots of activity in North Africa under General Rommel. By far the most entries are on Unternehmen Barbarossa, the invasion of the Soviet Union. A terse note on the siege of Leningrad, which had just begun, catches my eye. It’s crazy, more than a million people starved to death there - I correct: would have starved to death - and here, there are only a few scanty lines.

After some time, I notice that the protocols were obviously not written objectively and completely. Here, Yelnya - I can still remember a history lesson.

‘At Yelnya, after a series of devastating defeats, the Soviet army managed its first successful counter-offensive. This was of enormous importance for the morale of the fighting troops as well as the civilian population.’

Here, there is only talk of ‘the enemy has been stopped’, but not a single word about the retreat of the Wehrmacht. Was important information withheld from Hitler, according to the motto: What cannot be, must not be? Furthermore, there is no mention of insufficient equipment, but instead, without exception, notes such as ‘The troops are in excellent shape’, ‘The supply of weapons, ammunition and spare parts is ensured’. Sounds like everything is in perfect order - a stark contrast to reality.

‘The German offensive on Moscow, which began on 2 October 1941, literally got stuck in the mud and the early onset of winter brought it to a definite standstill. In addition, the fact that due to the rapid advance and early successes, the supply had been criminally neglected, took its revenge. A large part of the troops was not or only partially operational and many soldiers suffered frostbite due to insufficient winter equipment. On 5 December, the Russian army launched a large-scale counter-offensive. Despite some successes over the next few months, this was the beginning of the end of the Russian campaign and ultimately resulted in the disaster of Stalingrad and a retreat on a broad front.’

After a while, my concentration wanes and my gaze wanders around the room until it finally pauses on a flat something on the windowsill. Suddenly I feel my hands tear the wrapper off a bar of chocolate, break off a large piece and...stop! What’s going on here? Gradually my mind switches back on. Wow...the infamous Panzer chocolate. Now I know what moved this body: It contains Pervitin, the crystal meth of World War II. Keeps the troops and the Fuehrer awake. Extremely reluctantly, the hand follows my will and puts the chocolate back.

After army and air force, eventually the navy. Lots of reports on submarine attacks on convoys including the sunk tonnage. One perverse statistic follows the next until my attention is caught again: On 4 September, about three weeks ago, an American destroyer not only pursued a German submarine, but also dropped water bombs. It narrowly escaped being sunk. And in fact, I recall there were attacks by US warships even before the official German declaration of war on the Americans on 11 December 1941. Another CrazyFaZ action: To assume the Americans were so weakened by the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor on 7 December - well, let’s right away take advantage of that.

I continue to work my way through the protocols. Strange, at some point, I see a column of tanks, then a squadron of Messerschmitt ([11]) flying over a diving submarine. Bormann and Canaris fighting over a piece of Panzer chocolate. My ex-wife and I on our honeymoon in Hawaii: As if it were the most natural thing in the world, we meet Churchill, de Gaulle and Roosevelt for a drink on board a burning US battleship while Stalin stands sulkily aside. ([12]) Horror on the faces of the Germans as they are led through the concentration camps after the end of the war. Everything spins faster and faster, like in a washing machine...