My Struggle

I suffer from night terrors. It is far more unsettling for those who have to bear witness to my midnight musings than it is for me, as I rarely have any recollection of these episodes.

I felt it important to let you in on that before I let you in on this: Hitler is currently perched on the edge of my bed. I jumped a little at this discovery. Sure I did. For I live alone, and any nighttime, foot-of-the-bed surprise guest would be unwelcome. Make it the apparition of a long-dead tyrant with the blood of millions on his hands and well... I’m going to need a minute.

And my bowels, you might ask?

Miraculously intact. He isn’t speaking, and for that I am grateful as “verruckt” and “scheissekopf” are the only two German words that have managed to shake off the three decades of dust since my last German class and join me here in this moment. Fitting as they are, they don’t make for great (or lengthy) conversation, so I, too, remain silent.

He is tall - much taller than I expected for someone among the likes of Mussolini, Stalin, and Napoleon.

I’ve always imagined those with unfathomable reserves of vile to be disproportionate in their stature causing spontaneous combustion and a flooding of evil across international boundaries.

“Wo bin ich?” he whispers, looking up.

Where is he. I almost laugh. It appears Herr Psycho has landed on the *wrong* duvet cover in tonight’s game of Musical Dimensions. I smile and reach for the lamp on my bedside table eager to illuminate both the Star of David tapestry hanging on the wall before him and his subsequent reaction.

Aside from a brief widening of the eyes, he does not flinch. His gaze drops to his lap and for the first time I notice he is clutching a copy of Mein Kampf in his trembling left hand. My Struggle. Hitler’s Struggle. *My* Struggle. I would imagine right now they are one and the same: he is in the bedroom of a menopausal Jewish woman.

“Ah, I see you brought a little light reading. Perhaps we should follow it up with a documentary on the Holocaust?”

“Heil Hitler!” he barks.

“GO to Hell, Hitler!” I exclaim.

Normally I don’t believe in hell. But right now, tonight, in the middle of this night terror/delusion/psychotic break I find myself in, I can’t imagine a more suitable place for this man than an eternal, fiery pit.

He gestures wildly toward a pen on my bedside table and I stare incredulously as he opens the front cover of his manifesto and begins to scribble an inscription. I’ve got Hitler, Hitler’s book, and a pen - it’s a book signing, folks. 2020 style.

The faster he writes, the more he begins to fade. I can practically see through him and I shut my eyes against the absurdity of it all. I feel the weight of the book beside me as I drift off to sleep and pray for the light of day.