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Miles David Moore

Miles David Moore is founder and host of the Iota poetry reading series in Arlington, VA. He is a member of the board of directors of The Word Works and administrator of its annual Washington Prize. His books are The Bears of Paris (Word Works, 1995); Buddha Isn't Laughing (Argonne House Press, 1999); and Rollercoaster (Word Works, 2004).

The Afterlife of Adolf Hitler

Hitler’s morning in the afterlife begins promptly at nine. Cherubs come knocking on the golden door of his high-windowed bedroom, bearing his hot milk, his zwieback, his dark chocolate bar broken into squares just the way he likes it. Fluttering over him like solicitous doves, they dress him in his superbly pressed uniform and high polished boots, so he can strike a truly resolute pose in front of his mirror.

At nine-thirty they lead him to his studio, where his easel stands in the glow of an Alpine sun, the mountains cool and resolute in the view from his window. His canvas, pure as an Aryan heart, gleams with the pride of knowing that soon it will bear the loftiest inspirations of the Fuhrer. His brushes line up with the precision of an honor guard, and of all his paints, none shines with such burnished glory as the Prussian blue.

Till twelve the Fuhrer stands at his easel, painting a world that only he could envision. Then the cherubs accompany him to the exhibit hall where his greatest creations are shown, and where soon the judging will take place. Hitler stands at a corner of the hall, greeting his admirers with that avuncular dignity so well known to Goebbels and Speer.

At one the results of the judging are announced. It is a different painter every day who makes the announcement; today, it is Camille Pissarro. Monsieur Pissarro steps up to the microphone and makes the same announcement that Edward Hopper made the day before, and Gerard ter Borch the day before that, and that Sandro Botticelli will make the next day, and Edvard Munch the day after that:

“We are pleased to announce the results of the judging. For the best painting in the exhibition, second prize goes to Herr Adolf Hitler, first prize to Mr. Winston Churchill.”
A scream rises above the applause. “THIS IS AN OUTRAGE! I AM GREATER THAN WINSTON CHURCHILL! I AM THE GREATEST PAINTER WHO EVER LIVED!”
From the ensuing silence comes a voice, usually that of Goethe or Beethoven: “You are the greatest house painter who ever lived.”

“THAT IS A LIE! A LIE AND A SLANDER! I WAS NEVER A HOUSE PAINTER! IT IS A LIE, I TELL YOU! A LIE OF THE JEWS AND THE AMERICANS!” Turning a color that reaches the subtle midpoint between an eggplant and a boiled lobster, the Fuhrer tears off his own head and hurls it out the window into the street. The window is always closed; the head lands face down in the crash, driving shards of glass into the glacial blue eyes. The headless body lurches out the door, and—having reached a blood pressure of 666 over 490—it explodes.

Watching from the broken window, cheerful with his Cohiba and Courvoisier, the winner of the judging declares, “Corporal Schicklgruber should not develop more anger than he can contain.”

The severed head, the ragged pieces of flesh and bone and viscera, all pulsate in the street. Children with numbers tattooed on their arms play a pick-up game of soccer with the head. The head flexes its bloody mouth, trying to shriek, but its vocal cords are rent asunder. Packs of dogs, led by Lassie and Rin-Tin-Tin, lick up the blood from the asphalt, gnawing the bones and the meat. Then the children take the dogs home to play. The cherubs scatter, to do whatever cherubs do when not waiting on denizens of the afterlife.

At dawn, after lying in the street all day and all night, the tidbits of Hitler drag themselves back home. Leaving a stuttering trail of blood along the pavement, they agonize inch by inch, over dog feces and broken glass, up to the door, up the staircase, into the bedroom. Crawling onto the bed, they bind together painfully, head to neck, limb to torso, joint to joint, until they make what might be considered a man, just in time for the cherubs to knock on the golden door at nine, bearing the hot milk, the zwieback, the dark chocolate bar broken into squares just the way he likes it.