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Hitler’s Woman

Steve Sibra

    The Greylag geese paint the canvas sky with their wings, their feathery brush strokes lightly sweeping the cheeks of God.

The Bavarian Alps are always in winter.

She is Hitler’s woman but she was once just a small town shop girl.

From her balcony window she could watch the precision of the squirming tarantulas as they marched by.

They were drilling endlessly.

The bright colors of the Nazi stanchions stung her eyes like pellets of sand — delivered without passion; unwilling messages from the wind.
    Perhaps today is another day to be filled by considering attempts at suicide.

She turns from the balcony with despair - all emotions are private but this one was insulting.

If only she could have had another dog.

In her bedroom dresser there was a drawer filled with nothing but ornate thimbles.

Atop the table, a weary music box turns its half broken circular stage. The tiny ceramic dogs riding there show no interest in their work or their world.
    She walks through her confined space feeling like a block of wood.

Smoking and drinking in spite of the Fuhrer’s rage, she spends her time reciting the names of the others, all now dead from their own “suicides”:

His niece Geli Raubal.

The great actress Renate Muller.

She swears at the others whose names are so easily there for her now.

She is a woman who thoroughly hates women.

Everything about them disgusts her as bitterly as Hitler’s diseased teeth and graveyard breath.
    Women to her are like German Shepherds driven mad by syphilis and ravaged by Parkinson’s.
    The belladonna and the cyanide are nestled like friendly homesteaders into the cuffs of her blouse.

Tomorrow is to be her wedding day.

She will not be returning to the Berghof and she will not carry water up the hill to the Allies, posing as some peasant.

All of history’s most spectacular weaklings took their own lives.
    If only she could locate the missing twenty-two pages of her diary.

How whimsically she would burn them now, while in the bunker, far beneath the so-called earth.
    Black and copper.

Every day would have been so like a birthday, if only she could have had a dachshund.

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