Vater

This came from a writing prompt asking: Think of a voice sitting on the shoulder of a historical figure constantly whispering into their ear. So I wrote, and this is what I came up with. The voice is the conscience of Adolf Hitler. In German, these words mean: Vater: Father Mutter: Mother Lieb Junge: young dear boy Führer: leader Führerbunker: shelter for the leader, the Führer's shelter. This has been published twice. First, at the Carl Jung Center in Buffalo, NY in the anthology A Celebration of Western New York Poets and recently, in a chapbook via The Poet's Haven in Ohio, titled Darker Than Fiction. Vater I watched your rebirth onto this plane. We all looked on, noble wolf, while Mutter solemnly masked her pain. Vater whipped you in your later years while I stood silent in shadows. The time was not yet right. A Bohemian should have suited you fine following the death of Vater. The canvas was to be your escape, yet you held no decree, no privilege. The key held tightly in my bony grasp. Waiting . . . waiting for the day you would be attuned to my voice. I foresaw millions waving to you in homage and showed the skin of my teeth in skeletal grin. Was it the constant rejection of Vienna that caused you to change your train of thought? To lie your brush down lightly to rest and pick baton in hand as whip to march the masses? You certainly were far from unintelligent. My constant chattering eventually led you to write words I had been whispering for ages. When Mutter passed, you began the uprisal. I honestly did not realize the impact I had on you then. I only wanted to be heard; yet you outlived my spirit. You began to frighten even me with your constant babble and I held hands to my ears, drowning out the rivers of bloodletting I birthed. Even when you stopped listening to me, you led them through the wires. You ceased to believe in the cause. The message was lost when the armies marched yellow stars to silent deaths. I only needed to speak Führer. The plans we schemed were far beyond my reach. You did not require my guidance. You forced me from your heart. Oh, Lieb Junge, I weep tears that do not fall from your eyes. They grew cold and dead while Berlin startled itself awake to gunshots in the night. Your body lies in smoke and ash, alongside family and comrades. Bitter almond trailing, colorless. Wisps of history lost in rubble. The Führerbunker safe within the breast of the beast you battled. © 2018 Susan Marie