Chapter 2: Mein Führer - Sieg Heil
Almost every room that President Bowmore had seen Hitler enter was one full of howling German folk, or Nazi Officials. Hitler would enter with his arm held in a frozen wave, his elbow jutting into his side, and the palm of his hand at his shoulder, his fingers squeezed together tightly. The crowd would errupt into cheer, or the Officers would salute. But Hitler entered quietly, only accompanied by one other man, a tall and burly bloke who very much resembled one of the US Presidents own bodyguards.
"Adolf, how are you?" Goebbels politely asked. He'd stood up immediatly, and, not having a better idea, President Bowmore rose as well. He was betting on this being a dream. The fear he felt was certainly much more like the fear he'd felt in dreams. In reality he could defend himself, he could move, he could call for help, and under his desk he even kept a pistol. But in dreams he was helpless, he wasn't the President anymore, he was a school-boy again who got bullied, or he was the man his ex-wife had left him to be, alcoholic and depressed. He didn't heard what Hitler answered to Goebbels but his attention fully returned as the Reichskanzler turned his eyes onto him.
"Und Sie sind? (and you are)?" He asked coldly. Hitler's voice, so different from the audios he heard, made shivers run down President Bowmores spine. The man no longer sounded like a raging and rabid wolf, he sounded like a regular man, one of authority, but not a mad-man. The unknown american's face that was criss-crossed with worry lines made Hitler laugh. "I'm just joking! Why so serious!" He reached out and delightidly shook the strangers hand. The friendly manner in which Hitler had greet him caused the President's shock to prolong itself. But, being the man of power he was, and still believing this was a dream, he regained his composure momentarily.
"A pleasure to meet you to!" He answered, giving Hitler's hand a firm squeeze. "My name is Alistair Bowmore."
"Like the whiskey!" Hitler cried out gleefully. The men all had a laugh, even President Bowmore joined. What a strange dream, he thought, I wouldn't expect a dream featuring Hitler and Goebbels to be so friendly, maybe it was drugs? "I've brought cigars. Joseph, please shut the window, I hate the cold..." Hitler asked. Goebbels nodded and sprung backwards to close the window. President Bowmore hadn't even noticed the cold until Hitler had pointed it out. It gave him all the more reason to believe that the strange scenario was a dream. And had Hitler smoked cigars? Wasn't that more Churchhills thing? "And you are a friend of Josephs?" Hitler asked as he pulled up a second chair.
"No in fact, I'm here because of a mix-up." The US President replied warmly. "I walked into the wrong office I suppose."
"You have a bit of an accent, not Russian I hope?" Hitler asked with a twinkle in his eyes. He was joking; had the man been a Russian he would have acted differently. This man was too Western.
"No, no. No worries. I'm an American. We hate the communists just as much as you do." After saying it President Bowmore felt bad. Hitler had had many communists murdered, they'd been one of the first batches of victims in the concentration camps. But Hitler liked his answer and laughed again. In the last five minutes Bowmore had seen Hitler laugh more than all of the footage he'd seen of him put together. There was a different side to Hitler; a side that went lost in the photography of the second world war.
Goebbels returned, sat on his chair behind the desk and leaned back. "Do we really need to discuss the matters we had planned? I'm too tired today. My head is heavy. Why don't we treat ourselves to Whiskey instead?"
"If Bowmore is already here..." Hitler added, once again playing on the origin of the unexpected guests name. Goebbels proceeded to open the bottom drawer of the desk (where President Bowmore kept his pistol back in his office) pulled out a caramel-colored whiskey in a crystal bottle and opened it, pouring it into three equally beautifull and intricate glasses. The design was very German, there were more straight lines than round ones. A difference between the Germans and the Soviets. In the meantime Hitler had begun to chat with Bowmore. He sat with one leg crossed over the other; something still common for men to do at that time. Stalin often sat as so as well, something President Bowmore had noticed early on in his studies. Funny that it was seen as 'gay' or 'unmanly' now. Bowmore allowed himself the rare pleasure of sitting the same way; finally he was seen simply as a polite intellectual for doing it and not as a 'leftist'.
"Your German is not bad, apart from the slight accent. Are you a translator?" Hitler had asked him. Unsure of what to respond, Alistair Bowmore decided to play it safely; he'd go along with Hitler as far as it was safe. In no way could he say he was a journalist; that could get him killed. If Hitler asked further questions he'd admit to being a literary translator who had friends in politics.
"Yes. I was required to translate a message from the States for one of the members of parlament. That's why I'm here." Er sprach die Lüge ohne das geringste Augenzucken; politicans have the rare gift of lying splendidly.
"English is a strange langauge to learn." Hitler agreed; playing down the necessity of his member politicians to learn english. "If everyone speaks German we wouldn't even need that bastardly language at all!" Goebbels laughed, and Bowmore smiled. He gratefully accepted one of the Whiskey glasses. The all clinked them together. "Prost!"
"Prost!" Goebbels and Bowmore echoed. The whiskey tasted good, rather sweet. Bowmore could tell that it was an aged one.
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