Nazis

I like to watch the old newsreels—the ones that used to crack and pop across the screen. The monotoned moderator telling you where and why. I liked the Nazi rallies best. The people shoulder to shoulder on the Reich Party Congress Grounds just southwest of Nuremberg, their faces beaming with adoration—right arms outstretched as if trying to touch their leader—Hitler, as he barked his hatred on the world stage.

I like to watch the Nazi soldiers—elite S.S. I think, as they goose step their way past a reviewing stand—with Hitler and his generals and minions—right arms outstretched as if they could almost grab the globe they hoped to conquer.

I love most to imagine these same soldiers—these same people, freezing on the Russian Steppe. Their threadbare garments no match for the Russian winter. They have nothing to eat except perhaps a leather belt or shoe or some fallen comrade. They are out of ammunition—unless they choose to throw rocks at the Russian tanks. In fact, it has gotten so bad for each and every one of them, that they can’t help but wish for morning—when the merciless Russians, right up there on the rise, will come and kill them quickly.

I like to think the Russians know this and are in no hurry.