The Number One Lookalike

Short Story

            Matthew browsed the shelves hastily, conscious of the eyes on him. He couldn’t have any privacy in these little newsagents. If he was the only customer then the shopkeepers watched him like a hawk, and Matthew could never tell whether it was because of his appearance, or because they were simply inclined to regard all visitors to their boutiques as potential thieves. If somebody else came in, then that would distract the shopkeeper; draw his gaze, at least for a moment, but then, well, there was someone else in the store to avoid. He couldn’t win. Another shopper drew up close to the frozen foods and so Matthew moved away, to the jars and tins. There was also very little choice in a store of this size, but he certainly wasn’t prepared to face the hordes of customers in one of the larger supermarkets. A jar of sauerkraut caught Matthew’s eye. Did he dare? Surely it was the very worst, the most hazardous thing for him to buy. But now that he’d seen it, the idea fixed in his mind and he suddenly felt that he really wanted it. And why shouldn’t he buy it? Didn’t he have the right to buy and eat what he liked, without being judged? And almost nobody else in this country seemed to like sauerkraut, so the clerk would probably be glad to see it go. He grabbed it, together with some washing powder and went to pay.

            The space in front of the till was very open though, and Matthew appreciated for the first time how much cover the shelves had provided him with. All at once, the full glare of the shopkeeper was upon him, and Matthew’s hands trembled as he placed his items on the counter. As soon as his hands were free, he darted his left in front of his lips and struggled to open his wallet and find the money with only his right.

“Three pound, sixty five,” the clerk asked, as Matthew searched for recrimination in his voice. His eyes flickered down and he panicked; he didn’t have enough coins. He could survive without his goods, but to explain and put his things back would take longer than buying them; would draw more attention to himself. He took a deep breath; he thought he had a note from when he’d visited an ATM earlier. His right hand opened up his wallet fully and searched frenziedly. There it was; it was a twenty, and the guy wouldn’t be happy about having to find so much change, but it was all he had, and less trouble than paying by card or returning everything to the shelves. He produced the note and the shopkeeper took it sceptically.

“Haven’t you got anything smaller?” he asked pleadingly.

“No, sorry,” Matthew apologised, from behind his hand. “Of course not!” he thought. “Do you think I’m messing you about with big notes for fun? That I like delaying and making an exhibition of myself in public? Please just take it and let me go.” They were so close together, the clerk must be able to see right under his hood.

“We don’t sell much of this,” the clerk revealed, indicating the sauerkraut as he pooled his drawer for change.

“Oh s**t, oh s**t,” Matthew thought. “He’s noticed, he’s made a connection.” It had been such a stupid risk, such an obvious alert to his appearance; if only through a stereotype, sauerkraut would make anyone think of Germany, and thus of… .

“Miserable weather we’re having.”

“What!” Matthew thought desperately. “Why is he telling me that? What’s he trying to say? Can’t he just leave me alone?” The man from the frozen foods was coming to pay now, and Matthew grabbed his change and purchases and walked swiftly for the door.

“Have a nice day now.”

“You too,” Matthew called from over his shoulder.

            He paused only momentarily outside the shop; keen to take some deep breaths and regain his composure but more keen to get home and off the street quickly. It was only a matter of metres along the same road, another reason for choosing a convenience store, but he set off at a brisk pace. A group of teenagers were occupying a stretch of the pavement he was following and his heart skipped as he recognised them as ones he’d encountered before. Quickening his pace as much as he could without breaking into an obvious run, and self-consciously checking his hood, he crossed to the opposite side in plenty of time before he passed them. He was on the same side of the road as his flat now, so he could keep his face turned towards the buildings and away from any other passers-by. He covered the last few steps without taking his eyes from his own front door and a great wave of calm almost overtook and anaesthetized him as he felt his key turn and the familiar feel of the cold metal doorknob in his other hand. He scurried in, almost slammed the door behind him and pressed himself against it. Brad Pitt and Elton John were there to greet him in the hallway.

            Ostensibly, it had been a joint idea to move in together; an equal decision, after they’d met at the lookalike agency; he, Jake (Brad) and Keith (Elton).  But Matthew suspected, knew really, that the other two had not chosen him out of affection or compatibility, but out of pity. That they recognised how he, infinitely more than they, could not live comfortably among ‘normal’ people. That they were not only less recognisable, less out-of-place in public, but that if they were noticed, it would only result in joviality, or even admiration. Not so for him. There was a reason why he would run back from any outside engagement, why he preferred not to leave the safety of the flat (“My eagle’s nest,” Matthew reflected sourly) at all. For Matthew Morrison’s particular peculiarity, his trait, his trade, was that he was the spitting image of Adolf Hitler.

            It wasn’t entirely accidental; of course, he had to take some responsibility for his appearance. He could have shaved off his moustache (though it always grew back unnaturally quickly, bizarrely independent of any other facial hair, and always unerringly in that dreadful toothbrush shape). He could have shaved the hair, the ‘Hitler do’ from his scalp too (though a skinhead wasn’t the best look for someone seeking to dissociate themselves from the extreme right-wing). But he never actually did more than trim his hair and moustache; like all the lookalikes, his income depended on his appearance, and he needed to be close to optimum similarity at all times, in case of a short-notice booking. Of course, he didn’t walk about in daily life wearing a German uniform or swastika armband, but the effect of his face alone was enough to prompt the most unwelcome of recognitions; was enough to push him to wear a hood at all times when outside, to force him to shy away in particular from socialists or synagogues; if not for fear of reprisals, then for fear of revulsion.

            Jake and Keith would be going out for their lunch, while he would be here, eating alone in the kitchen. He didn’t think them thoughtless, certainly didn’t bear them any malice; he knew that they’d have invited him to come along if they’d thought that there were a chance that he might assent. But it was impossible for Matthew to not feel any envy towards them; of their normal lives, of their freedoms and friendships and relationships. Jake had a steady girlfriend, and so, amusingly unlike his famous facsimile, did Keith. Not only had Matthew had come to terms with the fact that he would never have a romantic relationship; he had no friends besides his two housemates. If indeed even they really liked him. He’d cut off communications with former contacts, even with his own family, for shame. If not the shame at his own appearance, then the shame of how he was gaining his living from it.

Matthew ate his sauerkraut with some cold meat, the last that he had in the fridge. Of course, he did most of his shopping online, so that he only had to see the supermarket’s delivery man at the door. But he’d spilled some washing powder yesterday and had really needed some more. No matter how carefully he planned, he sometimes just had to go out, though he knew the risks; had encountered the abuse and attacks before. He caressed Trixie behind the ears as he ate; Trixie, his only truly constant companion, the only one he didn’t believe secretly harboured some suspicion and repugnance towards him. His agent had insisted that he get an Alsatian, like Hitler; that it would help with some performances. Matthew had refused at first, had thought it cruel, and still did really, to get a dog, particularly such a large one, when he knew he wouldn’t be able to take her out and walk her. But he’d relented, not because he’d been persuaded, but because he wanted the companionship, and selfishly would tolerate the discomfort to Trixie for the sake of relieving his own loneliness. Jake took Trixie for walks sometimes; just one more thing for Matthew to envy him for. And though to Matthew she was Trixie, everyone else called her Blondi, though they knew he hated them doing so. Blondi, the name his agent had introduced her with; the name of Hitler’s own dog.

Was this how all agoraphobia began? Matthew wondered, though disinterestedly, as he ate alone. Did other so-called agoraphobics have issues something like his; reasons that they couldn’t brave the outside world? Might it not really be a mistake to think of them all as having irrational fears, when some might have perfectly rational motivations for hiding themselves away? It was impossible to tell because, pretty much ex hypothesi, there weren’t many agoraphobics out in public who one could ask. And if there were any out on the streets, Matthew wouldn’t be there to ask them. He received his world through the television and the computer. If there was a power failure or problem with the flat while Keith and Jake were out it meant not mild inconvenience, but terror, for him. So far it had never happened without one of them returning shortly afterwards, but if they didn’t he might need to take action, might need to summon and deal with a stranger himself.

He couldn’t blame anyone else really; this was the life he’d chosen. But he’d tried to ‘go straight’ before; lead a Hitler-free existence. He’d shaved obsessively, twice a day often, until his upper lip was bleeding and torn and his ugly misshapen scalp was on display. But the outline of the moustache seemed to remain, even when the hairs were gone, the stubble, and the raw patch from shaving still seemed to hold the same shape; were still so clearly visible to him. And he could feel it, even when it was beneath the skin; feel it lying dormant, ready to burst through and expose itself. And him. He’d tried dying his hair, and forcing it into different shapes, but it had never been enough. The facial resemblance really was incredible, had made all his efforts into the puniest of disguises. When he’d braved the streets, he’d still faced shouts of “Ginger Hitler!”, “Mullet Hitler!” and even, after one particularly disastrous and conspicuous experiment, “Perm Hitler!” He’d taken jobs out of the public eye; in call centres or offices. But he’d never been very good at anything else. If he’d continued with all the efforts to lead that life; he could only ever have hoped to be an average admin assistant, a mediocre middleman. Whereas, he was good at looking like Hitler, he was exceptional at it. He didn’t even have to try; his studies of Germany in the nineteen-thirties and forties, his practice of the German language, this had sometimes been appreciated but had always been surplus to requirements. His face was his fortune, hideous though it was. And when this was his career, the people who booked him expected him to look that way, were pleased that he looked that way. They didn’t snigger behind his back as most of his colleagues in the ‘normal’ world had, but welcomed him for the way he looked. 

And he really was an incredible likeness. Jake and Keith were good enough, but each had tell-tale faults in their facades; imprecisely similar cheekbones, the odd out-of-place freckle. The specific imperfections wouldn’t be spotted or acknowledged unless one was looking for them, but they were enough to break the illusion, to provoke subconscious disbelief. When Matthew didn’t attempt to disguise his face, there was nothing; no error he’d been able to find, despite all his searching, that could provoke such unconscious, unbelieving feelings; which, looking as he did, would have manifested as reassurance. Even other lookalikes’ agents, people used to seeing doppelgangers on a daily basis, would double-take when they met him. He was the number one lookalike. But no, he reflected sadly, that description wouldn’t fit, wouldn’t do; it was implausibly positive, fantastically free of judgement. A lookalike had to take their cue from their paradigm, whosoever that might be. He couldn’t be understood as a lookalike without an understanding of who he looked like. And he looked like Hitler.   (not entirely clear " get sense of shame so can’t get term of praise like “number one” but needs to be better expressed.)   

            Jake would be giving him a lift to today’s ‘event’. Matthew certainly had no desire to walk, and though he’d once owned a car, the public exposure involved in buying a new one after it had broken down had put him off ever doing so. Not that there was space to park it alongside Jake’s anyway. Matthew sat behind Jake in the car, rather than next to him, for fear of being noticed more easily through the windscreen. When he surveyed Jake, when he tried to draw any comparison between their lives, and particularly when he compared the different engagements they each received, it was impossible for him not to feel jealous. It was still early in the afternoon, so Jake wouldn’t be going on as Brad to a hen party, one of his most regular ‘duties’, after dropping him off. Most likely he’d been asked to lend some glamour to a local film screening, or a sports event at the university. At worst, he’d have to give a peck on the cheek to an infatuated fan of Brad Pitt’s on her fiftieth birthday. But it was a source of great concern to Matthew - the things he was asked to do, the sort of people who would book him. Really, who would book a Hitler impersonator?

            Actually some were harmless enough; he got a few calls from the BBC and television historians who just needed him to dress up and say a few lines for a documentary. They were never particularly interested in his acting experience (all gained before he hit puberty, started growing this irrepressible moustache and lost the confidence to attend any of his drama groups any more) only in his appearance, but they didn’t make him feel compromised, debased. It was the others who really got him down. What kind of people would really want a Hitler lookalike on a regular basis? Not nice people, that much was certain. He wasn’t booked by political liberals or anti-racism campaigners, in order to be gently mocked, and to assist them in pointing out the error of Hitler’s ways. He wouldn’t have minded that. No, it was quite definitely the baddies who wanted him; he came away from the neo-Nazi performances feeling like he’d just collaborated in the most appalling depravity, and as though he’d just been violated himself. He felt physically sick each time. But he forced himself to do them, partly because he needed the money but mainly because it was the one thing he was really good at. It was his talent and didn’t the parable of the talents, didn’t all common sense, command that he make use of it?

            Jake, Brad, dropped him off at the hall and Matthew was shown in by one of the odious, grunting ogres to the room where he could change. He’d brought a Luger with him too, another prop that his agent had suggested he obtain. It was a real one, and in full working order, though, of course, Matthew had left the bullets at home. The guy he’d bought it from had been a lunatic who hoarded weapons because he was convinced that civil war was imminent; the sort of person who might well be in the audience today. Matthew owned the uniform himself but most of the time, and particularly when he was out of the house (which was usually only when he was travelling to or from performances) he wore red. He certainly couldn’t wear a brown or black shirt; the connection with the SA or the fascists was obvious. Greens, particularly darker ones, looked too much like military uniform and yellows or off-creams resembled the colour of Hitler’s outfit in one of his most well-known paintings. Red was fairly safe. Pink ought to have been too, but Matthew had avoided pink since someone had shouted, “Oi, poof Hitler!” at him a month ago. He hadn’t stopped to make clear the irony of the outburst; that Hitler was history’s worst, and most palpable, example of a mass-murderer of homosexuals. He had simply fled, and resigned another shirt from his wardrobe.

            He had ten minutes before he was due to go on, to take part in whatever demented, self-congratulatory activity these morons had wanted Hitler’s participation in. Most performers would use such time to get into character but, given the character that he had to portray; Matthew certainly had no desire to do that. Instead he found himself forlornly wrestling with his conscience again, though he never bested it and though he knew that, if he ever did, it could only be the most Pyrrhic of victories. He had tried to make something positive come out of his sole skill, his appalling aptitude. He’d made the most of the meagre opportunities offered; sometimes argued with the imbeciles after the ‘gig’ was over. Expounded the evils of racism and attempted to make his adversaries, and benefactors, see sense. But, of course, they didn’t listen. Wouldn’t have listened to the message of tolerance and racial harmony in the best of circumstances, let alone in the decidedly surreal context that it appeared to be issuing from Adolf Hitler himself. All it had meant was that, as well as being general arseholes, each group also now hated him, intensely and specifically, along with all their other enemies. Several times he’d had to pass what he’d said off as a joke, just to extract himself from mortal danger. And to make such an effort certainly didn’t help him obtain any repeat bookings. And, ultimately, he didn’t want anyone to dislike him, had had enough of that; was lonely and alienated enough to crave even the perverse adulation of these despicable Neanderthals. His saving grace, which he clutched too, desperately, was that he still couldn’t stand to spend any greater length of time with them; would continue to politely refuse when they invited him to come for drinks after the rallies of which he was a shameful and self-sickening feature. “I need you to like me but I don’t like you,” he thought. “I am not like you.”

            One knuckle-dragger came in to tell him that everything would begin late as most of the group’s members (about four) hadn’t turned up yet. For fascist-wannabes, they were quite sloppily organised, Matthew considered dully, not especially glad of the additional time to ruminate. There must be others who faced at least some similar challenges, he told himself. What about those who always played villains on television? And not “Mwahaaahaaahaa, I’ll get you this time Robin Hood!” villains, but real villains. Those who had to play murderers, rapists and paedophiles in police dramas, or, worse, in reconstructions of genuine cases. Though financially fortunate, it must be quite worrying for an actor to learn that he had made such a convincing paedophile that another programme has expressed an interest in employing him for a similar role. How did they get into character? Did they face similar agonies to him? As when professional pride told him that he ought to be preparing more; that perhaps he ought to watch “Schindler’s List” and cheer for the bad guys, and every moral fibre, everything else within him, said that he really, really ought not to.

            They were quite pathetic really, this lot. They just wanted him to spout some racist nonsense and give the impression that Hitler would have been proud of them.

“He wouldn’t,” Matthew thought, as he said the opposite. “Though just as deranged and malignant as you, he was very much the middle-class prude as well. He’d have dismissed you as delinquents and held you in no esteem at all.” Then, shocked at himself for taking Hitler’s approach in his thoughts, even temporarily, he found himself unable not to speak his own mind. He used his German, reasoning that since his audience seemed to struggle with English, their first language, none of them would have learnt a second. “You disgust me!” he roared in German, to rapturous applause. “Your views are revolting, to all decent people,” he yelled, painfully aware of how screechy and Hitler-like his voice was becoming in his rage. “I will donate my fee for this freak-show to the Aegis Trust for combating genocide. Or to the local synagogue. Or to the Simon Wiesenthal Centre. I won’t be Hitler. I can’t become like him. I won’t become him. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t do this anymore.”

            Matthew slammed the door of his ‘dressing-room’ behind him, grateful to put something, anything, between him and them. And then almost fainted. His clothes were gone; his shirt and trousers, his hooded coat. He had left them folded on a chair, quite definitely he had. Frantically, frenziedly, he opened every cupboard door, poked in every corner, even peered beneath each cupboard in case, for some reason, they’d been flattened and forced beneath. He ran out, back to the main hall; for once keen to delay and talk with one of the bigots. They had all gone, driven away sharply before the next group to use the hall arrived. He pulled himself back through the doorway as these newcomers began to file in; their first representatives a trio of elderly ladies. At another time he might have been amused to experience a gang of hooligans and neo-Nazis apparently being scared off by the WI, but there was no room in him to feel this; no space left for anything but panic. It wasn’t what items had gone; clothes were not irreplaceable, though he could hardly bear to enter a shop to purchase them, though he had to debase himself in this way to get the money to pay for them. It was what he was now left with. He was dressed in full, despicable, Hitler-costume, complete with swastika armband, sewn into the shirt, and jackboots. Only his underwear and socks were normal, he had no other clothes. And it was still broad daylight outside. He regretted his exclamations and insults, though they had been born out of desperation and repulsion, rather than hubris. Could one of them have spoken German after all, and taken his clothes in retaliation? Actually, he thought it very unlikely; none of them had left the hall while he’d been there and if they had sought revenge, they could have taken it out on him far more directly with their fists. There had been no lock on the door of the room and an opportunist from outside had presumably grabbed Matthew’s bundle for the sake of the wallet and phone in the pockets. His phone, by which he might still have saved himself if he had it; he could have called Jake for a lift, or at worst, called a taxi and borrowed money for it from one of his housemates. He might still have escaped walking the two miles home dressed like this. But he couldn’t curse his fortune any more, people were coming in, he had to leave, to go right now.

            Matthew pushed out of the room and immediately turned to the exit, so that his back was to anyone inside the hall. He ran for it, shoved the door wide against the howling wind and then slammed it shut behind him. Now outside, and leaning his weight on the door, in case any of the old ladies wondered at this streak of green rushing from the building; he evaluated his surroundings, and most importantly the numbers of people on the streets, for just a moment. He breathed deeply, spying only one in the immediate vicinity, who might be skirted around. But the wind; it was unbelievable. He’d thought, while inside, of just abandoning the shirt entirely; of at least losing the most conspicuous element of the costume and travelling home bare-chested. In this weather though, ‘Topless Hitler’ would attract just as much attention. And it was so cold. A car passed by and honked at him, and Matthew started. Drivers were less likely to confront him directly than pedestrians but he still ought to avoid major roads. He ran into a smaller-side street where he was thankfully alone. His keys had also been in his missing trousers, but either Brad or Elton would surely be at home to let him in. He knew the way to walk and just had to keep to these small streets; it was all he could do.

             Matthew had crossed roads a dozen times on his journey, to avoid meeting anyone directly, but could not have expected any solitude at this time. And though instinct urged him to run, to get out of danger as soon as possible, he knew that this would look more out of place, that people were more likely to turn around to look if they heard any rapid movement. He was sure that he’d travelled more than a mile by now, without facing any lengthy confrontations, though it felt like hundreds of people had turned to watch him past and shouted after him. And it felt constant, because their shouts continued to ring and echo in his ears long after he had passed them; “Sieg Heil!” “Heil Hitler!” A few more discerning voices shouted “Shame!” As though he didn’t feel it already. As though anyone could possibly hate him as much as he hated himself. He walked with his face angled downwards, to keep it from full view, jerking it upwards only to investigate whether anyone was nearby. Matthew stopped dead as he saw a group walking together ahead, taking up almost the whole street. He thought to turn back, turned to do so but saw another group walking behind, coming towards him, after him, forcing him forwards. Trapping him. And he was sure he could hear them already, the same mocking call pursuing him; “Sieg Heil!” “Heil Hitler!” He pressed onwards, towards the second group; there was nothing else he could do. He did his very best not to pass close to them, not to get in their way at all. He kept to their extreme flank and almost pressed himself to the wall, facing it and not them. But they couldn’t not see him; couldn’t not react. Someone tripped him, he missed the outstretched leg as he tried to keep his face turned to the bricks, and he was sent sprawling.

            He didn’t fall fully, instead catching himself awkwardly on his hands and knees. Hoots of derision rang out from above him as he forced himself back to his feet, and the same jeers were tormenting him from all around; “Sieg Heil!” “Heil Hitler!” He realised now that he had to run, but had covered only a few paces when a sharp pain erupted in the back of his neck; a hurled stone had broken through the skin. Matthew pressed the fingers of his left hand to the wound briefly as he continued to run; blood on his hands now in every sense. Further projectiles whistled over his shoulders before something large hit him powerfully in the centre of the back, compelling him to halt, just to try and shake off the pain; he couldn’t get away like this. With no other option, he turned to face his assailants; though what plea he could make, or how he could save himself, he had no idea. The foremost was preparing to launch another missile and, for the first time in years, Matthew Morrison truly looked into the face of another human besides that of Brad Pitt or Elton John; a unique face that he couldn’t also see on television. And in it he saw nothing but hatred for himself.

            As he backed away from it, Matthew traipsed over some unseen object on the ground, tripped again, and, unable to turn in time and break his fall, smashed his chin on the pavement slabs. Triumphant laughter surrounded him once more and the taunts, “Sieg Heil!” “Heil Hitler!” had become a deafening chant now, albeit an ironic one. Prostrate on the ground and ready to be kicked to death, he remembered at last the Luger, still in a pocket of the uniform. Drawing it as he scrambled to his feet, Matthew waved the weapon madly at his aggressors, silencing the shouts and collapsing the jubilant mood. Not pointing it but brandishing it wildly, like an exorcist’s cross. The crowd shrank back from the gun.

“You f*****g nutter!” a voice in the midst of the group cried out, as one or two of those at the back broke away and bolted.

“Just stop. Just leave me alone,” Matthew panted, unable to come out with anything more, certainly unable to explain or justify. A gap opened up, a route of escape, and he made his way through it, still facing backwards and strafing haphazardly with the unloaded weapon before turning and running full pelt towards home. But more importantly, away.

“Someone call the police,” a voice behind him commanded, but Matthew didn’t turn to see its origins, didn’t face back or pause at all until he reached his own front door, and hammered on it with both fists for admittance.

            Elton opened the door to him, cleared annoyed by the insistent racket, while Brad could be seen relaxing on the sofa opposite. Matthew could only now think of them as Elton and Brad, as he knew everyone thought of him as Hitler. Elton paused in whatever criticism he had been about to make when he saw Matthew’s bruised jaw.

“You look terrible,” he exclaimed. Matthew pushed past him roughly, wanting only to get away to his room, to be alone.

“Don’t I know that!” he yelled. “Don’t I always!,” he thought. They had the ground-floor flat together and Matthew’s own room was along a short corridor from the lounge, and down a flight of stairs. In his haste, he almost fell over Brad’s collection of DVDs, left strewn about the floor. He turned angrily to look at the smiling, beautiful features of his housemate. What had he had to do that afternoon? Snog an Angelina Jolie lookalike? Sit in a new luxury car while the advertisers took photos? Brad could know nothing of torment like his. “Could you at least clear your bloody stuff up?” Matthew demanded. Brad rose slowly from the sofa. Standing upright, he extended his right arm and fingers fully, before swinging it upwards, to point above Matthew’s head; in reproduction of history’s most infamous salute.

“Heil Hitler,” he stated. Matthew fled.

            Down the stairs, he locked the door of his room behind him. Down in his bunker. Even his closest ‘friends’ didn’t like him; were against him now, if they hadn’t always been. Trixie, Blondi, was sleeping in the room, the only one still faithful to him; he didn’t wake her. He wanted to get out of the appalling garments, had thought that would be the first thing he’d do once he got back, but since the afternoon’s ordeal he’d needed to do something else even more urgently, has barely been able to stop himself in the lounge, on the streets. He collapsed onto his bed and wept. He was angry as well as grieved, but principally with himself. He didn’t really even blame those who had attacked him. After all, he had frequently heard of people being attacked for the colour of their skin, for their religion or their sexuality, or for no other reason than because their persecutors were bored. An odd stone or insult thrown at Adolf Hitler when he seemed to be walking about on the streets didn’t seem so bad in comparison. He deserved it. After a few minutes Matthew allowed himself, and made himself, look in a mirror. An inarticulate groan of despair and self-loathing escaped his lips. Though beaten and bloodied, the face that greeted him in it was still identifiably, obviously, Hitler’s. Matthew found he couldn’t bear to look at himself anymore. Unhanging the mirror and heaving it against the opposite wall, it shattered, but not into pieces small enough to satisfy him. He strode across the room purposefully, stamped on each large scrap of mirror in his boots until there was no fragment larger than his thumb remaining. He took such a sliver in hand and carved absently on his left arm as he reflected. There was no escape, even when he couldn’t see himself, even when nobody could see him. Everything had started leading him back to Hitler.

            Godwin’s Law implied that any discussion would eventually involve comparison to Hitler or the Nazis. But what Godwin, whoever he was, probably hadn’t realised, hadn’t had to realise, as Matthew had, was how difficult Hitler was to avoid. According to some notions, there were theoretically meant to be only six degrees of separation between any two individuals in the world. For Matthew, when Hitler was one of the individuals, it was seldom more than two. Any Christian made him think of Hitler, because Hitler had sometimes said he was a Christian. Any atheist made him think of Hitler, because Hitler had sometimes suggested that he was an atheist. Pagans made him think of Hitler, because the Nazis had sometimes claimed to be Pagans. Jews made him think of the Holocaust, and therefore of Hitler. Hindus made him think of the swastika, misappropriated from them by the Nazis, and therefore of Hitler. Short people made him think of Goebbels, and thus Hitler. Fat people made him think of Goering, and thus Hitler. The French, the British, the Americans, the Italians, the Japanese, the Russians, the Germans; all made him think of the war, of the Nazis and Hitler. And what sort of person was he, to have been affected, infected, in this way, by this Hitler takeover; this Hitler cult. He’d tried to distance himself from the monster, had frenetically explored his lineage; had sought desperately through his family tree for someone, anyone, who wasn’t a white European. Somebody not Aryan, anybody ethnically otherwise. Best of all, a Jew or Romani. A Jewish grandfather, perhaps, to insulate him from anti-Semitic implication, whose phantom presence could be a comforting one, a defence. But even in this, he’d felt, giving up, that he’d been frustrating his own aims. For wasn’t such an obsession with genealogy typical of Hitler? And hadn’t Hitler also investigated the possibility of his having a Jewish grandfather, if with the opposite motivation, to assure himself that this wasn’t the case. Matthew looked down now at his left wrist, his right hand hadn’t simply slashed but had been doodling, criss-crossed with the shard. And to him, the mark looked just like a swastika.

He was too old for this, he was an adult; too old to be crying and cutting himself in his room. But he was too young as well; too young to have to realise that the rest of his life would be about hiding and suffering. He cried very easily now, indeed there was one story that never failed to make him sob. He drew it out from his bookcase now, just to look at the cover; along with the small box he kept alongside it. “The Metamorphosis” by Franz Kafka. Tears of empathy pricked his eyes every time he read it, and also tears of desolation, as it confirmed the lesson that he been learning so painfully, that he had learnt now, in his own life. That an individual couldn’t be divorced from the image they presented to the world; that there wasn’t a person independent of the persona.  Appearances are not deceiving; everything is as it seems. There is an art to find the mind’s construction in the face, and it is being practiced all the time.

Police sirens could be heard approaching on the road outside now, coming for him, he was sure. If not one of the thugs, then someone else would have phoned the police; for both the gun and for the offensiveness of his appearance. And he was hardly difficult to find, looking as he did. Matthew caught sight of his image again, cruelly revealed in the polished metal of a tin on his shelf.

“I hate you, Hitler,” he spat at his own reflection, as he removed the bullets for the Luger from the box, and then pressed it against Blondi’s slumbering head. Of course he killed the dog first. Of course he did.   

 

                   

 

             

 

           

 

 

 

Reviews

[mark slade]

yeah, that could be a real problem looking like the most hated man of the twentith century. very strange story. which is why i kept reading it. nice job.