PLANNING AN ASSASSINATION

An old man with long memories suddenly wants to put right the one thing his own father regretted omitting when Hitler passed him by...

He wanted to grab the wind by its wildest breath and be dragged along by it. That’s really, truly, what he wanted. Ancient as he was he could see a whole world of possibilities with sudden clarity and there was so much for him to do, and so little time to do it in. He needed that wind, all right. Not much else would do.

Father had said, may the Lord bless father, that he rued the day he might have killed Hitler, but hadn’t. He’d been there, he said times many, when the fiend had passed so close to him he could smell the pyorrhoea on his breath. And he might have done it - squeezed a little trigger and hey presto! Hitler would have died right there and then in front of him. He had the gun, hidden, and he had the chance...

But instead he’d cheered, loud and painfully until he was hoarse, and Hitler had drifted by.

Maybe there were many who regretted the same thing, but father rued his cowardice more than any.

Hitler had gone on to slaughter Father’s kin. Or if not he in the flesh, he in the ideas, the orders, the instructions, the ownership of death camps.

Then there had been all the terrible things suggested over the years, all of them to do with Hitler never having been allowed to be. It was understandable. Hitler had been responsible for a disgusting number of deaths and each of those deaths had been a living, breathing person with hopes and dreams, with kiddies to cuddle to sleep at night, with parents and offspring, with all the wonderful things that go to make up a life.

All obliterated at a hastily dreamed-up command.

Millions of dreams had been squashed. Millions of men, women and children had been mercilessly slaughtered, and all because Hitler had said so.

He needed that breath of wind, to carry him along, to urge his aged limbs into frantic action.

At first he had blamed the German people, but that wasn’t right because the German people were as human, as frail as strong and, above all else, as easily misguided as all people everywhere. You might as well blame humanity itself as blame one nation of humanity.

But, blame or no blame, the millions had died. Millions, and many in the sort of agony you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy if you were a rational, compassionate human being.

And with those thoughts uppermost in his mind he really wanted to be dragged along by any old passing wind, to be forced to do what he knew he really must do.

Father could have, should have done it when Hitler passed his way and if he’d had the courage he’d craved for himself every day for the rest of his life there would have been no slaughter, no destruction, no blame felt by a nation that was no weaker than any other nation, and in some ways stronger.

Mother said she’d have loved to have been the midwife who delivered Hitler into the world. Oh, yes she would! The scrap of wailing meat, with all that cruelty in front of him, wouldn’t have made it into a second day. And granny had cackled, granny who’d been dead so long he’d forgotten what she looked like, that if she’d been around the man who was to father Hitler would have lost his balls, both of them, in a freak accident before the swine was conceived. Then, squawked granny, there were some precious souls who’d still be around to love and hope and dream, souls condemned by Hitler for no better reason than his xenophobic wish to condemn them. She’d known them. She’d loved them. They were the salt of the Earth, and Hitler had done for them.

“I need to grab hold of that wind!” he snarled to himself. “It’s all coming round again. The hideous lying, the self-importance, the worship of dictators, the obscene self-belief when there’s precious little to believe in. I need to be taken now, swiftly, while there’s still a little strength left in my ancient bones, and do what Father couldn’t do. Yes. Change the future for the better. Put right my father’s sin...

He sighed, his ancient heart aching as he reached out of his sick bed, but no bright wind or helpful breeze passed him by.

“What is it?” asked his nurse, her voice somehow penetrating his needs and anger.

“I need to go,” he whispered, “it’s all coming round again, and Trump’s in town today….”