Cavorting around in a pair of diminutive leiderhosen,
his chartreuse and fuschia-feathered Tyrolean hat tipped over his left eye,
Adolf Hitler made his way through the Reichstag, waving his baton in the air
with flair. It was late Spring, Hitler’s favorite time of year, for it was the
season for wearing socks with sandals. Although his signature, perfectly
trimmed moustache made it difficult to discern whether he was sporting a happy
grin, or an evil one, the bounce in his step made it clear that he was in a
good mood. That was until he came upon Herr Himmler.
“Nein! Nein! Nein!” Adolf shrieked,
freezing mid-goosestep. Himmler’s attire brought the Fuhrer great displeasure.
“Vat is zee meaning of zis?”
“Vat do you mean Mein Fuhrer?” Himmler
asked.
“Who told you that you could vear zat?”
Hitler shoved his baton into Himmler’s shoulder, it’s sharp end puncturing
Himmler’s jacket.
Himmler said nothing—he merely quivered in
his military boots.
“I’m zee only one who can vear zee double
breasted suit viz a cape!” Hitler raged. “How dare you try to copy me you
insolent, little scheisskopf. Next thing I know, I’ll see you vearing zee same facial
hair as me.”
Himmler hung his head, his cheeks
smoldering crimson with humiliation. It was as though the Fuhrer could read his
thoughts. He’d never before been so grateful for having thought twice before
leaving the house unshaven that morning. Had he not done so, Hitler would’ve taken
note of the budding follicles above his upper lip—the genesis of the hair
accessory he’d shaved—and Himmler would surely have been sent off to Auschwitz
for being a wannabe usurper.
“I’ve told you Himmler, your legs vere made
for stovepipe pants. Nicht zis heavy tailored vide-legged pants bullscheiss.”
“Ya, Mein Fuhrer. I von’t make zee same
mistake twice. I’ll fire my tailor at once.”
“Don’t bother. I vill take care of him. Go,
macht schnell, and see my Hugo Boss today—he vill make you a whole new vardrobe.
His new spring line is filled mit zee vonderful brown shirts I commissioned for
zee SS.”
Hitler’s outstretched arm was a signal for Himmler
to hand over his offending cape. Hitler gave it the once over and removed one
of his gloves. He smiled as he rubbed the fabric between his thumb and
forefinger. “Is cashmere?” Himmler nodded. “Who made zis for you? A German
tailor?”
Himmler nodded his head again. “But, nicht
my Hugo? Not zee Boss?” Himmler shook it this time.
“Fine. Zat vill be all.” Hitler waved
Himmler away with his baton.
“Heil Hitler!” Himmler nodded his head
profusely and backed away, while simultaneously saluting his
commander-in-chief. Hitler continued on his merry way to his office, Himmler’s
cape thrown over his shoulder.
“Get me Hugo on the phone,” Hitler barked
at his secretary, as he stormed into his office.
“Guten Morgen, Dolfie,” Eva chimed. She
hopped off of Hitler’s secretary’s desk, where she’d been waiting for him to
arrive. Hitler pecked her on both cheeks, lightly tickling her with his
moustache. She tapped her watch. “You’re late.”
“I’m never late. If I’ve arrived, I’m on
time. You shouldn’t call me Dolfie. We’ve talked about zis, Frau Braun, ya?” Hitler
grabbed Eva by the hand, marched her into his office, and slammed the door. “In zee office, it’s ‘Herr Hitler’ or ‘Mein
Fuhrer.’ None of zis sweet scheiss.”
“Oh, you worry too much. It’s only your
secretary, and she knows I’m your little schatz.”
“Yes, but sometimes you can be my little
shit.” Hitler gave Eva the once over. “Nice outfit, by zee vay.”
Eva was wearing one of the ensembles he’d
picked out for her: a green silk blouse that topped off a silk, black-and-white
polka-dotted skirt. He loved seeing Eva in polka dots.
“You like my new cape?” Eva nodded her head
obligingly. In truth, she hated Hitler’s affinity for the whimsical accessory,
finding it too feminine for his already somewhat effeminate fashion
sensibilities. But, she was smart enough to keep her mouth shut.
“I have Hugo,” Hitler’s secretary advised
over the intercom. Hitler waved Eva away, and pointed toward once of the club
chairs. She knew he wanted her to sit there instead of perching on his desk. He
hated it when she sat on desks—it caused wrinkles in her clothing.
“Guten Morgen, Hugo,” Hitler boomed into
the phone. “Ya, ya. Zat’s great. Now, Hugo, I’m sending Herr Himmler to see you
today. Make him a nice new vardrobe. And, nicht a single cape—zey are verbieten
for him.”
The conversation progressed in an amiable fashion, with Adolf letting loose a chuckle here and there. Suddenly, Hitler began to shake his head vigorously. Only able to hear one side of the conversation, Eva did her best to make out what Hugo was saying.
“I’m telling you, Hugo, make zee shorts
shorter. Our fair young Aryan maidens vant
to see zee bulging muscles of our strong SS officers in bold daylight. Enough
mit zee long leiderhosen. Long leiderhosen don’t say springtime for Germany or
for Hitler, isn’t that right, Eva?” Like a good soldier, Eva nodded her head
again deceptively. She hated seeing Hitler in his short leiderhosen, and she
had no desire to see a legion of SS officers goosestepping in them while
wearing socks and sandals in front of the Reichstag. However, to contradict her Fuhrer meant she’d
be the recipient of a one-way ticket to Bergen-Belsen.
“Vat do you mean zat socks mit sandals is a
bad look for anyone?” Hitler’s cheeks were getting flushed.
“I’m telling you, I’m zee Boss, not you.
I’ve been wearing my short leiderhosen mit my socks and sandals for a month now,
and everyone loves them. Zey keep asking vere I got zem.”
Hitler’s face suddenly looked as though it
was set to explode.
“Vat do you mean you hope I didn’t tell
anyone you made zem for me?”
Eva withdrew into her chair, her nails
digging into the leather, too scared to breathe.
“How dare you tell me I have no fashion
sense. I wrote all about Aryan fashion in Mein Kampf. I’m zee Fuhrer, I invented Nazi chic—I am
Fashion. If I say I want to see zee entire German army vearing short
leiderhosen mit socks and sandals, then that’s vat zey vill vear. Be careful
Herr Boss. You do as I say, or you’ll be vearing something in stripes before
zee day is finished.”
Hitler slammed down the phone and slumped
into his chair, taking note of Eva’s petrified look on her face. “Vat does Hugo
Boss know about fashion?”
“Nothing at all, my schatz,” Eva stammered,
practically curled up in the fetal position in her chair.
“Mark my words, if not for me, Hugo Boss
vould be nothing. And, if Germany loses zis var, I can promise you that no one
vill ever hear of him again. His career vill be over!”
© 2014. Naomi Elana Zener. All Rights
Reserved.
