"Hitler kommt!" your teacher says. You've grown up in Germany, so you understand her: "Hitler's coming!"

What could he possibly want with your school? You're not a Jew, you're not a Gypsy, you're not g... well... There was that one time, but that was back in third grade you didn't know any better! But then... Hitler knows things. He has men who are paid to know things, and no fact is too tiny for it to be important to the great restorer of Lady Germany to her once shining glory. Any fact, if neglected, could become a menace to the Aryan race.

It was just third grade...

He's at the door now, and the teacher is brushing down her skirt, and checking her hair as best she can without a mirror. She looks to her purse, on her desk under the map of the world. She thinks about going for her lipstick, just a touch up, so she looks nice for him.

Briefly, ever so briefly, she thinks about that. "What if he wants me that way? Can I look too good? And what would I do if he did?"

She will stop herself midway through thinking "I wonder if he wears underwear..."


The classroom door opens. It opens inward so you can only see the outline of his head, in the light of the fluorescent light in the hallway. It looks like your uncle, the one who used to hit your cousin. He'd hit him and then he'd call him a 'fag.' You don't know what it means, but they took your cousin away for it. You saw it happen, since they live right next door, just a floor down in the apartment building. His mother cried, but his father, your uncle didn't cry.

"Warum nahmen sie ihn ein, Onkel?" --"Why did they take him, Uncle?" you asked.
"Wiel sie mussen." he said. "Because they must"


Your teacher just curtsied to him and he's coming in now. You hide under the desk. You've heard rumors about what Hitler does to boys who've seen other boys' penises. You don't know how forgiving he'll be. Even if you only touched it once, out of curiosity.

He's coming down the row. His boots click on the tile, exactly the way you'd imagine they would; it's what a soldier's boots are supposed to do. At the front of the class, he stops, turns around, and smile comes over his face. It's not a genuine smile, not quite. It's something he planned, and has taken out to use it. Something that can just as quickly be put away once its job is done.

"Wie geht's sie, Klasse?" -- How are you class? He asks.
"Danke gut, Herr Hitler." -- Good, thank you, Mr Hitler, they chorus back, some quietly, most looking down at their desks.

You can only see his boots from under your desk. They start moving again, he's coming back towards the door, but this time he's travelling through your row.

"Crud", you think to yourself. "He's going to see me, and then he's going to hurt me!" Your palms start sweating, your arms are shaking, and you're getting a little light-headed from trying not to breathe.

He'll probably chop your penis off, that must be what they do to guys who touch other guys. Just like the king who chopped off the robber's hand so he couldn't steal anymore, in the story yesterday.

When you come back from your theories, Hitler will have left, and your teacher will be standing next to your desk with a ruler. She will not touch your penis, but the ruler will leave a lasting mark on your hand.