This is a joke. The author is responsible for the opinions expressed in the text.
I still remember the last time I held Hitler. It was Midsummer Night and the sun was shining through the louvered windows of an apartment on Södermalm. Dad had moved there with his new wife (whom I really liked) and the atmosphere was light and the table beautifully set: herring and potatoes, painriche and port, brandy and flowers. Dad stood up and solemnly raised a shot glass of St. John’s wort brandy. The rest of us stood up too.
– Cheers! he said.
– Yes, cheers for you! Anne said.
– Happy Midsummer! my sister shouted.
– Heil Hitler! I screamed.
I’ve always liked it Moments at the table when everything is ready, when the food is steaming, sparkling in the glasses and there are conversations and relatives and friends. But if you don’t like such cosiness, I can recommend the Nazi greeting for a quick mood change.
I don’t remember my father ever yelling at me. But now an uncontrollable thought came out of him: “What the hell are you saying!”
The seventies were a leisure time in the country’s preschools.
For many years, that moment was a point of shame, a memory I couldn’t touch without intense discomfort. Beyond all important things – Hitler Is Not a favorite – I was ashamed that I had broken the midsummer magic and that I was the one who needed to be comforted. I cried and cried. It was not possible to continue lunch.
Instead, Dad took me in his arms and we walked round the apartment, lap by lap, while he explained everything to me, told stories and stroked my back.
I don’t know how old I was, but I know that I was still in kindergarten and that my inspiration came not from “Mein Kampf” or Goebbels, but from a boy who liked to run back and forth between the “Bumblebee” and “Bee” sections and talk at the top of his lungs about Hitler’s health.
The seventies were a leisure time in the country’s preschools.
It’s been a long time. Dad’s gone, Anne’s gone and, strangely enough, the stigma of acting like a fucking pig seems to have disappeared too. I would like Dad to pick up a few contemporary politicians, push them around the apartment a few times and then sit them – kindly and carefully – at a set table.
“There is no danger,” he can say. “You didn’t know any better. Now let’s eat together.”
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Previous Mr. B series: The fly in the urinal wasn’t a fly
The Mr. B Classic: Sometimes I Listened So Loud I Wasn’t Even Fat Anymore (2018)
