My Grandmother Loved Hitler
by David ErlewineShe really did. I'd lie in the bed with her as she said things like, "I really loved him."
She'd been 10 when my great grandfather went off to fight the Krauts.
I learned not to repeat that term, or she'd look guilty or confused about whether she was being offensive.
When my great grandfather, Roy, went off to fight the Krauts, my 10-year-old grandmother stayed up some nights, thanking Hitler and saying she loved him for taking Roy away.
Incest? Physical abuse? Mental? A really insufferable joke teller? Did he love Swifties? Kick the dog? Did she have one, or was it a cat I remembered seeing in the old pictures?
I wanted to ask but I showed restraint. As a journalism major in college, I'd learned the five W's. Of course I wanted to know why, but I figured what I was doing wouldn't be as bad if she told me on her own.
Since I was between newspaper jobs and facing a shelved memoir -- "How My Dead Parents Did Me Wrong" -- the night she revealed her old love for Hitler I decided to care for her until the end and hopefully get out of debt by writing her biography.
Since my dead mom was her only offspring and I was mom's, taking "Media Law" in college had taught me that when Grandma died I'd be the only person able to sue me for invading her privacy. If the autobiography tentatively titled "My Grandmother Loved Hitler" found an agent and a publisher, both hopefully in New York City, then maybe I'd actually have some damages to recover in a suit.
The nights Grandma talked quietly, I brought the recorder up to her nightstand, hiding it behind her alarm clock. Otherwise, it stayed under the bed. The nights she didn't mention Hitler, I prompted her with comments like "Six million Jews, eh?" or "What if Roy had died over there?" That usually got her sniffling and awash in self-misery. If neither worked, I'd say, "Think of all the Catholics the big H got." A lapsed Catholic who'd found her rosary beads a few days after the diagnosis, she always went for that.
"I should die," she'd say, "God should take me."
"Hopefully a few more months," I'd say, glancing in the recorder's direction, thinking of all the filler I'd need if she didn't start helping out. Other than expressing her presumably unrequited love for Hitler and resulting guilt, she'd never given any good details.
The night I turned the tape recorder off started well enough. She moaned for a hot washcloth and said, "I really did love him."
"Moustache and all?" I said. "You must have hated Eva Braun."
"Who?"
"Who? His lover."
"Honey, the washcloth is kind of cold."
I grunted and then heated it in the bathroom sink. As usually happened, it got so hot at a certain point that it hurt more pulling away than leaving my hands where they were.
I needed to step up.
It burned my hands but I held it against her forehead. "So, if you could, tell me about Roy. Why'd you hate him?"
She put her hand on top of mine, apparently trying to drive the heat into her brain.
"After he left, Mom needed me so much."
"What about Roy?"
"She and I would work on the garden and at night sit by the fire. We'd listen to the radio together."
"Did you have a dog?"
"No."
A cat! I knew it.
She closed her eyes. "When he was gone, she loved me. So I loved Hitler."
I licked the corners of my mouth. If I were a cat, I'd lick clean my entire body.
"Grandma, you want the washcloth hotter?"
"Sure."
I took it into the bathroom, along with the recorder. I turned the hot water on and counted to 10 before dipping the washcloth.
The water scalded my hands before I realized I was also still holding the recorder. It was probably ruined anyway, but I kept my hands where they were, too afraid to pull them away.
David Erlewine is an attorney living in Austin, Texas, where he is shopping a novel and writing more stories. Visit him at www.daviderlewine.com.