When I reflect now on the day I flew out of Uruguay with the Führer swaddled in SpongeBob SquarePants pajamas on my lap, I am struck by the magnitude of my own ignorance on that hot January day. Though I was ever hopeful for the destiny of the little Hitler in my arms, sobbing as the air pressure agitated her little ears, I had only the simplest notion of how that child’s destiny would take shape, in a form I was too ignorant to comprehend until I saw it on the television 22 years later.
My father was a respected officer during the Reich, of no particular renown but personally well-connected within the SS. Though he was just perhaps too young to realize his full potential during the war, his charm and talent would later distinguish him as a leader among the N.S. expats in Asuncion and a pillar of the community.
Father had three legitimate children, but they were all estranged before I was born—his wife Clara, who always loathed having to live in Asuncion, abandoned Father at the time the children were teenagers. Clara had apparently discovered her antifascist convictions after the separation, and she freely offered information of Father’s whereabouts to the enemy. For several years, Father was incognito and unsettled, hiding in the attics and cellars of his SS acquaintances while the Mossad rats pursued him for extradition to the Zionist state, though they later abandoned the pursuit of such an unknown wartime figure.
It was during these years of insecurity that I was conceived. I believe Father had seduced the swarthy maid of a fellow SS officer after a night of Doppelkopf and libations. To the best of my knowledge, I never saw her after the day of my birth—Father paid her a sum to disappear from his life, but he couldn’t bring himself to part from the growth of his seed which was I. I suspect this was because I shared his own frosty eyes, though set in a face much sterner and— strangely so—more Teutonic.
On principle, he should have despised my mestizo phenotypes and my accursed effeminacy, but he maintained a sentimental streak and always expressed fondness for me, never conveying that I was anything less than his full son and heir despite my ignominious origins and impure haplogroups. I knew he invited scandal by allowing me to be seen with him at the balls and card parties of his SS acquaintances, but he never made it known that this embarrassed him. Because of him, I felt eternally grateful to the magnanimity of the Aryan race, which always seemed to treat lower specimens with such propriety and kindness. It was this kindness which was presently being exploited by the Jewry in the German motherland, for which I saw little hope of redemption under its regime of self-flagellation.
Father’s unfailing acceptance and generosity towards me had transformed me into an ideologue, a foreign legionnaire for a race which I could never claim as my own, but towards which I felt a greater familiarity and admiration than any other. In any event, I realized by early adolescence that I had no interest in fathering children of my own, as I was cursed with a certain sexual predisposition which was the great vice of Ernst Rohm. Emancipated from the thought of polluting the world with my own brown descendants, I could freely devote myself as a eunuch for the cause, aligning myself with the Aryan race with selfless devotion and a tortured austerity which Father could never maintain.
I was admittedly handsome in my younger days, in the cruddy and artificial manner typical of mulattos, with Father’s bright blue eyes set against my mocha skin tone, but I took little joy in this privilege on account of my perversion. I was ill at ease with the jocular, gregarious local culture, and unlike Father I never felt comfortable dancing or flirting or drinking for any purpose but self-annihilation. My miscegenated roots seemed self-evident in my own defectiveness, as I possessed none of the grace or charisma of the Latin soul, though from my Father I inherited a Prussian coldness, a fullness of will which oriented me towards my goal: the advancement of the Aryan race, to which I would ever remain a loyal outsider.
Several times in my twenties, I indulged my perversion, each time with immense agony and fear. The compulsion would come over me at times to seek out the filthy burrows of the city and to defile myself and the gods with deeds best left unspoken. I despised nothing more than the frivolousness of the sodomites, the way they would contort their voices and mannerisms into a grotesque caricature of womanhood, yet I found myself in their company on more than one occasion. I cannot say what dark power drew me back into this obscene practice, but I know precisely the incident which deterred me from continuing it—after making advances a bit too bold with a muscular mestizo in a public restroom, I walked home with sore and bloody limbs and a swollen red face. So unpleasant was the experience as to squash my will to continue this abject roulette, and I have been celibate ever since.
I suspect Father deduced this perversion of mine, from observing my manner since infancy and from the absence of women in my orbit. However, he remained nobly mum about the subject, and it did not impair our relationship to any significant degree. For the first several decades of my life, I lived with him and worked as his assistant, accompanying him as he journeyed into old age in a hostile and choleric world.
So it came to be that I, his mestizo bastard son, was the only loved one to attend to Father on his deathbed. Though he was still welcomed by the dwindling expat community in Asuncion, many of his closest friends had passed away decades before, and the second generation viewed him as a relic of a different time, parochial in his commitment to the vision of the Reich. He had suffered from intermittent bouts of dementia in his final years, but on the day of his death, he was more lucid than ever before. Several hours before he spoke his final words, he broached a subject he had never discussed heretofore.
“My son…what I am about to tell you is a matter of the utmost seriousness, and I have the greatest trust that you will treat it accordingly. Many years ago, during more hopeful days, I came into possession of a DNA sample from our Führer, Adolf himself. I have kept it in the freezer in the basement, in a tube labelled ‘Satya Yuga.’ I want you to see to it that it bears offspring, and I want you to raise this child as your own, that he might restore our civilization when he is mature.”
I was giddy with the immense purpose he had given me, but I maintained the solemn composure.
“Why have you waited so long to resurrect our leader, Father?”
“The 20th century was premature for the Führer, as the world still reeled from the loss it suffered in 1945. Now that we find ourselves in this new millennium, I suspect the war will lose its grip on the new generations. The time for a New Reich is imminent.”
We discussed further details of my assignment, but he refused to offer much guidance, saying he trusted my instincts more than any wisdom he had to offer. I was to be the architect of the Führer’s life, and it wouldn’t do to impede upon my authority to engineer it according to my best judgement.
Father died on the third of March, 2002, at 5:19 PM local time.
Within days of Father’s burial, I made arrangements with an old biologist in exile whom I trusted to remain quiet as he saw through the process of bringing the Führer back into the world. During the months of his incubation, I concerned myself with the sale of Father’s estate and preparation for my assignment, while I made sacrifices to the gods and completed the necessary paperwork to leave Paraguay.
My instinct told me that Asuncion was an unworthy home for the Führer; the city was dull and contemporary, and the thought of raising him to speak Spanish was out of the question. I arranged with a trusted confidant of Father’s to pull some strings that I might find work in the United States, that half-negroid and half-Judaicized beast of the Kali-Yuga, which nonetheless seemed to occupy the place of prominence within the world order of our decaying epoch. When the child was complete, I had already made the necessary arrangements. My first encounter with the infant was a moment of such magnitude that words will inevitably fail me in describing it, but I will try nonetheless to do some justice to the encounter. Having very little experience with infants prior to this, I was disconcerted by the blankness of his newborn expression.
One week later, as soon as the child was old enough to board the plane, we made our aforementioned flight from Paraguay on that hot January day in 2003.
In order that the child might be better assimilated to the local milieu, at least on a superficial level, I elected to christen him with an American name (of course, “Adolf” was out of the question). After puzzling over the matter for some time and consulting the lists of popular baby names, I settled on “Justin” as the child’s given name, with my father’s surname “Horstmann” serving as his family name.
I settled into an idyllic life with the infant Justin, to whom I devoted my singular attention for his first year of life. I noted early on, while changing the infant’s diapers, a genital anomaly which caught me by surprise: it appeared that the young Führer was in possession of only a single testicle, affixed to an otherwise ordinary and dignified penis.
“So the Jewish calumnies were true after all,” I whispered to myself at the moment of discovery. Though I was initially disturbed to find this subject of ridicule for the dear Führer apparently rooted in fact, I quickly made peace with the matter, even coming to see it as beautiful that he should possess such unusual genitalia. Is it not more elegant that a man should have one testicle, rather than the absurd and redundant detail of a superfluous organ, dangling stupidly adjacent to its twin? In fact, the more I contemplated the matter, the more I became convinced that I was beholding a higher order of mankind in the crotch of the precious child, with the dynamic force of evolution inventing a more beautiful human form and stripping away the body’s absurd redundancies.
Upon having this epiphany, I was possessed by an intense desire to caress the Führer’s little scrotum and shaft, to take in with my hands the beauty of this extraordinary detail. I wished to worship the wee Vishnu with my fingers on his groin, and I confess my hand hovered above the forbidden zone for at least ten seconds, longing to fondle the child’s appendage—surely, I thought, he must be too young to ever again recall such intimacy. I was however deterred by a fear as though of being struck down, arising from the dissonance between my wretchedness and the divine being lying nude on the table. Thusly was I deterred from the blasphemous display of adoration, but the prospect of my own temptation lingered on me, causing an attack of shame every time I changed the Führer’s diapers.
As the child grew, it was a privilege to lay witness to the character of the most extraordinary man of both the last and current millennia. At a glance, there was nothing to distinguish him as such an illustrious figure. He was possessed of a certain awkwardness which improved my assessment of my own stiff manner, but he possessed a sensitivity which both touched and frightened me. The child was nearly empathic, crying vicariously at mild slights against his peers, and weeping even more profusely at any feeble insult directed at him. He did not appear to me as a bellicose spirit, but as a poetic soul. This dissonance perplexed me, but more so I was enamored with his beauty and artistic sensibility—how strange and heroic it was that the spirit of war could arise in such a soft and kind soul, who would sob so gloriously at so little as the death of a common insect!
With this sensitivity, I began to notice a sense of persecution which sprouted within the fragile child. He came to me in tears when he was six years old and told me that a peer had told him his shirt was stupid, which caused him much grief. I was aware of the peer he mentioned—a particularly ugly creature of the trailer park, Jon Cooper, with the physiognomy of a Scots-Irish mongrel further damaged by prenatal methadone exposure (I admit this is my own embellishment). The thought that my Führer could be so wounded by such a crooked-toothed, inbred child stirred feelings of hatred and fury against the little dwarves of the world. Evidently, the Führer’s faculties for recognizing natural hierarchies had not yet been formed, and he viewed his interlocutors as equals, ignorant to the vast spiritual differences between himself and his peers. I did my best to communicate to Justin the lowliness of this transgressor and the great likelihood that the boy would find himself dead with a needle in his arm in the ensuing decades. This seemed to console the Führer, and I even caught a glimmer of condescension and disgust in his face as the tears subsided—a premonition, I had hoped, that he would one day steel himself to commit the necessary deeds to restore the Aryan race to its perch among nations. I forbade him ever to call me “Father,” but struggled for an appropriate honorific that would do justice to the cosmic relationship between us. I ultimately settled on the German Lehrer, which seemed to convey my knowledge of the world without placing him in an overly subservient position to me. To some extent, I was obliged to exercise the authority typical of a parent, but I did so with a heavy heart, deeming it a fundamentally unjust inversion that I could ever instruct my superior as a master might instruct his slave.
When the Führer reached the age of nine, I decided the time was appropriate to initiate his regimen of Hitler studies, hoping that he would begin to identify with his forebear. I had decided before undertaking this project that it would be overwhelming for the child’s impressionable mind to be aware of his own identity from a young age, so I resolved not to tell him of his extraordinary pedigree until he reached the age of reason. Yet I wished for him to understand the man he once was, so I sought all manner of media revolving around the predecessor, which I would discuss with the child in an attempt to stimulate his own ancestral consciousness.
It was difficult to find material that was not superfluously polemical or tainted with Jewish ideology. I did not seek out hagiographies of the German Führer, and the texts to emerge from the coprophagic fringes of skinheads and conspiracy theorists were of even less value than the Jewish polemics which snidely mocked his artistic talent and military genius. I had no wish to indoctrinate my little Hitler, but rather hoped that he might cultivate wisdom from the wells of his own imagination. My process was perfectly dialectical.
It was not hard to stimulate a growing boy’s interest in the person of Hitler. I eventually discovered that boys around his age seemed to gravitate quite naturally to the second World War as a subject of fascination, as the child’s awkward and intellectual friends seemed already to possess a certain understanding of the War and its participants from picture books and video games. Though I was surprised by this vogue for the War among third grade boys, it made a certain kind of sense; this was after all the most sensational event of the last millennium, and the scope of its moral struggle could naturally absorb an impressionable child. At the center of it all was the cult of personality of Adolf Hitler, a name which the boys delighted in speaking as though it were a dark but delightful incantation. Though partially concealed behind a cloud of cartoon villainy, the spirit of Adolf Hitler shone through to the boys, who could not help but fixate on the extraordinary leader of the German Reich.
However, it proved difficult to sustain this juvenile interest in Adolf Hitler: though the joy of discussing such a taboo man and his supposed evils was intense, it proved short-lived. Within 18 months of Justin’s first encounter with the study of his predecessor, he and his boyhood friends had seemingly moved on to other subjects of fascination—Caleb Greenleaf developed an obsession with the American Civil War, whereas Ethan Jhunjhunwala took a liking to Magic: the Gathering. That group of boyhood friends became more distant, and the Führer became more withdrawn and phlegmatic, spending long hours in his bedroom playing strategic video games. Though I was initially happy to oblige him these games, hopeful that he was acquiring a passion for military tact, I was disturbed by the toll they appeared to take on his physical appearance. He became pale and his face was marked with acne vulgaris. The Führer’s body became increasingly thin and awkward, and his eyes reflected the dead blank glow of the computer screen at all times.
Much to my horror, the Führer’s sartorial sense had also taken a grotesque turn, with all manner of hideous and effeminate garments becoming the staples of his wardrobe. He refused to wear the beautiful and aristocratic clothes I spoiled him with, but he was inseparable from a striped beanie with cat ears affixed to the top. He went around in T-shirts illustrated with images of his fandoms and a seemingly eclectic assortment of accessories from Hot Topic—all black and neon, garish and bizarre.
Even worse, he took no interest in boyish pursuits or high art, and he was prone to sit in his dirty room for long hours watching Steven Universe and Doctor Who whenever I left him unmolested to swill around in such Jewish degeneracy. My only consolation during this time was that the young Führer voluntarily adopted a vegetarian diet, suggesting that the spirit of his predecessor was alive within him, though I never understood why the Führer limited himself to such an incomplete diet. Yet his sensitivity seemed to prevent him from achieving his destiny, leading him into a state of abjection and feebleness not unlike that Germany itself. I began to fear that the soul of a Hitler was merely the avatar of his nation, reflecting not only its martial glory and dynamic ambition in the 20th century, but also its base humiliation in the 21st.
I also wondered if I was to blame for corrupting the supreme leader of our race. Of course, I never spoke to him of the infernal disorder of my passions, but I suspected he would deduce as much at the age when his own genitals became efficacious, as my Father before him had probably been able to discern this disease of mine. Perhaps my own perversion had contaminated the impressionable child—perhaps I was carried away in the excesses of love for this light of the Aryan race, causing my paternal caresses to linger a moment too long and verge on that forbidden passion which was my eternal struggle. I loathed myself all the more for this fear of having polluted the child with the filth of my desires.
Despite this apparent failure of mine, I never lost faith in the mission or in Justin. Being of such noble genes, I knew in my instincts that he would eventually penetrate the morass of degeneracy which hung around him, just as his forebear Adolf persisted in youthful failure as a starving artist in Munich. This confidence did little to make the matter more pleasant, however, as I was forced to see the light of our race seduced by the trappings of the most disgusting, ineffectual aesthetic regime.
Though I could not be a father to the Führer, I would have to take on this authority in order to prevent him any harm. Justin I had spoiled throughout his life, so adoring of him and his magnitude in history was I. When the child was 13, I felt it was necessary to intervene.
“Justin, you need to cut your hair,” said I.
“And why should I?” said Justin.
“You are a boy,” said I, “and thus you ought to have short hair. It is appropriate to your destiny.”
“I’m not a boy,” said Justin.
“You were born to become a man, and a man you shall become. There is no escaping your destiny.”
“I am non-binary, Lehrer. I’ve told you this before. Accept it.”
“I’m afraid there is no such thing. You are a boy and you will become the greatest man the world has ever known.
“Stop fucking saying that!” said Justin, at which instant he flew into a rage. “I’m not a fucking boy,” as he rose from his seat and contorted his face into grotesque forms. He picked up a porcelain lamp from the side table and sent it flying across the room, causing it to collapse into innumerable shards.
“Love is love!” he shrieked, glaring at me with hideous contempt beyond all understanding. He overturned the glass coffee table right before me, spewing shards of glass all around my perch on the recliner.
Justin grabbed a glass vase from the shelf and held it in the air over my head, trembling with rage, threatening to bludgeon me with the object he wielded. I trembled in my seat as I looked into his eyes.
“You will learn to respect my gender, Lehrer,” he said with the vase raised over his shoulders. “My pronouns are they/them. I am not a boy and never was, you old fucking retard. I am non-binary, and you will fucking respect it.”
I was shocked. I lacked the will to raise a fist against my superior, and I found myself utterly paralyzed in the wake of this sudden outburst of violence. I meekly assented to their terms, obliging their wish to be referred to with this bizarre and awkward pronoun. They spat on me and backed off.
The remaining years of Justin’s adolescence passed mostly in silence. After Justin had discovered this power of their temper, that they could subvert my authority at will, there could be no return to the days when he showed me love as though he were my own. We never spoke except when necessity demanded—if I ever attempted to engage them in even the most casual of conversation, they would make such a face as to make my stomach sink with despair. When Justin enrolled in a small liberal arts college in New England, our contact was completely severed, and they arranged to live in an apartment and never return to our shared home. I would continue to send them a monthly payment of $1,488, but I received no acknowledgement from Justin for this stipend, and the child disappeared from my life without a trace.
It remained this way for two years, during which I hoped against all reason that they had abandoned this frivolous and unpleasant gender spectacle, hoped that the Führer had realized his destiny to lead our race into a millennium of glory, and that our parting was merely a necessary trial by which he would come into his own independence as a man. All such hopes were dashed when they appeared at my door without warning one day, some three or four years ago, completely changed since I had last seen the Führer.
Their physical transformation was far uglier than even my worst fantasies. Whereas previously my Führer had aspired for androgyny, what greeted me at the door appeared like a grotesque parody of womanhood. The Führer had long hair, artificial breasts, and wore a blue-and-white floral print sundress. At the same time, I saw that their face betrayed the stubble of about four days without shaving, while their stature had seemingly risen to that of the mature Adolf, around five feet and nine inches.
“Lehrer,” they said, standing awkwardly by the doorway as I processed the transformation and struggled in vain to hide my horror. “I need your help.” I welcomed the Führer in and prepared a pot of tea for us.
“My dear Justin, I am so happy to see you again—”
“Lehrer, Justin is my deadname. Call me Justine.”
“My God,” said I. “Have you decided to rebel against your…”
“Lehrer, why do you always have to say things that way?” I didn’t know how to answer the question.
“If you insist, you can call it that,” Justine continued. “That’s what brings me here. I have been transitioning for several years, and recently I borrowed money to pay for my gender-affirming operation—to have my genitals surgically changed to reflect my female gender. I had hoped that my GoFundMe would pay for the operation, but I only raised about $300.”
So it was settled. The Führer’s beautiful genitals, his single testicle and ordinary shaft, lie shriveled and rotten in a medical waste dump somewhere in this infernal state. I realized with great sadness that Justin would follow his forebear in dying childless, and the world would once again be left without an heir to the House of Hitler. In trying to cultivate a living beacon for our people, I had only created a mockery of the Hitler legacy, mercifully ignorant of her pedigree. Still, I swallowed my shame to interface with the beloved child, hoping against all reason to repair the relationship and return to the days when he adored me like a father.
“You know I love you, Justine,” I said, struggling to call the Führer by her new name without betraying my horror. “I will do anything for you; just say the word.”
“Thanks, Lehrer,” Justine said unconvincingly.
I gave the Führer a payment of $40,000 to cover the costs of the reassignment surgery and bid her farewell. She had become more adept at hiding her contempt for me since that day she threatened me with the glass vase, but we had never been more distant than at that moment, when she parted from me with my money in her pocket and not a trace of gratitude or charity. As for myself, I was utterly in despair of the outcome of my experiment, and my self-loathing grew tenfold at the thought of what had become of this creature of the laboratory. I began drinking in excess, not with the gaiety of Father during his alcoholic binges, but only out of desire to punish my body for having so grandly failed my Führer. The less I say about this period, the better.
However, my interest was piqued when Justine became the subject of a minor news story, which I saw on the television about a year after our last encounter. She had risen through the ranks of her collegiate women’s boxing team and become the champion of the sport, owing no doubt to her masculine stature and physiology. This made her into a well-known object of ridicule and vitriol from conservative media, but she became beloved to transgender activists, who upheld her as a heroic warrior in defiance of all prejudice and stricture.
Such reports of Justine Horstmann, the transgender women’s heavyweight boxing prodigy, became more frequent in the ensuing years. This culminated in the announcement that Justine had been selected for the women’s boxing team in the 2024 Olympics in Paris, whose rules had recently been amended to allow post-operational transgender women to compete among females. When the day of her match arrived, I had no hesitation of attending to the television to see how my defective prodigy had developed since we last met.
Contrary to my expectations, I was filled with a surge of joy when I heard her name announced: Justine Horstmann, representing the United States of America, and how she strutted into the ring with a swagger and confidence I had never known her capable of. How strange it was to see the Führer in such a virile form! Adolf, having given himself over to a life of the mind, was the proprietor of a superficially ordinary body, not particularly distinguished in physical prowess or strength. But Justine Hitler was the physical embodiment of the Aryan race, with beautiful toned muscles under her shorts and bra, a walking manifestation of the will to power who conjured images of physical triumph merely by her gait. At the sound of the bell, Justine launched into a vicious attack on her adversary, channeling a fury even greater than that which greeted me when I misgendered her.
The technical details of the match were naturally uninteresting. There was no brilliant strategy or creative energy necessary to fight such an asymmetric battle. It was rather an exercise in righteous brutality, and Justine’s great feat was her willingness to effect violence and ugliness for the acquisition of a greater and hard-won beauty. It was this instinct which I had attempted to instill in the child, and in those difficult teenage years I had figured her subversive gender spectacles constituted a weakness which precluded her from practicing this muscular cruelty. As I watched Justine pummel the face of the negress, I discovered how mistaken I was: her dalliance in womanhood was rather the very manifestation of this cruelty. By surrendering herself to the feminine, she channeled a deeper and juster sadism than I could have foreseen in my vast ignorance.
The negress, I admit, was valiant in her resistance. Armed with the sturdiness typical of her race, she endured the barrage from the Führer for the first round with valor. I did not mind that the Führer’s strength was apparently inadequate to extinguish her adversary sooner, for the spectacle was worth prolonging. Perhaps the Führer was purposefully holding back her own physical power in order that she might have longer to demonstrate her domination of the creature with which she found herself in the ring.
By the beginning of the second round, the negress had begun to show signs of exhaustion, while Justine seemed to grow more vigorous and powerful from her opponent’s imminent defeat. Though the negress persisted with Bantu valiance and stubbornness, the result was settled. The Führer unleashed a rapid volley of punches towards the shoulder and head, and the negress cowered and shielded her face. After a brief moment of respite, the Führer landed a great blow to her face, which sent her falling hard against the ground. After the standard ten seconds, Justine was declared the winner of the match and the world champion of women’s heavyweight Olympic boxing.
I watched her stride onstage, standing gold ribbon in hand for the world to behold. I realized how mistaken I had been on that day I carried the infant across continents under the call of destiny. For I was not looking at the final avatar of Vishnu, as I had supposed, but of Shiva, come to cleanse the West of its great error in purgatorial fire. As I watched the daughter of the Aryan race walk to the podium and take her rightful place as the champion among nations, I felt prouder than I ever could have imagined in my beloved daughter, whose achievement on this day far surpassed anything my feeble mind could have conceived.
Nicholas Dolinger is a poet, essayist, and j*urnalist writing articles to overthrow the communist Chinese government. He is the author of Sunbathing I Want To, an apocalyptic long poem about the 21st century. He is the host of The Beautiful Toilet, a podcast about literature in the ruins of Western civilization. His j*urnalistic writing for The Epoch Times can be found here. He is known to post his bizarre theories about gender and art on his Twitter, which can be found here.
