Work Text:
The Soul of a Man with a Strange Moustache
The soul of a man with a strange mustache/ meeting a country/ the complicatedness of emotions
I'll be honest with you, I would like now to be able to say that his soul was different than your normal human soul, not just for your own ease but for my sake as well.
I followed the book thief, I had flashed from muddy ravaged fields to desert plains to shattered cities without pause, working on and on and still finding myself struggling to keep up with the sheer amount of souls pouring out of their ruined bodies. I had stood by the smoke belching factories and held those poor confused souls in my arms as they fled up the chimneys and I wanted what you want now. I wanted his soul to be a dark monstrous thing, something escaped out of a nightmare.
Tough luck for all of us. You can't claim difference, we can't slide the blame to the supernatural, can't say it was black magic or the Devil hidden in human skin.
Hitler's soul was a human soul, just the same as yours.
Even through the denial I'd been expecting it, and yet it shocked me all the same. I've collected souls fresh from the battlefield, I know the feeling of the souls of mass murderers, they're always a little heavier, like weights on my back and arms and yet. Yet, I'd been fought back by a fist fighting Jew and seen the family that had taken him in. All these years and I still want to believe in you, think that there have to be limits to what humanity is capable of, and you prove me wrong all the time. There truly are no limits to what you can do, the beautiful things and the terrible things.
Hitler's soul lay before me and it was quiet and human.
There was someone in the room that hadn't been there a moment ago.
Something you should know:
- I'm not the only concept living and breathing (in a manner of speaking).
- This is not as much of a comfort as you might think. I'm lonely for a few good reasons, and we don't meet up and chat as often as you might think we do.
"I'm not sure whether I'm glad or I hate you." Germany said softly, his hands trembled slightly, his perfectly Aryan blue eyes stared at the blood, at the gun. Hitler's soul lay between us and he didn't see that.
"I get that from a lot of people," I told him.
"I... loved him," Germany said, and he gasped as though he was in pain. "I knew what he was doing, I could feel it, it hurt so much, but I wanted to believe in him. Things were better until they all went wrong, and I know what happened... but I love him." He brought his hands up to his face and sobbed. Quiet shuddering sobs.
I knew then, that's part of being human. That no matter what you do or who you are, you will always be loved, by someone.
I envy that.
So, I took Hitler's soul into my arms, the arms that have carried Jews and French and British and gypsies, these arms that have held souls from every part of humanity, and I left him to the Boss' judgement.
The great equaliser, that's what I am.