Being in the Know Makes A Better Version of History

It was January, and Austria's picturesque beauty was white and wild in its 0–5 °C climatic conditions. I dropped in on Karla Pölzl, Alois Hitler's third wife. She was five or six months pregnant.

He appeared and announced himself as "the trekker" from another time. He arrived in time to catch Klara hanging her clothes on the line. She hummed a tune to an opera she loved and knew well; her voice was like a songbird's.

"I've come a long way today, and I'm wondering if I might trouble you with a glass of water, please," he said. 

She jumped. "Sure. This is my last piece of clothing, so your timing is impeccable." She smiled, picked up the basket, and gestured that he should follow her. 

She placed the laundry basket next to the big wash bin by the door, and we went inside. 

"So, Mr., where are you coming from, and what's your business here?" She pumped the well, caught the water in a pitcher and poured him a glass.

"I've come from another time. And my business is with the mother of a small boy who will become a leader of his people." 

"Oh? This man sounds loved and revered by his people if he leads them—what could you possibly come here to discuss with the mother of this boy then?" 

"Don't let me mislead you. He leads, but he is far from being revered. He is hated among races across the world. He ostracized and depleted many types of humans from the face of the earth." 

"Why? What could possibly have been his reason for such heinous acts and crimes against humanity?"

"What would you do if I told you I could show you? In a photograph from my time of some of the devastation that he did while he was in charge,

"I guess I'd say, show me." 

"Okay, look at this photograph and tell me what you see." 

She gasped. "It's a shower and an oven next door to it. In the background, I see dead bodies in mass graves. What's wrong with the people in the photo?"

"This leader I mentioned earlier obliterated those people in that picture from the concentration camps. The shower you see killed those innocent people laying dead there," he pointed to the spot where the mass grave was, "with poisoned gas. All stemming from the meniacle thoughts of this madman and his pleasure at knowing they would all die. The guards covered their ears so they wouldn't hear the people scratching inside the gas chamber while the people begged to get out."

He paused long enough to see if she was listening still—she was—and continued, "Then the other prisoners who were considered workers were made to load those bodies up and put them into the oven. As they worked, they smelled the burning flesh of their loved ones or others they knew."

"Oh, my goodness. What a monster! He should never have been born. Why would he do such terrible things to innocent people like that?"

"Full of hatred and fear, his intolerance for other races and people, dissimilar to Aryans, clouded his judgment. The rest of the world never dreamed that his brutality was evil."

"But why? What was the matter with his mother? Was she a prostitute? Did she die early in his life?" 

"No, neither. The man was simply rotten." 

"But surely there was more to it than just hatred." 

"Look, Klara, there were 42,500 camps and ghettos the Nazis—and in particular the SS, his private creation of officers that surrounded him—created between the years 1933 and 1945. Do you know how many people he annihilated at that time? Take a guess."

"I have no idea. Did you say 1933 to 1945?" 

"15–20 million people may have died in the camps and ghettos created by the Nazis during that time. And yes, it only took twelve years for him to get most of his job done before the allies came in and emancipated the emaciated prisoners who starved where they stood." 

"The story you tell is devastating and horrific. But what does any of it have to do with me?" She shrugged her shoulders and gave him a blank stare. 

He gave her a sheepish look, and his face became stone cold. He looked from her eyes to her belly. She shook her head. Her hand covered her mouth in disbelief as she stepped back away from him and cradled her stomach in her hand.

"No, oh no. This is not happening. You can't be serious. Are you telling me that my baby is that man?"

"I'm sorry, Klara; I'm afraid it is. I've come to ask you to reconsider bringing up such a child to become a man." 

"I brought up such a monster? Me and Alois? Why didn't we know he was evil? Why did we allow him to live?"

"Alois hates the child already. And his relationship doesn't get any better once he sees the kid. Little Adolf, the name you chose for him, chose Alois' surname for his own. In the annals of history, the name Hitler would be likened to one of the worst human beings who ever lived."

"What do you expect me to do now? Alois will never believe that something could go so wrong this far into my pregnancy." 

"I thought about that. There are many babies born with their cords around their necks. There are also emergency births that result in a dead baby. Do anything but allow him to live. You must, Klara." 

"I see." 

"Do you want to be responsible for all of those deaths? Do you want that on your conscience?" 

"No, I don't. But how can I hurt a poor, innocent baby?"

"Your son ordered that all children who arrived at the camps be shot on sight. In front of their parents and other family members. And you worry for one baby?" 

"I understand. I know what I must do now." 

The man watched her fetch something from the cupboard. It was shiny, and he thought he saw a flash. He disappeared the way he came but left a bottle of evening primrose oil on the countertop for her.

Left alone, she had time to think. Alois wouldn't be home for days. 

She paced on the back porch, watching her laundry blow in the wind. She headed to the washing bin to grab the basket. She folded each piece of clothing as she took it from the line. With each fold, she thought more intensely about her baby. 

The man was telling the truth. She had to kill this baby. What other choice did she have? She can't be the mother of such an evil man. She'll have to do something. But what? She passed the countertop and saw the bottle he had left for her.

She grabbed it and knew what she had to do. She knew she would have a difficult time with it. But she went to her bedroom and prepared herself for the horrible thing that was to come next. Alois would believe it because of the losses they had endured with pregnancies in the past.

She wept. And finished the entire bottle. And waited.