 
 ONE MORNINGCharles Frederick Swett
 

    I awaken.  It is six in the morning.  I can see by the leaden
    bleakness of the sky that it will rain today.  I don't really want
    to get out of my bed, but duty transcends personal convenience.
    There are things that must be done, things that cannot be
    overlooked.  I must be orderly and meticulous in the carrying out of
    my charges.
    
    Today will be important.  I will meet with some very influential
    people.  I must observe them and determine how best to deal with
    them.  I must probe their personalities, always exercising the tact
    and circumspection for which I am well known.  Then I will make some
    inspections of the new facilities and set up efficient schedules for
    their use.  Perhaps, if I work rapidly, I can suffer myself a few
    hours of relaxation at Gmuud.
    
    Outside, the dismal sound of a light drizzle begins.  I hate when it
    rains; it depresses me so.  It seems that the weather has become
    generally more gloomy over the past few years.  Maybe it is just the
    way I observe it that has changed.  So much has changed.  So little
    of the past remains to haunt me.  So much remains to be done.  I
    think it is this -- what the future holds -- that haunts me.
    
    As I stand by the mirror shaving, I critically examine what it
    reflects.  I see the puffy face and its slit-like eyes that peer
    from behind my round spectacles.  I must always remember to hold my
    head so that these eyes are obscured from the person I am addressing
    by reflections in the lenses.  Why can I not bear to be closely
    scrutinized?  Why must I always hide behind my bureaucrat's cloak?
    
    I see my weak chin and thick neck; I see the unhealthy paleness of
    my skin.  I see my narrow, sloping shoulders and large waist.  Why
    was I not given the body of a soldier, or at least the temperament
    of one?  Why was I cursed with this schoolmaster's excuse for a
    physique?  Why am I taunted with a weak and sickly appearance, when
    I long so to be strong and masculine?
    
    The drizzle has increased to a full rain.  The damp air coming
    through my window has a strange, faint, sweet smell which is somehow
    familiar to me.  It seems to follow me everywhere.
    
    As I button my shirt, I wonder about what I have done and what I am
    doing.  I believe I am right.  All I know lends support to my
    righteousness.  But what if I am wrong?  What if all I believe is
    proven false?  What would I do?  But no, I cannot be wrong.  The
    logic has been confirmed by higher authorities than myself.  I have
    had to steel myself to be the way I am, to do the things I do.
    Therefore I must be a man.  But how I hate the way the flaccid skin
    of my neck hangs over my collar.  Pehaps this is why I love secrecy
    -- I must always hide my true self.  No one must know ...  that I am
    a weakling.
    
    "Your staff car is waiting, Herr Reichsfuhrer."
    
    "Thank you, Gudrun" I answer.  Enough of this self-pity.  I have
    duties to perform, responsibilities to fulfill.  I am Heinrich
    Himmler, chief of the Gestapo and the SS.  Europe trembles at my
    feet.  The mention of my name inspires fear and dread in all men.
    
    As I pull on my boot, I become more firmly convinced that I am
    right.  The Fatherland must be purified.  I cleanse.
    
                                  -end-
                  Copyright (c)1993 Charles Frederick Swett
