Ariel



It reminded me of a startling scene I’d witnessed many years ago in Israel. Don’t ask me what I was doing in the barracks that day but let’s just say it was a coincidence and leave it at that.
Anyway, Ariel Sharon came marching in leaving a track of oddly-coloured muddy streaks across the concrete floor and sat down on one of the benches. He was stressed, distracted, and sweaty. 
If you remember he was still pretty fit back then, but his mind was elsewhere as he sat tugging at the laces on his second boot.  Hair stuck to his neck like dead leaves.
And then in came the guy whose job it was to polish boots. The bootlick. The saviour of the slackers. And though it was a general term for shoe-shiners, because they used their spit to bring up the compulsory shine, some people suggested that the secret to the almost mystical mirror finish, that that particular bootlick conjured up, was his unique saliva. Super spit, it may have been called.
The bootlick said nothing as he sniffled in and crabbed his way to within range of Sharon’s discarded boot. Albeit a little too eagerly. The second boot hadn’t dropped yet and Sharon usually held them out at arms length..
Pull it off, maggot!” demanded Sharon, so the bootlick used both hands to liberate the soiled boot so when it came free he fell back onto his buttocks on the floor, still gripping the boot hard against his chest. It was pure vaudiville and several of the officers couldn't help but giggle a little.
Sharon shook his head in satisfied disappointment. "This guy is a klutz," he said to me like he was giving instruction to twenty men. "Get those boots clean, dipstick. I want to see my face in them! Get into it! Now!"
Sharon was shouting so hard he didn't even see the mosquito drawn toward his hot red face. He'd brushed it away unconsciously. Not even the insect that kills millions could scare Sharon.
Bootlick got busy. Scraped away the mud, wiped them all over with his dampened rag, and then opened a small can of paste. The people were trying to work out his secret. It was the saliva and the way one worked their tongues. Essential knowledge in a totalitarian state. So the paste was really just a decoy. Sharon looked on with contempt because that's what made it all worthwhile as he wondered what the Phalange were doing?
Bootlick had an itching mosquitoe bite just below his right eye so the toothbrush he'd been using to apply the black paste momentarily hovered in front of his face as he scratched with his index finger. The toothbrush hovered just below his nose, for an instant getting horizontal and centred.
“Good God! It’s you.” muttered Sharon, pointing at him. 
The Bootlick froze. 
It's you. God help me. It is you!" he said with rising intonation.
“Oh shiezer! You noticed." replied Hitler, putting his hand to his chin. "After all of these years right in front of you now my cover has miraculously been blown."
Sharon and Hitler sat there shocked. Staring at each other, Hitler still on one knee looked up to Sharon now risen to his feet.
Hitler knew he needed the gift of the gab right then as much as he'd ever needed it. "And you of all people to end my little game," he began, immediately capturing Sharon's attention, "because strange as it may seem now I knew of your mother back in 1943.” Hitler continued quietly. Reverantly.
 “My Mother?" enquired Ariel like he was talking in his sleep. “I didn't ever know my mother.” he continued sadly in a tranquillizer tone.
"Yes Ariel, your mother was known to me," continued Hitler, also a bit dreamy, "for a brief while I knew of her. It has some tragedy but it's a charming story nonetheless."
Sharon's body softened but didn't slump.
"She first came to my attention as a possible security risk when I was visiting Oberfuerur Henke at Stalag 13."
"Hmm."
"I was displeased by his hesitation to tell me but in the end we both had a chuckle about it. Gotta be something to look forward to we both agreed."
"Too many people have said that to be in Stalag 13 was unlucky but you were well nurtured there in your temporary home. A little butter-ball is one description I read in your primary school workbook.
A certain infantry Leutenant, a tall well-intentioned fellow too obedient to be led astray, let it be known that one of the slaves was giving the guards blow-jobs during the early morning guard detail."
"Of course I expressed concern but Oberfuerur assured me that at least until winter eased they must let nature take its course, for the sake of morale."
The Oberfuerur explained that he had investigated and found there was no shortage of volunteers for the 'grave-yard shift', as there had been before, because the slave-lady, he discovered, was swallowing, and he'd left it at that."
He turned up his palms and squeezed his lips together as he remembered. 
"Became quite a bawdy story as it went the rounds."
"It was a long time ago." replied Sharon. It was war. Anyway, why would I believe such a preposterous story?"
With a hand gesture Hitler silenced him. "But it was your Mummy Ariel. Your sweet big-breasted Mumma. And it was war. While so many others perished she and her unborn baby survived, on good Nazi SS sperm. While she was pregnant with you the food was atrocious so it was like her supplement. Good strong SS sperm! That's why you're you!"
Sharon had begun slowly rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet as though he was psychologically beside himself. Now red all the way down his neck and even the front where the uniform was unbuttoned..
But before he could let loose his vitriol Hitler was already asking him with a hovering voice, "Who could betray you like your mother?" Hitler asked the ceiling, "And what else but betrayal cuts the fat boy so deep!?" said Hitler, doing his best to imitate a father deflecting blame onto others. "Your Father only beat you because your mother made him. None of it was up to you."
Hitler had misread the situation. He tended to make bad decisions in relation to jews and this time he'd underestimated the sacrosanct nature of motherhood. 
Sharon's condemnation of the malicious lies was trapped on his lips because his autonomous nervous system was paralysed by confusion during the transformation of consciousness that he was experiencing. Was he a butcher cutting meat? What could he say when nobody was asking him? Does tha cloud know what I'm thinking?
Disassociation is a psychological term, probably more psychiatric even, that describes some sort of separation between perception and reality. I’d heard nothing about the massacres in the refugee camps so I didn't understand Sharon's strange monlogue, about God and patriotism, all in deep-toned Hebrew so I felt vastly relieved when Sharon started wandering around in his socks, looking for someone to listen to him tell of things more current.
"They shot them down and cut them up!
Every one of them."
We sat there quietly.
"We silenced them at last."
No-one spoke no-one moved, not sure of what he was referring to.
Sharon turned and began walking toward a glass fronted firebox where he took down an axe before returning toward the withered old man on his knees. 
"Do you still think we jews must be exterminated?” Sharon sneered as he marched double-headed fire-axe at the ready.
“Don’t ask me!" was Hitler's calm reply. Followed by. "You should ask the Palestinians." he glurped out just before the fire-axe removed most of his brain.