Hitler Is A Vegan(Martha Huett) "Nein! Nein! Nein! Nein!

A priceless cut-crystal soup bowl cradling the first course of Herr Führer's supper was hurled against the papered walls of his classically-designed French dining salon. Tomato bisque with fire-roasted red peppers and basil, garnished with homemade croutons and blue cheese crumbles, meandered in chunky rivulets toward the marble floors.

Unable to communicate in any language other than German, Adolf Hitler whirled on his interpreter to translate to his French chef that he does not eat cheese, blue cheese, or cheese crumbles of any kind. Nevermind that Hitler made this gastronomic decision moments before being served what was, until now, his very favorite cheese-crowned first course.

The interpreter tried to explain to his dear leader that the hapless chef had already warned him against eating acidic foods or dairy products. You know, what with Hitler's chronic ulcers and all. Even his doctors gently encouraged veganism for his condition. But no, Hitler, a narcissistic man-baby, insisted that he, and only he, could determine what was best for himself (and apparently, for the rest of the world).

Two small-balled fists pounded the table, embarrassingly weakly, for nary a glass tottered, not a silver spoon tinkled.

"Finden Sie für mich einen echten französischen Koch, der genug Köpfchen hat, um Deutsch zu sprechen!" Hitler screamed, red-faced.

Find you a French/German vegan chef with brains enough to speak German? The interpreter offered up a fake sigh, replying in a tone of disingenuous hardship, "Ya, mein Führer!" and thrusted his arm up in the air with that silly, silly salute.

The interpreter, a doting but shrewdly obsequious sycophant, very nearly told his Führer that it would be rather a breeze to find a gourmet vegan French/German chef who spoke fluent German. It was, after all, the 21st century and the Age of the Internet.

Instead, he clicked his heels, saluted once again with the obligatory and depraved 'Heil Hitler' acclamation. The interpreter then exited to see to the immediate execution of the poor, condemned former chef who, after overhearing the tone in the order, had fainted into a deplorable heap on Adolf Hitler's subterranean kitchen floor.

*****
Currently obsessing over a photo shoot for her social media accounts, vegan foodie Dawn Lee Schroeder gingerly selects edible flowers to crown her latest gourmet creation, coquilles de Saint Jacques. Ground pine nuts and pistachios stuff the three grilled portobello mushroom caps that replace traditional colossal scallops and are then plated in a horizontal line on top of steamed asparagus stalks.

Dawn Lee eyes the blue pansy first and places it atop the mushroom cap on the left. A white pansy is placed on the middle cap, and a red pansy completes the line-up, adorning the right-side portobello mushroom.

Blue, white and red. Just like the French flag. Perfect for Dawn Lee's special Bastille Day Instagram post.

It's only the beginning of summer and far from France in Fredericksburg, Texas, but Dawn Lee, a 22-year-old native Texan and francophile foodie, likes to be prepared. After all, July 14th was the beginning of the French Revolution and now is celebrated as Bastille Day. It will be here before you know it, she tells herself.

Dawn Lee concentrates with the zeal of a true artist when suddenly a dedicated chime from her cell phone tells her the call she's been anticipating has finally arrived. She drops her specially-made chef's chopsticks and, heart pounding in equal measures of hope and despair, she answers it, "Hi! This is Dawn Lee Schroeder."

"Hallo, Miss Schroeder," a male voice says. "Dis is ze office of Vegan-Mann Productions. And ve vish to congratulate you!"

Dawn Lee pumps a fist in the air, and skips around the lights and photo equipment that cram her apartment's compact kitchen. She believes she knows precisely about which she is to be congratulated. Her blond head bobs with joy, tossing longish ringlets in and around her face. Her Bavarian-blue eyes sparkle happily.

This is so legit! Dawn screams silently in her head. Of the caller who sounds like her German teacher from high-school, the one who, in spite of living in the States for decades, never mastered English language pronunciation, Dawn Lee asks, "Did I, uh, did I win?"

"Ya, Fräulein Schroeder! You vin ze TOP prize!" the voice announced.

****

Born at the birth of the 21st century, Dawn Lee Schroeder grew up in Fredericksburg, Texas with her mom, dad, baby brother, and her beloved old grandmother, Oma. The townsfolk, like the Schroeder family, were predominantly of German lineage.

The Texan town's Germanic heritage was displayed prominently in restaurants featuring Schnitzel and Wurst, in beer halls serving Kölsch and Pilsner on tap, and in music highlighting the sounds of the Oompah bands' tubas and accordions. The German language could even be heard at times on the sidewalks and parks of Fredericksburg, especially among older folks.

For the Schroeders, the only thing missing from the small, idyllic Texas town was a synagogue. Dawn Lee and her family were Jews.

"And don't you ever forget it," old Oma Schroeder had often admonished Dawn Lee and her younger brother during their childhoods' thrice-weekly lessons on the Holocaust and the German language. In her eighties now but, as an infant, being the only surviving member of a family destroyed by a megalomaniac and his genocidal reign, Oma had harbored a hate in her heart for Hitler that was so great it flourished into an unrelenting determination to educate her only grandchildren as to the horrors of Jewish persecution during World War II.

'Never again' was Oma's lifelong mantra.

For the most part, Dawn Lee listened and learned. She could recite, in English and German, all the historical timelines, facts and figures of the Nazi regime. She knew more about Hitler and Nazi Germany than any other teenager in the entire town of Fredericksburg, possibly even in all of Texas.

As she grew into adolescence, then adulthood, however, the temptations of new technologies and societal attitudes decidedly distracted Dawn Lee. She fell into texting, TikTok, Instagram (where she became a moderately successful influencer) and the metaverse. By her 22nd birthday, she had experimented with veganism, non-cisgenderism, animal rescue, cryptocurrency and backlash politics; a Generation Z-er through and through. For Dawn, the only things that really stuck, though, were Instagram, her veganism, fostering cats, and honing emergency animal rescue techniques.

Just after turning 22, on a sunny Texan afternoon in early June, Dawn Lee Schroeder saw a contest on an international vegetarian website. The chefs' challenge was to submit a vegan recipe featuring the flavors of French and preferably German haute cuisine. Though partial to French fare, she nevertheless instantly recalled the vegan Sauerbraten that she'd once served to her German-Jewish-American meat-eating family.

Dawn Lee often tried out her vegan dishes on her family, figuring correctly that if meat-lovers enjoyed them, then they were a success. Her vegan Sauerbraten had been received with great accolades.

"Schörtlish!" Delicious.

"Wunderbar!" Wonderful.

"Yum!" exclaimed her perpetually hungry brother who, unlike Dawn Lee, never mastered the German language.

During dinner, she'd beamed at her own culinary ingenuity. By substituting the pork rump roast with a vegan seitan and the red wine marinade with white vinegar, Dawn Lee had created a kosher, vegan masterpiece her entire family could indulge in - with gusto.

And so it was that Dawn Lee Schroeder's gourmet vegan Sauerbraten recipe became her entry into the Vegan-Mann Productions contest that she'd spotted that June day on the international website.

Before she'd even submitted her entry, Dawn Lee had hoped for at least a mention on the finalists' list, or even better, the smaller cash prizes of second or third place.

The top prize was so far out of her reach that, at first, Dawn Lee couldn't even picture herself winning it. The first place prize was the featured spot as a top chef on a reality TV show that highlighted gourmet vegetarian cooking.

It was to be filmed entirely in Paris and, based on the mandatory photos of herself in designer attire that Dawn Lee was required to submit along with her recipe and application, she presumed that it was to be quite an elegant TV production.

The producers obviously wanted beautiful, worldly types for their show, as evidenced by the questions on the application: 'In which languages, besides French, are you fluent?' and 'Have you previously traveled to international destinations?' or 'Have you ever modeled?'

For Dawn Lee to answer truthfully that - one, she could only speak German and English, not French, and two, that she had never traveled outside of Texas and that three, no, being neither svelte nor curvaceous, she had never modeled - she felt that even a fourth or fifth place mention may be out of reach.

"There's just no way," she had said to herself, slightly, but unreasonably dejected. That didn't mean she couldn't wish for it, she'd thought, brightening. So she did. "I wish I could go to Paris and be the star of a reality TV show."

Dawn Lee had wished it out loud again as she pressed 'Submit' on her digital screen. She looked over at her two cats lazily sunning themselves in the Texan light streaming through the window. They ignored her. Dawn Lee made her wish again, only a little louder. She liked the attention and approval of felines; they bring good luck, she felt.

One of the cats sat up at the louder-than-usual timbre of her voice, looked at Dawn Lee with sleepy, knowing eyes and simply began grooming his face and whiskers. A loose whisker fell to floor onto a puncture of sunlight. Dawn Lee absently picked it up, admired its ginger color and sharp, pointy ends, then slipped it into a colorful collection of whiskers she kept in a jar on her desk for good luck.

*****

The overnight, non-stop flight on Air France from Austin to Paris descends gracefully earthward as Dawn Lee scans the diminutive city below, searching for the landmark that tells her she truly is arriving in Paris. Sitting in first class (a luxury provided by Vegan-Mann Productions), Dawn Lee notices she is the only one taking pictures out the window.

As the plane circles the city before its approach into Orly, Dawn Lee spots the revered Eiffel Tower and clicks away on her cell phone. All of her fellow passengers, except for one steely-eyed yet very elderly gentleman, ignore anything beyond the screens on their own electronic devices.

Twisting in her seat to capture a different angle of the iconic landmark, Dawn Lee spots the geriatric traveler staring at her, and she starts, doing a quick double-take. She's seen him before. She's sure of it.

Dawn Lee remembers seeing the old man last night at the airport terminal's gift shop in Austin when she was buying a water. He'd had on the same dreary clothes then, but he's practically swimming in them now. And his face is more lined; his thick, salt-and-pepper hair now thinning and silver. He's probably the younger man's older relative. One of those families who all dress the same, Dawn Lee deduces, and turns back to the morning sights filling the plane's window as it approaches Paris, France.

Outside the arrivals' terminal of the bustling Orly Airport, Dawn Lee stands waiting for the Vegan-Mann Productions' limo, her luggage surrounding her. She had been told to pack for at least six months of filming and to bring all of her culinary equipment and most especially, her cooking spices. In bulk.

Dawn Lee waits over an hour in the morning sunshine, her joy at being in Paris and her anticipation of the upcoming filming only heightening. As she pulls out her phone to check for any missed messages, she barely hears her name - through the cacophony of car horns and jet engines - feebly calling out from just metres away.

"Fräulein Schroeder! Fräulein Schroeder!"

Dawn Lee Schroeder turns to the direction of the caller and, in astonishment, sees an even slightly older version of the elderly man in drab clothes toddling painfully toward her. He addresses her in an old German dialect and points to a dark and nondescript vehicle idling nearby. Excited and overwhelmed, Dawn Lee responds in polite German, "Ich bin Fräulein Schroeder."

Always respectful to her elders as her Oma would want her to be, Dawn Lee allows the geriatric German gentleman to direct an equally elderly driver to load her luggage. He then opens the door for her, and with a toothless grin bordering on creepy, gestures for her to climb in.

Fully embracing her future, in spite of a tiny twinge of sensed danger that she mistakes for something akin to stage fright, Dawn Lee Schroeder takes the first step of her journey to foodie fame and gets into the car.

The 45-minute drive from the Orly Airport to the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, a sprawling necropolis with elegant landscaping and semi-wild forested areas, fascinates Dawn Lee. She's never seen a roundabout, a.k.a. traffic circle, and realizes she's lost count of them as they pull into a small maintenance lot on the outskirts of the vast Parisian cemetery choked with trees, flowers, plants and over one million funerary monuments.

In her impeccable German, Dawn Lee asks the aging man sitting next to her in the back seat, "This is quite beautiful, and I've read much about this historic cemetery, but why are we here?"

"We thought to show what you Americans love to come here to see."

"Oh, Jim Morrison's grave!"

Jim Morrison of The Doors was a beloved American singer/ songwriter living in Paris who died in 1971 at a young age. Dawn Lee happens to be familiar with him and his rock music because of the Gen Z generation's love of many things retro

"Ya, Frāulein."

And the two get out of the car and begin walking toward a tree-lined path. Dawn Lee glances back toward the driver, half expecting him to join them. He's sitting at the wheel, ashen faced, jaw agape, head thrown back. If Dawn Lee didn't know any better, she'd think he was dead.

Curious, she asks, "Isn't he coming with us?"

"Nein, Fräulein," the ancient German gentleman croaks out, then tries to clear his throat. "He just needs his nap."

Moments down one of the cemetery's outer paths, he reaches for a sturdy tree and leans against it, rasping.

Dawn Lee swears to herself that the man has aged in just the last hour or so. Now, grey as a cadaver, he can barely talk, walk or even breathe.

"Listen, we can always come back to see Jim Morrison's grave. You look like you need to lie down. You know, rest up or something," she suggests.

"Nein. We will take a short cut down this path to see it. Then, we'll come back and go on to the studio," he insists.

Dawn Lee accompanies the old German for what seems only 100 yards on a soft, even forested path, yet he's barely alive, she observes.

They slip through a barely perceptible opening among some clustered bushes and come upon a beautifully carved stone mausoleum with thick stone doors and a huge, almost threatening lock that seems to scream out, 'Do Not Enter!'

"Is this it?" Dawn Lee asks. "It doesn't look anything like the pictures I've seen."

Too weak to talk, the German gentleman simply shakes his head once, and Dawn Lee decides not to engage the harmless elder further so as to save his strength.

The aged senior takes out a ridiculously large, old key and hands it to Dawn Lee who opens the lock. She pulls open the doors, and the two step in. At the direction of his glances, she closes them. Light peeks in through narrow windows slats.

Moving slowly to an undecorated stone wall, the old German motions for Dawn to follow. He reaches the wall and lifts his enfeebled hand to press an unseen button. The stone swishes silently to the side revealing yet another door, but this door is made of a material Dawn Lee doesn't recognize. Like titanium, but shinier, with a wider reflective range, and stronger, too.

As Dawn Lee examines the door, she also sees the old man's reflection as he furiously presses buttons on a key pad next to it. Suddenly, the door drops open, and with all the strength he has left in his life, the elderly German gentleman performs his final act.

He pushes Dawn Lee through the elevator's door, falls back onto the cold mausoleum floor and dies at his true age of 124 years.

****

Adolph Hitler himself is there to personally greet Dawn Lee Schroeder, his newest chef and the latest addition to a 300-person servant force in his underground Zeitbunker.

His eyes gleam. His left hand, tucked self-consciously behind his back, fairly dances in an excited palsy.

Hitler had been told by his sycophantic interpreter that Dawn Lee is a magnificent chef who could prepare luxurious French and German meals to his liking, all without ingredients that might aggravate his severe ulcerative condition. Even better, this latest chef could speak perfect German, and Hitler knew that that linguistic skill would make it easier for him to directly bully and psychologically torture her, all for his sadistic humor and pleasure, of course.

Seventy feet beneath the Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, France, the Timebunker's elevator doors lower to reveal a frightened and dis-oriented young, blond American woman trembling against its back wall.

"Wilkommen in meinem Zeitbunker!" Welcome to my Timebunker!

Dawn Lee's gasp precedes a breathless and unbelieving, "You're alive!"

Hitler's murderous minister of propaganda, Joseph Goebbels, laughs delightedly and with a sidelong look, says to his Fuhrer, "I told you it would work! Even after all these years!"

It had been rather fun for Goebbels, as equally a revolting traitor to the human species as his dear leader, to concoct a scheme to persuade the world of his and Hitler's deaths near the end of WWII. After all, it had involved lies and deception. Even better, torture and murder of innocent people! Goebbels sighs.

Those were the good old days, he reminisces bitterly. Here in the vast Timebunker, where time practically stands still and life is seemingly endless, Goebbels is bored. He craves the planning, killing and deaths of others. So, with a little shrug, he does the next best thing.

Goebbels strides into the elevator up to Dawn Lee and savagely slaps her to the floor before delivering a booted kick to her abdomen with his club foot, a lifelong embarrassment for the tiny-bodied Goebbels.

He screams, "You will salute our Führer!"

As it turns out, Goebbels' assault on Dawn Lee is her salvation.

The years of learned hatred against Adolf Hitler and his Nazis combine with the physical pain of Goebbels brutality, manifesting deep within Dawn Lee, the anger and courage to survive. She pulls herself into a standing position, assumes a rigid posture and thrusts her arm into that embarrassingly stupid salute.

"Forgive me, mein Führer. Heil Hitler!"

Dawn Lee, like others of the Gen Z generation, is situationally astute and assesses quickly. She knows the right questions to ask of other servants and soon learns that Hitler's own incessant bragging often reveals classified secrets about the Timebunker and his plans for it.

Later that day, as she prepares a magnificent Vegan Bouillabaisse with Rouille , Dawn Lee contemplates all the facts she has learned and prioritizes the top five:

1) The Timebunker is a time-suspension capsule where only one hour passes for every Earth year,

2) Hitler's lifelong fascination with time travel led him to create the Zeitbunker with the help of the French Vichy government, legions of encaptured scientists, and with the riches of plundered treasure,

3) Death within the Timebunker only occurs through violence to the body. Diseases like the Fuhrer's peptic ulcer disease do not progress normally nor do they improve, unless a physical intervention occurs. Conditions like Hitler's flatulence, incontinence and loss of bowel control are simply maintained by use of adult diapers,

4) If a person leaves the Zeitbunker, the aging process is reversed, commensurate to the time spent in it, plus their natural age. The middle-aged human body ages approximately one year for every hour they are exposed to Earth's time,

5) There is a resistance movement, but it is leaderless and directionless,

6) And, at the point when Hitler's research team develops an anti-aging antidote for his life outside the Timebunker, he will leave the underground facility to pursue the global conquest that he has planned and feels he wholly deserves.

Two days later, while stirring herbes du Provence into a vegan ratatouille for Adolf Hitler's supper, Dawn Lee Schroeder self-acknowledges that she is coming up short in devising escape options.

Until Eva Braun, Hitler's mistress, walks in. A muscly, matronly security guard (and a secret member of the resistance) follows her, tenderly carrying two of Braun's long-haired, long-whiskered...cats.

Çats!

Cats have whiskers!

Whiskers have sharp points!

Sharp points can pierce soft tissue!

Within seconds, Dawn Lee forms an escape plan for that very night, starting with a simple recipe:

1/2 cup finely chopped cat whiskers
1 bowl vegan ratatouille - warmed
Stir well with wooden spatula
Serve immediately in crystal
Petite soda biscuits (optional)

"Your cats are sooo cute!" Dawn Lee coos in her best Bavarian German to Eva Braun, Hitler's lover from Munich.

"Ya, they are. I have two more in my quarters," Braun responds as she turns toward the stove and sniffs the aromatic ratatouille simmering on the stove. She begins stirring.

Behind her, Dawn Lee tenderly scratches the ears of a beautiful tuxedo Manx as she pulls a pair of kitchen scissors from her apron. The guard holding the cats stiffens at the sight, but nods and relaxes when Dawn Lee whispers, "Tonight. Be ready!'

Eva Braun walks out moments later with her security guard still carrying the two cats, though each one is missing several inches of whisker length on each side of their face.

At supper, Adolf Hitler's tasters, even Blondi the German Shepherd, consume the vegan ratatouille before it is even presented to him. Safety precautions, of course. An hour ticks by and Blondi and the human tasters are all alive and well.

In an especially upbeat mood during the evening's repast, Hitler brags about the next day's announcement that his scientific team has finally developed the anti-aging antidote for life outside the Timebunker. It has been tested and re-tested, often with catastrophic and fatal results to its human subjects. Nevertheless, as an inveterate liar, the Führer lays claim to be the protector of the people by being the first to take the antidote and walk out the door into the 21st century.
*****
In his first spooned mouthful of Dawn Lee's exquisitely prepared 'vegan' ratatouille, Adolf Hitler innocently swallowed at least a half-dozen sharply pointed, finely chopped cat whiskers. He finished his bowl and had seconds.

By eight o'clock that night Hitler was in bed. Alone.

By ten o'clock he had company. Gut pain.

By midnight, there was a full-on bacchanal in his bowels. Tiny slivers punctured the mucosal wall of the gastrointestinal tract behind every one of Hitler's many bleeding ulcers. This not only allowed the gastric contents to leak into his abdominal cavity, but it also caused massive internal bleeding. The pain was unspeakable. Agonizing.

"Mami!" "Mami!" "Mami!"

Hitler insisted on sleeping in sound-proofed quarters; no one heard him crying for his mommy.

At dawn on July 14th, Bastille Day, Adolf Hitler laid dead in copious pools of dried anal blood.

*****

Dawn Lee Schroeder and nearly 300 victims escaped Hitler's Zeitbunker that day. It was relatively easy; never once did the Führer or his sycophants entertain the thought that he could be murdered in the Timebunker. Time was on their side, they thought. There were no weapons, they assured themselves. And personal security was in place. He even had tasters, for God's sake! (But the tasters didn't have ulcers. Neither did Blondi, who was liberated along with the four cats.)

Upon escaping, the formerly enslaved scientists distributed the anti-aging antidote to escapees, some of whom had been in the Zeitbunker since the 1940s.

*****

And do those brave souls from Hitler's Timebunker ever have some stories to tell!

Fortunately for us, Dawn Lee is currently liaising with academia, the press media, social media, book publishers and television and film producers for those brave souls.

After all, history will have to be re-written.

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