And who's this little fellow in his itty-bitty robe? That's tiny baby Adolf, the Hitlers' little boy! Will he grow up to be an LL.D? Or a tenor in Vienna's Opera House? Whose teensy hand is this, whose little ear and eye and nose? Whose tummy full of milk, we just don't know: printer's, doctor's, merchant's, priest's? Where will those tootsy-wootsies finally wander? To a garden, to a school, to an office, to a bride? Maybe to the Burgermeister's daughter? Precious little angel, mommy's sunshine, honey bun. While he was being born, a year ago, there was no dearth of signs on the earth and in the sky: spring sun, geraniums in windows, the organ-grinder's music in the yard, a lucky fortune wrapped in rosy paper. Then just before the labor his mother's fateful dream. A dove seen in a dream means joyful news-- if it is caught, a long-awaited guest will come. Knock knock, who's there, it's Adolf's heartchen knocking. A little pacifier, diaper, rattle, bib, our bouncing boy, thank God and knock on wood, is well, looks just like his folks, like a kitten in a basket, like the tots in every other family album. Sh-h-h, let's not start crying, sugar. The camera will click from under that black hood. The Klinger Atelier, Grabenstrasse, Braunau. And Braunau is a small, but worthy town-- honest businesses, obliging neighbors, smell of yeast dough, of gray soap. No one hears howling dogs, or fate's footsteps. A history teacher loosens his collar and yawns over homework. |