“Charles Bukowski’s Double Date with Adolph Hitler”
by Adam Graupe
Most Charles Bukowski fans are unaware that in 1939 he returned to his native Germany and went on a double date with Hitler. Hitler and Bukowski historians alike will be shocked by the below account of that incredible night.
It began as a mistake. Charles Bukowski, trying to find an uncle, was lost in Munich and wandered aimlessly until he spotted Bukowski’s Tavern on Leopoldstrasse Street. Mistakenly thinking that this must be his uncle’s tavern, he slouched his way inside.
He spotted a plump brunette sitting on a barstool and saddled up next to her. After a minute of woolgathering, he stood up on his barstool and cried out, “My beer drunk soul is sadder than all of the dead Christmas trees of the world.” After some scattered applause, a beer appeared before him. He drank it and bought another.
Bukowski slugged the drink down and said to no one in particular. “That’s it. I’m done.”
“Done?” The plump brunette asked.
“Broke. Done. That’s the last of my money.”
She giggled. “I’m Angela. Angela Hitler.”
“Please to meet ya.” He looked her over: not half bad with her big backside, but she had to be almost 40 and he was only 19. He decided to forget it and stood up.
Angela put a hand on Bukowski’s arm, “don’t you know who I am? Angela Hitler. Adolph Hitler’s sister.”
“Mmm,” Bukowskt’s eyes glazed over.
“You know, Hitler, the Fuher?”
“Listen, politics bore me.”
“Then how about a drink?”
Bukowski sat down. “Now you’re talking my language, babe.”
They drank a few. “Listen,” Angela said, “I’ve got a double date with my brother and some hussy named Eva tonight. My date for tonight cancelled on me and-”
Bukowski interrupted, “Just keep buying me drinks and I’ll come.”
Bukowski and Angela sat in a booth drinking, smoking and waiting. Finally, Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun strode in. Eva wore a white evening gown and Hitler a soldier’s uniform. Patrons in the bar leaped up and saluted Hitler as he marched to Angela’s table. He glared at Bukowski, who remained seating. Hitler said, “And you are?”
Bukowski belched and glazed at him through half closed eyes.
Hitler shook his head. “Why aren’t you a soldier, young man?”
Bukowski leered and said, “I’m German born but am an American here visiting.”
“Are you an American soldier?”
“Hell no. They said I was mentally unfit to serve.”
Hitler sat down and Eva cleared her throat. Hitler turned and muttered, “Oh, and here is my girlfriend Eva.”
Angela introduced Eva to Bukowski, “This is my boyfriend, Charles.”
Bukowski took Eva in and his jaw dropped. Here was a beautiful blonde who looked half of Angela’s age. Bukowski pointed to Eva and said, “I want to take your looks and,” pointing to Angela, “her brains, and make the perfect woman.”
Angela stood up and slapped Bukowski across the face. She adjusted her skirt and stomped out of the tavern.
Bukowski belched and said, “Love is a dog from hell.”
Hitler wrung his hands and said, “You, Drunkowski, or whatever your name is, get out!” As he said this, a smiling photographer hustled over with a camera and said, “If it pleases the Fuher, I would like to get your photograph with Eva.”
Hitler stood up and said, “Ach, take my picture alone over by the piano. She doesn’t want to be photographed.”
Eva spoke for the first time, “Yes I do, Snoogums.”
Hitler said, “You know I can’t be pictured with you: the women, the public, they have to think I am single.”
Eva pouted, “But why?”
“Ach!” Hitler strode away with the photographer.
Bukowski blew smoke from a cigarette and muttered, “Some relationship you got with Snoogums there.”
Eva said, “Well, you know how it is, the public opinion means so much to the nation’s morale.”
“What a load of shit! What does he have to worry about public opinion? If there’s ever a politician who doesn’t have to worry about public opinion, it’s a dictator. He’s using you babe, plain and simple.”
Eva played with her hair.
Bukowski reached over with a palm, felt her beautiful face and purred, “It is possible to love a human being if you don’t know them too well.”
Eva flushed while Bukowski leaned across the table and their lips met for a long time. Soon their tongues entwined but a loud “thwack!” interrupted them.
Hitler held a beer bottle in his hand, Bukowski lay on the floor and Eva screamed.
“You cold-cocked me you mother!” Bukowski shouted, holding his hands on his head. He leaped up and kicked Hitler in the groin. Hitler doubled over dropping the beer bottle on the floor. The bottle exploded, and Hitler howled and grabbed his testicles.
Eva picked up a bottle of whisky and struck Bukowski in the back of the skull. She let out a blood-curdling scream and ran out of the tavern while Bukowski collapsed. The photographer stood five feet away snapping pictures. The other patrons formed a circle, and the bartender brandished a Luger and cried for everyone to leave.
Hitler and Bukowski stood up in unison. Hitler waved both of his arms like two windmills and charged at Bukowski, who grabbed a wine bottle, turned and ran out of the bar while a gunshot fired. Hitler fell to the floor and curled into the fetal position amidst the screams and confusion. After the chaos subsided, the patrons realized that the bartender had fired the shot into the ceiling. Some patrons helped Hitler stand back up and dusted off his uniform.
Hitler stood panting and looked to his left and right and behind him. He cried out, “Where is that damn photographer? I want that film destroyed!”
The photographer had already vanished, and Hitler stood feeling alone and longing for home in what was otherwise a cold and indifferent world.