copyright © 1990 Todd Ristau


Here I sit, not a piece of bread to my name. I wonder what’s to come of me? Yesterday I saw Frau Hoffmann, she is a sweet woman, if stupid. She gave me milk. Where one gets milk today is a mystery, and I did not want to ask her. Asking might have left my belly empty and her filled with fear that I would turn her in to the police. Of course she gets it from the black market. Probably in exchange for sexual favors. I am not ashamed of her, although I know she hates in her heart to have to live this way. As we all do. In shame and degradateion as we all have been shamed and degraded. No, I find in this woman the true heart and soul of Germany, the strength to survive at any cost. Such a people is never defeated, only quietly, bravely, waiting her turn to come again. Holding firm in the knowledge that the boots which push us down will one day be buried beneath the firm soil of our country, as we stride with head upheld over the graves of our enemeies gives us the strength of will to survive these temporary indignities. When the time comes, such memories will enflame every German heart, and the black stones of our hate will sharpen the blades that will cut the bonds of our servitude to moneychangers and cowards. That she lets filthy black marketeers put rough hand to soft, round German flesh is an injustice, but not an infamy on her part....what honor this brave woman shows to share her thus gotten gain with one such as I...poor and out of work, a soldier without an army, a knight without a king. If only all Germans would show such respect for those men who fought so long and so bravely to defend the nation...just as she looks upon me with pride and gratitude for service, so, too, do I return those feelings for her brave deeds. When the great rain that is coming shall fall, and wash forever from the streets such men as those who exploit and...I ramble.


I must maintain focus and discipline. The rage I feel as those robbers extort our women who need eggs and butter and fresh milk, must be carefully folded and put away for the time when it will have its uses. Now is the time for survival.

Frau Hoffmann is beautiful, if stupid. The beer hall is empty. Where has the time gone? I sit here in darkness andonlyl moments ago the place was crowded with people. Luaghing, spending money. Where do they get all this money? Steal it, of course. The only way to tell an honest German today is to ask him if he’s poor. If he says yes, he’s lying. He’s a traitor. The poor never admit their poverty and the rich are always crying they haven’t enough. If a man buys me a drink, I will drink it and then beat him until he tells me the reason for his "charity". There is always a reason. There is always a reason for spending money. The poor know this because they must scratch and claw to hold onto each penny....the rich know this because to them money is the same as virility. They use their paper and their coins as a man uses his organ, seeking to get inside and plant within you his seed.

Degenerates, filth, ejaculating their coins all around the bar, into women’s laps. Let them spend their power now, for when the time comes for action, their impotence will be proof enough that we were betrayed and sold into slavery by the communists, whores--I ramble--this is a bad sign...focus!

The world lacks sufficient focus for me to survive. It is said that the resonable man adapts to his conditions in order to survive, but that the unreasonable man attempts to make the world adapt to HIS conditions...therefore all forward progress rests on the shoulders of the unreasonable man.....I am resolute in my devotion to the unreasonable. I advocate a program of catastrophe!

(lights out)


I wrote this in a single burst for Lavonne’s docudrama class, we had to do a monologue by a historical figure. I think I had Fred Norberg read it for the class, and she thought he was great, and from the discussion I started work on the one man Hitler play that eventually was done with Jim Thorn and went to Edinburgh in 1991, so I think this was 1990. I did it myself in No Shame in theatre B. The weird thing is that a student, and I won’t say who, came up to me afterwards and remarked that he had seen his Grandfather’s Iron Cross or Knight’s Cross and had never really thought about what that medal meant, or why Hitler captured the nation’s spirit enough to fight and die for him, and my piece had helped him understand it better.

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