The Train from Hell to Heaven

I wrote this for two reasons:

1) I found the beginning of a short story I wrote in High School and it had an interesting hook but I clearly had nowhere to go with it. It was poorly written (as most of my stuff, High School or otherwise, generally is) but I liked the idea.

2) This gave me an opportunity to illustrate my interpretations of Heaven and Hell if I were to believe in an afterlife. This is the impression I get of those places, generally, when I study Christian mythology.

As usual leave some comments and let me know what you thought. I also discovered no one reads this. One person downloaded the screenplay I posted and I think it might have been me testing it.

So, if you're actually reading this, link to the site. I think this stuff is worth reading. Maybe it's not, but for me it's certainly worth writing.

I have been dead for a very long time. I wouldn’t know how long a time as here in Hell time doesn’t work as it used to up there on the surface. But whatever time we do have down here, we pass it by doing this and that. Those of us that are down here used to be very bad people. We have been cured of that. We have come to understand the error of our ways. We have been looked down upon as we used to look down upon others and we came to realize it was not a very pleasant.

Most of us have been cured, anyway. There are a few rare exceptions. Occasionally I play Whist with a few of the guys: Julius Caesar and Presidents Nixon and Reagan. I never knew Nixon on Earth, he was well after my time, but he is as vicious now as I have been told he was during his time up there. He still hates people, which I don’t understand.

I used to hate people too, but I don’t hate anyone anymore.

Before we get too far along, I ought to mention who I am. I may seem a bit off-putting to people. I was quite a notorious monster in my life upstairs and after an eternity thinking about what I had done, I have become quite ashamed of myself. Please do not judge me by who I was. Much as it pains me to tell you, the sad fact of the matter is that my name is Hitler and I ordered the deaths of many people and I ordered the out and out hatred of as many more.

I used to be proud of what I had done, but I am no longer.

I had read once, posthumously, of course, a story in which I had asked to have a statue erected of me in New York in front of the United Nations building with a plaque reading, “I beg your pardon.”

I would very much like all of that, except for the statue. I would rather the world forgot my image. That isn’t to say that I wouldn’t like the world to learn from my atrocities (read: mistakes), I would very much like the world to realize that killing their fellow humans, regardless of our differences, is never a good idea. Being in Hell, you get a broad sense of what’s going on up there, we get the daily papers and magazines and the like, and it rather surprises me that I didn’t do a better job of turning people off of war forever.

I certainly made a go of it.

Anyhow, I was going to tell you what I have decided to do. I have decided to find my way up to Heaven, or at least the pearly gates where Saint Peter guards, and apologize to as many of my victims as I can find. I will be gracious, I will hold my hat in my hands, and I will hang my head low for shame. We Germans do have pride, and I will show them what it is to see a proud German apologize.

What an apology it will be!

I had thought over the possibility of wearing my old uniform, it had always offered me an overwhelming sense of dignity but I realized I did not deserve dignity. The swastika that I had so proudly worn should never be worn as a mark of pride again. Oh, how I had ruined it! Then I thought it might be an excellent gesture to go in my uniform but with all of the badges and decorations torn off, but I decided finally to wear merely a set of old clothes and a woolen scarf. I would look as though I was tramp roaming the railroads of America. And, as the ultimate sign of respect, I would wear a Star of David on my chest with pride.

I deserve nothing less.

I’ve imagined it a hundred thousand times or more. I’d humble myself; I’d lower my shoulders and present myself meekly.

Saint Peter would ask me, “And what was your name?”

And I would say, “Hitler…”

And he would reply to me, in the delicate tones of angels, “I’m dreadfully sorry Adolf, but you’ve got the wrong gates.”

“I know.” That is where I would take my hat off. I’d hold it in my hands and hang my head some more. “I was wondering if it was possible if I could…”

“Could what? Out with it.”

“Would it be possible, for me to, perhaps, apologize to those I’ve wronged? I know I’m not welcome here, but it would mean a lot to me if I could at least apologize.”

I imagine Saint Peter would stroke his beard and contemplate the question. After a while he would give a stern “Hrmmmm…” Then, “It’s a bit against the rules, I’m afraid, but if you wait here, I’ll go in and see if anyone wants to come to the gate and let you speak to them.”

I imagine a hundred thousand might come. Most, I believe, will want to throw fruit at me and yell and shout at me. A few, I expect, might be gracious enough to accept my humble apologies.

It matters little to me how they react. Those that yell might feel some satisfaction in shouting me down and those that don’t might find some further peace in their afterlives.

While playing whist, I spoke of my plans. Nixon was shocked, “Why would you want to go up there, and make an ass of yourself and go and do a thing like that?”

“I think it will do a lot of people good.”

“Why do them any good? They’re the reason you’re here.”

“Dick, don’t you understand? I’m the reason I’m here. Perhaps, some benefit to them might be found in my bringing myself before them. Perhaps it will relieve the feelings of guilt I have.”

“Guilt? What’s to feel guilty for? I’d never apologize for the people I hurt. They’re just collateral damage.”

Nixon couldn’t wrap his head around it.

Reagan had an easier time, but still had a problem with the apology part of the plan. “You know, I did a lot of things I’m not proud of, and maybe I’m sorry for them, but why would I go out of my way to apologize? I did what I thought I had to and I let my own guilt suffer for it. I thought about going up there once or twice, you know, to apologize to a few of the soldiers who died at the hands of Iranians with weapons I sold them, but what good would it do? They’re still dead, nothing I could say would bring them back or right the wrong I did.”

After a moment of speaking, Reagan began muttering about what his wife, Nancy, would have told him to do. All of his conversations invariably ended with the same statement: “God, I miss her…”

Julius, I think, had the best advice, “Brutus apologized to me after a time. After a while to truly reflect, I think, perhaps, it was I who owed he the apology, but people do what they think is best for themselves and their countries, and few people stop to think about those they affect until they arrive here. An apology might not bring those you’ve wronged back from the eternal, but it would certainly make them understand that they weigh heavily upon your mind. It’s some satisfaction, and in the eternal world we now reside, what else have we?”

I nodded my head pensively, as though I was weighing all of their advice. I did not want them all to know that I thought Julius was right.

Not yet, anyway.

I went home after our gentleman’s game was over. Sadly, I had no one to go home to. Eva had left me when we got here. She couldn’t forgive me for how wrong I had been. Before we died in each other’s arms, I had told her that we would be together in Heaven and yet here we were.

Boy, was I wrong!

I had dallied with women here and there since my time here began: Joan Rivers, Cleopatra, Susan B. Anthony, and etcetera. There were more that you wouldn’t know like Grace Anderson. She used to beat her children and kill kittens, but became as gentle as one when she came here. She was a delicate lover but after a while, in eternity, people get boring and we drifted our separate ways. It happens everywhere all the time. The story is always the same although the details differ, but I will not bore you with them here.

Packing for my trip was easy. What could I pack?

I stitched a Star of David on my beggar’s clothes and put them on. I wrapped my tattered scarf around my neck and was on my way.

Saint Peter and the Pearly Gates, here I come!

My journey began with ease. I simply strolled on my way out of town. I stopped at a shop now and again to farewell to a few people that had become central to my life. The girl who sold me my morning coffee told me that she would miss me. The young boy who delivered my morning newspapers gave me a Time magazine to read on the train. He was a sad case, full of sorrow. He had raped and killed a young girl his age, I would guess around thirteen years old. Her father killed the newspaper boy. Now he could barely stand for grief over what he had done.

As I passed by a whorehouse, a beautiful young girl came out to the sidewalk, “Fancy a fuck, mister?”

It seemed as though all the girls in Hell were young and beautiful. It was no difficult thing to do. You could be any age you wished as long as you lived it on Earth. I myself was a respectable 35 years old. I was 20 for a time, but being a young artist didn’t suit me for very long. “Not now, my dear. I have things to do.”

Again, I was almost sidetracked by the heavenly smell of schnitzel. One doesn’t have to eat in Hell since it is impossible to die, but there are times when your soul needs to eat food because it misses the feeling. But I was certainly on a mission. I could worry about the schnitzel later.

The train that linked Heaven and Hell was quite a walk, but I had all the time in the world. I never quite understood why they had the train, but you were free to head to the other side as often as you like. I suppose there were visitors from Heaven who came down to see lost loved ones now and again, but I had never fancied going up there myself before.

My seat was in the back of a crowded passenger car. I took it and found myself in the middle of a family. There was a mother and her three daughters dressed in their best Sunday clothes. Sitting directly across from me was the smallest of the girls. Her hair was pulled into two adorable pigtails and her face was pink with newness and love. She was perhaps five or six years old.

She smiled at me and I smiled back.

She waved at me and I waved back.

“Hello,” she squeaked in her wonderful child voice. “My name is Susan.”

“Hello, Susan.”

“What’s your name?”

“People call me Adolf.”

“Hello, Mister Adolf.”

“How old are you, Susan?”

She held up all five plump fingers on her right hand.

“Susan!” Her mother shouted at us, interrupting the tender moment. “How many times have I told you not to speak to strangers?”

“I’m sorry ma’am. It was my fault entirely.”

She gasped when she realized who I was. I’m told my mustache is quite recognizable and uniquely mine. After I explained to Susan’s mother what I was doing, she warmed up to me considerably. She said that more people should think about doing what I was attempting.

By the time we got to the gates, she had explained to me why she was visiting Hell in the first place. You see, her husband had killed the whole family with a shotgun and then took his own life. It was quite terrible. Although their father had robbed them of their one chance at mortality, they still loved him unconditionally. Every so often, they would beg their mother to take them on the train to visit their father. He hated seeing them because they were a constant reminder of the wrong he had done, but he loved being with them.

A conductor yelled, “Next stop, Saint Peter’s Gates!”

I shook hands with Susan’s mother and said goodbye to Susan, touching her lightly on the nose. They filed into the gates with everyone else.

Susan had forced me to show fondness and that hurt me a little. I was determined to be meek and she had forced me to betray that. I hunched my shoulders and, with a sigh, further furrowed my posture. I wanted to look like the broken man I felt myself to be.

Soon, everyone had flooded into the gates and only Saint Peter was left. He and I were alone on the cloudy platform.

Saint Peter pushed his glasses back to the top of his nose and looked down at me from his Holy book.

I took my hat off and held it in both hands. I couldn’t bring words to my mouth. A weight fell on my chest. I didn’t expect to be brought speechless by the sight of Heaven’s gate.

Saint Peter shook his head expectantly and gave me a once over. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Me, sir?” I had found my voice, but it was that of a field mouse.

“I was wondering when you were going to show up.”

“I was…” I couldn’t help but stutter. “I was hoping, perhaps… I might be…” I hadn’t noticed that I was wringing my hat in my hands.

I was nervous!

I was one of the worlds greatest orators and here I was twitching nervously and stuttering. I was able to have stadiums of people hanging upon my every word and by the end of my speech they would go out and murder people on my behalf and now I could not form a sentence. “Might I be permitted… just for a moment…. To… uh…. I would like to apologize to those I’ve wronged.”

“Of course you can.”

“I can?”

“My dear Adolf, you have always been welcome through these gates. You have come here seeking forgiveness and what you may not have realized is that God is forgiveness. You may enter here and dwell in Heaven and apologize personally to everyone affected by your tirade on Earth.”

My heart soared.

“Some might still feel slighted or somehow cheated, others will forgive you, but all of them will be respectful and listen to you.”

I didn’t feel as though I deserved treatment as good as this. I said so.

“Of course you do. You are a son of Adam. You are God’s creation. Do you remember nothing that Jesus spoke of? Of course, you are welcome here and you certainly deserve this. All of God’s people deserve this and more. That is what people fail to realize during their time on Earth. There could be a Heaven on Earth if people realized that they all deserve to be given the best.”

“This…”

Saint Peter cut me off, “Say no more, Adolf. Go inside.”

The gates opened. For me. They opened for me. The gates of Heaven allowed Adolf Hitler entrance.

I put my hat on and started in, toward the bright light. Saint Peter said one more thing to me as I passed him, “Get going, you’ve got a lot of work to do.”

He was right.