It was just a little past 3 a.m. when Lori pulled the shower curtain open and exposed a naked Adolph Hitler, hair slicked back, vigorously rubbing soap all over his crotch. "Not the good soap," she said, sleepily but firmly, reaching out and taking the bar of expensive oatmeal facial conditioner away from the startled Fuhrer. "We use the white soap for genitals and underarms."

Maybe it was because it was 3 a.m. that finding a naked Hitler in her shower seemed more annoying than threatening. Even with his hair a wet, matted mess of black, his shriveled, white penis distractingly lost in a tangle of soapy, graying pubes, she just knew it was him, and not just some random stranger with an unfortunate moustache that had broken into her house to use her shower. Fifty years plus of documentary film footage and books had left his image superimposed on the collective mind of the American public, and, even though this Hitler was impossibly young, maybe in his thirties, there was something about him that made him that same Hitler.

As she trundled back up to bed, she could hear the water in the bathroom shut off. "And turn it all the way off!" she shouted behind her. "There's a water shortage going on!"

Morning came and Lori woke to the smell of schnitzel frying. She sat up and rubbed her eyes and wondered who could be out there, in her kitchen, cooking her mother's trademark politically–incorrect dish. Hitler had been a dream, she decided, but she was damned sure she knew what schnitzel smelled like.

She pulled her fluffy bathrobe off the hanger and headed out into the hallway and to the kitchen. A neatly–groomed Adolph Hitler sat at the table, his moustache dancing comically above his lip as he tried to read the morning paper. Schnitzel and potato wedges were sizzling on two burners, and coffee was brewing in a soup pot on another.

"Of course you don't know about Mr. Coffee," said Lori, trying to be understanding but inwardly grimacing at the idea of having to sift through all those grounds to find one decent cup of coffee. Hitler blinked at her and shrugged his shoulders. "Ich bin eine Berliner," he said, slowly, sounding nothing like JFK. "Schnitzel," he said, pointing to the stove. "Güt, ja?"

"Ja." Lori knew that much German, and just that much. That, and the "Ich bin eine Berliner." She dug a coffee cup out of the sink, rinsed it, and dipped it into the pot of churning grounds. She put the cup down on the table and sat in the chair across from Hitler.

It was strange how, even knowing all the horrible things that she did about Hitler, how much he looked like just a man. Not an ugly man, and not really a handsome one, either, but just some guy in her kitchen, enjoying a cup of coffee. It did make her shudder a little, however, thinking that there were probably little Hitler pubic hairs embedded in her good soap now. But to be honest, she would have been just as bothered by the mailman's pubic hairs as she was Hitler's. Although there was a good chance that she could get a lot more for Hitler's public hairs on eBay than she could the mailman's.

It was even stranger to go about her normal day as though Hitler wasn't even there. From breakfast, she got dressed, put on her makeup, and got ready for work.

"You'll be okay here, won't you?" she asked Hitler as she stepped out the front door. "Güt, ja?"

Hitler blinked at her, then went back to slowly sounding out the words in the newspaper. "Bar–be–cue," he said. "Foot–ball. Cam–el." Lori felt a little bad about leaving him alone in her apartment, but how could she call something like this in? "Hello, I won't be in to work today. A major historical figure appeared in my apartment last night and I must stay home to entertain him." By the time she arrived at work, she, of course, realized she could have just called in sick, but it was too late.

The daily mindless routine of answering phones and typing in shipping logs seemed even more unreal than usual. Her mind kept drifting back to Hitler. What was he doing right now? she wondered. Had he figured out how to make the television work? Was he making more schnitzel? Was he going through her things, trying on her clothes, sleeping in her bed? Did Hitler have any hobbies? She wracked her brains over the last one for a good hour, even doing a few pointless Internet searches for the answer before giving up the fruitless quest. Around lunch time, she tried calling her apartment, but after the phone rang and rang with no answer, she left a detailed shopping list for herself on her voicemail instead.

A variety of Internet searches throughout the day filled up the rest of her time, and by the time she could leave her office and head home, she had gathered enough information on Hitler, his background, the reiteration of his crimes and enough pointed phrases in German to antagonize him for the rest of his stay in Lori's apartment.

It was all useless, however—she could tell he was already gone the moment she stepped into her apartment. The light on her answering machine was still blinking, and she absent–mindedly wrote down her detailed shopping list on a piece of scrap paper as she replayed her message, eyes scanning the apartment for some sign of her guest, some confirming souvenir Hitler may have accidentally left behind. He had certainly been a tidy houseguest, Lori mused, finding none.

In fact, the only real evidence that Hitler had been there at all were the three tiny black pubic hairs embedded in the good oatmeal facial soap in the upstairs shower. Lori looked at the offending hairs and sighed, reaching out to pull them from the still–soft surface of the soap and flicking them into the toilet. After a moment, she turned the tap on the bar as well, just in case there were more hairs buried below the surface, mired where she couldn't immediately see them.