Evidence for a Haunted Soul

The President of the United States is constantly surrounded by cameras: paparazzi flocking to frame any kind of shot they can squeeze the President in, the cameramen present in meetings, the selfies with fans, the official campaign shootings and of course; private home videos. It still took our Alistair half a day of staring into the mouths of several cameras to realize that he had a very simple, and very real way of finding out if the dreams were dreams or if they were more. 

He'd taken a photo with Kurt and Adolf and Anneliese.

And if that photo had actually been taken, there was a high chance that it existed in a historical archive. Perhaps even on the biggest archive known to makind; the internet. So he spent his fifteen minute lunch break alone for once, and, before touching his sandwich, immediately googled Hitler's home photos and videos. When Abby, his secretary came inside, wondering why he wasn't answering the phone, she found the President submerged in his research. She left the room without him ever noticing that she'd entered. 

"These websites are all bullshit..." He mused, clicking onto website after website. All of them showed the same two or three pictures and gave the same information; Hitler kept his family life private, keeping Eva Braun a secret for years...

Just when he'd almost given up, an older but original looking website popped up on the third page of the google search. It was german, and it claimed to hold many previously hidden photos of Hitler. It was very organized; hence probably authentic. He searched through the short-cuts until he found it; Berghof. He clicked on the section of photos which were set in Obersalzberg.

And there it was. The third photo from the top. It looked even more hilarious than he remembered. Kurt's hands were spread out, palm up, and his mouth was twisted in the midst of saying 'you'. Adolf and Alistair were looking at each other, both laughing, and, hanging onto his very own arm, was the beautiful and troubled Anneliese. Under the picture it read 'unknown' thrice and 'Hitler' once. 

He stared at it for a good thirty seconds before closing his laptop. This changed everything, didn't it? There was no logical explanation anymore. He was being whisked back to Nazi Germany every night, and the actions he took there were effective. 

Becoming President had given him the oppertunity to make history. To hold the present in his hands and guide the country into a good direction. But now he also held a second chance; the chance to change history. To rewrite it. Did he have a chance at stopping Hitler? At preventing one of the worst catastrophes of human history; the second world war? The holocaust? Perhaps with a little luck, Stalin's reign of terror? Could that create a world where relations between countries weren't so screwed? If the cold war never took place, maybe Russia and the United States would be partners...The oppertunities raced on and on. It took several seconds for the doubts and fears to set in, and even when they did, they were largely outnumbered by the oppertunities...for now.

His second thought was that he had to tell someone; he needed to get opinions, those of studied Hitlerologists. People who could tell him how to get through the the dictator, how to stop him.

Or he could just put a bullet through his big head...

But no. Had any of the self-proclaimed 'Hitlerologists' really ever met Hitler? Shaken his hand? Had they ever stayed at Berghof? No, none of them had. If someone could get through to the man, it was he himself. And answers to how to manipulate a man, or rather, a dictator would be accesable on the internet and in several self-help or managment books. Alistair chuckled at the thought, but when he remembered what he was laughing about he stopped.

It now lay in his hands. He'd have to stop Adolf Hitler. Or he'd be the american president who'd failed most. He sighed deeply. The sandwich on his plate didn't look appetizing at all. Not after everything he'd just found out. But he couldn't work as well on an empty stomach. So he spent the last several minutes of his break devouring his sandwich. 

Work took his mind off of the picture for the rest of the day; but it was probably more than the work. Alistair Bowmore was also in shock. He'd spent so much of his youthful years as a student leaning over his desk at night, bleeding into the history books. And now, everything he read there could be changed. 

And then the thought hit him. 

It could also not be changed. And if it didn't, he'd be part of that too. He'd be one of Hitler's cronies, or at least, one of Hitler's aquaintances. 

He'd be a nazi.