Say her name
Indecipherably small to the naked eye, the handwriting penned each night into his journal was not meant to be erratic. James would construct each and every eensy letter with masterful precision, hours at a time, lost in his fervid thoughts, making plans without the urgency of watching the clock. Eventually, when he felt a sense of satisfaction, his journal would be placed by his bedside at an exact angle; the pen tucked in snugly next to the binding, as if it too was ready to retire for the evening, but sleep would elude him until he read from the manifesto, his bible, his voice from the grave, Mein Kamph.
Purchased at an obscure bookstore years back, the immediate inclination towards the text was kismet; as if Hilter had been born again within his soul. It was his fantasy that the words were written for him, personalized like a love letter; and as he’d place the book neatly on top of his journal each night with heavy eyes, he would imagine the Fuhrer incarnate was in the room with him, pleased by his unwavering loyalty.
His ailing mother knew of his fascination but she did not overreact. She assumed it was just an extension of an ordinary young man’s interest in militia and conflict, therefore as a believer in respecting his privacy and choosing when to pick her battles, she had not contemplated confronting him. Totally clueless about the depth of his depravity, at a moment of weakness, or perhaps it was strength, motherly love led her hand astray and she decided to open up the journal and take a peek without success. Even with a magnifying glass, all she saw was a single straight line of blue ballpoint ink. How could she know her current use of a wheelchair put a target on her back? No. James was not ready to murder his own mother, but he did consider if her health continued to decline, he may have to cross that bridge. Part of the written plan.
Perhaps Hitler was his father figure, having never known his own. On an ordinary day, while James lay unencumbered within his mother’s womb, his innocent father was walking across the street when he was struck and killed by a drunk driver. Close to, but not yet of legal age, alcohol was also placed on his hit list; it was what he considered the kiss of death in a bottle and he vowed to never let it touch his lips. But alcohol was not the only evil in the world according to James and his teacher, and when the time was ripe, he would rise to the occasion and make his mark, called into action by an occultist third eye that kept him company along with his dejected heart.
Book still in hand, it was a presumptuous cough alerting him that he had dozed off while reading; a rare occasion, but all things are possible once in a blue moon. Coming from the foot of the bed, a vision in all its glory, one James had wished upon, and now realized, was realized without fear. James sat up in awe.
“Mein Fuhrer. You have come.”
He was sure the shadowy figure at the end of his bed was Hitler in spite of the dimness, although he was not sure he could actually touch him. After all, he’d already been dead for seventy-two years, so James was left to ponder his presence, assuming a rational explanation.
“Yes. I have come to encourage you, to thank you for your loyalty and your dedication to my ideology. It has been a long time since I have become aware of someone so devoted to my words.”
“But how did you know? How could you know? You are dead.”
“I am not sure everything that takes place needs to be explained. Doesn’t the Christian faith call for us to believe in God blindly? To have faith without proof?”
“I suppose. Forgive me Mein Fuhrer. I have much to learn. Please teach me. Lead me. I feel there is so much more I need to know before I can carry out your work.”
“When I was your age, I too was conflicted. I relied on the wisdom of Dietrich Eckart, but at some point with maturation, it was I that could have taught him. You will see. Read my words, continue to write; plan and you will gain confidence by and by.”
“I am so glad you are here because there is something I am wrestling with. There is a rally next month, August 11th in Charlottesville, VA held by a group called Unite the Right. I’m planning to go. I believe it is time I gather with other Nazis. There is only so much I feel I can accomplish on my own. It is expected to be a peaceful protest but there are moments when I feel such rage towards our enemies, I cannot promise that I won’t react poorly if I am confronted and this has been keeping me from publicly expressing my views. Am I making any sense? Should I go and take the risk?”
“Ah. Anger. Yes. I understand. If I had let my anger hold me back, I would never have made any progress. My rise to power would have been doomed. Do you understand? Of course you need to join forces with others. There is power in numbers. You go. You may not be able to see me there, but know I am with you, always, mein Sohn.”
And with his last words to James, Hitler was gone; visibly gone and unbeknownst to James on a future ordinary day riddled with extraordinary circumstances his Fuhrer would be forgotten by him forever more. But Hitler’s face would not be replaced by another until sometime after the murder during his day of reckoning in the midst of the high profile trial.
“Murderer! Say her name!” Her mother yelled towards James from a courtroom bench.
Pictures of the victim laced the room, her goodness readily seen through her now dead eyes. Besides her family, intense grief was felt by even those who never knew her; palpably. James absorbed her. He was fascinated, captivated by her kind eyes. He studied them the way he had once studied his Fuhrer. He had seen them, and she his, through the windshield glass, right before he rammed his car into the crowd.
“Order in the court.” The judge pounded his gavel.
And at the sound of wood against stone, something in James broke and with his head in his handcuffed hands he did just that. Feeling no desire whatsoever to say goodbye forever to his former self or the sick mind that had molded his, repentance was understood, and he said her name.
“Heather Heyer.”
James Alex Fields Jr., 22, received a life sentence plus 419 years for killing Heather Heyer and injuring dozens of others during the “Unite the Right” rally in Charlottesville on Aug. 12, 2017. Fields was sentenced to life in prison on 29 federal hate crime charges. Judge Richard Moore followed a state jury’s recommendation in handing down the sentence.