I walked up the desolate steps of the Berlin bunker, weak with exhaustion and very tired of this whole business. Perhaps today I will be able to find rest. I opened the door as quietly as I could, but I'm afraid

my dragging steps gave away my presence quite clearly. I knew it mattered not if the guards could hear or see me; they looked as weary as I did. Besides, they were not the ones I was coming for. Not today.

I walked down some flights of stairs, deeper and deeper into the bunker. Finally, I stopped. I could smell the man I was coming for, and a woman near him I would assume was his wife. Hmmm I never pictured this man as a husband. How curious.

I set my tired thoughts aside and watch as his trembling hands played with the pistol that lay on his desk. The woman gripped a small capsule in her pale hands, appearing more calm than the man but still having the same frightened look in her eyes. I could tell they both sensed I was here. They wanted to meet me, they wanted to feel my grip. Good,I thought, I wanted to meet them too.

I studied the man's fearful face with interest, almost laughing at the irony of it all. Here was the

Führer of the "superior race," the man who all of Germany practically worshiped, sitting at his desk contemplating suicide. I thought of all the Jews this man had murdered, all the wives his fanatical party had left husbandless, all the children he had left fatherless. All in the name of a "superior race."

Well if he was an example of a "superior race," then I would rather bother myself with the inferior ones. I know this may sound a bit strange to you, but if it does, then you do not know me well. For whenever I choose to come it is fair. I am a friend. An ally. This man was no one's friend. And even in me he will find no rest. Of all the men I have seen die, this man, this Führer, was one of the most pathetic and despicable. I have no pity for him as he closes his lips around the cold steel barrel of the pistol. My hands will be much colder.

The day is April 30, 1945. The sky is the color of rain and sweet champagne. A shot rings out. I have never felt so relieved as I carry a soul. Hitler is dead.