The book was rather forcefully pressed into Alistair's hands. Not by Hitler himself, but by Joseph Goebbels. They'd been discussing the Mein Kampf after having seen it paraded in almost every office, and the Reichspropagandaleiter had plucked one of many and given it to his new friend. "Adolf will sign it for you, if you want." He joked. The two men laughed. Alistair was looking forward to reading the 'masterpiece'. He'd heard that it was badly written in many ways; unstructured, bad-worded, un-scientific and repetitive. He'd only read bits and pieces durning his studies, and what he'd read had been translated. Every version you could buy in his time was also censored, and full of critique and comments. Now he held the booming original in his hand.
"Why did he write the book?" Alistair asked while he paged through it.
"Because every theory needs a basis that's written down," Goebbels explains, "it says so as well in the book. I don't remember if it's noted in the introduction or the first few pages. You should start reading it tonight. Speaking of tonight, do you have any plans?"
"I called Anne, but she hasn't answered yet." Alistair replied. Joseph smiled warmly at him and proceeded to invite him to dinner at his house. Alistair was unsure what to answer, he enjoyed the man's company but still felt twinges of guilt in his stomach every time he hung out with him. Somehow everything felt realer with Goebbels than it did with Hitler. He was constantly reminded that he was, dining and working with nazis, whereas with Hitler it still all seemed like a practical joke or a play.
"I'd love to come," he answered, "could I take Anne with me?"
"Of course! Adolf and Eva are coming as well, and of course my wife."
"Should I buy some wine?" Alistair offered. Goebbels tried to talk him out if it but the guest insisted. Eventually Goebbels gave in and Alistair promised to bring a bottle of white wine and perhaps even a bottle of Merlot as well.
***
The bookcover was smooth. It portrayed Hitler, a cover almost every man and woman of the world had seen at least several times. After having skipped all the numbers in the beginning (a terrible and long thrity pages) he finally got to the Vorwort.
Even just out of the introduction a few sentences already struck him. With this book I am not turning to strangers, but specifically to those followers of this movement, who's hearts belong to the movement and who's conscience now cries for inner enlightenment. Alistair smiled. He remembered how many times he'd uttered similiar words; that he was speaking to certain voters; the ones who shared the same vision. Hitler had given them a voice, and now was giving them a base as well.
I know that one wins over people less often through the written and moreover through the spoken word, that the growth of every great movement on this world is thanks to the great speakers and not to the great writers.
The second to last paragraph in the Vorwort caught his attention. At first he didn't believe it to be true; works like those of Sigmund Freud or Tolstoi definitely moved the world. But at second thought he found Hitler's find to be true; the great revolutions spread through words, spoken words, conversations with neighbors, speeches given by talented men in high positions, or even more talented men on their way up to high positions. A book could never and will never reach as many poeple as a speech will, the emotion of the authors words are partly lost, the book is less personal and in so, less relatable. A speech, with a man or woman who's face is afterwards insepperable with her words, has a much larger impact. Sadly, speeches are much easier to 'bullshit' ones way through as well. Even if it's completely ridiculous what you're saying; if you word it believably, you deliver it in the right way and to the right people, and if you stand behind every word you're saying (or you're just an incredibly talented actor); they'll believe it too. He continued to read, not hungrily devouring the book, but turning each page with interest and the desire to read more.
Unexpectadly Alistair had to laugh several times - he especially enjoyed the part about people (naturally belonging to the upper class) who tried to study the 'social question'. Hitler wrote; This 'studying' cannot take place from up above. He who isn't being held tight in the choking grip of this nature (poverty), will never know of it's poisonous fangs. For in the other case it results in nothing but superficial chatter or mendacious sentimentality. Alistair had to agree. What he'd always found funny about much of communist literature, was how it also came from above. Stalin, for example, only worked one proletarian job in his entire life, and only for a very short period of time. He may have known poverty, but not Arbeiterschaft. Alistair immediately put down the book after realising how much he agreed with the writing. That's enough for today, he told himself.
As if fate had tipped Anne off, she called only minutes after he'd put the book away. She happily agreed to dinner. Alistair promised to pick her up at 6 o'clock sharp. He threw on a nicer shirt, combed his hair and added some gel, and washed his face. He forced the book out of his mind and focused on the battle of getting ready. He wanted to look good tonight.