"Good Morning, Herr Hitler."

Field Marshal Erwin Rommel was walking alone down a gray desert road. He was wearing his dusty tropical uniform, holding his short, stocky body very erect. He was happily anticipating the battle; it was one of those he won. He knew all his men and all his enemies would be glad to see him again. They always were.

Up ahead, on a rise in the road, was a weathered gray house. It was a very small house, not very clean but well-ordered, with tall yellow sunflowers in the yard. Rommel always enjoyed walking by that house. He'd often been tempted to turn around and pass it again. But he really didn't have the time.

Despite his small size, Rommel had a very rough, loud voice. His men liked the sound of it; they trusted it. It carried. That fellow in the house could hear it a long way off, if Rommel felt like warning him today. Which he didn't.

As Rommel passed a sunken pond, he glanced at his reflection. His boots had been polished and his tense little face was freshly shaved.

"Looking well," he complimented himself. "Downright comfortable." He straightened the brown plaid muffler about his throat, and smiled. "He's not going to like that."

The fellow in the house couldn't see the pond. All he could see, but for a line of grim gray houses at a distance down the road, was the dead gray plain, running off to the horizon.

He was out in his garden, on his knees, digging around next to the gray picket fence, muttering to himself, so he didn't see Rommel walking softly up to him. Rommel watched him for a while, then leaned over the fence and very gently and politely said:

"Good morning, Herr Hitler."

Hitler flinched and dropped the garden trowel. He stood up suddenly and glared in silence at his former general. He seemed to be struggling not to speak.

"Good morning, Herr Rommel," he snapped at last. "Where have you been?"

Rommel pointed back up the road. "Back there. Where it's cool and nice. I've already said my 'Good mornings.'"

"Have you?"

"And all my people cheered me when I said it," added Rommel.

"So you say."

"I'm going to Africa today," said Rommel. "Want to come?"

"I can't come. You know that."

"You can go anywhere you please; all you need to do is open your front gate and step out."

Rommel took a step himself toward the gate, as though he meant to be helpful. Hitler quickly raised a hand; he looked nervous.

"I've stepped out of that gate twice before. Twice, I've forgotten all the names. Do you know what it's like to have to learn all the names all over again?"

"I don't know," said Rommel. "I've never had near so many to learn."

Hitler was looking back up the road. A pall of gray dust was coming up on the horizon. He bit his lip. "Why do you always walk so far ahead of them?"

Rommel shrugged. "You know me. I've always been a lone - fox."

"You were alone when you died," said Hitler.

"Thank you," said Rommel, and made a little bow. "It was completely painless."

"I should have had you hanged - on wire," hissed Hitler, then closed his mouth. Rommel was regarding him with palpable enjoyment.

"Missed opportunities," said Rommel. He glanced at his wristwatch. "I do have to get along; they can't start without me." He clicked his heels and tipped a salute; the snappy Army salute, not the upthrust Party arm. "Enjoy your audience, Herr Hitler."

His hands clasped behind his back, Rommel strode off, now and then looking back over his face, a foxy grin on his face.

He was so intent on what was behind him that he nearly fell over a thin old man, who was crouched in the road with his face in the dust.

Rommel stopped smiling. He took up a sharp stone from the road and solemnly threw it at the old man's head. It hit hard.

"Better?" said Rommel.

"No," whimpered the old man. "But thank you."

Hitler sat down on the garden bench. He wiped the dry dirt off his hands and put his face in them. The curtain of gray dust had billowed closer along the road, and within it had resolved a colorful mass of briskly walking figures. It was the vanguard of a vast crowd of calm, well-kept people, some of them chatting together, some keeping to themselves, most of them looking with obvious eager anticipation toward the far horizon.

Hitler sighed. He used to rant at these people. All he ever did was give himself a sore throat. It took him a long time to realize they weren't going to respond to his ravings. He fretted in this little yard all day, while they walked by, nodding or lifting their hats.

The first person was passing. He was a slim dark man with a prominent nose. He was one of the hat-tippers. "Good morning, Herr Hitler," he said.

Hitler stood and nodded stiffly back. "Good morning, Herr Goldstein," he said. The man had already passed on, hardly noticing, his eyes absently focused on the road before him.

"Good morning, Herr Hitler," said a young woman with a French accent.

"Good morning, Mademoiselle DuBois," said Hitler. Of course, he knew her name, too. He knew all their names. They used to introduce - and patiently re-introduce - themselves to him, but after all the mornings they'd passed by and greeted him, he recognized them all. There was a time he didn't pay so much attention to individuals, but here he had no choice.

"Good morning, Herr Hitler," said two young soldiers. One of them was in a German, one in a Russian uniform. They were clean, and their boots gleamed. They were strolling arm-in-arm, and were obviously great friends. Each was the reason the other was here now. At one time they were compelled to walk beside one another, but they'd since come to an understanding.

After awhile, Hitler stopped consciously listening to the greeters; he hardly saw them going by. When the last of them had finally passed the sun was setting. Hitler used to hope that at least the stragglers wouldn't get to enjoy their day, but when the last man in line, a Hauptmann Giloit, told him he was meeting his wife that morning for a picnic, it was evident that time here was literally relative.

* * *

"Good morning, Herr Hitler."

Hitler pressed his eyes shut a moment then turned toward the fence. It was morning again, and it was Rommel again. He was wearing his dusty leather coat, and one of his terriers was alert at his heel.

"Good morning, Herr Rommel," said Hitler. "And how were the battles yesterday?"

Rommel slapped his boot with his silver-headed Field Marshal's cane. "Won the first one. Took Tobruk again." He squinted. "But George got the better of me just before sunset. He was plain insufferable at tea."

"You don't have to play with Patton."

"It wouldn't be so bad, but von Arnim sits there afterwards, stirring his tea and telling me what I did wrong. I have to remind him he's supposed to be on my side."

"I know how he feels," said Hitler.

"He's worst when he's been killed," said Rommel. "But they'll both be sorry today; General Guderian and I have got plans." Rommel rocked in his knees. "General von Arnim's a good man. I imagine that's why you turned over my command to him, when you insisted in public that I was so ill. But Guderian is an old Russia hand and he's crafty." The terrier barked and Rommel looked down at him. "George's French bulldog hates my terrier."

Hitler frowned. They didn't let him keep his dogs. "Patton doesn't have a French bulldog," he said. "He has an English bull terrier."

"That's what George keeps saying," said Rommel. His own terrier barked again and sneezed, twice. "You're right, boy," he said, and pointed up the road at the approaching dust cloud. "Company's coming."

He whistled at the terrier and strode off down the road, the little dog bounding about at his coat-tails. A short ways down the road, he stopped. The old man was still crouched in the dust, sobbing quietly to himself. The terrier sniffed at his white hair and whined. Rommel looked back at Hitler, who was glaring fixedly at the gray cloud. He didn't want Hitler to see what he was about to do. He hauled back and gave the old man a good solid kick in the ribs.

"How's that?" he said.

The old man shook his head in the dust. "No better. But thank you."

Rommel shook his own head. The terrier was so intently perplexed he had to pick up the little dog and carry it with him down the road.

If Hitler chose, he could go back into his house. In there he was out of the white glare of the sun and yet could clearly hear his passing visitors. He could return their greetings, nodding absently and repeating, "Good morning, Herr Maitlinger," "Good morning, Mrs. Thompson," while he was making his morning coffee. He still drank coffee here, even though he could no longer taste it. It washed the dust out of his throat. And they kicked up such a lot of dust out there, even though they didn't seem to be inconvenienced by it themselves. Hitler daily coaxed a few pints of water from the pump in the yard; he had to decide whether to make coffee and wash his face or scrub his underwear and socks. Sometimes the dust was so thick he sacrificed his weekly bath for clean windows.

He looked out one of the windows now, and smirked to himself. There went Herr Stuckelmeyer and Pan Drensky. Herr Stuckelmeyer once told the authorities where Pan Drensky was hiding. Pan Drensky had to spend a short time in a camp, before he came here. Herr Stuckelmeyer had to come here after a bombing raid. He is forced to respond to Pan Drensky's greeting every morning, and to walk beside him in the procession. In unison, the two men shouted out "Good MORNING, Herr Hitler!" They didn't like each other, but they didn't like Hitler worse.

The day passed slowly, and so did the crowd. Hitler was looking vague and glassy-eyed. He wanted a nap. He had been angry at all these people at first; then he gradually began to feel ashamed. Now he just felt numb. He looked up at the glaring hot sky and knew better than to hope for rain.

"Good morning, Herr Hitler," said a tall ugly girl.

"Good morning, Fraulein Danilov," said Hitler. "Fraulein, is there rain where you're going?"

"Oh, yes, Herr Hitler! And flowers. All kinds, and such lovely colors all over the meadows! It's so horrid here, I keep meaning to bring you some." The girl shrugged ruefully. "But I always forget."

A woman walked by and held up a child, and the little thing prattled, "Goo' mo'nin', Hewr Hitwer!" and waved its pudgy hands.

"Good morning, Pepi," said Hitler and looked away. He really didn't like seeing all these children.

* * *

Down the road from Hitler's house was another small shabby house. It had a flower garden, too, but the flowers were red. Hitler always took grim satisfaction in judging that the crowd swarming past that house was at least as large as his.

At this moment its occupant, Marshal Stalin, was beetling his bushy brows at an entire passing pogrom. He didn't mind these people so much; it was the doctors and officers who came after them that really annoyed him. They insisted on telling him that, any time he needed their services, any one of them would be glad to put him into a hospital The dissident university professors who came next always offered to teach him a thing or two.

They all had something to say to him, all of it unoriginal and unpleasant. What's worse, the Polish officers had lately been teaching the professors how to curse, and they all practiced their accents on him. Stalin wondered if he should go inside and fire up the samovar. At least he wouldn't have to look over and see Hitler gloating at him.

Farther up the road there was a house in a bamboo garden. In the garden, Chairman Mao was bowing silently to each passing member of his own private procession. He at least did it with a better grace than his two neighbors. Of late he had taken up the reading of Confucius. He was not alone in his house. A young man was sitting on his porch, where there was a cool breeze. This young man could not quite conform to the strictures of the Red Guard. He was an acupuncturist. He was now personal acupuncturist to the Chairman.

"Now Mr. Chairman," he always said at the end of the day. "This won't hurt a bit."

One of the houses had two stories and a large, many-colored flower garden. In the yard was one of the few trees on the road; aware of the honor, Mr. Roosevelt and Mr. Churchill tended it carefully.

Their own processions spoke mostly English. When Hitler's procession was done with him, many of them came over and said "Good morning." So did many of the people from Mr. Tojo's yard. Mr. Roosevelt was in a wheelchair. He looked so sad that many of the people tried to cheer him up. Mr. Churchill just sat and painted and smoked cigars. He always turned his back on that gang of unruly Welsh miners.

A crowd of the people from Mr. Tojo's procession always went over to the little old man with his face in the dust, and politely tried to make him stand up.

"Don't cry," they told him. "We're not angry with you; you didn't mean it. You don't have to be here. Please go on and be happy!"

They wished they could tell him it hadn't hurt, but that would be a lie, and it wasn't a good idea to tell lies, not here. They pleaded with him in vain; when they at last went on down the road, he was always weeping, making his face muddy with the dust and the tears.

* * *

The sun was up again.

Rommel didn't go down the road ahead of everybody that morning. His terrier was with him, limping but cheerful. Hitler pointed out the limp.

"You should see George's French bulldog," said Rommel. "My terrier whipped him yesterday like I whipped his master. The Americans had to buy the beer. They were so put out I got Guderian to agree we'd let George win today."

"Someday Eisenhower will help Patton," said Hitler. "Then you'll be in trouble."

"Eisenhower's still sulking," said Rommel. "He hates saying 'Good morning' worse than you do."

Hitler waited a moment, then said, "I saw you kick Oppenheimer yesterday."

"I had to," said Rommel. "It might help."

"It won't help unless they do it. But they're too polite."

"If they were were really polite, they'd stone him to pieces," said Rommel. "It would make him happy."

Rommel was delayed when he saw Stalin's procession coming along at the same time as Hitler's. He decided he didn't want to see a terrible traffic-jam on the road, so he stayed to direct traffic. He was standing on a dry pump in the middle of the road, using his silver-headed cane to point out to people where they were to go. He was not being any help. There was a large knot of people in front of Herr Hitler's house. Some of them had never heard of Herr Hitler. Some of them were speaking Chinese. Herr Hitler knew the day would not end until everyone was gone. He thought it was going to be a very long day.

* * *

The sun had been up for several hours. Hitler burnt his breakfast, but he was used to that. Now he was out in his garden, shading his eyes against the painful sunlight, peering up the road.

Where was everybody? His procession was usually well on the way by now. Maybe they'd leave him alone today. Maybe he could have a nap. He could use it; hot nights gave him insomnia, and the nights were always hot. He eased himself down on the garden bench and looked up at the sky.

There was nothing to see up there except the hot blank blue. Nothing but something he hadn't seen in a long time; an airplane. Hitler frowned. Who flew here?

There was white smoke streaming out at the tail section. Perhaps the plane was having difficulties. Hitler sat up straight. Perhaps it would crash.

The plane began to bank, trailing the smoke behind it. There wasn't enough wind up there to carry away the smoke. It stayed where it was put. The plane drew out a long curve of smoke and began to form letters with it.

The first letter was a "G." Then a "U" and a "T." Hitler stared. There was an "E" and an "N." Now the plane flew to the side of the letters, as though to start another word. "M" it spelled. "O. R." Hitler stood up and walked to the fence, where he remained watching in silence. "GEN."

Hitler didn't say anything; he knew who was up there. He'd forgotten that Rommel was an able and eager pilot. For the first time in a long time, he began to tremble. He knew better, but he couldn't help it. He picked up his garden trowel and threatened the plane, then hurled the trowel up at the sky. It fell on the other side of the fence.

"Erwin!" he said, and stamped his foot. "You bastard, you don't even have a pilot's license! I made sure of that!"

Someone said "Good morning, Herr Hitler."

Hitler looked around, startled, and saw that the procession had come up while he'd been watching the plane. A short American officer was standing there, politely offering the garden trowel to him.

"Good morning, Lieutenant Spencer," sighed Hitler, and took the trowel. He shut his eyes and through his teeth he said, "Good morning, Herr Rommel."

In the sky above, Rommel spelled out "GOT LICENSE TODAY."

* * *

"Good MORNING! Herr Hitler!"

Hitler pressed his eyes closed very hard. It was Rommel. Again. This morning he was sitting up in the hatch of a tank - a stinking greasy Panzerkampwagen IV - energetically bellowing over the gurgling howl of the power plant.

Hitler walked slowly to the fence and said, "Good morning, Herr Rommel," with as much composure as he could manage. Perhaps if he was polite, Rommel wouldn't stop here long.

"Field Marshal!" Rommel corrected him. "Remember, you promoted me yourself."

Rommel was always much more proper when he was in his tank. He was a sight today, aglitter all over with all his medals and orders. Even Oppenheimer, still crouched in the dust down the road, smiled weakly when Rommel gaily waved at him.

Hitler forced a smile. "Well, going to a party?"

"And what a party!" said Rommel. "Monty's coming at last! We're all excited. Montgomery's old boys, the Eighth Army, have polished everything they can get a rag over, right down to their fingernails. George and I are going to meet him and give him the whipping of his life."

"You and Patton aren't going to fight on the same side?" said Hitler.

"It's not unfair," Rommel assured him. "We're going to let Monty have Guderian and his lads for this fight. I've promised the Afrika Korps and our American friends that the Eighth will be buying the beer tonight. It will be jolly!"

"Sounds entertaining," said Hitler, breathing slowly through his nose. "But you don't want to be late, do you?"

Rommel pushed his visored cap up onto the back of his short-cropped head. "Oh, no, they'll wait for me."

"The British won't," said Hitler. "They never did."

"Have to! I'm in charge of delivering the supply columns this morning; I've got all the party fixings, and nobody gets treated if they don't play fair. Are you SURE you can't come?" Rommel was inviting everybody, even the man who had him poisoned. "You could learn all those names again later; I'd come help you."

"No thank you," gritted Hitler. "Not in the mood." He was looking up at the road at the inexorable dust cloud. "I have another social engagement."

"Then I won't keep you," said Rommel.

He strapped his goggles over his eyes and rapped smartly on the turret of the tank. The machine lurched and squealed forward down the road, sending a gritty cloud of dust back over the choking, spitting Hitler. Hitler snatched up a stone and sent it flying over the fence. He was trembling so violently it spoiled his aim, but the stone flew far enough to carom off the stern of the tank.

The tank thudded to a halt, and then violently backed up toward the fence, nearly throwing Rommel off his feet. For a moment, it looked as though the machine might churn back through the fence, the house and Hitler, and then it stopped a foot before the fence.

Before Rommel could duck down and tell his crew what he thought of their driving, they poked their heads out of the hatches of the tank. The driver even squirmed up beside Rommel, with close and affectionate disrespect. Hitler's face fell.

"Good morning, Herr Hitler!" chorused the crew.

"Excuse me, Herr Hitler," said Rommel, and wooled the driver's hair. "Forgot about my boys."

Hitler was very white. He swallowed and said, "Good morning, Gefreiter Daniels. Good morning, Oberleutnant Otter."

When he had greeted them all, they took off in their tank again, stopping only a moment to run over Oppenheimer. Gefreiter Daniels didn't want to do it, but Rommel said it might help.

Rommel leaned over the side of the turret and said, "Better, Herr Oppenheimer?"

"No," gasped a voice from under the treads. "But thank you."

The tank ground forward, leaving an oozing little heap behind it in the dust. The old man would be while putting himself back together, and it would hurt. Rommel suspected even that wouldn't help.

"What do I have to do to him?" thought Rommel. "Drop a bomb on him?"

* * *

Hitler slept badly that night. He was dozing in bed when he became aware of the harsh light shining in around his drawn blinds. He decided not to get up today, no matter what happened. He drew the dusty blankets up over his head, despite the heat, and waited. He waited what seemed a long time. And then, for the first time he had ever known it to, the procession began, without Rommel.

Hitler lay there and listened to it going by all day, while he quietly murmured his replies, until the lesser heat of the evening. He wished he'd thought of this before. It might have been only one "Good morning" less, but it might mean something. Perhaps Rommel had forgotten him. Rommel was the only one who had taken so much personal delight in the morning's greetings, and that Hitler had escaped him today was like a small, important victory, like a special grace and blessing. Hitler sat up in bed and smiled.

Then he stopped smiling. Rommel couldn't just forget him. Rommel could only leave the procession if he forgave Hitler. If he had, it meant he won't be back. But that would mean that Hitler wouldn't have to say "Good morning" to Rommel, while Rommel would still have to say "Good morning" to other people. Hell would freeze over first.

Hitler began to quiver. He leaned forward and took the cord of the dusty blinds in his hand. He gave it a hard yank.

Someone was standing in his yard, and when he saw who it was and what he was doing, Hitler's stomach lurched. It was Oppenheimer, standing upright for once, his arms stretched out, his pale, wrinkled face turned upwards and illuminated by a smile. Hitler leaned out the window and looked up.

Far above, in the dark sky, lit red by the setting sun, an airplane was circling. It was a very large airplane, with very long, thin wings. Hitler went gray. He knew there was only one thing that would make Oppenheimer look that happy. He knew there was no use leaving his yard and running, even if he could run that far that fast, even if he didn't dread relearning all those names. He knew how long it took to put oneself back together down here, and he knew how much it was going to hurt. He knew who was piloting that plane, and what was about to be dropped from it. Before he could stop himself, he whispered, "Good morning, Herr Rommel."

Up in the dark sky, the plane slowly wagged its long wings. Rommel was wondering how many times he could get away with making Oppenheimer happy.