Good Heavens!

I was still recovering from the shock. The bus had wiped me out. I died instantaneously.

I knew this was Heaven. St. Peter had welcomed me in the Waiting Room and given the thumbs up.

The relief was immense. I hadn't had a spotless existence, and I wasn't deeply religious.

Against that, I had never deliberately done anything wrong. Apart from scrumping apples as a kid.

But now the sense of curiosity had taken over. This wasn't what I expected. The expanse of fluffy cloud appeared infinite, stretching away in all directions. It was tricky to walk on. Solid enough to bear whatever weight spirits might possess, but spongy and unpredictable. I had fallen several times but now seemed to be getting the knack.

And my fellow spirits? They all looked recognisably human, though wearing what must be regulation white robes. Like me! How did that happen? They all just seemed to be milling about aimlessly. Chatting sporadically, nobody working or doing anything meaningful. How boring.

A small, rather insignificant spirit was approaching. He had a disapproving look on his face and a truculent manner. His lank hair, dribbling forwards in a "cow's lick", and the ridiculous toothbrush
moustache, made him look familiar.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, in clipped Austrian tones. "There must be a mistake."

I responded by raising a quizzical eyebrow.

"Well, you're a ... man of colour," he continued. "The inferior races have no place in Heaven."

I couldn't help chuckling. This was so incongruous.

"I understood Heaven was the reward for those who led good, selfless, virtuous lives. I have been a decent human being. I should ask, 'what are you doing here?'."

He spluttered, turned purple. Obviously not accustomed to being challenged.

While he considered his reply I clarified my enquiry.

"You are one of the most evil men who ever lived. Guilty of genocide. And in a blue funk, at the end, when you were trapped, you killed yourself. Suicides are not allowed entry to Heaven, are they?"

Seeming more composed, Schicklgruber answered, "hah! You bought the story like everyone else. I escaped from the Bunker and lived another twenty years in Argentina."

"But you can't excuse or deny the genocide."

"I did the Lord's work. I knew He wished to restore the purity, the homogeneity, of his Creation. I was his agent on Earth, cleaning out the Augean stables, so to speak. Only a Master Race of Humans could be worthy of entry to the Eternal Kingdom."

I shook my head disbelievingly. Such arrant self-deception. Such specious, distorted logic.

My interlocutor closely inspected my face.

"At least you're not...one of those," he declared, sneering.

I laughed out loud.

"You mean, like Jesus, the son of God?"

I bent over and swept my arm across my midriff, mockingly.

"Moishe Lipschitz greets you, with all due contempt."

"But you don't look...," his voice faltered.

"Appearances are deceptive. You don't look like a genocidal maniac, a monster. You look like a pathetic little pipsqueak, a failed postcard painter, an inadequate physical specimen unable to pass an Army medical."

I thought he was going to explode. Whatever might have ensued was forestalled by the advent of a third spirit. A thoughtful, wise-looking old man with a bushy grey beard.

"Greetings, newcomer," he said in a kindly fashion.

"Oh no!" exclaimed Schicklgruber. "Another one! Anyone but him. Freud the Fraud."

Now here was someone I really did want to meet in Heaven. To talk to, to learn from, rather than to joust with.

"An honour and a privilege, sir," I replied.

"You've been unfortunate to encounter this piece of Case Work so early in your stay," nodding in the direction of his fellow Austrian. "He really is most unpleasant company."

I sensed the opportunity to humiliate Hitler more effectively with the aid of Sigmund. Their mutual dislike was apparent.

"As the founder of Psychoanalysis, could you help me to begin to understand the mentality of our murderous despotic companion?" I ventured.

The twinkle in Freud's eye told me he might relish the task.

"Small man syndrome for a start. Physically inferior. Intimidated by the world, he seeks to reverse that crushing dynamic by imposing himself brutally and vengefully upon his fellow man. It is also highly probable that he is deficient in the manhood department."

Sigmund winked, pointing at the small spirit's groin.

"Also, he hated his bastard father, who showed him no love. He loved his mother and experienced incestuous dreams as a child, as well as fantasies of killing his male parent."

"An Oedipus Complex," I said, nodding.

"Correct," replied my new friend. "A classic case."

Hitler looked like a volcano about to erupt. He began to roar in guttural aggressive German.

Looking over his head, behind him, I saw a divine posse striding purposefully towards our group.

"Oh, oh. This looks like trouble," I said.

The other two whirled round. Now they could see what I saw. St. Peter, flanked by two burly angels.

Hitler was excited. He pogoed up and down on the springy cloud.

"They've spotted you," he cackled gleefully. "This is where you get your comeuppance."

As the posse closed in Hitler thrust an arm in my direction.

"There's your interloper. An inferior being. He has no place among the divine elite. Raus."

The last word was addressed vehemently to me.

But St. Peter stopped directly in front of Hitler, fixing him with piercing blue eyes.

"You're the intruder. Our admission filter has failed badly. It's embarrassing. You have slipped through the net, somehow. Heads will roll. Meantime, we need to relocate you to the spiritual home where you belong, pronto."

St. Peter nodded to his angelic companions. They grabbed Schicklgruber by each arm and frogmarched him off into the distance, howling, screeching, protesting, legs wriggling in the air.

"Drop him in the infernal disposal chute," instructed St. Peter.

Sigmund gave me a bear hug.

Now I could start to enjoy my afterlife, getting to know my idol.