Yesterday I finished reading Laurent Binet's novel HHhH, a metanarrative about recording the assassination of Reinhard Heydrich in Prague. Today I read Ian Kershaw's account of the last days in Hitler's bunker in Berlin. Whereas Binet writes as novelist pondering his task of recording history, very aware of his freedom to invent scenes and conversations, Kershaw writes as historian; yet his text is densely packed with detail, often evoking strong emotions, often analysing emotions and motivations amongst the characters present in the bunker. In the full biography he has written there will surely be more information about his sources; these probably include testimonies at trials after the war. By using all the facts he could find, Kershaw creates a powerful narrative of those last days. The reader is stunned by the madness of it all: the refusal to end the destruction of lives and property for the sake of an ideological stance. When, in the final lines of this extract, one 'sees' the bodies of Hitler and his wife, Eva Braun, on the couch in his private room, there is something profoundly pathetic about the scene. And one is then suddenly reminded of the millions who had already died because of his ideological stance by that time. Is anger - seventy years after the event - a useful emotion?
Kershaw bied 'n pakkende narratief oor die laaste dae voor Hitler se selfmoord in Berlyn. Hy baseer sy vertelling sekerlik op historiese feite - hy is immers 'n historikus en nie 'n romansier nie. Tog kies hy en plooi hy en bied hy sy feite só aan dat die leser emosioneel saamgesleur word. Die finale blik op die liggame van Hitler en Eva Braun wek patos: dat dié invloedryke megalomaan deur sy eie toedoen tot menslike oorskot gereduseer is, soos soveel miljoene voor hom. Woede borrel op: maar is dit nuttig ná sewentig jaar?