Status Updates From Sonhos no Terceiro Reich

I was at a movie theater at Nollendorfplatz, but it looked like an assembly hall. Newsreel. Goering appeared wearing a brown leather vest, firing arrows from a crossbow, which made me laugh out loud (this had actually happened that evening, but nothing had happened to me).
Suddenly, I don’t know how, I was standing next to him wearing the same vest and holding the same crossbow, and he made me his bodyguard.

I was in a group of people, all blond and blue-eyed, and a two-year-old child, who actually can’t talk yet, said to me: “But your kind doesn’t belong here.

I was in a concentration camp but all the prisoners were being treated very well, there were parties and plays being performed. I thought: Well then, so it really is exaggerated, all the things you hear about the camps. Then I saw myself in a mirror: I was wearing the uniform of a concentration camp doctor, with special jackboots that sparkled like diamonds. I leaned against the barbed wire and started crying again.

The SS were putting barbed wire into the hospital windows. I had sworn I would never allow them to bring their barbed wire into my ward. But then I did allow it after all. I stood there as they turned my hospital room into a concentration camp. I was summoned back to treat Hitler, because I was the only one in the world who could; I was proud of myself, and felt so ashamed of my pride that I started crying.

I dreamed that I had stopped dreaming about everything except rectangles, triangles, and octagons, which all looked like Christmas cookies somehow. Because we weren’t allowed to dream.
Here we have someone who decided to play it safe by dreaming about no physical objects at all.

At eight in the evening I was on the phone with my brother. After taking the precaution of praising Hitler for managing everything so well, I said: “I don’t enjoy anything anymore.”
In the middle of the night, the phone rang. A dull, expressionless voice said: “This is the Telephone Surveillance Office” and nothing more. I knew at once that my comment about not enjoying anything was my crime.

The street signs on every corner had been outlawed and posters had been put up in their place, proclaiming in white letters on a black background the twenty words that it was now forbidden to speak. The first word on the list was “Lord”—in English; I must have dreamed it in English, not German, as a precaution. I forgot the other words, or probably never dreamed them at all, except for the last one, which was: “I.”

Goebbels came to my factory. He had all the employees line up in two rows, left and right, and I had to stand between the rows and give a Nazi salute. It took me half an hour to get my arm raised, millimeter by millimeter. Goebbels watched my efforts like a play, without any sign of appreciation or displeasure, but when I finally had my arm up, he spoke five words: “I don’t want your salute.”