"Right In der Fuhrer's face" is the war cry of the unafraid
"When Der Fuhrer says we is de master race "We heil (pfft) heil (pfftt) right in der Fuhrer's face."
--Recorded in late 1942 by Spike Jones and his City Slickers
It is us. The Americans. In a year when the world was on fire, a novelty band fond of sound effects, recorded "Der Fuhrer's Face," a comic song sung in a German accent that sprayed cheap laughs like machine gun bullets.
A young guy with a gas station pump jockey job, a girlfriend named Iona, and $3 in spare cash whistled it walking down the street in New Mexico. That young guy would be drafted by the end of the year, and he would end up a headless corpse bobbing at the tideline on Normandy Beach.
Right in Der Fuher's face.
Adolf Hitler was funny. He was funny looking. He had a funny little mustache and an odd little haircut, and he was an unhinged, mass-murdering fascist.
And there was, when it seemed as if he might win, when newspaper headlines were black with the headlines of casualty numbers, there was, that American, prairie, big city tenement, small town, street corner "pfft," right in Der Fuher's face.
And I know, as well as I know the words to the Hail Mary I said last Wednesday, I know that, as a syndicated columnist, I should be wailing and gnashing my teeth and rending my garments and muttering about "insurrection."
And I know, I know as sure as "pfft" follows "heil," that there were people killed in the assault of the clueless on the nation's capitol.
And still, the ancestral "pfft" runs through my veins.