It is bowling night in Bella Vista. With the twenty or so farmers deep in their brew, “Heil Hitler!” begins to ring through the clubhouse. The conversation settles into a seemingly familiar weekly pattern. “Ah, if only the Führer were alive today.” . . . “All this Holocaust business is propaganda of the Jews. Only a few thousand were killed.”
“By the way,” I ask an old Nazi, “wasn’t Dr. Mengele a member of your bowling club?”
“Ja, ja. Mengele used to bowl with us.”
“Does he ever come to visit?”
“Oh no, Dr. Mengele doesn’t live here anymore.”
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