"Clang!" The crisp sound of a cup smashing on the floor woke Hoffmann. He found himself lying perfectly fine in bed; where was his grandfather? He had merely knocked over the cup on the nightstand.
"Where is this place?" He cautiously surveyed his surroundings. Had he been sent to a hospital? But the layout didn't resemble a hospital room. He struggled a bit and seemed to feel no significant discomfort. Before he could figure out what was happening, a man in a white coat rushed in, exclaiming in surprise, "Fuhrer? You're finally awake?"
"..Who are you? Why am I here?" Hoffmann scrutinized the man. Although he wore a white coat, the furnishings here were not typical of a hospital, they were more like a room in the "Eagle's Nest".
"Fuhrer? I'm Morell, your most loyal doctor…" The man in the white coat clearly hadn't expected Hoffmann's question and hastened to explain himself.
"..What are you calling me again?"
"Fuhrer!"
Oh my God… Fuhrer! Hoffmann subconsciously touched his nose, the sensation was completely different from the usual. He looked at his hand, and it also felt strange. Even worse, he actually felt a thick square mustache under his nostrils with the back of his hand... he had never grown a mustache before.
He struggled to sit up "Help me to the mirror." As soon as the words left his mouth, Hoffmann was even more astonished; this was definitely not his usual speaking tone.
Dr. Morell was very surprised by Hoffmann's request, but years of unquestioning obedience had conditioned him. He gently helped the "Fuhrer" to the dressing mirror by the wardrobe. Hoffmann's eyes were slightly closed, not daring to look at his reflection, but the other's words echoed in his ears
"Fuhrer, yesterday morning's accident truly frightened us."
Another "Fuhrer!" Hoffmann steeled himself and opened his eyes wide to look at himself in the mirror. That iconic face, that thick square mustache under his nostrils, unique in the entire century and even on the entire planet, it was indeed the "Fuhrer of the Third Reich".
What exactly was going on? Hoffmann shook his head in disbelief, trying his best to control his emotions so that this earth-shattering change wouldn't show on his face.
"Morell, my dear doctor…" He paused, deliberated, and then slowly asked, "What's the date today? How long have I been unconscious?"
"Today is August 23, 1942. As for being unconscious.. it wasn't really that. The day before yesterday, you were a bit agitated and accidentally fell during your walk. There were no obvious external injuries, but you had dizzy spells. Since 'Wolf's Lair' was too damp, for health reasons, you took a special train back to the Eagle's Nest to rest.
Last night you complained of a headache, and I used a little barbiturate, so you slept a few more hours. It's almost 11 AM now." Morell explained, then cautiously asked, "Herr Fuhrer, could I trouble you to lie down for a few more minutes so I can give you a thorough examination… Your face looks a bit pale, and… your mental state doesn't seem very good either."
Hoffmann thought to himself. Of course his face was pale, anyone who suddenly became the 'Fuhrer' would be terrified. However, he wasn't so foolish as to blurt out that he wasn't the Fuhrer. If he dared to say that, someone would surely find every way to treat him as a madman.
He obediently lay back down and sighed, "I'm fine. Perhaps it's just because I worry too much about this country."
Morell gave an awkward smile. He, of course, knew the truth of the matter. Three nights ago, at the battle discussion meeting held at the Headquarters, Chief of the General Staff of the Army, General Franz Halder, and the Fuhrer had another fierce argument about the Eastern Front situation.
The enraged general even slammed the table, and the meeting ended on a sour note. While walking after breakfast the next day, the Fuhrer still couldn't suppress his anger and complained to Martin Bormann, the Head of Party Chancellery, about Halder's insubordination and repeated defiance. Then, due to emotional agitation, he didn't watch his step and fell, hitting his head on a stone…
"Fuhrer, your blood pressure, heart rate, and pulse are all normal at the moment," Morell said solemnly as he put down his stethoscope. "For the sake of the Reich, you should take care of your health."
"Thank you for your advice." Hoffmann waved his hand. "Have them call me to get up in half an hour. For now, I need to quietly think about some things alone."
The doctor gently closed the door and left, but Hoffmann didn't pay attention to any of that. His mind was racing; he had to think of a strategy for his situation. Hoffmann, of course, knew what had happened to him. As a leading authority in his field, he encountered hundreds of transmigration works every year, whether they were serious strategic deductions, vivid literary novels, or meticulously planned academic papers. He dismissed them all as fantasy and simply smiled. He never imagined that transmigration, this most absurd and unbelievable myth, would become a reality.
He remembered Einstein's famous quote: "Because I so despised authority, fate punished me by making me an authority." And, because I so despised transmigration, fate punished me by making me transmigrate, and specifically, into such a person.
As he thought, he was surprised to find that his consciousness and the Fuhrer's consciousness were merging at a rapid pace, without any resistance or delay. Everything in the Fuhrer's mind was completely absorbed and integrated, becoming a part of Hoffmann's autonomous consciousness, the world was still the same world, but the Fuhrer was no longer that "Fuhrer".
August 23, 1942, was precisely when the Soviet-German War entered its climax. According to the normal historical trajectory, by May 1945, just over two and a half years later, the Soviet Army would plant that "red flag" on the roof of the Reichstag Building, and he himself would commit suicide in a dark, damp basement.
The thought of this terrible end made him tremble. At this moment, he remembered old Hoffmann's words: "…But you are also the most unfortunate, because what you are about to face is such a tricky and difficult Empire…" So that was it!
No! Absolutely not! I must change this fate!
"Fuhrer." A rhythmic knock sounded at the door. "May we come in?"
"Please come in." Germans were famously punctual. Hoffmann, or Hitler now, already fully dressed, looked up at the wall clock; exactly half an hour had passed.
Three people entered from outside. The first was Martin Bormann, also a "familiar face" whom Hoffmann quickly recognized. The second was Morell. Hitler was less familiar with the last person, but after a quick search through his memories, he knew the man was Rudolf Schmundt, a Major General in the Army, the Fuhrer's Chief Adjutant, and currently the Fuhrer's most trusted Staff Officer.
"Respected Fuhrer, I am immensely pleased to see you restored to health," Bormann stepped forward and greeted him with a slightly exaggerated tone.
Hitler nodded. He knew Morell would report his recent behavior to Bormann, and these were people intimately familiar with the Fuhrer, so he absolutely couldn't reveal any slip-ups. He calmly replied, "Thank you for your concern. The events of the past two days left me a bit disheartened, but after resting, I feel invigorated and can continue to lead the Reich forward."
Bormann visibly relaxed. He had been quite startled when Morell came to report that the Fuhrer's mental state was not ideal. After all, Martin Bormann owed his current power and position entirely to the Fuhrer's strong patronage, without this backing, he was nothing. Now it seemed Morell had overreacted, the Fuhrer was perfectly fine! He shot the latter a displeased glance and said, "Fuhrer, General Schmundt was originally going to report on personnel arrangements to you first, but lunch is now ready. Shall we?"
"Then let's talk while we eat," Hitler said dismissively, waving his hand, and walked out first with his head held high.