Hitler was terrified of the dentist and once asked his dentist to prolong root canal therapy over 8 days because he feared the pain so much. Here’s one account …
The year was 1944, and the Third Reich was crumbling. But in the reinforced concrete bowels of the Wolf’s Lair, Adolf Hitler wasn’t worried about the Soviet advance or the looming specter of total defeat. No, the Führer was currently locked in a life-or-death struggle with a rogue piece of almond brittle.
Adolf sat on the edge of his bed, clutching his jaw and rocking back and forth. His face, usually a mask of stern, Wagnerian determination, was currently twisted into something resembling a confused pug.
“Blondi,” he whispered to his German Shepherd. “The pain. It is a Bolshevik plot. It is… un-German.”
The dog merely blinked, uninterested in the geopolitical implications of a molar abscess.
The Arrival of the “Executioner”
Dr. Hugo Blaschke was the only man in Europe who could make the Führer tremble without firing a shot. He arrived at the bunker with a leather bag that clinked with the rhythmic, terrifying sound of silver-plated torture devices.
“Ah, Adolf,” Blaschke said, snapping on his latex gloves with a sound like a pistol shot. “I hear we have a little… sensitivity?”
Hitler retreated further into his silk pajamas. “It is a minor tactical withdrawal of the enamel, Hugo. Nothing more. A strategic adjustment of the gum line.”
“It’s a root canal, Adolf. A big one.”
Hitler’s mustache twitched violently. “I have conquered Poland in seventeen days! I will not be defeated by a single nerve ending!”
Day 1: The Great Procrastination
Hitler insisted on a “pre-treatment summit.” He sat Blaschke down and unfurled a massive map of his own mouth, complete with little red arrows pointing to the offending tooth.
“We shall approach the molar from the northern flank,” Hitler declared, his voice rising to a frantic crescendo. “But we must not rush! Speed is the enemy of precision! I demand that this procedure be conducted with the same meticulous pacing as a subterranean siege. We shall drill for exactly thirty seconds today. No more.”
Blaschke sighed. “Adolf, I can’t just open the tooth and leave it. It’ll get infected.”
“Then we shall occupy the cavity with a temporary garrison of cotton wool!” Hitler screamed. “Thirty seconds! Das ist ein Befehl!” (That is an order!)
The Eight-Day Siege
What followed was perhaps the most pathetic display of cowardice in the history of modern warfare. Hitler, a man who had ordered the destruction of entire cities, could not handle the sight of a dental drill.
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Day 3: Hitler spent four hours discussing the “aesthetic integrity” of the filling. He wanted it to be made of “Aryan gold,” despite Blaschke explaining that gold was, in fact, gold.
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Day 5: The drill touched a nerve. Hitler let out a scream so high-pitched it supposedly caused several U-boats in the North Atlantic to spontaneously surface. He immediately declared the drill “a traitor to the state” and demanded it be court-martialed.
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Day 7: The Führer insisted on wearing his full military overcoat and medals during the procedure. He believed the weight of the Iron Cross would “stabilise his nervous system.” He spent the entire hour humming Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries to drown out the sound of the suction tube.
The Final Extraction
By Day 8, the bunker staff were exhausted. Goebbels had already prepared three different propaganda scripts: one where the Führer heroically endured the pain, one where the tooth was actually a British spy, and one where the dentist was a secret hero of the Reich.
Hitler sat in the chair, sweating profusely. “Is it… is it over, Hugo?”
“I haven’t even picked up the forceps yet, Adolf.”
“I feel the cold hand of destiny!” Hitler wailed, gripping the armrests so hard the leather began to smoke. “The pain! It is like the winter at Stalingrad, but in my mouth!”
Blaschke, having reached the end of his tether, leaned in close. “Adolf, if you don’t open your mouth, I’m going to tell Eva you cried during the cleaning.”
The Führer’s eyes went wide. He opened his mouth. One quick crunch later, and the tooth was out.
The Aftermath
Hitler stared at the bloody molar sitting on the tray. He poked it with a trembling finger.
“I have defeated it,” he whispered, his voice returning to its usual delusional grandeur. “See, Blaschke? The tooth has surrendered unconditionally. We shall have a parade. A small one. In the hallway.”
He stood up, adjusted his tunic, and marched out of the room with a lopsided, numb-faced grin, unaware that the rest of his “empire” was about to follow that tooth into the bin of history.
