Apropos of nothing, I did enjoy reading this article on a Nazi memorabilia collector by Matthew Volmer.
The Nazi’s garage door—like the front gate—opened automatically, by some unseen force, and after it slowly retracted itself, my father and I entered. Seconds later, another door opened, and the man himself—the Nazi—appeared. I’d been nursing the image of a slight man with pale skin: a malnourished weakling with a head of dark and greasy hair. But this guy was not small. He was tall and hearty, with a head of dirty blond locks cut in a quasi bowl-cut, with long bangs that flapped around when he moved. In a lineup of possible Nazis I would not have chosen this man—a fact that probably reveals my own naïve, preconceived notions about Nazis and their possible permutations. His wife, on the other hand, looked like she might’ve been created in a laboratory funded by the Third Reich: her hair—so blond it was nearly white—fell in a luminous sheet down her back. She was tall and wide-eyed, her lips crimson. She introduced and immediately excused herself, and our tour began.