This 1972 novel was one of the most ludicrous (and most fun) I’ve experienced. Picture if you will: It’s the early 1950s, and a conspiracy is revealed by a Russian doctor on his deathbed. Hitler is not really dead. His brain was allegedly removed beforehand and placed into the head of someone else. But whose? Our narrator Karl Gisevius— who we don’t know much about other than the fact that he’s a German doctor visiting Paris at the book’s start — means to find out, and kill the Führer once and for all. All by himself.
It’s pretty much full-on action and adventure and espionage the entire time, with hardly any setup or background, and containing some of the most revolting scenes I’ve ever come across in fiction (Slightly Spoilery and also Gross, but I can’t not mention the self-brain surgery, minus any painkillers, followed by the dude running around actioning and adventuring with his exposed brain sloshing around and his scalp flapping against the back of his neck, which was both nauseating and headache-inducing. I’ll admit to mostly skimming this section, with my butt cheeks clenched the entire time).
I loved the setting, which mostly takes place in a giant, walled-off castle filled with Nazis secretly continuing their grotesque experiments, which our hero Karl infiltrates with shocking ease. Despite the ridiculous premise, there were plenty of intense moments, and I was entirely invested throughout even though Karl is a bit of a moron at times, charging full steam ahead without thinking repeatedly. But deep down he’s just a simple guy that really wants to murder Hitler so I can’t be too hard on him.
This was definitely in the upper echelon of mens adventure-type fiction I’ve read, with loads of gunfights, sabre duels, and chases through endless passageways, as well as a sex scene so bizarre I couldn’t keep from smiling throughout. Not to mention a final paragraph that recontextualizes the entire narrative. It’s also written in a fast, easy-breezy style that made it hard to set down. The only real negative is that Puccetti hasn’t written anything else in this vein (or much of anything else at all, really), as I would snatch it up in a heartbeat if he had.