A gruesome obiter dictum closes the series in Lasansky's invention of a final irony: a skeleton-mounted Hitler figure in the act of castrating itself faces the spectator. It is like catching the devil cutting off his own tail. Now the blood that drips is the blood of the master executioner—grim, self-absorbed, well-practiced, mechanistically sacrificed to his own ideology, half squatting, cutting off his manhood as the spectre of death clamps down on him the lid-like cover of a bony skull (the last of the skull-helmets), with the decisiveness of someone covering a stuffed garbage can. The artist's upside-down signature beneath it underlies the harshly personal vision of the holocaust so movingly depicted in all the thiry drawings.

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