by Timur Vermes
An initial review, which could not, of course, provide a complete picture, pointed to the following conclusions:
The Turk had not come to our assistance after all.
In light of the seventieth anniversary of Operation Barbarossa, there were numerous reports about this episode in German history painting a negative picture of the campaign. The unanimous view was that Barbarossa had not been a victory; indeed, the whole war had ended in defeat, or so these papers said.
I was reported to be dead. They said I had committed suicide. In truth I do recall having discussed this contingency – purely theoretically – with my confidants, and my memory was definitely lacking a few hours of what had been a terribly difficult time. But, in the final analysis, I only needed look at myself to see the facts. Was I dead?
We all know, of course, what to make of our newspapers. The deaf man writes down what the blind man has told him, the village idiot edits it, and their colleagues in the other press houses copy it. Each story is doused afresh with the same stagnant infusion of lies, so that the “splendid” brew can then be served up to a clueless Volk. In this instance, however, I was prepared to be somewhat lenient. So rarely does Fate intervene this strikingly in its own workings that even the smartest minds must find it difficult to comprehend, let alone the mediocre intellects serving our so-called opinion sheets.
My brain required the stomach of an ox to digest the other information I managed to unearth. One had to disregard the press’s miscalculations on matters military, historical, political – on every topic, in fact, including economics – the result of either ignorance or malicious intent; otherwise, faced with such reams of foolishness, a thinking person would simply go mad.
Or one would develop an ulcer from reading the scribblings of the syphilitic, degenerate minds within the gutter press who, manifestly freed from all state control, were at liberty to publish the sick and profane view of the world they had dreamed up.
The German Reich appeared to have given way to what was called a “Federal Republic”, the leadership of which resided with a woman (“Federal Chancellor”), although men had been entrusted with this position in the past.
Political parties existed again, with all the infantile, counter-productive squabbling this entails. Social Democracy, that ineradicable pest, was making merry mischief once more at the expense of the long-suffering German Volk. Other organisations were sponging off the wealth of the people in their own way; amazingly, perhaps, I found little appreciation of their “work”, not even in the dishonest press, which otherwise seemed so benevolent. By contrast, N.S.D.A.P. activity had ceased altogether. If one were to believe the view that the Reich had been defeated, it was possible the Party’s work had been impeded by the victorious powers. Alternatively, the organisation may have been driven underground.
The Völkischer Beobachter was not available everywhere; at least the kiosk belonging to this vendor – patently a radical liberal – did not have it on display. In fact he had no German-national publications for sale at all.
The Reich seemed to have shrunk, despite the fact that our neighbouring states were by and large the same ones. Even Poland was still there, living out its artificial existence unchecked, and partly on Reich territory! Now, I may be a level-headed man, but at this point I was unable to suppress my indignation; I found myself screaming out into the darkness of the kiosk, “I might as well have handed them the war on a plate!”
The Reichsmark was no longer legal tender, even though others – probably some clueless dilettantes on the side of the victorious powers – had clearly adapted my plan to turn it into a European-wide currency. At any rate, transactions were now being carried out in an artificial currency called “Euro”, regarded, as one would expect, with a high level of mistrust. I could have told those responsible that this would be the case.
A partial peace seemed to be in place, although the Wehrmacht was still at war. Now known as the “Bundeswehr”, it was in an enviable state, no doubt on account of the technological advances that had been made. If the statistics in the newspapers were to be believed, one would have to conclude that German soldiers in the field were practically invulnerable; these days casualties were few and far between. You can imagine my anguish when with a sigh I thought of my own tragic fate, of those bitter nights in the Führerbunker, hunched in grief as I brooded over maps in the operations room, battling a hostile world as well as Destiny herself. Back then, more than 400,000 soldiers bled to death on countless fronts, and that was in January 1945 alone. With this astonishing modern outfit there is no doubt I could have swept Eisenhower’s armies into the sea, and crushed Stalin’s hordes in the Urals and Caucasus like insects within just a few weeks. It was one of the few truly encouraging pieces of news that I read. With this new Wehrmacht the future conquest of Lebensraum in the north, east, south and west appeared as bright a prospect as it had with the old one. The consequence of recent reforms introduced by a young minister who must have been of the highest calibre, but who was forced to step down following a conspiracy hatched by resentful and small-minded university professors. Little seemed to have changed since my time, when once I had hopefully submitted my designs and drawings to the Vienna Academy. Devoured by envy, mediocrities continue at every turn to obstruct the lively genius who parades his talents undeterred. They cannot stomach the fact that his brilliance easily outshines the feeble glow of their own pitiful aura. Oh well.
My new circumstances certainly needed getting used to, but with some satisfaction I was able to conclude that, for the moment at least, there was no acute danger, even though there were inconveniences. As is normal with creative minds, my recent tendency had been to work for long periods, but also to take long rests, so as to preserve my habitual freshness and speed of response. The newspaper seller, however, would open up his kiosk at the crack of dawn, which meant that I, despite the fact that I frequently continued with my studies into the early hours of the morning, could not count on any restorative sleep thereafter. What made it worse was that this gentleman had an irritating need to talk in the mornings, whereas at that time of day I usually required a period of reorientation. Even on the very first morning he swept jauntily into the kiosk with the words, “So, mein Führer, how did you sleep?”
Without waiting for a second, he opened his vending window and allowed a particularly bright light to dazzle the interior of the kiosk. I moaned, screwed up my tormented eyes, and endeavoured to recall where I found myself. I was not in the Führerbunker, this was as clear as the daylight flooding into my makeshift lodgings. Had we been at headquarters I would have had the oaf court-martialled and shot there and then; this early-morning terror was undermining morale – why, it was practically sabotage! I retained my composure all the same, took on board my new situation, and reassured myself that this cretin probably had no alternative, given his livelihood; indeed, in his own blundering way I expect he was even trying to do his best by me.
“Time to rock and roll,” the newspaper vendor announced cryptically. “Come on, give us a hand!” He nodded towards a number of portable magazine racks, and dragged one of them outside.
Still exhausted, I sighed and struggled to my feet to help him. What irony: yesterday I was repositioning the 12th Army; today it was magazine racks. My gaze fell on the new issue of Hunting and Hounds. Some things had not changed, then. Although I had never been one for hunting – on the contrary, I had always looked upon it rather critically – at that moment I was gripped by the desire to flee this unfamiliar environment and roam the countryside with a dog at my heels, observing at close proximity the comings and goings of the natural world … I snapped out of my reverie. Within a few minutes the two of us had set up his kiosk for the day. The newspaper seller fetched two deckchairs and put them out in the sun. He invited me to sit, took a packet of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his shirt, flicked a couple through the aperture and offered me one.
“I don’t smoke,” I said, shaking my head. “Tha
nks anyway.”
He put a cigarette to his lips, took a lighter from his trouser pocket and lit it. Drawing in the smoke and exhaling with great pleasure, he said, “Ahhh – now for a coffee! Would you like one? I’ve only got instant, I’m afraid.”
The British must still be blockading the seas. It was a problem I’d had to deal with often enough, so it was hardly a surprise that, in my absence, the new Reich leadership – whatever form it now took or whichever name it went by – continued to be vexed by this predicament and was still searching for a solution. The brave, stoic German Volk had been forced to make do with substitutes for so long. I recalled that this alternative to coffee had been known as “ersatz”, and immediately I thought of the sugary grain bar which now took the place of good German bread. This unfortunate newspaper seller was embarrassed in front of his guest because the stranglehold of the British vermin allowed him to offer nothing better. It was an outright scandal. I was overcome with emotion.
“It’s not your fault, my good man,” I assured him. “In any case, I’m not much of a coffee lover. But I would be very grateful for a glass of water.”
And so I spent my first morning in this strange new epoch shoulder to shoulder with the smoking newspaper vendor, bent on analysing the population and gaining new insight from their behaviour until such a time as my host, through the contacts he had mentioned, might be able to secure me some sort of employment.
For the first couple of hours it was humble workers and pensioners who patronised the kiosk. They bought tobacco and the morning papers, but said little. A newspaper by the name of Bild seemed to be highly popular – particularly with older people. I assumed this was because the lettering was so extraordinarily large that those with poor vision would still be able to digest the news. An excellent idea, I was forced to concede, one that not even the zealous Goebbels had thought of. Just think of how much more enthusiasm it would have sparked for our cause amongst the elderly! In the last days I could remember of the war, it was chiefly the older members of the Volkssturm who lacked the drive, the determination and willingness to sacrifice themselves for the German nation. Who would have thought that a simple device such as larger lettering could have such an effect?
In mitigation, there had been a paper shortage during the war, but when all is said and done that Funk chap had been an utter moron.
My presence outside the kiosk began to cause a stir. There was the occasional outburst of gaiety, especially amongst the younger workers; more often it was recognition, conveyed by the words “cool” and “epic” – totally incomprehensible, I know, but from their facial expressions I inferred a definite respect.
“Isn’t he great?” the newspaper seller beamed to one of his customers. “Practically no difference, is there?”
“Nope,” the customer said, folding his newspaper. He was a worker, mid-twenties probably. “But are you allowed to do that?”
“What?” the newspaper vendor said.
“You know: the uniform and all that.”
“What objection could possibly be raised against the coat of a German soldier?” I asked suspiciously, a hint of irritation in my voice.
The customer laughed, to silence me, I expect.
“He’s really good. No, I mean, obviously you do this professionally, but don’t you need some sort of special licence to wear that in public?”
“Well I never!” I replied, incensed.
“All I’m saying,” he said, a touch intimidated, “is what would the authorities think if they saw you looking like that?”
This made me ponder. His intentions were honourable, and he was right: my uniform was no longer in the best condition; it was barely presentable.
“I agree, it is a bit dirty,” I said, somewhat crestfallen. “But even soiled, a soldier’s coat is forever nobler than the spotless dinner jacket of a fraudulent diplomat.”
“Why would it be forbidden?” the newspaper vendor asked soberly. “He’s not wearing a swastika.”
“What the devil is that supposed to mean?” I yelled in anger. “Everyone knows damn well which party I’m in!”
The customer left, shaking his head. When he was out of sight, the newspaper seller invited me to sit down again.
“He’s got a point,” he said in a friendly tone. “My customers are giving you funny looks. I know you take your work seriously, but couldn’t you wear something different?”
“Am I to deny my life, my work, my Volk? You cannot ask that of me,” I said, leaping up. “I will go on wearing this uniform until the last drop of blood has been spilled. I will not, as Brutus did to Caesar, commit a wretched act of betrayal; I will not stab in the back for a second time those who have given their lives for the Movement …”
“Do you always have to get in such a lather?” the vendor said with a hint of impatience. “It’s not just what your uniform looks like …”
“What then?”
“It stinks, too! I don’t know what it’s made out of – was it one of those boiler suits they wear at petrol stations?”
“In the theatre of war the infantryman cannot change his coat, and I myself refuse to indulge in the decadence of those who live in comfort behind the front.”
“Whatever … but just think about your programme!”
“How do you mean?”
“Listen, you want to your programme to do well, don’t you?”
“Yes, and?”
“Just think about it: someone comes by wanting to meet you, and there you are, reeking so strongly of petrol that they don’t even dare light up within ten metres!”
“You did,” I replied. But my words lacked their customary edge; reluctantly I had to concur with his arguments.
“I’m brave, you see,” he laughed. “Come on, why don’t you pop home and fetch some more clothes.”
The tiresome accommodation problem.
“I told you, it’s difficult at the moment.”
“Sure, but your ex must be at work now. Or out shopping. Why are you being so cagey?”
“You see,” I said hesitantly, “it’s all very difficult. My home …” My logic was now in a bit of a tangle. But it was a humiliating situation, too.
“Don’t you have a key, or what’s the problem?”
This time I couldn’t help laughing at such naivety. I had no idea whether or not there was a key to the Führerbunker.
“No, er, how should I put it? Somehow contact was … er … cut off.”
“Are you under a restraining order?”
“I can’t even explain it to myself,” I said. “But it’s something like that.”
“Heavens above, you don’t give that sort of impression,” he said. “What on earth did you do?”
“I don’t know,” I said, truthfully. “I’ve lost all memory of the intervening period.”
“You don’t seem like the violent type to me at any rate,” he said thoughtfully.
“Well,” I said, running my fingers over my parting, “I am a soldier, of course …”
“O.K., soldier,” the newspaper vendor said. “Let me make another suggestion. Because you’re ace and because I’ve got faith in obsessive types like you.”
“Of course you have,” I said. “Like any sensible person. We must spare no effort, indeed we must be obsessive in the pursuit of our goals. Lily-livered, two-faced compromise is the root of all evil and—”
“Yes, O.K.,” he interrupted me. “Now look. Tomorrow I’ll bring you some of my old things. No need to thank me, I’ve put on a bit of weight recently and can’t do up the buttons anymore. But they might fit you,” he said, looking rather unhappily at his stomach. “I mean, you’re not working as Göring, are you?”
“Why would I do that?” I asked, confused.
“And I’ll take your uniform straight to the dry cleaner’s …”
“I will not part with my uniform!” I said adamantly.
“As you like,” he said, suddenly looking weary. “You can take your uniform to the
dry cleaner’s yourself. But you do understand, don’t you? That it has to be cleaned?”
It was an outrage – I was being treated like a child. But I realised that nothing would change as long as I went around looking as grubby as a child. So I nodded.
“The shoes might be a problem, though,” he said. “What size are you?”
“43.”
“Mine will be too small, then,” he said. “But I’ll come up with something.”
iv
The reader must be shown some sympathy if, at this or any other point, he is flabbergasted by the speed with which I adapted to my new circumstances. How can the poor reader, who during the years, nay decades, of my absence has been drowning in the Marxist broth of history from the soup kettle of democracy, be capable of peering over the edge of his own bowl? I have no intention of casting any reproach upon the honest labourer or farmer. How should the simple man protest when so-called professionals and academic nonentities have, for six decades, been proclaiming from the lecterns in their “temples of knowledge” that the Führer is dead? Who would hold it against the man who, amidst his daily struggle for survival, cannot find the strength to say, “Where is he then, the dead Führer? Show him to me!”
Or the woman, for that matter.
But when the Führer suddenly reappears in the place where he always was, in the capital of the Reich, the confusion and disorientation which strikes the Volk is as paralysing as the astonishment. And it would have been perfectly understandable had I, too, spent days, weeks even, in utter bewilderment, crippled by the incomprehensible. But Fate decreed that it should be different with me. That as a result of a vast amount of effort and enormous deprivation over harsh yet instructive years, I should be able early in life to form a reasoned outlook, forged in theory, but hardened into a finished weapon on the battlefield of practice, an unwavering viewpoint which had consistently governed my life and work ever since. Even now, there was no need for newfangled or casual tinkering; on the contrary, my grounded perspective helped me achieve an understanding of both the old and the new. And so it was the Führer principle which ultimately liberated me from my fruitless hunt for explanations.
