Look Who’s Back

by Timur Vermes

  That is the fanatical will this country requires. And I hoped that I had aroused it in Sensenbrink too.

  xi

  On the morning I strode into the office put at my disposal, I was reminded again of the long path down which I yet had to travel. I entered a room which was perhaps five by seven metres, with a ceiling two metres fifty high at most. I thought wistfully of my Reich Chancellery. Now that place had rooms; the very instant one entered one felt dwarfed, one trembled before such power, such high culture. Not on account of the splendour – the ostentation had always left me cold – but whenever I received someone in the Reich Chancellery, I noticed at once that he felt the superiority of the German Reich, felt it physically. Speer got everything so right. Just take the Great Reception Hall – each chandelier alone must have weighed a tonne; had any one of them come down they would have crushed a man below, turning him to a pulp, a mash of bones and blood and squashed flesh, with maybe some hair sticking out the side. I was almost afraid to stand beneath them myself. I never gave any hint of this, of course; why, I strolled beneath those chandeliers as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It was just a matter of getting used to them.

  But that is exactly how things must be.

  For how could one spend millions and millions on a Reich Chancellery, only for someone to come in and say to himself, “Oh, I thought it would be bigger than this”? The point is, this man must not think at all, he must feel it viscerally, instinctively. He is nothing; the German Volk is everything! A master race! The edifice must emit an aura, like a pope, but a pope, of course, who smites the slightest contradiction with fire and sword, like the Lord God himself. The mighty double doors open, out steps the Führer of the German Reich, and foreign visitors must feel like Odysseus before the Cyclops, but this Cyclops has two eyes, over which no man will be able to pull the wool!

  And there were no boulders at the Chancellery.

  There were escalators. I almost felt as if I were in Kaufhof in Cologne, to which I had paid a visit immediately after its Aryanisation. You have to hand it to him, that Tietz; the Jews certainly know how to build department stores. But here is an important distinction: in Kaufhof the customer should think he is king, whereas when he came to the Reich Chancellery, the customer knew that he had to bow – in spirit at least – to something far greater. I was never in favour of having every Tom, Fritz or Heinrich crawling about, especially not on that floor.

  The floor of the office at my disposal was made of a dark-grey compound. It was no carpet I recognised, but a type of covering fabricated from a tatty felted substance – but not at all the sort of material from which one would choose to tailor a German soldier’s winter uniform. I had seen its like many times in this new world; it was so ubiquitous that I did not need to feel humiliated by its presence in my office. It was plainly a feature of these impoverished times. I vowed that in the future the German worker and his family would have different floor coverings from these.

  And different walls.

  The walls here were paper thin, no doubt due to a want of raw materials. I had a writing desk, which was manifestly second-hand, and was obliged to share the room with another desk, which must be for the typist I had been promised. I sighed deeply and gazed out of the window. It gave onto a motor park with dustbins in an array of colours, the reason for this being that waste was carefully separated, no doubt another consequence of the raw materials shortage. I shuddered to contemplate from which bin’s contents the wretched floor covering had been made. Then I chuckled to myself at Destiny’s bitter irony. If only the Volk had made a greater effort at the right time, there would be no need to collect refuse in this manner, given the wealth of raw materials in the East. All kinds of waste could have been happily tipped into just two dustbins, or even a single one. I shook my head in disbelief.

  Rats scurried around in the yard below, alternating with groups of smokers. Rats, smokers, rats, smokers, and so it went on. I scrutinised once more my modest, nay pathetic writing desk and the cheap, whitish wall behind it. It would not look any better no matter what one hung up there, even a bronze imperial eagle. One would have to content oneself that the wall did not come crashing down with the weight. Once upon a time I enjoyed four hundred square metres of office; now the Führer of the Greater German Reich sat in a shoebox. What had become of the world?

  And what had happened to my typist?

  I looked at the clock. It was just after half past twelve.

  I opened the door and peered out. Nobody was to be seen save for a middle-aged woman in a suit. She laughed when she caught sight of me.

  “Oh, it’s you! Are you already rehearsing? We’re all terribly excited!”

  “Where is my secretary?”

  She stopped momentarily, to think about it. Then she said, “They must have given you a part-timer, which means she’ll probably only come for the afternoons. Around two.”

  “Oh,” I said, dumbfounded. “What will I do until then?” “I don’t know,” she said, laughing as she turned to go. “Touch of Blitzkrieg, perhaps?”

  “I will remember that!” I said, frostily.

  “Really?” She stopped and turned again briefly. “That’s fab. It’d be great if you could use it for your programme! I mean, we’re all working for the same firm here!”

  I went back into my office and closed the door. On each desk stood a typewriter without a cylinder, in front of a television set which must have been placed there by mistake. I decided to continue my research into broadcasting, but could find no operating box. It was deeply frustrating. I reached angrily for the telephone, but then replaced the receiver. I had no idea with whom the switchboard should connect me. The entire modern technological infrastructure was getting me nowhere. I sighed, and for a moment my heart pounded with an uneasy despair. But only for a moment. Resolutely I banished the temptations of weakness. A politician makes the most of what there is. Or, as in this case, of what there is not. So I might as well go outside for a while and observe the new German Volk.

  As I stepped out of the building I looked about me. Opposite was a small park, whose trees were already displaying the most intense autumnal colours. To the left and right stood more houses. Out of the corner of my eye I spied a madwoman on the edge of the park who was gathering up what her dog had just deposited. Had this creature been sterilised? I wondered, but came to the conclusion that she could hardly be representative of Germany as a whole. I headed off in the opposite direction.

  An automatic cigarette dispenser hung on the wall, and I imagined it must serve the smokers who shared the motor park with the rats. My uniform seemed not to cause a distraction here, perhaps because it didn’t stand out. I encountered two men in passable Wehrmacht uniforms, as well as a nurse and two doctors. Ever since my release from prison, supporters were hot on my heels and their attention was not always welcome. Back then I had to outfox my adherents with small tactical manoeuvres, in the truest sense of the word, so that I could enjoy some brief moments undisturbed by photographers. In this particular environment, however, I was able to wander around as myself and yet remain incognito – ideal for allowing me to study the population. In the presence of the Führer, you see, many people begin to behave unnaturally. In such situations I always say “No fuss, please,” but of course the ordinary man pays no heed to this. In my Munich years the common Volk clung to me like mad. This was not what I needed here. I wanted to see the genuine, unadulterated German: the Berliner.

  A few minutes later I passed a construction site. Men in helmets were shuffling about; it reminded me of the time in Vienna when I was dirt poor, hiring out my labour to foremen in order to earn my daily bread. Out of curiosity I peeped through the fence, expecting to see the houses rise before my very eyes. But evidently technology had not made great advances in this area. On the upper floor a foreman was excoriating a youth, who may have been a student, a prospective architect, a young man full of hope, as I once was. He, too, had to subject himself to the
fierce authority of the worker; the ruthless world of the construction site was still the same as it had ever been. Whatever insight the young man may have into philology and philosophy, it counted for nothing in this universe of steel and cement. On the other hand I could see that the brutal, unsophisticated masses still existed – all I had to do was awaken them. And the quality of the blood seemed acceptable as well.

  As I strolled onwards I scrutinised the faces around me. Overall, not much seemed to have changed. The racial measures implemented during my time in government had evidently paid off, even if they had been abandoned by successive regimes. What struck me most of all was the apparent lack of half-breeds. I could see comparatively strong oriental influences, Slavic elements in many of the countenances, but that had always been the case in Berlin. What was new, on the other hand, was a substantial Turkish–Arab element on the streets. Women with headscarves, old Turks in jackets and flat caps. To all appearances, however, there had been no racial mixing. The Turks I saw looked like Turks; I failed to detect any enhancement through Aryan blood, even though such a development must surely be of interest to the Turk. What such a large number of Turks was doing on the streets remained a complete mystery. Especially at this time of day. They did not look like imported domestics; there was no sense that these Turks were hurrying anywhere. Rather their manner of walking suggested a certain leisureliness.

  I was jolted from my musings by a ringing, the pealing of a bell, such as would usually signal the end of a school lesson. Looking about I saw that there was indeed a school building fairly close. I quickened my pace and sat on a bench opposite it. It might be recreation, an opportunity for me to examine young people en masse. As it happened, a stream of individuals did pour out of the building at that moment, but it was impossible to tell in more detail what type of school this was. I was able to make out quite a few boys, but there appeared to be no girls of the same age. Those that emerged from the building were either elementary-school pupils or seemed capable of bearing children. It may be that science had discovered a way to circumvent those bewildering years of puberty and to catapult young women straight into reproductive age. A perfectly natural concept, for a process of toughening over the years of one’s youth only makes sense for males. The Spartans of Ancient Greece would not have thought any differently. Moreover, the young women dressed in such a way as to emphasise their figure, clearly signalling their intention to find a partner with whom they could start to breed. However – and this I found most remarkable – very few of them were German. It appeared to be a school for Turkish guest pupils. And from the first scraps of conversation I picked up, an extraordinary, even gratifying picture painted itself.

  Indeed, from those Turkish pupils I was able to observe how my principles had obviously been acknowledged as correct, and later implemented as directives. Quite clearly the young Turks had been taught only the most rudimentary language. I detected barely any correct syntax; it sounded more like a linguistic tangle of barbed wire, furrowed with mental grenades like the battlefields of the Somme. What emerged from their mouths might suffice for communicating the most basic information, but for organised resistance it would be no use at all. Lacking an adequate vocabulary, most of them supplemented their utterances with expansive gestures – a real sign language, no less, in accordance with ideas that I myself had developed and wished to implement. Admittedly, it had been intended for the Ukraine and the conquered Russian territories, but of course it was just as suitable for any other population group under German domination. And I witnessed a further technological advance: evidently the Turkish pupils had to wear tiny earplugs, to prevent them from picking up extraneous information or unnecessary knowledge. The principle was simple and appeared to work almost too well – some of these young pupil-like characters wore expressions of such intellectual frugality that one could scarcely imagine what useful activity they might one day be able to perform for society. But, as I established with a quick glance, neither they nor anybody else was sweeping the pavement.

  When the pupils of both races became aware of my presence, I noticed joyful recognition flash across some of their faces. The pupils of German descent must know me from their history classes, the Turkish ones from the darkest recesses of the television set. Then the inevitable happened. Once again I was falsely identified as “the other Herr Stromberg from Switsch”, I was asked to sign a few autographs, and I allowed a number of pupils to have their photographs taken with me. Not total confusion, but enough for me to lose track of things momentarily; what is more, I had the absurd impression that the German pupils were speaking the same minced-up smorgasbord. When, out of the corner of my eye, I saw another madwoman painstakingly gather up her dog’s stools, one by one, I thought it time to retire to the peace and seclusion of my office.

  I had been sitting at my desk for about ten minutes, gazing at the changing of the guard of the smokers and rats, when the door opened and in came a character who quite conceivably had just graduated from that group of indeterminately aged schoolwomen. Her clothes were black, conspicuously so, and her long, dark hair was parted on one side. Well now, there was no-one fonder of dark hues, of black, than I! I had always found it terribly dashing, especially on the S.S. But in contrast to my S.S. men, this young lady looked almost worryingly pale, all the more conspicuously so because she had chosen to wear a strikingly dark, almost bluish lipstick.

  “For goodness’ sake!” I said, leaping to my feet. “Are you feeling quite alright? Are you cold? Sit down, at once!”

  Unperturbed, she looked at me, chewing on a stick of gum. Then she pulled out two ear plugs on a cord and said, “Hmmm?”

  I began to doubt my theory about the Turkish ear plugs. There was nothing Asiatic about this woman; I would have to get to the bottom of the matter another time. Nor did she seem to be cold; at any rate she slid a black rucksack off her shoulder and took off her black autumn coat. Beneath this her clothes appeared normal, save for the fact that they were entirely black, too.

  “So,” she said, ignoring my questions, “you must be Herr Hitler! L.O.L.!” She offered me her hand.

  I shook it, sat back down and said tersely, “And who might you be?”

  “Vera Krömeier,” she said. “That’s sooooooo cool. Can I ask you a question? Is this method acting?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You know, what De Niro does? And Pacino? Method acting? Where you’re like, completely immersed in your role?” Each one of her sentences sounded as if it were a question.

  “Look here, Fräulein Krömeier,” I said firmly, rising from my chair. “I have no idea what you are talking about, but far more importantly, you should know what I am talking about, and—”

  “You’re right,” Fräulein Krömeier said, fishing the chewing gum from her mouth with two fingers. “Is there a bin here? They normally like, forget?” She looked around and, finding no waste-paper bin, said, “One sec,” stuck the gum back in her mouth and vanished. I was standing rather pointlessly in the middle of the room, so I sat back down again. She reappeared soon afterwards carrying an empty waste-paper basket. She put it down, plucked the chewing gum from her mouth once more and dropped it with satisfaction into the basket.

  “Right,” she said. “That’s better.” Then she turned to me again. “O.K., ready to roll. So, boss, what’s on the menu?”

  I sighed. Her too. I would have to start from the very beginning.

  “First of all,” I said, “my title is not ‘Boss’ but ‘Führer’. So please call me ‘Mein Führer’. And I should like you to give me the appropriate greeting when you enter!”

  “Greeting?”

  “The Nazi salute, naturally! With the right arm outstretched.”

  Her face lit up and she was on her feet at once, firing off more statements dressed up as questions. “I knew it? L.O.L.! That is what you’re doing? Method acting? Do you want me to start now?”

  I nodded. She dashed out of the door, closing it behind her. She kno
cked, and when I said, “Come in,” she strode forwards, thrust her hand into the air and screamed, “GOOD MORNING, MEIN FÜHRER!” Then she added, “You have to shout it, don’t you? I like, saw it in a film once?” She paused, seemingly confused, and then bellowed, “OR DOES EVERYTHING HAVE TO BE SHOUTED? DID EVERYONE SHOUT ALL THE TIME WITH HITLER?” Looking me in the eye, she said in an anxious voice, “I got it wrong again, didn’t I? Sorry! Are you going to like, get someone else in instead?”

  “No,” I said, reassuring her. “That was fine. I do not expect perfection from any comrade. All I expect is for him to try his best, each in his own way. And you seem to be very much on the right track. Just one tiny favour, please. No more screaming!”

  “Jawohl, mein Führer,” she said, adding, “Not bad, eh? L.O.L.!”

  “Very good,” I said. “But the arm needs to be pointed further outwards. You are not putting your hand up in elementary school!”

  “Jawohl, mein Führer. So, what are we going to do now?”

  “First,” I said, “you can show me how to operate this television set. Then please remove the device from your desk; after all, you are not being paid to watch television. We will have to find you a decent typewriter. You cannot have any old machine; we need the Antiqua 4mm typeface, and I should like you to type everything with a centimetre gap between the lines. Otherwise I cannot read it without glasses.”

  “Can’t do typewriters,” she said. “Only Pee–Sees. And if you take that away from me then I like, can’t do it at all. Anyhow, with the computer we can get any size font you like. And I can also turn on your computer for you.”

  Then she introduced me to one of the most extraordinary achievements in the history of human civilisation: the computer.