Look Who’s Back

by Timur Vermes

  I found it all very interesting, for one specific reason in particular.

  Until that point my most positive experiences with public enlightenment and propaganda had been with methods considerably different from those employed today. I had worked with columns of S.A. Brownshirts, who waved flags from the backs of lorries as they drove through the city, smashing their fists into the faces of Bolshevist Red Front fighters, cracking their skulls with clubs and, with my full support, also trying to kick some sense with their jackboots into these bone-headed communists. Now I observed that evidently the mere attraction of an idea, a speech, could induce hundreds of thousands to watch and engage in intellectual debate. In truth, this was very hard to understand. It was even plain impossible. Something was niggling away at me, a hunch, if not a fear, so I immediately called Sensenbrink. He was in great spirits.

  “Have you seen the figures?” he rejoiced. “You’ve just hit 700,000, and the numbers are going north all the time. It’s madness. You’re out of the ballpark.”

  “Indeed,” I said, not quite understanding everything he had said. “But I find your delight quite overblown. It can’t possibly make any sense!”

  “What? What do you mean? You’re our golden goose, old chap! Believe you me, this is just the launchpad. It’s a game changer, a paradigm shift.”

  “But you still have to pay all the people!”

  “Which people?”

  “I was myself in charge of propaganda for a while. And I know that to bring 700,000 people over to your side you need 10,000 men. And they have to be fanatical.”

  “Ten thousand men? What ten thousand men?”

  “Ten thousand stormtroopers, theoretically. And that’s a conservative estimate. But I don’t imagine you have an S.A. yet, do you? So you will need at least 15,000.”

  “You really are a few sandwiches short of a picnic,” Sensenbrink said. I had no idea what he was going on about, although he sounded cheerful enough. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I heard glasses clinking in the background. “But watch out, one day someone’s going to take you seriously!” And he hung up.

  And so the matter appeared resolved. Sensenbrink clearly had nothing to do with it. The endorsement seemed to be from the Volk itself. Sensenbrink could have been an unscrupulous liar, of course, a charlatan; these doubts still lingered, which is precisely the risk one faces when one has not hand-picked one’s subordinates oneself. But overall he seemed to be a trustworthy fellow. And so I embarked on the production of additional material for the programme.

  As always when people are overtaxed creatively, they come up with the most dubious suggestions. I was to film bizarre reports such as “The Führer pays a visit to the bank” or “The Führer at the swimming pool”. I dismissed such claptrap out of hand. Having to watch politicians engage in sport is little more than an embarrassment for the Volk. My sporting activities were brought to a swift conclusion after my takeover of power. Football players, dancers – they are the ones people want to see, executing their moves to perfection. Their disciplines may even rise to the height of great art. In athletics, for example, a consummate javelin throw is a magnificent sight to behold. But then imagine that someone like Göring comes along, or that matron chancellor. Who would want to watch either of those two whales attempt the sprint hurdles? It would not be a pretty sight.

  Of course there are some who will argue, “She ought to show the Volk that she’s a dynamic leader. For this she need not venture into show jumping or rhythmic gymnastics, but rather something more harmless, such as golf. Surely that would be feasible.” Such would be the discussion in conservative anglophile circles. But anybody who has seen golf played to a high standard would certainly not want to watch a shapeless old trout fiddling about for hours on the course. And what are the other statesmen to say? In the mornings she painstakingly follows the intricacies of economic policy; in the afternoons she is out on the golf course, taking ungraceful swipes at the turf. And as for appearing in swimming trunks – well, that is the most preposterous thing imaginable. You couldn’t dissuade Mussolini from doing it. And more recently that suspect Russian leader has been doing it too. An interesting fellow, no question, but as far as I am concerned it is a foregone conclusion: the moment a politician removes his shirt, his policies are dead in the water. All he will say is, “Look, my dear fellow countrymen, I have made the most extraordinary discovery: my policies look better without a shirt on.”

  What sort of nonsensical proposition is that?

  I have even read that a German war minister was lately photographed with a wench in a swimming pool. While his troops were in the field, or at least preparing for deployment. Had I been in charge, this would have been the gentleman’s last day in office. I wouldn’t have bothered with a letter of resignation – you lay a pistol on his desk, a bullet in the chamber, you leave the room, and if the blackguard has an ounce of decency he knows what he has to do. And if not, the following morning the bullet’s in his brain, and he’s face down in the pool. Then everyone else in the ministry knows what to expect if you stab your troops in the back while wearing swimming trunks.

  No, bathing larks were out of the question as far as I was concerned.

  “So, what do you want to do instead, if that’s not up your street?”

  This question was fired at me by one Ulf Bronner, an assistant director, in his mid-thirties perhaps, and a strikingly ill-dressed man. Still, he was not kitted out as shabbily as the cameramen; through my recent work for and with broadcasting companies I have discovered that they are the scruffiest-looking individuals in any form of employment, outdone only by press photographers. I have no idea why it should be thus, but as far as I can make out press photographers seem to wear the ragged cast-offs of television cameramen. Perhaps they imagine that nobody will ever see them, because after all the camera is in front of their faces. Whenever I come across an unflattering picture of someone in a magazine – they may be grimacing or similar – I frequently wonder what the photographer must have looked like. This Bronner fellow was better dressed than that, but not much.

  “I deal with politics,” I said. “As well as with issues that extend beyond politics.”

  “How on earth is that meant to be funny?” Bronner grumbled. “All politics is crap. But it’s not my show, is it?”

  Over the years I have learned that fanatical belief in the common cause is not always essential. And in some matters it can even be a hindrance. I have seen directors who for art’s sake were incapable of producing a comprehensible film. Ultimately I preferred Bronner’s indifference; at least it allowed me a pretty free hand when it came to pillorying the woeful achievements of the democratically elected political representatives. And as one should always simplify things where possible, I plumped for the most elementary topic – literally so. I began one morning by standing outside a kindergarten, next door to the unconventional school I had by now passed on many an occasion. Time and again I had observed the irresponsible behaviour of automobile drivers, who raced past at high speed, carelessly putting at risk the lives and wellbeing of our children. In a brief speech I launched a brutal attack on this speeding frenzy, then we took some film of these asinine would-be child murderers, which could later be cut into the programme. The reactions we elicited were extraordinary.

  “Are you doing that hidden camera programme?”

  “Absolutely not, my dear woman. The camera is here, do you see?” I pointed to the recording device and my camera comrades, addressing her gently and patiently, for a woman’s understanding of technical matters is always somewhat fragile. When I had finished my explanation, I enquired whether the woman was a regular visitor to the area.

  “Which means these automobilists may well have come to your attention.”

  “Y-yeesss,” she said slowly. “Why do you ask?”

  “Would you agree with me that, in view of the behaviour exhibited by a veritable myriad of automobilists, one must fear for the children who play here?”r />
  “Errm … I suppose, sort of, but … what are you getting at?”

  “Voice your concerns as freely as you wish, my dear woman and comrade!”

  “Hold on! I’m nobody’s comrade! But seeing as you ask … I do sometimes get a bit worked up when I’m going past here with the children …”

  “Why then does this freely elected government not mete out harsher punishments to such thoughtless racers?”

  “I don’t know …”

  “We will change this! For Germany. You and I! Which punishments would you recommend?”

  “Which punishments would I recommend?”

  “Do you think that the existing punishments are adequate?”

  “I’m not sure …”

  “Or are they not dispensed harshly enough?”

  “No, no – I wouldn’t want that.”

  “What do you mean? What about the children?”

  “I mean it’s … it’s alright. Alright as it is. I’m perfectly happy!”

  This was a frequent response. It was like living in a climate of fear, and this under a form of government which was supposed to be so free. The simple, innocent woman from the Volk dared not speak openly in my presence when I approached her in my plain soldier’s uniform. I was appalled. And this was the reaction from approximately three-quarters of the people to whom I spoke. The other quarter asked, “Are you the new security guard around here? Finally someone’s saying something! It’s an absolute disgrace! They should all be locked up!”

  “You are calling for imprisonment, then?”

  “At the very least!”

  “I thought the death penalty had been abolished …”

  “More’s the pity!”

  Following that same principle I now lashed out at whatever ills I observed, either with my own eyes or in the press reports. Poisoned food, automobilists who telephoned with their portable devices while driving their vehicles, the barbaric custom of hunting, and much more. And what astounded me was that people either demanded draconian punishments or, as was more frequent, dared not speak their minds. There was one occasion where this was particularly manifest. A large number of people had already gathered in the city centre to demonstrate against the government. Seemingly it had occurred to no-one to opt for the most obvious solution – stormtroopers – but at least they had erected a kind of market stall to collect signatures, aimed at eliminating the sensationally high figure of 100,000 abortions per year in Germany.

  Such large-scale extermination of German blood is unacceptable to me too, of course. Any cretin could see that, assuming 50 per cent were boys, this would lead to a loss of three divisions in the medium term. If not four. In my presence, however, these upright, decent people were unwilling to articulate their beliefs, and shortly after we arrived the demonstration broke up altogether.

  “What can one say?” I asked Bronner. “All of a sudden these poor people seem changed. So much for so-called freedom of expression.”

  “Incredible,” Bronner gasped. “That was even better than the thing with the dog owners protesting against compulsory leads!”

  “No,” I said. “You misunderstood. The dog owners who bolted were not decent Germans. They were all Jews. Didn’t you see the stars? They knew at once who they were dealing with.”

  “Those weren’t Jews,” Bronner protested. “That wasn’t ‘Jew’ written on the stars, it was ‘Dog’.”

  “There you go, so typical of the Jew,” I explained. “All he does is sow confusion. And then on the flames of bewilderment he cooks up his greasy, poisonous soup.”

  “But that’s …” Bronner panted, and then he laughed. “You are absolutely unbelievable!”

  “I know,” I said. “By the way, have the uniforms for your camera people arrived? In future the movement must appear united!”

  Our revelations were greeted with wild enthusiasm back in the offices of the production company. “You could even turn a vicar into an atheist,” Madame Bellini laughed as she viewed the material.

  “You might think so, but I have already made considerable efforts in that direction,” I recalled. “Not even a stint inside a camp does the trick for many of those devil-dodgers.”

  The short films were included in Gagmez’s programme as soon as two weeks after my première, and were in addition to the passionate oration I delivered towards the end. After a further four weeks I was commissioned to provide yet another segment. To all intents and purposes it was like the beginning of the Twenties all over again. With the difference that back then I took possession of a party.

  This time it was a television programme.

  Moreover, my assessment of that Gagmez character was proved accurate. A certain resentment had fermented within him as he witnessed my increasing influence and sway on his programme, and the Führer principle asserting itself ever more definitively. And yet the man offered no resistance to this development. Although he did not exactly fall into line, his protests were lame, while behind the scenes he would occasionally give those in charge a good earful. In his shoes, I would have gone for broke; from the very start I would have refused point blank to tolerate any interference; my response to that first appearance would have been to threaten to cease all work for the company – what would I have cared for contracts? But Gagmez behaved true to form; in desperation he clung to his sorry achievements, to his doubtful fame, to his television slot, as if it were an accolade. This Gagmez would never have put his neck on the line for his convictions; he would never have gone to prison.

  On the other hand, what convictions could he possibly foster? What did he have apart from a shadowy background, apart from meaningless, vainglorious tittle-tattle? I had it far easier; behind me was Germany’s future. Not to mention the Iron Cross. Or the Wound Badge, which proved that I had already sacrificed blood for Germany. What had Gagmez ever sacrificed?

  Naturally, I was not expecting to see him parading the golden Wound Badge. How could he have acquired one of those without a war? And if he had acquired one, it is highly debatable whether he would have been a suitable candidate for his entertainment programme. When one takes a closer look at the men who have been awarded such rare, distinguished honours, one notices that there is not much left of the poor blighters. That is in the brutal nature of things. These are men who were wounded at the front five times or more, by bayonets, grenades, gas; men who have glass eyes or artificial limbs, or whose mouths are contorted, if they possess a lower jaw at all. This is not the wood from which Destiny carves us the best humorists. And while a certain bitterness may well be understandable in their situation, the Führer must also consider the other side. The people in the audience have dressed up for the occasion and are sitting there in high spirits. After a hard day’s toil in the shrapnel factory or maintenance hangar, or even a long night of heavy bombing, they wish to relax, and I fully understand that they might expect something more from a comedian than two amputated legs. So let me state here emphatically that, for all concerned, a lethal direct hit from a grenade must be better than a Wound Badge followed by a career as a clown on the home front.

  What struck me immediately about Gagmez was that, not only did he lack an ideology to rival National Socialism, he lacked an ideology altogether. And of course without an established ideology, in the modern entertainment industry one hasn’t got a chance, nor even a raison d’être. The rest is taken care of by history – or the viewing figures.

  xviii

  The Führer is nothing without his Volk. That is to say, the Führer is of course something, even without his Volk, but nobody can see what he is. Any person sound of mind can be made to understand this; it is as if you had sat Mozart down and not given him a piano – how would anyone have noticed that he was a genius? He would not even have been the performing Wunderkind alongside his sister. True, she would have had her violin, but if we take the violin away too, then what is left? Two children who can at most recite poems in the Salzburg dialect or perform other such displays of cuteness.
But who would pay to watch what takes place in any parlour at Christmastime? The Führer’s violin, however, is the Volk.

  And his cohorts.

  Yes, I know, one can already predict the response of the sceptics, those smart alecs who prattle on about how one cannot play two violins at the same time. But let us examine their perspective on reality. That which must not, cannot be. But what if it is? A large number of even truly great Führers have foundered on this very point! Take Napoleon, for example. The man was a genius, no question about it. But only on his military “violin”. He foundered on account of his cohorts. And so of every genius one must ask: what sort of cohorts has he chosen? Take Frederick the Great. He had Kurt Christoph Graf von Schwerin, a general who was shot from his horse for his country, banner still in hand. Or Hans Karl von Winterfeldt, chopped to bits by sabres in 1757. My goodness, those were cohorts! But Napoleon?