Look Who’s Back

by Timur Vermes

  It must be said he was dealt an unfortunate hand, and that is putting it politely. Nepotism of the worst sort; his relations were queuing up for jobs. His halfwit brother Joseph sits there in Spain, Bernadotte marries his sister-in-law, Jérôme acquires Westphalia, the sisters are furnished with an array of principalities in Italy. And does anybody thank him? But the most egregious parasite of all was Louis, whom Napoleon had installed as King of Holland, and who spent his time there honing his royal career to his heart’s content, as if he had conquered the place himself! With leeches such as these, how can one possibly wage war or rule the world? Not only have I always set great store by having impeccable cohorts, for the most part I have found them too.

  I mean, just look at the Siege of Leningrad!

  Two million civilians trapped without food. A certain sense of duty was required to drop thousands of bombs each day, especially targeting the food stores. In the end the burghers of Leningrad reached the point where they smashed in each other’s skulls, only to be able to gobble up the soil into which the burned sugar had melted. Naturally, from a racial standpoint, these civilians were not worth preserving, but the simple soldier might easily have thought, “Those poor, poor people!” Especially as many of these soldiers are so terribly fond of animals.

  I experienced this at first hand in the trenches, where men would dash into the most violent barrage of fire just to retrieve “Maunzi”, or share the rations they had been saving up for weeks with stray little “Bello”. This is just another example of how wartime stirs not only the harshest emotions in men, but the softest, warmest ones too. In many respects, armed conflict chisels out the best in people. The simple man goes into battle an unhewn chunk of stone, emerging as a flawless animal-lover with the implacable will to do what is necessary. And one knows one has the right cohorts when these simple people, these hundreds of thousands of soldiers and cat-lovers do not say, “Let’s go more gently on them; if it comes to the worst at least the Leningraders will starve more slowly,” but rather, “Let’s get going with these bombs! The Führer knows what he’s doing with his orders.”

  The right consorts, I pondered again, as I observed Fräulein Krömeier typing up my latest Führer speech. I was entirely satisfied with Fräulein Krömeier’s efforts overall. Her work could not be faulted; her commitment was exemplary, and of late she had been at my disposal for the whole day. The only area where there was room for improvement was her appearance. Not that she looked dishevelled or unkempt, but this outwardly sombre impression – which flew in the face of her affability – this deathlike pallor was hardly conducive to such a joyous and life-affirming movement as National Socialism.

  On the other hand, a Führer must have the capability to see beneath the surface. Von Ribbentrop, for example, was in appearance a model example of the master race – a perfect chin, first-class genetic material – but ultimately the man was a perennial twit. And that is no use to anybody.

  “Very good, Fräulein Krömeier,” I said. “I think that is all for today.”

  “I’ll like, just quickly print it out for you?” she said. She typed something into her computer. Then she took a small mirror from her bag, together with a dark lipstick, and started painting over her lips. This seemed an appropriate opportunity to broach the subject.

  “What does your fiancé say about this?”

  “What fiancé? About what? Mein Führer!”

  Her Führer address still needed some practice.

  “Well, I suppose there’s a young man … there must be a young man … an admirer, let’s say.”

  “No,” Fräulein Krömeier said as she applied her lipstick. “There’s no-one.”

  “Well, I should not like to be indiscreet or insistent,” I reassured her. “But you can tell me. I mean, we’re not amongst Catholics here. I can see no objection if two young people like one another – why should a marriage certificate be necessary? True love ennobles itself!”

  “That’s all well and good,” Fräulein Krömeier said, pressing her lips together as she looked into the mirror. “But at the moment there isn’t like, anybody? Because four weeks ago? I personally told him where to get off? He was a right douche-bag, let me tell you!”

  I must have appeared somewhat taken aback, for Fräulein Krömeier immediately said, “O.M.G.! That just like, totally slipped out! L.O.L. We can’t have that in Führer Headquarters! What I meant to say, of course, was that the man was an absolute Schweinehund! Mein Führer!”

  I did not really understand the point of this rephrasing, or how it constituted an improvement. At any event, the expression on her face radiated honest effort and now a certain pride, too, at having come up with the second formulation.

  “First of all,” I said sternly, “we are not in Führer Headquarters, strictly speaking, because I am not commander-in-chief of the Wehrmacht – not yet, at any rate. And second, I do not think that such words should spring from the mouth of a German girl! And definitely not from the mouth of my secretary!”

  “But’s that what it was like! You should have been there, you’d’ve said something similar! I could tell you a few tales …”

  “Such tales mean nothing to me! All that is important here is the appearance of the German Reich, and in these rooms the image of the German woman, too! If somebody walks past I want him to gain the impression of a well-ordered state and not …”

  That was as far as I got, for a tear ran from one of Fräulein Krömeier’s eyes, then from the other, followed by a great many tears all round. These are the very moments which the Führer must avoid in wartime, as empathy may rob him of the concentration urgently required for the victorious execution of cauldron battles and carpet bombing. When the situation is less favourable, so I discovered, it is somewhat easier: you give the order that every metre of ground must be defended until the last drop of blood is spilled, and then the job of waging war is effectively finished for the day – one might as well go home. All the same, one must never allow oneself to get bogged down in other people’s emotions.

  Admittedly, we were not in the middle of a war. And I had the highest regard for Fräulein Krömeier’s faultless output. So I handed her a paper handkerchief, which seemed to be in widespread manufacture once more. “There’s no real damage done,” I said soothingly. “All I wanted was that in future you … I mean, I do not doubt your ability; indeed I am highly satisfied with your work … You should not take the admonishment to heart …”

  “Oh,” she sniffed, “it’s not because of you. It’s just that, well, I like … I like, really loved him? I thought we were going places? You know, like, totally serious?” She rifled through her rucksack and retrieved her telephone. She tapped around on it a few times until it showed a photograph of the Schweinehund, then held it out to me.

  “He was so totally good-looking. And he was like, always so … so … special?”

  I looked at the picture. The man did indeed look handsome. He was tall, blonde, if a good dozen years older than Fräulein Krömeier. The photograph showed him on the street, in an elegant suit, but there was nothing dandyish about him; rather he looked extraordinarily dignified, as if he were the manager of a wholesome small business.

  “I should not wish to offend,” I said, “but now I am not at all surprised that this relationship came to an unhappy conclusion …”

  “No?” Fräulein Krömeier sniffed.

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Look, naturally you think that you ended the relationship. But, in all honesty, have you not recognised that you are not the right partner for this man?”

  Fräulein Krömeier sniffed and nodded. “But we were like, so good together? And then – I never imagined …”

  “Of course,” I said, “But you can see it at once!”

  She crumpled the handkerchief in her fist as she looked up at me. “What? You can see it?”

  I took a deep breath. It is astonishing how, in the struggle for the future of the German Volk, Providen
ce can drive one to the most far-flung secondary theatre of war. Yet it is also amazing how Providence brings some things together and combines them: the problem of Fräulein Krömeier and the dignified representation of racial policy.

  “Look, a man, precisely a racially untarnished man such as he, surely wants a cheerful, life-affirming partner, a mother for his children, a wife who exudes the wholesome spirit of National Socialism …”

  “But that’s what I am! Like, totally!”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “You know that, and I know it too. But just look at yourself through the eyes of a man in the prime of his life! This black wardrobe all the time. This dark lipstick, this face which you always make up to look so pale, or at least that is the impression I get … I – now, Fräulein Krömeier, please do not start crying again, I beg you – in 1916 I saw corpses on the Western Front that looked jollier than you! Those dark eyes, and set against your black hair. You are such a charming young lady, why don’t you wear some cheerful clothes for a change? A gay blouse, or a pretty skirt? Or a bright summer frock? Then you will see how gentlemen turn their heads!”

  Fräulein Krömeier stared at me, as still as a statue. Then she let out a hearty laugh.

  “I just had to picture it,” she explained. “Me like, going around in a little dress like Heidi of the Alps? L.O.L. With flowers in my hair? And then like, bumping into him in the pedestrian zone? Him and his fancy lady? And then finding out that the … the shit is married? O.M.G. I must say, I would look even sillier than usual. No, it’s a really funny image. That’s so sweet of you to like, cheer me up?” she said. “And now I’m off home.” She stood up and put her rucksack over her shoulder.

  “I’ll fetch the speech from the printer and put it in your pigeon hole,” she said, her hand already on the door handle. “Have nice evening, mein Führer! Me in like, a little dress. L.O.L.…” She left.

  I wondered what I might get up to that evening. Maybe I should return to the hotel and have that new device connected which Sensenbrink had ordered for me. It was supposed to allow you to play films via the television set, films which for practicality’s sake were no longer preserved on spools, but on little plastic discs. The Flashlight company had shelves full of them. I always enjoyed films, and I was curious to discover what I may have missed in the intervening decades. My other thought was to get started on my design for the future space airport in Berlin. After all, experience had shown that when one is actively waging war one scarcely gets the time to attend to such matters. And thus it seemed wise to pursue my former passion with increased vigour now. The door opened again and Fräulein Krömeier put a letter on my desk.

  “I found this in your pigeon hole?” she said. “It didn’t arrive with the post; someone must have just slipped it through the letterbox. Have a good evening again, mein Führer!”

  The letter was indeed addressed to me, but the sender had written my name within inverted commas, as if it were intended as the title of a television programme. I gave it a good sniff; in the past it had quite often transpired that women had wanted to express a certain reverence for my person. The letter smelled of nothing. I opened it.

  Even now I can clearly recall the enthusiasm I felt on seeing an immaculate swastika at the top of the letter. I had not counted on such positive reactions so soon. Apart from that there was nothing to see.

  I unfolded the letter. Below, in fat, black, clumsy handwriting, it said:

  “Stop all yur shit, you fukking Jewish barsturd!”

  I hadn’t laughed so much in ages.

  xix

  It was a minor triumph, and very satisfying, when the young lady at the hotel reception greeted me with the Nazi salute. I was on my way to the breakfast room, and by the time I answered her greeting by flipping back my arm she was already lowering hers.

  “I can only do that because you get up so late and there’s no-one about.” She winked at me. “So don’t give me away!”

  “It’s difficult at the moment, I know,” I said in a hushed tone. “But the time will come again when you, too, will be able to hold your head high and display your pride in the Fatherland.” Then I hastened into the breakfast room.

  Not all the serving-folk had seen the signs of the times as clear-sightedly as the young lady at the reception. There was no clicking of heels and the only greeting I received was a hollow “Good morning”. On the other hand, since I had switched to wearing suits more often, the looks people cast me were more friendly than before. Conditions here were similar to those in the Weimar era, after my release from prison. Here, too, I needed to begin from the very bottom, with the difference that the influence and mores of the effete bourgeoisie had eaten more deeply into the proletariat – in order to establish a certain level of trust Uncle Wolf had to attire himself in the sheep’s clothing of the bourgeoisie even more so than in the past. And in the mornings, as I partook of my müsli and orange juice with linseeds, I could palpably sense an acknowledgement of my past achievements in the looks people afforded me. I was just debating whether to get up and fetch another apple when I heard the Valkyries galloping on their steeds. With a confident movement I had seen performed by a number of young businessmen, I brought out the telephone and raised it to my ear.

  “Hitler!” I said in a commendably discreet voice.

  “Have you read the paper yet?” the voice of Madame Bellini asked straight away.

  “No,” I said. “Why?”

  “Then take a look. I’ll call you back in ten!” “Wait!” I said.

  “What do you mean? What newspaper are we talking about here?”

  “The one with your picture on the cover,” Madame Bellini said.

  I stood up and went over to the pile of newspapers, where there were a few copies of that Bild. On the cover was a photograph of me together with the headline: “Loony YouTube Hitler: Fans go wild for his tirades!

  I took the paper back to my table and sat down. Then I started to read.

  Loony YouTube Hitler

  Fans go wild for his tirades!

  The nation is stumped: Is this humour?

  Once upon a time he murdered millions – now millions have made him a YouTube sensation. With his tasteless routine and bizarre catchphrases, a “comedian” dressed up as “Adolf Hitler” is venting hatred against foreigners, women and democracy in Ali Gagmez’s show, Epic, Guys. Youth protection workers, politicians and the Central Council of Jews are appalled.

  Fancy a sample of his “art”?

  The Turks have no creative genius.

  100,000 abortions per year are intolerable; later this will cost us four divisions for the war in the East.

  Cosmetic surgery is racial defilement

  This Nazi rabble-rousing is awakening bad memories amongst older Germans. Pensioner Hilde W. (92) from Dormagen said, “It’s terrible. That man did so much harm!” Politicians can scarcely believe his success. According to C.S.U. minister, Markus Söder, the whole thing is “sheer madness. It’s got nothing to do with humour!” S.P.D. health expert, Karl Lauterbach, told BILD, “It’s extremely borderline and offensive.” Green leader, Claudia Roth: “Dreadful. I turn off whenever I see him.” Dieter Graumann, president of the Central Council of Jews: “Incredibly poor taste; we’re considering lodging an official complaint.”

  Particularly bizarre is the fact that no-one knows the real name of this “comedian”, who bears a terrifyingly close resemblance to the Nazi monster.

  In an attempt to find out more, BILD questioned the boss of MyTV, Elke Fahrendonk.

  BILD: “What has any of this got to do with humour and satire?”

  Fahrendonk: “Because ‘Hitler’ shows up the extreme contradictions in our society, his controversial approach is justified from an artistic point of view.”

  BILD: “Why won’t the loony TV Hitler tell us what his real name is?”

  Fahrendonk: “Atze Schröder’s no different in this respect. He has every right to a private life, too.”

  BILD prom
ises to monitor the case closely.

  I have to admit that I was astounded. Not by the paper’s outlandish take on reality, something I have encountered only too often in the past – it is well known that the biggest fools are generally to be found on the editorial boards of the national press. But because I sensed this Bild newspaper was an institution which might turn out to be a secret ally. A little uptight, maybe, with a typical petit-bourgeois subservience which recoiled from speaking its mind. But on many issues the position it took was not dissimilar to my own. When I heard the daughters of Wotan soar across the skies once more, I reached for the telephone.

  “Hitler.”

  “I’m disgusted,” Madame Bellini said. “They didn’t give us any warning!”

  “What do you expect from a newspaper?”

  “I’m not talking about Bild, I’m talking about MyTV,” she said in a state of high excitement. “They interviewed Fahrendonk. At the very least I thought we might have been told in advance.”

  “What difference would that have made?”

  “None,” she sighed. “You’re probably right.”

  “In the end it is only a newspaper,” I said. “It is of no interest to me.”

  “Maybe not to you,” Madame Bellini said. “But it is to us. They want to bring you down. And we’ve invested rather a lot in you.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I asked curtly.

  “It means,” Madame Bellini said in a cooler tone, “that we have arranged an interview with Bild. And that we need to talk.”

  “Why do we need to talk?”

  “Because once they’ve got it in for you they’ll leave no stone unturned. I’d like you to tell me if there’s anything they might dig up.”