by Timur Vermes
It is, of course, the height of idiocy that the political elites should permit such scaremongering in today’s press. Amidst this chaos their own cluelessness is thrown into even sharper relief, and as the general worry and panic increases, so does the sheer incompetence of these political jokers. This is fine by me, for it makes the Volk more aware by the day that these are rank amateurs dabbling in positions of the highest responsibility. But what baffles me most of all is that millions didn’t march on this parliamentary gossip chamber ages ago, wielding torches and pitchforks and chanting, “What are you doing with our money???”
But the German is no revolutionary. One must not forget that, in German eyes, even the most reasonable and justified revolution of 1933 was only possible by means of an election. A revolution on prescription, so to speak. Now, I can assure you that I shall do my utmost this time, too.
I had wanted to take Sawatzki with me to the Adlon. Not that I expected any significant inspiration from him, but it seemed appropriate to turn up with an entourage, and useful, in the case of any controversial utterances, to have a witness with me – a witness, please note, but Sensenbrink insisted on coming too. I do not know whether Sensenbrink supposed he might be able to make some helpful contribution, or whether his intention was to monitor what I had to say. As I have come to realise, deep down Sensenbrink is one of those subordinate business leaders who believe that nothing can work unless they themselves are involved in some form or another. I cannot warn enough against such nonsense. A truly universal genius emerges at most once every hundred or two hundred years – a man who, besides countless other activities, has to assume supreme command of the Eastern Front as well, else all is lost. In general, however, these indispensable people turn out to be wholly dispensable as well as useless, or worse. For very often they cause a mountain of damage too.
I had chosen to wear a sober suit. Not that I was ashamed of my uniform, but I am of the opinion that occasionally it is no bad thing to present a bourgeois image, particularly as I am the ambassador for uncompromising opinions. We contested the Olympic Games in 1936 along these lines and, as I have read, they recently tried to copy this overwhelming propaganda triumph in Peking, with very favourable results.
When we arrived at the hotel, which had been decorated for Christmas, we were taken to the appointed conference room. And although I had endeavoured to arrive slightly late, it was somewhat annoying to find we were the first ones there. It may have been a deliberate strategy on the part of those press scribblers, but equally it could have been a coincidence. In any event, the door opened soon afterwards and I was approached by a blonde woman in a suit. At her side was a corpulent photographer, who in the tattered clothing particular to his profession began to take pictures without being invited to. Before Sawatzki or Sensenbrink could come up with any absurd ideas of making introductions like a head teacher, I stepped forward, removed my peaked cap, jammed it under my arm and, with a “Good afternoon”, offered my hand to the lady.
“Pleased to meet you,” she said coolly, but not uncordially. “Ute Kassler from Bild.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” I said. “I’ve read much of your writing.”
“I was expecting you to give the Nazi salute,” she said.
“Then I know you better than you know me,” I replied, leading her to a table around which chairs had been arranged. “I had not been expecting a Nazi salute from you – now, which one of us was right?”
She sat and carefully placed her handbag on a vacant seat. This handbag culture, this positioning of the object immediately after sitting down, as if they were taking their assigned place with luggage in a train compartment, I bet that will not change for another sixty-five years.
“I’m delighted you’ve finally found time for us,” she said.
“You’re not suggesting that I have favoured other newspapers over yours, are you?” I replied. “After all, you have … how shall I put it? … been making the greatest efforts to engage with me.”
“Well, you’re worth writing about,” she said. “Who are these gentlemen with you?”
“This is Herr Sensenbrink from Flashlight. And this,” I said, pointing to Sawatzki, “this is Herr Sawatzki, likewise from Flashlight. An excellent man!” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sawatzki’s face beam, partly a result of my praise, but perhaps also on account of the attention he was receiving from the reporter, a handsome woman after all. Sensenbrink wore an expression which one could interpret either as competent or clueless.
“You brought along two minders,” she smiled. “Do I look that dangerous?”
“No,” I said, “but without these two gentlemen I look completely harmless.”
She laughed. As did I. What drivel. My utterance made no sense from start to finish. But I admit that I slightly underestimated the young blonde woman, and at the time assumed that I would be able to satisfy her with a few cheerful platitudes.
She took her telephone from the handbag, showed it to me and said, “You don’t mind if we record the interview, do you?”
“Not if you don’t,” I said, bringing out my own telephone and passing it to Sawatzki. I had no idea how to record entire conversations with it. Sawatzki acted smartly, as if he had a jolly good idea. I decided to praise him again when the opportunity arose. A waiter came to the table to take our order, and then departed.
“Well?” I said. “What would you like to know?”
“How about your name?”
“Hitler, Adolf,” I said, and my answer was enough to bring forth beads of sweat on Sensenbrink’s forehead. It was as if I had never introduced myself before.
“What I mean, of course, is your real name,” she said, narrowing her eyes.
“My dear young lady,” I said, leaning forward. “As you may have read, some time ago I decided to become a politician. How dumb must any politician be who gives the Volk a false name? How should people vote for him in such a case?”
A vexed frown appeared on her face. “Precisely. So why aren’t you telling the German people what your real name is?”
“But I am,” I sighed. This was very tiring. Particularly as on the previous evening until late I had watched with interest a documentary which had drivelled on about my own miracle weapons. A highly amusing piece of twaddle, which broadly came to the conclusion that any of these weapons could have decided the war in our favour if I hadn’t kept on ruining our chances. It is extraordinary what these history fantasists dream up without letting the facts get in their way. It hardly bears thinking about that even one’s own knowledge of important men, such as Charlemagne, Otto I or Arminius, has strictly speaking been passed down by some historian who has felt himself called to the vocation.
“In that case would you be so kind as to show us your passport?” the young woman asked. “Or your identity card?”
From the corner of my eye I could see Sensenbrink wanting to say something. The chances are it would be poppycock. One never knows when and why such people start talking; frequently they only open their mouths because they realise they haven’t said anything yet, or because they’re worried that if they continue to remain silent they will be regarded as insignificant. This behaviour must be halted with every mean at one’s disposal.
“Do you ask to see the passports of all your interviewees?”
“Only those who claim to be called Adolf Hitler.”
“How many would that be?”
“I’m pleased to say you’re the first.”
“You are young and perhaps badly informed,” I said, “but throughout my life I have always refused special treatment. And I have no intention of changing this now. I eat from the same field kitchen as any other soldier.”
She said nothing for a short while, pondering a different approach.
“On television you speak about highly controversial topics.”
“I speak the truth,” I said. “And I say what the simple man is feeling. What he would say if he were in my place.”
“Are you a Nazi?”
This was rather vexing. “What sort of a question is that? Of course!”
She leaned back. In all probability she was not used to talking to someone who was not afraid of speaking his mind. It was remarkable how calm Sawatzki remained, especially compared to Sensenbrink who was now sweating almost embarrassingly.
“Is it true that you admire Adolf Hitler?”
“Only in the mirror in the morning,” I joked, but she impatiently ignored this.
“O.K. Let’s be more precise: Do you admire the achievements of Adolf Hitler?”
“Do you admire the achievements of Ute Kassler?”
“We’re not getting anywhere here,” she said indignantly. “Look, I’m not dead, am I?”
“You may be sorry to hear this,” I said, “but nor am I.”
She pursed her lips. The waiter returned and handed round the refreshments. Frau Kassler took a sip of coffee. Then she tried a new ruse.
“Do you deny the deeds of the Nazis?”
“On the contrary. I’m the first to refer to them – I never tire of it.”
She rolled her eyes. “But do you condemn them as well?”
“How idiotic would that be? I am not as schizophrenic as our parliamentarians,” I grinned. “This is the marvellous thing about the Führer state. Not only is there someone responsible before and during it, but afterwards too.”
“For six million dead Jews as well?”
“For them especially! I wasn’t keeping count, of course.”
A spark of triumph glinted in her eyes, until I said, “But that’s hardly anything new! If I’ve understood correctly, not even the press of the victors has disputed my accomplishment of having obliterated these parasites from the earth.”
Her eyes flashed at me.
“And nowadays you’re making jokes about it on the television,” she hissed.
“That’s a new one on me,” I said seriously. “The Jews are no laughing matter.”
She took a deep breath and leaned back once more. After a gulp of her coffee, she tried again.
“What do you do when you’re not making your programme? What do you get up to in your spare time?”
“I read a lot,” I said. “In many respects this Internetwork is a pure delight. And I like to draw.”
“Let me guess,” she said. “Buildings, bridges, things like that?”
“Absolutely. I have a passion for architecture …”
“Yes, I’ve heard about that too,” she groaned. “Some of your stuff is still standing in Nuremberg.”
“Still? How nice,” I said. “I did my bit, but the glory really belongs to Albert Speer.”
“Let’s stop there,” she said icily. “We’re not getting anywhere.
I don’t get the impression that you came here today in a particularly cooperative frame of mind.”
“I do not recall that our negotiations in advance of this meeting included a secret protocol.”
She signalled to the waiter for the bill, then turned to her photographer. “Need any more pictures?” He shook his head. She stood up and said, “You’ll read about this.”
I stood up as well, and Hotel Reserver Sawatzki and Sensenbrink followed my lead. Manners maketh man. The poor young creature could not help it that she had grown up in a world in disarray.
“I’m very much looking forward to it,” I said.
“Look forward all you like,” she said as she left.
Sensenbrink, Sawatzki and I sat down. “So … that was a pretty short interview,” Sawatzki said cheerfully, filling his cup. “No reason to let the coffee go to waste, guys. They make a damn fine cup here.”
“Oh dear,” Sensenbrink fretted, “Those two left with a warm bowl of nothing.”
“They will write what they want anyway,” I said. “What I’d like them to do is to leave Fräulein Krömeier alone.”
“How is she?” Sawatzki asked with concern.
“Like the civil population of the Reich: the more the enemy drops his despicable bombs, the more fanatical the resistance becomes. A tremendous girl.”
Sawatzki nodded, and for a moment it appeared as if his eyes gleamed a touch too brightly. But I may have been mistaken.
xxiii
The problem with these parliamentarians is that they simply haven’t understood a thing. I mean, why did I wage this war, for goodness’ sake? Not because I enjoy waging war! I hate waging war. If Bormann were still around you could ask him; he’d back me up on the spot. It is a dreadful affair and had there been a better candidate for the job I would have gladly handed him the task. And now, well, I don’t have to concern myself with it now, not in the short term, but in the medium and longer term I expect the onus will fall on me once again. Who else would do it? Indeed who else would do anything like it? Ask any parliamentarian these days and he will tell you bluntly that wars are no longer necessary. That is the argument people were peddling back then, too, and it was as nonsensical as it is today. Our planet is not growing, that is incontestable. But the number of people living on it is. And if the world’s natural resources become too scarce for the global population, which race will get hold of them?
The nicest one?
No, the strongest. And for this reason I did my utmost to strengthen the German race. And to kibosh the Russians before they overran us. At the last possible moment, or so I thought. Back then there were, after all, 2.3 billion people alive on this earth. Two point three billion!
Nobody could possibly have imagined that this would increase threefold.
But – and here is the key point – one needs to draw the right conclusion from this statistic. And the right conclusion is not that, because there are now seven billion of us, then all my efforts back then were unnecessary. The right conclusion is: If I was right in those days, then I am three times more right today. This is simple arithmetic, as any elementary school pupil could tell you.
Since my return the issue has yet again become most evident. Why are there seven billion people now living on earth?
Because I waged a war, which was entirely – to use this new-fangled word – sustainable. If all those people had since reproduced, we would now be at eight billion. And it is beyond doubt that most of those would be Russians, who would have overrun our country, harvested our fruits, driven away our livestock, enslaved those of our men fit for labour and slaughtered the rest, thus leaving themselves free to abuse our innocent young women with their filthy hands. Providence thus first charged me with the task of wiping out the excess Bolshevist population. And henceforth my brief is to complete this mission. The intermezzo was necessary to preserve my strength over those decades, and now this strength is needed to see through the final outcomes of the war. Namely: discord amongst the Allies; collapse of the Soviet Union; loss of Russian territory; and of course reconciliation with our closest ally, England, so that some day in the future we can act as one. It remains a mystery to me why that relationship never worked out. How many more bombs would we have had to drop on their cities before they realised that they were our friend?
Looking at more recent figures, however, it is hard to understand why one might need England at all. That sick island is barely a world power anymore. Well, not all questions need to be answered at once. However, the last possible moment for taking drastic measures is gradually approaching. And for this reason I was horrified at the state of the so-called nationalist forces of this country.
To begin with I had assumed that I was more or less on my own. But Fate had already put one or two allies in place. The fact, however, that it took me months to discover that someone had felt called to continue the work of the N.S.D.A.P. was proof of their inadequacy. I was so disgusted by their pathetic efforts at propaganda that I engaged the services of Assistant Director Bronner, together with a cameraman, and went to Berlin–Köpenick, home to the largest of these associations which went by the name N.P.D. And, I have to say, I was almost sick on the spot.
I g
rant that the Brown House in Munich had not exactly set the world on fire, but at least it was serious and representative. Or Paul Troost’s administrative building, just a stone’s throw away – that would have induced me to join any party in a jiffy. But this snow-covered dump in Berlin–Köpenick? It was a disgrace.
There stood a miserable hovel, freezing in a gap between two tenement blocks, like a child’s foot in his father’s too-large slippers. Even the building looked hopelessly overburdened, which may have been the result of some birdbrain having come up with the great idea of giving this frightful shack a name and screwing it onto the façade in large, classically ugly letters: “Carl Arthur Bühring House”. This was akin to a child’s bathing ring being christened the “Duke of Friedland”. On the nameplate by the doorbell was written N.P.D. PARTY HEADQUARTERS, so small that it smacked of cowardice in the face of the enemy. Unbelievable – it was just like the Weimar era; yet again the racial principle, the national question, was being dishonoured, devalued, subjected to ridicule by a bunch of numbskulls. In a fury I pressed the bell, and when there was no immediate reaction I thumped it several times with my fist. The door opened.
