by Timur Vermes
The Green politician,
Renate Künast.”
She was led in by a tall orderly in S.S. uniform. Werner, his name was, blonde and with impeccable manners. Even if it was clear that the lady found his uniform distasteful, her countenance also betrayed a certain appreciation of his physical assets. Women will always be women.
Werner was one of Sawatzki’s ideas too. The general opinion amongst the ranks at Flashlight was that I needed an adjutant.
“It’s important,” Sensenbrink had said. “It gives you someone else to interface with. If you’ve got a guest who’s dead wood, if a remark fails to trigger a discussion, then at least you’re not fire-fighting on your own against the audience.”
“You mean I could push the blame onto someone else?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“I will not do that. The Führer may delegate operations, but never responsibility.”
“But when the bell rings the Führer’s not going to open the door himself,” Madame Bellini demurred. “And you’ll be having more than enough guests.”
That was certainly true.
“In the past you must have had an adjutant. Who used to open the door for you?” She stopped to think, then added, “I don’t mean you, but the real Hitler.”
“It’s alright,” I said. “The door? That would have been Junge. Or towards the end one of Schädle’s chaps …”
“Mamma mia!” Sensenbrink had sighed. “C’mon guys, let’s eat a reality sandwich here. Who the hell’s going to know who they are?”
“What on earth did you think? That Himmler personally ironed my uniform every morning?”
“At least he’s a name!”
“Let’s not get too complicated,” Madame Bellini had said. “Now, you weren’t talking about any old S.S. man, were you, but … Schäuble?”
“Schädle.”
“Exactly. A name. So let’s go one step up. I mean, it’s only symbolic.”
“I have no objections,” I said. “I suppose that means Bormann.”
“Who?”
“Bormann! Martin! Reichsleiter.”
“Never heard of him.”
I was about to give Sensenbrink a piece of my mind, but Madame Bellini grabbed my arm.
“Your knowledge of the subject is superb,” she said in a honeyed voice. “It’s fantastic that you know all these details, no-one else could do that! But if we want to win over the masses, get really big viewing figures …” And here, quite skilfully, she paused. “… then your adjutant can only be one of a really small bunch. Let’s be realistic about this, we could have Goebbels, Göring, Himmler, at a pinch Hess …”
“Not Hess,” Sensenbrink objected. “With him you’ve always got the sympathy vote. Poor old man, banged up for ever because of the evil Russians.”
“… Yes, you’re right. I agree,” Madame Bellini continued. “So that’s that as far as our candidates are concerned. Otherwise, thirty seconds into the show, everyone will wonder who that strange bloke is next to the Führer. Confusion is not good. You’re confusing enough yourself.”
“Goebbels would never open the door for me if the bell rang,” I said somewhat defiantly, but I knew, of course, that she was right. And of course Goebbels would have opened doors for me. Goebbels would have done anything for me. A bit like my Fuchsl back in the trenches. But even I understood that it couldn’t be Goebbels. They would turn him into a Quasimodo figure, like Fritz the hunchback in that sensationalised motion picture adaptation of “Frankenstein” with Boris Karloff. They would transform him into a grotesque creature, exposing him to derision each time he shuffled across the stage. Goebbels did not deserve that. Göring and Himmler, on the other hand … True, each had his merits, but a justifiable fury still smouldered within me at their betrayal. And they would have stolen the show. After all, I’d seen what had happened to Gagmez.
“Hey guys, what about using the unknown soldier?” This suggestion came from Hotel Reserver Sawatzki.
“What do you mean?” Madame Bellini asked.
Sawatzki sat forward. “Tall, super-blonde,” he said. “An S.S. type.”
“Not bad, not bad at all,” Madame Bellini said.
“Göring would get more laughs,” Sensenbrink said.
“We don’t want cheap laughs,” Bellini and I said in unison.
We looked at each other. I liked this woman more and more with every meeting.
*
“Good evening and welcome,” I said to Frau Künast, offering her a seat. She sat down confidently, like someone accustomed to the camera.
“I’m delighted to be here,” she said mockingly, “sort of.”
“You may well be wondering why I invited you.”
“Because no-one else said yes?”
“Not at all. We could have had your colleague, Frau Roth. Which reminds me, could you do me a favour?”
“That depends.”
“Please expel that woman from your party. How could anybody form an alliance with a party that accommodates something quite so gruesome?”
“Well, that’s never stopped the S.P.D. or the C.D.U. in the past …”
“Indeed; aren’t you a bit surprised?”
For a moment she looked perplexed.
“Just for the record I’d like to say that Claudia Roth makes an indispensable contribution to …”
“Maybe you’re right, perhaps all you need to do is keep her away from the cameras, in a windowless, sound-proofed basement – but now we’ve arrived at the subject I wanted to discuss. I invited you here because I have to plan for the future, of course, and if I understand it correctly I will need a parliamentary majority for a takeover of power …”
“Parliamentary majority?”
“Yes, just as in 1933, when I needed the support of the D.N.V.P. Things might develop in a similar fashion in the foreseeable future. But, alas, the D.N.V.P. no longer exists, so I thought I’d look into potential candidates for a new Harzburg Front …”
“And of all the parties you see the Greens as a substitute?”
“Why ever not?”
“I don’t see many opportunities here,” she said with a frown.
“Your modesty does you great credit, but don’t hide your light under a bushel. Your party is more suitable than you might think.”
“Now I’m curious.”
“It is my assumption that we have compatible visions for the future. Pray tell me, where do you see Germany in five hundred years’ time?”
“Five hundred?”
“Or in three hundred years?”
“I’m no prophet, I prefer to focus on the realities.”
“But surely you have a plan for Germany?”
“Not for three hundred years. Nobody knows where we’ll be in three hundred years.”
“I do.”
“Oh really? Where will we be, then?”
“In devising their plans for the future, ladies and gentlemen, the Greens are seeking advice from the Führer of the German Reich – I did tell you that cooperation is not so inconceivable …”
“You can keep your alliance,” Künast backtracked hastily. “The Greens will get by perfectly well without you …”
“I see. In that case, how far into the future does your planning stretch? One hundred?”
“That’s nonsense!”
“Fifty? Forty? Thirty? Twenty? I know, I’ll count down from twenty and you can say ‘Stop!’”
“In all seriousness, nobody can predict future developments further ahead than, what? Ten years?”
“Ten?”
“O.K. Fifteen.”
“Alright, then. Where do you see Germany in a quarter of an hour?”
Künast sighed.
“If you absolutely insist, in the future I see Germany as an environmentally friendly high-tech country – especially as far as environmental technology is concerned – with a sustainable energy policy, embedded in a peaceful Europe under the umbrella of the E.U. and U.N.…
”
“Did you get that, Werner?” I asked my adjutant.
“… embedded in a peaceful Europe under the umbrella of the E.U. and U.N.,” Werner dutifully jotted down.
“But can you be sure there will still be an E.U. by then?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“Will the Greeks still be in it? The Spaniards? The Italians? The Irish? The Portuguese?”
Künast sighed again. “Who can say for certain?”
“But you’re sure about your energy policy! There you are thinking along the same lines as I am! Few or no imports, total autarky from renewable raw materials, water, wind – energy security in one hundred, two hundred, even one thousand years. There you are – you can see into the future after all. And this – how shall I put it? – is precisely what I was always calling for …”
“Hang on one minute! For completely the wrong reasons!”
“What have these reasons got to do with a sustainable energy industry? Are there good and bad windmills?”
She looked at me crossly.
“If I understand you correctly,” I followed up, “for species-appropriate husbandry of dolphins, it is fine to use good, wholesome solar energy, but if you settle Ukrainian farmland with Germanic peasant soldiers, all they get is electricity from lignite? Or atomic energy?”
“No,” Künast protested. “You settle it with Ukrainians. If you settle it at all!”
“May the Ukrainians use wind energy? Or do you have specific ideas about this, too? Do you, in fact, have a directory of the different forms of energy and their correct use?”
She leaned back. “You know perfectly well that’s not what I meant. The way you’re arguing you might just as well ask whether the murder of millions of Jews would have been better with solar energy …”
“Interesting,” I said. “But the Jews are no laughing matter.”
For a moment not a sound was to be heard in the studio.
“Silence on television is a waste of expensive Volk airwaves,” I said. “So in the meantime, let us take a commercial break.”
The lights were dimmed slightly. A few people came and reapplied our make-up. Künast covered her microphone with her hand.
“What you do sails very close to the wind, let me tell you!” she said in a hushed voice.
“Of course I’m very aware of your party’s sensibilities,” I said. “But you cannot deny that you were the one who brought up the Jews.”
She pondered. Then the lights went up again. I waited for the applause to die down, then asked, “Would you mind accompanying me to the map table?”
On the far right of the studio we had reconstructed the old map table from the Wolf’s Lair. I had commissioned a beautiful, large relief map of the world. “Why,” I asked as we strolled over to it, “has your party in recent times been forgoing the experience and knowledge of Fischer, the former minister of war?”
“Joschka Fischer was never minister of defence,” Künast retorted brusquely.
“You’re right,” I agreed. “I never saw him as a minister of defence, either. One can only defend Reich territory, and Kosovo is not an integral part of that. Given how far away it is, an annexation wouldn’t have made any sense either. Or do you think otherwise?”
“There was no question of annexing Kosovo! It was all about ethnic cleansing … Listen, I’m not going to start talking about the intervention in Kosovo. It was simply that we couldn’t turn a blind eye!”
“No-one understands that better than I do,” I said in all seriousness. “You are absolutely right, there was no alternative. This I remember well from 1941. So what is that Fischer fellow up to at the moment, then?”
I could see her eyes oscillating between Herr Fischer’s current circumstances and a comparative study of Balkan policy over the past seventy years. She opted for the former.
“The most important thing is that the Greens have no concerns about the talent in our ranks. Joschka Fischer was and still is an important figure in the history of the Green movement, but now it’s the turn of others.”
“Like you, for example?”
“Amongst many others, yes.”
We had arrived at the map table. With flags I had marked the places where the “Bundeswehr” was currently deployed.
“May I ask how the Greens would bring the operation in Afghanistan to a victorious conclusion?”
“What do you mean, ‘victorious conclusion’? The military operation there must be brought to a speedy conclusion. It’s only leading to more violence …”
“I take the same view – there’s nothing for us to gain in Afghanistan. What is our objective there?”
“Hold on,” she said, “but—”
“Please don’t say you have fresh misgivings about my motives,” I said. “Please don’t tell me you’re allowed to withdraw from Afghanistan, whereas I have to stay there!”
“I’m not sure I’m going to say anything,” she said, her eyes darting around the studio. Her gaze came to rest below the map table.
“There’s a briefcase,” Künast said superciliously. “Is that meant to be there?”
“Someone must have forgotten it,” I said absently. “Where is Stauffenberg, by the way?”
The briefcase had been another idea of mine. In fact, the whole incident had come back to me in sharp detail when we visited the Wolf’s Lair. I suggested we could include it as a permanent feature in the programme. That and the visit to the map table. I thought we should hide the briefcase anew for each guest.
“Seeing as we’ve agreed on a withdrawal from Afghanistan,” I said, leaning over the table, “please tell us, to conclude: If the Greens took power in this country, which would be the first state they would annex?”
“The briefcase is ticking,” Künast said, dumbfounded.
That had been Sensenbrink’s idea. He had hit on it moments before I did.
“Don’t be daft,” I said. “Briefcases don’t tick. A briefcase is not an alarm clock. Which state, did you say?”
“Is confetti going to come out of it? Or flour? Or soot?”
“For goodness’ sake, why don’t you take a look?”
“That’s exactly what you want me to do, isn’t it? Come off it, I’m not stupid!”
“Then you will never find out,” I said. “We, on the other hand, have found out many interesting things about your most congenial party. Many thanks for having spent the evening with us – Frau Renate Künast!”
During the applause I glanced backstage, where Sensenbrink and Madame Bellini were standing. They clapped and then stuck out their fists with thumbs pointing upwards.
It felt wonderful.
xxxi
The most important skill I have acquired during my career as a politician is the ability to judge one’s public obligations shrewdly. Essentially I have always despised the dependence on benefactors, and yet for the sake of his country the politician frequently has to compromise. It may be that public handshakes and deference to the cream of society is an attraction for that caste of political artistes who confuse life in the public sphere with a life for the public sphere, for the nation, for the small man who scrimps and saves to put bread on his table and clothe his children. And anybody who spends even a quarter of an hour watching the news on his television set will, with grim certainty, see at least half a dozen of those bootlickers, toadying up to some important person or other. Such behaviour has always repelled me, and I myself have only suffered various courtesy visits for the sake of the cause. Pure torture, but I undertook these for the sake of the party, for the German Volk, for the preservation of our race, or for a new Mercedes.
And for the four-hundred-square-metre apartment on Prinz regentenplatz.
And I suppose for the Obersalzberg too.
All these were acquisitions, however, which increased the appeal of the party and thus the movement, besides that of the Führer. When I think of the flood of visitors to the Obersalzberg, it astonishes me that anybody can main
tain that it was a place where I could relax! And then there was Mussolini’s visit – ghastly! The point is, a Führer cannot withdraw from public life, or only intermittently. If his Reich capital is lying in ruins, then he may hole up for a while in his Führerbunker. Otherwise, the Führer belongs to his Volk. Which is why I was delighted to receive the invitation from Munich.
Back in late August a renowned society magazine had written me a letter, in which the editor requested that I pay her publication a visit during the Greater German Volksfest, which had reverted to its original name of “Oktoberfest”. Everybody at Flashlight encouraged me to accept the invitation; for my part I was hesitant at first. I had never been there during the first period of my life, but times had changed and with them the significance of this fortnight-long tradition. As several people reassured me, the Oktoberfest had now become a Volksfest which took place without involving a particularly large proportion of the population. Anybody wishing to sit and partake of food and drink in one of the tents had to reserve a place months, sometimes years in advance, or else reschedule their visit to a time of day when no decent German would ever dream of going there.
Well, no person sound of mind would plan an innocent affair such as a visit to a Volksfest months or years in advance. As a consequence, so I learned, the place teemed in the morning and early afternoon with indecent Germans as well as foreigners and tourists attracted by the aura of the famous festival. Already by lunchtime these people tried desperately to make an evening of the day. Both Madame Bellini and Sensenbrink warned me against making an appearance too early, as it implied that one was an insignificant, peripheral figure. The evenings were not for the local population either, but for businesses from every branch of industry imaginable. Practically any firm with half a name for itself felt obliged to arrange visits to the “Wiesn” for its clients or the press. Some organs of the press, however, dissatisfied with what was on offer or with the guests present, had taken it upon themselves to tailor a more congenial visit to the “Wiesn”. To my mind this was a terribly smart, indeed positively Goebbels-like course of action.
Some of these gatherings, I was assured, were now as important as the opera balls of old. And this magazine’s soirée was amongst the most important. My acceptance, moreover, turned out to be a particularly effective propaganda coup; in the past I had kept my distance from the festival, and now several tabloid newspapers were able to write on their front pages, “Führer’s First Fest”. The smooth relationship I now enjoyed with these papers, I reflected with no little satisfaction, meant that the need to establish a new Völkischer Beobachter was dropping down my list of priorities.
