Look Who’s Back

by Timur Vermes

  Turnip Head disappeared in favour of a thickset woman who was also standing by a stove. Here, by contrast, the preparation of food was peripheral to the scene, nor did the woman announce what was on the day’s menu. Instead she complained that she had far too little money. This at least was good news for a politician; the social question had not been resolved in the past sixty-six years. Might one have expected anything better from those democratic windbags?

  I found it astonishing, however, that the television should afford this trout such prominence; compared to a 100 metres final, the performance of the hefty whiner was terrifically uneventful. On the other hand I was grateful to be watching a transmission where nobody was fussing over the cuisine, least of all the fat woman herself. Her concern was for a scruffy young character, who now slouched up to her, muttered something that sounded like “grmmmshl”, and was introduced by a narrator as Manndi. Manndi, he explained, was the obese woman’s daughter, and she had just lost her apprenticeship. As I sat there, wondering how anybody could have possibly given this Manndi an apprenticeship in the first place, I heard her categorically rejecting every meal she was offered as “filth”. As unsympathetic a character as this urchin must be, one could hardly be surprised at her lack of appetite, given the indifference with which her elephantine mother opened a box and carelessly tipped its contents into a pan. It came almost as a surprise that the box was not tossed in as well. Shaking my head, I switched again, to find a third chef chopping meat into small pieces and holding forth about how he held the knife and why. He, too, had a young blonde bint at his side, who nodded in admiration. Exasperated, I switched off the television set and resolved never to watch the thing again. I decided to hazard another attempt at the wireless instead, but after a thorough reconnaissance of my room I established that there was no receiver present.

  If these modest quarters housed a television set but no wireless receiver, one had to conclude that the television had become the more important of the two media.

  Nonplussed, I sat on the bed.

  I grant that once I had been very proud of my ability, after years of independent study, to unmask with lightning clarity the Jewish lies concocted for the press, in no matter what guise they appeared. But here my skill in that area was of no help. Here were only gibberish radio and cookery telecasts. What kinds of truths were being hidden?

  Were there lying turnips?

  Were there lying leeks?

  But if this was the medium of the age – which was indisputably the case – then I had no choice. I had to learn to understand the content of this device, I had to absorb it, even if it was as intellectually challenged and loathsome as the plump woman’s boxed food. Full of resolve, I filled a jug of water at the washing galley, poured myself a glass, took a gulp and, thus steeled, sat in front of the apparatus.

  I switched it on again.

  On the first programme the leek chef’s preparations had come to an end; in his place a gardener, marvelled at by a nodding strumpet, was discussing snails and the best way to combat them. Of considerable importance to the nutrition of the nation, true, but did it need to be the subject of a television transmission? Perhaps the reason it appeared so gratuitous was that, just a few seconds later, another gardener delivered the same speech almost verbatim, but on a different programme, this time in place of the turnip chef. My curiosity was now aroused as to whether the stout woman had also moved into the garden to take up the fight against snails rather than against her daughter. But this was not the case.

  Evidently the television set had realised that I had been watching other broadcasts in the meantime, for a narrator now summarised what I had missed. Manndi, the narrator recapitulated, had lost her apprenticeship and did not want to eat her mother’s food. The mother was unhappy. The same pictures I had seen only a quarter of an hour earlier were shown once more.

  “Alright, alright!” I said, loud enough for the television set to hear. “There’s no need to do it at such length. I am not senile, for goodness’ sake.”

  I switched programmes again. And in fact I encountered something new. The meat chef had vanished, and there were no preaching allotmenteers; instead they were showing the adventures of a lawyer, which seemed to be one of a series of telecasts. The lawyer had a beard like Buffalo Bill’s, and all the actors spoke and moved as if the silent film era had barely ended. A very jolly piece of buffoonery all in all, which made me laugh out loud on a number of occasions, even though in hindsight I was not entirely sure why. Perhaps it was mere relief that for once nobody was cooking or engaged in the defence of their salads.

  I switched over, now feeling almost confident in my mastery of the apparatus, and stumbled across more feature films. Apparently older, and with variable picture quality, they depicted farm life, doctors, detectives. But in none of them did the actors have the same bizarre quality as the Buffalo Bill lawyer. The general aim seemed to be to offer unadulterated daytime entertainment. Which surprised me. Of course, I too was delighted when in 1944 The Punch Bowl was released, a wonderfully cheery film which enchanted and diverted the public at a particularly difficult time in the war. But this comedy had been consumed in the evenings, at least in the overwhelming majority of cases. How grievous the situation must now be, then, if the Volk was being offered up such a featherweight muse in the mornings. In shock, I continued my exploration of the device and was stopped dead in my tracks.

  Before me now sat a man who was reading from a text, which in content appeared to be a news bulletin, but this was hard to say with absolute certainty. For while the man presented his reports, banners ran across the picture, some with figures, some with phrases, as if what the announcer was saying were so negligible that one might as well follow the banners instead, or vice-versa. What was certain was that one would suffer a stroke if one tried to follow everything. My eyes burning, I switched over again, only to find myself presented with a channel doing precisely the same, albeit with banners in another colour and a different announcer. Mobilising every last ounce of my inner strength, I spent several minutes attempting to grasp what was happening. A matter of some importance seemed to be the focus; the current German chancellor had obviously proclaimed, announced or decided something, but it was impossible to understand what. On the verge of despair, I crouched in front of the machine and tried to cover the inconsequential swarm of words with my hands so I could concentrate on the spoken word. But more gobbledygook was shifting, constantly, in almost every corner of the screen. The time, the stock prices, the price of the American dollar, the temperature of the remotest corners of the earth – oblivious to all this, the announcer carried on broadcasting news of world events. It was as if the information were being retrieved from a lunatic asylum.

  And as if these nonsensical antics were not enough, interruptions for advertisements, as frequent as they were abrupt, declared where the cheapest holiday could be obtained, a claim, moreover, which a large number of shops made in exactly the same way. No sane person would be capable of remembering the names of these outlets, but they all belonged to a group called W.W.W. My only hope was that this was nothing more than “Strength through Joy” in a modern guise. Mind you, it was inconceivable that a man as intelligent as Ley could have created something which sounded like a frozen runt clambering out of a lido with chattering teeth: W.W.W.

  I do not recall how I was able to summon the strength to compose my own thoughts. And yet I was struck by a flash of inspiration: this organised lunacy was a sophisticated propaganda trick. It was plain to see – in the face of even the most dreadful news, the Volk would not lose heart, for the never-ending banners gave the reassuring message that it was legitimate to dismiss what had just been read by the announcer as insignificant, and concentrate on the sports headlines instead. I gave a nod of approval. In my time we could have used this technology to inform the Volk of many things parenthetically. Not Stalingrad, maybe, but definitely the Allied landing in Sicily. And conversely, when one’s Wehrmacht won great vic
tories, one could promptly remove the text banners and announce from a static screen: TODAY, HEROIC GERMAN TROOPS GAVE THE DUCE BACK HIS FREEDOM!

  What impact that would have had!

  In need of a rest, I switched from this frenzied broadcasting and, out of curiosity, back to the fleshy mother. Had she sent her degenerate daughter to borstal? What did her husband look like? Was he one of those lukewarm supporters who hid himself away in the National Socialist Motor Corps?

  The programme immediately recognised that I had returned to it, and began hastily to outline events for me yet again. Sixteen-year-old Manndi, the narrator recounted, now in a voice full of gravity and urgency, had lost her apprenticeship, and when she came home did not want to eat the food her mother had lovingly prepared for her. The mother was unhappy and had turned to a neighbour for help.

  “You haven’t got very far,” I scolded the reporter, but promised to look in again later on, when more had happened. On my way back to the news channel I paid another brief visit to Buffalo Bill, homage to the silent film. Another narrator greeted me there and informed me what the supposed “lawyer” had been up to till that point in the programme. It seemed that moral improprieties had taken place at the educational establishment frequented by sixteen-year-old Sinndi. The search for the culprit, a pedagogue, led to a polyphony of excruciating nonsense. So ridiculous was this shoddy effort that I laughed heartily once more. Surely it needed an unctuous Jew to render this haphazardly cobbled-together hogwash even half credible. But where might one find a Jew these days? On this count, at least, Himmler had been as good as his word.

  I switched back to the chaos of the news and then switched further. I saw gentlemen playing billiards, which was now regarded as a sport, a fact which could be deduced – as I had discovered – from the name of the channel, which was fixed in an upper corner of the picture. Another channel was showing sport, too, but here the camera captured people as they played cards. If this was modern sport, it made one fear for the fitness of the men undertaking military service. For a moment I wondered whether someone like Leni Riefenstahl could have conjured more from such tedium, but even the art of the greatest geniuses of history has its limits.

  It may be that the manner of filmmaking had changed. During my search I came across a few channels which were broadcasting something that superficially reminded me of the animated films of old. I still had a good recollection of the adventures of Mickey Mouse, but what I saw on the screen here was good for nothing more than inducing instant blindness. An endless succession of the most incoherent scraps of conversation was interrupted by an even more frequent injection of powerful explosions.

  In fact the channels became ever queerer. There were some which broadcast only explosions, without the animations; for a short while I even suspected that this may be something like music, before coming to the conclusion that their sole aim was to sell an utterly mindless product called a ringtone. It was inexplicable to me why one should need a particular ring. As if everyone now worked in sound effects departments for talking films.

  Having said that, selling via the television set seemed to be a fairly common practice nowadays. Two or three other channels were continually transmitting the sales pitches of hawkers, the likes of which one finds at every market fair. Here too the claptrap was casually overlaid with text in every corner of the screen. The dealers themselves broke every basic rule of serious oration; indeed they made not the slightest effort to give an impression of trustworthiness, and even the older ones wore ghastly earrings, like your average Gypsy. Their role-playing called upon the worst traditions of confidence trickery. One of them would spout forth the most preposterous lies, while another stood beside him, exclaiming “Hey!” and “No!”, or even, “That’s unbelievable.” A complete farce which filled me with the urge to turn an 8.8 Flak on the assembled vermin, and have the untruths splattered from the scoundrels’ guts.

  My anger was partly induced by a mounting fear that I would go mad in the face of such collective lunacy. When I tried to switch back to the oversized woman, it was a sort of escape. I got stuck, however, on the channel where the amateurish lawyer had been up to such frightful mischief. Now a courtroom drama was playing, whose lead actress I at first mistook for the chancellor I had seen on the news. It soon turned out, however, that she was merely a courtroom matron who closely resembled the chancellor. The case being tried was that of a certain Sanndi, who seemed to have been charged with a variety of irregularities at her educational establishment.

  The sixteen-year-old girl had only committed these offences, however, on account of her fondness for a boy called Anndi, who was entertaining relations with three female students at the same time, one of whom was evidently an actress, or wished to become one. Due to inexplicable circumstances, however, she had put this career on hold in favour of a side-line in the criminal world, and now was part-owner of a betting shop. More utter nonsense along similar lines was reeled off, while the courtroom matron nodded keenly, her face a picture of utter seriousness, as if these absurd tales were the most normal thing in the world and actually happened on a daily basis. I simply could not fathom it.

  Who would choose to watch rubbish like this? Untermenschen, perhaps, who can barely read and write, but besides them? Practically deadened, I switched back to the rotund woman. Since my last visit her adventure-filled life had been interrupted by a programme of advertisements, the end of which I just caught. Then the narrator insisted on explaining to me for the umpteenth time that this wretched bint had lost all control over her bastard halfwit excuse for a daughter, and all she had managed to accomplish in the last half-hour was to prattle on to a chain-smoking neighbour about throwing the little cretin out. “This entire coterie of hopeless cases belongs in a labour camp,” I declared vociferously to the television set. “The apartment should be renovated or, even better, demolished along with the rest of the house, and a parade ground built in its stead, so as to expunge for good these calamitous goings-on from the wholesome minds of the German Volk. Exasperated, I hurled the control box into the waste-paper basket.

  What a superhuman task lay ahead of me!

  To subdue my fury I decided to step outside. Not for long, for I did not wish to be far from the telephone, but long enough to dash to the Blitz cleaner’s to fetch my uniform. I entered the shop with a sigh, was greeted as “Herr Stromberg”, picked up my surprisingly immaculate soldier’s coat and briskly made my way back. I could scarcely wait to face the world again in familiar clothing. Naturally, the first thing the receptionist said when I returned was that there had been a telephone call for me.

  “Aha,” I said. “Of course. It would have had to happen while I was out. Who was it?”

  “No idea,” the receptionist said, staring blankly at her television set.

  “Did you not make a note of the name?” I shouted impatiently.

  “They said they’d ring back,” she said, in an attempt to excuse her misconduct. “Was it important?”

  “The future of Germany is at stake,” I said in disgust.

  “Whatever,” she said, returning to gawp at her screen. “Got no mobile?”

  “Mobile?” I spat.

  “Yeah,” she said. “It’s like, handy.”

  “Like Hanndi?” I screamed in a rage. “Is this another tramp who’s gone running to court because she lost her apprenticeship?” I turned on my heel and marched to my room to resume my study of the television.

  viii

  It was remarkable how much more recognisable I was in my usual clothing. When I entered the cab the driver greeted me sulkily, but with a definite air of familiarity.

  “Alright, governor? Back then, are we?”

  “Indeed,” I replied, nodding to the man. I gave him the address.

  “Right you are!”

  I leaned back. I had not ordered any specific type of cab, but if this were an average model it was an excellent ride.

  “What type of automobile is this?” I asked him noncha
lantly.

  “Mur-say-dees.”

  I was suddenly overcome by a wave of nostalgia, a wonderful feeling of security. I thought of Nuremberg, the magnificent rallies, the journey through the delightful old town, the late-summer, early-autumn wind, which would prowl around the peak of my cap like a wolf.

  “I had one of these once,” I said dreamily. “A convertible.”

  “And?” the driver asked. “Drive well?”

  “I do not have a licence myself.” I said. “But Kempka never voiced any complaints.”

  “So you’re a Führer who’s never in the driving seat?” The man burst out laughing. “Good joke, eh?”

  “It’s an old one.”

  There was a brief pause in the conversation. Then the driver started up again.

  “Well? Still got it – the car? Or did you sell it?”

  “To tell you the truth I have no idea what became of it,” I said.

  “Shame,” the driver said. “So, what are you doing in Berlin? Winter Gardens? The Red Cock?”

  “Red Cock?”

  “You know – what theatre? Where are you appearing?”

  “First of all I intend to speak on the radio.”

  “I knew it,” the driver said. “Got grand plans again, have we?”

  “Destiny forges plans,” I said firmly. “I am merely doing what needs to be done, both now and in the future, for the preservation of the nation.”

  “You’re really good!”

  “I know.”

  “Fancy a little detour to your old haunts?”

  “Perhaps later. I should hate to be unpunctual.”

  This, after all, was the reason for having ordered a cab. Given my limited means, I had offered to walk to the firm’s headquarters or take the tramway, but anticipating possible traffic congestion or other imponderables, Sensenbrink had insisted on my taking a cab.

  I peered out of the window to see if I could still recognise parts of the capital. It was no simple task, especially as the driver was avoiding the main thoroughfares to save time. Seeing very few old buildings, I nodded with contentment. It appeared as though almost nothing had been left behind for the enemy. What I still had not fathomed was how, after barely seventy years, such a large metropolis could be standing again. Did Rome not scatter salt in the earth of vanquished Carthage? Had it been down to me, I would have dispersed trainloads of salt in Moscow. Or in Stalingrad! Berlin, on the other hand, was no vegetable garden. The creative man can build a coliseum even on saline earth; as far as construction technology and engineering are concerned, of course, a tonne of salt in the soil is actually quite irrelevant. Moreover, it was quite probable that the enemy had been as awestruck when faced with the rubble of Berlin as the Avars had been before the ruins of Athens. And then, in a desperate attempt to preserve the culture, they had rebuilt the city only as well as second- and third-class races are able. For there was no doubt about it: even at first glance the trained eye could see that the vast majority of structures erected here were inferior. A frightful mishmash, compounded by the fact that wherever one looked the same shops appeared. To begin with I thought we were driving around in circles until I realised that Herr Starbuck owned dozens of coffee houses. The diversity of bakeries had gone, a chain of butchers was everywhere, and I even spotted several YILMAZ BLITZ CLEANER’S. The houses, too, were built to a very unimaginative design.