Look Who’s Back

by Timur Vermes

  The edifice that accommodated the production company was no exception. It was hard to believe that in five hundred or a thousand years people would stand here, marvelling at this insipid block of concrete. I was heartily disappointed. The building resembled one of those former assembly plants; perhaps this all-encompassing “production company” was not all it was cracked up to be.

  A young, blonde, rather heavily made-up lady met me at reception to escort me to the conference room. I shudder to describe this place, with its bare, concrete walls, broken up occasionally by exposed brickwork. There was scarcely a door in sight; here and there one could see into large rooms where a number of people were working at their television sets beneath bright fluorescent tubes. The impression one gained was that the munitions workers had left but a few minutes ago. Telephones rang incessantly, and all of a sudden I realised why the Volk had been obliged to spend a fortune on ringtones: so that in this labour camp one could at least tell when one’s own phone was ringing.

  “I assume that everything here is down to the Russians,” I said.

  “Well, sort of,” the young lady said with a smile. “But you must’ve read that in the end they didn’t come in. Unfortunately. All we’ve got now are American locusts.”

  Locusts. I sighed. It was as I had always feared. No Lebensraum, no land to produce bread to feed the Volk. So now Germans were resorting to eating insects like negroes. Gazing at the poor young thing, I was moved as she strode steadfastly beside me. I cleared my throat, but I fear that she may have picked up on my emotion when I said to her, “You are a very brave girl.”

  “You bet,” she beamed. “I don’t want to remain an assistant for ever.”

  Of course. An “assistant”. She was undertaking ancillary work for the Russians. Offhand I was unable to explain how such an arrangement could have come to pass in this modern world, but it bore all the hallmarks of those Russian vermin. I could not bear to contemplate what these “activities” under the yoke of Bolshevism might consist of, but I stopped abruptly and grabbed her arm.

  “Look at me!” I said, and when she turned her head, somewhat startled, I stared her straight in the eye and said solemnly, “I make you this promise: You will live the future that your background deserves. I personally will do all I can so that you and every other German woman no longer have to serve these Untermenschen! You have my word, Fräulein …”

  “… Özlem,” she said.

  I still recall how unpleasant this moment was. For a fraction of a second my brain searched for an explanation as to how an honest German girl like her could come to have a name like Özlem. Of course, I failed to find one. I removed my hand from her arm, turned, and continued walking. I felt so deceived, so betrayed, that I wished I could leave this bogus woman behind. But I did not know where I was going. So I followed her in silence, resolving to tread more carefully in this new era. How extraordinary: these Turks were not only in the cleaning industry; they seemed to be everywhere.

  When we arrived at the conference room, Sensenbrink came to meet me and led me inside. A group of people was sitting around a relatively long table, assembled from a number of smaller parts. I recognised Sawatzki, too, the fellow who had made the hotel reservation; besides him there were half a dozen young men in suits and a woman who must be “Bellini”. She was around forty years old, with dark hair, and probably came from the South Tyrol. As soon as I entered the room I sensed that this woman was more of a man than all the other nincompoops here put together. Holding my arm, Sensenbrink tried to take me to the other end of the table, where, as I could see out of the corner of my eye, they had improvised some sort of stage or podium. With a subtle twist of my body I left him grasping thin air, marched up to the woman, removed my peaked cap and gripped the underside of her arm.

  “This is … Frau Bellini,” Sensenbrink said, quite unnecessarily. “Executive Vice President of Flashlight. Frau Bellini – our promising new discovery, Herr … er …”

  “Hitler,” I interjected, to put an end to his futile stammering. “Adolf Hitler, former Reich Chancellor of the Greater German Reich.” She offered me her hand, which I raised to my lips as I bowed my head, but not too deeply. Then I stood upright again.

  “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, madame. Together we can change Germany!”

  She smiled, somewhat uncertainly I thought, but I knew from past experience the particular effect I have on women. It is virtually impossible for a woman to feel nothing when in the presence of the commander-in-chief of the most powerful army on earth. To forestall any unnecessary embarrassment on her part, I said “Gentlemen!” to the company around the table, and finally turned back to Sensenbrink.

  “So, my dear Sensenbrink, where had you envisaged that I should sit?”

  He pointed to a chair at the far end of the table. I had thought as much. This was not the first time that so-called industrialists had presumed they could gauge the importance of a future German Führer. Well, I was certainly planning to demonstrate my importance, but it was doubtful whether they would be able to handle it.

  “O.K.,” said Sensenbrink. “Sprinkle your magic. What are you bringing to the table?”

  “Myself,” I said.

  “No, I mean, what are you going to say to us today?”

  “I promise not to mention Poland again!” Sawatzki exclaimed with a grin.

  “Good,” I said. “That is progress indeed. I think the question is obvious: How can you help me to help Germany?”

  “How do you intend to help Germany?” Frau Bellini asked, giving me and the others a strange wink.

  “In your heart of hearts, I believe all of you around this table know what this country needs. On my way here I have seen the rooms in which you are obliged to work. These warehouses in which you and your comrades are forced to perform compulsory labour. Speer was not squeamish when it came to the efficient deployment of foreign workers, but these cramped conditions …”

  “These are open-plan offices,” one of the men said. “You find them everywhere.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that this was your idea?” I probed.

  “What do you mean, ‘my idea’?” he said, laughing as he looked around at the others. “All of us here decided it.”

  “Look here,” I said, getting up and turning to face Frau Bellini. “This is precisely my argument. I am speaking of responsibility. I am speaking of decisions. Who installed these massive cages? Was it him?” I pointed to the man whose idea it had not been. “Or him?” Now I glared at Sensenbrink’s neighbour. “Or Herr Sawatzki? But I have grave doubts. I do not know. Or, to put it better: these gentlemen here do not know themselves. And what are your workers supposed to do if they cannot comprehend their own words in their workplace? If they have to spend a fortune on ringtones, just so that they can distinguish their telephone from that of their neighbour? Who bears the responsibility? Who will help the German worker in his time of need? To whom can he turn? Will his superior help? No, for he sends the worker to that man there, and that man there in turn sends him to another! And is this an isolated case? No, it is no isolated case, but a disease creeping stealthily throughout Germany! When you buy a cup of coffee today, do you know who is responsible for it? Who makes the coffee? This gentleman here,” I said, pointing once more at the man whose idea it had not been, “this gentleman here naturally believes that it is Herr Starbuck. But you, Frau Bellini, you and I both know that Herr Starbuck cannot make coffee everywhere at the same time. Nobody knows who brews the coffee, all we know for sure is that it was not Herr Starbuck. And when you go to the cleaner’s, do you know who cleaned your uniform? Who is this supposed Yilmaz? Do you understand? This is why we need change in Germany. A revolution. We need responsibility and strength. A leadership which takes decisions and stands by them with body and soul, with everything. If you wish to attack Russia you cannot say, as your colleague would like to: Actually, we all decided this together. Shall we encircle Moscow? I know, let’s sit around a t
able and decide with a show of hands! It’s all so jolly convenient, and if the whole thing goes wrong then all of us are to blame, or even better: the people are to blame because they elected us. No, Germany must be told once more about Russia. Russia was not Brauchitsch, it was not Guderian, it was not Göring – it was me. The autobahn – that was not any old clown – it was the Führer! And this must be the case throughout the country! When you eat a roll in the morning, you know it was the baker. When you march into rump Czechoslovakia tomorrow, you know it was the Führer!”

  I sat down again.

  There was silence around me.

  “That’s … not funny,” Sensenbrink’s neighbour said.

  “Scary,” said the gentleman whose idea it had not been.

  “Told you he was good, didn’t I? Über-good!” Sensenbrink said proudly.

  “Mad …” Hotel Reserver Sawatzki said, although it was unclear what he meant by this.

  “Impossible,” Sensenbrink’s neighbour said firmly.

  Frau Bellini leaned forward. All heads turned to her at once.

  “Your problem,” she said, “is that you’re all conditioned by these modern stand-up routines.”

  Shrewdly, she allowed her comment to hit home before continuing. In any case no-one else dared say a word.

  “You lot think good comedy is when the guy up on stage laughs more than those in the audience. Look at the comedy scene today. Nobody can deliver a punchline anymore without laughing their bloody head off, just so everyone knows it’s the punchline. And if one of them keeps anything like a straight face then we switch on the background laughter.”

  “Successful formula, though,” said a man who had not spoken until then.

  “Maybe,” the lady said. She was beginning to make a considerable impression on me. “But what’s going to follow that? I think we’ve reached the point where the public are taking that sort of stuff for granted. The first person to adopt a completely new approach will leave the competition for dead. Isn’t that right, Herr … Hitler?”

  “Propaganda is crucial,” I said. “You need to send out a different message from the other parties.”

  “Tell me,” she said. “Did you prepare all this?”

  “Why would I?” I said. “I fashioned the cornerstone of my ideology a very long time ago. It enables me apply my knowledge to every single aspect of world affairs and draw the correct conclusions. Do you really think you can learn how to be a Führer in your universities?”

  She slapped her hand on the table.

  “He’s improvising,” she beamed. “He just comes out with it! And doesn’t even pull a silly face! Do you know what that means? It means he’s not the type who runs out of things to say after a couple of programmes. Or whimpers that we need to give him more writers. Am I right, Herr Hitler?”

  “I do not like so-called writers meddling in my work,” I said. “When I was writing Mein Kampf, Stolzing-Czerny frequently …”

  “I’m beginning to understand what you mean, Carmen,” said the man whose idea it had not been. He laughed.

  “… and we’ll use him as a foil,” Frau Bellini said, “where he’ll make the biggest impact. We’re going to give him a permanent slot on Ali Gagmez!”

  “He’s going to love us for that,” Sawatzki said.

  “He ought to take a look at his viewing figures,” Frau Bellini said. “The figures now, where they were two years ago – and where they’ll be soon.”

  “The other channels had better get all their ducks in a row,” Sensenbrink said.

  “There’s just one thing I want to get straight,” Frau Bellini said, suddenly looking at me very seriously.

  “What is that?”

  “We’re all agreed that the Jews are no laughing matter.”

  “You are absolutely right,” I concurred, almost relieved. At last here was someone who knew what she was talking about.

  ix

  Nothing is more dangerous for a fledgling movement than meteoric success. One has taken one’s first steps, acquired a few supporters here, given a speech there – maybe even annexed Austria or the Sudetenland – and it is all too easy to think one has reached an interim stage from where the final victory is more easily in one’s grasp. And, in truth, I did achieve some astonishing things in a very short period of time, which only confirmed that I had been the choice of Fate herself. When I think of all those battles I had to fight in 1919 and 1920, how the press blew up a storm in my face, how the bourgeois parties drivelled, how I painstakingly tore apart the web of Jewish lies, strand by strand, only to watch the glands of that noisome pest spin even stickier deceptions around me once again, and all the while the enemy, hundreds or thousands of times superior, sprayed new, ever more abominable poisons. Yet after only a handful of days in this modern epoch, I had gained access to the broadcast media, a vehicle for propaganda which the political opposition seemed to have entirely neglected. Why, it was too good to be true! What had the enemy learned of the art of public communication over the past sixty years? Precisely nothing.

  In their shoes I would have made all manner of films! Romances in far-off countries aboard vast “Strength through Joy” ships, crossing the South Seas or cruising up the awe-inspiring Norwegian fjords; tales of young Wehrmacht soldiers courageously essaying their first ascent of towering cliffs, only to die at the foot of a rock face in the arms of their true love, a section leader in the League of German Girls, who, devastated yet hardened by the tragedy, devotes her life to National Socialist women’s policy. In her belly she carries the brave scion of her dead lover, and with such a love affair one might even disregard the fact that they were unmarried, for where the voice of pure blood speaks, even heaven must remain silent. At all events, she cannot forget his final words as she steps into the valley at twilight, watched by a herd of admiring dairy cows. The sky gradually fades into a mighty swastika flag. Now what films those would be! I swear that the very next day they would run out of application forms for the League of German Women at every branch headquarters.

  Her name should be Sieglinde.

  Anyway, the political opportunities of this medium had been completely ignored. According to my television set, all the government appeared to have done for the Volk was to enact a measure which was called the “job seeker’s allowance”. Everyone loathed it. Nobody seemed able to utter its name without sounding offended. I could only hope that these people were not representative of society as a whole, for even mobilising the last reserves of my imagination, I could not envision any sort of flag parade on the Nuremberg Zeppelinfeld with hundreds of thousands of whiners like them.

  My negotiations with Frau Bellini could likewise be considered a success. From the outset I had made it absolutely clear that besides money I would need a party apparatus and a party headquarters. At first she looked somewhat taken aback, but then she assured me of her wholehearted support, as well as an office and a typist. There was a generous expenses budget to cover clothing, propaganda trips, research materials to bring me up to date with current events, and many other things besides. Money did not appear to be a problem, but there was little understanding of the requirements of a prestigious party leader. So although I was promised several “historically accurate” suits from a bespoke tailor’s as well as my beloved hat, which I always used to wear in the mountains and on the Obersalzberg, an open-top Mercedes with a chauffeur was turned down flat on the basis that it would look terribly silly. I gave in, reluctantly, but only for appearances’ sake – after all, I had already achieved substantially more than I could have hoped for. In hindsight, this was without question the most dangerous moment in my new career. Another man might well have sat back in his chair at this point, and in so doing ended up a failure. Not I. Perhaps owing to the maturity of my years, I alone subjected all developments to the coldest, most ruthless analysis.

  My supporters were fewer in number than ever before. And, mein Gott, there had been times in the past when they were in terribly short supply.
I have a clear recollection of that occasion back in 1919 when I paid my first visit to what was then still the German Workers’ Party: seven people were present. Now I was able to count myself, perhaps Frau Bellini at a push, and the kiosk owner, but it was doubtful whether the two of them were ready to fill out their party cards, let alone start counting membership subscriptions or act as stewards, brandishing chair legs at assemblies. The newspaper seller seemed to be a particularly liberal soul, even left-leaning, although he was unquestionably in possession of an honest German heart. I continued to dedicate myself to the iron discipline of my daily routine. I rose at eleven in the morning, had the hotel staff bring me a slice or two of cake, and then I would work until late into the night.