Look Who’s Back

by Timur Vermes

  My mind full of these less than demanding deliberations, I walked uninterrupted to the kiosk; indeed I was scarcely recognised at all. The situation felt curiously familiar, but it was not until I heard the words of the newspaper seller that I understood why. It was that magical atmosphere I had frequently experienced in those early days in Munich, after my release from prison. I was fairly well known in the city, but at the time I was still a minor party chairman, a speaker who could see into people’s hearts. And it was the little people, the littlest people, who, touchingly, lent me their support. I would cross the Viktualienmarkt, where the poorest of the market women would smile and beckon me over, offering me a couple of eggs or a pound of apples. I went home like a veritable forager, to be greeted by a beaming landlady. Their faces used to radiate the same pure joy that I recognised now in the newspaper vendor. This impression of the past washed over me so quickly, before I could even grasp what it was; it was so overwhelming that I had to look away hurriedly. But on account of his long professional experience, the newspaper seller had acquired an impressive understanding of his fellow man such as one might otherwise only find in motor-cab drivers.

  I let out an embarrassed cough and said, “No coffee for me, thank you. But I’d love a cup of tea. Or a glass of water.”

  “Your wish is my command,” he said, filling a kettle like the one in my hotel room. “I’ve put the papers by your chair. There aren’t many of them; I think the Internet’s the best place to look.”

  “Yes, this Internetwork,” I said in agreement. “A splendid facility. And nor do I believe that my success will be dependent on the goodwill of the newspapers.”

  “I don’t want to spoil your enjoyment,” the newspaper seller said, fetching a tea bag from a shelf. “But there’s no need to worry … Those who saw it seemed to like you.”

  “I have no worries,” I said confidently. “What is the opinion of a critic worth?”

  “Well …”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Nothing at all! It counted for nothing in the Thirties and it counts for nothing now. All they ever do is tell people what to think. The wholesome sensibility of the Volk is in no way inferior. Indeed, the Volk instinctively knows what to think, even without our noble critics. A wholesome Volk has a perfectly clear sense of what is good and what is not. Does the farmer need a critic to tell him how good the soil is in which he cultivates his wheat? No! The farmer himself knows better.”

  “Because he sees his fields every day,” the newspaper seller chirped in. “But he doesn’t see you every day.”

  “But he does see his television set every day, so he can make his own judgements. No, the German needs no-one to draft opinions for him. He forms his own opinion.”

  “Well, you should know,” he said with a grin, offering me the sugar. “I mean, you’re the expert on forming one’s own opinions.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I really have to watch out with you,” the newspaper seller said, shaking his head. “I can’t help talking to you as if you really were him.” A hand rapped on the sales counter behind him. “I’ve got customers. Have a read of what the papers say. There’s not that much.”

  I looked at the small pile by the chair. I did not feature on their front pages, but I couldn’t have supposed that would be the case. Nor had any of the major newspapers addressed the topic. For example, that formidable Bild was not amongst the pile. Seeing as Gagmez’s programme had been running for a while now, the press were probably no longer all that interested. In the end it was only covered by the smaller regional papers, which commissioned writers to watch the television set every day in order to compile a short column. Three of these writers had switched on to the programme hoping to be entertained, and all were of the opinion that my speech had been the most noteworthy feature. One found it astonishing that of all people it was a Hitler figure who had identified exactly what Gagmez was serving up every week: a mass of clichés about foreigners. The other two said that, thanks to my “splendidly wicked performance”, Gagmez had finally rediscovered his edge, which had been missing for far too long.

  “So?” the newspaper seller said. “Happy?”

  “I started from the very bottom once before,” I said, sipping my tea. “Back then I spoke to an audience of twenty. I suspect a third of them had come by accident. No, I cannot complain. I must look to the future. How did you find it?”

  “Good,” he said. “Hard core, but good. Gagmez didn’t look too thrilled, though.”

  “Indeed,” I said. “It’s something I have come across before. Those drunk on success always cry foul whenever a fresh idea makes its mark. At once they start fretting about their livelihood.”

  “Is he going to let you back on his programme?”

  “He will do whatever the production company tells him. He lives off the system; he must follow its rules.”

  “I can hardly believe it’s only been a few weeks since I picked you up off the ground outside my kiosk,” the newspaper vendor said.

  “The rules are the same as they were sixty years ago,” I said. “They never change. The only difference is that there are fewer Jews to worry about. And so the Volk is in better shape. By the way, I haven’t thanked you properly. Did they … ?”

  “Don’t worry,” the newspaper seller said. “We came to an agreement. I’ve been looked after.” Then his portable telephone rang. He lifted the device to his ear. I picked up a copy of Bild and leafed through it. The newspaper projected a combination of anger and hatred, starting with reports of political ineptitude and building a picture of a clueless, but ultimately benign matron chancellor, shuffling awkwardly through a horde of obstructive dwarfs. Meanwhile, virtually every political decision “legitimated” by democracy was debunked as poppycock. This admirable smear-sheet reserved especial venom for the idea of European union, which it found utterly repellent. But what I liked best of all was its subtle mode of operation. For example, I found the following in a humorous column between jokes about mothers-in-law and cuckolded husbands:

  A Portuguese, a Greek and a Spaniard go into a brothel. Who pays?

  Germany.

  Very, very funny. Of course Streicher would have commissioned a drawing to accompany it, portraying three unshaven, oily southerners pawing at an innocent little thing, while the honest German worker grafts away in the background. On balance, however, that would have spoiled the joke’s subtlety.

  Otherwise, a colourful hotchpotch of criminal tales filled the pages, followed by that category of reporting which has always been the most effective form of appeasement – sport. And then a collection of photographs showing famous people looking ancient or ugly, a full-blown symphony of envy, resentment and malice. For this very reason I would have been pleased if a brief notice of my appearance had found its way into these pages. But the newspaper seller had been correct not to include Bild in his pile; it made no mention of me. I lowered the paper when he put his telephone away.

  “That was my son,” he said. “The one whose shoes you didn’t like. He asked whether you were the bloke from my kiosk. He saw you. On his mate’s mobile. He said you were absolutely unreal.”

  I looked at the newspaper vendor blankly.

  “He thinks you’re brilliant,” the man translated. “I dread to think what kinds of films they’ve got on their mobiles, but you can be sure they don’t watch anything they find dull.”

  “The sensibilities of young people are unadulterated,” I declared. “For them there is no good or bad, they merely think instinctively. If a child is raised correctly, he will never come to make a bad decision.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “Unfortunately not,” I said. “I mean, rumours were occasionally spread by those with an interest in the matter that there were some ‘off the record’, as we say in our neck of the woods.”

  “I get it,” the newspaper seller said cheerfully, lighting a cigarette. “Was it a question of maintenance, then?”

&
nbsp; “No, they wanted to ruin me, turn me into a laughing stock. Since when has it been wrong or dishonourable to give a child the gift of life?”

  “Try telling that to the ultra conservatives.”

  “Agreed, one must always take the simple people into account. You can concoct whatever arguments you like, but for many people it will be one step too far. Himmler tried it once, in the S.S. He wanted to institute the same rights for legitimate and illegitimate children, but it didn’t work, not even there. Regrettably so – the poor children. Small boys, little girls, they suffer disapproving glances, they get teased, the other children dance around them, singing cruel songs. And this is damaging to the national spirit, the sense of community. We are all of us Germans, the legitimate as well as the illegitimate. I always say: Children are children, whether in the cot or in the trenches. Of course, one must provide for them. But only the most despicable Schweinehund would do a runner.”

  I put Bild back in its rack.

  “So, how did it end up?”

  “Nothing. It was pure slander, of course. And nothing ever came of it.”

  “There you go,” the newspaper seller said, sipping his tea.

  “I have no idea whether the Gestapo took the matter in hand at any stage, but I’m sure that won’t be necessary anymore.”

  “Probably not. I mean, you brought the press into line, didn’t you?” he said, laughing, as if he had cracked a joke.

  “Precisely,” I nodded. Then “The Ride of the Valkyries” rang out.

  Fräulein Krömeier had set it up for me. After we brought the computer into service, we established that the quartermaster had also supplied me with one of those portable telephones. The device was an unbelievable affair, moreover one could use it to navigate this Internetwork, and even more efficiently than with the mouse tool – one steered with one’s fingers. I realised at once that I held in my hands a masterpiece of Aryan creative genius, and all it took was a few swipes of the finger to discover that – of course – the superlative Siemens company had been responsible for the technology which brought this miracle to pass. Fräulein Krömeier had to undertake the finger movements for me, as I was unable to decrypt the visual display without spectacles. I wanted to sign the whole thing over to her; after all, the Führer cannot concern himself with too much bric-a-brac, that is what the secretariat is for. Quite correctly, however, she reminded me that I could only be reliant on her labour for half of each day. I rebuked myself for having become too dependent on my party machine. Finding myself again at square one, I would have to confront this contraption myself, for better or for worse.

  “Any particular ringtone?” Fräulein Krömeier had asked me.

  “Certainly not,” I replied sardonically. “After all, I don’t work in an open-plan office!”

  “So, I’ll just give you like, the normal one?”

  I then heard a noise which sounded like a drunken clown playing the xylophone. Over and over again.

  “What the devil is that?” I asked, horrified.

  “That’s your phone?” Fräulein Krömeier said, adding, “Mein Führer!”

  “And it sounds like that?”

  “Only when it rings.”

  “Switch it off! I don’t want people taking me for an imbecile!”

  “That’s why I asked you?” Fräulein Krömeier said. “D’you prefer this one?”

  More clowns playing diverse instruments. “That’s appalling,” I groaned.

  “But I thought you didn’t care what people thought of you?”

  “My dear Fräulein Krömeier,” I said. “Personally I consider short lederhosen to be the most masculine trousers a man can wear. And when, one day, I am once again commander-in-chief of the Wehrmacht, I will supply an entire division with these short trousers. And woollen stockings.”

  At this point Fräulein Krömeier made an outlandish noise and wiped her nose.

  “I know,” I continued. “You do not hail from southern Germany; you cannot understand my way of thinking. Just wait until this division is standing there, on parade, then it will become clear that all those jokes about leather shorts are baseless. But – and now I am coming to the point – on my path to power I was forced to acknowledge that industrialists and statesman do not take politicians in these trousers seriously. It is one of my greatest regrets to have abandoned the short trousers, but I did it because it served my cause and thus the cause of the German Volk. And let me tell you, I did not relinquish these wonderful trousers only for a telephone set to render my sacrifice worthless and leave me looking like a total moron! So don’t just stand there; find me a sensible ring.”

  “That’s why I like, asked you?” Fräulein Krömeier sniffed, putting away her handkerchief. “I can leave it so it’s like a normal phone? But I can get you any other sound you like, like. Words, sounds, music …”

  “Music, too?”

  “If I don’t have to play it myself. It would have to be like, on a … a … record!”

  So then she set up “The Ride of the Valkyries” for me.

  “Good, isn’t it?” I said to the newspaper seller, confidently raising the device to my ear “Hitler here!”

  I could hear nothing but Valkyries riding forth.

  “Hitler!” I said. “Hitler here!” And when the Valkyries continued to ride I tried “Führer headquarters!” Just in case the caller was in shock at having got through to me personally. Nothing happened save for the Valkyries getting louder. By now my ear was truly hurting.

  “HITLER HERE,” I screamed. “FÜHRER HEADQUARTERS!” It felt as if I were back on the Western Front in 1915.

  “Press the green button!” the newspaper seller said plaintively. “I can’t stand Wagner!”

  “Which green button?”

  “That thing on your phone,” he cried. “You have to swipe it to the right.”

  I looked at the machine, where indeed I could see a green slider. I pushed it to the right, the Valkyries fell silent, and I shouted, “HITLER HERE! FÜHRER HEADQUARTERS!”

  Nothing. The newspaper vendor rolled his eyes, took my hand together with the telephone and gently guided it to my ear.

  “Herr Hitler?” I could hear the voice of Hotel Reserver Sawatzki. “Hello? Herr Hitler?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Hitler here!”

  “I’ve been trying to get hold of you for ages. Frau Bellini wanted you to know that the company is really happy!”

  “Well,” I said, “that is nice. But I had expected somewhat more.”

  “More?” Sawatzki asked, confused.

  “My dear Herr Sawatzki,” I said dismissively, “three newspaper articles are all well and good, but we do have greater goals …”

  “Newspaper articles?” Sawatzki roared. “Who’s talking about newspaper articles? You’ve made it onto YouTube. And you’re getting endless hits!” Then he lowered his voice and said, “Just between you and me, some people here wanted to drop you right after the show. I’m not going to name names. But just take a look! Young people love you!”

  “The sensibilities of young people are unadulterated,” I said.

  “And that’s why we’ve got to produce some new stuff straight away,” Sawatzki said excitedly. “They’re extending your slot. They want to do some short clips, too! You have to come to the office right away! Where are you?”

  “At the kiosk,” I said.

  “Great,” Sawatzki said. “Stay right there, a taxi’s on its way!” He hung up.

  “So?” the newspaper seller asked. “Good news?”

  I held out my telephone. “Can you use this to get to something which goes by the name of U-Tube?”

  xvii

  What had happened was this. By means of some technical appliance, someone had taken a recording of my appearance on Gagmez’s programme and inserted it into the Internetwork, in a place where everyone could exhibit their short films. And everybody could watch whatever they wanted, without being dictated to by the Jewish gutter press. The Jews could offer
up their pitiful efforts here too, but one could see directly what was happening: the Volk was watching my appearance with Gagmez over and over again. You could tell this from a figure beneath the film clip.

  Now, I do not place undue faith in statistics. I have had sufficient experience of party comrades and industrialists to know that careerists and other shady characters lurk everywhere, always happy to lend a hand when they can present “figures” in a positive light. They embellish them, or compare them with another figure which makes their own look very attractive, while suppressing a dozen other statistics which would reveal a far less favourable reality. For this reason I decided to address the task myself, and I checked the figures of some Jewish submissions. I even bit the bullet – one cannot be squeamish in these matters – and looked at the figures for that Chaplin film, “The Great Dictator”. Yes, the number of visitors here stretched into seven figures, but one had to put this into its proper context. After all, Chaplin’s cheap and shoddy effort was more than seventy years old, which translated into approximately 15,000 visitors per year. Still not an inconsiderable sum, but only on paper, of course. For one would have to assume a gradual decrease in interest. It is only natural that human curiosity for current events should be greater than that for dusty old goods. Especially in a case like this: a black-and-white production, whereas people these days are used to technicolour. One may thus assume that this film must have attracted most of its Internetwork visitors in the 1960s and ’70s. These days there could only be around a hundred per year at most, very likely film students, some rabbis and other such “specialist viewers”. Over the past three days I had easily surpassed this figure by a thousand times or more.