Look Who’s Back

by Timur Vermes

  Recent events were also interpreted quite differently in the eyes of those “professional” politicians. The “Solidarity Civil Rights Movement” declared me to be a fellow sufferer of their party founder Larouche, who had been persecuted somehow or other. Meanwhile, a strange foreigners’ party by the name of B.I.G. assured me that in a country where the beating up of foreigners was outlawed, the beating up of Germans was, of course, outlawed too, to which I gave the emphatic response that I should not wish to live in a country where the beating up of foreigners was outlawed. This produced another outburst of raucous laughter at the other end of the line. For others I was not a symbol for freedom of opinion, but against it, at least against the wrong opinions; I was not only regarded as a champion against violence, but by several parties as a champion for it (C.S.U., two gun clubs and a manufacturer of firearms) and once as a victim of violence against the elderly (the Family Party). I was particularly struck by the dilettantism of an appeal by the Pirate Party, which thought it had identified in my refusal to press charges a protest against the surveillance state. It saw me as an advocate of extreme independence from the state and what they termed “total pirate thinking”. Those that came closest to the truth were a grouping called “The Violets”, who saw in my case evidence of a world beyond the purely materialistic, and in me a man who “under the banner of total peaceableness had subjected his return to the harshest tests with the greatest possible forbearance”. I laughed for so long that I had to ask for extra painkillers for my ribs.

  Fräulein Krömeier brought me more post from the office. She too had been called on the telephone several times, mostly by individuals from the same parties or groupings, but new were the communications from diverse communist organisations. It has now slipped my mind why they got in touch, but I do not suppose the reason was much different from Stalin’s in 1939, when he concluded our non-aggression pact. What united these callers and scribes was that they were all soliciting my membership of their respective associations. Only two parties, in fact, failed to contact me. Simpletons would probably put this down to indifference, but I knew better. Which is why, when an unknown Berlin number flashed on my telephone the following day, I hollered speculatively, “Hello? Is that the S.P.D.?”

  “Er, yes … Am I speaking to Herr Hitler?” a voice at the other end of the line said.

  “Indeed you are,” I said. “I’ve been waiting for you to call!”

  “For me?”

  “Not specifically. But for someone from the S.P.D. Who’s speaking, please?”

  “Gabriel, Sigmar Gabriel. It’s fantastic that you can speak on the phone again. I’d heard and read the most awful things. You sound back on form.”

  “That’s purely on account of your telephone call.”

  “Really? Are you that pleased I phoned?”

  “No, not as such. I’m pleased because it took you so long. In the time it takes for German Social Democracy to conceive of an idea one could cure two severe cases of tuberculosis.”

  “Hahaha,” Gabriel sniggered, and it sounded exceedingly natural. “You’re right, sometimes that’s certainly the case. Look, this is exactly why I’m calling …”

  “I know! Because my own party is in hibernation at present.”

  “What party?”

  “You disappoint me, Gabriel! What is the name of my party?”

  “Erm …”

  “Go on!”

  “Excuse me? I’m not exactly sure what you’re …”

  “N.… S.… D.… A.…?”

  “P.?”

  “Precisely. P. It’s having a rest at the moment. And you would like to know whether I might just be looking for a new home. In your party!”

  “Well, I was actually …”

  “By all means send your forms to my office,” I said chattily.

  “Listen, have you just taken some painkillers? Or a few too many sleeping tablets?”

  “No,” I said, and was about to add that I wouldn’t need any after this conversation. Then it occurred to me that Gabriel might be right. One never really knows what on earth doctors and nurses administer via those bags with tubes. And it also struck me that in its present form, this S.P.D. was no longer a party to be rounded up and incarcerated in a concentration camp. Its sluggishness might even render it useful in some matters. I therefore made immediate reference to some of medicines I was taking and took my leave very cordially.

  I leaned back on my pillow, wondering who might be the next person to call. In fact all that I was missing was a telephone conversation with someone from the chancellor’s electoral union. Who might that be? The lumpy matron herself was out of the question, of course. But I wouldn’t have minded speaking to the employment minister. I was dying to know why she had stopped procreating only one child away from receiving the Gold Mothers’ Cross. That Guttenberg would have been interesting too. Even though he had emerged from a centuries-deep swamp of aristocratic incest, here was a man who had the capacity to think in a wider context, without allowing professorial objections endlessly to get in the way. But his political heyday seemed now to be past. Who else? The ecological fellow with the spectacles? The drip of a whip? The wheelchair-bound aspiring-conservative Swabian in charge of finances?

  And there were the Valkyries, scouring the battlefields for fallen heroes once more. The number was unfamiliar to me, but the area code was Berlin. I concluded it must be the windbag.

  “Good day, Herr Pofalla,” I said.

  “I’m sorry?” This was indisputably the voice of a woman. I put her as a bit older, maybe mid-fifties.

  “I do beg your pardon – who is speaking?”

  “My name is Golz, Beate Golz,” and she uttered the name of a well-known German-sounding publishing house. “And to whom am I speaking?”

  “Hitler,” I said, clearing my throat. “I’m terribly sorry, I was expecting somebody else.”

  “Is this a bad time? Your office said it would be fine for me to phone in the …”

  “No, no,” I said. “It’s perfectly alright. But kindly, put no more questions about how I’m feeling.”

  “Is it that bad?”

  “No, but I’m beginning to sound like an old gramophone record.”

  “Herr Hitler … I’m calling to ask whether you’d like to write a book?”

  “I already have,” I said. “Two, in fact.”

  “I know. More than ten million copies. We’re very impressed. But someone with your potential ought not to leave a gap of eighty years.”

  “Well, look, that gap was not entirely within my control …”

  “You’re absolutely right. I can well understand that writing doesn’t come so easily when the Russians are rolling over your bunker …”

  “Indeed,” I said. I could barely have put it better myself. I was pleasantly surprised by Frau Golz’s ability to empathise.

  “But now the Russians are no longer here. And however much we enjoy your weekly round-up on the telly, I think it’s time the Führer produced another report on his view of the world. Or – before I make a total fool of myself here – do you already have other contractual commitments?”

  “No, I’m usually published by Franz Eher,” I said, but then realised that by now he must be in retirement too.

  “I’m assuming you haven’t heard from your publisher in a while?”

  “In point of fact, you’re right,” I mused. “I wonder who’s cashing in my royalties at this moment?”

  “The state of Bavaria, if I’m rightly informed,” Frau Golz said.

  “What impertinence!”

  “You could sue, of course, but you know what the courts are like …”

  “You’re telling me!”

  “I’d be delighted, however, if you took the somewhat simpler route instead.”

  “Which would be …?”

  “You write a new book. In a new world. We’d be happy to publish it. And as we’re all professionals here I can offer you the following.” Then she set forth
a schedule of major marketing strategies and mentioned a sum as an advance payment, which even in this suspect euro money elicited my approval – though of course I kept this to myself for the time being. I would also be allowed to choose my own colleagues, whose remuneration would likewise be covered by the publishing house.

  “Our one condition: it must be the truth.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to know what my real name is.”

  “No, no, no. Your name is Adolf Hitler, of course. What other name would we put on the book? Moses Halbgewachs?”

  I laughed. “Or Schmul Rosenzweig. I like you.”

  “What I’m trying to say is that we’re not after a humorous book. I assume you’d be thinking along the same lines. The Führer doesn’t make jokes.”

  It was astonishing how simple everything was with this woman. She knew exactly what she was talking about. And with whom.

  “Will you have a think about it?”

  “Give me a little time,” I said. “I will be in touch.”

  I waited for five minutes, precisely. Then I called her back. I demanded a substantially higher sum. In retrospect I have to presume that she was expecting this.

  “O.K. then: Sieg Heil!” she said.

  “May I take that as a deal?” I asked.

  “You may,” she laughed.

  “Then a deal it is!”

  xxxvi

  It is quite extraordinary. For the first time in ages I am not bothered by the snow, even though it has come so early this year. Large flakes are falling outside the window; in 1943 this would have driven me mad. Now I know that everything has a deeper significance, that Destiny does not expect me to win a world war at the first or second attempt, that she is giving me time and has trust in me; now I can properly enjoy this mellow pre-Christmas tranquillity once more, after some arduous years. And I am enjoying them almost as much as I did when I was a child, huddled up in a cosy corner of the parlour with Homer’s account of the Trojan War. There is still pain in my ribcage, but it is heartening to feel that it is abating.

  The publishing house has supplied me with a dictation machine. Sawatzki wanted me to use my mobile telephone, but in the end I’ve found the dictation machine easier to operate. Press a button – it records; press a button – it stops. In general I’m very much against this multiplication of tasks. The wireless has to play these silver disks too, the razor machine has to work for both wet and dry shaving, the petrol pump attendant doubles up as a grocer, while the telephone has to be a telephone, a calendar, a camera and everything else besides. This is dangerous nonsense, the only possible consequence of which is that thousands of our young people will be mown down on the roads because they cannot stop staring into their screens. One of my first undertakings will be to outlaw such telephone devices or allow them only for those inferior racial elements remaining in our society – for the latter I may even make them compulsory. Then they will litter the main thoroughfares of Berlin like squashed hedgehogs. So they do have their practical uses. But otherwise: utter nonsense! Certainly, it would be far more advantageous for the state finances if the Luftwaffe could also assume the task of refuse collection. But what sort of a Luftwaffe would we have then?

  A good idea. I will dictate it immediately into the device.

  In the corridor outside they have stuck up voluminous quantities of Christmas decorations. Stars, fir branches and much more. On Sundays in Advent there is Glühwein, of which they have now developed a most pleasant non-alcoholic variety, although I have my doubts that it will ever find acceptance amongst the troops. Ah well, a private will always be a private. On reflection, I cannot say that Christmas decorations have become more tasteful with the passing of the years. A most disagreeable industrialisation has taken hold. I am not concerned about whether something is kitsch or not, for every example of kitsch harbours a residue of the feelings of the simple man, and since that is the case there will always be the possibility of a development towards real art. No, what really bothers me is that the importance of Father Christmas has grown disproportionally, doubtlessly as a result of Anglo-American cultural infiltration. The candle, meanwhile, has fallen in significance.

  Perhaps it only seems like this because candles are not permitted here in the hospital, for fire safety reasons. And much as I appreciate the careful handling of Volk property, I cannot recall large numbers of buildings having been damaged during my time in government, despite the generous use of candles. But I do concede that, from 1943 onwards, the statistics become rather less meaningful given the increasing absence of buildings. Nonetheless, a Christmas like this has its own charm. Free from the burden of governmental responsibility, which in the longer term will be inevitable, I ought to enjoy it while it lasts.

  I can say that the personnel are making great efforts to take care of me. I talk to them a lot, about their working conditions, about the social services which – as I am learning more and more – are in such a wretched state that it is well-nigh a miracle anybody can be cured at all. I get many visits from doctors. Coming to me off-duty, they sit down and tell me about the latest example of effrontery from the current blunderer masquerading as the health minister. There are just as many incidences of absurd behaviour involving his predecessor, they say, and no doubt the same will be true of his successor. I must address the matter in my programme, they urge me, and announce in no uncertain terms that change is urgently required. I promise that soon I will tackle this with all my energies. Occasionally I comment that it would help if fewer foreigners were treated here on the ward. They laugh, say, “Well, of course you could see it that way,” followed immediately by a “but joking aside”, after which comes a tale of the next outrage. Of which there seems to be no shortage.

  There is also a strikingly charming nurse, a fiery character, bright and cheerful. Her name is Irmgard, in fact … but I definitely need to pace myself. Were I twenty years younger, maybe …

  Herr Sawatzki has just been to visit with Fräulein Krömeier, or should I say the former Fräulein Krömeier. I still find it hard to get used to saying Frau Sawatzki. The two of them have a happy event looming, and she’s already as round as a ball. She insists she can still manage, but it cannot be very long before her belly starts to become a real burden. She has taken on a little colour – or maybe taken off a little white. I still find all that difficult to understand. But I have to say that they make a marvellous couple, and when they look at each other, I know that in nineteen or twenty years a strapping grenadier will be at their side: impeccable genetic material for the Waffen-S.S., and later for the party. They asked me where I was spending Christmas and then invited me over, which delighted me, but I don’t think I shall bother them. Christmas is a family celebration.

  “But you’re practically part of the family?” Fräulein, I mean Frau Sawatzki said.

  “Just at the moment,” I said, for Schwester Irmgard was coming through the door, “just at the moment Schwester Irmgard is my family.”

  Schwester Irmgard laughed and said, “Over my dead body. I’m just popping in to check he’s alright.”

  “He is fine,” I grinned, and she let out such a hearty laugh that I almost considered putting off the next stage in my political career for a year or two.

  “Frau Bellini and Herr Sensenbrink send their best wishes,” Sawatzki said. “Frau Bellini’s going to come tomorrow or the day after, with the outcome of the meeting about the new slot, the new studio …”

  “You must have seen it,” I said. “What is your impression?”

  “You won’t be disappointed, I can tell you. There’s a pile of money behind it! You’ve not heard this from me, but there’s still plenty left in the budget. Plenty!”

  “That’s enough,” Frau Sawatzki said, cutting him off. “We’ve got to go and buy a pram? Before I can’t move anymore?”

  “O.K., O.K.,” Sawatzki replied. “But do think about my suggestion.” I could have sworn that as the two of them left he said somethin
g like, “Have you told him what the baby’s going to be called?” But I may have been mistaken.

  Yes, his suggestion. He is absolutely right, it is a perfectly logical step. If a handful of parties are inviting one to become a member, one would be well advised not to give one’s valuable self to causes other than one’s own. In 1919 I would have foundered in another party. Instead I took over a tiny, insignificant party and shaped it according to my wishes, which was far more effective. In this case, with the impetus of a book publication and a new programme scheduled, I could launch a propaganda offensive and then start a movement. He has already sent to my mobile telephone some designs for placards. I like them. I really like them.

  They are of me and they’re modelled closely on the old ones. They’re more striking with the old typeface, Sawatzki says, and he’s right. I should listen to him; he has a knack for this. He has also devised a new electoral slogan. It will be plastered at the bottom of all the placards, giving them a common thread. The slogan addresses old virtues, old doubts, and for good measure has a humorous, conciliatory element to win over those pirate voters and other young people. The slogan reads: “It wasn’t all bad.”

  I think we can work with that.

  Translator’s Note

  Timur Vermes’ cutting satire offers a unique perspective on our modern, media-bloated world, in which celebrity is worshipped above all else. The rapid progress of globalisation over the past two decades means that the most of the material in the novel will resonate with audiences in all Western societies rather than just in Germany. But for those readers who feel they may have missed some or many of the cultural and historical references, what follows is a brief résumé.