by Timur Vermes
He loves her dumplings. But if he’s not coming home, it’s certainly not worth the effort to make the dough. It doesn’t keep for ever, does it? So now she doesn’t have to boil any potatoes.
She gets up.
Oh yes, no potatoes.
She sits down.
It’s nothing new. He called her just before the event and said he’d have to stay in Berlin for the weekend.
“Have you got another woman on the go?” she asked, and he said, “Chance would be a fine thing!” They both laughed. Like everyone else she’s well aware of what’s been happening since his appearance on Klobinger’s show. That was something really new, a completely different dimension from the usual media scandal, the ranting newspapers. Three hundred thousand people in Dresden, one hundred and fifty thousand in Dortmund.
“Leubl’s wiping out the Germans.”
“Eastern Germany isn’t your refugee dump!”
“Our hatred! Our marches! You can wipe those refugees’ arses!”
People panic-buying, even where they live.
Talking of which: she really ought to go out before the shops close. She stands up.
She sits.
Maybe the government could have calmed the situation by disclaiming what Leubl had said. He could have tendered his resignation and someone else could have looked after it. Then he’d be getting his roast tomorrow. His roast veal. The government didn’t disown what he had said, however. But nor did they get behind him and say, The man’s right. We’ll sort out fifty billion for that. It would have taken some wind out of the protesters sails. But not even his own party had risked putting their head above the parapet.
The parliamentary party leader: “These matters are up for discussion.”
The secretary general: “Herr Leubl is a man of experience, but fifty billion euros – that figure’s just been plucked straight out of the air.”
The chancellery: “We haven’t received any such information from Turkey. It’s conceivable that this represents individual opinion.”
Since the programme he has been on duty 24/7. He’s visited locations for his plans. Arranged emergency accommodation, as if the refugees were already there. And to anyone doubting him, he’s said, “A minister of the interior who unilaterally talks crap is out of a job the following day. So you don’t need to believe me, you just have to look to see whether I’m still minister of the interior.” And indeed, as each day passed, he was still minister of the interior.
“Is this by any chance the minister of the interior wagging the federal government’s tail?” Klobinger said in a teleconference. Joseph remained loyal, but Klobinger was right. What Joseph was doing ought to have been the chancellor’s job.
What should she cook if Joseph isn’t here tomorrow? She can discuss it with Binny, who’ll be here soon. She’ll let Binny choose and she’ll cook it. And the day afterwards, and the day after that too. For one thing is certain: Joseph won’t be back tomorrow or the day after that.
She’ll cope; he’s often been away for several days at time.
He always says you should look at things objectively, and yet the only objective difference is that in the past he’s always been able to say precisely how long he was going to be away. He always said what lay ahead for both of them, and when he would be where. And he always called her in the evenings. Even when telephoning used to be a tricky business, or in the Eastern Bloc when their calls would be tapped. But not this time.
She stands up and goes to the sink. She turns on the tap and watches the water gush down the plughole. She holds her hand in the jet of water; it’s cold. She tries to remember whether she wanted hot or cold water, until it dawns on her that she doesn’t need any water at all. No dumplings, no potatoes, no water. How silly of her. She shakes her head and turns the tap off. Then she goes and sits down on the sofa.
What is she going to cook now?
She’ll think of something when she gets to the supermarket. It’s incredibly well organised; she often gets ideas when she’s there. The last few days haven’t been so nice, though. The looks she’s been getting by the fruit, people staring at her over the racks. She’s even been screamed at a few times. People have been friendly too, of course; some neighbours came to help her immediately when that madman tipped over her trolley. In the car park in broad daylight!
“Your husband better not show his face here again, the foreigner faggot!”
What nonsense. What’s a foreigner faggot, anyway?”
Maybe she shouldn’t go to the supermarket. She gets up and walks over to the remote control, which is lying on the tiled floor. The back has come off and the batteries have fallen out. She can only find one and puts it back in. The other one must have rolled under the sofa. She puts the remote control on the coffee table. She hopes it still works. She thinks about trying it, but then looks at the television and leaves the remote where it is.
She sits down.
Her solution for the joint is a good one, the deep freeze is a good solution. You never know quite what to do, and then you just put the problem into cold storage. People should freeze much more. Why isn’t there a gadget that lets you freeze everything? Freezing isn’t always the solution, obviously. It wouldn’t help with the television, even she can see that.
She doesn’t understand much about television sets, but a television needs a screen, of course and a box that isn’t broken. These are things that Joseph deals with; he loves electrical shops, but Joseph isn’t here. He’s not here now, he won’t be here tomorrow, nor the day after that, so he can’t go to the electrical shop. But she can get by without a television. There’s seldom anything good on T.V., and often it’s appalling.
Do they really have to show everything?
Like those people shouting Joseph down. With no sense of propriety. That hatred, those faces. The police officers could barely keep the podium clear for him. And it was impossible to understand a single word, all you could hear was that crowd baying, shouting so loudly. Screaming that they didn’t want any of this; they wanted things to stay as they were. It didn’t occur to them for a second that in that completely neglected area they have an unemployment rate which beggars belief. Then the eggs were thrown. When they chucked eggs at Helmut Kohl, in fact when anyone chucked eggs anywhere, Joseph would say with a shrug, “The egg is the classic means by which the proletariat expresses its opinion.” This time too, no doubt.
In spite of this he tried talking to them. Then the bodyguards started putting up the stupid umbrellas again. Still the eggs came.
And then the tomatoes.
A few eggs and a tomato salad, she thought, something light and summery – that’s actually O.K.
Bright red on his white shirt, overripe, an intense red, he cracks another joke then staggers – as he always does when she bumps into him by mistake – as if the tomatoes weighed a tonne. She loves how he always tries to defuse tension with humour. But then she noticed he wasn’t making his funny face. He was opening and closing his mouth, like someone saying the word “roast”. Or rather two words: “roast veal”.
Then the right-hand side of his face exploded.
She didn’t want to see it, but the remote control had already crashed to the floor and broken, and what can you do when the man you’ve been happily married to for forty-nine years explodes on television and you can’t find the button on the sodding television set and the images keep coming, the tomatoes, “roast veal”, the head.
The tomatoes, “roast veal”, the head.
Objectively.
Objectively.
He said he wouldn’t be there that weekend. It happens regularly, it’s quite normal. He won’t be there at the weekend. She gets up.
She sits down.
The tomatoes.
Roast veal.
He won’t be there.
Joseph.
44
Nothing is different. It’s the same city, the same building, the same room, even the same people. Gödeke, Kaspers, Kal
b – they’re all here, and this time they all look exhausted, not just Echler. It’s 7.00 a.m. Einsteiger, the new under-secretary, summoned them at short notice yesterday evening; the first they heard of the meeting was at 11.00 p.m. The man who used to be under-secretary and who’s been minister of the interior for not even ten hours appointed Einsteiger himself shortly before 11.00 p.m. He hasn’t slept either. Since he was sworn in he’s spent the whole time studying aerial photographs and comparing maps. He called some old friends in the army. He took a shower, put on a fresh shirt and grabbed something from the fridge without thinking – for the first time in ages – how full the fridge used to be when Tommy lived at the flat.
Tommy.
That seems like years ago.
The new minister of the interior hangs up his coat with the others and goes over to the drinks table. Yes, he was the last to arrive, but he’s only five minutes late. Still, there’s barely any coffee left in the thermos. He picks up the telephone and orders more, then goes with his half-empty cup to his chair.
“I do apologise – this isn’t the greatest start, I know,” he says, “but I had yet another telephone call. I imagine all of you here have had plenty of calls. Talking of which.”
He switches off his smartphone. Gondorff follows his example.
The minister of the interior briefly stares at the middle of the conference table. Then he sits up and takes a deep breath.
“There are no words to describe a situation like this. But as grim as it is, for the time being we’re going to have to let others do the grieving. Herr Leubl’s death doesn’t alter the fact that time is slipping away from us. On the contrary, it merely intensifies the pressure.”
The minister of the interior looks at each person around the table. The faces are virtually expressionless, they reveal neither criticism nor agreement. They can anticipate what’s coming, but they can’t believe he’s actually going to say it. He doesn’t know what their reaction will be. He suspects, however, that there will be general agreement; government authorities are usually fairly conservative.
“It’s no secret that I wasn’t entirely in agreement with Dr Leubl’s strategy. But nor do I wish to criticise it here and now. First, because he’s no longer around to defend himself. And second, because I never doubted for one moment that if anyone could pull that off in Germany, if anyone could have successfully convinced the Germans – me included – that the concept of an ‘integration industry’ was viable, then that person was Joseph Leubl.”
Nods of agreement around the table.
“I have to say, however, that this also means I no longer share this belief. In fact, I’m now convinced that such a path is fraught with risk and, without the highly respected and unifying figure of Dr Leubl, would certainly lead this country to disaster.”
“Finally, someone’s said it,” Dr Berthold mutters smugly.
The minister of the interior briefly considers whether to let this comment pass. But Kalb beats him to it: “Oh, please.”
“I’m just telling it how it is.”
“Be that as it may,” says the minister of the interior, taking charge again, “I am not Joseph Leubl. But I am now the minister of the interior. And it is my belief that Germany cannot cope with a level of immigration – and this includes asylum seekers – that would exceed the upper limit. Likewise, any imposed immigration or asylum is unacceptable to the German people and they will not stand for it. It is our job, therefore, to put a check on this flow of people with all the means at our disposal. The legal situation is clear, and it affords us all manner of options.”
“Except the army,” Dr Berthold says drily.
“That’s not at all clear,” Kaspers says.
“What do you mean? Look it up! The constitution allows for a state of emergency to be declared only in the event of an armed attack. And from what I’ve seen on T.V., not one of them’s even got a musket.”
“What about sticks? Penknives?” Gödeke suggests.
“So you launch an armed attack on Germany with walking sticks and penknives? Have fun in court,” Berthold scoffs.
“All you need is a judge with a bit of imagination,” Gödeke says with a shrug. “We wangled all sorts of stuff in Hamburg.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” the minister of the interior says. “I fully support ideas along these lines. The refugees are creative, so we have to be too, even though I suspect they won’t do us the favour of storming the border brandishing sticks. If indeed they get that far.”
“There is every possibility,” Gondorff insists. “The scenario painted by Dr Leubl is most credible.”
“But it will become ever more credible if we signal in advance that we intend to do nothing to stop it,” the minister of the interior says. “As far as the solidarity of our European partners is concerned,” he says, eliciting snorts from around the table, “we mustn’t be under any illusions. But this doesn’t mean that everything is lost. We have two key allies. First, the unequivocal legal situation: Dublin is still in force. And second, the fear of other countries of being stuck with the refugees when they get there. Bulgaria, Serbia, Hungary – take your pick – they’re all terrified, and we need to exploit this fear. The same is true of Turkey by the way, especially Turkey. So I don’t see it as a given that these refugees will be able to simply walk across the borders, not at all.”
“What are you thinking, then?” Kalb asks.
“I’m thinking that the tighter we make our borders, the tighter other countries will make theirs. If we close them convincingly, the Austrians will follow suit, as will others further down the line. It’s like dominoes, but in reverse. They pull each other up rather than knock each other down.”
“It’s a bluff, though, ultimately,” Kalb says. It’s not clear whether he means this as a question or statement, but now there’s silence around the table.
“I’m not bluffing,” the minister says coldly. “And anyone who’s half-hearted about this can apply for a transfer now. Which is why I’ll happily take up Herr Kalb’s point. The danger is that other countries doubt our determination. So our measures must leave absolutely no room for any doubt. Not merely as far as the refugees are concerned, but also the Austrians and whoever else. Are we agreed?”
Nobody says a word. The minister turns to Echler and says, “Could we have a brief résumé of the situation, please?” He leans back and grabs his cup. The coffee isn’t very strong, but it’s certainly cold.
“O.K.,” Echler says. “We’ve got six more days, seven at most, before the refugees reach the Turkish border.”
“What’s going to happen from there?”
“I can’t tell you exactly, but the structure of the refugee column allows us to make some assumptions with a fair degree of certainty.” He switches on a projector and beams a graphic onto the wall. “The marching speed cannot be changed at will, but if the column moves fifteen kilometres per day, this means fifteen trucks will arrive at the border every day. Each truck supplies three thousand people, which gives us a total of forty-five thousand per day. The problem is: if the people at the front stop, if they set up camp, this destroys the structure of the column. Because on day one you’ve got a chaotic camp of forty-five thousand people, ninety thousand on day two and so on. It’s unmanageable.”
“The military can do it.”
“Yes, but these aren’t soldiers and they don’t have any generals either. The trucks just make it look more organised than it actually is.”
“O.K.,” the minister says. “Their goal cannot be to amass three hundred thousand people in one place.”
“Not if their heads are even half screwed on, no. It wouldn’t be possible to supply or direct them any longer. They won’t risk it. So they’ll wait until there’s a critical mass – I don’t know, twenty, thirty thousand of them – and then they’ll march on the border.”
“What about the Turks? How accurate are Leubl’s assumptions?”
“Hard to say,” Echler says. “I mea
n, Herr Leubl knew what he was talking about.”
“Having said that, his information was very much in line with his political convictions,” the minister says. “So I’m asking you again, how reliable are his assumptions?”
“Well, what militates against them is that our relations with Turkey aren’t exactly at their best, so the Turks are less predictable. It’s possible that there will be considerations in our favour we’re not actually aware of yet. But they might take a leaf out of Jordan’s book.”
“Why Jordan . . . oh, shit!” Kalb exclaims.
“Exactly. Jordan managed to offload around eighty thousand of their own refugees as the procession passed through. Iraq almost the same number. And Turkey, of course, has refugees to dispense with too. More than enough. So it would be an option for them to follow suit.”
“Which is why our declaration must be absolutely clear. The Turks have to understand that they won’t be getting rid of a hundred thousand refugees, they’ll be saddled with another three hundred thousand. To put it bluntly, we need a wall. It doesn’t have to be pretty or environmentally friendly, it just needs to be tall and solid. I don’t care whether it looks like Berlin or Israel afterwards. And another thing: I don’t want any innovation. We’re going to use technology that already works elsewhere. We’re talking about a wall that nobody can climb over or steamroller – it must be able to withstand a mass stampede. One hundred kilometres in each direction at least.”
“But where? We’ve got around four thousand kilometres of border.”
“Do I have to work everything out for you?” the minister asks. “We don’t really have to worry about the French or the Danes. I’m talking about all the borders along their route—”
“What about the Poles?”
The minister hesitates. It sounds like a stupid question at first, but it’s possible, of course. Poland and the Czech Republic make up a good third of Germany’s border. And anyone who’s already walked ten thousand kilometres isn’t going to be bothered by a minor detour.