Timur Vermes - Look Who’s Back

ix

Nothing is more dangerous for a fledgling movement than meteoric success. One has taken ones 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 ones 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 womens 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 seekers 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 tailors 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.

That is to say, I would have risen at eleven, had not the telephone rung out at the crack of dawn, around nine. On the line was a lady with an unpronounceable name of Slavic origin. Jodl would never have put someone like that through to me, but Jodl, alas!, was German history. Still woozy with sleep, I hunted for the receiver.

Hrmm?

Good morning, Frau Krwtsczyk here, a mercilessly cheerful voice sang out. From Flashlight!

What irritates me most of all about these morning people is their horribly good temper, as if they had been up for three hours and already conquered France. Particularly since the vast majority of them, in spite of rising so appallingly early, have performed anything but great deeds. In Berlin I have time and again met people who make no secret of the fact that their only reason for stirring at such an ungodly hour of the morning is so that they can leave the office earlier in the afternoon. I have suggested to several of these eight-hour logicians that they ought to start work at ten oclock at night, thereby allowing them to leave at six in the morning and perhaps even arrive home before it is time to get up. Some even took this for a serious suggestion. In my opinion, only bakers need to work early in the morning.

And the Gestapo, of course that is self-evident. To tear the Bolshevist rabble from their beds, so long as they are not Bolshevist bakers. For they would already be awake, and thus the Gestapo, for their part, would have to get up even earlier, and so on and so forth.

How can I help you?

Im calling from the contracts department, the voice exulted. Im just preparing your documents and Ive got a few questions. I dont know, should we do it over the phone? Or would you rather come in?

What sort of questions?

Oh, you know, very general ones. Social insurance, bank details, that sort of stuff. For example, what name should I put on the contract?

What name?

I mean, I dont know what your name is.

Hitler, I groaned. Adolf.

Yeah, she laughed again with her blood-curdling morning enthusiasm. No, I meant your real name.

Hitler! Adolf! I said, indignant now.

A brief silence followed.

Really?

Yes, of course!

Well, thats I mean, thats a coincidence.

A coincidence? How so?

You know, that youre called

For goodness sake, woman, you have a name too. But I am not sitting here, wide-eyed, and screeching, Oooh, what a coincidence!

I know, but you look like it too. Your name, I mean.

And? So you look quite different from your name, do you?

No, but

Well then! In Gods name get those damned papers finished, I barked, slamming down the receiver.