Look Who's Back (12 page)

Indeed, from those Turkish pupils I was able to observe how my principles had obviously been acknowledged as correct, and later implemented as directives. Quite clearly the young Turks had been taught only the most rudimentary language. I detected barely any correct syntax; it sounded more like a linguistic tangle of barbed wire, furrowed with mental grenades like the battlefields of the Somme. What emerged from their mouths might suffice for communicating the most basic information, but for organised resistance it would be no use at all. Lacking an adequate vocabulary, most of them supplemented their utterances with expansive gestures – a real sign language, no less, in accordance with ideas that I myself had developed and wished to implement. Admittedly, it had been intended for the Ukraine and the conquered Russian territories, but of course it was just as suitable for any other population group under German domination. And I witnessed a further technological advance: evidently the Turkish pupils had to wear tiny earplugs, to prevent them from picking up extraneous information or unnecessary knowledge. The principle was simple and appeared to work almost too well – some of these young pupil-like characters wore expressions of such intellectual frugality that one could scarcely imagine what useful activity they might one day be able to perform for society. But, as I established with a quick glance, neither they nor anybody else was sweeping the pavement.

When the pupils of both races became aware of my presence, I noticed joyful recognition flash across some of their faces. The pupils of German descent must know me from their history classes, the Turkish ones from the darkest recesses of the television set. Then the inevitable happened. Once again I was falsely identified as “the other Herr Stromberg from
Switsch
”, I was asked to sign a few autographs, and I allowed a number of pupils to have their photographs taken with me. Not total confusion, but enough for me to lose track of things momentarily; what is more, I had the absurd impression that the German pupils were speaking the same minced-up smorgasbord. When, out of the corner of my eye, I saw another madwoman painstakingly gather up her dog’s stools, one by one, I thought it time to retire to the peace and seclusion of my office.

I had been sitting at my desk for about ten minutes, gazing at the changing of the guard of the smokers and rats, when the door opened and in came a character who quite conceivably had just graduated from that group of indeterminately aged schoolwomen. Her clothes were black, conspicuously so, and her long, dark hair was parted on one side. Well now, there was no-one fonder of dark hues, of black, than I! I had always found it terribly dashing, especially on the S.S. But in contrast to my S.S. men, this young lady looked almost worryingly pale, all the more conspicuously so because she had chosen to wear a strikingly dark, almost bluish lipstick.

“For goodness’ sake!” I said, leaping to my feet. “Are you feeling quite alright? Are you cold? Sit down, at once!”

Unperturbed, she looked at me, chewing on a stick of gum.
Then she pulled out two ear plugs on a cord and said, “Hmmm?”

I began to doubt my theory about the Turkish ear plugs. There was nothing Asiatic about this woman; I would have to get to the bottom of the matter another time. Nor did she seem to be cold; at any rate she slid a black rucksack off her shoulder and took off her black autumn coat. Beneath this her clothes appeared normal, save for the fact that they were entirely black, too.

“So,” she said, ignoring my questions, “you must be Herr Hitler! L.O.L.!” She offered me her hand.

I shook it, sat back down and said tersely, “And who might you be?”

“Vera Krömeier,” she said. “That’s sooooooo cool. Can I ask you a question? Is this method acting?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You know, what De Niro does? And Pacino? Method acting? Where you’re like, completely immersed in your role?” Each one of her sentences sounded as if it were a question.

“Look here, Fräulein Krömeier,” I said firmly, rising from my chair. “I have no idea what you are talking about, but far more importantly, you should know what I am talking about, and—”

“You’re right,” Fräulein Krömeier said, fishing the chewing gum from her mouth with two fingers. “Is there a bin here? They normally like, forget?” She looked around and, finding no waste-paper bin, said, “One sec,” stuck the gum back in her mouth and vanished. I was standing rather pointlessly in the middle of the room, so I sat back down again. She reappeared
soon afterwards carrying an empty waste-paper basket. She put it down, plucked the chewing gum from her mouth once more and dropped it with satisfaction into the basket.

“Right,” she said. “That’s better.” Then she turned to me again. “O.K., ready to roll. So, boss, what’s on the menu?”

I sighed. Her too. I would have to start from the very beginning.

“First of all,” I said, “my title is not ‘Boss’ but ‘Führer’. So please call me ‘Mein Führer’. And I should like you to give me the appropriate greeting when you enter!”

“Greeting?”

“The Nazi salute, naturally! With the right arm outstretched.”

Her face lit up and she was on her feet at once, firing off more statements dressed up as questions. “I knew it? L.O.L.! That
is
what you’re doing? Method acting? Do you want me to start now?”

I nodded. She dashed out of the door, closing it behind her. She knocked, and when I said, “Come in,” she strode forwards, thrust her hand into the air and screamed, “GOOD MORNING, MEIN FÜHRER!” Then she added, “You have to shout it, don’t you? I like, saw it in a film once?” She paused, seemingly confused, and then bellowed, “OR DOES EVERYTHING HAVE TO BE SHOUTED? DID EVERYONE SHOUT ALL THE TIME WITH HITLER?” Looking me in the eye, she said in an anxious voice, “I got it wrong again, didn’t I? Sorry! Are you going to like, get someone else in instead?”

“No,” I said, reassuring her. “That was fine. I do not expect perfection from any comrade. All I expect is for him to try his
best, each in his own way. And you seem to be very much on the right track. Just one tiny favour, please. No more screaming!”

“Jawohl, mein Führer,” she said, adding, “Not bad, eh? L.O.L.!”

“Very good,” I said. “But the arm needs to be pointed further outwards. You are not putting your hand up in elementary school!”

“Jawohl, mein Führer. So, what are we going to do now?”

“First,” I said, “you can show me how to operate this television set. Then please remove the device from your desk; after all, you are not being paid to watch television. We will have to find you a decent typewriter. You cannot have any old machine; we need the Antiqua 4mm typeface, and I should like you to type everything with a centimetre gap between the lines. Otherwise I cannot read it without glasses.”

“Can’t do typewriters,” she said. “Only Pee–Sees. And if you take that away from me then I like, can’t do it at all. Anyhow, with the computer we can get any size font you like. And I can also turn on your computer for you.”

Then she introduced me to one of the most extraordinary achievements in the history of human civilisation: the computer.

I
t never ceases to amaze me how the creative genius of the Aryan race refuses to be suppressed. This is an axiom I recognised long ago, and still I find myself surprised by how it holds true time and again, even in the most adverse circumstances.

Assuming, of course, that the climate is right.

Once upon a time I had to lead unfailingly asinine discussions about the murky pre-history of the forest-dwelling Germanic peoples. And I never denied that, when it is cold, the Teuton does nothing. Apart from light a fire, perhaps. Just look at the Norwegian or the Swede. It came as no surprise to learn of the success the Swede has recently enjoyed with his furniture. In that rotten state of his the Swede is permanently on the lookout for firewood, so it is no wonder that from time to time this might result in the odd table or chair. Or a so-called social system, which delivers heat free of charge into the apartment blocks of millions of parasites. This can only lead to spinelessness and greater sloth. No, besides the Swiss, the Swede displays the worst facets of the Teuton, but – and let us never lose sight of the fact – this is all down to climate. As soon as the Teuton makes his way south, he is seized by an inventiveness, a will to create, and so he builds the Acropolis in Athens, the Alhambra
in Spain, the pyramids in Egypt. We know all this, it is so self-evident that it is all too easy to overlook; many fail to see the Aryan for the building. The same is true of America, of course: without German immigrants the American would be nothing. Time and again have I rued the fact that it was not possible to offer every German his own land back then; at the beginning of the twentieth century we lost hundreds of thousands of emigrants to the Americans. A curious development, I should like to point out, for very few of them became farmers over there; they could have just as easily remained here. I expect, however, that most of them imagined the countryside was bigger in America and that it would only be a matter of time before they were allocated their own farm. In the meantime, of course, they had to earn their daily bread in different ways. Thus these men sought out careers, small artisanal activities such as shoemaking, joinery or atomic physics – whatever was going. And that Douglas Engelbart, well, his father had already emigrated to Washington, which is further south than one thinks, but young Engelbart then goes to California, which is even
further
south; there his Germanic blood begins to roil, and he promptly invents this mouse apparatus.

Fantastic.

I have to say that I was never particular taken by this computing stuff. I was only faintly aware of what Zuse was bolting together – I believe his work was being funded by some ministry or other – but in essence it was something for the boffins. Zuse’s electronic brain was far too unwieldy to be of any use on the front; I would not have liked to see him trying to wade through the Pinsk Marshes with it. Or parachuting
into Crete – the man would have dropped like a stone. One would have had to equip him with a military glider, and what for, ultimately? In essence it was just glorified mental arithmetic. You can say what you like about Schacht, but anything Zuse’s machine computed Schacht could have calculated half-asleep after seventy-two hours under enemy fire while buttering a slice of army bread. And thus I was initially reluctant when Fräulein Krömeier put me in front of this screen.

“I have no need to acquaint myself with such equipment,” I said. “You are the secretary here!”

“Just sit down here then, mein Führer,” Fräulein Krömeier said – I recall the moment as if it were yesterday. “Else you’ll be like, ‘Can you help me with this?’ and ‘Can you help me with that?’ and I’ll be like, so totally busy with you? That I won’t be able to get on with my own work?”

I was not especially keen on her tone, but her surly manner reminded me very vividly of when Adolf Müller gave me a rudimentary lesson in the basics of driving. Müller was pretty tough on me, I have to say, although this was less a reflection of his concern for the national question and more down to his fear that if I broke my neck he would lose his print order for the
Völkischer Beobachter
. Müller was not a professional driving instructor, but a businessman first and foremost. Although perhaps I am doing him an injustice; I have since learned that he shot himself soon after the war, and let’s face it, there’s no profit in suicide. In any event he took me in his automobile to show me how to drive correctly, or more accurately, what to watch out for when one has a chauffeur. Müller’s was a tremendously valuable lesson, in which I learned more than
I had from any number of professors over the years. At this juncture I should like to make it quite clear that I do listen to people other than those old-school cretins on the general staff. Many may be better than I at driving a motorcar, but when it comes to tidying up a front line or judging how long to offer resistance when caught in a pocket, then I am still the one who makes the decision and not some Herr Paulus who is starting to get cold feet.

The very thought of it!

Ah well. Next time.

Anyway, on the basis of various reminiscences I declared myself willing to follow Fräulein Krömeier’s instructions, and I must say it was worth my while. I had always been put off by typewriters. I never wanted to be an accountant or pen-pusher, and I had dictated my books. The last thing I wanted to do was type away like some pea-brained hack in a local rag, but then this miracle of German resourcefulness arrived: the mouse contraption.

Rarely can there have been a more ingenious invention.

As you manoeuvre this mouse contraption around the table, a small hand moves on the screen in precisely the same way. And whenever you want to touch a place on the screen, you press on this mouse and the small hand actually touches that place on the screen. It is so childishly simple and I was utterly fascinated. Naturally, the computer would have been no more than an entertaining diversion if its sole purpose were to simplify a few office tasks. But this piece of equipment turned out to be an extraordinarily composite tool.

One could use it to write, but through the wiring system
one could also make contact with all the individuals and institutions who had likewise agreed to be part of this network. Moreover, unlike with the telephone, not all participants had to be sitting at their computers, rather they could simply deposit things, allowing one to retrieve them in their absence – all manner of peddlers engaged in this practice. What especially pleased me, however, was that newspapers and periodicals, indeed every possible form of information was accessible. It was like a vast library with unrestricted opening hours. How I could have done with that! How many hard days had I spent making tough military decisions, after which all I wanted was to indulge in a little reading at two o’clock in the morning. Admittedly, Bormann did his best, but how many books can a simple Reichsleiter procure? Besides, space in the Wolf’s Lair was not unlimited. This wonderful technology, on the other hand, which is called the “Inter-network”, offered absolutely everything all day long and at night too. All one had to do was to search for it in a contraption called “Google” and touch the result with that magnificent mouse. Before long I established that I kept arriving at the same address: a proto-Germanic reference work called Vikipedia, an easily recognisable compound of ‘encyclopedia’ and those ancient Germans with exploration in their blood, the Vikings.