Look Who's Back (16 page)

“At last! Carmen! That was one major fuck-up. Did you see it? Did you fucking well
see
it? Where did you dig up this arse-hole? You said I’d do my foreigner routine and he’d follow with his Nazi crap. You said he’d disagree with me. He’d get all uptight about Turks on the telly and that sort of shit! And now
this
! What the fuck do you mean by ‘follower of our movement’?
What
fucking movement? And how am I a follower? Where the fuck does that leave
me
?”

“I did tell you he was a bit different,” Madame Bellini said. She had regained her composure with astonishing rapidity.

“I don’t give a fuck,” Gagmez frothed. “Let me tell you right here: I want this cunt off my programme
now
. He doesn’t stick to his agreements. I’m not having this arsehole shit all over my programme and ruin it.”

“Calm down,” Madame Bellini said in a curious tone, which was at once soft and energetic. “It didn’t go that badly.”

“Is everything O.K.?” one of the two stewards enquired.

“Absolutely fine,” Madame Bellini said, reassuring him. “I’ve got it all under control. Calm down, Ali.”

“I’m not going to fucking well calm down,” Gagmez howled, and then dug his index finger under my shoulder strap.
“You are
not
going to fuck me over, matey,” he said, hammering repeatedly on my chest with his finger like a woodpecker. “You think you can just swan up here with your ridiculous Hitler uniform and your oh-so-fucking inscrutable manner. But let me tell you: it’s nothing new; it’s old fucking hat. You’re an amateur. What the fuck do you think you’re doing here? You turn up and think you’ve got it all sewn up. But you’re not going anywhere, matey, you can fucking kiss this one goodbye! If there’s anyone here who’s got followers, it’s me! This is
my
audience, those are
my
fans – keep your filthy little hands off! You are a pathetic amateur. Your uniform and your routine – it’s all a heap of shit. With that toss you might be able to do the odd beer tent or rifle club, but let me tell you: you’re never going to be anybody.”

“I have no need,” I said calmly. “Behind me are millions of fellow Germans, who—”

“Cut the crap,” Gagmez shrieked. “You’re not on the fucking telly now! Do you think you can wind me up? You’re not going to wind me up! Not! Me!!”

“Cool it, both of you,” Bellini said, now raising her voice. “Sure, we need to work at it a bit. There’s still a little fine-tuning to be done. But it wasn’t that bad. Just something new. Now, let’s all calm down and wait and see what the critics say …”

If I had ever felt certain of my calling since my reappearance in this modern epoch, it was at this moment.

I
t is in times of crisis that the true Führer is revealed. When he shows his nerve, persistence and sheer determination, though the world be set against him. If I had not been at Germany’s helm, nobody would have marched into the Rhineland in 1936. They were all quivering in their boots; there was nothing we could have done if the enemy had decided to attack. We had five divisions at the ready; the French alone had six times as many. And yet I risked it. Nobody else would have dared, and at the time I watched carefully to see who was standing by me, with their feet or their heart, side by side, sword in hand.

It is also in those times of crisis that Destiny reveals the true loyalists. Those moments of doubt when a hazardous venture gives rise to success if – but only if – the fanatical belief remains unbroken. The occasions when one can identify those who lack this belief, but who watch the situation unfold in uneasy expectation, to determine on which side they should fight. A Führer must keep a close eye on these people. Although they can be manipulated, one must never make the success of the movement dependent on them. Sensenbrink was one of their ilk.

Sensenbrink was wearing what these days would probably be called a high-quality suit. He was trying to look casual, but
I could see that he was pale; his face exhibited the pallor of a gambler who knows that he cannot suffer a loss, or worse still, he cannot bear the moment in which it becomes obvious that his loss is inevitable. Such people never focus on their own goal, they always elect to pursue the goal which promises the most rapid success, and yet fail to recognise that this success will never be their own. They hope to achieve success, but they will only ever chaperone it, and because they sense this, they fear the moment of defeat when it becomes manifest that not only is the success not their own, but it is not even dependent on their chaperoning. Sensenbrink was anxious about his reputation, not the national cause. It was patently clear that Sensenbrink would never shed blood for Germany or me in a hail of bullets outside the beer hall in Munich. On the contrary: how winsomely he consorted with Madame Bellini – anyone with half an eye could see that in spite of all his puffed-up self-confidence, he was the one hoping for her moral support. This came as no surprise.

In my life I have met four dominant women. Women who would be unthinkable as a choice of partner. Let us say you have Mussolini or Antonescu over for a visit. If you then tell one of these women to go into the room next door and not come back until invited to, you need to be sure that this is what is going to happen. Eva did it, but I could never have asked it of any of those four. Leni Riefenstahl was one of them. A wonderful woman, but if I had made such a request to Leni she would have smashed me over the head with her camera! And Madame Bellini was of the same calibre as this venerable quartet.

I do not think that anyone besides me noticed how she, too, was aware of the significance of these hours, these minutes. But – my goodness! – this fantastic woman had exceptional control. I noticed she inhaled a touch more deeply on her cigarette than usual, but that was all. She held her wiry, lithe body upright, she was attentive, always prepared to offer helpful instructions, and her reactions were precise and rapid, like a skulking wolf. And not a single grey hair; perhaps she was even younger than I had thought, late thirties – a truly magnificent specimen of womanhood! I also intuited that she found the sudden proximity of Sensenbrink disagreeable, not because she found him bothersome, no, but because she despised his unmanliness, because she sensed that rather than putting all his strength at her disposal he was draining her of energy. I felt an enormous urge to ask her how she was planning to spend the evening, and with a certain melancholy I suddenly recalled those evenings on the Obersalzberg. Many a time we would sit up long into the night – three, four, five of us. Sometimes I would talk, sometimes not. In fact, sometimes hours would pass in silence, interrupted only by the occasional cough. At other times I would just stroke the dog. I always found these gatherings rather conducive to contemplation. Things are not always easy; the Führer is one of the few people in the state who has to forgo the simple pleasures of normal family life.

And life in a hotel like mine
was
rather lonely; this was one of the aspects of my existence which had changed least over the last sixty years.

Then it occurred to me that in my situation I really ought to ask Madame Bellini, but somehow this felt inappropriate,
too familiar, especially as we had not known each other long. I decided to push the thought to the back of my mind. On the other hand, I felt it would only be fitting to have a small celebration to mark my return to public life. Just a glass of sparkling wine or something similar, not for me of course, but I always enjoyed being in the company of others in high spirits who raised a toast. My gaze alighted on Hotel Reserver Sawatzki.

His eyes beamed at me, they were full of unmistakable esteem. I knew this look, one which should not be interpreted the wrong way. Sawatzki was not one of those men in an S.A. shirt, whom one drags from Röhm’s bed in the night and then into whose repulsive body one fires a few bullets in disgust, saving the fatal one until last. No, Sawatzki looked at me with a sort of silent reverence, which I had last witnessed in Nuremberg in those hundreds of thousands to whom I had offered hope. Who had grown up in a world of humiliations and fear for the future, a world of procrastinating windbags and war losers, who in me saw the firm hand which would lead them, and who were willing to follow me.

“So,” I said, wandering over to Sawatzki. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Unbelievable,” Sawatzki said. “Really impressive. I’ve seen Ingo Appelt, but he’s lame compared to you. You’ve got balls. Do you really not care what people think of you?”

“On the contrary, young man,” I said. “I will speak the truth. And they should think: Here is someone who speaks the truth.”

“And? Is that what they’re thinking now?”

“No. But they are thinking in a different way from before.
And that is all that one needs to achieve. Continual repetition will see to the rest.”

“Yeah,” Sawatzki said, “but the repeat’s on Sunday morning at eleven, so I don’t reckon that’ll make much of a splash.”

I gave him a blank look. Sawatzki cleared his throat, then said, “Follow me. We’ve arranged a little something in the canteen.”

We walked over to where a handful of television employees were hanging about looking bored. A slovenly looking lad turned to me with his mouth full and laughed out loud. Then he coughed and gave a passable Nazi salute. I jerked my arm back in response and let Sawatzki guide me to an area of the canteen where sekt was waiting for us. Judging by Sawatzki’s reaction it was a highly sophisticated product; he instructed a canteen assistant to prepare two glasses, remarking that this sort of sparkling wine was not something they laid on every day.

“Gagmez doesn’t get that served up to him often,” the assistant said.

Sawatzki laughed, handed me my glass, raised his and said, “Here’s to you!”

“To Germany,” I said. Then we clinked glasses and drank.

“What’s wrong?” Sawatzki asked apprehensively. “Doesn’t it taste good?”

“If I drink wine at all, it is usually a dessert variety, like a Trockenbeerenauslese,” I explained. “I know it’s supposed to have this bitter note, indeed in this wine it is deemed an advantage, but I’m afraid it’s too acidic for me.”

“I can get you something else …”

“No, don’t worry. I’m used to it.”

“But you could have a Bellini.”

“Bellini? Like Madame?”

“Yes, of course. You might like that. Wait a sec!”

While Sawatzki skipped off, I stood there uncertainly. For a moment I thought of all those dreadful times in my early years of politics, at the beginning of my struggle, before I had been properly introduced into society and felt somewhat lost at its periphery. This unpleasant memory only lasted for a fraction of a second, however, for no sooner had Sawatzki turned away than a young brunette approached me and said, “That was fantastic! How do you come up with something like the house-mouse and field-mouse?”

“You could do the same,” I said confidently. “All you need do is to take a walk though nature and keep your eyes open. Alas! many Germans these days have forgotten how to see the simple things. May I ask what education you have?”

“I’m still studying,” she said. “Sinology, Theatre Studies and—”

“Good God!” I laughed. “Stop at once! A pretty thing like yourself stuffed full of such cerebral nonsense! You would be far better off finding yourself a brave young husband and doing something to help preserve the German race.”

She laughed heartily. “That’s method acting, isn’t it?”

“There he is!” Madame Bellini called out behind me. At her side was Sensenbrink, with Gagmez in tow, a tortured smile on his lips. They joined us. “Let’s toast! We’re all professionals here. And the professional in us can’t help but conclude that this was a fabulous programme! There’s never been anything like it. You two are going to be a dream ticket!”

Sensenbrink eagerly filled glasses with sparkling wine, while Sawatzki returned and handed me a glass of something the colour of apricots.

“What is this?”

“Just try it,” he said, raising his glass. “Guys: To the Führer!”

“To the Führer!”

There was sympathetic and jubilant laughter all around and I had a keen struggle to fend off all the congratulations offered to me. “Please, ladies and gentlemen, we still have much work to do!” Cautiously I took a sip of the drink and gave Herr Sawatzki an appreciative nod. It tasted very fruity, was a delight to the palate and yet was not of such overblown complexity. Essentially it seemed to be a simple country-style fruit pulp, enlivened by a little sekt, but only a drop so that having enjoyed the drink one need not fear excessive hiccoughing or similar aggravations. The significance of such details is not to be underestimated; in a situation like mine, one must always take care to behave impeccably.

What I find disagreeable about these informal, yet important gatherings, is that one cannot simply retire when one would like, unless one is waging war at the same time. If one is busy executing the Manstein Plan in northern France, or if one is launching a surprise attack to occupy Norway, then everybody is full of understanding, quite naturally. As they are if one retires to one’s study after the toast to look over U-boat designs or help develop high-speed bombers crucial to our final victory. In peacetime, however, one just stands around wasting one’s time drinking fruit pulp. Sensenbrink’s raucous manner was increasingly testing my nerves, while Gagmez’s sour face
did not make the evening any more congenial. So I excused myself, temporarily at least, to fetch myself something from the buffet.

An assortment of sausages was being served in heated, rectangular tin vessels, as well as an array of roast meats and large quantities of noodles, none of which particularly appealed to me. I was about to turn away when Sawatzki appeared at my side.

“Is there something I can get you?”

“No, no, don’t worry …”

“Damn it!” Sawatzki said, slapping his forehead. “You’re looking for the stew, aren’t you?”

“No, I can … take one of these sandwiches …”

“But you’d prefer stew, wouldn’t you? The Führer loves simple food!”