Look Who's Back (37 page)

“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!”

I
t 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 something 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.

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.

Adolf Hitler (1889–1945)
, we dare assume, is sufficiently well known for no introduction to be necessary. A few biographical notes up to his takeover of power in 1933, however, may serve to clarify some of the observations made in the book. Having left school at sixteen, Hitler moved to Vienna where he supported himself by working as a casual labourer and selling his watercolours. Twice rejected by the Academy of Fine Arts, Hitler fell into poverty, living in a shelter for the homeless, then a men’s workhouse. He volunteered immediately to fight in 1914 and was awarded the Iron Cross for bravery. After the end of World War I, Hitler moved to Munich where he joined the embryonic National Socialist party and soon gained a reputation as an orator. After the failed Beer Hall Putsch of 1923,
Hitler was sentenced to five years’ imprisonment, but served only one, during which time he wrote
Mein Kampf
. Following his early release he rebuilt the party, became its undisputed leader, and the meteoric rise of the Nazis began.
Eva Braun (1912–45)
was his long-term partner who only became the Führer’s wife for the last couple of days of their life. Having already undertaken a couple of unsuccessful suicide attempts in the 1930s, she finally managed it together with Adolf in the bunker.

One of the great ironies of the Third Reich was that neither its Führer nor his three leading henchmen were the embodiment of the Aryan ideal as propagated by National Socialism.
Hermann Göring (1893–1946)
, the portly, arrogant head of the Luftwaffe – one of his many roles – was addicted to morphine as well as fine clothes. Sentenced to death at Nuremberg, he cheated the hangman by swallowing cyanide on the eve of his execution.
Heinrich Himmler (1900–45)
, weaselly head of the S.S. and one of the key figures of the Holocaust, also committed suicide after capture by British forces, having failed in his attempt to negotiate a peace treaty with the Allies behind Hitler’s back. The physically frail
Joseph Goebbels (1897–45),
Hitler’s greatest fan and Nazi Germany’s propaganda chief, killed his children before he and his wife took their own lives in Hitler’s bunker.

Martin Bormann (1900–45),
who gets frequent mention in the novel, became very close to Hitler in later years; as the Führer’s trust in him grew, so did his power within the regime, while his relationship with Himmler, amongst others, became increasingly antagonistic. For many years after the war, uncertainty
prevailed over Bormann’s fate, and the West German government did not officially abandon the hunt for him until 1971. It was later accepted that he was killed while trying to escape from Berlin at the end of the war.
Heinrich Müller (1900–45)
, chief of the Gestapo, was another leading Nazi whose death has remained a matter of mystery. It is assumed that he died in May 1945, but no physical remains have ever been found.

Of the other Nazi figures referred to here, perhaps the best known is
Rudolf Hess (1894–1987)
, Hitler’s deputy from 1933 to 1941, at which point he took the madcap decision to pilot a plane to Britain in a solo attempt to negotiate with the government. Hess’s Messerschmitt crashed in Scotland and his peace efforts came to naught. He was sentenced to life imprisonment at Nuremberg, and he lived out the rest of his life at Spandau prison in Berlin, where for more than twenty years he was the only inmate, guarded by soldiers and warders from the four victorious Allied Powers.
Albert Speer (1905–81)
is best known for his role as chief architect of the Third Reich, although he also became minister for armaments during the war. Speer was responsible for the New Reich Chancellery, which Hitler refers to in the novel, as well as the Nuremberg parade grounds. After the war Speer was imprisoned for twenty years for his complicity in the crimes of the Third Reich.
Ernst Röhm (1887–1934)
was on the radical wing of the Nazi Party that was pressing for social revolution. Head of the S.A., Röhm was executed as part of the Night of the Long Knives in summer 1934.
Reinhard Heydrich (1904–42)
, referred to in the novel by first name only, was the brutal and ruthless deputy protector of occupied
Bohemia and Moravia, as well as one of the main instigators of the Holocaust. Heydrich was assassinated in Prague by a group of Czech and Slovak officers following orders from their government-in-exile.
Julius Streicher (1885–1946)
, “the Jew Baiter of Nuremberg”, founded the newspaper,
Der Stürmer
, which Hitler recalls in the kiosk. A virulent anti-Semite, his behaviour was condemned as excessive by other leading Nazis, and his star waned after 1938, in spite of his close relationship with the Führer. Streicher was hanged for his incitement of the Holocaust, even though he had not been directly involved. Another leading Nazi executed at Nuremberg was
Joachim von Ribbentrop (1893–1946)
, wine salesman turned foreign minister, via a spell as ambassador to London. An incorrigibly vain man, Ribbentrop added the “von” to his name through his aunt’s aristocratic connections.
Robert Ley (1890–1945)
was head of the German labour front, which established the “Strength through Joy” leisure organisation for the masses. He committed suicide while on trial at Nuremberg.
Walther Funk (1890–1960)
served as a propaganda minister in the Third Reich, later becoming economics minister. He was imprisoned after the war, but released in 1957 due to poor health.
Ernst Hanfstaengl (1887–1975)
was an early supporter of Hitler who introduced him into Munich society and later worked as chief of the foreign press bureau for the Nazis. He fell from favour in the mid-1930s and later fled Germany.
Franz Schädle (1906–45)
was the commander of the Führer’s S.S. bodyguard; he shot himself the day after Hitler committed suicide.
Ulrich Graf (1887–1950)
and
Max Ernst von Scheubner-Richter (1894–1923)
were both shot during Hitler’s Beer Hall Putsch of
1923. The former survived, despite having taken eleven bullets to the body.