Look Who's Back (8 page)

In need of a rest, I switched from this frenzied broadcasting and, out of curiosity, back to the fleshy mother. Had she sent her degenerate daughter to borstal? What did her husband look like? Was he one of those lukewarm supporters who hid himself away in the National Socialist Motor Corps?

The programme immediately recognised that I had
returned to it, and began hastily to outline events for me yet again. Sixteen-year-old Manndi, the narrator recounted, now in a voice full of gravity and urgency, had lost her apprenticeship, and when she came home did not want to eat the food her mother had lovingly prepared for her. The mother was unhappy and had turned to a neighbour for help.

“You haven’t got very far,” I scolded the reporter, but promised to look in again later on, when more had happened. On my way back to the news channel I paid another brief visit to Buffalo Bill, homage to the silent film. Another narrator greeted me there and informed me what the supposed “lawyer” had been up to till that point in the programme. It seemed that moral improprieties had taken place at the educational establishment frequented by sixteen-year-old Sinndi. The search for the culprit, a pedagogue, led to a polyphony of excruciating nonsense. So ridiculous was this shoddy effort that I laughed heartily once more. Surely it needed an unctuous Jew to render this haphazardly cobbled-together hogwash even half credible. But where might one find a Jew these days? On this count, at least, Himmler had been as good as his word.

I switched back to the chaos of the news and then switched further. I saw gentlemen playing billiards, which was now regarded as a sport, a fact which could be deduced – as I had discovered – from the name of the channel, which was fixed in an upper corner of the picture. Another channel was showing sport, too, but here the camera captured people as they played cards. If this was modern sport, it made one fear for the fitness of the men undertaking military service. For a moment I wondered whether someone like Leni Riefenstahl could have
conjured more from such tedium, but even the art of the greatest geniuses of history has its limits.

It may be that the manner of filmmaking had changed. During my search I came across a few channels which were broadcasting something that superficially reminded me of the animated films of old. I still had a good recollection of the adventures of Mickey Mouse, but what I saw on the screen here was good for nothing more than inducing instant blindness. An endless succession of the most incoherent scraps of conversation was interrupted by an even more frequent injection of powerful explosions.

In fact the channels became ever queerer. There were some which broadcast only explosions, without the animations; for a short while I even suspected that this may be something like music, before coming to the conclusion that their sole aim was to sell an utterly mindless product called a ringtone. It was inexplicable to me why one should need a particular ring. As if everyone now worked in sound effects departments for talking films.

Having said that, selling via the television set seemed to be a fairly common practice nowadays. Two or three other channels were continually transmitting the sales pitches of hawkers, the likes of which one finds at every market fair. Here too the claptrap was casually overlaid with text in every corner of the screen. The dealers themselves broke every basic rule of serious oration; indeed they made not the slightest effort to give an impression of trustworthiness, and even the older ones wore ghastly earrings, like your average Gypsy. Their role-playing called upon the worst traditions of confidence trickery. One of
them would spout forth the most preposterous lies, while another stood beside him, exclaiming “Hey!” and “No!”, or even, “That’s unbelievable.” A complete farce which filled me with the urge to turn an 8.8 Flak on the assembled vermin, and have the untruths splattered from the scoundrels’ guts.

My anger was partly induced by a mounting fear that I would go mad in the face of such collective lunacy. When I tried to switch back to the oversized woman, it was a sort of escape. I got stuck, however, on the channel where the amateurish lawyer had been up to such frightful mischief. Now a courtroom drama was playing, whose lead actress I at first mistook for the chancellor I had seen on the news. It soon turned out, however, that she was merely a courtroom matron who closely resembled the chancellor. The case being tried was that of a certain Sanndi, who seemed to have been charged with a variety of irregularities at her educational establishment.

The sixteen-year-old girl had only committed these offences, however, on account of her fondness for a boy called Anndi, who was entertaining relations with three female students at the same time, one of whom was evidently an actress, or wished to become one. Due to inexplicable circumstances, however, she had put this career on hold in favour of a side-line in the criminal world, and now was part-owner of a betting shop. More utter nonsense along similar lines was reeled off, while the courtroom matron nodded keenly, her face a picture of utter seriousness, as if these absurd tales were the most normal thing in the world and actually happened on a daily basis. I simply could not fathom it.

Who would choose to watch rubbish like this?
Untermenschen, perhaps, who can barely read and write, but besides them? Practically deadened, I switched back to the rotund woman. Since my last visit her adventure-filled life had been interrupted by a programme of advertisements, the end of which I just caught. Then the narrator insisted on explaining to me for the umpteenth time that this wretched bint had lost all control over her bastard halfwit excuse for a daughter, and all she had managed to accomplish in the last half-hour was to prattle on to a chain-smoking neighbour about throwing the little cretin out. “This entire coterie of hopeless cases belongs in a labour camp,” I declared vociferously to the television set. “The apartment should be renovated or, even better, demolished along with the rest of the house, and a parade ground built in its stead, so as to expunge for good these calamitous goings-on from the wholesome minds of the German Volk. Exasperated, I hurled the control box into the waste-paper basket.

What a superhuman task lay ahead of me!

To subdue my fury I decided to step outside. Not for long, for I did not wish to be far from the telephone, but long enough to dash to the Blitz cleaner’s to fetch my uniform. I entered the shop with a sigh, was greeted as “Herr Stromberg”, picked up my surprisingly immaculate soldier’s coat and briskly made my way back. I could scarcely wait to face the world again in familiar clothing. Naturally, the first thing the receptionist said when I returned was that there had been a telephone call for me.

“Aha,” I said. “Of course. It would have had to happen while I was out. Who was it?”

“No idea,” the receptionist said, staring blankly at her television set.

“Did you not make a note of the name?” I shouted impatiently.

“They said they’d ring back,” she said, in an attempt to excuse her misconduct. “Was it important?”

“The future of Germany is at stake,” I said in disgust.

“Whatever,” she said, returning to gawp at her screen. “Got no mobile?”

“Mobile?” I spat.

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s like, handy.”

“Like Hanndi?” I screamed in a rage. “Is this another tramp who’s gone running to court because she lost her apprenticeship?” I turned on my heel and marched to my room to resume my study of the television.

I
t was remarkable how much more recognisable I was in my usual clothing. When I entered the cab the driver greeted me sulkily, but with a definite air of familiarity.

“Alright, governor? Back then, are we?”

“Indeed,” I replied, nodding to the man. I gave him the address.

“Right you are!”

I leaned back. I had not ordered any specific type of cab, but if this were an average model it was an excellent ride.

“What type of automobile is this?” I asked him nonchalantly.

“Mur-say-dees.”

I was suddenly overcome by a wave of nostalgia, a wonderful feeling of security. I thought of Nuremberg, the magnificent rallies, the journey through the delightful old town, the late-summer, early-autumn wind, which would prowl around the peak of my cap like a wolf.

“I had one of these once,” I said dreamily. “A convertible.”

“And?” the driver asked. “Drive well?”

“I do not have a licence myself.” I said. “But Kempka never voiced any complaints.”

“So you’re a Führer who’s never in the driving seat?” The man burst out laughing. “Good joke, eh?”

“It’s an old one.”

There was a brief pause in the conversation. Then the driver started up again.

“Well? Still got it – the car? Or did you sell it?”

“To tell you the truth I have no idea what became of it,” I said.

“Shame,” the driver said. “So, what are you doing in Berlin? Winter Gardens? The Red Cock?”

“Red Cock?”

“You know – what theatre? Where are you appearing?”

“First of all I intend to speak on the radio.”

“I knew it,” the driver said. “Got grand plans again, have we?”

“Destiny forges plans,” I said firmly. “I am merely doing what needs to be done, both now and in the future, for the preservation of the nation.”

“You’re really good!”

“I know.”

“Fancy a little detour to your old haunts?”

“Perhaps later. I should hate to be unpunctual.”

This, after all, was the reason for having ordered a cab. Given my limited means, I had offered to walk to the firm’s headquarters or take the tramway, but anticipating possible traffic congestion or other imponderables, Sensenbrink had insisted on my taking a cab.

I peered out of the window to see if I could still recognise parts of the capital. It was no simple task, especially as the
driver was avoiding the main thoroughfares to save time. Seeing very few old buildings, I nodded with contentment. It appeared as though almost nothing had been left behind for the enemy. What I still had not fathomed was how, after barely seventy years, such a large metropolis could be standing again. Did Rome not scatter salt in the earth of vanquished Carthage? Had it been down to me, I would have dispersed trainloads of salt in Moscow. Or in Stalingrad! Berlin, on the other hand, was no vegetable garden. The creative man can build a coliseum even on saline earth; as far as construction technology and engineering are concerned, of course, a tonne of salt in the soil is actually quite irrelevant. Moreover, it was quite probable that the enemy had been as awestruck when faced with the rubble of Berlin as the Avars had been before the ruins of Athens. And then, in a desperate attempt to preserve the culture, they had rebuilt the city only as well as second- and third-class races are able. For there was no doubt about it: even at first glance the trained eye could see that the vast majority of structures erected here were inferior. A frightful mishmash, compounded by the fact that wherever one looked the same shops appeared. To begin with I thought we were driving around in circles until I realised that Herr Starbuck owned dozens of coffee houses. The diversity of bakeries had gone, a chain of butchers was everywhere, and I even spotted several
YILMAZ BLITZ CLEANER’S.
The houses, too, were built to a very unimaginative design.

The edifice that accommodated the production company was no exception. It was hard to believe that in five hundred or a thousand years people would stand here, marvelling at this insipid block of concrete. I was heartily disappointed. The
building resembled one of those former assembly plants; perhaps this all-encompassing “production company” was not all it was cracked up to be.

A young, blonde, rather heavily made-up lady met me at reception to escort me to the conference room. I shudder to describe this place, with its bare, concrete walls, broken up occasionally by exposed brickwork. There was scarcely a door in sight; here and there one could see into large rooms where a number of people were working at their television sets beneath bright fluorescent tubes. The impression one gained was that the munitions workers had left but a few minutes ago. Telephones rang incessantly, and all of a sudden I realised why the Volk had been obliged to spend a fortune on ringtones: so that in this labour camp one could at least tell when one’s own phone was ringing.

“I assume that everything here is down to the Russians,” I said.

“Well, sort of,” the young lady said with a smile. “But you must’ve read that in the end they didn’t come in. Unfortunately. All we’ve got now are American locusts.”

Locusts. I sighed. It was as I had always feared. No Lebensraum, no land to produce bread to feed the Volk. So now Germans were resorting to eating insects like negroes. Gazing at the poor young thing, I was moved as she strode steadfastly beside me. I cleared my throat, but I fear that she may have picked up on my emotion when I said to her, “You are a very brave girl.”

“You bet,” she beamed. “I don’t want to remain an assistant for ever.”

Of course. An “assistant”. She was undertaking ancillary work for the Russians. Offhand I was unable to explain how such an arrangement could have come to pass in this modern world, but it bore all the hallmarks of those Russian vermin. I could not bear to contemplate what these “activities” under the yoke of Bolshevism might consist of, but I stopped abruptly and grabbed her arm.

“Look at me!” I said, and when she turned her head, somewhat startled, I stared her straight in the eye and said solemnly, “I make you this promise: You will live the future that your background deserves. I personally will do all I can so that you and every other German woman no longer have to serve these Untermenschen! You have my word, Fräulein …”

“… Özlem,” she said.

I still recall how unpleasant this moment was. For a fraction of a second my brain searched for an explanation as to how an honest German girl like her could come to have a name like Özlem. Of course, I failed to find one. I removed my hand from her arm, turned, and continued walking. I felt so deceived, so betrayed, that I wished I could leave this bogus woman behind. But I did not know where I was going. So I followed her in silence, resolving to tread more carefully in this new era. How extraordinary: these Turks were not only in the cleaning industry; they seemed to be everywhere.