Timur Vermes - Look Who's Back

“Thank you,” I said absently.

“No, I really mean it,” he said. “I’ve seen Downfall . Twice. Bruno Ganz was superb, but he’s not a patch on you. Your whole demeanour… I mean, one would almost think you were the man himself.”

I glanced up. “Which man?”

“You know, the Führer,” he said, raising both his hands, crooking his index and middle fingers together, then twitching them up and down twice. I could hardly bring myself to accept that after sixty-six years this was all that remained of the once-rigid Nazi salute. It came as a devastating shock, but a sign nonetheless that my political influence had not vanished altogether in the intervening years.

I flipped up my arm in response to his salute: “I am the Führer!”

He laughed once more. “Incredible, you’re a natural.”

I could not comprehend his overpowering cheerfulness. Gradually I pieced together the facts of my situation. If this were no dream — it had lasted too long for that — then we were indeed in the year 2011. Which meant I was in a world totally new to me, and by the same token I had to accept that, for my part, I represented a new element in this world. If this world functioned according to even the most rudimentary logic, then it would expect me to be either one hundred and twenty two years old or, more probably, long dead.

“Do you act in other things, too?” he said. “Have I seen you before?”

“I do not act,” I said, rather brusquely.

“Of course not,” he said, putting on a curiously serious expression. Then he winked at me. “What are you in? Have you got your own programme?”

“Naturally,” I replied. “I’ve had one since 1920! As a fellow German you are surely aware of the twenty-five points.”

He nodded enthusiastically.

“But I still don’t recall seeing you anywhere. Have you got a card? Any flyers?”

“Don’t talk to me about the Luftwaffe,” I said sadly. “In the end they were a complete failure.”

I tried to work out what my next move should be. It seemed likely that a fifty-six-year-old Führer might meet with disbelief, even in the Reich Chancellery and Führerbunker; in fact he was certain to. I had to buy some time, weigh up my options. I needed to find somewhere to stay. Then I realised, all too painfully, that I had not a pfennig on me. For a moment unpleasant memories were stirred of my time in the men’s hostel in 1909. It had been a vital experience, I admit, allowing me an insight into life which no university in the world could have provided, and yet that period of austerity was not one I had enjoyed. Those dark months flashed through my mind: the disdain, the contempt, the uncertainty, the worry over securing the bare essentials, the dry bread. Brooding and distracted, I bit into the foil-wrapped grain.

It was surprisingly sweet. I inspected the product.

“I’m rather partial to them, too,” the newspaper vendor said. “Want another one?”

I shook my head. Larger problems faced me now. I needed a livelihood, however modest or basic. I needed somewhere to stay and a little money until I had a clearer perspective. Perhaps I needed to find a job, temporarily at least, until I knew whether and how I might be able to seize the reins of government again. Until then, a means of earning money was essential. Maybe I could work as a painter, or in an architect’s practice. And I was not above a bit of labouring, either — not at all. Of course, the knowledge I possessed would be more beneficial for the German Volk if it were put to use in a military campaign, but given my ignorance of the current situation this was an illusory scenario. After all, I did not even know which countries the German Reich now shared a border with. I had no idea who was hostile towards us, or against whom one could return fire. For now I had to content myself with what I could achieve with my manual skills — perhaps I could build a parade ground or a section of autobahn.

“Come on, be serious for a moment.” The voice of the newspaper seller rang in my ears. “Don’t tell me you’re still an amateur. With that routine?”

This was the height of impertinence. “I am no amateur!” I said emphatically. “I’m not one of those bourgeois parasites!”

“No, no,” the man assured me. He was beginning to come across as a thoroughly honest individual at heart. “I mean, what do you do for a living?”

What indeed? What ought I to say?

“I… well, at present I am partly… in retirement,” I said, cautiously outlining my situation.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “But if you really haven’t… well, that’s incredible! I mean, they pass by here all the time, the place is teeming with agents, film types, telly people. They’re always delighted to get a tip-off, discover a new face. If you haven’t got a card, how am I going to get hold of you? What’s your phone number? E-mail?”

“Er…”

“Where do you live, then?”

Now he really had hit a nerve. But the man did not appear to be attempting anything underhand, so I decided to risk it.

“At present, the question of my billeting is… how should I put it?… somewhat unresolved…”

“O.K. So are you staying with a girlfriend?”

I thought briefly of Eva. Where might she be?

“No,” I mumbled, feeling unusually disconsolate. “I have no female companion. Not any longer.”

“Oooh,” the newspaper seller said. “Got you. It’s all still a bit fresh.”

“Yes,” I admitted. “Everything here is really quite fresh for me.”

“Wasn’t really working out towards the end, eh?”

“That would be an accurate assessment of the situation.” I nodded. “Steiner’s army group offensive never got off the ground. Inexcusable.”

He looked confused. “With your girlfriend, I mean. Who was to blame?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Ultimately Churchill, I expect.”

He laughed. Then he gave me a long, thoughtful stare.

“I like your style.” Then his voice changed as he growled, “I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

“Offer?”

“Listen, I don’t know what your standards are. But if you haven’t got any particular requirements then you’re welcome to spend a night or two here.”

“Here?” I looked around the kiosk.

“Can you afford the Adlon?”

He was right. I looked at the floor with embarrassment.

“You see me — virtually penniless…” I conceded.

“Well then. And it’s no surprise, seeing as you don’t put your talent out there. You shouldn’t hide.”

“I have not been hiding!” I protested. “It was because of the relentless bombing!”

“Whatever,” he said dismissively. “O.K. Let’s say you spend a day or two here, and I’ll have a word with one or two of my customers. The latest issue of Theatre Today arrived yesterday, along with one of the film magazines. One by one they’ll come and buy their copies. Maybe we can fix something up. I’ll be absolutely honest with you: the uniform is so spot on it wouldn’t even matter if you weren’t much of a performer…”

“So, I’m going to stay here?”

“Just for now. During the day you’ll stick around here with me. That means if anyone comes I can introduce you to them straight away. And if no-one comes then at least I’ve something to make me giggle. Or have you got somewhere else to go?”

“No,” I sighed. “I mean, apart from the Führerbunker.”

He laughed. Then he paused.

“Listen, mate, you’re not going to clean me out of all my stuff, are you?”

I gave him a look of disgust.

“Do I look like a criminal?” He looked at me. “You look like Adolf Hitler.”

“Exactly,” I said.