Timur Vermes: Look Who's Back

Oh well.

My new circumstances certainly needed getting used to, but with some satisfaction I was able to conclude that, for the moment at least, there was no acute danger, even though there were inconveniences. As is normal with creative minds, my recent tendency had been to work for long periods, but also to take long rests, so as to preserve my habitual freshness and speed of response. The newspaper seller, however, would open up his kiosk at the crack of dawn, which meant that I, despite the fact that I frequently continued with my studies into the early hours of the morning, could not count on any restorative sleep thereafter. What made it worse was that this gentleman had an irritating need to talk in the mornings, whereas at that time of day I usually required a period of reorientation. Even on the very first morning he swept jauntily into the kiosk with the words, “So, mein Führer, how did you sleep?”

Without waiting for a second, he opened his vending window and allowed a particularly bright light to dazzle the interior of the kiosk. I moaned, screwed up my tormented eyes, and endeavoured to recall where I found myself. I was not in the Führerbunker, this was as clear as the daylight flooding into my makeshift lodgings. Had we been at headquarters I would have had the oaf court-martialled and shot there and then; this early-morning terror was undermining morale — why, it was practically sabotage! I retained my composure all the same, took on board my new situation, and reassured myself that this cretin probably had no alternative, given his livelihood; indeed, in his own blundering way I expect he was even trying to do his best by me.

“Time to rock and roll,” the newspaper vendor announced cryptically. “Come on, give us a hand!” He nodded towards a number of portable magazine racks, and dragged one of them outside.

Still exhausted, I sighed and struggled to my feet to help him. What irony: yesterday I was repositioning the 12th Army; today it was magazine racks. My gaze fell on the new issue of Hunting and Hounds . Some things had not changed, then. Although I had never been one for hunting — on the contrary, I had always looked upon it rather critically — at that moment I was gripped by the desire to flee this unfamiliar environment and roam the countryside with a dog at my heels, observing at close proximity the comings and goings of the natural world… I snapped out of my reverie. Within a few minutes the two of us had set up his kiosk for the day. The newspaper seller fetched two deckchairs and put them out in the sun. He invited me to sit, took a packet of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his shirt, flicked a couple through the aperture and offered me one.

“I don’t smoke,” I said, shaking my head. “Thanks anyway.”

He put a cigarette to his lips, took a lighter from his trouser pocket and lit it. Drawing in the smoke and exhaling with great pleasure, he said, “Ahhh — now for a coffee! Would you like one? I’ve only got instant, I’m afraid.”

The British must still be blockading the seas. It was a problem I’d had to deal with often enough, so it was hardly a surprise that, in my absence, the new Reich leadership — whatever form it now took or whichever name it went by — continued to be vexed by this predicament and was still searching for a solution. The brave, stoic German Volk had been forced to make do with substitutes for so long. I recalled that this alternative to coffee had been known as “ersatz”, and immediately I thought of the sugary grain bar which now took the place of good German bread. This unfortunate newspaper seller was embarrassed in front of his guest because the stranglehold of the British vermin allowed him to offer nothing better. It was an outright scandal. I was overcome with emotion.

“It’s not your fault, my good man,” I assured him. “In any case, I’m not much of a coffee lover. But I would be very grateful for a glass of water.”

And so I spent my first morning in this strange new epoch shoulder to shoulder with the smoking newspaper vendor, bent on analysing the population and gaining new insight from their behaviour until such a time as my host, through the contacts he had mentioned, might be able to secure me some sort of employment.

For the first couple of hours it was humble workers and pensioners who patronised the kiosk. They bought tobacco and the morning papers, but said little. A newspaper by the name of Bild seemed to be highly popular — particularly with older people. I assumed this was because the lettering was so extraordinarily large that those with poor vision would still be able to digest the news. An excellent idea, I was forced to concede, one that not even the zealous Goebbels had thought of. Just think of how much more enthusiasm it would have sparked for our cause amongst the elderly! In the last days I could remember of the war, it was chiefly the older members of the Volkssturm who lacked the drive, the determination and willingness to sacrifice themselves for the German nation. Who would have thought that a simple device such as larger lettering could have such an effect?

In mitigation, there had been a paper shortage during the war, but when all is said and done that Funk chap had been an utter moron.

My presence outside the kiosk began to cause a stir. There was the occasional outburst of gaiety, especially amongst the younger workers; more often it was recognition, conveyed by the words “cool” and “epic” — totally incomprehensible, I know, but from their facial expressions I inferred a definite respect.

“Isn’t he great?” the newspaper seller beamed to one of his customers. “Practically no difference, is there?”

“Nope,” the customer said, folding his newspaper. He was a worker, mid-twenties probably. “But are you allowed to do that?”

“What?” the newspaper vendor said.

“You know: the uniform and all that.”

“What objection could possibly be raised against the coat of a German soldier?” I asked suspiciously, a hint of irritation in my voice.

The customer laughed, to silence me, I expect.

“He’s really good. No, I mean, obviously you do this professionally, but don’t you need some sort of special licence to wear that in public?”

“Well I never!” I replied, incensed.

“All I’m saying,” he said, a touch intimidated, “is what would the authorities think if they saw you looking like that?”

This made me ponder. His intentions were honourable, and he was right: my uniform was no longer in the best condition; it was barely presentable.

“I agree, it is a bit dirty,” I said, somewhat crestfallen. “But even soiled, a soldier’s coat is forever nobler than the spotless dinner jacket of a fraudulent diplomat.”

“Why would it be forbidden?” the newspaper vendor asked soberly. “He’s not wearing a swastika.”

“What the devil is that supposed to mean?” I yelled in anger. “Everyone knows damn well which party I’m in!”

The customer left, shaking his head. When he was out of sight, the newspaper seller invited me to sit down again.

“He’s got a point,” he said in a friendly tone. “My customers are giving you funny looks. I know you take your work seriously, but couldn’t you wear something different?”

“Am I to deny my life, my work, my Volk? You cannot ask that of me,” I said, leaping up. “I will go on wearing this uniform until the last drop of blood has been spilled. I will not, as Brutus did to Caesar, commit a wretched act of betrayal; I will not stab in the back for a second time those who have given their lives for the Movement…”

“Do you always have to get in such a lather?” the vendor said with a hint of impatience. “It’s not just what your uniform looks like…”