Timur Vermes - Look Who's Back

This gentleman had established that one does not earn the favour of the workers only through higher wages and suchlike, but also by supplying their representatives with money and Brazilian lovers. By means of a number of laws this formula had been extended to the workers themselves, albeit with lesser inducements, of course. Rather than running to the millions, the sum was considerably more modest, and rather than real Brazilians, there were pictures of Hungarian or Romanian ladies of pleasure on the Internetwork, which presupposed that every jobless man was in possession of one or more computer. In this way, Herr Rossmann and Herr Müller were able to go on filling their pockets in their staff-less and razorblade-less trade without having to fear that the unemployed might smash their shop windows. The whole scheme was paid for out of the taxes of the small man from the munitions factory. And for the experienced National Socialist, everything pointed to a conspiracy of capital, of Jewish finance. Using the money of the poor, the even poorer were placated to the benefit of the rich in such a way that their businesses could happily continue to profit from the crisis. Politicians on the left never tired of pointing this out, although by neglecting to mention the Jewish element their explanations fell short. There could be no question that not only Jewish finance, but world Jewry as a whole must be involved here. Only now was the true villainy of the plot revealed. And this — it struck me like a thunderbolt — was the task Providence had reserved for me. In this liberal–bourgeois world of make-believe, I alone was able to recognise and expose the truth.

Superficially, one could make a strong case that Herr Hartz and his social-democratic accomplices had achieved their purported objectives. A White Russian woman on the computer, a warm, dry apartment and sufficient food — did all these not represent redistribution in the socialist sense?

No. The truth could only be understood by the man who knows the Jews, the man who knows that with them there is no left and no right, and that both sides work hand in hand in perpetuity. And only the perspicacious spirit who sees through all the disguises could recognise that in their aim to eliminate the Aryan race, nothing had changed. The final struggle for the earth’s scarce resources would come — far later than I had prophesied — but it would come nonetheless. And the aim was so clear that only a fool could deny it: the Jewish hordes were planning once more to flood the Reich with their repulsive masses. But they had learned from the last war. Because they realised their inferiority, they resolved to undermine, reduce and annihilate the valour of our Volk. So that when the day came, the Asiatic millions would be met only by effeminate Hartz-men, helplessly waving their mouse devices and television control boxes.

I was chilled to the bone with horror. And the nature of my mission was transparent.

I must resolutely follow this path. I elected at once to look for somewhere else to live. The hotel was no longer to be my home; I needed a proper base.

I had in mind something similar to where I had stayed in Prinzregentenplatz in Munich. An apartment large enough for me, guests, staff, preferably an entire, self-contained floor. But not a house. A villa with a garden, even with dense shrubbery, is far too easy a target for one’s political opponent to monitor or raid. No, a large apartment, close to the centre of town in a lively area — this still has its advantages. And if it were right next door to a theatre, I wouldn’t mind.

“Don’t you like it here anymore?” asked the receptionist, who by now was totally uninhibited and saluting me correctly. There was a jocular undertone to her question, but also a perceptible and sincere regret.

“I thought about taking you with me,” I replied. “My sister used to keep house for me, but she’s no longer alive I’m sorry to say. Were I able to pay your hotel salary I would very happily offer you a job.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I like the variety here. Still, it’s a shame.”

In the past someone else would have taken care of finding an apartment; now I had to take the matter in hand myself. In one respect this was interesting, because it brought me into contact with contemporary life. On the other hand it also brought me into contact with agency riff-raff.

It soon became evident that without an estate agent one could not acquire a halfway decent apartment between 400 and 450 square metres. What became evident only later was that it was unlikely even with the assistance of these agent vermin. It was quite shocking how little these envoys of the rental inferno knew about their own properties. Even after sixty years’ absence from the market I was on every occasion able to locate the fuse box in less than half the time that it took the “expert” they sent. After the third firm I started insisting on more experienced colleagues, for otherwise I only got sixteen-year-olds in suits too large for them. These ignorant youths looked as if they had been dragged straight from their school desks into the front line of property broking.

At the fourth attempt I was actually offered something suitable in the north of Schöneberg. A decent walk from there would take me to the government district, another factor in this property’s favour. After all, one never knew how soon my proximity to that area would become essential.

“Do I know you?” the older agent asked as he showed me the servant’s quarters beside the kitchen.

“Hitler, Adolf,” I said tersely, adeptly inspecting a few empty cupboards.

“Of course,” he said. “That’s it! Without your uniform on — excuse me. And anyway, I thought you’d take the moustache off.”

“Whatever for?”

“Well, you know. When I get home the first thing I do is take off my shoes.”

“And I take off my moustache?”

“That’s what I thought…”

“I see. Is there a room here for physical exercise?”

“A fitness room? The last tenants didn’t have one, but before them there was someone from the jury of a talent show — he used the room over there.”

“Is there anything I should know?”

“Like what?”

“Bolshevist neighbours?”

“There may have been in the Thirties. But then… then you… how should I put it?”

“I know what you’re trying to say,” I said. “Anything else?”

“Well, let’s see…”

I thought melancholically of Geli. “I don’t want another suicide apartment,” I said firmly.

“Since we’ve been managing this property, no-one’s killed themselves. Not before that, either,” the agent said hastily. “At least I believe that’s the case.”

“It’s a fine apartment,” I said drily. “The price is unacceptable, however. Lower it by 300 euros and we have a deal.” I turned to go. It was half past seven. After my successful première, Madame Bellini had surprised me with some opera tickets. “The Mastersingers of Nuremberg” was being performed and she had immediately thought of me. She had even said she would come with me — for my sake, she emphasised, as normally she didn’t care for Wagner.

The agent promised to get back to me about the rent. “There’s not really any provision for discounts,” he said warily.

“It is always possible to reverse such a policy if you can count Hitler amongst your customers,” I reassured him before leaving.

It was unusually mild for late November. The sky had long since darkened; the city hummed and rushed all about me. For a brief moment I was seized by the frenzy of old, the fear of the Asiatic hordes, the urgent desire to increase our level of armament. Then this turmoil gave way to the pleasant feeling that catastrophe had not engulfed us over the past sixty years, that Providence had certainly chosen the right moment to summon me to action, without leaving me too little time to enjoy a spot of Wagner now and again.