Timur Vermes - Look Who's Back

I buttoned up my coat and wandered through the streets. Some shops were taking delivery of large quantities of fir and spruce branches. When I found the hustle and bustle a little too overwhelming I ducked into the smaller side streets. I pondered a few changes to certain details in my programme, and strolled past an illuminated sports centre. Large sections of the population were in tip-top physical condition — too often, however, these were women. A well-trained body may make childbirth easier; it improves the resilience and health of the mother. But ultimately the aim was not to breed hundreds of thousands of female partisans. The proportion of young men in these sports facilities had to be raised markedly. Such were my musings when two men blocked my path.

“Oi, you. Jewish bastard,” one said.

“Do you think we’re just going to sit back and watch you insult Germany?” the second said.

Slowly, I removed my hat and showed my face in the light of a streetlamp.

“Step back into the ranks, you vermin,” I said, unruffled. “Or you’ll end up like Röhm!”

For a while neither of them said another word. Then the second man hissed, “What sort of a sick bastard are you? First you get that face operated on, then you use it to stab Germany in the back!”

“A sick, vile bastard,” the first one said. Something glinted in his hand. With incredible speed his fist hurtled towards my face. Attempting to maintain my poise and my pride, I did not evade the blow.

It was like being hit by a bullet. There was no pain, only speed, only a powerful impact. Then the wall of the building rushed silently towards me. I tried to keep my footing, but something hit the back of my head hard. The building shot past above me, my hand felt in my coat pocket, I grabbed the opera tickets and took them out, while the blows around me increased. The English must have new artillery, a murderous barrage, it became so dark, how could they aim with such accuracy, our graves, like the end of the world, I didn’t even know where my helmet was, or my faithful dog, my Foxl, my Foxl, my Foxl…

The first thing I saw was a glaring neon light. “I hope somebody’s been looking after Wenck’s army,” I thought. Then I looked around the room and when I caught sight of the apparatus it soon became clear that there was no pressing need for Wenck’s army just for now.

Beside me was a type of coat stand, to which several plastic sacs had been attached. The contents of these dripped slowly into my right arm; the left was in a rigid plaster mould. This was not so simple to observe, for I was unable to open the eye on the non-plaster side. I was baffled: it all looked mightily painful, and yet I could feel no pain save for a permanent thudding in my head. I turned my head to afford a better reconnaissance of my situation, then raised it carefully, triggering a sudden and sharp pain in my chest.

I could hear a door open on the other side of the room, but decided not to look over. The face of a nurse appeared cautiously above the bridge of my nose.

“Are you awake?”

“…” I said. This was intended to be a question about the date, but my mouth issued no more than a sound somewhere between a grunt and a rasp.

“Good,” she said. “Now, don’t go back to sleep, will you? I’m going to fetch the doctor.”

“…” I wheezed in reply. I could already tell that in all likelihood I had suffered no permanent damage, just a slight rusting of the vocal chords as a result of their not having been used for some time. I rotated my functioning eye. In my field of vision was a small table on which sat a telephone and a bouquet of flowers. I saw a device which must be monitoring my pulse. I tried to move my legs, but soon abandoned the attempt as it was probable that this would incur further pain. Instead I essayed some short speaking exercises; I presumed, after all, that I would have a question or two to put to the doctor.

In fact nothing happened for a considerable length of time. I had forgotten how things tended to be in hospital if one is not Führer and Reich Chancellor. The patient is supposed to recover, but in fact all he does is wait. He waits for nurses, treatment, doctors — ostensibly everything is going to happen “soon” or “straight away”, whereas “straight away” means “in half an hour to forty-five minutes” and “soon” means “in an hour or more”.

I was overcome by an acute urge, and I sensed at once that a certain provision had been made for this too. I would have liked to have taken a look at the television for a while, only the operating of this machine was as perplexing to me as it was physically impossible. So I stared motionlessly at the wall opposite and tried to reconstruct recent events. I recalled a moment in a patient transport vehicle and Fräulein Krömeier’s screams. Confusingly, my mind played that short sequence over and again in which I greeted France’s surrender with a spontaneous leap or dance for joy. And yet I wasn’t wearing a uniform but a turquoise tutu. Then Göring came up to me, leading two saddled reindeer, and said, “Mein Führer, when you’re in Poland please get me some curd cheese. I’ll cook us something fabulous this evening!” I looked at him incredulously and said, “Göring, you fool! Can’t you see I don’t have any pockets?” At this Göring burst into tears and someone was shaking my shoulder.

“Herr Hitler? Herr Hitler?”

I woke with a start, jerking up as far as my body would allow.

“The ward doctor’s here.”

A young man in a white coat offered me his hand, which I was barely able to shake.

“Here we are,” he said. “I’m Doctor Radulescu.”

“Considering your name, you speak remarkably fluent German,” I croaked. “No trace of an accent.”

“Considering the state you’re in, you’re remarkably talkative,” the imported doctor said. “Do you know how I perfected my German accent?”

I shook my head wearily.

“Thirteen years of school, nine semesters studying medicine, two years working abroad, then I married my wife and took her name.”

I nodded and coughed; assaulted by pain, I tried to avoid coughing again, at the same time attempting to exude an element of strength and Führer-like leadership qualities. The outcome of not coughing, however, was that a number of small and unlovely bits and pieces shot out of my nose. All in all I felt miserable.

“Let’s get one thing out of the way first. You’re in better physical shape than you look. There’s nothing that won’t heal or get working again properly in time…”

“My vo–ice?” I moaned. “…I’m an or–ator.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your voice, it’s just out of practice, hence the dry throat. What you must do is keep drinking. All the time. If I’m not mistaken,” he said, glancing down beside my bed, “you don’t even have to worry about waste disposal for the time being. Let’s see, what else have we got? A nasty fracture of the cheekbone, severe concussion, several ugly bruises on the jaw, but the most puzzling thing is that it’s not broken. The guys in casualty immediately put money on a knuckleduster. If they’re right you can thank your lucky stars ten times over. Your swollen eye might not be pretty, but it’ll work again. And then we’ve got a broken collarbone, broken arm — a clean break, which is perfect — five broken ribs, and we had to open you up to put that rupture of your liver right again. While we’re on the subject, might I say that you’ve got one of the finest livers we’ve ever seen? Am I right in thinking you don’t drink?”

I nodded weakly. “Vegetarian, too.”

“Your results really are excellent. You might make it to one hundred and twenty.”