Timur Vermes - Look Who's Back

It is quite extraordinary. For the first time in ages I am not bothered by the snow, even though it has come so early this year. Large flakes are falling outside the window; in 1943 this would have driven me mad. Now I know that everything has a deeper significance, that Destiny does not expect me to win a world war at the first or second attempt, that she is giving me time and has trust in me; now I can properly enjoy this mellow pre-Christmas tranquillity once more, after some arduous years. And I am enjoying them almost as much as I did when I was a child, huddled up in a cosy corner of the parlour with Homer’s account of the Trojan War. There is still pain in my ribcage, but it is heartening to feel that it is abating.

The publishing house has supplied me with a dictation machine. Sawatzki wanted me to use my mobile telephone, but in the end I’ve found the dictation machine easier to operate. Press a button — it records; press a button — it stops. In general I’m very much against this multiplication of tasks. The wireless has to play these silver disks too, the razor machine has to work for both wet and dry shaving, the petrol pump attendant doubles up as a grocer, while the telephone has to be a telephone, a calendar, a camera and everything else besides. This is dangerous nonsense, the only possible consequence of which is that thousands of our young people will be mown down on the roads because they cannot stop staring into their screens. One of my first undertakings will be to outlaw such telephone devices or allow them only for those inferior racial elements remaining in our society — for the latter I may even make them compulsory. Then they will litter the main thoroughfares of Berlin like squashed hedgehogs. So they do have their practical uses. But otherwise: utter nonsense! Certainly, it would be far more advantageous for the state finances if the Luftwaffe could also assume the task of refuse collection. But what sort of a Luftwaffe would we have then?

A good idea. I will dictate it immediately into the device.

In the corridor outside they have stuck up voluminous quantities of Christmas decorations. Stars, fir branches and much more. On Sundays in Advent there is Glühwein, of which they have now developed a most pleasant non-alcoholic variety, although I have my doubts that it will ever find acceptance amongst the troops. Ah well, a private will always be a private. On reflection, I cannot say that Christmas decorations have become more tasteful with the passing of the years. A most disagreeable industrialisation has taken hold. I am not concerned about whether something is kitsch or not, for every example of kitsch harbours a residue of the feelings of the simple man, and since that is the case there will always be the possibility of a development towards real art. No, what really bothers me is that the importance of Father Christmas has grown disproportionally, doubtlessly as a result of Anglo-American cultural infiltration. The candle, meanwhile, has fallen in significance.

Perhaps it only seems like this because candles are not permitted here in the hospital, for fire safety reasons. And much as I appreciate the careful handling of Volk property, I cannot recall large numbers of buildings having been damaged during my time in government, despite the generous use of candles. But I do concede that, from 1943 onwards, the statistics become rather less meaningful given the increasing absence of buildings. Nonetheless, a Christmas like this has its own charm. Free from the burden of governmental responsibility, which in the longer term will be inevitable, I ought to enjoy it while it lasts.

I can say that the personnel are making great efforts to take care of me. I talk to them a lot, about their working conditions, about the social services which — as I am learning more and more — are in such a wretched state that it is well-nigh a miracle anybody can be cured at all. I get many visits from doctors. Coming to me off-duty, they sit down and tell me about the latest example of effrontery from the current blunderer masquerading as the health minister. There are just as many incidences of absurd behaviour involving his predecessor, they say, and no doubt the same will be true of his successor. I must address the matter in my programme, they urge me, and announce in no uncertain terms that change is urgently required. I promise that soon I will tackle this with all my energies. Occasionally I comment that it would help if fewer foreigners were treated here on the ward. They laugh, say, “Well, of course you could see it that way,” followed immediately by a “but joking aside”, after which comes a tale of the next outrage. Of which there seems to be no shortage.

There is also a strikingly charming nurse, a fiery character, bright and cheerful. Her name is Irmgard, in fact… but I definitely need to pace myself. Were I twenty years younger, maybe…

Herr Sawatzki has just been to visit with Fräulein Krömeier, or should I say the former Fräulein Krömeier. I still find it hard to get used to saying Frau Sawatzki. The two of them have a happy event looming, and she’s already as round as a ball. She insists she can still manage, but it cannot be very long before her belly starts to become a real burden. She has taken on a little colour — or maybe taken off a little white. I still find all that difficult to understand. But I have to say that they make a marvellous couple, and when they look at each other, I know that in nineteen or twenty years a strapping grenadier will be at their side: impeccable genetic material for the Waffen-S.S., and later for the party. They asked me where I was spending Christmas and then invited me over, which delighted me, but I don’t think I shall bother them. Christmas is a family celebration.

“But you’re practically part of the family?” Fräulein, I mean Frau Sawatzki said.

“Just at the moment,” I said, for Schwester Irmgard was coming through the door, “just at the moment Schwester Irmgard is my family.”

Schwester Irmgard laughed and said, “Over my dead body. I’m just popping in to check he’s alright.”

“He is fine,” I grinned, and she let out such a hearty laugh that I almost considered putting off the next stage in my political career for a year or two.

“Frau Bellini and Herr Sensenbrink send their best wishes,” Sawatzki said. “Frau Bellini’s going to come tomorrow or the day after, with the outcome of the meeting about the new slot, the new studio…”

“You must have seen it,” I said. “What is your impression?”

“You won’t be disappointed, I can tell you. There’s a pile of money behind it! You’ve not heard this from me, but there’s still plenty left in the budget. Plenty!”

“That’s enough,” Frau Sawatzki said, cutting him off. “We’ve got to go and buy a pram? Before I can’t move anymore?”

“O.K., O.K.,” Sawatzki replied. “But do think about my suggestion.” I could have sworn that as the two of them left he said something like, “Have you told him what the baby’s going to be called?” But I may have been mistaken.

Yes, his suggestion. He is absolutely right, it is a perfectly logical step. If a handful of parties are inviting one to become a member, one would be well advised not to give one’s valuable self to causes other than one’s own. In 1919 I would have foundered in another party. Instead I took over a tiny, insignificant party and shaped it according to my wishes, which was far more effective. In this case, with the impetus of a book publication and a new programme scheduled, I could launch a propaganda offensive and then start a movement. He has already sent to my mobile telephone some designs for placards. I like them. I really like them.

They are of me and they’re modelled closely on the old ones. They’re more striking with the old typeface, Sawatzki says, and he’s right. I should listen to him; he has a knack for this. He has also devised a new electoral slogan. It will be plastered at the bottom of all the placards, giving them a common thread. The slogan addresses old virtues, old doubts, and for good measure has a humorous, conciliatory element to win over those pirate voters and other young people. The slogan reads: “It wasn’t all bad.”