Look Who's Back (27 page)

But back to my point: naturally nobody expects this man to be womanising anymore.

The advantage of being older than one hundred and twenty is chiefly tactical. One’s political opponent is not anticipating it, and so is completely ambushed. He expects one’s appearance or physical constitution to be quite different. So the truth of the situation is denied outright, because what must not cannot be. This has very “unpleasant” consequences. For example, shortly after the war, the deeds of the National Socialist regime were declared to have been crimes. This was highly perplexing, seeing as my government had been a legitimately elected one. And it was established that there would never be a statute of limitations for these “crimes”, which always sounds good to the ears of those sentimental parliamentary curs. But I’d like to see which of today’s scoundrels in government will be remembered in three hundred years’ time.

The Flashlight company had in fact received an official communication from the public prosecutor’s office, saying that they had been telephoned by a number of nitwits, and that several complaints had been lodged relating to the alleged crimes. The investigations were stopped dead in their tracks, of course, because I could not possibly be who I purported to be, they said, and as an artist I naturally had more licence, and so on and so on …

Once again we see that even simple souls in the public prosecutor’s office have a greater understanding of art than those professors at the Vienna Academy. Although public prosecutors today are like the blinkered legal experts of yesteryear, at least they recognise an artist when they see one.

Fräulein Krömeier informed me of all this when I arrived at my office just before lunch, and I construed it as a good start to the day on which I intended to bring my conflict with
Bild
to an end.

Irritatingly, I’d had to discuss my speech with Madame Bellini in advance, a state of affairs I found most objectionable, particularly as she had the company lawyer in tow, and we all know what we think of lawyers. To my great surprise the pedant had no reservations, or only very tiny ones, and these Madame Bellini swept from the table with a dynamic “We’ll do it anyway!”

I still had a little time afterwards, so I headed for my office and bumped into Sawatzki, who was just leaving. He had been looking for me, he said, he’d left some manufacturing prototypes on my desk, and was thoroughly looking forward to the day of reckoning and so on and so forth. What he said came
across as surprisingly inconsequential. Especially as I had already seen the prototypes the previous day – coffee cups, stickers, sports jerseys which were now called T-shirts, following the American usage. Sawatzki’s enthusiasm, however, was one hundred per cent trustworthy.

“We will return fire at 22.57,” he said, full of vim.

Intrigued, I said nothing.

And then he added, “Henceforth syllable will be met with syllable!”

I gave a smile of satisfaction and went into my office, where Fräulein Krömeier was diligently trying out new typefaces for my speech. Then I wondered whether I ought not to develop my own typeface. After all, I had already designed medals and the N.S.D.A.P. flag, a swastika in a white circle on a red background. Logically, therefore, I should invent the ideal typeface for a national movement. Then it occurred to me that before long graphic designers in printers’ workshops would be discussing whether to set a text in “Hitler Black”, and I scrapped the idea.

“Is there anything new about the prototypes?” I asked casually.

“Which prototypes, mein Führer?”

“The ones Sawatzki just delivered.”

“Oh, I see!” she said. “Not really, there’s only a couple of cups?” She quickly grabbed a handkerchief and blew her nose very, very thoroughly. When she had finished her face was quite red. Not tear-stained, but certainly rather animated. Well, I wasn’t born yesterday.

“Tell me, Fräulein Krömeier,” I speculated. “Is it possible
that you and Herr Sawatzki have got to know each other rather better of late?”

She smiled uncertainly. “Would that be a bad thing?”

“It is none of my business …”

“Well, seeing as you asked, it’s my turn to ask a question: What do you think of Herr Sawatzki, mein Führer?”

“Enterprising, enthusiastic …”

“You know what I mean, L.O.L. He’s been really friendly recently? And popping in a lot? But what do you think of him – as a man? Do you think he’s right for me?”

“Well,” I said, and Frau Junge momentarily came to mind. “It would not be the first time that two hearts have come together in my anteroom. You and Herr Sawatzki? I’m sure the two of you have a great deal of fun together …”

“So true!” Fräulein Krömeier beamed. “He’s a real sweetie! But O.M.G., don’t go telling him I told you that.”

I assured her that she could count on my discretion.

“What about you?” she asked, sounding a little concerned. “Aren’t you nervous?”

“Why should I be?”

“It’s so unbelievable?” she said. “I’ve seen some of these telly people? But you’re defo the coolest?”

“In my profession one must have veins of ice.”

“Give it to them,” she said firmly.

“Will you be watching?”

“I’ll be right behind the set,” she said. “And I’ve already got one of them T-shirts, mein Führer!” Before I could say a word she jauntily opened the zipper of her black jacket and proudly showed me the shirt.

“I beg you!” I snapped, and when she rapidly zipped up her jacket again, added more kindly, “Just for once wear something that isn’t black …”

“Whatever you say, mein Führer!”

I left the office and was brought to the studio by the chauffeur. Jenny was already waiting and greeted me with a sonorous “Hi, Uncle Ralf!” By now I’d given up correcting her, in part because I knew she was turning it into a running joke. Over the past few weeks I had been Uncle Wolf, Uncle Ulf, Uncle Golf, Uncle Hoof and Uncle Woof. I was not sure I should be able to depend on her when it came to the crunch; it was indisputable that her frivolity would undermine morale in the long term, and so I had made a mental note. If this sort of thing did not cease after the first wave of incarcerations, then I had her earmarked for the second wave. But for now, naturally, I wasn’t giving anything away as she led me to wardrobe and Frau Elke.

“Put the powder away, Herr Hitler’s here!” she laughed. “Today’s the big day, pet, so I’ve heard.”

“Yes, but perhaps not for everyone,” I said, taking a seat.

“We’re counting on you, my love.”

“Hitler – our last hope,” I said dreamily. “As it used to say on the placards …”

“That’s laying it on a bit thick,” she said.

“Well, take some off then,” I said anxiously. “I don’t want to look like a clown.”

“No, treasure, what I meant was … Forget it. You don’t need much. The man with the dream skin. Go on, honey, out you go and show them who’s boss.”

I went behind the set and waited for Gagmez to announce
me. He now did this with increasing reluctance, although I had to admit that no outsider would have been able to detect it.

“Ladies and gentlemen. To preserve the multicultural balance, I give you Germany from the perspective of a German – Adolf Hitler!”

I was greeted by rapturous applause. With each programme I had found it easier to appear in front of the audience. A sort of ritual had evolved, as it had all those years ago in the Berlin Sportpalast: incessant cheering, which I subdued to absolute silence by not saying a word and looking deathly serious for minutes on end. Only then, in this tension between the expectation of the crowd and the iron will of the individual, did I begin to speak:

“Recently …

and on more than one occasion …

I have been obliged …

to read
things
written about me …

in the newspaper.

Of course …

I am used to that.

From the lying scum …

of the liberal press.

But now, too, in a paper …

which has lately printed some …

very pertinent comments about the Greeks.

Or about certain Turks.

And idlers.

Now it is I who am criticised

in that paper

for a number of remarks which …

were in the same vein.

Then ‘questions’ were raised,

such as who am I?

To cite only the most inane of the lot.

It was enough to make me ask:

What sort of newspaper is this?

What sort of rag?

I have asked my colleagues.

My colleagues know of it,

but do they read it?

No!

I have asked people on the street.

Do you know this paper?

They know it,

But do they read it?

No!

No-one reads this rag.

And yet … millions of people buy it.

Well … nobody knows better than I

that there can be no greater praise for a newspaper.

This was the case

with the
Völkischer Beobachter”

Here the audience signalled their passionate approval for the first time. Appreciatively, I let them continue for a while, before I called for silence with a wave of my hand.

“By contrast …

the
Völkischer Beobachter
had a boss

who was a real man.

A lieutenant.

A fighter pilot

who lost his leg for

the Fatherland.

Who is running this
Bild
?

A lieutenant too.

Well, well, well!

So … what is wrong with this man?

Perhaps he is lacking in ideological leadership.

When the lieutenant and editor-in-chief

of the
Völkischer Beobachter

was ever in doubt,

he would ask me

what
I
thought.

But no-one from this
Bild
paper

has ever solicited my opinion.

At first I thought the man might be one of those principled idealists,

who keep all politics at arm’s length.

Then I realised.

He does indeed call when he needs moral support.

But he does not call me.

He calls Herr Kohl.

Another politician.

If one can call him that.

The very Herr Kohl who was a witness at his wedding.

I have made my enquiries at the lieutenant’s publishing house.

They said it was all above board
and there was no comparison with the
Völkischer Beobachter
.

And yet,

this politician was the former chancellor of united Germany.

And
that

is precisely what I cannot understand.

For after all, I am an even more former chancellor of united Germany.

But I doubt that the united Germany of this Herr Kohl

is as united as mine was.

Quite a few pieces are missing.

Alsace.

Lorraine.

Austria.

The Sudetenland.

Posen.

West Prussia.

Danzig.

East Upper Silesia.

The Memel Territory.

I have no desire to go into too much detail here.

But there is one thing I should like to say:

If the editor wants well-informed opinions

he ought to seek out the organ grinder

rather than the monkey.”

Once more the studio exploded with applause, which I acknowledged with a solemn nod of the head before continuing.

“But perhaps

this editor is not in search of well-informed opinions.

As people say so beautifully these days,

I ‘googled’ this man.

I found a photograph of him.

Then everything fell into place.

You see, this is the advantage of having a thorough grounding in racial theory.

One glance is enough.

This ‘editor’

goes by the name of Diekmann.

Of course, this is not a real editor at all,

but a walking suit with a pound of lard in his hair.”

A further blast of cheering told me that in Editor Diekmann I had hit upon exactly the right target. I gave the audience less time to show their elation this time, to draw out the tension.

“But ultimately, it is the deed which determines

the truth

and the lie.

The lie is: this newspaper is trying to convince its readers

that it is my bitter enemy. The truth you can see here.”

I imagine it had taken all manner of photographic skill to process the detail of the image on my telephone, but nothing had been manipulated and the facts remained unchanged. One could clearly see Frau Kassler paying the bill at the Adlon. And then the picture was overlaid with Sawatzki’s headline:

“Bild
financed the Führer.”

I have to say, I had not been applauded like that since the Anschluss of Austria in 1938. But the real show of support was
seen in the visitor numbers to my special address on the Internetwork. At times my speech was not accessible – such bungling incompetence; in the past I’d have had Sensenbrink dispatched to the front for that. His skin was saved by the fact that Sawatzki’s slogan had ensured excellent sales of
“Bild
financed the Führer” sports jerseys, coffee cups, key rings and many such items. And the shops had been more than adequately stocked in advance.

Which made me adopt an even more conciliatory attitude towards Sensenbrink.

I
t took three days for them to surrender.

On the first day they failed with their temporary injunction. The court rejected it on the perfectly reasonable grounds that
Bild
did not exist at the time of the Führer, which meant that the only possible reference was to the T.V. Führer. And the fact that the newspaper had financed him was incontrovertible. The court remarked, moreover, that the embellishment of facts in the headline was a stylistic device often employed by the paper, and thus
Bild
could not complain if such a tactic were used against it.

On the second day they realised that all revisionist aspirations were hopeless, and they were obliged to acknowledge the sales figures of sports jerseys, stickers and cups bearing the slogan. Some upstanding young Germans even staged a protest outside the publisher’s offices, albeit in a far more avuncular mood than I would have considered apt.