Look Who's Back (29 page)

“My fellow Germans!

In this hour of victory

I turn to you

to clarify two things.

This triumph is unquestionably gratifying,

it is well deserved,

long deserved. We have driven larger productions

from the battlefield,

more expensive,

and even international ones.

But this victory

can only be a step

on the way to the final victory.

Most of all we have your sincere and confident efforts to thank!

Your unconditional, fanatical support.

But in this hour

we also wish to remember the victims

who have sacrificed their blood for our cause …”

“I’m sorry,” Kärrner said suddenly, “but I know nothing about this.”

Only then did it occur to me that I must have absent-mindedly slipped into the routine I used after the Blitzkrieg triumphs, which was perhaps a touch inappropriate, given the circumstances. As I was weighing up whether I ought to offer an apology or something along those lines, a voice interjected:

“It’s lovely you should be thinking about her in a moment like this,” said a colleague I had never met, an expression of
deep emotion on her countenance. “Frau Klement from accounts. It was only last week … ! That’s so …” The woman snivelled into her handkerchief.

“Frau Klement – of course! How could I have forgotten,” Kärrner said straight away, a faint blush on face. “Excuse me, please do continue. That was terribly embarrassing.”

With a nod I thanked Kärrner and attempted to regain my thread.

“The consciousness

that I, personally, was assigned by Providence

to give Flashlight back her freedom and honour –

this moves me greatly.

The ignominy which occurred

twenty-two years ago in the Forest of Compiègne

was expunged in the same place –

excuse me, I mean in Berlin.

I intend to finish by mentioning

those anonymous people, who have done their duty

no less assiduously,

who in their millions have risked life and limb as upstanding German officers and soldiers …”

– I had to correct myself here on account of several confused looks amongst the crowd –

“… and as upstanding German directors and cameramen and camera assistants,

as upstanding lighting technicians and make-up people

who make the ultimate sacrifice that …

directors and lighting technicians can make.

Many of them now lie at rest beside the graves

where lie their fathers from the great –

from far greater television productions.

You are witnesses of the silent heroism of all of those …”

– and now it got slightly tricky –

“… who, like Frau Klement from accounts,

stood up for freedom and the future

and the eternal greatness of the Greater German …

the Greater German Company Flashlight! Sieg …”

And, just as in the Reichstag of old, the salute came resounding back: “Heil!”

“Sieg …”

“Heil!”

“Sieg …”

“Heil!!!”

I
had set off early, having undertaken to enjoy the day. For it is a very special experience, indeed a magnificent one, to enter a silent place after it has been the scene of an overwhelming triumph. An office prior to the industriousness of the day; a stadium emptied of its ecstatic crowd, in which one hears nothing but the wind of the victor; or even occupied Paris at five o’clock in the morning.

I was on foot; I wanted to have the city to myself. The sun was already shining on this clear spring morning, the air was pleasantly cool, and cleaner, too, than at midday. In the parks, squalidly dressed Berliners were taking out their dogs for the first time that day; the befuddled women I was gradually becoming accustomed to were gathering up the usual piles of excrement in their bags. To my quiet amusement, I even saw an absent-minded and exhausted-looking smoker raise the bag to her mouth, while the hand holding her cigarette reached down to the stools deposited by her dog, a tiny creature. She shook her head, rubbed her eyes and corrected her mistake.

Birds serenaded the morning with their chorus, and once again I noticed just how much quieter a city is without the fire of anti-aircraft guns. An extraordinarily peaceful atmosphere
prevailed, and the temperature was already most agreeable. I made a short detour in order to pass by the newspaper kiosk, but all was quiet there too. I took a deep breath and marched at a lively pace until I reached the company’s headquarters. Opening the door, I was delighted to see that not even the doorman was about in his lodge. The evening before he had put a protective case over his telephone; as on many previous occasions, I could not help noting with delight this additional evidence of his exceptionally conscientious approach to work. Outside his compartment were large packages of newspapers, for later distribution. I am not one of those men who feels the need to respect hierarchies in every matter so, although Bormann would have disapproved, I had no qualms about simply helping myself to my morning reading. I took the pen attached to the desk by a long chain and jotted on one of the delivery notes, “Have already taken my newspapers. Thank you,” and signed “A. Hitler”. I registered with satisfaction that
Bild
had once again declared me the daily winner of something or other. The need to bring the German press into line now seemed less crucial.

With my reading matter under my arm, I strode dreamily down the corridors. Sunlight streamed through the upper windows; behind the closed glass doors I could see a few telephones flashing, though no sound could be heard. Chairs stood neatly at their desks in the workspaces; I felt as if I were inspecting a furniture parade. As I turned into the corridor I noticed light emanating from my office. The door was open. Fräulein Krömeier was sitting at her desk, typing something into her machine.

“Good morning,” I said.

“I’ve got to tell you something right now, mein F—” she said somewhat stiffly. “I can’t salute you anymore. And I can’t work here anymore either? I just can’t do it anymore.” Then she sniffed and bent to pick up her rucksack. Placing it on her lap, she opened the zipper and then closed it again without taking anything out. She returned the rucksack to the floor, stood up, opened a drawer in her desk, peered in and closed the drawer again. She sat back down and continued typing.

“Fräulein Krömeier, I …”

“I’m like … really sorry, but I can’t do it anymore,” she said as she typed. “It’s such crap!” She looked at me and cried, “Why can’t you do that stuff the others do? Like Klamaukheiner, who always plays the postman? Or that Bavarian, Mittermeier? Why couldn’t you just strut about and – I dunno – put on a funny accent? That would be much better!”

I fixed my gaze on Fräulein Krömeier and asked, somewhat awkwardly, “You want me to strut about?”

“Yes. Or just insult people? It doesn’t even have to be funny! Why do you always have to be Hitler?”

“It is not something one can choose,” I said. “Providence sets us in our place and there we perform our duty!”

She shook her head. “I’m typing up the advert for internal recruitment,” she sniffed. “You’ll get a replacement nice and quick. It’ll be as quick as a flash, just you wait. I bet there’s tons of people ready to jump on the bandwagon.”

Lowering my voice, I said quietly but firmly, “Stop your typing this instant and tell me what is wrong. Now!”

“Look, I can’t work here anymore,” she said defiantly.

“You can’t? And why not?”

“Because I was at my nan’s yesterday!”

“Sorry, but I’m none the wiser.”

Fräulein Krömeier took a deep breath.

“I love my nan. I lived with her for almost a year when my mum was ill. And I went to see her again yesterday? And she was like, ‘What are you up to?’ And I was like, ‘I’m working for a real star?’ I was so proud? And then she was like, ‘Who is it?’ And I was like, ‘Guess.’ And she didn’t have a clue, so I was like, ‘Adolf Hitler?’ And she was so pissed off? My nan absolutely flipped, she lost it. And then she starts crying? And she’s like, ‘What that man does is not funny. It’s nothing to laugh about. We can’t have people like that around.’ And I’m like, ‘But Nan, it’s satire? He’s doing it so it doesn’t happen again?’ But she’s like, ‘That’s not satire. He’s just the same as Hitler always was. And people laughed then, too.’ So I’m sat there, thinking, ‘For goodness’ sake, she’s just an old woman exaggerating? She’s never said much about the war, I expect she’s just in a tizz because she went along with a lot of it?’ And then she goes over to her desk and takes out an envelope with a photo inside.”

She paused briefly and gave me a searching look. “You should have seen how she took that photo out. Like it was worth a million euros? Like it was the last photo in the world? I made a copy of it. I had to spend half an hour persuading her to give it me to copy.”

Fräulein Krömeier bent to take a photograph from her rucksack and handed it to me. I examined the picture. It showed a man, a woman and two young lads somewhere in the countryside. They may have been beside a lake; they were lying
on a blanket or a large beach towel. I surmised that this was a family. The man in his bathing trunks was perhaps a little over thirty. He had short dark hair and looked athletic; the blonde woman was decidedly attractive. The lads were sporting paper hats – made from a newspaper, I expect – and posing with wooden swords, broad smiles across their faces. My assumption about the lake proved correct; at the bottom of the picture someone had written in dark pen: “Wannsee, summer 1943”. All in all, this appeared to be an impeccable family.

“What about it?” I asked.

“It’s my nan’s family. Her dad, her mum, her two brothers.” I did not wage war for six years without a sense of the tragedies that war can unleash. The wounds that untimely death can hack into people’s souls. “Who died?” I asked.

“They all did. Six weeks later.”

I looked at the man, the woman, the two lads, especially the two lads, and I had to clear my throat. One can expect the Führer of the German Reich to be relentlessly harsh with himself and with his Volk too, and I am always the first to impose such severity upon myself and on others. I am sure I would have been steely and indomitable had I been scrutinising a more recent photograph, let’s say of a soldier in this new Wehrmacht, even if he had been a victim of hopelessly incompetent political machinations, a sacrifice of this ineffable Afghan venture. But this photograph, dating so evidently from that time to which I still felt very close, this picture touched my heart.

I surely cannot be reproached for having been prepared at any moment, and without hesitation, to sacrifice hundreds of thousands on the fronts in the East and West to save millions.
For having sent men to their deaths, men who took up arms in full confidence that I would commit and – if the worst came to the worst – give up their lives for the welfare of the German Volk. Maybe the man in the photograph was one of these; it was very possible that he had been on leave. But the woman. The boys. Indeed, the civil population as a whole … It still made me sick, this impotence, the fact that I had not been able to protect the Volk on home soil. That dipsomaniac Churchill ought to have been ashamed of himself for having allowed the most innocent of the innocent to perish miserably in the flames of the firestorm, living torches of his all-consuming hatred.

All the wrath and ire of those years came to the boil again, and with moist eyes I said to Fräulein Krömeier, “I am so terribly sorry. I will – and here I give you my word – I will spare no effort to prevent any English bomber from even daring to come near our borders and cities again. Let nothing be forgotten, and mark my words, one day we will meet each bomb a thousandfold …”

“Please!” Fräulein Krömeier stuttered. “Please, cut it out for a second. For just a
single
bloody second. You haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about.”

This would take some getting used to. It’s been a long time since the Führer was rebuked, even unjustly so; the Führer should be far too high up in the national hierarchy to be rebuked. Moreover, one ought never to rebuke the Führer; one must have trust in him. In this respect any and all rebuking of one’s superiors is unjustified, and of me especially so, and yet … and yet Fräulein Krömeier seemed genuinely troubled. Thus I glossed over her remarks, delivered in anger, for her objection
was of course utter nonsense. There is barely a person alive who knows better than I what they are talking about, most especially on this score.

So I held my tongue for a moment.

“If you should like to have the day off …” I then said. “I believe you are in a difficult situation. I just wanted you to know that I have nothing but the very highest regard for your work. And if your grandmother is unhappy about it, maybe it would help if you explained to her that she’s directing her ire at the wrong target. The bombing was Churchill’s idea.”

“It’s not aimed at the wrong target, that’s what’s so awful,” Fräulein Krömeier shrieked. “Who’s talking about a bombing? These people weren’t bombed. They were gassed!”

I paused and took another look at the photograph. The man, the woman, the boys – none of them looked like criminals, or Gypsies, certainly not like Jews. Although in their facial features, if you looked closely enough – no, that could also be my imagination.

“Where is your grandmother in this picture?” I asked, but I’d already guessed the answer.

“She took the photo?” Fräulein Krömeier said in a voice that sounded like green, untreated wood. Motionless, she stared at the wall opposite. “It’s the only photo she has of her family. And she’s not even in it herself.” A black tear ran down her cheek.

I offered her a handkerchief. At first she did not react, but then she took it and smeared kohl across her face.

“Perhaps it was a mistake?” I said. “I mean, these people don’t look at all like …”

“What kind of argument is
that
?” Fräulein Krömeier asked.
“Are you telling me that if they were killed by mistake then everything’s O.K.? No, the real mistake is that someone came up with the idea that all the Jews had to be killed! And the Gypsies! And the gays! And everyone else whose face he didn’t like the look of. Let me tell you something. The answer is, if you don’t kill everyone you don’t kill the wrong ones either, do you? It’s that simple!”