Look Who's Back (31 page)

I could have watched the opening titles again and again, but I had to be in position by no later than the bakery scene. As the song ended I would be sitting at my desk, receiving the applause with a serious expression. It was certainly more relaxed than at the Sportpalast, but the introduction lent it a good degree of solemnity.

They had built me a wonderful studio, a vast improvement on the simple rostrum on Gagmez’s programme. It had been modelled on the Wolf’s Lair, as a compromise. My initial suggestion had been the Obersalzberg. Madame Bellini said that was too cheerful and cosy and proposed instead the Führerbunker. So we settled on the Wolf’s Lair. I even went there on a reconnaissance mission with a squad from Flashlight, out of curiosity more than anything, for I could have drawn the entire structure of the complex in detail, and from memory, including the guards. But Madame Bellini rightly insisted that the production team should visit the place to get their own impression.

I had assumed that within their sphere of influence the Russians would have razed everything which bore witness to our past, but of course they didn’t stand a chance with the Todt Organisation’s reinforced concrete. They even had to leave the flak towers in Vienna standing because they were unable to blow them up. Of course they could have stuffed them to the rafters with T.N.T., but Tamms – that devil of a fellow – had cunningly placed the towers bang in the heart of residential areas. And they are still standing there, impressively sombre, and testament to the art of German fortification.

The Poles, on the other hand, had turned the Wolf’s Lair into a sort of leisure park. It pained me to see the naïve indifference with which these clueless peasants dragged themselves around the site. The place lacks the necessary gravity; ultimately I prefer those documentation centres they’re building everywhere these days. True, such centres ideologically
bombard the people who visit them, but the seriousness and aims of the movement are by and large accurately conveyed, including the Jewish problem. A little distorted by these do-gooders, of course, but only a little. As a precaution they still have to scribble everywhere how “inhuman” our policies were. Goebbels would have ordered them to cross that out forthwith. “If you have to refer to it specifically the text sounds weak. With a good text the reader can think nothing else but ‘That was inhuman’. Then, and only then, you see, he believes he has come to this conclusion himself!”

Good old Goebbels. I adored his children; in the Führerbunker they were always my favourites.

So, the Wolf’s Lair. They have a hotel there now, with a canteen that serves up Masurian food, and nearby is a shooting range for air rifles: a woeful set-up. If I had been in charge of the premises I would have used our original weapons: the Gewehr 43, the Pistole 35, the Luger, the Walther army pistol or even the P.P.K. – on second thoughts, maybe not the P.P.K., because whenever I think about the good old P.P.K. it gives me these bothersome headaches. Perhaps I should consult a doctor about it, but that is something I have found difficult of late. It was very practical back then, with Theo Morrell always on hand. Göring didn’t like him, but Göring was not an expert in all matters.

I waited until the applause had died down completely, which was usually a sheer test of nerves between the broadcaster, the audience and myself, for I wanted absolute silence. I have succeeded in this with every audience so far.

“My fellow Germans!

We know that

a nation lives

off

its land.

Its land

is its

Lebensraum.

But, in what

state

do we find

this land

today?

The ‘chancellor’

says:

‘Excellent.’

Well, well.

Once upon a time in this country

the land could boast a healthy soil.

Now the land is simply soiled.

I put it to this ‘chancellor’,

where is the healthy soil of yesteryear?

I will have an eternal wait for my answer, for

the ‘chancellor’ knows as well as I do

that German soil is contaminated

with the poison of big capital,

of international finance!

German land is full of rubbish,

German children need the refuge of high chairs

to sit in safety.

The German man, the German woman

the German family are fleeing as far as they can

to skyscrapers;

the small German dog,

called Struppi

or maybe Spitzl,

he steps with his sensitive paw onto

a bottle top,

or laps at a dioxin and dies

excruciatingly

and with cramps!

Poor, poor Struppi.

And
this

is the land

which our ‘chancellor’

proclaims to be excellent.

Our guest today is an expert on German soil.

The Green politician,

Renate Künast.”

She was led in by a tall orderly in S.S. uniform. Werner, his name was, blonde and with impeccable manners. Even if it was clear that the lady found his uniform distasteful, her countenance also betrayed a certain appreciation of his physical assets. Women will always be women.

Werner was one of Sawatzki’s ideas too. The general opinion amongst the ranks at Flashlight was that I needed an adjutant.

“It’s important,” Sensenbrink had said. “It gives you someone else to interface with. If you’ve got a guest who’s dead wood, if a remark fails to trigger a discussion, then at least
you’re not fire-fighting on your own against the audience.”

“You mean I could push the blame onto someone else?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“I will not do that. The Führer may delegate operations, but never responsibility.”

“But when the bell rings the Führer’s not going to open the door himself,” Madame Bellini demurred. “And you’ll be having more than enough guests.”

That was certainly true.

“In the past you must have had an adjutant. Who used to open the door for you?” She stopped to think, then added, “I don’t mean you, but the real Hitler.”

“It’s alright,” I said. “The door? That would have been Junge. Or towards the end one of Schädle’s chaps …”

“Mamma mia!” Sensenbrink had sighed. “C’mon guys, let’s eat a reality sandwich here. Who the hell’s going to know who they are?”

“What on earth did you think? That Himmler personally ironed my uniform every morning?”

“At least he’s a name!”

“Let’s not get too complicated,” Madame Bellini had said. “Now, you weren’t talking about any old S.S. man, were you, but … Schäuble?”

“Schädle.”

“Exactly. A name. So let’s go one step up. I mean, it’s only symbolic.”

“I have no objections,” I said. “I suppose that means Bormann.”

“Who?”

“Bormann! Martin! Reichsleiter.”

“Never heard of him.”

I was about to give Sensenbrink a piece of my mind, but Madame Bellini grabbed my arm.

“Your knowledge of the subject is superb,” she said in a honeyed voice. “It’s fantastic that you know all these details, no-one else could do that! But if we want to win over the masses, get
really
big viewing figures …” And here, quite skilfully, she paused. “… then your adjutant can only be one of a really small bunch. Let’s be realistic about this, we could have Goebbels, Göring, Himmler, at a pinch Hess …”

“Not Hess,” Sensenbrink objected. “With him you’ve always got the sympathy vote. Poor old man, banged up for ever because of the evil Russians.”

“… Yes, you’re right. I agree,” Madame Bellini continued. “So that’s that as far as our candidates are concerned. Otherwise, thirty seconds into the show, everyone will wonder who that strange bloke is next to the Führer. Confusion is not good. You’re confusing enough yourself.”

“Goebbels would never open the door for me if the bell rang,” I said somewhat defiantly, but I knew, of course, that she was right. And of course Goebbels
would
have opened doors for me. Goebbels would have done anything for me. A bit like my Fuchsl back in the trenches. But even I understood that it couldn’t be Goebbels. They would turn him into a Quasimodo figure, like Fritz the hunchback in that sensationalised motion picture adaptation of “Frankenstein” with Boris Karloff. They would transform him into a grotesque creature, exposing him to derision each time he shuffled across the stage. Goebbels did
not deserve that. Göring and Himmler, on the other hand … True, each had his merits, but a justifiable fury still smouldered within me at their betrayal. And they would have stolen the show. After all, I’d seen what had happened to Gagmez.

“Hey guys, what about using the unknown soldier?” This suggestion came from Hotel Reserver Sawatzki.

“What do you mean?” Madame Bellini asked.

Sawatzki sat forward. “Tall, super-blonde,” he said. “An S.S. type.”

“Not bad, not bad at all,” Madame Bellini said.

“Göring would get more laughs,” Sensenbrink said.

“We don’t want cheap laughs,” Bellini and I said in unison.

We looked at each other. I liked this woman more and more with every meeting.

*

“Good evening and welcome,” I said to Frau Künast, offering her a seat. She sat down confidently, like someone accustomed to the camera.

“I’m delighted to be here,” she said mockingly, “sort of.”

“You may well be wondering why I invited you.”

“Because no-one else said yes?”

“Not at all. We could have had your colleague, Frau Roth. Which reminds me, could you do me a favour?”

“That depends.”

“Please expel that woman from your party. How could anybody form an alliance with a party that accommodates something quite so gruesome?”

“Well, that’s never stopped the S.P.D. or the C.D.U. in the past …”

“Indeed; aren’t you a bit surprised?”

For a moment she looked perplexed.

“Just for the record I’d like to say that Claudia Roth makes an indispensable contribution to …”

“Maybe you’re right, perhaps all you need to do is keep her away from the cameras, in a windowless, sound-proofed basement – but now we’ve arrived at the subject I wanted to discuss. I invited you here because I have to plan for the future, of course, and if I understand it correctly I will need a parliamentary majority for a takeover of power …”

“Parliamentary majority?”

“Yes, just as in 1933, when I needed the support of the D.N.V.P. Things might develop in a similar fashion in the foreseeable future. But, alas, the D.N.V.P. no longer exists, so I thought I’d look into potential candidates for a new Harzburg Front …”

“And of all the parties you see the Greens as a substitute?”

“Why ever not?”

“I don’t see many opportunities here,” she said with a frown.

“Your modesty does you great credit, but don’t hide your light under a bushel. Your party is more suitable than you might think.”

“Now I’m curious.”

“It is my assumption that we have compatible visions for the future. Pray tell me, where do you see Germany in five hundred years’ time?”

“Five hundred?”

“Or in three hundred years?”

“I’m no prophet, I prefer to focus on the realities.”

“But surely you have a plan for Germany?”

“Not for three hundred years. Nobody knows where we’ll be in three hundred years.”

“I do.”

“Oh really? Where will we be, then?”

“In devising their plans for the future, ladies and gentlemen, the Greens are seeking advice from the Führer of the German Reich – I did tell you that cooperation is not so inconceivable …”

“You can keep your alliance,” Künast backtracked hastily. “The Greens will get by perfectly well without you …”

“I see. In that case, how far into the future
does
your planning stretch? One hundred?”

“That’s nonsense!”

“Fifty? Forty? Thirty? Twenty? I know, I’ll count down from twenty and you can say ‘Stop!’”

“In all seriousness, nobody can predict future developments further ahead than, what? Ten years?”

“Ten?”

“O.K. Fifteen.”

“Alright, then. Where do you see Germany in a quarter of an hour?”

Künast sighed.

“If you absolutely insist, in the future I see Germany as an environmentally friendly high-tech country – especially as far as environmental technology is concerned – with a sustainable energy policy, embedded in a peaceful Europe under the umbrella of the E.U. and U.N.…”

“Did you get that, Werner?” I asked my adjutant.

“… embedded in a peaceful Europe under the umbrella of the E.U. and U.N.,” Werner dutifully jotted down.

“But can you be sure there will still be an E.U. by then?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“Will the Greeks still be in it? The Spaniards? The Italians? The Irish? The Portuguese?”

Künast sighed again. “Who can say for certain?”

“But you’re sure about your energy policy! There you are thinking along the same lines as I am! Few or no imports, total autarky from renewable raw materials, water, wind – energy security in one hundred, two hundred, even one thousand years. There you are – you
can
see into the future after all. And this – how shall I put it? – is precisely what I was always calling for …”

“Hang on one minute! For completely the wrong reasons!”

“What have these reasons got to do with a sustainable energy industry? Are there good and bad windmills?”

She looked at me crossly.

“If I understand you correctly,” I followed up, “for species-appropriate husbandry of dolphins, it is fine to use good, wholesome solar energy, but if you settle Ukrainian farmland with Germanic peasant soldiers, all they get is electricity from lignite? Or atomic energy?”

“No,” Künast protested. “You settle it with Ukrainians. If you settle it at all!”

“May the Ukrainians use wind energy? Or do you have specific ideas about this, too? Do you, in fact, have a directory of the different forms of energy and their correct use?”

She leaned back. “You know perfectly well that’s not what I meant. The way you’re arguing you might just as well ask whether the murder of millions of Jews would have been better with solar energy …”