Look Who's Back (33 page)

“Schmul Rosenzweig,” I said, feeling irritation rise again. Was I really that difficult to recognise?

“Thanks. Rosenzweig … Rosenzweig …” she repeated. “I haven’t got any Rosenzweigs on the list.”

“Heavens above,” I cursed. “Do I look like a Rosenzweig? Hitler! Adolf!”

“You could have said that in the first place,” she wailed with such a quiver in her voice that I almost felt sorry for my remark. “Have you got any idea of how many people we get here? I can’t be expected to know them all! Especially not if they start giving false names. Earlier I got Becker’s wife mixed up with his ex-girlfriend – he gave me a right roasting for that …”

I am no stranger to sympathy. A true Führer feels for each and every one of his fellow Germans as if they were his own children. But pity never helped anyone.

“Brace yourself,” I said sharply. “You are at this post because your superior officer is depending on you! Do your best and he will not fail to lend you his support!”

She gave me a look of bewilderment, but – as often happens in the trenches – my harsh words must have sparked some courage in her. She nodded and led me to the party in the upper section of the tent, where I was immediately introduced to the editor. This was a seasoned blonde lady in a dirndl, with shining blue eyes. Her vivacity convinced me that she would have made a perfect office supervisor in party headquarters. I
might not necessarily have entrusted her with a newspaper, although … a gossip sheet with health tips and knitting patterns … that might work, who knows? She was probably very keen to talk; she looked as if she had already raised four or five children, and she must be terribly lonely at home.

“Ah!” she beamed. “Herr Hitler!” The corners of her eyes twinkled mischievously, as if she had just cracked an hilarious joke.

“Correct,” I said.

“I’m so delighted you’re here.”

“Madam, the pleasure is all mine,” I said, and before I could add another word her face broke into an even more radiant smile. When she turned to the side I assumed that a mandatory photograph was about to be taken. Adopting a serious expression, I turned in the same direction, there was a flash, and my audience was at an end. In my mind I rapidly sketched a four-year plan according to which this editor would spend at least five minutes talking to me here next year, and twenty the year after that – only in theory, of course, because by that stage my intention was to be able to say a polite “No, thank you” to these sorts of invitations. Then she would have to make do with someone like Göring.

“Catch you later,” the editor said silkily. “I hope you can stay for a while.” At which a young woman dressed in folk costume dragged me over to a gaggle of women similarly dressed.

This was one of the most frightful regional customs I had ever had the misfortune to experience. Not only the editor and this young woman, but every last damsel in the locality had felt obliged to squeeze herself into dresses which were zealously
styled on those worn by country wenches, but which even at first glance revealed themselves to be hideous imitations. We had gone down the same path in the League of German Girls, I admit, but there, as the name implies, we were dealing with
girls
. Assembled here, by contrast, were predominantly women whose girlhood lay at least a decade in the past, if not several. I was led to a beer table where a number of people were already seated.

“What can I get you?” asked a waitress, whose dirndl at least bore the authenticity of an honest work uniform. “A litre?”

“Still water, please,” I said.

She nodded and vanished.

“Hey, a pro,” said a large coloured man sitting next to a blonde at the other end of the table. “But you gotta get that in a large tankard! Looks better in the photos. Believe me, I’ve been doing this for fifty years now.” He gave me an unbelievably broad grin, exposing a staggering number of teeth. “Doesn’t look so good to be at the ‘Wiesn’ with a water glass.”

“Rubbish! Still waters run deep,” said a rather raddled dirndl-clad woman opposite me. I later heard on the grapevine that she earned her livelihood in one of those amateurish drama series. That is, when she wasn’t featuring in another transmission which, if I understood it correctly, consisted of equally third-rate personalities being taken to ancient woodland where they allowed themselves to be observed wading through worms and excrement.

“You do funny stuff, I’ve seen some of your programmes,” she said, taking a sip from her tankard and bending forward to afford me a view of her cleavage.

“Pleased to meet you,” I said. “I’ve seen a couple of your things too.”

“Should I know you?” a young blonde man asked from the other side of the table.

“Of course,” the negro said, signing a photograph for another man with a thick felt pen. “That’s Hitler from Gagmez. Fridays, MyTV! No, hang on, he has his own programme now. You gotta watch it, it’ll crack you up.”

“But it’s different from the usual, it’s kind of political too,” the raddled cleavage said. “It’s almost like the Harald Schmidt show!”

“Not my cup of tea, I’m afraid,” the blonde man said, turning to me. “Sorry, mate. Nothing personal, but politics – I just think nothing ever changes. All those parties and that, it’s just a mess.”

“A man after my own heart,” I said as the waitress placed my mineral water on the table. I took a sip and looked down into the main room of the tent, expecting to see people swaying to and fro in time to the music. But no-one was. Everyone was standing on tables and benches, with the exception of those who had just fallen off. People were wailing and shouting for someone called Jude. I tried to remember whether Göring had ever mentioned this mass debauchery after one of his visits, but my memory harboured no such recollection.

“Where do you come from?” the raddled woman asked. “South Germany, right?” Once more her cleavage was held up to me like a offering bag.

“From Austria,” I said.

“Like the real one!” the cleavage said.

I nodded and allowed my gaze to wander around the tent. There was a shriek, then some of the women in their ludicrous dresses attempted to clamber onto the benches and persuade others to join in. There was a hint of desperation about these unappealing women with their affected high spirits. But perhaps appearances were deceptive, and it was merely a consequence of their heavily swollen lips, which despite every effort gave their mouths a sulking, even offended expression. I took a casual glance at the lips of the raddled cleavage opposite me. They, at least, looked normal.

“I don’t like all that injecting either,” the cleavage said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Well, you were looking at my lips, weren’t you?”

She took a sip of beer. “I won’t let a doctor near them. Even though I sometimes think I’d have an easier time of it. I mean, none of us are getting any younger, are we?”

“A doctor? Are you feeling poorly?”

“You’re very sweet,” the cleavage said, bending over the table, tempting one to gather up the contents. Grabbing my shoulder, she turned me so that we were both looking in the same direction. She gave off an odour of beer, albeit not yet at a disagreeable level. Then, with slight twitches of her index finger, she pointing from right to left at the array of women: “Boob job. Nose job. Boobs. Arse. Dunno. Lips. Arse. Boobs – a while ago now. Dunno. Dunno. Nose. Lips. Boobs. Arse. Boobs
and
arse, paid for by the telly channel or production company; she did it for a special report.” She sat down again and looked at me. “You’ve had something done, though, haven’t you?”

“I’ve had what done?”

“This similarity, pur–lease! The whole industry’s scratching their heads, wondering who did it. Although …” Here she took another gulp of beer. “… if you ask me, you should sue the bastard.”

“My good woman, I have not the faintest idea what you are talking about!”

“Operations, for God’s sake,” she said with a tone of irritation. “Don’t pretend like you’ve not had one. That’s plain silly.”

“Of course there were operations,” I said, confused. She was a likeable woman in her own way. “Sea Lion, Barbarossa, Cerberus …”

“Never heard of them. Were you pleased?”

Down below they were playing “Pilot, Give a Wave to the Sun”, which put me in a pleasantly nostalgic mood. I sighed. “To begin with everything was fine, but then there were complications. Not that the English would have done any better. Or the Russians … But still.”

She scrutinised me. “I don’t see any scars,” she said with the air of a professional.

“I’m not going to complain,” I said. “The deepest wounds are those that Fate inflicts upon our hearts.”

“You’re right there,” she said with a smile, holding her beer towards me. I matched her gesture with my mineral water, then continued in my attempts to determine the nature of this strange company. Youth was poorly represented here, and yet most people seemed to be behaving as if they were not a day older than twenty. I dare say this was the reason behind the parade of décolletés, as well as the behaviour of one or two
individuals. It was disconcerting. The impression it made upon me was so strong that I could not shake it off. All these men who were unable to tolerate their physical decline or compensate for this with cerebral work, or at least a certain maturity; all these women who refused to sit back contentedly, having bred and reared their children for the Volk, but conducted themselves as if this were their one and only opportunity to reclaim their withered youth for a few precious hours. I would have loved to take these characters by the scruff of the neck and shout, “Pull yourselves together! You are a disgrace to yourself and to your Fatherland!” I was ruminating on such matters when a man approached the table and rapped on it with his knuckles.

“Evening,” he said in that unmistakable dialect which always reminded me of Streicher’s beautiful city. He was in his mid-forties or older, with long, dark hair, and was accompanied by what must have been his daughter.

“Lothar!” the raddled cleavage said, shifting to one side. “Take a pew!”

“No, I’m not staying. I just wanted to say I think what you’re doing is brilliant. I saw the show on Friday – I nearly wet myself, but also what you say is so true. All that Europe stuff and that! And the week before, that stuff with those social whatsits …”

“Social parasites,” I said.

“… Exactly,” he said, “that, and all that stuff about kids. Kids really are our future. You really hit the nail on the head. I just wanted you to know.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I am most pleased. Our movement
needs your support. And I would be delighted if I could count your dear daughter amongst our supporters too.”

All of a sudden he looked incensed, then he burst out laughing and turned to his daughter. “There he goes again. Utterly ruthless! Gets you where it really hurts.” Then he rapped his knuckles on the table once more and said, “Ciao!”

“You do know that’s not his daughter, don’t you?” the cleavage said when this Lothar had left.

“I assumed as much,” I said. “Of course it couldn’t be his biological daughter; racially it just doesn’t work. I assumed he’d adopted the girl. I’ve always been a strong advocate of adoption; much better than having such a poor young thing grow up in an orphanage …”

The cleavage rolled her eyes.

“Can’t you say anything normal at all?” she sighed. “I need to go to the little girls’ room! Don’t run away! You might be awful, but at least you’re not boring.”

I took a sip of water. I was still wondering what to make of the evening when I was aware of a commotion behind me, a lady enveloped by a throng of journalists. The lady appeared to be one of the principal attractions of the event, as she was pursued by photographers and television cameras almost without pause. She had a southern complexion, which made her dirndl look particularly odd, and the arrangement of her décolleté was grotesque. This notwithstanding, if her overall appearance could be described as respectable in a vulgar sort of way, such an impression was shattered the moment she opened her mouth. She spoke at a pitch higher than that of any mechanical saw I ever heard. But the photographers and
reporters were indifferent to the noise. She was just about to squeak into a camera when a photographer caught sight of me in the background and steered her to my table for a picture of the two of us. The lady appeared unenthusiastic.

I know that look. Behind the eyes laughing superficially, I could detect a merciless machine calculating whether or not this photograph would prove advantageous to her. What helped me to see through her expression was that I was making the same calculation myself, albeit much more rapidly and, moreover, producing an answer in the negative. Her hesitation told me that she, on the other hand, seemed not to have arrived at a conclusion. For her the consequences were uncertain and hence a risk, which she would rather have evaded with a witticism. By now, however, one of the photographers had surged forward and tossed into the fray the slogan “Beauty and the Beast”, from which moment the baying pack of press hounds was no longer stoppable. So the exotic reckoning machine took the bull by the horns and rushed towards me shrieking with laughter.

This type of woman is not a new phenomenon; she existed seventy years ago too, although she was not then as prominent. Her craving for recognition knows no bounds and her self-esteem is low. She endeavours to assuage this by trying to conceal each one of her supposed deficiencies. For unfathomable reasons this type of woman considers only one method to be suitable: turning everything into ridicule. She is the most dangerous type of woman a politician can meet.

“Wow, it’s you!” she whinnied, trying to throw herself at me. “How fab! Can I call you Adi?”

“You may call me Herr Hitler,” I told her soberly.

That is sometimes all it takes to put people off. She was undeterred, however. Sitting on my lap, she said, “Cool, Herr Hitler! So what are the two of us going to do for those cheeky old photographers? Eh? Hmm?”

In such a situation one has nothing to gain and everything to lose. Ninety-nine out of a hundred men would have lost their nerve at this point and beaten a retreat on the pretext of “readjusting the front line” or “redeploying units”. I had seen it often enough in the Russian winter of 1941, which at minus 30, even minus 50 degrees descended so suddenly on my troops. There was no lack of people who said, “Retreat, retreat!” I alone held my nerve and said, “On no account, not one metre back-wards! Any man who yields will be shot.” Napoleon failed, but I held the front, and in the spring we harried those bandy-legged Siberian bloodhounds like hares, over the Don, to Rostov, to Stalingrad and so on – I don’t wish to go into unnecessary detail now.