Look Who's Back (3 page)

“You should have a bigger breakfast,” he said, before sitting down again. “Are you filming nearby?”

“Filming … ?”

“You know, a documentary. A film. They’re always filming around here.”

“Film … ?”

“Goodness me, you’re in a right state.” Pointing at me, he laughed. “Or do you always go around like this?”

I looked down at myself. I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary apart from the dust and the odour of petrol.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” I said.

Perhaps I had suffered an injury to my face. “Do you have a mirror?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said, pointing to it. “Right next to you, just above
Focus
.”

I followed his finger. The mirror had an orange frame, on which was printed “The Mirror”, just for good measure, as if this were not obvious enough. The bottom third of it was wedged between some magazines. I gazed into it.

I was surprised by how immaculate my reflection appeared; my coat even looked as if it had been ironed – the light in the kiosk must be flattering.

“Because of the lead story?” the man asked. “They run those
Hitler stories every three issues nowadays. I don’t reckon you need do any more research. You’re amazing.”

“Thank you,” I said absently.

“No, I really mean it,” he said. “I’ve seen
Downfall
. Twice. Bruno Ganz was superb, but he’s not a patch on you. Your whole demeanour … I mean, one would almost think you were the man himself.”

I glanced up. “Which man?”

“You know, the Führer,” he said, raising both his hands, crooking his index and middle fingers together, then twitching them up and down twice. I could hardly bring myself to accept that after sixty-six years this was all that remained of the once-rigid Nazi salute. It came as a devastating shock, but a sign nonetheless that my political influence had not vanished altogether in the intervening years.

I flipped up my arm in response to his salute: “I
am
the Führer!”

He laughed once more. “Incredible, you’re a natural.”

I could not comprehend his overpowering cheerfulness. Gradually I pieced together the facts of my situation. If this were no dream – it had lasted too long for that – then we were indeed in the year 2011. Which meant I was in a world totally new to me, and by the same token I had to accept that, for my part, I represented a new element in this world. If this world functioned according to even the most rudimentary logic, then it would expect me to be either one hundred and twenty two years old or, more probably, long dead.

“Do you act in other things, too?” he said. “Have I seen you before?”

“I do not act,” I said, rather brusquely.

“Of course not,” he said, putting on a curiously serious expression. Then he winked at me. “What are you in? Have you got your own programme?”

“Naturally,” I replied. “I’ve had one since 1920! As a fellow German you are surely aware of the twenty-five points.”

He nodded enthusiastically.

“But I still don’t recall seeing you anywhere. Have you got a card? Any flyers?”

“Don’t talk to me about the Luftwaffe,” I said sadly. “In the end they were a complete failure.”

I tried to work out what my next move should be. It seemed likely that a fifty-six-year-old Führer might meet with disbelief, even in the Reich Chancellery and Führerbunker; in fact he was certain to. I had to buy some time, weigh up my options. I needed to find somewhere to stay. Then I realised, all too painfully, that I had not a pfennig on me. For a moment unpleasant memories were stirred of my time in the men’s hostel in 1909. It had been a vital experience, I admit, allowing me an insight into life which no university in the world could have provided, and yet that period of austerity was not one I had enjoyed. Those dark months flashed through my mind: the disdain, the contempt, the uncertainty, the worry over securing the bare essentials, the dry bread. Brooding and distracted, I bit into the foil-wrapped grain.

It was surprisingly sweet. I inspected the product.

“I’m rather partial to them, too,” the newspaper vendor said. “Want another one?”

I shook my head. Larger problems faced me now. I needed
a livelihood, however modest or basic. I needed somewhere to stay and a little money until I had a clearer perspective. Perhaps I needed to find a job, temporarily at least, until I knew whether and how I might be able to seize the reins of government again. Until then, a means of earning money was essential. Maybe I could work as a painter, or in an architect’s practice. And I was not above a bit of labouring, either – not at all. Of course, the knowledge I possessed would be more beneficial for the German Volk if it were put to use in a military campaign, but given my ignorance of the current situation this was an illusory scenario. After all, I did not even know which countries the German Reich now shared a border with. I had no idea who was hostile towards us, or against whom one could return fire. For now I had to content myself with what I could achieve with my manual skills – perhaps I could build a parade ground or a section of autobahn.

“Come on, be serious for a moment.” The voice of the newspaper seller rang in my ears. “Don’t tell me you’re still an amateur. With
that
routine?”

This was the height of impertinence. “I am no amateur!” I said emphatically. “I’m not one of those bourgeois parasites!”

“No, no,” the man assured me. He was beginning to come across as a thoroughly honest individual at heart. “I mean, what do you do for a living?”

What indeed? What ought I to say?

“I … well, at present I am partly … in retirement,” I said, cautiously outlining my situation.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “But if you really haven’t … well, that’s incredible! I mean, they pass by here all the
time, the place is teeming with agents, film types, telly people. They’re always delighted to get a tip-off, discover a new face. If you haven’t got a card, how am I going to get hold of you? What’s your phone number? E-mail?”

“Er …”

“Where do you live, then?”

Now he really had hit a nerve. But the man did not appear to be attempting anything underhand, so I decided to risk it.

“At present, the question of my billeting is … how should I put it? … somewhat unresolved …”

“O.K. So are you staying with a girlfriend?”

I thought briefly of Eva. Where might she be?

“No,” I mumbled, feeling unusually disconsolate. “I have no female companion. Not any longer.”

“Oooh,” the newspaper seller said. “Got you. It’s all still a bit fresh.”

“Yes,” I admitted. “Everything here is really quite fresh for me.”

“Wasn’t really working out towards the end, eh?”

“That would be an accurate assessment of the situation.” I nodded. “Steiner’s army group offensive never got off the ground. Inexcusable.”

He looked confused. “With your girlfriend, I mean. Who was to blame?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Ultimately Churchill, I expect.”

He laughed. Then he gave me a long, thoughtful stare.

“I like your style.” Then his voice changed as he growled, “I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

“Offer?”

“Listen, I don’t know what your standards are. But if you haven’t got any particular requirements then you’re welcome to spend a night or two here.”

“Here?” I looked around the kiosk.

“Can you afford the Adlon?”

He was right. I looked at the floor with embarrassment.

“You see me – virtually penniless …” I conceded.

“Well then. And it’s no surprise, seeing as you don’t put your talent out there. You shouldn’t hide.”

“I have not been hiding!” I protested. “It was because of the relentless bombing!”

“Whatever,” he said dismissively. “O.K. Let’s say you spend a day or two here, and I’ll have a word with one or two of my customers. The latest issue of
Theatre Today
arrived yesterday, along with one of the film magazines. One by one they’ll come and buy their copies. Maybe we can fix something up. I’ll be absolutely honest with you: the uniform is so spot on it wouldn’t even matter if you weren’t much of a performer …”

“So, I’m going to stay here?”

“Just for now. During the day you’ll stick around here with me. That means if anyone comes I can introduce you to them straight away. And if no-one comes then at least I’ve something to make me giggle. Or have you got somewhere else to go?”

“No,” I sighed. “I mean, apart from the Führerbunker.”

He laughed. Then he paused.

“Listen, mate, you’re not going to clean me out of all my stuff, are you?”

I gave him a look of disgust.

“Do I look like a criminal?” He looked at me. “You look like Adolf Hitler.”

“Exactly,” I said.

T
he next few days and nights were to be a real test for me. Humiliated by my circumstances, billeted in makeshift accommodation, cheek-by-jowl with dubious publications, tobacco, confectionery and tinned drinks, at night bent double in a passably (but not particularly) clean armchair, I had to catch up on the past sixty-six years without arousing unfavourable attention. Whereas others would have no doubt spent hours and days fruitlessly agonising over scientific explanations, hunting in vain for a solution to this time-travel conundrum, which was as fantastical as it was unfathomable, my trusty methodical reasoning was well placed to adapt itself to the prevailing circumstances. Instead of wallowing in self-pity, I accepted the facts of the new situation and focused on reconnaissance. Especially as – to anticipate events briefly – the changed conditions seemed to offer considerably more and better opportunities. It transpired that in the last sixty-six years the number of Soviet soldiers on the territory of the German Reich had fallen substantially, particularly in the Greater Berlin area. The current figure was between thirty and fifty men; in a flash I could see that this afforded the Wehrmacht a far better prospect of victory compared to the last estimate from my
general staff of around 2.5 million enemy soldiers on the Eastern Front alone.

I toyed, albeit momentarily, with the idea that I had been the victim of a plot, an abduction, in which the enemy’s intelligence service had concocted an elaborate hoax, circumventing my iron will to prise from me key secrets. But the technological demands of creating an entirely new world in which, after all, I could move about freely – that variation on reality was even more inconceivable than the one I found myself in, with the ability to grasp things with my hands and see with my eyes. No, I had to wage the struggle in this bizarre here and now. And the first step in any struggle is always reconnaissance.

The reader will not find it hard to imagine that obtaining new, reliable information without the necessary infrastructure posed considerable difficulties. The premises were extremely inauspicious: as far as foreign affairs were concerned, I had neither military intelligence nor the foreign ministry at my disposal; with regard to domestic affairs, establishing contact with the Gestapo was, given my circumstances, no simple matter. Even undertaking a library visit seemed too hazardous for the time being. I was thus reliant on the content of numerous publications, whose trustworthiness I was of course unable to verify, as well as on utterances and scraps of conversation from passers-by. The newspaper seller had very kindly supplied me with a wireless set, which on account of technological advances in the intervening years had shrunk to unbelievably tiny proportions; but the standards of Greater German radio had nosedived since 1940. As soon as I switched it on I heard a hellish din, frequently interrupted by utterly incomprehensible
gibberish. I continued to listen, but the content never changed; the only difference was that it began to alternate more frequently between the racket and the gibberish. I made a number of futile attempts, each lasting several minutes, to decrypt the noise issuing from this technological marvel, then switched it off in horror. I must have sat there absolutely still for a quarter of an hour, virtually paralysed by shock, before deciding to postpone my efforts with the wireless. So I was left with the periodicals. It had never been their top priority to provide a true historical account; I was almost certain nothing had changed on that front.

An initial review, which could not, of course, provide a complete picture, pointed to the following conclusions:

1. The Turk had not come to our assistance after all.
   
2. In light of the seventieth anniversary of Operation Barbarossa, there were numerous reports about this episode in German history painting a negative picture of the campaign. The unanimous view was that Barbarossa had not been a victory; indeed, the whole war had ended in defeat, or so these papers said.
   
3. I was reported to be dead. They said I had committed suicide. In truth I do recall having discussed this contingency – purely theoretically – with my confidants, and my memory was definitely lacking a few hours of what had been a terribly difficult time. But, in the final analysis, I only needed look at myself to see the facts.
   

   Was I dead?
   

   We all know, of course, what to make of our newspapers. The deaf man writes down what the blind man
   has told him, the village idiot edits it, and their colleagues in the other press houses copy it. Each story is doused afresh with the same stagnant infusion of lies, so that the “splendid” brew can then be served up to a clueless Volk. In this instance, however, I was prepared to be somewhat lenient. So rarely does Fate intervene this strikingly in its own workings that even the smartest minds must find it difficult to comprehend, let alone the mediocre intellects serving our so-called opinion sheets.
   

4. My brain required the stomach of an ox to digest the other information I managed to unearth. One had to disregard the press’s miscalculations on matters military, historical, political – on every topic, in fact, including economics – the result of either ignorance or malicious intent; otherwise, faced with such reams of foolishness, a thinking person would simply go mad.
   
5. Or one would develop an ulcer from reading the scribblings of the syphilitic, degenerate minds within the gutter press who, manifestly freed from all state control, were at liberty to publish the sick and profane view of the world they had dreamed up.
   
6. The German Reich appeared to have given way to what was called a “Federal Republic”, the leadership of which resided with a woman (“Federal Chancellor”), although men had been entrusted with this position in the past.
   
7. Political parties existed again, with all the infantile, counter-productive squabbling this entails. Social Democracy, that ineradicable pest, was making merry
   mischief once more at the expense of the long-suffering German Volk. Other organisations were sponging off the wealth of the people in their own way; amazingly, perhaps, I found little appreciation of their “work”, not even in the dishonest press, which otherwise seemed so benevolent. By contrast, N.S.D.A.P. activity had ceased altogether. If one were to believe the view that the Reich had been defeated, it was possible the Party’s work had been impeded by the victorious powers. Alternatively, the organisation may have been driven underground.
   
8. The
   Völkischer Beobachter
   was not available everywhere; at least the kiosk belonging to this vendor – patently a radical liberal – did not have it on display. In fact he had no German-national publications for sale at all.
   
9. The Reich seemed to have shrunk, despite the fact that our neighbouring states were by and large the same ones. Even Poland was still there, living out its artificial existence unchecked, and partly on Reich territory! Now, I may be a level-headed man, but at this point I was unable to suppress my indignation; I found myself screaming out into the darkness of the kiosk, “I might as well have handed them the war on a plate!”
   
10. The Reichsmark was no longer legal tender, even though others – probably some clueless dilettantes on the side of the victorious powers – had clearly adapted my plan to turn it into a European-wide currency. At any rate, transactions were now being carried out in an artificial currency called “Euro”, regarded, as one would
    expect, with a high level of mistrust. I could have told those responsible that this would be the case.
    
11. A partial peace seemed to be in place, although the Wehrmacht was still at war. Now known as the “Bundeswehr”, it was in an enviable state, no doubt on account of the technological advances that had been made. If the statistics in the newspapers were to be believed, one would have to conclude that German soldiers in the field were practically invulnerable; these days casualties were few and far between. You can imagine my anguish when with a sigh I thought of my own tragic fate, of those bitter nights in the Führerbunker, hunched in grief as I brooded over maps in the operations room, battling a hostile world as well as Destiny herself. Back then, more than 400,000 soldiers bled to death on countless fronts, and that was in January 1945 alone. With this astonishing modern outfit there is no doubt I could have swept Eisenhower’s armies into the sea, and crushed Stalin’s hordes in the Urals and Caucasus like insects within just a few weeks. It was one of the few truly encouraging pieces of news that I read. With this new Wehrmacht the future conquest of Lebensraum in the north, east, south and west appeared as bright a prospect as it had with the old one. The consequence of recent reforms introduced by a young minister who must have been of the highest calibre, but who was forced to step down following a conspiracy hatched by resentful and small-minded university professors. Little seemed to have changed
    since my time, when once I had hopefully submitted my designs and drawings to the Vienna Academy. Devoured by envy, mediocrities continue at every turn to obstruct the lively genius who parades his talents undeterred. They cannot stomach the fact that his brilliance easily outshines the feeble glow of their own pitiful aura.
    

    Oh well.