Look Who’s Back Page 13

  Sensenbrink was wearing what these days would probably be called a high-quality suit. He was trying to look casual, but I could see that he was pale; his face exhibited the pallor of a gambler who knows that he cannot suffer a loss, or worse still, he cannot bear the moment in which it becomes obvious that his loss is inevitable. Such people never focus on their own goal, they always elect to pursue the goal which promises the most rapid success, and yet fail to recognise that this success will never be their own. They hope to achieve success, but they will only ever chaperone it, and because they sense this, they fear the moment of defeat when it becomes manifest that not only is the success not their own, but it is not even dependent on their chaperoning. Sensenbrink was anxious about his reputation, not the national cause. It was patently clear that Sensenbrink would never shed blood for Germany or me in a hail of bullets outside the beer hall in Munich. On the contrary: how winsomely he consorted with Madame Bellini – anyone with half an eye could see that in spite of all his puffed-up self-confidence, he was the one hoping for her moral support. This came as no surprise.

  In my life I have met four dominant women. Women who would be unthinkable as a choice of partner. Let us say you have Mussolini or Antonescu over for a visit. If you then tell one of these women to go into the room next door and not come back until invited to, you need to be sure that this is what is going to happen. Eva did it, but I could never have asked it of any of those four. Leni Riefenstahl was one of them. A wonderful woman, but if I had made such a request to Leni she would have smashed me over the head with her camera! And Madame Bellini was of the same calibre as this venerable quartet.

  I do not think that anyone besides me noticed how she, too, was aware of the significance of these hours, these minutes. But – my goodness! – this fantastic woman had exceptional control. I noticed she inhaled a touch more deeply on her cigarette than usual, but that was all. She held her wiry, lithe body upright, she was attentive, always prepared to offer helpful instructions, and her reactions were precise and rapid, like a skulking wolf. And not a single grey hair; perhaps she was even younger than I had thought, late thirties – a truly magnificent specimen of womanhood! I also intuited that she found the sudden proximity of Sensenbrink disagreeable, not because she found him bothersome, no, but because she despised his unmanliness, because she sensed that rather than putting all his strength at her disposal he was draining her of energy. I felt an enormous urge to ask her how she was planning to spend the evening, and with a certain melancholy I suddenly recalled those evenings on the Obersalzberg. Many a time we would sit up long into the night – three, four, five of us. Sometimes I would talk, sometimes not. In fact, sometimes hours would pass in silence, interrupted only by the occasional cough. At other times I would just stroke the dog. I always found these gatherings rather conducive to contemplation. Things are not always easy; the Führer is one of the few people in the state who has to forgo the simple pleasures of normal family life.

  And life in a hotel like mine was rather lonely; this was one of the aspects of my existence which had changed least over the last sixty years.

  Then it occurred to me that in my situation I really ought to ask Madame Bellini, but somehow this felt inappropriate, too familiar, especially as we had not known each other long. I decided to push the thought to the back of my mind. On the other hand, I felt it would only be fitting to have a small celebration to mark my return to public life. Just a glass of sparkling wine or something similar, not for me of course, but I always enjoyed being in the company of others in high spirits who raised a toast. My gaze alighted on Hotel Reserver Sawatzki.

  His eyes beamed at me, they were full of unmistakable esteem. I knew this look, one which should not be interpreted the wrong way. Sawatzki was not one of those men in an S.A. shirt, whom one drags from Röhm’s bed in the night and then into whose repulsive body one fires a few bullets in disgust, saving the fatal one until last. No, Sawatzki looked at me with a sort of silent reverence, which I had last witnessed in Nuremberg in those hundreds of thousands to whom I had offered hope. Who had grown up in a world of humiliations and fear for the future, a world of procrastinating windbags and war losers, who in me saw the firm hand which would lead them, and who were willing to follow me.

  “So,” I said, wandering over to Sawatzki. “Did you enjoy it?”

  “Unbelievable,” Sawatzki said. “Really impressive. I’ve seen Ingo Appelt, but he’s lame compared to you. You’ve got balls. Do you really not care what people think of you?”

  “On the contrary, young man,” I said. “I will speak the truth. And they should think: Here is someone who speaks the truth.”

  “And? Is that what they’re thinking now?”

  “No. But they are thinking in a different way from before. And that is all that one needs to achieve. Continual repetition will see to the rest.”

  “Yeah,” Sawatzki said, “but the repeat’s on Sunday morning at eleven, so I don’t reckon that’ll make much of a splash.”

  I gave him a blank look. Sawatzki cleared his throat, then said, “Follow me. We’ve arranged a little something in the canteen.”

  We walked over to where a handful of television employees were hanging about looking bored. A slovenly looking lad turned to me with his mouth full and laughed out loud. Then he coughed and gave a passable Nazi salute. I jerked my arm back in response and let Sawatzki guide me to an area of the canteen where sekt was waiting for us. Judging by Sawatzki’s reaction it was a highly sophisticated product; he instructed a canteen assistant to prepare two glasses, remarking that this sort of sparkling wine was not something they laid on every day.

  “Gagmez doesn’t get that served up to him often,” the assistant said.

  Sawatzki laughed, handed me my glass, raised his and said, “Here’s to you!”

  “To Germany,” I said. Then we clinked glasses and drank.

  “What’s wrong?” Sawatzki asked apprehensively. “Doesn’t it taste good?”

  “If I drink wine at all, it is usually a dessert variety, like a Trockenbeerenauslese,” I explained. “I know it’s supposed to have this bitter note, indeed in this wine it is deemed an advantage, but I’m afraid it’s too acidic for me.”

  “I can get you something else …”

  “No, don’t worry. I’m used to it.”

  “But you could have a Bellini.”

  “Bellini? Like Madame?”

  “Yes, of course. You might like that. Wait a sec!”

  While Sawatzki skipped off, I stood there uncertainly. For a moment I thought of all those dreadful times in my early years of politics, at the beginning of my struggle, before I had been properly introduced into society and felt somewhat lost at its periphery. This unpleasant memory only lasted for a fraction of a second, however, for no sooner had Sawatzki turned away than a young brunette approached me and said, “That was fantastic! How do you come up with something like the house-mouse and field-mouse?”

  “You could do the same,” I said confidently. “All you need do is to take a walk though nature and keep your eyes open. Alas! many Germans these days have forgotten how to see the simple things. May I ask what education you have?”

  “I’m still studying,” she said. “Sinology, Theatre Studies and—”

  “Good God!” I laughed. “Stop at once! A pretty thing like yourself stuffed full of such cerebral nonsense! You would be far better off finding yourself a brave young husband and doing something to help preserve the German race.”

  She laughed heartily. “That’s method acting, isn’t it?”

  “There he is!” Madame Bellini called out behind me. At her side was Sensenbrink, with Gagmez in tow, a tortured smile on his lips. They joined us. “Let’s toast! We’re all professionals here. And the professional in us can’t help but conclude that this was a fabulous programme! There’s never been anything like it. You two are going to be a dream ticket!”

  Sensenbrink eagerly filled glasses with sparkling wine, while
Sawatzki returned and handed me a glass of something the colour of apricots.

  “What is this?”

  “Just try it,” he said, raising his glass. “Guys: To the Führer!”

  “To the Führer!”

  There was sympathetic and jubilant laughter all around and I had a keen struggle to fend off all the congratulations offered to me. “Please, ladies and gentlemen, we still have much work to do!” Cautiously I took a sip of the drink and gave Herr Sawatzki an appreciative nod. It tasted very fruity, was a delight to the palate and yet was not of such overblown complexity. Essentially it seemed to be a simple country-style fruit pulp, enlivened by a little sekt, but only a drop so that having enjoyed the drink one need not fear excessive hiccoughing or similar aggravations. The significance of such details is not to be underestimated; in a situation like mine, one must always take care to behave impeccably.

  What I find disagreeable about these informal, yet important gatherings, is that one cannot simply retire when one would like, unless one is waging war at the same time. If one is busy executing the Manstein Plan in northern France, or if one is launching a surprise attack to occupy Norway, then everybody is full of understanding, quite naturally. As they are if one retires to one’s study after the toast to look over U-boat designs or help develop high-speed bombers crucial to our final victory. In peacetime, however, one just stands around wasting one’s time drinking fruit pulp. Sensenbrink’s raucous manner was increasingly testing my nerves, while Gagmez’s sour face did not make the evening any more congenial. So I excused myself, temporarily at least, to fetch myself something from the buffet.

  An assortment of sausages was being served in heated, rectangular tin vessels, as well as an array of roast meats and large quantities of noodles, none of which particularly appealed to me. I was about to turn away when Sawatzki appeared at my side.

  “Is there something I can get you?”

  “No, no, don’t worry …”

  “Damn it!” Sawatzki said, slapping his forehead. “You’re looking for the stew, aren’t you?”

  “No, I can … take one of these sandwiches …”

  “But you’d prefer stew, wouldn’t you? The Führer loves simple food!”

  “That would indeed be my choice,” I admitted. “Or something without meat.”

  “I’m really sorry, we didn’t catch on early enough,” he said. “I should have thought. But if you wait a moment …”

  He pulled out his mobile telephone and tapped at it with his fingers.

  “Can your telephone cook, too?”

  “No,” he said. “But ten minutes from here there’s a restaurant which is well known for its honest fare and stews. If you like I can order something from there.”

  “Please refrain from going to any trouble. I quite fancy a bit of a stroll anyway,” I said. “I can have the stew there.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll take you there myself,” Sawatzki said. “It’s not far.”

  We absconded from the party and walked through the chilly Berlin night. This was far more agreeable than standing around in that canteen where an entire division of broadcasting types were incessantly lavishing praise on each other. Every so often our feet kicked up a few leaves.

  “Can I ask you something?” Sawatzki said.

  “Please do.”

  “Is it a coincidence? I mean, that you’re a vegetarian too?”

  “Absolutely not,” I said. “It’s common sense. I have been one for so long, it was only a matter of time before others shared my conviction. It’s just those buffet cooks who don’t seem to have heard of it.”

  “No, what I meant was: have you always been one, or only since you became Hitler?”

  “I have always been Hitler. Who do you imagine I was before that?”

  “Well, maybe you tried a few others first. Churchill, or Honecker.”

  “Himmler believed in all that esoteric humbug, reincarnation and mysticism. I can assure you I was never that Honecker fellow.”

  Sawatzki looked at me. “And don’t you ever think you take your art too far?”

  “One must undertake everything with utter, fanatical determination. Or one will get nowhere.”

  “But – just to take an example – no-one would notice whether you were really a vegetarian or not.”

  “First,” I said, “it is a question of well-being. And second, there can be no doubt that this is the way nature desires it. Look, a lion can run two or three kilometres before it is completely exhausted. Twenty minutes, not even – a quarter of an hour. A camel, on the other hand, can keep going for a week. It’s the food which does that.”

  “A nice example of sophistry.”

  I stopped and glared at him. “What do you mean, ‘sophistry’? Right, let’s put it another way then. Where is Stalin?”

  “Dead, I’d say.”

  “I see. And Roosevelt?”

  “Same.”

  “Pétain? Eisenhower? Antonescu? Horthy?”

  “The first two are dead, and I haven’t heard of the others.”

  “Well, they’re dead too. And what about me?”

  “You’re not dead.”

  “Precisely,” I said with satisfaction, and set off again. “And I am convinced that this is because I’m a vegetarian.”

  Sawatzki laughed. Then he caught me up. “That’s really good. Don’t you write that sort of stuff down?”

  “Why bother? I know it.”

  “I’m always worried that I’ll forget these things,” he said, pointing to the door of a restaurant. “Here we are.”

  We entered the half-empty restaurant and placed our order with an elderly waitress. She gave me a hard stare and then screwed up her face in confusion. Sawatzki gave her a reassuring wave, and the lady went to fetch the drinks without further ado.

  “It’s nice here,” I said. “It reminds me of the time of my struggle in Munich.”

  “Do you come from Munich?”

  “No, from Linz. Or actually …”

  “… or actually from Braunau,” Sawatzki said. “I’ve been doing a bit of reading up.”

  “Where do you come from?” I asked him in return. “And how old are you, by the way? You cannot be thirty yet!”

  “Twenty-seven,” Sawatzki said. “I come from Bonn, and I studied in Cologne.”

  “A Rhinelander,” I said with delight. “And an educated Rhinelander to boot!”

  “German and History. In fact I wanted to be a journalist.”

  “It’s a good thing you aren’t one,” I asserted. “Lying vermin, through and through.”

  “The T.V. industry isn’t much better,” he said. “It’s unbelievable, the crap they churn out. And whenever we get hold of anything good, the stations would rather have another pile of crap. Or something cheaper. Or both.” Without pausing he added, “Apart from you, of course. What you do is completely different. For the first time I get the feeling that we’re not just flogging any old rubbish. I love your approach. The vegetarianism and everything – you’re not faking it; somehow, with you, it’s part of the whole concept.”

  “I prefer the term ideology,” I said, but I was overjoyed by his youthful enthusiasm.

  “You know, this has been something I’ve always wanted to do,” Sawatzki said. “Not just tout any old thing, but something of quality. At Flashlight we have to peddle so much garbage. Listen, when I was a boy I always wanted to work in an animal sanctuary. Help poor animals, that sort of thing. Or save animals. Do something positive.”

  The waitress placed two bowls of stew before us. I was quite touched; the stew looked excellent. And it smelled as a stew ought to. We began to eat, and for a while neither of us said a word.

  “Good?” Sawatzki asked.

  “Very good,” I said, spooning it from the bowl. “As if it were straight from the field mess.”

  “Yes,” he said. “There’s something about it. Simple, but good.”

  “Are you married?”

  He shook his
head.

  “Engaged?”

  “No,” he said. “More like interested. There is someone.”

  “But?”

  “She doesn’t have a clue. And I don’t know if she’s interested in me, either.”

  “You must be bold and go all out for total victory. You are not shy otherwise.”

  “Sure, but she …”

  “No wavering. Onward, quick march. Women’s hearts are like battles. They are not won through hesitation. One must concentrate all one’s forces and deploy them gallantly.”

  “Is that how you got to know your wife?”

  “Well, I could never complain about a lack of female interest. But my approach was generally the other way around.”

  “The other way around?”

  “In the later years especially I won more battles than women.”

  He laughed. “If you’re not going to write it down, I will. If you go on in this vein you really should think about writing a book. Hitler’s how-to book. How to have a happy relationship.”

  “I am not sure that is my calling,” I said. “I mean, my marriage was rather short.”

  “So I’ve heard. But that doesn’t matter. We’ll call it Mein Kampf – With My Wife. With a title like that it would sell like hot cakes.”

  I had to laugh too. I looked pensively at Sawatzki, his short hair sticking up cheekily, his alert expression, his buoyant, but by no means foolish words. And in his voice I perceived that this man could have been one of those who accompanied me back then. To prison, to the Reich Chancellery, to the Führerbunker.

  xvi

  Āh, Herr Hitler, I’ve been expecting you!” the newspaper seller said in an enigmatically theatrical voice.

  “Really?” I said, amused. “Why?”

  “Well, I saw your performance,” he said, “and then I reckoned you’d want to read what’s been written about you. And that you might look for a place where the selection of papers and magazines is – how should I put it? – a little broader! Come in, come in! Take a seat. Would you like a coffee? What’s wrong? Don’t you feel well?”

  I found it disconcerting that he had spotted this minor weakness in me, and it really was a minor weakness, a surge of joy, the like of which I had not experienced in a long time. I had woken as fresh as a daisy at around half past eleven, partaken of a small breakfast and then decided to read the newspapers, just as the vendor had guessed. Two days previously my suits had been delivered, allowing me something somewhat less official to slip into. The one I was now wearing was simple, dark and traditionally cut, and I had chosen to pair it with the dark hat. As I set off from the hotel I could see at once that I was attracting many fewer glances than usual. It was a crystal-clear, sunny day and wonderfully fresh, as one might expect for the time of year. For now I felt free of all obligations and I marched forth with a sense of purpose. It was so peaceful, it almost felt normal, and because I took the green route along footpaths and through parks there was little to grab my attention, save for a madwoman who was bending down, obviously trying to pinpoint and then gather up her spaniel’s excrement in the long, unmown grass. It struck me briefly that this lunacy might be the result of an epidemic, but nobody appeared to be surprised by what she was doing. On the contrary, as I discovered soon afterwards, dispensing machines had been thoughtfully installed here and there, from which these madwomen were able to draw lots of small bags. The provisional conclusion I reached was that these must be women whose fervent wish to have a child had remained unfulfilled, giving rise to a form of hysteria which presented itself in this disproportionate care for all manner of dogs. And I had to concede that providing the poor creatures with bags was an astonishingly pragmatic solution. In the longer term, of course, these women ought to be steered back to their proper duties, but I expect that some party or other had opposed this. It’s all too familiar.