Look Who’s Back Page 2

  With ice-cool composure my methodical brain, now functioning again, recapped the situation. I was in Germany, I was in Berlin, even though the city looked wholly unfamiliar to me. This Germany was different, but some of its aspects reminded me of the Reich I was familiar with. Bicyclists still existed, as did automobiles, so probably newspapers still existed too. I looked around. And under my bench I did find something resembling a newspaper, albeit printed far more lavishly. The paper was in colour, something new to me. It was called Media Market – for the life of me I could not recall having given my approval to such a publication, nor would I ever have approved it. The information it contained was totally incomprehensible. Anger swelled within me: how, at a time of paper shortage, could the German Volk’s valuable resources be squandered on such mindless rubbish? As soon as I got back to my desk, Funk was going to get a proper dressing-down. But at that moment I needed some reliable news, a Völkischer Beobachter, a Stürmer; Why, I’d have settled for the local Panzerbär, which had only been going for a few issues. I spotted a kiosk not too far away, and even from that distance I could make out an extraordinary array of papers. You could have been forgiven for thinking we were deep in the most indolent peacetime! I got up impatiently. Too much time had already been lost – now order must be restored as rapidly as possible. Surely my troops were awaiting orders; it was quite possible my presence was sorely needed elsewhere. I hurried to the kiosk.

  Even a cursory look furnished me with some useful information. Myriad colourful papers hung on the outside wall – in Turkish. A large number of Turks must now be living in this area. I must have been unconscious for a significant period of time, during which waves of Turks had descended on Berlin. Remarkable! After all, the Turk, essentially a loyal ally of the German Volk, had persisted in remaining neutral; in spite of all our efforts, we had never been able to get him to enter the war on the side of the Axis powers. But now it seemed as if during my absence someone – Dönitz, I imagine – had convinced the Turk to lend us his support. Moreover, the comparatively peaceful atmosphere on the streets suggested that the deployment of Turkish forces had brought about a decisive turning-point in the war. Yes, I had always harboured respect for the Turk, but would never have imagined him capable of such an achievement. On the other hand, a lack of time had precluded my having followed the development of that country in any great detail. Kemal Atatürk’s reforms must have given the nation a sensational boost. This seemed to have been the miracle on which Goebbels had always pinned his hopes. Full of confidence, my heart was now pounding. My refusal to abandon faith in ultimate victory, even in the deepest, darkest hour of the Reich, had paid off. Four or five Turkish-language publications, all printed in bright colours, were unmistakable proof of a new, triumphant Berlin–Ankara axis. Now that my greatest concern, my concern for the welfare of the Reich, appeared to have been assuaged in such a surprising manner, I had to find out how much time I had spent in that strange twilight on the patch of waste ground. Unable to see a Völkischer Beobachter anywhere – obviously it had sold out – I cast about for the most familiar-looking paper, which went by the name Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung. It was new to me, but unlike some of the others displayed there, I was heartened by the reassuring typeface of its title. I didn’t bother with any of the news reports; I was looking for the date.

  It said 30 August.

  2011.

  I gaped at the number in amazement, in disbelief. I turned my attention to a different paper, the Berliner Zeitung, which also displayed an exemplary German typeface, and sought out the date.

  2011.

  I tore the newspaper from its bracket, opened it and turned a page, then another one.

  2011.

  The number began to dance before my eyes, as if mocking me. It moved slowly to the left, then back again more quickly, swaying like a group of revellers in a beer tent. My eyes tried to follow the number, then the paper slipped from my grasp. I felt myself sinking; in vain I tried to clutch at other newspapers on the rack. I slid to the ground.

  Then everything went black.

  ii

  When I regained consciousness I was still lying on the ground. Something damp was being pressed against my forehead.

  “Are you O.K.?”

  Bent over me was a man who may have been forty-five, or even over fifty. He was wearing a checked shirt and plain trousers – a typical worker’s outfit. This time I knew which question to ask first.

  “What is today’s date?”

  “Ermm … 29 August. No, wait, it’s the thirtieth.”

  “Which year, man?” I croaked, sitting up.

  He frowned at me.

  “2011,” he said, staring at my coat. “What did you think? 1945?”

  I tried to come up with a fitting riposte, but thought it more prudent to get to my feet.

  “Maybe you should lie down a little longer,” the man said. “Or at least sit. I’ve got an armchair in the kiosk.”

  My first instinct was to tell him that I had no time to rest, but I had to acknowledge that my legs were still shaking. So I followed him into the kiosk. He sat on a chair near the vending window and stared at me.

  “Sip of water? How about some chocolate? Granola bar?”

  I nodded in a daze. He stood up, fetched a bottle of soda water and poured me a glass. From a shelf he took a colourful bar of what I took to be some sort of iron ration, wrapped in foil. He opened the wrapping, exposing something that looked like industrially pressed grain, and put it in my hand. There must still be a bread shortage.

  “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 th
is 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.

  iii

  The 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 conc
octed 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.