Look Who's Back Read Free Page B

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 neededa 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 thetime, 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