Naamloos verhaal

2

                  

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.