Look Who's Back Read Online Free PDF Page B

as Brutus did to Caesar, commit a wretched act of betrayal; I will not stab in the back for a second time those who have given their lives for the Movement …”
    “Do you always have to get in such a lather?” the vendor saidwith a hint of impatience. “It’s not just what your uniform
looks
like …”
    “What then?”
    “It stinks, too! I don’t know what it’s made out of – was it one of those boiler suits they wear at petrol stations?”
    “In the theatre of war the infantryman cannot change his coat, and I myself refuse to indulge in the decadence of those who live in comfort behind the front.”
    “Whatever … but just think about your programme!”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Listen, you want to your programme to do well, don’t you?”
    “Yes, and?”
    “Just think about it: someone comes by wanting to meet you, and there you are, reeking so strongly of petrol that they don’t even dare light up within ten metres!”
    “
You
did,” I replied. But my words lacked their customary edge; reluctantly I had to concur with his arguments.
    “I’m brave, you see,” he laughed. “Come on, why don’t you pop home and fetch some more clothes.”
    The tiresome accommodation problem.
    “I told you, it’s difficult at the moment.”
    “Sure, but your ex must be at work now. Or out shopping. Why are you being so cagey?”
    “You see,” I said hesitantly, “it’s all very difficult. My home …” My logic was now in a bit of a tangle. But it was a humiliating situation, too.
    “Don’t you have a key, or what’s the problem?”
    This time I couldn’t help laughing at such naivety. I hadno idea whether or not there was a key to the Führerbunker.
    “No, er, how should I put it? Somehow contact was … er … cut off.”
    “Are you under a restraining order?”
    “I can’t even explain it to myself,” I said. “But it’s something like that.”
    “Heavens above, you don’t give that sort of impression,” he said. “What on earth did you do?”
    “I don’t know,” I said, truthfully. “I’ve lost all memory of the intervening period.”
    “You don’t seem like the violent type to me at any rate,” he said thoughtfully.
    “Well,” I said, running my fingers over my parting, “I am a soldier, of course …”
    “O.K., soldier,” the newspaper vendor said. “Let me make another suggestion. Because you’re ace and because I’ve got faith in obsessive types like you.”
    “Of course you have,” I said. “Like any sensible person. We must spare no effort, indeed we must be obsessive in the pursuit of our goals. Lily-livered, two-faced compromise is the root of all evil and—”
    “Yes, O.K.,” he interrupted me. “Now look. Tomorrow I’ll bring you some of my old things. No need to thank me, I’ve put on a bit of weight recently and can’t do up the buttons anymore. But they might fit you,” he said, looking rather unhappily at his stomach. “I mean, you’re not working as Göring, are you?”
    “Why would I do that?” I asked, confused.
    “And I’ll take your uniform straight to the dry cleaner’s …”
    “I will not part with my uniform!” I said adamantly.
    “As you like,” he said, suddenly looking weary. “You can take your uniform to the dry cleaner’s yourself. But you do understand, don’t you? That it has to be cleaned?”
    It was an outrage – I was being treated like a child. But I realised that nothing would change as long as I went around looking as grubby as a child. So I nodded.
    “The shoes might be a problem, though,” he said. “What size are you?”
    “43.”
    “Mine will be too small, then,” he said. “But I’ll come up with something.”

iv
    T he reader must be shown some sympathy if, at this or any other point, he is flabbergasted by the speed with which I adapted to my new circumstances. How can the poor reader, who during the years, nay decades, of my absence has been drowning in the Marxist broth of history from the soup