German cities – into cesspools of crime, prostitution and drugs.’
‘So you’re placing the blame on foreigners?’
‘What I am saying, gnädige Frau, is that the experiment in “multiculturalism” so vaunted by the Sozis’ – Eitel used the pejorative abbreviation of the Social Democratic Party – ‘has failed. Unfortunately we are now having to live with this failure.’ Eitel straightened his back and turned slightly into the reception, looking over the heads of his bodyguards and turning his answer into a semi-public address. ‘How much more of this unremitting assault on the lives of decent German people can we take? The whole fabric of our society is being unravelled. No one feels safe or secure …’
Eitel turned back to the woman journalist and smiled. Beneath the thick sweep of her auburn hair was a powerfully carved face, large, penetrating green eyes, a wide mouth accentuated in vermilion lipstick and a strong jawline. She did not return his smile.
‘Herr Eitel, your son’s magazine SCHAU MAL! has a reputation for being sensationalist and, on several occasions – how can I put this – a little one-dimensional in its approach to complex political issues. Is that a good summation of the political perspective of the Bund Deutschland-für-Deutsche?’
Each question crashed against the sea-wall of Eitel’s goodwill, eroding it swiftly and steadily. The smile remained, but the thin top lip tightened with something other than congeniality.
‘There are complex issues, and there are simple ones. The destruction of our society by extrinsic elements is a simple one. And there is a simple solution.’
‘By that you mean repatriation? Or by “simple” solution do you mean “final” solution?’ The other journalist leaned in to ask the question. Eitel ignored him, keeping his laser gaze on the woman.
‘A good question, Herr Eitel. Would you care to answer it?’ The woman journalist paused, but not long enough for him to answer. ‘Or would you prefer to explain why, when both you and your son feel so strongly about foreigners, the Eitel Group is negotiating property deals here in Hamburg with eastern-European interests?’
Eitel looked taken aback for a sliver of one second. Then something dark and malevolent mustered behind the eyes.
At that moment a second entourage entered. Smaller. More dignified. Less muscle and more business. Eitel turned in its direction without answering the question.
‘Papa!’ A stocky man, no taller than about one metre seventy-two, with a shock of thick dark hair and a handsome face creased by a broad smile, approached Eitel. He grasped his hand in an enthusiastic handshake, reaching up to place his other hand on the taller man’s shoulder.
‘And this, gnädige Frau, is my son. Norbert Eitel – the next Erste Bürgermeister of Hamburg!’ More camera flashes.
The woman journalist smiled, more in amusement at the unlikely disparity of physical types between father and son than in greeting.
‘Of course, I know Norbert already …’ She smiled and extended a hand to the shorter, younger Eitel. He smiled and kissed her hand.
The older Eitel spoke: ‘If you’ll excuse us, I’m afraid we have matters of great importance to discuss.’ Both men nodded a brief bow. The elder extended his hand.
‘You still haven’t answered my question, Herr Eitel,’ she responded, flatly.
‘Perhaps some other time. It has been a pleasure, gnädige Frau …’
As she walked away, the woman journalist smiled. Gnädige Frau … it was an address she would reserve for some stern, aristocratic grandmother.
As Eitel father and son watched her make her way across the reception towards the door, Wolfgang Eitel’s smile had been washed away by a more predatory expression. He spoke without turning to his son.
‘Who was that, Norbert?’
‘Her? Oh she’s a freelancer – well respected, done work for Der Spiegel and Stern …’
‘Her name …’ It was a command, not a
‘So you’re placing the blame on foreigners?’
‘What I am saying, gnädige Frau, is that the experiment in “multiculturalism” so vaunted by the Sozis’ – Eitel used the pejorative abbreviation of the Social Democratic Party – ‘has failed. Unfortunately we are now having to live with this failure.’ Eitel straightened his back and turned slightly into the reception, looking over the heads of his bodyguards and turning his answer into a semi-public address. ‘How much more of this unremitting assault on the lives of decent German people can we take? The whole fabric of our society is being unravelled. No one feels safe or secure …’
Eitel turned back to the woman journalist and smiled. Beneath the thick sweep of her auburn hair was a powerfully carved face, large, penetrating green eyes, a wide mouth accentuated in vermilion lipstick and a strong jawline. She did not return his smile.
‘Herr Eitel, your son’s magazine SCHAU MAL! has a reputation for being sensationalist and, on several occasions – how can I put this – a little one-dimensional in its approach to complex political issues. Is that a good summation of the political perspective of the Bund Deutschland-für-Deutsche?’
Each question crashed against the sea-wall of Eitel’s goodwill, eroding it swiftly and steadily. The smile remained, but the thin top lip tightened with something other than congeniality.
‘There are complex issues, and there are simple ones. The destruction of our society by extrinsic elements is a simple one. And there is a simple solution.’
‘By that you mean repatriation? Or by “simple” solution do you mean “final” solution?’ The other journalist leaned in to ask the question. Eitel ignored him, keeping his laser gaze on the woman.
‘A good question, Herr Eitel. Would you care to answer it?’ The woman journalist paused, but not long enough for him to answer. ‘Or would you prefer to explain why, when both you and your son feel so strongly about foreigners, the Eitel Group is negotiating property deals here in Hamburg with eastern-European interests?’
Eitel looked taken aback for a sliver of one second. Then something dark and malevolent mustered behind the eyes.
At that moment a second entourage entered. Smaller. More dignified. Less muscle and more business. Eitel turned in its direction without answering the question.
‘Papa!’ A stocky man, no taller than about one metre seventy-two, with a shock of thick dark hair and a handsome face creased by a broad smile, approached Eitel. He grasped his hand in an enthusiastic handshake, reaching up to place his other hand on the taller man’s shoulder.
‘And this, gnädige Frau, is my son. Norbert Eitel – the next Erste Bürgermeister of Hamburg!’ More camera flashes.
The woman journalist smiled, more in amusement at the unlikely disparity of physical types between father and son than in greeting.
‘Of course, I know Norbert already …’ She smiled and extended a hand to the shorter, younger Eitel. He smiled and kissed her hand.
The older Eitel spoke: ‘If you’ll excuse us, I’m afraid we have matters of great importance to discuss.’ Both men nodded a brief bow. The elder extended his hand.
‘You still haven’t answered my question, Herr Eitel,’ she responded, flatly.
‘Perhaps some other time. It has been a pleasure, gnädige Frau …’
As she walked away, the woman journalist smiled. Gnädige Frau … it was an address she would reserve for some stern, aristocratic grandmother.
As Eitel father and son watched her make her way across the reception towards the door, Wolfgang Eitel’s smile had been washed away by a more predatory expression. He spoke without turning to his son.
‘Who was that, Norbert?’
‘Her? Oh she’s a freelancer – well respected, done work for Der Spiegel and Stern …’
‘Her name …’ It was a command, not a
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