the cannon’s mouth is filled instead.
And German science, with God’s blessing,
will teach the Brits a bitter lesson.
It was the aim of his creation
to make the Germans the top nation.
Only the German’s made in God’s own image!
So hammer away at those foes who fight us,
but even more at these words that unite us.
For the truth of the matter is: we intend
“to see it through to the bitter end!”
The iron and steelworks of Briey-Longwy
we must retain, for they’re ours now, you see.
And as for peace, that concept’s hexed
Till the whole world has been annexed!
That’s the least the Germans deserve!
It’s a question of honour and honour alone.
No, giving back Belgium we cannot condone!
The code of honour’s kept intact,
our hands are clean, and that’s a fact!
Our victory proves that might is right.
with world encirclement in sight.
We’ll triumph over all our cares
so we can sell our shoddy wares.
Yes, the German is made in Germany!
A place in the sun was our delight,
now we’ve plunged the world into hideous night.
With poison and gases and fumes and more smoke,
we’ll fight to the final thunderstroke,
till the voice of God shall summon the dead—
but till then our thunder will serve in its stead.
The song we sang so oft before,
We’ll sing it now: “A thund’rous roar …”
Practical, your German, eh?
The world’s ablaze, now who’s to blame?
Our press bureau has fanned the flame.
While other peoples still exist,
we’re the one they’ve always hissed,
and if, to boot, they’re pacifist,
then we come bottom of their list.
Our feats of arms the world deplores,
our ructions, rumpus, thund’rous roars.
So everyone will hear the Germans!
Postwar there’ll be more work again,
then another war and yet more pain.
Already I’m rubbing my hands with glee,
for my love of war lasts eternally!
If only peace broke out once more,
then I could grumble: what a bore!
Advanced technology’s a must,
just take the U-boat: in thee we trust!
The Germans really do love progress!
The age of conscription we must lower,
and teach kids to use a flamethrower.
We’ll still need veterans in the line,
so they’ll continue to do their time.
To show we’ve learnt what war has taught us
we’ll build barracks, make Europe a fortress!
To liberate the world from peace,
the Watch on the Rhine must never cease!
A history lesson for the Germans!
If the world full of devils, of which Luther spoke,
were turned to a wasteland, and one day we woke
to a world where our enemies all were defeated,
our glorious mission at long last completed,
and the future were bright, with no repercussions,
for then there’d be nothing, yes nothing but Prussians—
We’ll still tell our troops to beware of the swine,
as they maintain their Watch on the Rhine!
And still the Germans celebrate their triumph! (Exit.)
(After he has left, his wife, Frau Kommerzienrat Auguste Wahnschaffe, appears with her children, who immediately disappear into the playground to play a war game.)
FRAU KOMMERZIENRAT WAHNSCHAFFE I’ve only two children, neither of them fit for active service, alas, one of them — to our eternal regret — even less so, since she’s a girl. So I have to resort to a subterfuge and pretend my boy was at the front, though also, of course, that he’s already died a hero’s death, otherwise I’d be mortified if, say, he were to return home uninjured. Under no circumstances would I want to see him confined to base, though naturally the odd shell may land there, too. This fantasy is one of my greatest consolations, one that enables me freely to dismiss any doubts that may beset me, and which sustains me when my dear Ottomar is busy working. So in fact I’m continuously occupied except for the half-hour my hubby, who’s just gone off to work, allows himself for lunch. As for the meal itself, able housewife that I am, I use my imagination there too. Today turned out well in that respect. We had hotchpotch: a wholesome broth of
Exzelsior Hindenburg-cocoa-powder-cream-soup cubes, tasty imitation stuffed beef rolls with surrogate swedes, potato fritters made with paraffin and a homemade mash, all prepared in a special Obu Fat-Free frying pan, of course, and to round it off simulated puffed pastry cones filled with ersatz whipped cream à la Schiller, which really tickled our palate. A German housewife knows how to give her husband his due in this grave but grandiose age. It’s true, hubby got into a huff when he didn’t get his delicious homemade egg noodles. No chance! He just had to make do. What we really missed at first was the substitute margarine, but since we’ve had our Obu Fat-Free pan, we no longer lack for anything. We recently decided unanimously in the Housewives’ Association that mineral nutritive yeast, whose protein content is mostly obtained by using urine, has a nutritive value equal to brewer’s yeast, and therefore should not be distributed exclusively to the communal kitchens. The done thing these days is to cater for the general public. We must put a stop to such arbitrary favoritism. The middle classes also need to keep the wolf from the door. Those moaning minnies who object even to that, point out that the thing smells of herring and tastes of petrol, and consequently can cause nausea. But we German housewives know what’s what, and we trust these peculiarities will disappear entirely after cooking, indeed we are convinced that mineral nutritive yeast lends a distinctive relish to the dishes. After lunch, it’s time to start worrying about dinner again. Today, as ever, that will be a stew, but for a change with liver sausage made from starch paste and red-dyed vegetables, and Berlin quark with mock paprika as an alternative to real cheese. And today we’re also going to try out Gotitall—it’s on everyone’s lips—Yolkfix egg substitute, made from ground gourmet chalk with baking powder and a little instant Saladfix vinaigrette, a delicious ingredient which I much prefer to either Saladin or Saladoil. Only the best is good enough for the German dinner table, and unlike poor folk, we have everything. Yesterday for afternoon tea we tried Deutscher’s Teafix with Rumaroma and were pleasantly surprised. To be sure, the kiddies kicked up a fuss since they didn’t get their bombes glacées, spiced with Only the Best for Our Warriors rum. Hubby got his acorn brew, which tastes almost as good as Trench brand Tutti-Gusti coffee, which they’ve run out of now. Unfortunately we had to make do without ersatz saccharin-water, so the dispenser stood empty on the table. Prompted by a sudden inspiration, I was going to fill it with liquid hydrogen substitute, so hubby wouldn’t be disillusioned; but that would have meant deceiving one’s husband, and one step from the straight and narrow is soon followed by a second. So I didn’t. I’m afraid the good times are past when we still had it easy and with a mere squirt could sweeten our ersatz war coffee. But as we otherwise would have had no inkling that it’s now a question of holding out to the bitter end, such petty privations are a price we gladly pay. All the more willingly, in fact, since there is nothing else we can pay for these days, so we can simply put aside the pots of money that hubby earns. The morale-sapping peace will come soon enough, and with it all the baubles we can start spending it on again. But let us hope the war lasts long enough to see a turn for the better in that respect, too. At the last conference of the Fatherland Party, my hubby proposed that the war, forced upon us by British envy, French revanchism, and Russian rapacity, should be taken up again after the conclusion of a peace treaty, a proposal approved by an overwhelming majority. Now it’s a matter of holding out, the longer the better. We’ll make it. Not a day goes by without some news that makes the heart beat faster. What is it Emmi Lewald says? “Three thousand dead Englishmen at the front! — At this moment, no symphony could sound more ravishing to my ears! How pleasantly, how joyfully it sets all my nerves atingle, a harbinger of hope. Three thousand dead Englishmen at the front! — it even echoes in our dreams and hums around our heads like a beguiling melody.” As published by Velhagen & Klasing. My sentiments entirely. And the wonderful Anny Wothe, how I love her when she has the splendid soldier’s wife announce the birth of a healthy boy to her husband: “Another soldier, praise be to God! The boy shall be called Wilhelm, may he turn out as tough as our Kaiser and hammer ’em till the sparks fly. But the other boys are all praying, day in, day out, for you to massacre lots of the French. I pray too, but not for your life. That lies in the hands of God. I pray that you may do your duty, well and truly, stand up to shells and bullets without flinching, and die calmly, if die you must, for our Fatherland, for our Kaiser, without thinking of us. And if you can die for your captain, don’t think of us then, either. The five all send their greetings, as do I. At Wilhelm’s baptism they want to sing Hail to Thee in Laurels Crowned, and I remain your faithful wife!”—O, God knows the only reason I can’t write like that to my husband is because, alas, he is not in the field, since he is fortunately indispensable, and moreover because I only have one son, the younger child being, as I said, unfortunately a girl. Business success must compensate for the sacrifice of not being able to make a sacrifice for the Fatherland. Wahnschaffe has just created a really interesting wartime innovation: in Germany and in Austria-Hungary, which is fighting with us shoulder to shoulder, it has been patented and marketing rights awarded to efficient salesmen who give us a good cut. It’s a Hero’s Grave for the House, combining a reliquary and a photo frame, so it provides both an ornament for the home and religious edification. How sad I am that we ourselves have unfortunately no need for such a topical domestic death cult. My children, not old enough to die for the Kaiser or to be able to make some other sacrifice for the Fatherland, bear the additional misfortune of not having been born after the war broke out. Otherwise my boy would have been called Warsaw and the girl Vilnia, or else he would be Hindenburg and she would be Zeppelina! For calling the boy Wilhelm went without saying before the war, I can’t see it as a particular patriotic homage. Ah, there they come running, the two little rascals! What’s up? Why aren’t you playing “World War”?