I’ve just finished watching Faking Hitler on Channel 4, a brilliant, unsettling, and surprisingly funny German drama based on the real-life scandal of the forged Hitler Diaries in the 1980s. It is a stylish, tightly written series that is beautifully acted and full of rich period detail: boxy Volkswagens, newsroom cigarette smoke, and the pre-internet chaos of landlines, faxes, and car phones the size of briefcases.
At its heart is a story about storytelling, and the dangerous allure of fiction posing as truth. Journalist Gerd Heidemann, a real figure, famously bought the fake diaries for Stern, a major West German news magazine, convinced of their authenticity. He also embezzled part of the cash himself and ended up in jail. The diaries were forged by Konrad Kujau, a petty crook posing as a suave Nazi memorabilia dealer, who adopted the absurd pseudonym “Dr. Fischer” for much of the operation.
What makes the series stand out, beyond the stylish production, is its psychological insight into postwar German identity. Many of the characters, including Heidemann and his colleagues at Stern, are middle-aged men who were children during the Second World War. In the diaries, they find not just a scoop, but a fantasy: a kindly, misunderstood Hitler who loved dogs and was blameless for the atrocities he and his henchmen committed, which included, of course, the genocide of the Jewish people.
The drama carefully contrasts this delusion with the story of Elisabeth, a fictional young journalist at Stern. As she investigates the forgeries, she also uncovers a shocking truth about her own beloved father’s SS past. Her story represents a younger generation trying to reckon honestly with the legacy of the war, in contrast to the older men around her who still chase comforting fictions.
Here are five things Faking Hitler teaches us about lies, truth, and the fiction we want to believe.
1. Fake stories thrive where real pain goes unprocessed
The series shows a postwar Germany still struggling with inherited trauma. The desire to rehabilitate Hitler, to make him seem more human, more ignorant, less evil, speaks to a culture that has not fully reckoned with its history. Faking Hitler reminds us that where there is denial, there is vulnerability to fiction. We do not just forge diaries; we forge versions of ourselves.
2. Truth is harder to sell than fantasy
The forged diaries were eagerly bought, promoted, and publicised by Stern because they fit a convenient narrative: that Hitler was not truly evil. It is a bleak lesson in how appealing revisionism can be, especially when it offers a way to dodge accountability. The show cleverly exposes how financial, professional, and ideological motives often align around a seductive lie.
Even eminent historians were drawn into the delusion. Hugh Trevor-Roper, a respected British historian, famously authenticated the diaries shortly before they were exposed as fakes, a mistake that permanently damaged his reputation. The embarrassment was total. The series explores how expertise is no guarantee against self-deception, particularly when ego and ideology are involved, although interestingly the UK aspect of the story is not mentioned at all. In 1991, an ITV comedy drama, Selling Hitler, examined the fallout with more of a focus upon the milieu of English journalism when the Sunday Times bought the diaries after Trevor-Roper authenticated what were obviously crude fakes. Selling Hitler though is not nearly as sophisticated or interesting as its more recent German counterpart: what Faking Hitler shows us, with chilling clarity, is that truth is not just fragile; it is often unmarketable, especially when the lie offers an easier story.
3. Journalism is not immune to self-delusion
Heidemann is portrayed as a driven, slightly unhinged character, part true believer, part fraudster, part fantasist. But he is not alone. The newsroom is full of people who want the story to be true, even as the facts begin to fall apart. The series captures the theatre of pre-digital journalism beautifully: the deadlines, the phones, the stubborn hierarchies, but also the blindness that ambition can create.
4. Fiction can reveal, and obscure, the truth
There is a brilliant irony at play. Faking Hitler is a fictionalised account of a real-life fraud, but one that offers more truth than the diaries ever did. The drama does not simply retell events; it probes the moral and emotional consequences of suppressing history. Fiction becomes a tool for exploring how people lie to themselves. Kujau, the forger, is treated almost like an artist, a man who knows exactly what his audience wants to believe.
5. The past is never past, and fascism is a seductive fiction
Elisabeth’s storyline is the emotional counterpoint to the farce. Her journey to confront the truth about her beloved father’s Nazi past is both moving and emblematic. Unlike the men around her, she does not look for a flattering fiction; she insists on remembering clearly.
The series reveals how susceptible we are to the fantasies fascism offers, fantasies of order, purity, and simple blame. It is not just about Germany in the 1980s. The show resonates disturbingly with our present moment, with the rise of authoritarian leaders across the world, hijacking our democracies, peddling lies, blaming vulnerable people for systemic ills. It is all sleight of hand, a performance of strength that distracts us from the real work of justice.
What Faking Hitler ultimately shows is that the truth is harder. It requires memory, complexity, calm, kind dialogue, and the courage to face shame. But it is the only thing that moves us forward.
Faking Hitler is a rare gem: a European drama that entertains while dealing with heavy material, without ever preaching or becoming grim. It is not another slick Netflix thriller. It is better: thoughtful, disturbing, and funny in all the right places.