He'd been told only that he'd be reading for the part of the commandant of a POW camp. Klemperer was stunned when he saw the script. Perhaps out of concern that this serious actor would reject such a part, no one had said anything about comedy.

Worse, it was to some the most inappropriate subject for comedy imaginable. By being set in a German prison camp (instead of in an American prison as originally envisioned, because American audiences find it easier to identify with war heroes than with convicts), it had crossed a boundary. To many minds, this boundary was the one which separates tasteful from tasteless. Aren't jokes about Nazi prison camps just a step removed from those about Nazi concentration camps?

In reality, it had inadvertently and ground-breakingly crossed into a far more significant realm. With the exception of cartoons and shows about space aliens, it's one seldom visited by American television, which avoids anything which might offend the corporations upon whose advertising dollars its existence depends: satire. Comic Nazis are to Americans as Texans are to Europeans (judging by the popularity of Dallas there): examples of the worst extremes of human behavior, which no one admits doing but everybody does.

"It could have happened in a factory in General Motors," observed Klemperer. It may be set in Germany, in some fictional part which is near the Alps in the south, the French border to the west, major routes to Berlin in the east, and the North Sea—all at the same time. Yet it's a place where anyone who's ever worked for a living soon feels quite at home.

Launching any comedy is a difficult enterprise. That this unique addition to the genre—an action-adventure/parody weighted with perceived Nazi connotations—not only got off the ground but soared is an astounding achievement. Various factors emerge as responsible for its success. Its creators were veterans of radio, television's golden age, and such noted sitcoms as The Andy Griffith Show. Concern with quality was so exceptionally high, even for those days, that all scenes were carefully rehearsed and were shot in sequence. Diversity was not only valued, it was required. African-, British-, French-, Austrian-, Italian-, and German-Americans were deliberately sought out for casting in leading and guest star roles. A plot/contrasting subplot structure kept the pace zinging along. Its tone was good-natured, for all the jokes about the Russian Front and firing squads. On the set, a family atmosphere prevailed.

And of course there was Klemperer's Colonel Wilhelm Klink.

The "Nazi connotations" problem Klemperer addressed by crafting Klink into a universal character. From pre-war Prussian aristocracy he adopted Klink's monocle and swagger stick, as well as his bombastic manner. From his repertoire of accents, he selected stage English only slightly tinged with German. He was also keenly aware of the traumatic effect that any reminder of Nazism, however minute or underplayed, could have on those who had suffered at their hands. He therefore did something unique among actors: he insisted that the character he portrayed never come out on top.

The need for a seamless blend of farce and action drama Klemperer also addressed. A certain degree of unreality was necessary to offset the more violent or fantastical plot elements. But certain central elements—most importantly, the character of Klink—had to be believable for the show to work. How, then, to portray someone who is alert to the smallest slight against his authority, yet overlooks entire tunnels and airplanes? Klemperer's ingenious solution borders on the revelatory to anyone who's ever struggled to present apparently obvious facts to determinedly oblivious superiors: he demonstrates the infinite capacity of management to overlook the inconvenient.

His versatility earned him two Emmy Awards for Best Supporting Actor in a Comedy Series, in 1968 and 1969, and five nominations.

Klemperer credited his early musical training for his success. "Music influences every move I make, and always has," he stated. "It is a very personal thing for me, and it may be of little use to other actors. But I have often called upon Stravinsky, upon Strauss and Prokofiev for guidance in timing and rhythmic propulsion and nuance. I probably could not have gotten through those six 'Hogan' years, those 175 television installments, without this special technical crutch."

But the distance between television sitcom and concert hall, his own world and that of his father, was immense. During a visit to his father in 1965 he tried his best to bridge it by arranging for a private screening of two episodes of the show at a studio in Zürich. Dr. Klemperer was amused. (Could anyone so familiar with Marriage of Figaro, with its theme of clever servants outwitting their masters, fail to perceive the humor in Hogan's Heroes? Could anyone as aware of the comically pompous bureaucrat Beckmesser of Die Meistersinger find Klink unentertaining?) Even so, Klemperer felt he had failed in his task. The two men were eras apart.

Yet even today Klemperer's Klink is a character to whom everyone can instantly relate. We've all suspected that every organization everywhere, from corporation to social club, contains a few kinks. Klemperer presents a new revelation: they also all contain a few Klinks. And some of them are you and I.

"The part of Col. Klink became a part that people had a lot of kind of odd identification with," Klemperer said. "He was a little greedy, a little pompous, a little vain and a little insecure. All those things are very much part of our own personalities in many ways, so that's what made him fun."