I Sleep in Hitler's Room Read online

  But luck, or misfortune, contributed to an interesting alignment of the stars when finally I arrived there. The deadly saga of the continuous hate between Israelis and Palestinians, coupled with the global financial crisis, happened to coincide with the World Cup, the one occasion when Germans feel quite comfortable about raising their national flag everywhere and repeatedly screaming “Deutschland” at the top of their lungs with utmost pleasure. It was against this background that many people were willing to reveal, with no fear, what is normally hidden in the deepest corners of their being. Israelis, they confidently told me, are “Nazis.” Jews, they said, are responsible for the global financial crisis. Who, they asked, controls the global markets? The Jews!

  The following pages tell of the people I met and what they said to me. Not all of it is about Jews. Some of it is about hotels, cars, tattoos, restaurants, churches, beer, heroin, soccer, gays and straights, financial markets and hot dogs. But “the Jew” creeps in every few pages. If the Germans have one obsession, it is “Jews.” They can’t stop talking, or thinking, of The Jew. I am thankful to each one of them for letting me inside their hearts and souls, and for allowing themselves to open for me the doors into their lives. Elated by their soccer aspirations, they were generous in their sharing. They were dreaming of winning the world title, and they felt safe to unveil what lurks inside them. I am not the message, nor do I want to be. All I am is the messenger. This book is not about me; it is about the people. It is not about the past, it is about the future of America and of the West.

  Let truth stand.

  Fall 2011

  New York City

  Introduction

  My original plan for 2010 was to spend the summer among the Hamas in Gaza. I was supposed to be there the year before, but in 2009 it didn’t work out. First the Palestinians said “Welcome!” and the Israelis said they wouldn’t let me cross the border. Then, by the time the Israelis finally changed their mind, the Palestinians changed theirs as well. It’s normal over there. This year I decided not to ask anybody and just show up, giving nobody a chance to play games.

  I was totally ready. I even made sure that I had with me the private telephone numbers of leading figures in Hamas. They are the people who would help me, a good German, in case I got into trouble once I was on the other side of the border.

  Am I German? Not really. But whenever I’m in an Arab territory I am in the habit of telling everybody that I’m German. No, this has nothing to do with philosophy or politics; it has to do with life. The other day, in Jordan, I asked one of my hosts what he would do if I were a Jew. He didn’t hesitate for a second and told me he would kill me on the spot. So I learned my lesson, and since that day I am German.

  My Arab friends, Christian and Muslim alike, love me for this. “You are good people,” they tell me. “What you [Germans] did to the Jews was good.”

  There’s one little problem in all this: I am not German. I come, if I may share this with you, from a Holocaust-surviving family. Most of my family, that of my father and that of my mother, died in the war. By German order. My father fled Europe as a baby, and my mother survived a concentration camp, what the Germans call KZ. I wonder what they would say if they saw me walking around, calling myself German.

  What does it mean to be German, anyway?

  I’ve tried on occasion to figure this out. It so happens that I’m a journalist, and one of the newspapers I frequently write for is the German Die Zeit, arguably the most prestigious of German media. It is through this paper that I’ve made an acquaintance with some German journalists, all very fine people, but those who can help me to understand what being “German” means are few. Yes, I also happen to be a political dramatist, and this brought me to Germany a few times when my plays were produced there. But, again, the number of people I met was too small to make me grasp the “German mentality,” if such exists. Yet no matter what, one thing I know: Germany might have killed my ancestors, but it saves my life. It’s my little German “complex,” I guess.

  I think of this complex today as a German lady by the name of Julia who contacts me. She is from Rowohlt Verlag, one of the biggest publishing companies in Germany. She asks if I would like to come to Germany, travel around the country a few months, and write a book about my experiences. She tries to make it sound exciting, by telling me that she’s not looking for a research book or a travel guide. No, not that. What she’s looking for, she says, is a book of First Impressions. My first impressions. All up to me. My thoughts. A Jew from New York visiting Germany.

  For quite some time now, perhaps as a result of my saying “I’m German” so often, I have had this little dream of buying a house in Berlin one day. A German like me, won’t you agree, should live in the capital. And if I accept Julia’s offer, which will require of me an extended stay of a few months there, I might get a sense of what it truly means to live in Germany—

  Hi Julia, I’m coming.

  Chapter 1

  Do You Like Diet Coke with Ice? You Are an American Capitalist!

  My office is in midtown Manhattan, just opposite Penn Station, a place where many tourists stroll by. And in preparation for my upcoming tour, I make it my business to schmooze with some German tourists; maybe they can teach me a thing or two about their culture.

  In general, Europeans are more political than Americans. They love to talk and argue politics, and Germans in particular are no different. I like it. I sit down to talk with a couple of German tourists. They teach me something very interesting today: “We [meaning Germans] are capitalists by force, unwilling capitalists, while you [Americans] are willing capitalists.” They love and hate America. They love the Beatles, they tell me. I don’t bother to remind them that the Beatles weren’t Americans. Why should I? They love the Americans they meet, they also tell me. And they love New York. Just love it. They are very much against Capitalism. Capitalism is bad. But beer is good. I order Diet Coke with ice, they order beer. They look at my ice and say, “Very American!” For them if you order Coke with ice you are an American. And this is the second thing I learn today, who I am: An American. Not a German, an Arab, or Jew. An American. Good to know.

  •••

  My ticket paid for, suitcases at the ready, and three hours before my flight is scheduled for departure, the booking agency calls. “Don’t go to the airport,” they say. “Your flight has been cancelled.” Cancelled? Yes. Some stupid mountain erupted in Iceland, sending ash clouds above Europe. I thought we were done with ash clouds in the skies of Europe after the last war, but it turns out that this is different: This one is very dangerous for planes. Or something like that; I’m no engineer. All I know is this: There’s an ash cloud standing between me and Europe, between the Capitalists and the Unwilling Capitalists. And the airspace of Europe is half grounded. I rebook a flight for three days later, taking whatever ticket I can find that gets me over to Europe. Cost: $917. It’s about a hundred dollars more than the one cancelled, but that’s OK. A few hours later, this same ticket gets a little more expensive. Capitalism, you might call it. Lufthansa will be happy to take me to the same destination for $9,800. But Lufthansa is German, so that’s probably not capitalism.

  •••

  Chapter 2

  In Rome They Know: The “Oldest Jews” Eat Bacon and Clams

  Three days later, my plane takes off. I beat the ash cloud. Members of my family got lost in the ashes of Europe, but I beat the ash cloud. I am an American hero. I will conquer Europe! Germany will lie at my feet like an open book. This is the plan, the immediate plan.

  I am now in the belly of the plane. In four hours I land in Rome. From there I fly to Budapest. From Budapest, to Hamburg. A slightly circuitous route to Germany, but it’s a sure way around the stupid clouds. Jews have been wandering thousands of years and we know the best and safest ways to do it. And yes, finally, this American hero, a world-traveling Jew, lands in Rome. Safely. Securely. On time. Perfect. I walk over to my next plane. I am at the gate.
The plane is not. I am the only person at the gate. Everybody else, I soon discover, is on the other side of the airport. I go there. I am not a police surveyor and I don’t really know how to count people, but my cautious estimate is that there are about ten to twenty million. I walk over and try to strike up a conversation with them. They would be glad to talk. Do I speak Italian? Yes, I am a professor of Latin.

  Not one word, my dear!

  And this American hero suddenly feels like an American soldier in Afghanistan. I am here, dying to get out of here, but I have no clue how to do it. The Jewish traveler in me suddenly spots an English-speaking individual. A young Gypsy. He’s also going to Budapest, he tells me. Great! Thanks, my lucky stars! Can he show me the way to Budapest? Yes. Gladly. He takes me to a line. It‘s longer than the Great Wall of China. Better than an empty gate, wouldn’t you say? How do you negotiate this kind of line? I ask him.

  “You wait,” he says.

  How long?

  “Three days,” he informs me in perfect English. If I want I can join him where he sleeps the nights.

  Where is it?

  “Right here, on the floor. Didn’t take shower for some time,” he tells me, “but life’s good.” His girlfriend is with him.

  Where?

  “Somewhere here,” he says, pointing at the millions. He leaves.

  And somewhere in the middle of all this mess, I notice a plain little piece of paper, hanging from a thread above something that looks like a counter, with the word “Budapest” handwritten on it. That must be the place I have to go to. The Chinese wall, it turns out, is made of many little lines. I get to my line. An Italian man tells me that Budapest airport is closed but that it will reopen in the evening. He will get a seat for tonight, he tells me in confidence, because he knows people. “Do you know people?” he asks me.

  What kind of people is he talking about?

  “In the Industry.”

  Yes, of course. The CEO of Budapest airport is my twin brother, but the problem is that he’s not aware of it yet. Would my new Italian friend be kind enough to pass this info to his contacts in the Industry? “You will have to pay,” he tells me.

  Cell phone in hand, my new consultant goes away, dialing numbers here and there. He doesn’t have to stand on line. I do.

  Rome is European, the thought comes into my head. Socialist, perhaps, or some form of it. Unwilling Capitalists, maybe. Like the Germans. Will be interesting to see, I comfort myself, the ways of the Unwilling. I will learn something, I tell my heart. It’s actually good, I try to reason with myself, that I am lost here in the middle of China. I look and watch. Around and around. There are quite a few Americans in my line, I notice. All stuck in Holy Rome.

  The hours pass, and I get closer to the little paper above the sort of counter. An Italian clerk sits behind the counter, handling the masses. The man takes credit cards and issues new tickets. The people here, mind you, have already paid for their flights. But those flights are gone. They either stay here with the Gypsy and his girlfriend until their airline resumes flying, or they fork over their dollars and euros on all kinds of combinations with other airlines. Rome is democratic. You choose.

  After hours, my turn. The Italian clerk tells me that my airline is not flying but another one is, and he will gladly find me a ticket for an additional 500 euros. Tonight. But he has to check if the flight is available. If it’s not, I can stick around in Rome, there’s a two-star hotel next to the airport for 300 euros a night. Oh, he found a ticket. “For tonight. 500 Euros, please. It’s available now.” Great, Budapest airport is open! “Now,” he says.

  What does he mean?

  “The airport is open now, tickets are 500 euros for an evening flight, but if the airport closes again you come tomorrow and we’ll renegotiate a new flight.”

  Will that be free?

  No! “For another 500 euros.”

  Another 500?

  “Yes.” This clerk only takes money, he doesn’t give any back. These are the rules. “Here you buy tickets,” he explains to me. “If I sell you a ticket and there is no flight, you go to the airline and complain. Not to me. Do you have suitcases? Do you want them with you? That’s extra. Ten euros for every kilo. How many kilos you have?”

  This is Europe and I had better adjust. But it’s quite expensive to adjust. With my suitcases, that’s about 1,000 euros. For a flight that I’ve already paid for.

  This clerk has had it with me, I can see it on his face. He doesn’t want to spend his time with New York Capitalists. No way. “If you don’t want to spend the 500 every day,” he notifies me, then “I could book you a flight for four days later.”

  Four days later?

  Yes. “Nothing available before. All booked. Your airline has a flight tomorrow morning, and it would be free because it’s the same airline, but that flight is booked. And everything is booked till four days later. What do you want?”

  I am not sure of the exact meaning of unwilling capitalism, or socialism, or social democraticism, but I’m sure that I have to put a stop to today’s lesson. I “accidentally” dangle my press card in front of his eyes, and sure as day he catches sight of it.

  “I have one ticket only,” he sternly says. “Only one! For tomorrow morning’s flight. No charge. But only one. One. Do you want it? I can’t give you more than one!”

  Yes. I wanted to have all my concubines flying over with me, but I’ll settle for this one ticket.

  I find myself a four-star hotel in the center of Rome, next to the American embassy, for about a third of the cost of the two-star hotel by the airport. That’s some kind of socialism, I guess. The hotel is very nice, and very good. Only problem is, I don’t have my suitcases with me. I have no clothes, except for the ones I have on me.

  I slept with them. Walked a lot with them. In short: they stink. I let the faucet go, soak everything I have, all my clothes, in the water. I feel great: I beat the system! My Jewish heritage won. At exactly this moment my cell phone rings. It’s Alvaro, an Italian journalist.

  “Would you like me to come over with my motorbike and I take you for a nightly tour of Rome?”

  I take one look at my soaking wet clothes, and another look at my cell phone, and quickly decide. “I’m coming!”

  I’m not going to spend the first night of my journey to Germany naked in a hotel room in Rome. Nope. Motorbike. Let the wind dry my clothes!

  Alvaro is a fat man. I am a fat man. But his motorbike is stronger than Mussolini, and it carries us around Rome as if we were a couple of ants.

  As he drives his bike with this wet man, in the midst of our night journey, Alvaro tells me that he’s the one who got Israel’s strongman Arik Sharon’s last media interview before Mr. Sharon disappeared from the map. And then he says: “What happened to the Jews? How they changed!”

  The Jews, don’t you know, used to be good. Now they’re horrible.

  It slowly dawns on me: I’m not in America. This is as clear as the night. I’ve lived thirty years in New York and I’ve never heard such a line. No. Alvaro doesn’t hate Jews. He loves them. Kind of. After the Vatican, he takes me on a tour of the “Oldest Jews.” In Rome, he tells me, we have the Most Original Jews. “Would you like me to take you to the most Authentic Jewish Restaurant?”

  Yes, I say. Let me sit in a warmer place with my wet clothes. I take a look at the menu: choices of bacon. Choices of clams.

  Is Alvaro for real? Or did he lose his mind?

  Or, maybe, I lost mine.

  This is a different continent. Definitely. Who knows what waits for me in Germany. If this is the starting point, heaven knows where it will end.

  Alvaro is a kind man. And an intellectual as well. He is as familiar with history and philosophy as I am with my Diet Coke. Yes, I know a little bit: I spent fifteen years in various universities. Still, I don’t get one iota of his logic when he talks about Jews. I have no clue what he is saying. Not only about Jews, but about Ame
rica as well. He found out, on his own, that the Twin Towers in New York were blown up by the American government. Yes, for real. He spends about an hour, very passionately, explaining to me all the details of how the Americans did it and why. He has all the info. He leaves me speechless: The man is either an idiot or a genius. It will take a battery of psychiatrists to decide. Not that this really matters: We’re busy eating, and the food is delicious.

  Once we finish the “Jewish food,” Alvaro kindly prepares me for my journey:

  “Catholics are corrupt. Germans are not. That’s why Reformation started with Germans. Luther. A German. Germans are the most democratic.”

  Well, let’s find out!

  •••

  Chapter 3

  Landing in Germany: revolution! Marching with the Radical Left

  I fly to Budapest the next day, stick around for a few days, and then fly to the Fatherland. Why do I write down these little details? It’s called record keeping . . . In any case, Hamburg is where I land, the date being May 1. I am in Germany!

  In America we have Labor Day, and that’s in September. But I think May Day is better. The summer about to come, warmer weather in the offing. Good time to celebrate. I’m ready! I ask around where I could celebrate, and I’m told that the unions are having a “demo,” meaning demonstration, and that the “Anarchists,” folks of the radical left, are having a parade. Which would I like? In the United States, Labor Day is an excuse for establishments like Macy’s to have sales, 40 to 70 percent off, for example. Here, I quickly learn, the people like to enjoy the outside. OK with me. I choose both. I have time.