I Sleep in Hitler's Room Page 4

  Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink, as Coleridge says in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Nazis, Nazis, everywhere, nor one for me to see.

  They hide them, these leftists! They hide my Nazis. These kids want all the Nazis for themselves, I can see.

  I run out of the building. Got to get me a Nazi that’s all mine!

  But where? How?

  I walk about in the streets of Hamburg asking people to do me a favor, a big favor: Get me to a Nazi.

  The mavens immediately volunteer. “You got to go to the East,” they say. “Bavaria,” say others. Many send me to Austria.

  But I am in the north of Germany. Are there no Nazis in the north?

  Of course not. Hamburg people cannot be Nazis. “We don’t have Nazis in the north of Germany,” proud Hamburgers like to tell me. Unless, that is, you meet people here who are not native Hamburgers, the ones who really don’t care for the good name of Hamburg. “Yes,” they tell me, the north-haters, “there are plenty of Nazis” around. Where? “You can start in Neumünster,” they say, “and then keep going.”

  Neumünster. You heard of it? I never did, but it exists. Let’s go!

  •••

  Chapter 4

  Joining the Radical Right against the Jewish Devil

  Starting point: Titanic. Part cafe, part club, and mainly a darts pub. Men and women, who all know each other and every two minutes “give five” to each other, keep throwing darts at about five dartboards. In between they drink beer, more beer, coffee, and more beer. Cappuccino. Beer and beer. Another cappuccino. Another beer. More beer. And one more beer. Then coffee. And a beer. In the two hours or so that I watch them I see one man hitting the bull’s-eye one time. Usually, the closest they get to the target is somewhere between the double and triple ring, and often they get no closer than outside those. Like on the floor. These people are not going to be CIA assassins. But who cares? One coffee, two beers, bitte.

  I think: The leftists, or radical leftists, have only beer. Beer and more beer. These people here make a combo, beer and coffee. Does this mean that they are Nazis, or neo-Nazis?

  Well, could be. This is Germany. Anything goes here. Lemonade means left, so go figure. I don’t know. I’m only a tourist. Can I get two coffees and one beer, bitte? I ask the waiter. Oh God, I hope I didn’t make a mistake. Two coffees, one beer might mean something here. I hope it doesn’t mean Jewish or something. That would be horrible. I mean, if they’re Nazis.

  Don’t laugh. This is all serious business here.

  “That’s a dangerous place,” people told me before I went to Neumünster. “You must be very careful. Please don’t wear your red scarf! Red is left. Leave your scarf at home. Please!”

  I laughed, and my red scarf was laughing with me. But now we are both pretty quiet, my red scarf and me.

  Two coffees. Am I nuts?

  Maybe I should order a bottle of Vodka, I hear myself talking to my own self . . .No, please don’t! With your red scarf . . .!

  I’m losing my mind, if I still have one. I’m not really sure.

  While in Hamburg, I was told by the north-haters that there’s a place called Club 88 in Neumünster. The number 88 stands for HH, Heil Hitler. The question is: Where the heck is it? Maybe these darts people know. I can ask them, can’t I? Let’s try:

  Excuse me: Do you know how to get from here to Club 88?

  Asking doesn’t cost money. And if they are leftists, even if they have guns I shouldn’t worry. These folks can’t aim.

  But the Titanic people, it turns out, don’t think of shooting me. Don’t even dream of it. They are very happy to help out. Club 88 is their kind of place. They gladly give me the directions. Great. I’ve hit the bull’s-eye.

  Club 88. Have you ever been there? From the outside it looks like a great place, full of promise. Problem is, it’s closed. Its black doors do not respond to my attempts to open them. But Jews, let me tell you, couldn’t survive thousands of years in exile if they didn’t have patience. I have patience. And patience pays.

  Frank, the owner of Club 88, drives by. He parks his car and says Hallo.

  Heil Hitler. We are in business.

  He opens the doors wide.

  And more people come in. Devotees.

  I tell my new friends that I’m a computer analyst from the United States and that both my parents are German. I was born in Germany, I explain to them, but my parents emigrated to America when I was one year old. My name is Tobias and I’m a perfect Aryan. I came to Germany to reconnect with my roots, and I’d love to have one of those Club 88 hats that they have in their club. They like what I say, I can see it in their eyes. I choose the hat in which I look the most stupid, practically retarded, and put it on my head.

  So good to get in touch with your roots!

  Sieg Heil, my friends. Wish our Leader, Adolf Hitler, were here to see me.

  Frank takes a liking to me. This club is also a drinking joint. There are many sweet drinks here, not just beer. This is not the Rote Flora. Here they love sweet. Would I like the blue liquor? Very good, Frank says. Anything I want, on the house. As much as I want. Club 88 welcomes its lost child. Tobias. Me.

  Frank, let me tell you, is friendly, sympathetic, always smiling, and a very welcoming man. I have no idea why the kids from the extremely dirty Rote Flora want to kill him. He is cleaner than God. And, as he talks to me, he keeps on cleaning every dirty spot he finds. Maybe that’s why the leftists hate him and his friends.

  Would I like an energy drink? Everything for the guest!

  Most of my life, how sad, I lived outside the Fatherland. I missed much, obviously. Frank would be very glad to fill in the holes and gaps in my cultural upbringing. Would I like to know? Would I like to acquire knowledge?

  Please teach me, my friend!

  Frank takes his new task seriously. He brings the books in.

  Here is a book about Jews. With pictures, illustrations, tables, and other scholarly stuff. This is a textbook, as they call it in America. This is not fiction. This is reality.

  Here, he shows me, is the image of the Jewish Devil. Jüdischen Teufel. It’s a stamp.

  He explains: “The Jews, who control the world, stamp everything that belongs to them with this stamp. When you see this stamp, you know you are under total control of the Jews.”

  Does The Stamp remind me of anything? he asks.

  Not really.

  He takes out his German ID card, turns it to the back, and then turns it upside down. He puts the image next to the one in his book, titled, if I’m not mistaken, Das Deutschland Protokoll, and shows me the similarities between the image of the Jewish Devil and the image on the German ID card. Practically the same.

  Could he interpret the image for me?

  Gladly.

  Two horns on top. Jews have horns, naturally. In middle-bottom there is a long nose, another Jewish natural feature, as is known worldwide.

  Yes. The Jew controls Germany. And he also controls America, in case I wondered.

  Let’s leave the Jews for a moment. What does Frank think of Obama?

  “Obama is a Nigger and he should go to Africa.”

  Frank comes back to the Jews, his real passion:

  “Six million Jews did not die in World War II. It takes seventy-two minutes to gas and burn one person. How could you burn so many so fast? What I say now, if the police heard me, would cost me six years in prison.”

  OK, let’s talk about Jews. What should we do with the Jews of today?

  “Kill them!”

  Turks are bad. Idiots. Or, as he calls them, “dumb Jews.” Turks have no patience, can’t calculate ahead of time. Not so the Jews. The Jews, who are the worst of creatures, they can stick it to you five years later. Just wait and see. “The Jews are the worst. There are millions of Jews in Germany.”

  How many millions?

  “At least one million.”

  Let’s hope, says Frank, that “the Nigger American president takes care of
the Jews of Israel, who steal the water from the Palestinians, and stops those Jews once and for all.”

  Frank is well versed in politics. Knows everything. He tells me: “The German chancellor must always visit America in order to submit to the Allies. Still. This is a shame for Germany!”

  What does he think of, let’s say, Helmut Schmidt?

  “He is good.”

  Is he a Jew?

  “No.”

  I heard that he is.

  “Really? Scheiße!” (Shit!)

  The German Reich still exists, he instructs me, though it’s not functioning because of America and the Allies, which are controlled by the Jews.

  Frank now offers beer and brandy to his guest, free of charge. He continues to talk: “The German left is dumb, stupid. All they care for is porno and alcohol. They just want to consume alcohol. Very bad. And porno. Who provides the porno? Jews. The Jews, who consider themselves Children of God, used to sacrifice their own kids to their God. This is a known fact. Today, in keeping with their ancient custom, they take dolls and perform a sacrificial ritual. Yes. When George Bush was president, Jewish leaders performed such a ritual in the presence of President Bush and other world leaders. This ritual was filmed and is available on YouTube.”

  Where on YouTube?

  Frank opens his laptop to show me the YouTube clip. It takes some time. Much time. He can’t find the clip. Maybe a Jew from Berlin has blocked him. But don’t worry. Frank has the clip on a DVD. In his house. Maybe I will come again.

  “Did you see the Jew Michael Friedman? Easy to tell he is a Jew because of his hairstyle. Jews have a different hairstyle. It’s a wavy hairstyle. That’s the way the Jews have it. And Michael Friedman, a Jew, smokes all kinds of forbidden leaves as well.”

  I’m delighted it’s so easy to recognize a Jew.

  No, Frank is not looking for trouble, he explains. All he wants is peace and love. Unification of Germany, Austria, Denmark, and other countries is needed because they are one country, one people. It’s important to unite and protect the white race. But not the Poles. And, by the way, for the sake of honest and true history, may it be known that “Germany never invaded Poland. It’s a lie.

  Honor of family, love of brother and sister, that’s what’s important. And getting rid of the Jews, once and for all. Those schemers, creatures who invented a story about some holocaust so that they could squeeze out of Germany billions of euros plus four submarines. And then, when they wanted more money, they bombed the World Trade Center and made America fight for them.”

  After the Jews, Frank’s biggest enemy is the police, the German police. And, like the anarchists, he would like to see them gone. And like those on the left, all he’s really wishing for is Peace and Love.

  What is most striking about Frank is that he is really a very lovely and generous person. Before coming here, people warned me of the dangers awaiting me once I crossed the entrance door to Club 88. They see the new-Nazis on TV and think they’re beasts. Little do they know. Frank, like the other people in the club, is no mass murderer. Quite the opposite: He is kind and so very welcoming. He offers free drinks, maintains constant personal attention, and is always smiling.

  He likes to sing sometimes. He sings for me a little song, a romantic tune. Let me share it with you: “We have crematoriums, and in each crematorium there’s a little Jew . . .” He smiles as he sings it. He has a good voice, by the way.

  And I think: Probably that’s how my family was led to death. With a song and a smile.

  It’s time to leave. Frank poses for a picture with me, the American computer analyst. We shake hands and we hug. “I love my people, I love my family, and I love my land,” he says to me before I leave his place. “All I want is to protect them.”

  He’s a Believer, like any churchgoer you’ll meet on Sunday morning during prayer. Both want the best for their families, both are dedicated to their beliefs, and both, it strangely strikes me just now, believe in dead Jews.

  We part ways, and I go back to Hamburg.

  •••

  Chapter 5

  Mind: Meeting Germany’s Elite. Conversations with Chancellor Helmut Schmidt and with the Chief Editor of Germany’s Highbrow Newspaper

  I walk around the streets of Hamburg and ask people if they are proud to be German. Obviously I have totally lost my mind. No way back. I am on the verge of becoming a Prophet, a Revolutionary, a Philosopher, or any other incurable disease walking on two.

  Are you proud to be German?

  No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, come the answers. Not one yes.

  I get into a conversation with a young woman who is married to a man who could be her grandpa. He used to be her professor, she tells me. Must be a great thinker to make her fall in love with him. I chat with the man. Are you proud to be German? I ask him. “No, of course not,” he says. We talk a little bit more. He has a few glasses of beer, I have a few Cola Lights, which is what they call Diet Coke here. And then I whisper in his ear: “You are in a dark room, all by yourself, naked. It’s a wonderful evening. An angel drops from heaven to serve you. And he asks you, the angel, ‘Are you proud to be German?’ What’s your answer?”

  “Yes, I am!” The Professor says loudly.

  No wonder this attractive young lady fell in love with this ancient thinker.

  Who are the Germans? No clue.

  Is there something “German” beyond just passport and some internationally recognized borders? Oh, Yes. Just do me a favor, please, and don’t ask me to tell you what it is. I really don’t know. The only thing I can tell you is this: I’m busy. Very busy. I’m trying to find somebody who’ll tell me that he or she is proud to be German. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I find those people, kiss them or slap them, but I think it’ll be good for my sanity.

  A day later I meet Mathias. He’s Proud to be East German, he says, but can’t say Proud to be German. No way. West Germans, he tells me, drink much less alcohol than the eastern ones. I try to process it. What does he mean “less”? What happens in the east, heaven help me? They bathe in rivers made of beer? While enjoying his beer, he and his girlfriend, Evelyn, share with me their thoughts about the characteristics of the German: “Seriousness, order, unfriendliness, cleanliness.” “That’s why,” they explain to me, “the radical left is dirty . . . a protest against the ‘German.’ ”

  I need to get myself a smart person, a human creature with a clear head, to get me out of the mess I find myself in. Or I’m leaving this country on the next flight out. Ash cloud or not. I’ll pay Lufthansa $9,800 to fly me to Iceland. I don’t care.

  I settle for the oldest surviving German chancellor, His Honor Mr. Helmut Schmidt. The man is an icon in this country, I’m told. Works for me. It will take an icon to get me back on track.

  I just open my mouth, and the Icon comments to me:

  “Let me make a technical remark: I am ninety-one years old, my ears are already a hundred and one years. I understand one half of what you say. The other half I have to make up in my little computer up here, and it’s neither from Apple nor from HP, it’s from God and therefore it’s working slowly. You’re speaking much too quickly for me. Please speak slowly.”

  Very slowly, as slowly as I can, I enunciate my first question to him:

  Former French president Valéry Giscard d’Estaing said at the time that your father’s father was Jewish. Is that correct?

  Hell knows why this is the first question I pose to him. As if this were my business. Or, as if I really care. But you can’t stop a tongue once it starts.

  The response?

  “Yes.”

  And I go on, like a classical idiot:

  You never said it to anybody before. Why?

  “There was no reason to talk about it.”

  Well, you might call Mr. Schmidt an icon. But to me, don’t laugh, he’s a Jew. Certified. This interview, strange as it might sound to your ears, is going to be a conversation between two Jews. Two Jews talkin
g.

  And the First Jew, yours truly, asks the Second Jew, your icon:

  Is there a national characteristic that makes a German German?

  Second Jew thinks. It takes the Jew time to answer. After two thousand years of Exile, Jews learned to be patient. So I wait until my fellow Jew comes up with an answer. Sure as the Exile, he finally does:

  “You could write a whole book on that.”

  Brilliant. The exact answer I was waiting for. We Jews understand each other. I patiently wait for him to elaborate.

  Give a Jew time to elaborate and he takes it.

  Mr. Second Jew talks to me about national language. About Literature. About Collective Memory. He tells me that nations tend to be proud of the good things in their history and that so are the Germans. “But the Germans have a series of events in their history that they are ashamed of. Take, for example, the Holocaust, one word hinting at a whole complex.”

  And they live it to this day.

  “The Germans,” he says, “are very cautious to form a judgment about the conflict between the Arabs and the Israelis, because they are afraid of being called anti-Semites.”

  Plain and clear he sums it up for the First Jew:

  “The Holocaust is part of the cultural heritage of the Germans, and will remain so.”

  If you ever doubted whether this man was indeed a Jew, now you know for sure: A Certified Jew. Which, as is the custom between two Jews talking, brings me to ask him:

  For how long will this remain part of the German heritage?

  Jews, if you didn’t know by now, answer questions by asking another question. And so, to keep tradition alive, the Other Jew asks:

  “I’ll give you an example: How long ago was it when the Jews of Jerusalem were exiled by Nebuchadnezzar?”

  Two thousand years ago, I say.

  No Jew ever accepts another Jew’s response without correcting it. And so does Rabbi Helmut:

  “Twenty-five hundred years. More than twenty-five hundred years.”