It’s as if something’s opened in my brain suddenly, giving me insight into much of what I witnessed in this land during my journey so far. Namely: Germans move together, walk together, celebrate together, act together, and think together.
Even in the media world, which is probably one of the most advanced in German society, they have those conferences, so they can think together.
Maybe Germany’s national symbol should be a lamb, not an eagle. I’m not trying to put anybody down; lambs are nice too. I like lambs. I really do.
•••
I am in Tübingen. Good-bye Bavaria, hello Baden-Württemberg.
Tübingen has a church—sorry for bringing up churches again—that could be well categorized as philo-Semitic. It is known for, among other things, its dedication to the remembrance of the Holocaust. One of their activities, to cite an example, is the conducting of marches (Marsch des Lebens) in various locations in Germany in order to commemorate the Marches of Death, a Nazi practice that claimed thousands upon thousands of lives toward the end of World War II.
Don’t think that their emphasis on remembrance of the Holocaust is causing them to be a sad bunch of people. The opposite is true, if today is a fair example. They dance and they sing and they move and they shake for almost three hours and they don’t seem to get either tired or exhausted. Not a bit.
Yes, it’s another Verein.
The style here is very much American Evangelical. They jump in place, very cheerful, happy shmappy, they move and shake their bodies the way yeshiva students do in Israel. It’s not every day that you get to see German blonds shaking like ultra-Orthodox Jews. An interesting sight. The lyrics go something like: “Today is today, I don’t worry about tomorrow. Thank you, Lord.” Most of the people here are in their twenties and thirties. Pretty young bunch.
They also have a bookstore here, where they sell such titles as How Children Learn to Believe. On the stage, the flags of three nations are proudly displayed: Germany’s, Israel’s, and the United States’. This pretty much says it all: These people are not from Cuba.
Time for a little sermon. The Pastor talks at length against Western media, attacking the media’s criticism of Israel on the issue of the flotilla to Gaza. Tomorrow, he says, a delegation from the church will go to Israel, where they have rented an apartment for two weeks. What will they do there? Pray for the protection of Israel. He’ll be going as well.
At the entrance gate of this church, known as TOS, there is a sign proclaiming in big letters, “Free!” Meaning, I assume, come in and it won’t cost you a dime. Yet, money is raised here, via passing of the hat. Music follows. Happy people like to sing. Then, following the music, the pastor gives a speech about the high cost of the apartment in Israel. He urges the worshippers to help. Music comes up again. He leaves the stage. The worshippers, many of them, now come up to the stage and lay down euro notes, creating a nice Euro pile. Many twenties and fifties.
The pastor comes up again.
God, says the pastor, told him to go to Israel and pray to Him from there.
I don’t get it, really. If God and this pastor are already talking with each other, if there’s already a connection, why is God telling this pastor to go to Israel and pray to Him from there? If I talk to somebody on the phone and he tells me to go to Japan and finish the conversation from there, I’ll hang up.
I decide that I need to talk to this pastor eye-to-eye and see how he explains all this to me. His name is Jobst Bittner, and we sit down after the service for a quiet face-to-face interview. He tells me that his father was in North Africa during the war but that as a young man “he was strongly for Hitler. My mom was part of Bund Deutscher Mädchen” (or BDM, the female branch of Hitler Youth). I ask him if he knows why God is telling him to go to Israel instead of finishing the talk in Germany.
It takes him about an hour of talking and he still hasn’t given me an answer. I ask him what’s the problem, why can’t he give me a straight answer. He tells me to look for Jesus. I tell him to look for Muhammad. And that’s, more or less, where we end up.
He seems to be a guy driven to do good for his country and willing to spare no effort, but I don’t get him. I conclude: My Germans are sometimes extremely complex, no matter what their political views.
The soccer match between Germany and Australia is about to begin and the church offers a “Public Viewing” of it. My Germans want to see the game in a group. I join. And as the German team keeps scoring, the Jew-loving church goes wild. They sing:
Allee, allee, allee, allee. Eine strasse, viele baeume, ja das ist eine allee.
Wir wollen Tore sehen wir wollen Tore sehen, wir wollen, wir wollen Tore sehen.
Einer geht noch, einer geht noch rein, zwei wären besser drei müssen’s sein.
[basically: We want more goals.]
It’s 2–0 to Germany in the first half. The crowd is elated. Beer time. All Germans drink beer. Left, right, center. Doesn’t matter. And then it’s the second half. The German team keeps doing well and TOS fans keep screaming. Lines include: “Das war elegant!” and “Die Deutschen sind perfect!” (The Germans are perfect!) Flags suddenly appear as from nowhere; obviously the people here have been carrying flags in their bags just in case their team wins. Some paint their faces with the colors of the German flag. Others paint other parts of their bodies in the flag’s colors. Kisses, hugs, very loud sounds. My Germans are happy.
I leave them happy and walk to the town square.
Looks like a party, or an orgy, is going on. Drivers honk their horns all over, so happy are they. People dance in the marketplace after midnight. They have huge flags, my Germans. They kiss their fellow Germans. They dance wildly. The game ended 4–0 for the German team, and my Germans just can’t be any prouder. Some flags are much bigger, longer, and wider than their carriers. They want to cover themselves, and whoever is around them, with the flag.
Extreme people, my Germans, and they love their country. Deeply. They scream. From the top of their lungs, “Deutschland! Deutschland! Deutschland!” Over and over. They jump, and jump, and jump. Here’s one jumping over a traffic light. Three cops are watching, laughing. They are part of the happy crowd. Strangers hug and kiss each other, over and over again. Happy bunch, the Germans. Look at the size of the flag over there: fits two king-size beds.
It’s good to be German!
I go to bed and sleep calmly. When my Germans feel good, I feel good as well.
•••
Once I’m on my feet again I go to meet Bruno Gebhart-Pietzsch, owner of a store that sells fair-trade coffee, fair-handled tea, philosophy books, bio drinks, and CDs such as Kinder der Sonne (Children of the sun). Bruno is also a member of the city council, representing the Green Party.
The Greens in the Rathaus of Tübingen are 35 percent, the largest percentage in the country, Bruno says proudly.
Who are more beautiful, Swabian women or Bavarian? I ask him.
The man is shocked, he simply cannot believe that what his ears have just heard is true. He’s stunned by the question.
A man, dressed like a member of the British Parliament, enters the store. He works in the library of the university, where one of the students left an empty bottle on the table. He has a question: Would Bruno like to have it?
I have a question: Is he trying to sell the bottle?
No, no! It’s just that empty bottles shouldn’t be thrown away. They must be properly recycled.
Righteous people, my Germans, and pretty extreme. Where else, on this planet, would you find people who care so much about an empty bottle, carrying it all over until they find a Green man who would know what to do with it? Germany!
To be honest, this righteousness starts scaring me. Righteous people can turn into animals in a second. Blind were the people who couldn’t see Nazism coming during the Weimar Republic. It wasn’t the bad economy that turned the country to Nazism; it was the Weimar people and their righteousness.
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br /> I know. How do I know? I’ve met many righteous people in my life. Not only Germans. Not one righteous man or woman ever “disappointed” me. When I stood in their way they turned into beasts in a matter of seconds.
Yes, many a historian would disagree with me on this. But I spent years studying German history, especially the Third Reich era, and this is my conclusion. I might be wrong, but that the others might be wrong is equally true.
Whichever it is, I write a note in my head: must go to Weimar.
I am not done with Bruno.
I ask my main man, Bruno: Who is smarter, the Swabians or the Bavarians?
Bruno, a PC man, won’t even entertain the thought of answering this.
You are very PC, I say to him. Were you always like this?
“I used to be Catholic but became very disappointed with it as I grew up.”
Is this store your new church?
He laughs, nods his head. Then says: “Maybe.”
Outside Bruno’s store is a tent for Ärzte ohne Grenzen (Doctors Without Borders). Righteous people as well. This is a city of the righteous, I soon see. Here I see Georg, a young man who sells donation subscriptions. You can, for example, authorize the No-Border doctors to take 10 or 160 euros from your bank account once a month. Jobst sells you eternity with God, Georg sells you righteousness with man. And the people of Tübingen buy.
How much are you getting paid to stand here, Georg?
“I do it because I believe it!”
How much, man? Give me a number!
“Five hundred fifty euros a week.”
My interviews done for the day, at least as far as I know, I walk about smoking my cigarettes. Done with one pack, I try to dispose of my empty cigarette box in the garbage can. But it’s not an easy task in this town, as I soon learn, when a local woman catches me in the act and sternly reminds me that anything that has a plastic cover, like my empty cigarette box, must be taken out, together with the silver wrapper inside, and be disposed of in the yellow bin, bitte! You cannot put the whole empty box in one bin, just like that. She stands next to me to watch me comply. I must first separate the parts of the empty box. Yes.
I’ll never live in Tübingen!
The Nazi Lady is leaving, and another woman is making her way in, a Muslim lady.
She is interesting. Really.
Did you ever see a woman with a burka making a call on her cell phone? You must take a look at this one. It’s a very complex operation, let me tell you, and it takes quite a few steps: Move the veil so that it doesn’t stick to your face but don’t reveal your face, look at numbers but don’t let light from outside in, click on the numbers but don’t let anybody see your fingers, then move the phone to your covered ears and make sure all the black textile doesn’t get in the way. Say Hallo, but don’t raise your voice. Men might get tempted.
Finished the call? Good.
Now, do you know where to store your cell phone? In your bra! But don’t let anybody catch you doing this. Breasts are very tempting and it’s a major crime to tempt men.
This woman must have a PhD in Burka Cell Calling from the Free University, Berlin. Otherwise, I don’t know how she could follow all these steps so flawlessly.
There’s a Talmudic question that I entertain at the moment. What is the law if you live in the Black Forest, very deep inside it, in its darkest and blackest point: Should you still wear a burka, or are the trees good enough, are they sufficient covering? I should go to the Black Forest and examine the place before I issue a ruling.
I sit at a café next to the Rathaus, order myself a dark, black Cola Zero, and ponder this question in total seriousness. As I sip my Zero, I notice another Muslim woman passing by. But she’s wearing a hijab, and her face is showing. She is walking a few steps behind her husband, the boss. She’s all in black, he’s with a short white shirt and sandals. While she’s sweating, he’s having a good time.
I interviewed one of these ladies the other day and she told me that she actually felt pride in being all covered. Jewels, she told me, you cover.
The dead you also cover, but I didn’t tell her that.
There are many women with hijab, as far as I can tell, on the streets of the Fatherland. Is the Middle East moving westward, to Germany? Or am I actually in Gaza?
•••
I think and I think, and by the time I am done thinking I am in the Black Forest. For real. It’s so beautiful here that I immediately issue a fatwa forbidding burkas anywhere near the trees.
Yes, my fatwa is good. Go walk in the forest, in its dark parts, in its awesome powerful blackness and you’ll immediately see that burkas don’t belong here. Deer, yes; burkas no. It defeats their purpose. Indeed, I don’t see a single burka lady in the whole of the Black Forest, at least the parts that I visit.
I feel like a prophet. Me and that American Prophet should form an association, the Prophets’ Verein, GmbH. I’m sure we will be pretty profitable.
Not far from here, believe it or not, somebody’s built the biggest cuckoo clock in the world. I arrive a little late and can see it only through the window, but see it I do. It’s totally and absolutely impractical. There’s nothing you can do with it. Logically speaking, my fatwa makes much more sense. But still, I must admit, this clock pleases the eye.
Away, away from the clock lives a man known as Johannes. He is a nice man, this Johannes. He invites me to stay the night with him. He has a beautiful house, all made of gorgeous wood, and he would like to share it with others. At least for a night. He also likes to cook. Can I say no? No!
Food ready, the man asks if I want to hear his family history. Can I say no? No.
His grandpa refused to join the Nazi Party. One day the Nazis came and forced him out of his house at gunpoint. For fourteen days nobody knew where he was, and then he showed up, face fallen and spirit beaten, uttering only one sentence: “I’ll never tell you what happened.” And he never did, till the end of his life. Long after the Nazis were gone.
This, Johannes explains to his guest, is the story of Germany. The German people were against the Nazis, but they couldn’t do anything about it. “The story of my grandfather happened all over Germany. Everywhere. To everyone. To every family. It was just a few, the SS, who did the dirty work.”
And as he speaks, the Black Forest gets a little darker.
Johannes’s company, privately held, has revenues of six million euros a year, he tells me. He also tells me that he loves Jews.
I love chicken. Well cooked.
Josef, a farmer, is about seventy years old. I meet him on his farm. Josef is a nice man with a thick Swabian dialect. Matter-of-factly he tells me that he took one vacation in his life, in the north, but then missed his Swabian farm and came back.
Is there something unique about Swabian people in comparison, let’s say, to the Bavarians?
“Swabians are thick-headed, unlike the Bavarians, who are happy people. If I take another vacation it will be in Bavaria.”
He works eight hours a day, he has thirty cows and forty calves. He also does woodcutting and demonstrates to me how the machines work. “The young women today,” he says as I try out his machines, “are lazy. They want to have a job and to work in the city. Because on the farm you have to work even on the weekend. Animals don’t go ‘home’ for the weekend! That’s why we bring in Polish women to the Black Forest and marry them. But after a while the Polish ladies learn from the German ladies . . .”
What is the most important thing in life, Josef?
“Money. To have money is the most important thing in life.”
August is also a farmer. He shares his house with the cows. Too much work, he sums up his life, and too little money. “This area used to be Austria until 1806, but now it’s Germany.” He is a Baden man, cares not for the Swabians, and thinks that the Baden tribe is the best in the land. And what about his wife, is she a Baden lady?
“What else!”
These two guys, I believe, are the unwilling capitalists of Europe.
On the roads, some distance from the farms, there are many posters announcing the various Public Viewings of the WM games. My Germans like to use English words. I don’t know why, but maybe this way they feel more international.
“Public viewing.” Yep.
Say what you will about the Germans’ English, there’s no Brit or Yankee worth his day who will say “Nein” to a Mercedes. And Mercedes is not from here. Should I go?
•••
Welcome to Mercedes-Benz, Stuttgart. Manfred is our tour guide for today. First he teaches us, a group of tourists, the basics. For example: This company earned 78.9 billion euros in revenue last year. Then there’s a ten-minute explanation about the proper name of this company. Daimler, Benz, Mercedes-Benz, AG, and what’s the difference between them all, what is correct and what’s not.
We board a bus that will take us to the factory. I decide not to break my head trying to decipher what bus it is. Daimler-AG, Daimler Chrysler, Chrysler-Daimler-AG, Daimler Benz, Benz AG, Mercedes-Benz Daimler, Benz Daimler AG.
For all I care, it can be a Ford.
Why are you so complicated? I ask Thomas, a member of the Visitor Communication department of Mercedes-Benz, or whatever it’s called. Thomas, you see, was sent to help me out in case I have some questions.
“Because we are Germans,” he says.
Poor Thomas, he didn’t expect such a question. I think he wants to leave.
“I will meet you after the tour, if this is OK with you,” he says.
Yes, of course it is.
Tour starts. Here they make engines for the A-Class. Today 711 engines are to be made. At this moment, 12:54 p.m., 291 are done. They have until 11:00 p.m. to complete the rest. No robots in this part of the factory, just people. Robots are not part of the tour. Too bad, I love robots.
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