I Sleep in Hitler's Room

by Tuvia Tenenbom

  I don’t know about the rest of the plant here, but this part reminds me of pictures from the beginning of the Industrial Revolution. Very depressing, to put it simply. The floor, as you might expect, is clean but really ugly. And so is the rest of the place.

  Another interesting thing: Unlike the BMW plant, here there are no workers with coffee cups. I look at some of these faces, and they’re not very cheerful.

  Do you like working here, are you enjoying your job? I ask two young workers.

  “Not much,” comes the reply. “But what can we do? We must work.”

  “Smoking is forbidden in workplaces and offices,” Manfred says, “and alcohol as well. Alcohol cannot be bought in the factory store.”

  Thomas of Mercedes-Benz’s Visitor Communication confirms that alcohol is not sold here for the reasons Manfred specified. But there’s another reason, he adds.

  What is that?

  The company doesn’t want to offend the religious sensitivities of some of the workers whose religion forbids alcohol.

  To make this a reason for not selling alcohol is PC gone extreme.

  The more time I spend in this country, the more I get the feeling that its society is too extreme. I’ll have to think about it, but not now. Now I have to talk to Thomas.

  How come I didn’t see even one worker who is having coffee in your plant? At BMW, I saw quite a few of the workers having coffee—

  “We don’t pay for workers to drink coffee.”

  I love short, clear answers. Now at least I know the difference between MB and BMW.

  How does he think the workers would reply to my question?

  “I don’t understand it. I work for money, not for enjoyment. Our intention is 100 percent quality.”

  So it doesn’t bother you they are not happy?

  “Me? No.”

  As we talk, a well-dressed man walks by, and Thomas moves nervously in his chair. His name is Volker Stauch, Thomas tells me. According to Thomas, he oversees 17,000 employees here. In Stuttgart, he is the Big Boss. No one above him. His official title is Senior Vice President for Powertrain Operations, Mercedes-Benz. He’s in charge of the plant here and of some other plants across this big land.

  Would he mind having a little chat with me?

  Gladly. Top Men love journalists.

  An exhibition here lists different milestones in the company’s history. Usually, the date of the event is also listed. But I noticed that not listed is the date when this company paid compensations to forced laborers during World War II. I ask Volker if he knows the date.

  He gets pretty emotional as he responds: “My mother lived in Poland and she lost her home. At that time, that was Germany. My interest is in that. That’s my history. I am interested in that. She had some difficult nights with Russian soldiers!”

  Do you have the date when the company paid compensations to its forced laborers?

  “I know that the company asked people to write a book about what happened here, but I don’t know the details.”

  He is an emotional guy, Volker. He loves his mama.

  There’s no one like Mama. A few thousands dying here or there? Who cares! But Mama is different. Mama is Mama.

  I have to ask my Half and Half in Hamburg if Italians talk like this as well.

  I stick around for a night in Stuttgart and then move to Frankfurt, capital of the Unwilling Capitalists of Germany. Where else!

  •••

  Chapter 14

  How the Emir of Qatar Became My Friend and How China Ended World War II

  The first person I meet in Frankfurt is Hikmet. Do you know Hikmet? Hikmet is a taxi driver. He would like to attend a Public Viewing of the soccer game this afternoon, the one between Germany and Serbia. But he can’t, sorry. Today is Friday, and Hikmet has to go to the mosque. On Allah’s Day, Hikmet would rather be with Allah. Allah can do more for you than FIFA.

  “We have a big, beautiful mosque in Frankfurt,” Hikmet tells me. “With a minaret,” he adds with a smile, referring to the Swiss ban on minarets.

  In two more years, Hikmet promises me, he’ll take his wife with him and move back to Turkey.

  Does your wife wear hijab? I ask my new friend on earth.

  “Yes, she does.”

  Your mom too?

  “Yes, she too.”

  And a burka as well? I ask. I have no idea why this burka thing keeps popping into my exposed mind.

  “No, no burka.”

  Your wife too?

  “My wife?”

  Burka?

  “No.”

  Why not?

  “It’s not in the religion!”

  What do you mean?

  “It’s not mentioned in the Quran.”

  And the hijab?

  “The hijab?”

  Is it mentioned in the Quran?

  “You mean—?”

  Where is the word hijab mentioned in the Quran? Did you see it with your own eyes?Hikmet stares at me, the new imam of Frankfurt.

  “You know the Quran?”

  Yes, answers Imam Tuvia.

  “It’s not mentioned, true.”

  He laughs now. It’s between Muslims. Between men. Mentioned, not mentioned, who cares? We, men, don’t wear it anyway. We share a laugh. We understand each other. I bid Hikmet goodbye and go to meet a Jew. Just to be even-handed, like the EU. When in Europe, I figure, do as the Europeans do.

  •••

  My Jew for today is Roman Haller, director of “Claims Conference, Successor Organization” in Frankfurt.

  What is Successor Organization?

  “Incoming Money,” he tells me. That’s in plain English. What this office does is locate properties that were in Jewish hands before World World II and “reclaims” them.

  He introduces himself:

  “I was born in Poland, but I am not Polish because I left Poland as a baby. It’s impossible for me to say I am German because of what happened to my family here. What am I? I am a citizen of Munich. I am Bavarian, I can say that. I am a Jew and I am a Bavarian.”

  I ask Roman how much money did Daimler pay out for its conduct during World War II and in what year did they pay it. He can check for me, he says, but, “As far as I know, only 15 percent of forced labor at Daimler were Jewish. Everybody was screaming that the Jews take money, but most of the money went to non-Jews.”

  At the Claims Conference here, he tells me, “We deal only with properties. And the Jewish properties have to come back to Jewish hands. Full stop.”

  How about claims that have nothing to do with property? Should they continue to be made, as they are now, or should they be stopped? Roman Haller will be glad to answer me this question, he says, provided I stop writing. I stop and he talks. Whatever he says now is off the record.

  All in all, he tells me before I leave, “there is less anti-Semitism in Germany than in the US.” I am happy to hear about it. I have been suffering constant anti-Semitism in New York for the past thirty years, hardly surviving, and it’s great news to hear that the situation in Germany is better.

  •••

  Outside his office, loud groups of people, or Vereins, are at the ready. They are excited. It’s time for another German win. Yeah, this is a Verein. Kind of. Same idea. People who want to watch the games in groups. Sitting home and watching TV, coming to you from the same channel at exactly the same time, is not good enough. We must see the games with other Germans, many Germans. All of us together.

  Walking the streets of Frankfurt on game day requires training. It’s a sport by itself. You have to maneuver among the crowds. They are excited, the people. Especially those next to Public Viewing areas, such as Rossmarkt.

  Thousands upon thousands of two-legged creatures, many carrying German flags, are at the ready. There are some here, I suddenly notice, with Serbian flags as well. Will they spoil the party? The people, some of whom took trains from long distances just to be here, to wa
tch the game with the others, are singing excitedly intelligent poems with flowery lines such as “Deutschland vor, Schieß ein Tor!” (Onward, Germany, shoot a goal!)

  Suddenly, nobody knows how it really happened, Serbia scores a goal under the nose of the Germans. Serbian fans shout in delight. After all, they are the ones who did it, right here in Rossmarkt. Yeah. Don’t dare to remind them that they’re not in South Africa, that they are in Frankfurt, Germany, watching a giant TV screen. But the Germans here are in a bad mood, worse than the Palestinians in Gaza. At half-time, a man with a mike on the stage urges the people to be happier. We are just one goal behind, he reminds them. Waste of time; they are too depressed.

  The second half starts and the German team doesn’t score. One young lady, with the colors of the German flag on her face, rubs them off and exits.

  There are ten thousand people here. Who are they, really?

  With press card in hand, I am permitted to go to the stage and stare at the crowd from above, facing the multitude. This is magnificent. When viewed from the stage, under the huge screen, the thousands of faces project back like a strange painting, faces upon faces made into one atomic unit of worshippers. Some, I am not kidding, pray to the screen, and I feel like God. They scream in my direction, being the imprecating devotees that they are.

  Those who don’t scream, the silent majority, stand almost motionless, like the trees in the Black Forest. Visually, this looks like a painting by a deranged man.

  Whatever it is, it is hard for me to take my eyes off them. It’s magnificent in its beauty and amazing in its ugliness, all at the same time. You can’t duplicate this image. No lens, no TV can capture the awesomeness of this moment. Frightening.

  •••

  Rumor flies into my ears, and I can’t share the name of its carrier, that the emir of Qatar is in Frankfurt today. He is staying, where else, at the Steigenberger Frankfurter Hof. Now, this is a nice hotel. And this nice hotel has nice people in it. And the nice people of this nice hotel are welcoming me as a guest of their hotel. Four kingly days at no charge. I even get a tour of the place by a beautiful saleslady who shows me to the Thomas Mann Suite and some other interesting hideaways in this huge building. Yes, this is called the Thomas Mann Suite because the man stayed here. Mann, the Emir, and Me. A gorgeous triumvirate. The emir’s presence, by the way, is a big secret. I am not supposed to know. When I ask an official here, I am met by:

  “How do you know?” And then:

  “Oh God, did I just tell you?”

  No, I say, the emir and I are intimate friends!

  The Holy Triangle widens when I meet a fourth man: Patrick Bittner. Now, this is a man for you. A chef. Chef of the hotel’s French restaurant. Not just a chef, a runner too. This man, believe it or not, runs 25 km every day. Not in his car, not in his motorcycle, not on a yacht. But by foot.

  Patrick dear, what’s your motto? Anything you would like to be remembered for?

  “Food is like women. Food needs to be treated with respect.”

  Great. By the authority given to me by Zeus, I order you to answer me this question: If I allow you to have only one, food or women, which would you choose?

  “Food.”

  When you prepare a dish, do you converse with the food and ask it for advice? Do you talk to the food?

  Zeus knows how I came up with this question, I certainly don’t. But Patrick, go figure, understands it.

  “Yes I do.”

  There are forty-one suites in this hotel. The Presidential Suite, in case you are interested, goes for 4,600 euros a night. And Patrick’s restaurant, you’ll probably not be shocked to learn, is the most expensive in the area. Dinner for two will cost you, on average, around 400 euros. Last night, a staff member shares a little secret with me: A group of ten came for dinner and had spent 3,000 euros by the time they left.

  What food, you might be curious to know, do walking banks eat? Well, good food. I know, because I tried it. Gift of Patrick.

  Here are some of the foods and the drinks that, following bits and bites of various delicious goodies intended just to whet the appetite, enter my belly on this Friday evening:

  Alsatian goose liver with elder, yogurt and green pepper. This comes with a 2005 Monbazillac wine, a Château Le Thibaut from France.

  Line-caught John Dory (Saint Pierre) with mashed potatoes, chanterelles, and green peppers. This comes with a 2006 Riesling, a Nonnberg, Erste Gewächs from Germany.

  Turbot from Brittany with young artichokes, capers, and tomatoes. This comes with 2004 Grüner Veltliner, from Austria.

  The fish, the waiter tells me, have just arrived in Frankfurt. Twelve hours ago, he explains to me, they were calmly swimming in France. The man makes me feel almost like a cannibal. But I eat them anyway.

  Continue:

  Saddle of deer from the Eifel with kohlrabi, peas tortellini, and Mexican spice. This comes with a 2000 Hautes-Côtes de Nuits from France.

  This, as mentioned, is just a partial list of what is served at dinner. There are sweets as well, more wine, different breads, and, of course, three different butters. Rich people like more than just one butter on their breads.

  How was the food? Well . . . if there’s a heaven, Patrick is the head chef up there. Not only does his food taste otherworldly, but he prepares it like a painter. Each dish, and there are quite a few here, looks like a painting. Charles Schumann called it “food design.” But I like it. So I’m not a cannibal after all. I’m an eater of museum pieces, only these museum pieces taste good. No wonder the emir of Qatar eats here.

  And Oscar too. Do you know Oscar? Oscar is a rich man, very rich, an employee whispers into my ears. Oscar watched the game and witnessed Germany lose. That made him sad and he went on a drinking binge. He showed up at the restaurant of the Frankfurter Hof with his expensive wear but minus his shoes. He forgot them along the way. Somewhere. Rich folks don’t handle defeat well, it seems.

  How did he manage to get here in one piece?

  “This is my home,” he says. “There is no better food in the world than here.”

  I go outside to have a cigarette. Smoking, after all, is forbidden inside. Just as in Dachau. A tall man walks by, next to the huge euro sign and the European Bank. He is in his fifties or sixties, seems to be a man of average means, but suddenly he stops by a garbage bin. He picks up empty bottles and puts them in a plastic bag.

  He is a man who reached bottom.

  The contrast between this nameless man and Oscar, between the haves and the have-nots, is just too hard to digest.

  Do I live in a dream?

  Where am I?

  When will I wake up?

  Where?

  At the Steigenberger Frankfurter Hof, naturally.

  There is a breakfast manager here. I didn’t know, but now I do. He knows me, by the way. Everything about me. “You cut your hair,” he says to me as I sip my morning berry juice. I am taken by surprise. How does he know my hair habits? Is he my close friend and I’ve forgotten? Is he a member of my family and I never knew? Is he my silent business partner, from Goldman Sachs or some other Jewish media holding, finally revealing himself? No, none of the above. He is a Steigenberger Frankfurter Hof manager. Steigenberger Frankfurter Hof managers, let it be known, know their clients. They get a list in the morning of who is who, pix included, so that they will be prepared to serve the esteemed guests.

  No, do not worry: Steigenberger Frankfurter Hof people are not the CIA.

  They’re better.

  If the US government consulted Steigenberger Frankfurter Hof before going to Iraq or Afghanistan, they might have saved themselves a fortune.

  I sit here now for hours, entertaining stupid thoughts like that, while I’m constantly served and ever eating. My whole world now is about taste and service. More and more of each.

  Each fish comes with its own wine, I learned yesterday. And each bite in the morning comes with its own drink, I learn today.<
br />
  I love learning!

  Abdul is my next teacher. He sits outside, my new rich pal Abdul, enjoying a cigarette.

  Abdul is very interested in politics. Some people are. He’s from California and he reads a lot about the Middle East. The last topic on earth I would like to discuss today. But Abdul does.

  “I like Prime Minister Netanyahu,” Abdul says. “He is a strong leader and you need strong men in that area.”

  I have been in Germany for some time now and never once have I heard anyone expressing thoughts even mildly close to this. What’s going on with Abdul?

  I try to feel him out. In outer appearance, he looks similar to President Obama. Well-spoken, dark skin, sharply dressed, and smartly opinionated.

  Your name is Abdul?

  “Yes, that’s my name.”

  You must be the only Abdul on the planet who thinks like this. What makes you—

  “Listen,” Abdul interrupts. “I have two cousins in the Middle East. One Jew, one Arab. Sometimes one cousin is right, other times the other cousin is right. This time, this cousin is right, the Jewish cousin. You have to be tough to survive in that part of the world.”

  And I ponder: Why is it that so much of our thoughts are determined by where we live? Why aren’t more Germans thinking like him? Why aren’t more Americans thinking like the Germans? We all think that we are independent thinkers, but are we? I look at this Abdul and ask myself how come I never met a Günter who thinks like him.

  Sometimes reality is too complex to handle. Maybe I should go to the opera. “Daphne von Richard Strauss” is playing at the Opera Frankfurt tonight.

  I sit next to a Japanese guy who asks me if I’m going to review the performance.

  This Frankfurt is packed with spies.

  “Daphne.”

  The theme of love and death surfaces here, as on other stages in this big land. The music is majestic and the orchestration here superb, yet the attempt that these opera singers make at acting is not at all convincing and should be scratched. But all in all I’m having a great time.