I Sleep in Hitler's Room

by Tuvia Tenenbom

  I hop on a train, out of Berlin.

  •••

  Time to get in touch with the world outside Germany.

  Here’s the Top News, brought to you by the BBC:

  Turkey has barred an Israeli military flight from Turkish airspace, in apparent retaliation for Israel’s raid on an aid convoy bound for Gaza. The banned flight was carrying Israeli officers to Poland to tour Auschwitz.

  Does any of this have to do anything with Germany? Not really. Or does it?

  On to Dortmund. At a time when half of Germany is busy with Public Viewing, there’s an interesting artist in Dortmund who is busy with Public Thinking.

  Yes, correct. Public Thinking. Brought to you by Rolf Dennemann, the artist. Rolf is also a director, producer, and whatever in between. I’ve known Rolf for a few years and have worked with him. From time to time he contacts me in New York, letting me know of a strange, though always refreshingly original, idea he has just come up with. Same this year, with his public thinking. And he even has a place for me to stay in Dortmund, Jugendgästehaus Adolph Kolping, a youth hostel. Should I take him up on his offer? I think so. After being spoiled in four- and five-star hotels, I might find it quite exciting to experience a youth hostel.

  My eyes are greeted by group of German youngsters, about forty beer bottles between them, as I approach Adolph’s abode. Seeing the bottles makes me wonder if I made the right decision. Well, too late. Wilkommen in unserer Welt (Welcome to our world), says the sign at Adolph’s lobby. My new Welt, just to fill you in, is a closed room with no air conditioning and no open windows. It’s hot and stuffy inside, on this, one of the hottest days of the year, but Adolph is nowhere in sight and the clerk working here never heard of Ritz-Carlton’s Twelve Commandments.

  This is not Autostadt.

  A band, mostly sweaty men, shows up. It’s a band from Berlin, and they are part of Rolf’s event. They perform one of Rolf’s songs. Rolf, it becomes apparent, decided one bright morning to become a songwriter as well. In English, no less. I ask them to recite for me the words to his poem. Here goes:

  Time is not money, time is life.

  It’s not very funny,

  In my hat there’s a knife.

  I once sat in a café,

  It was a hot one by the way,

  I was burning out my brain,

  Thinking about my little games.

  I once sat on a sandy shore,

  Watched the seagulls in the sky,

  Kissed a girl called Elinore

  I was hot and she was shy.

  Chorus

  I was hanging out at noon,

  Knowing that the end is soon,

  I was feeling rather sad,

  I made many people mad.

  Now society is insane.

  It’s time that we should remain.

  All the vomit floods the planet.

  The system is dead.

  You will forget it.

  Do what you want,

  Do what you like,

  Hand around and stay alive.

  At this point the singers are not sure. Maybe it’s “Hang around and stay alive.”

  But then the end:

  Time is not money, time’s life.

  The band members want to drink and smoke now. Problem is, they’re told that they can’t drink outside and they can’t smoke inside. How does one achieve both goals, drinking and smoking, at the same time? Good question. They sit at a table and drink and smoke anyway. Somebody somewhere told them it’s OK, because it’s really late. Yoyo, the bass player, says he likes “to criticize society.”

  Why?

  “Because I can.”

  •••

  Chapter 17

  The Biggest Mosque, the Most Comic Mayor, the Funniest Piano Player, the Sexiest Tattoo, the Most Important Shower

  It slowly becomes clear to me that the Public Thinking will actually take place in two or three days. I have time to spend . . .

  I drink the night away and in the day of morrow go to the mosque. If I get to Duisburg, my dear friend Christof suggested to me a while ago, I should visit the biggest mosque in Germany. I love big. Today is Friday, and Friday is the Muslims’ Sabbath. It should be mine as well.

  Why? Why not?!

  Allah accepts his creatures’ prayer requests five times a day, at very certain moments. The exact times are different every day. Toady they’s 5:29, 13:19, 17:20, etc. I shoot for 13:19. Yes, I verified it. It’s correct. Jews, I know, disagree. The hours that they think God accepts prayers at are altogether different. But 13:19 sounds reasonable to me. Don’t ask me to explain this. I go to the mosque. What a gorgeous piece of real estate! What a beautiful building! Allah must be rich. The muezzin starts. It’s time to pray. The mosque is packed. Must be at least a thousand men here. How do these Turkish people get so many people to come? It’s not even a weekend yet. Jews can’t get a fraction of this number in their wettest dreams. Well, 13:19. That’s the time!

  But, truth be told, it’s not that easy to be Muslim. Lots of push-ups during prayer. Jews, if they were asked to do this, would certainly strike. Push-ups! And when they sit, these Muslims, after they have left their shoes at the entrance, they sit on the floor. Don’t ask questions. That’s the way Allah likes it. Otherwise, don’t bother Him. Or move to another religion. Last time I went to pray in a mosque was in Amman, Jordan. For some reason, it was more fun. I don’t know why.

  But this is Germany. And everybody is looking at me when they walk in. Why? I try my best to get lost in the crowd. I kneel, I bow, I get up, I sit down. Everything. But I am obviously still conspicuous. What, they don’t have Turks looking like me? A man comes by. He dangles a pair of socks at my face and says “Ein euro” (one Euro). I ask him in Arabic what’s his problem. He doesn’t understand a word I say, but once he realizes I’m Arab, pure, he flies away. No point to argue with Arabs; he knows he’ll lose.

  “There’s no God but Allah and Muhammad is His messenger.” I love the way this is recited! I repeat it. Why not?

  As in many churches and at some cultural events, there’s a passing of the hat. Only here it’s not a hat but plastic containers. People put money in; but only notes, no coins. Quite a sum is being collected, and pretty fast.

  The service is soon over. And after all the bows I go to visit the imam. His name is Yusuf Incegelis.

  How does it feel to be Turkish in Germany? I ask him.

  “Very happy.”

  Happier than in Turkey?

  “It is not possible to feel better than in Turkey!”

  Then he says he is going to leave. Can’t talk no more. His excuse? He speaks neither German nor English.

  Do you speak Arabic? We could talk in Arabic.

  He smiles, and carries that smile to the other side of the door. He’s out.

  Mohammed Al, president of the community, is sticking around. He’s ready to talk. He says that he came to Germany when he was six years old. “Turkey for me is a place for vacation.”

  How does it feel to be Turkish in Germany?

  “We feel good as Muslims in Germany. There’s discrimination here, but it’s not so strong that we’d say we don’t like it here. Every country has some discrimination. But Germany is now an immigrant country, which makes it good.”

  What is Turkey for you?

  “My origin.”

  How do you feel about Jews, Israelis, Germans? Can you sum it up for me in one sentence?

  “Most Turks living in Duisburg love Germans, love Jews, love Israelis and are happy to live in Germany.”

  You must be kidding. Do you really mean it?

  I repeat to him his response. He looks at me in disbelief, as if these were the words of some deranged Turk, but quickly catches himself and says:

  “Yes, this is what I think.”

  Somebody told me that Turkish men can marry German ladies who are not Muslim but Turkish ladies cannot marry German men unless they convert. Is thi
s true?

  “Yes. Muslim men can marry non-Muslim women. Muslim women cannot marry non-Muslim men.”

  Why so?

  “It’s in the Quran.”

  Where in the Quran? Can you show me the verse?

  “That I don’t know. I heard of it, that it is in the Quran, but exactly where in the Quran, I don’t know. This you have to ask our theologian, he knows.”

  Who is the theologian?

  Wonder of wonders: Hüseyin enters. He is the theologian.

  Hello, Hüseyin. Do you know where in the Quran it says that a Muslim man can marry a German lady who is not Muslim but a Muslim lady cannot marry a German who is not Muslim?

  “Yes, I do.”

  Where?

  Oops . . .

  “Today, I don’t remember. I forgot. You have email?”

  Yes, Theologian.

  “I will send you an email.”

  Excellent.

  Meanwhile, until the email service is ready to send me Hüseyin’s message detailing a Muslim Turk’s permission to marry a blond, blue-eyed German, Hüseyin will be glad to show me the mosque and explain to me its treasures: “The mosque cost 7.5 million euros, half of which was paid by the EU.”

  The huge and gorgeous chandelier, with the 99 names of Allah engraved on it, is “a gift from the Turkish government.”

  All the wooden pieces in front, “assembled without using one nail, is a gift from Ankara. The government.”

  “We have nine hundred members, each member must give ten euros monthly. The poor can pay five.”

  Hüseyin presents me with a gift before departing. A brass coin depicting the mosque, and a traveler’s guide to the area.

  A man approaches me. He says he’s a journalist and asks:

  “Are you Muslim?”

  Yes, of course.

  “Oh, I prayed next to you. I felt you when you prayed. You have a heart of gold.”

  I am happy he is impressed with my prayers. Maybe I should come more often. You never know: If it continues like this, I might become the next imam of Duisburg. I’m not kidding.

  The more I think about it, actually, the more I like it.

  But I would need to know more about Duisburg, all the different angles of it, before I make my next move. Who can help me?

  I need some officials to chat with, some big guys. But how do I get one? Experience has taught me that getting an interview with the big shots is a big headache. I prefer finding them in restaurants, pubs, special events.

  So, what’s cooking today?

  There is a festival called Tramzeit. It’s in the north of Duisburg, in a park, with all kinds of relics of this place during the Industrial Era. The festival is sponsored by, among others, Sparkasse Duisburg. I like the word Sparkasse, it’s better than Bank. Bank is, so, so Capitalistic.

  I go there.

  Beautiful place! Tons of people, mostly young.

  Any big shot?

  Yes. Adolf Sauerland, the Oberbürgermeister (super mayor) of Duisburg, is a member of the conservative CDU, Christian Democratic Union, the party headed by the current German chancellor Angela Merkel.

  Adolf and I are both very cultured people and we both like to attend cultural events, especially the private parties, for the select few, that follow such events, which is where we meet and where I interview His Honor.

  You’re of the CDU. How did you get to be a mayor in Duisburg, not famous for its right-leaning politics, to say the least?

  He shoots straight. “Being elected,” he says, “is not a question of politics. It’s only a question of money.”

  He goes on to elaborate that his election was direct. “The people voted directly for me.”

  What’s your dream?

  “To change the structure of this industrial city. We take the old industrial places and transform them into cultural institutions. And it creates another kind of work, another kind of employment.”

  So, is it your dream to make Duisburg a City of Culture?

  “Yes.”

  I look around at this place of a future Culture Capital, and the faces staring back at me are all white Germans. So, a question is in order:

  All the people I see here are white folks. Where are the Turks?

  “Last week we had an event, Istanbul meets the Ruhrgebiet [the Ruhr area], and many Turks showed up.”

  Nice. That was last week. Why don’t I see them this week, like now?

  “They are here, all over.”

  Turks all over? Where?

  “You can’t tell, they look the same. You stay long enough in a country, and your face changes. I have relatives in America, in New Jersey, who were born in Germany, but now they look different. Their faces changed.”

  This man is funny. He is a politician with a sense of humor. I like it!

  Let me ask you a question: Are there more women wearing hijab this year than in previous years?

  “The percentage of women wearing hijab is declining, but the German population is declining even more, and that’s why you see more hijab. It looks like there are more women with hijab today than in the past few years, but that’s because there are fewer Germans around.”

  His Honor missed his calling. He should have been the Theologian.

  Adolf tells me that he goes to the mosque “twice or three times a week.”

  Do you also fast on Ramadan?

  “I am Catholic.” He doesn’t go there to pray, he explains, he goes there to keep in touch.OK. It’s time to figure out this guy in more detail.

  I’ll repeat a sentence, you will tell me who said it to me. Deal?

  He nods, with a wink and a smile.

  “Most Turks living in Duisburg love Germans, love Jews, love Israelis and are happy to live in Germany.” First: Agree or not?

  People sitting next to us start laughing.

  Adolf says, “No. I don’t agree.”

  Now: Who do you think gave me this statement?

  “The imam.”

  No. One more chance.

  “Muhammed Al.”

  How did you know?

  “I know him.”

  Is he a bullshitter?

  “Yes.”

  What would you have said to Muhammed if he tried to sell you the same line?

  “You are a bomb layer, this is not the truth.”

  Some people in the community, especially independent artists, complain that as of next year Adolf will be cutting their budget, threatening small culture organizations with sudden demise. He says he has no more money. He must pay for the opera, the Duisburg Theater, the Philharmonic, and there is not much left.

  The sign of his fight with the small arts organizations comes to the fore when a couple, he with hair down to the middle of his back and she with her hair standing up like a bush, passes next to us. “You see,” says Adolf, “this is Culture . . .”

  But I am still with my Turks.

  Does the Turkish presence change the culture in this land? If so, how?

  “Twenty years ago nobody knew of Döner, today it’s second to the Currywurst.”

  What else?

  “Food is the first step to accepting another culture.”

  What else?

  “When going to an appointment with Turkish people, you don’t have to be on time.”

  Else?

  “It used to be that you were ashamed if you came late. Today, people come ten, fifteen minutes later. People now are more relaxed. Basically, we would have more heart attacks today if not for the Turkish community.”

  And what changes happened with the Turks? What have they learned from you? Are they getting more heart attacks now?

  “They learned that when they come late they have to apologize. Before, they just came half an hour late. Today, when they come half an hour late, they say: ‘I am sorry I am late, but there was an accident . . .’ The Chinese arrive too early, the Germans are on time, the Hondurans come at som
e point of same day.”

  You should have been a comedian—

  “Politics is comedy.”

  What’s next for Aoldf, after Duisburg?

  “That’s it. The top.”

  Come on, now you talk like Muhammed Al. Give me a better answer, more honest.

  “OK. My dream is to be the pope. Only problem is that I wouldn’t be able to have sex.”

  Adolf likes his city, he loves it. He does whatever he can to put it on the map. Culture is his way of doing it. He also tries hard to keep the peace here. He goes to the mosque to keep in touch and on friendly terms with the Turkish community. He thinks they’re important for his city. The way he sees it, the Turkish people have a big role to play in Duisburg. They have big families, unlike the German Germans. The young belong to them. And the young are the future.

  Night descends on the park, and as soon as this happens an unbelievable light show begins, displaying its magic. Old rutted steel machines are covered with multiple light colors and shadows, many shapes, and various frequencies. Miraculously, the rutted steel turns into shiny diamonds. It’s magic!

  Tons of young people are dancing. Loud. Sweating. They are full of energy.

  Adolf Sauerland looks at the crowd and smiles. Tons of people make him happy.

  Adolf asks how long I plan to be in the vicinity. I say that I’m actually in Dortmund for an event and after that I leave. He wants me not to leave and offers to put me up in a hotel in Duisburg for a few days, following my Public Thinking. I accept.

  Now I have considerable time to explore the area.

  To Marxloh I go.

  •••

  And find Mustafa.

  Marxloh is a Turkish area, or at least known as such, and is financially at rock bottom. “If you want to rent an apartment and you say you are from Marxloh, nobody will rent you anything,” says Mustafa. He should know. He tried and he failed, even though he has enough money. “I told the landlady that I would pay her one year in advance,” Mustafa recalls, “but she said, ‘No. I don’t know what you will sell from your room.’ ”