I Sleep in Hitler's Room

by Tuvia Tenenbom

  “Why did you Jews reject the sabbath when Allah offered it to you? I want to know!”

  What is this woman up to? What den of what animals have I entered?

  “I just want to know why you Jews did that! Why? Why?”

  Yes, I am familiar with this thinking. After all, it’s the Muslim’s belief that Allah first gave His Book to the Jews but they falsified it. But why this question now? Whatever happened to hospitality? Forget hospitality, what happened to human behavior?

  What is this attack?

  I try to calm the storm and answer her. I start by saying that the three Abrahamic religions base their faith on similar stories but that there are differences.

  Hamiyet cuts me off.

  “No,” she says, “it’s all the same.”

  Take the binding of Abraham’s son, for example. There are major differences between the way it’s told in the Quran and the way it’s told in the Bible.

  “No, it’s the same.”

  Well, let’s look at the name of that son. In the Bible it’s Isaac, in the Quran it’s Ismail.

  “Isaac and Ismail are the same!”

  No, they’re not.

  “How do you know, are you a specialist in this? You don’t even know the Quran and you just talk!”

  Well, I’ve got news for you: I am a professor of Quran.

  I have no idea how this title crosses my mind, but why not? In Coburg, I met that professor of sports, and if that woman could be professor of sports I can be a professor of Quran.

  Don’t ask me to explain this to you, but Hamiyet believes that I really am a professor of Quran. She says: “As a man who knows—you are a professor—why can’t you see the truth?! The Truth of the Quran?! There are differences between religions, that’s true, but Allah made one final version, the Quran. That’s it. No more!”

  You believe it, and that’s fine, but not everybody does. Can you accept this?

  “The Message of Allah ends with Prophet Muhammad, Sallallahu ‘Alaihi wa Sallam. Why can’t you accept this?”

  Let me ask you: How do you know that what you say is right?

  “It says so in the book!”

  Hamiyet wouldn’t like to know this, but she talks word for word as Orthodox women in Israel do. And both wear coverings over their hair. They actually look the same, talk the same, and walk the same. The similarities are frightening. I can see a Hasidic woman in front of me, not a Muslim. Or, equally so, Muslim women who are actually Hasidic . . . like my own sister, an Ultra-Orthodox woman who talks exactly like Hamiyet and thinks almost exactly like her. Just exchange Muhammad with Moses and you have the same thing. “How do you know the Bible is true?” “It says so in the Bible.”

  Bingo.

  But there’s no time now to contemplate these similarities.

  Samide, Hamiyet’s sister, doesn’t get it either why this professor is not yet Muslim.

  Samide adds that she knows what the Bible says. I cannot play games with her.

  What do you know that the Bible says?

  “That all Prophets were sinless.”

  Who said that?

  “It says so in the Bible.”

  Did you read the Bible?

  “No.”

  Then how do you know?

  “My sister read the Bible and she told me.”

  It’s a hot day in Marxloh, about 40 degrees Celsius. And these ladies wear hijab.

  Why are you wearing hijab?

  “So as not to tempt men.”

  Do you think your hair will tempt them?

  “The Quran says that women should wear hijab so that they won’t be raped.”

  This is a strong argument.

  We finally sit at the big table in the kitchen, ready to start the meal.

  And Hamiyet says that the Quran says that the Jews want to make trouble and war.

  You think so?

  “Yes. That’s why there’s conflict in the Middle East.”

  Is she talking about Israelis or Jews?

  For her it’s all the same. “Jews killed Jesus!” she shouts at me.

  But Jesus was a Jew too, wasn’t he?

  “Jesus was not a Jew. None of the prophets were Jewish.”

  Time to change the subject.

  What are your thoughts about the Gaza flotilla?

  “What are yours?”

  I wasn’t there and I don’t know.

  “If you don’t know, if you are dumb, you shouldn’t write a book. The people there were innocent but the Jews killed them. They killed one guy, a nineteen-year old, they shot him. Then they shot him again. And again. And again.”

  I heard this line often during my travels in the Arab world. Jews shoot and kill, then shoot the dead body again, and again, and again. Why? Because Jews love to see blood.

  I don’t buy their accusations, but I admire their honesty. They go straight for the meat: the Jews. They don’t play the game of “I’m highly critical of Israel but I love the Jews.” No, they don’t do that. They say what they think. They have a faith, they have ideals they believe in, and they don’t shy away from saying out loud what they think.

  Hamiyet, you said that the Quran says that women have to wear hijab—

  “That’s true.”

  You read it in the Quran?

  “Yes, I did. You want me to show you?”

  That would be great. Please.

  “Should I go bring the Quran?”

  If you don’t mind.

  “Yes, I will bring it.”

  I have it on my iPad, if you prefer.

  She loves this! The professor of Quaran carries the Quran with him wherever he goes. We check the electronic Quran but don’t find any hijab there.

  “I have to bring my Book.”

  Hamiyet brings the Quran and puts it on the table.

  “Right here!” she says; the book still closed.

  Thanks. Can you show it to me inside?

  “You know the Quran on your own, don’t you?”

  Yes, of course. But I don’t remember this particular verse.

  “You want me to show you?”

  Yes.

  “It’s in Sura Al-Nisa.”

  That’s a long sura. Can you tell me what verse?

  “Yes, I can. You know, when I started reading the Quran in Turkish, I didn’t understand anything. I knew it in German. It was the first time I read it in Turkish.

  Interesting.

  “Then I read it again—and still didn’t understand it.”

  Interesting.

  “But on the third try, something happened.”

  You read about hijab . . .

  “Hijab?”

  Where is the verse about hijab?

  “Inside the book.”

  Where inside?

  “I am very tired today, I still have to go to work.”

  One of the sisters intervenes, “You can Google!” she says. And she does. She finds it through Google. I tell them that we have to check it in the source, in the Quran itself. We open the Quran, to the sura and verse that they got from Google, but don’t find the hijab commandment in the original. A two-hour discussion follows, with the sisters passionately shouting statements about their faith. I take a moment with beautiful Samide.

  Samide, tell me: Would you like to be a Virgin Bride in paradise?

  “Who wouldn’t!”

  Hamiyet, who hears this, immediately interrupts. She raises her voice at me.

  “Why are talking about this, are you trying to mock us?!”

  Hamiyet speaks loudly unto her sister, in Turkish so I won’t understand. But she uses some Islamic terms I am familiar with. Samide, on orders of her older sister, changes her previous statement. She wants to go to heaven to meet Allah, no Virgin Bride. And then, without any warning, she goes ballistic on me.

  “I don’t like what you do. I am upset with you!”

  I calm her down. It takes some
time. At the end, we hug and embrace.

  Good night, love!

  •••

  Morning comes and it’s breakfast time at Mustafa’s mom’s. The food is excellent and I announce my intention to come every morning. When we finish our Turkish coffee, mom turns her cup upside down on a plate. The neighbor, a coffee reader, will tell what will happen . . .

  Mustafa’s sister, a very intelligent teenager, tells me her dream is to move to Turkey to live there. “I am a stranger in this land, the Germans look down on me.” She really doesn’t like Marxloh, though she understands why her brother is trying so hard to improve the image of their birth city.

  How about your friends in school, do they also want to move to Turkey?

  “All of them.”

  Then Mustafa suggests that I see Zülfiye.

  Zülfiye Kaykin, Turkish-born, came to Germany in 1977. She got her education here and, as she grew up, started feeling she was discriminated against. Zülfiye, state secretary of NRW (North Rhine–Westphalia) Ministry of Integration, used to be the general manager of Duisburg’s Merkez Mosque.

  Zülfiye spent nine of her better years totally dedicated to the mosque. She was the mosque’s face when dealing with the German government, which gave 3.6 million euros for the construction of the mosque. But after fights with the mosque’s board, which she blames for spreading false rumors about her during internal struggles for power, she resigned.

  What rumors did they spread about you?

  “That I misused a hundred twenty thousand euros of the mosque’s money.”

  Are you telling me that they used you as their ‘face’ with the German authorities only as long as they needed you but, once they didn’t, since the German government had already paid what it committed to, they just wanted you out?

  “Yes. I looked good as their front: modern, blond, educated. I was used.”

  She doesn’t wear hijab, except when she goes to the mosque. “When you come to pray you have to cover your head.”

  Why is it that men don’t have to cover their heads?

  “Why do you say that? Men must cover their heads as well.”

  Sure?

  “Yes!”

  Do the men of this mosque cover their heads?

  “Yes!”

  I saw them and they didn’t.

  “What you saw are men who don’t follow the rules.”

  One thousand of them?

  “What are you saying?”

  I prayed with them.

  “You did?”

  Well, Zülfiye is a politician. She tried to trick me, and it didn’t work. But once she realizes that I was in the mosque and saw what I saw, she gives me a sweet smile . . .

  I tell her of the interesting encounter with Hamiyet et al. and ask her how she explains these anti-Semitic outbursts.

  “If it’s true, then it’s because we’ve not been integrated by the German community.”

  Integration between Turks and Germans is a matter between Turks and Germans. How did the Jews get in the middle? What do the Jews have to do with this?

  Zülfiye goes around and around but does not answer. Finally she admits that “these feelings exist in the community” but insists that they don’t originate with the mosque.

  Well, you just admitted that anti-Semitic feelings exist in the community. My question to you is: Is the mosque trying to fight this way of thinking? Should it?

  “I will talk to the imam and next Friday it will happen.”

  When will you talk to him?

  “Later.”

  Wouldn’t you like to talk to him right now?

  I offer to use my phone. If she gives me the imam’s number, I can dial.

  No, she has her own phone. Zülfiye calls him. They have a long conversation. Long, long. When she finally hangs up, she says: “The imam is shocked and will speak about it next Friday. This is pure anti-Semitism and he will totally denounce it.”

  Zülfiye, let me quote to you what Mohammed Al said to me, and I’d like to have your comment. “Most Turks living in Duisburg love Germans, love Jews, love Israelis and are happy to live in Germany.”

  Zülfiye laughs. She says: “And that’s why thousands of Turks demonstrated against Israel in Duisburg last month . . .”

  I don’t know what she’s taking about. Thousands of demonstrators about—

  “Against Israel. We have this about once a year. Ten to fifteen thousand go to the street to demonstrate against Israel.”

  Sitting in the salon of her home, Zülfiye explains to me how the Duisburg Merkez Mosque works—or, more precisely, how nine hundred mosques in Germany work. In Turkey there exists a council of eighty theologians, governed by a president. Following consultations, the president dictates to imams of nine hundred mosques throughout Germany, which are part of DITIB (Diyanet Işleri Türk-Islam Birliği—the Turkish-Islamic Union for Religious Affairs), the text of their Friday speeches. Only after this speech is delivered can individual imams add something about local issues.

  It’s extremely hot in Zülfiye’s place. Her husband tries different combinations with fans that he keeps bringing in, but they don’t help much and we all sweat. I think it’s time to leave. I tell her: Zülfiye, I’m coming to the mosque on Friday to hear the imam’s condemnation of anti-Semitism.

  Zülfiye, or so I judge from the way her eyes move, didn’t expect this from me. She makes an immediate half-reversal, a “clarification” of sorts: “The imam will say, ‘We have to be careful what we say.’ ” Not for naught is this woman a politician.

  I should have let it rest, really. She’s a nice lady, after all. But for some reason, like a one-year-old who can’t stop kvetching, I press on: Is that it? Is that all he’s going to say? Didn’t you say, just before, that he—

  Zülfiye is a woman of Law and Order. She tells the Kvetcher: “This is all he can say. That is the policy.”

  The “This is pure anti-Semitism and he will totally denounce it” has gone through a major surgical operation in just a few minutes. But I understand. Law is law. And in Germany, I have heard many times, the law is very, extremely important.

  Zülfiye and I exchange looks, and then we both laugh. I tell her that she passed the test: You are an excellent liar, and I’m sure an excellent politician. We shake hands. We understand each other.

  See you at the mosque, Zülfiye. I’ll be there on Friday to check on the imam.

  •••

  But before I do, since we have a few days till Friday, I meet Rainer, a professional photographer. He’s a German German and he’s the third person in the trinity that includes Mustafa and Halil, the team that makes up the Medien-Bunker.

  “I just came back from Palestine,” he greets me. “You don’t go to Palestine?”

  He loves to say “Palestine,” I can clearly see.

  As-Salamu ‘Aleikum, Mr. Rainer. Do you also visit Israel from time to time?

  “I was just in Tel Aviv.”

  I see that it’s hard for him to say “Israel.”

  You went to Israel?

  “I wanted to go to Gaza but they didn’t let me.” They.

  Rainer, I have the impression, would like Israel to disappear. It would make him feel better, much better.

  “I assume you are on the Palestinian side. Is that so?”

  “No. I am open-minded. I know that there are two sides. I’m just looking for justice.”

  And you think that both sides must improve—

  “Exactly.”

  You’re a photographer, right?

  “Yes.”

  Did you take pictures to show the injustice?

  “Yes, I did!”

  So, did you capture the injustice that the Israelis commit against innocent Palestinians?

  “What are you trying to say?”

  What did you capture with your camera?

  “The Separation Wall. I walked along it for 50 kilometers.”

 
Obviously, you’re on the Palestinian side, aren’t you?

  “Why would you say—”

  You walked for 50 kilometers, taking pictures--

  “Justice, man!”

  Did you look for justice closer to home? Let’s say Kurdistan, Chechnya—

  “What are you trying to say?”

  Why are you so fixated on Israel?

  “Is there something that you have in mind—?”

  Just wondering why a German like you is so interested in Jews like them?

  “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

  Yes, of course. What time?

  “Eleven o’clock.”

  Perfect.

  Day follows day, and “tomorrow” is now. I show up at the Bunker for our scheduled interview. Eleven comes. No Rainer. Twelve. No Rainer. One. No Rainer. Two. No Rainer.

  •••

  I leave the Bunker and go to the mosque. Got to pray for the Germans. Halil joins me. As we approach, just by the rose garden, the imam and the president, Mr. Al, pass by us. Each looks like a million dollars: dressed up and sharp. They must have a good life. I approach the imam. I want to know if Zülfiye talked to him about the “Jews.”

  The setting here is quite interesting, even theatrical. The mosque is in the background, the rose garden that’s being built is right here, and everybody is talking in a different language. The imam speaks Turkish. Halil is helping out. And President Al is also getting involved in the translations, but he insists on speaking German and not English. I try to speak in Arabic to the imam but get the impression that he doesn’t understand Arabic, since he keeps speaking Turkish. So I switch to English.

  Will the Imam give a sermon about “the Jews” on Friday? Not really. It turns out that the imam isn’t even in Germany on Friday, he’s going to Turkey. So, was I fed lies? Well, this is the imam’s version of the truth: Yes, Zülfiye talked to him, but he didn’t tell her what she said he did. “I said that I would look into it to find if this is the truth, if somebody said those things. But I didn’t promise that I’d speak on Friday. I said that I would inquire about it, who said it, and I spoke with my superior about it, and he said that nobody in this community had anything against anybody and therefore there’s no reason to give a sermon about it on Friday.”