Just amazing!
This is Dresden. This is Germany. Land of masters, visual masters. Geniuses. And when you experience this, you’ll thank God that Germany exists.
Now, finally, I can safely go on to Görlitz.
•••
Have you ever been to Görlitz? What a gorgeous little place!
Görlitz, a beautiful German city across the river Lausitzer Neiße from the Polish city of Zgorzelec.
The two cities used to be one, all Görlitz, but the war separated them.
As the locals tell it, the German citizens on the other side of the river were forced to flee in 1945, making room for Polish citizens who were forced to flee from their homes on the Ukrainian border. Double refugees here. But when the various nations agreed in 1990 to Germany reunification (“The Treaty on the Final Settlement with Respect to Germany”), they stipulated that all German claims to ownership of previous areas had to be abolished. Tough luck.
The good news is that the people did not elect to be refugees forever and to stew in their own miseries for eternity. On the contrary: They did everything and anything in their power to move ahead in life. And whatever German borders took shape in the end, they did their part to rebuild what was left in their hands.
Görlitz, a city left almost intact following the Allied bombardments of Germany in World War II, was left to rot during the GDR era. After the Wall fell, some thought that most of the buildings in the city would have to be demolished. But the people of Görlitz instead decided to fix and reconstruct. A wise decision indeed. Today Görlitz is a beautiful city, ancient and new. Walking its streets is a pleasure both to the eye and to the spirit. It’s as beautiful a city as you can imagine. And it’s full of history.
Take, for instance, the Holy Tomb. Yes, that of Jesus. Really. PM Tillich was right. How did Jesus get here? A cute story: The mayor of the town long ago in the fifteenth century, was involved in a sexual relationship with a married woman. It was good and hot and sweet, but he regretted it afterward. Nobody knows exactly why. There was no Google in those days, no YouTube, no iPad, and no Facebook. He regretted it, and he went to Jerusalem to visit the Holy Sepulcher. How he made the turn from hot love to a cold grave is something that’s still murky. But it happened. Truth be told, even today, as we speak, all kinds of strange stories are set in Jerusalem, a city of angelic Messiahs and flying Messengers. And that’s not all. It turns out that our German mayor went the extra mile: the measurements of the Holy Tomb. He brought them with him and commissioned a replica of it to be built here.
Yes. And for one euro and fifty cents you can visit the place. Cheaper than a flight to Israel. But please pay attention to your surroundings: Adam’s grave is here as well. Yes, really, the one from the Bible. That first man. How do I know? It says so in the brochure that I was handed at the entrance to the Holy Tomb.
Jesus, I am delighted to inform you, is not here. He rose. That’s the whole trick. And, what else, this Holy Tomb, the caretakers here say, is more exact than the one in Jerusalem today. That one, you’ll be informed on entering this holy site, itself is a reconstruction of the original, which was set ablaze a few hundred years ago.
Don’t misunderstand. What all this means is that the Holy Tomb in Görlitz, built five hundred years ago, is more exact than the one in Jerusalem.
I wonder what happened to that woman, the object of the mayor’s desire, and if anybody has a picture of her. She must have been very sexy.
To me today, what’s most fascinating about Görlitz is that it’s the end of one country and culture and the beginning of another. Totally different. Poland, that is. A word of caution here: When you cross the bridge to Poland, a two-minute walk, try not to pay attention to the graffiti on the German side. Ignore the “Sieg Heil” next to a swastika and the “Nationaler Sozialismus Jetzt!” (National Socialism now!), as you might lose your appetite before you even get to try the Polish food, which is delicious. That would be really bad.
Join me. I‘m in the restaurant, across the waters, in Zgorzelec, Poland. Just to have a little Polish cake. I get into a conversation with the waitress. About the English language, no less. After several minutes, I notice that I have my hands on her, the way I would touch a close friend. She does the same, by the way. As if we were very close friends. And I don’t even know her name.
This never happened to me on the other side of the river.
This closeness between people, this friendliness, this borderless and immediate affection, this humanness, belongs here but not there.
Back in Görlitz, I walk its streets one more time, wandering in corners tourists don’t frequent. So many empty buildings, it’s hard to look at them. Once upon a time families were formed and raised here; now only dust.
Imagine if Germany had never waged war. Imagine if the War hadn’t happened.
Imagine if the Weimar Republic had endured.
Imagine if Germany hadn’t tried to grab more land.
Imagine if Germany were much bigger than it already is.
Imagine.
Imagine if Germany didn’t follow.
Imagine if instead Germany led.
There is a big synagogue in town. Its gates have been closed for about eighty years. It’s more of a monument today than anything else. To the people who were there and died, and to the hands that killed them.
But why should we think about it? It’s not my history.
My history is my mom, who had some tough nights with Russian soldiers...
•••
Chapter 24
Fact: Ahmadinejad Is a Jew
I board the train due north, back to Hamburg, my base while in Germany.
A lovely couple sits in my compartment. He’s doing his doctorate in biotechnology, she’s an undergraduate in the same field. He used to be her teacher, she tells me. Now he’s her husband. They both study in Germany, and both are Persian. He introduces himself as Amir and says something similar to what Farah told me: that the Western world knows nothing about Iran. But he has more detail to share: It’s not the president, Ahmadinejad, who controls the government. How does Amir know this? Very simple: “Everybody knows this.” Everybody? How come I don’t? Well, I’m not Persian. The Persians, so Amir says, know that the person who stands in front, the man who goes on TV, the man who is forever in the news, has not a scintilla of power.
Is this some quirk of the Persian people?
“No. It’s the same in the US. It’s not the American president or the American Congress that decides things. They’re just the public faces of the real power.”
Who’s the real power?
“The Jews.”
Amir’s wife, Maryam, totally agrees. In Iran, she says, she would be “arrested and flogged if caught sitting in a train the way I am now.” No hijab. And that’s not all: Her flowing long hair is showing in all its majesty, her hands as well, and even a little cleavage where men, may Allah save us, can see, Allah forbid, part of her tempting breasts.
Of course, if a man were tempted and she agreed to his advances, she would be “stoned to death. A man can have at least four wives but I cannot have even two husbands.”
But, that said, not everything is the way it looks in Iran. “Ahmadinejad,” says Amir, and Maryam agrees, “is a good friend of the Jews.”
Good friend?
“Yes.”
How come?
“Ahmadinejad denies the Holocaust. Why does he do that? Doesn’t he know that it really happened? Everybody knows. But because there are many Holocaust deniers out there, Ahmadinejad wants to make sure people don’t forget. And that’s why he keeps bringing the issue to the forefront. His supposed denial of the Holocaust forces people to prove it again and again. Is there a better way to keep alive the memory of the Jewish Holocaust? There is not.”
Ahmadinejad loves the Jews. Maybe he’s even a Jew himself.
“Why is it,” asks the soon-to-be PhD, “that every country sends a flotilla to Gaza exc
ept for Iran?” The man has proved his point. Life is so simple, and I never knew.
•••
I also never knew the story of Ulrich, the man who sells kosher wine in Hamburg. He’s a rare sight in Hamburg, a Jew with a big skullcap. Would you like to drink something? he asks.
I sit with Ulrich and listen to him. Germany is good, he says. He’s never encountered any form of anti-Semitism in this country. It’s a good land for the Jews, really good. Is he from Hamburg? Yes, born here. His parents too? Yes, them as well. He’s also a dentist, he tells me. His father too. Not only that: His father was also an insect specialist. He knew beetles inside out, and he collected them. Even during wartime. Life is good in Hamburg. So good, that his papa even survived the war.
How did he do it?
“They forgot to take him.”
Forgot?
“Yes.”
How come?
It’s a complex and complicated story. Ulrich, you see, is a convert. Was German, now is a Jew. His mom was not Jewish, his pop was. Papa even wrote a diary during the war, documenting what happened. What happened? He collected beetles. Papa “wrote about insects” but never about the other stuff. Didn’t. Life is good. Hamburg is good for the Jews. But mama, not a Jew, “lost her mind after the war.” She became a mental case.
Why?
“She was treated worse than a whore” by the regime.
I understand Ulrich. Not because he makes sense. He doesn’t. But I hardly notice it: Somewhere along the tracks of my journey, sense had lost its value. The idea that Germany is not good for the gentiles but good for the Jews seems plausible to me at this stage. Why not?
Insects. He wrote about insects.
And then Ulrich says: “I asked them. They told me they knew. They told me that everybody knew everything. The Jews being killed. Everybody knew.”
To understand an insect isn’t always easy. To understand humans is close to impossible. I light up a cigarette and stare at the smoke coming out. My own little ash cloud.
It was with an ash cloud that I came here. It is with an ash cloud that I end my journey.
My job done. Journey over.
Now that the book has been written, I need a vacation.
Next to a border, just in case.
•••
Chapter 25
Sylt: Where the Rich of Germany Eat Gold
Everything from now on is a Bonus. Awarded to you free of charge, because you’ve recommended this book to all your friends.
If you haven’t, stop reading here! Now.
Sylt, across the border from Denmark, is where I go.
But this is a vacation. I’m not interviewing people anymore. Whoever has something to say about Nazis, Jews, Arabs, or anybody else, let them keep it to themselves. I’m not interested. I’ve done my part. Sorry. Anybody who wants to fight, a reminder: Without me. The only issues I’m willing to discuss are: money, food, sex. Nothing else. I am on vacation.
First I’m going to Kampen, a little town in Sylt, with big-name designer stores and moneyed shoppers.
This will cover, I hope, the money part of my Personal Trinity.
It’s early afternoon in Kampen. Comfy cafés on the sidewalks. People sit and drink mineral water, not beer. Some, who splurge, have a helping of small fruit juice. Got to keep the weight down. Most of the ladies have the same breast size, more or less. It’s summer, vacation time, time to wear simple clothes, like T-shirts. Only that the T-shirts I see here aren’t coming from the 99-cent stores. They cost. I go to a little store and try out a sweater. Only 1,195 euros. It’s too tight on me. The saleslady says I have to take off some weight. She’s right. I am the fattest man in Sylt.
In the tourist information office, I am greeted by two blond models. Everybody in Kampen is a model. I look at them, such a nice sight, and then I leave. I need a cake. I want to see if Kampen has better cakes than Zgorzelec.
The waitress serving me is more of a model than a waitress. I didn’t see the chef, probably a model too. Not a great cook, sad to say. In Zgorzelec the cake was better, hands down.
A ninety-year-old skinny beauty, with her hubby and friend, sit by me.
He puts sugar in his latte. He used to be a sugar commodity trader and he would like to keep the sugar value high, he jokes with me, but he seems to be pretty serious. Funny. I don’t know why, but I’m the only one sitting and laughing. The other people here, the skinny and sexy, have this bitter look on their faces.
Cakes done, it’s time for food, the second part of my personal Trinity. Johannes King is my man today. He is the chef of Söl’ring Hof, Sylt, hotel and restaurant. He tells me of his assets: five suites, ten rooms. At the hotel, an average of 500 euros a night for two includes breakfast, bicycles, wellness, and drinks. Top price: 1,000 euros a night..
“Rudolph Moshammer [the late German design guru] wanted a room the other day but was declined because he wanted to bring his dog, Daisy, with him.”
A Rolls-Royce, from Monaco, leaves the premises as we speak.
Who is that?
“He wanted a room for August next year, but they’re booked.”
Rolls-Royce, by the way, has an agreement with this establishment: They give a car to Johannes for use by his guests. Free of charge. The idea is simple: Let the rich enjoy the car, desire it, and eventually buy one.
Average dinner in this place: 300 euros per person.
“For the restaurant, people reserve four weeks in advance. We teach people how to spend their money.”
So far, the people I saw in Sylt are bitter-looking. Any reason?
“That’s typical German. The joy of life does not express itself automatically on the German’s face. The wallet is important, the auto, and the watch. They are very tense. There can be no scratch on the car, the neighbor should not have a better watch, and they have at least one platinum card. Given those three requirements, how can you find joy in life?
A few elegant women pass by, perfect breast size, skinny like a candle.
Johannes comes back to the Bitter Look issue. He has something to add.
“Look at the eyes of the women and you will understand why the men are bitter.”
As Johannes says this I think of that man from Autostadt who told me that his wife is better than the car because “she is softer.” What would he say to these bone ladies?
Are you happy, Johannes? Are you married?
He is, but “I am rarely home.”
“A happy cook is a better cook. He is more spontaneous. The serious cook looks at one pan. The happy cook looks all over. The serious cook does not taste, the happy cook tastes.”
Time to eat. Dinner today: Black caviar. Each tiny spoon: 38 euros. Appetizers, a selection of, 36 euros. Meat of deer with truffles, 55 euros. Wine: € limitless.
Christina is my waitress, very charming girl. Would she like to marry any of the people here?
“No. They’re snobbish.”
Glasses are poured. Red, white, whatever. Every glass has a different shape.
Why are the shapes different? I ask my wine waitress, Bärbel.
She’s also very charming. Every waitress and waiter here is charming. Part of the experience. Johannes knows how to spoil his rich clients.
“Every wine needs a different glass to bring out the taste,” Bärbel says.
Will the same wine taste different in different glasses?
“Certainly.”
Can we do a test? I’ll blindfold you, so you don’t see the glasses, and then I’ll hold the glasses to your mouth—
“Now?”
Yes.
She blushes. “I’m busy . . . Maybe later.” I can’t believe I said to her what I did. But who cares? I’m rich and everything I say is holy.
The food here, this food critic declares, is worth every penny if you can afford it. Your body will thank you, every limb and organ.
Johannes tells me that I can use the Rolls
-Royce if I so desire.
Yes, I knew it all along: I was born to be rich.
Whoever believed that I would leave this country in a Rolls-Royce?! Good to be an Unwilling Capitalist. I convert. Then go to sleep a new man. Thank you, Deutschland. I finally found my purpose in life. I have faith. New faith. Something to die for. G’night. My Rolls-Royce will be waiting for me in the morning. Life is good.
On the morning that follows I wake up to the glorious skies of Sylt and am faced with a hard choice: Should I call Johannes and get my Rolls-Royce, or am I to forget my Rolls-Royce and instead go to the nude beach? Yes, I hear that there is a nude colony here and I, from childhood on, don’t ask me why, love nude people.
This is a tough choice. For the first time in this his life of faith, this new man with the new religion is faced with a choice: Forgo his Rolls-Royce so he can sinfully go to the nude beach, or do good and run for the big car?
Satan makes me do this, as is always the case, and I commit the first crime: I go for the nude.
Well, at least I accomplish the third of my personal Trinity: Sex.
Yes, I know it’s not PC to say this, but I love the sight of young women in their natural form. Love the shape. Love the feel. Love the spirituality of it. To the nude shrine I go.
Yes, my first crime. I feel like Adam. Hope no snake comes my way.
But, as in all religions, sin in this case doesn’t pay off.
I’m at the nude beach of Sylt.
Most of the nudes here are old males or little babies.
The young babes, as we call it in the male chauvinist world, cover their treasures.
Why are these old men so happy to walk in the nude?
Here comes a beautiful lady walking by. She’s almost totally dressed.
O Satan! I am going to get you one day and slaughter you! Yes, I will join the Children of Abraham on Judgment Day and personally kill you with my sword!
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