I Sleep in Hitler's Room (21 page)

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.

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!

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.