I remembered

I remembered that I wanted to shave. But where could I buy this damn shaving kit!? Frustrated, I hailed a taxi.

“Where are you going?” He said in Russian. And I took it for granted in this multinational city. “Going to see the girls?"

 “Why see the girls?

 “Well, all Russians, when they get to Berlin, first thing they do is go to a brothel. And there are plenty of them here.

 “What are you saying? It can’t be!” I said/

“Ow! You don't imagine, — said the driver. "Prostitutes bring in about fifteen billion euros in taxes to the German budget every year. Now that’s work!

“Very good. But I’m not Russian.”

“Really? Then where are you from?”

“I am Ukrainian.”

“Oh, I’m from Ukraine too! From Tsyuryupinsk. Have you heard of that city?”

“Yes, but no such city anymore already.”

“What do you mean? What does this mean, your 'no'?" I was born there, I grew up there, and lived there until I moved here.”

“Now it’s Oleshky.”

“Oh really! So, I not only have lost my homeland, but I’ve lost my hometown too,” the taxi driver lamented.

“There would be something to regret!”

“You can’t say that! It’s my small homeland after all,” he said, turning his snub-nosed face of a middle-aged Jew with blue Slavic eyes to me, and continued: “So, where are we going, fellow countryman?

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Mikhail, Mikhail Zaslavsky,” he introduced himself.

“Mikhail, I didn't come to Berlin for long. And I absolutely must buy a razor and spare blades?”

“Oh! All the shops are closed today. But we could try to find something suitable at one of the flea markets. At least on Arkonaplatz, it's not far from Mayerpark.”

“What are we standing around for? Let's go!”

I attentively looked at the boulevards passing by the taxi window, the prim buildings, and scrutinized the sidewalks and pavement.

"Damn! Not a single pothole, not a single puddle, even the tiniest one!”  I said, disappointed.

“But what do you think of this?” Said Mikhail, nodding his head towards a small group of people under the linden trees, who were dancing as if in a collective fit.

At first glance, it might have seemed that everyone who had come to this "rally" had a fever. And only after hearing the choral singing and seeing dark-skinned musicians in white silk suits, selflessly beating out African melodies from drums, blowing out saxophones, and emitting African melodies from banjos, did I realize that this was nothing other than a musical affirmation of identification as a people. And it was organized by refugees from Africa.

"Here they are, Vera Mason's clients!" I thought sadly. "But it's unlikely they'll agree to return to Mali or Sudan again..."

I was transfixed by the coffee-colored beauties with their thin braids, their buttocks swaying rhythmically to the music. And next to them, imitating them, danced busty, fat-bottomed Fraus and slender Fräuleins. Shaking their bodies, they seemed to be trying to prove that multiculturalism was more than just a phrase for them, the descendants of Goethe's Gretchens.

A sizable crowd of onlookers and tourists had gathered around the dancers, cheering the musicians and the dancers on with clapping. The celebration was in full swing, and it seemed no one and nothing could interrupt it.

"Africans are a cheerful people," I said. "They're the ones we should take as role models of resilience!"

"Well, they're all over the place! There is no place to settle them anymore," Mikhail said discontentedly. "The only places left are in the former concentration camps of Dachau and Buchenwald."

"The irony of fate," my dormant Brain declared, waking up. "Where Jews, Moishe's kinsmen, were once burned, today now their original enemies, the Muslims, will live."

Mikhail drove me to the flea market and waited while I bought a Gillette razor and a spare blade cartridge from the first mulatto I came across.

"We have a tradition of celebrating a purchase with strong drinks and good snacks; otherwise, the blades will quickly become unusable," I said, getting into the car.

 

"Unfortunately, I'm busy this evening. I'm meeting my old friend, Vaclav the Czech," Mikhail said.

"How about inviting him too? That would be great! We'll have a 'Three of Us' party, like in the old Soviet days.

 "Well, if you insist, we can try.”

"We went for dinner to the Hummus & Friends restaurant on Oranienburger Strasse in the Mitte district.

"This restaurant has two advantages: the first is that it's close to your home, and the second is that the hummus is a great appetizer!" said Mikhail Zaslavsky, a longtime Berliner.

"I didn't expect Berlin to be so overrun with refugees. Are the locals really ready to surrender to the mercy of newcomers?" I asked after we'd finished our first drink glass.

"Not just Berlin, but all of Germany," Mikhail countered.

"It's probably a belated belch from the colonial past," I said.

"Post-colonialist syndrome is more relevant to Belgium and other European countries than to Germany. The only thing left of the German colonies are a couple of beer factories in the Chinese provinces of Tianjin and Qingdao, which, by the way, are still operating. That's not the problem," Moisha's friend Vaclav said thoughtfully.

"The problem is that the government is following the lead of local industrialists," he continued. - And do you know why?

 “Why?” I asked.

"The post-war generation of Germans is retiring en masse, vacating around 700,000 jobs every year. And there aren't enough domestic labor reserves to fill them. And the local oligarchy's motto these days is something like: 'Strong hands are needed to save Germany's economy!' So, it doesn't matter to them where those hands come from," said Vaclav.

"The nature of oligarchs is the same in both Germany and Ukraine," I said.

"What are you saying!" Mikhail quipped. "Ukrainian oligarchs only know how to 'steal' from the budget, as your Yulia Tymoshenko so aptly put it.

 "And yours are downright lambs!" I said, offended on behalf of our oligarchs.

"Lambs or not, but there are around twenty thousand of them here," said Mikhail.

"A decent herd!" I agreed.

"This 'herd,' as you put it, has a combined wealth of two and a half trillion US dollars." "Germany owes its prosperity to them!" Vaclav enlightened me.

"Now I can imagine who the migrants will work for," I said, smiling peacefully to end this fruitless argument.

The waiter brought hummus prepared with garlic and lemon, vegetables, and hot flatbread.

"However, it turns out that supply exceeds demand," I said as we drank to the prosperity of the German economy.

"What are you talking about?" Mikhail asked, as if he'd forgotten what we'd been talking about.

"About the millions of migrants," I reminded him.

By this time, we'd all drunk and eaten. And there was no point in continuing the conversation...

"Today I was at the TV tower. And from there I saw, or perhaps I just imagined it, countless mosques that have landed on the territory of your capital..."

"Yes, there are at least a hundred of them in Berlin alone! And they are the center of the Muslim world."

"But the German government itself is inviting them!"

"And it's carrying out the will of the local oligarchs."

"I wonder who they are, these German oligarchs?" — First of all, these are Karl Albrecht and Theo Albrecht, Susanne Klatten, Reinhard Mohn, the Flick Family, the Otto Family, Ingeburg Herz, Reinhold Würth, the Porsche Family, Günther and Daniela Herz, Stefan Quandt, Kurt Engelhorn, the Rudolf August Oetker Family, Otto Beisheim, Johanna Quandt, the Haub Family, the Braun Family, Hasso Plattner, the August von Finck Family, the von Oppenheim Family…

 “And they decide Germany's fate?”

“I don't think they're the only ones. If my memory serves me right, there are about twenty thousand multimillionaires in the country. And their combined wealth is worth more than two and a half trillion US dollars.”

“And they, of course, aren't concerned about the rise in crime and the increasing number of attacks on local residents, especially women?

"The government's policy on this issue was voiced by Heiko Maas, Germany's Minister of Justice and Consumer Protection. He once stated in the press: 'We mustn't allow anyone to use these attacks to indiscriminately discredit all refugees...'"

"The minister is leaving something out in this statement. What is he trying to hide behind such generalities?" I asked.

"The whole point is that the post-war generation is retiring en masse. At least seven hundred thousand new jobs are created in Germany every year. And domestic resources aren't enough to fill them."

"So, only migrants can save the German economy. Is that it?"

"Exactly. That's why the government is ready to accept refugees from all the world's hotspots," Mikhail, who had been silent until then, chimed in. "At the same time, preference is given to young Muslims from Africa and the Middle East. Germany needs strong hands, many strong hands..."

"I don't understand why preference is given specifically to Muslims? Is this unique to Germany or to EU countries as a whole?" "I said, beginning to doubt the direction our country was drifting along.

"You're new here, Lenya, and you don't know much," Mikhail said, choking. "A few years ago, a new word appeared in the European political lexicon – 'Eurabia.' Dozens of books and articles have been written confirming the reality of the threat of Europe turning into Eurabia, where new rulers will forcefully impose Islam. It's claimed that rebellious Christians and Jews will be physically exterminated, and those who submit will be turned into slaves, 'dhimmis' in Islamic terminology."

 

 

 

 

 I remembered

I remembered that I wanted to shave. But where could I buy this damn shaving kit!? Frustrated, I hailed a taxi.

“Where are you going?” He said in Russian. And I took it for granted in this multinational city. “Going to see the girls?"

 “Why see the girls?

 “Well, all Russians, when they get to Berlin, first thing they do is go to a brothel. And there are plenty of them here.

 “What are you saying? It can’t be!” I said/

“Ow! You don't imagine, — said the driver. "Prostitutes bring in about fifteen billion euros in taxes to the German budget every year. Now that’s work!

“Very good. But I’m not Russian.”

“Really? Then where are you from?”

“I am Ukrainian.”

“Oh, I’m from Ukraine too! From Tsyuryupinsk. Have you heard of that city?”

“Yes, but no such city anymore already.”

“What do you mean? What does this mean, your 'no'?" I was born there, I grew up there, and lived there until I moved here.”

“Now it’s Oleshky.”

“Oh really! So, I not only have lost my homeland, but I’ve lost my hometown too,” the taxi driver lamented.

“There would be something to regret!”

“You can’t say that! It’s my small homeland after all,” he said, turning his snub-nosed face of a middle-aged Jew with blue Slavic eyes to me, and continued: “So, where are we going, fellow countryman?

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Mikhail, Mikhail Zaslavsky,” he introduced himself.

“Mikhail, I didn't come to Berlin for long. And I absolutely must buy a razor and spare blades?”

“Oh! All the shops are closed today. But we could try to find something suitable at one of the flea markets. At least on Arkonaplatz, it's not far from Mayerpark.”

“What are we standing around for? Let's go!”

I attentively looked at the boulevards passing by the taxi window, the prim buildings, and scrutinized the sidewalks and pavement.

"Damn! Not a single pothole, not a single puddle, even the tiniest one!”  I said, disappointed.

“But what do you think of this?” Said Mikhail, nodding his head towards a small group of people under the linden trees, who were dancing as if in a collective fit.

At first glance, it might have seemed that everyone who had come to this "rally" had a fever. And only after hearing the choral singing and seeing dark-skinned musicians in white silk suits, selflessly beating out African melodies from drums, blowing out saxophones, and emitting African melodies from banjos, did I realize that this was nothing other than a musical affirmation of identification as a people. And it was organized by refugees from Africa.

"Here they are, Vera Mason's clients!" I thought sadly. "But it's unlikely they'll agree to return to Mali or Sudan again..."

I was transfixed by the coffee-colored beauties with their thin braids, their buttocks swaying rhythmically to the music. And next to them, imitating them, danced busty, fat-bottomed Fraus and slender Fräuleins. Shaking their bodies, they seemed to be trying to prove that multiculturalism was more than just a phrase for them, the descendants of Goethe's Gretchens.

A sizable crowd of onlookers and tourists had gathered around the dancers, cheering the musicians and the dancers on with clapping. The celebration was in full swing, and it seemed no one and nothing could interrupt it.

"Africans are a cheerful people," I said. "They're the ones we should take as role models of resilience!"

"Well, they're all over the place! There is no place to settle them anymore," Mikhail said discontentedly. "The only places left are in the former concentration camps of Dachau and Buchenwald."

"The irony of fate," my dormant Brain declared, waking up. "Where Jews, Moishe's kinsmen, were once burned, today now their original enemies, the Muslims, will live."

Mikhail drove me to the flea market and waited while I bought a Gillette razor and a spare blade cartridge from the first mulatto I came across.

"We have a tradition of celebrating a purchase with strong drinks and good snacks; otherwise, the blades will quickly become unusable," I said, getting into the car.

 

"Unfortunately, I'm busy this evening. I'm meeting my old friend, Vaclav the Czech," Mikhail said.

"How about inviting him too? That would be great! We'll have a 'Three of Us' party, like in the old Soviet days.

 "Well, if you insist, we can try.”

"We went for dinner to the Hummus & Friends restaurant on Oranienburger Strasse in the Mitte district.

"This restaurant has two advantages: the first is that it's close to your home, and the second is that the hummus is a great appetizer!" said Mikhail Zaslavsky, a longtime Berliner.

"I didn't expect Berlin to be so overrun with refugees. Are the locals really ready to surrender to the mercy of newcomers?" I asked after we'd finished our first drink glass.

"Not just Berlin, but all of Germany," Mikhail countered.

"It's probably a belated belch from the colonial past," I said.

"Post-colonialist syndrome is more relevant to Belgium and other European countries than to Germany. The only thing left of the German colonies are a couple of beer factories in the Chinese provinces of Tianjin and Qingdao, which, by the way, are still operating. That's not the problem," Moisha's friend Vaclav said thoughtfully.

"The problem is that the government is following the lead of local industrialists," he continued. - And do you know why?

 “Why?” I asked.

"The post-war generation of Germans is retiring en masse, vacating around 700,000 jobs every year. And there aren't enough domestic labor reserves to fill them. And the local oligarchy's motto these days is something like: 'Strong hands are needed to save Germany's economy!' So, it doesn't matter to them where those hands come from," said Vaclav.

"The nature of oligarchs is the same in both Germany and Ukraine," I said.

"What are you saying!" Mikhail quipped. "Ukrainian oligarchs only know how to 'steal' from the budget, as your Yulia Tymoshenko so aptly put it.

 "And yours are downright lambs!" I said, offended on behalf of our oligarchs.

"Lambs or not, but there are around twenty thousand of them here," said Mikhail.

"A decent herd!" I agreed.

"This 'herd,' as you put it, has a combined wealth of two and a half trillion US dollars." "Germany owes its prosperity to them!" Vaclav enlightened me.

"Now I can imagine who the migrants will work for," I said, smiling peacefully to end this fruitless argument.

The waiter brought hummus prepared with garlic and lemon, vegetables, and hot flatbread.

"However, it turns out that supply exceeds demand," I said as we drank to the prosperity of the German economy.

"What are you talking about?" Mikhail asked, as if he'd forgotten what we'd been talking about.

"About the millions of migrants," I reminded him.

By this time, we'd all drunk and eaten. And there was no point in continuing the conversation...

"Today I was at the TV tower. And from there I saw, or perhaps I just imagined it, countless mosques that have landed on the territory of your capital..."

"Yes, there are at least a hundred of them in Berlin alone! And they are the center of the Muslim world."

"But the German government itself is inviting them!"

"And it's carrying out the will of the local oligarchs."

"I wonder who they are, these German oligarchs?" — First of all, these are Karl Albrecht and Theo Albrecht, Susanne Klatten, Reinhard Mohn, the Flick Family, the Otto Family, Ingeburg Herz, Reinhold Würth, the Porsche Family, Günther and Daniela Herz, Stefan Quandt, Kurt Engelhorn, the Rudolf August Oetker Family, Otto Beisheim, Johanna Quandt, the Haub Family, the Braun Family, Hasso Plattner, the August von Finck Family, the von Oppenheim Family…

 “And they decide Germany's fate?”

“I don't think they're the only ones. If my memory serves me right, there are about twenty thousand multimillionaires in the country. And their combined wealth is worth more than two and a half trillion US dollars.”

“And they, of course, aren't concerned about the rise in crime and the increasing number of attacks on local residents, especially women?

"The government's policy on this issue was voiced by Heiko Maas, Germany's Minister of Justice and Consumer Protection. He once stated in the press: 'We mustn't allow anyone to use these attacks to indiscriminately discredit all refugees...'"

"The minister is leaving something out in this statement. What is he trying to hide behind such generalities?" I asked.

"The whole point is that the post-war generation is retiring en masse. At least seven hundred thousand new jobs are created in Germany every year. And domestic resources aren't enough to fill them."

"So, only migrants can save the German economy. Is that it?"

"Exactly. That's why the government is ready to accept refugees from all the world's hotspots," Mikhail, who had been silent until then, chimed in. "At the same time, preference is given to young Muslims from Africa and the Middle East. Germany needs strong hands, many strong hands..."

"I don't understand why preference is given specifically to Muslims? Is this unique to Germany or to EU countries as a whole?" "I said, beginning to doubt the direction our country was drifting along.

"You're new here, Lenya, and you don't know much," Mikhail said, choking. "A few years ago, a new word appeared in the European political lexicon – 'Eurabia.' Dozens of books and articles have been written confirming the reality of the threat of Europe turning into Eurabia, where new rulers will forcefully impose Islam. It's claimed that rebellious Christians and Jews will be physically exterminated, and those who submit will be turned into slaves, 'dhimmis' in Islamic terminology."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 I remembered

I remembered that I wanted to shave. But where could I buy this damn shaving kit!? Frustrated, I hailed a taxi.

“Where are you going?” He said in Russian. And I took it for granted in this multinational city. “Going to see the girls?"

 “Why see the girls?

 “Well, all Russians, when they get to Berlin, first thing they do is go to a brothel. And there are plenty of them here.

 “What are you saying? It can’t be!” I said/

“Ow! You don't imagine, — said the driver. "Prostitutes bring in about fifteen billion euros in taxes to the German budget every year. Now that’s work!

“Very good. But I’m not Russian.”

“Really? Then where are you from?”

“I am Ukrainian.”

“Oh, I’m from Ukraine too! From Tsyuryupinsk. Have you heard of that city?”

“Yes, but no such city anymore already.”

“What do you mean? What does this mean, your 'no'?" I was born there, I grew up there, and lived there until I moved here.”

“Now it’s Oleshky.”

“Oh really! So, I not only have lost my homeland, but I’ve lost my hometown too,” the taxi driver lamented.

“There would be something to regret!”

“You can’t say that! It’s my small homeland after all,” he said, turning his snub-nosed face of a middle-aged Jew with blue Slavic eyes to me, and continued: “So, where are we going, fellow countryman?

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Mikhail, Mikhail Zaslavsky,” he introduced himself.

“Mikhail, I didn't come to Berlin for long. And I absolutely must buy a razor and spare blades?”

“Oh! All the shops are closed today. But we could try to find something suitable at one of the flea markets. At least on Arkonaplatz, it's not far from Mayerpark.”

“What are we standing around for? Let's go!”

I attentively looked at the boulevards passing by the taxi window, the prim buildings, and scrutinized the sidewalks and pavement.

"Damn! Not a single pothole, not a single puddle, even the tiniest one!”  I said, disappointed.

“But what do you think of this?” Said Mikhail, nodding his head towards a small group of people under the linden trees, who were dancing as if in a collective fit.

At first glance, it might have seemed that everyone who had come to this "rally" had a fever. And only after hearing the choral singing and seeing dark-skinned musicians in white silk suits, selflessly beating out African melodies from drums, blowing out saxophones, and emitting African melodies from banjos, did I realize that this was nothing other than a musical affirmation of identification as a people. And it was organized by refugees from Africa.

"Here they are, Vera Mason's clients!" I thought sadly. "But it's unlikely they'll agree to return to Mali or Sudan again..."

I was transfixed by the coffee-colored beauties with their thin braids, their buttocks swaying rhythmically to the music. And next to them, imitating them, danced busty, fat-bottomed Fraus and slender Fräuleins. Shaking their bodies, they seemed to be trying to prove that multiculturalism was more than just a phrase for them, the descendants of Goethe's Gretchens.

A sizable crowd of onlookers and tourists had gathered around the dancers, cheering the musicians and the dancers on with clapping. The celebration was in full swing, and it seemed no one and nothing could interrupt it.

"Africans are a cheerful people," I said. "They're the ones we should take as role models of resilience!"

"Well, they're all over the place! There is no place to settle them anymore," Mikhail said discontentedly. "The only places left are in the former concentration camps of Dachau and Buchenwald."

"The irony of fate," my dormant Brain declared, waking up. "Where Jews, Moishe's kinsmen, were once burned, today now their original enemies, the Muslims, will live."

Mikhail drove me to the flea market and waited while I bought a Gillette razor and a spare blade cartridge from the first mulatto I came across.

"We have a tradition of celebrating a purchase with strong drinks and good snacks; otherwise, the blades will quickly become unusable," I said, getting into the car.

 

"Unfortunately, I'm busy this evening. I'm meeting my old friend, Vaclav the Czech," Mikhail said.

"How about inviting him too? That would be great! We'll have a 'Three of Us' party, like in the old Soviet days.

 "Well, if you insist, we can try.”

"We went for dinner to the Hummus & Friends restaurant on Oranienburger Strasse in the Mitte district.

"This restaurant has two advantages: the first is that it's close to your home, and the second is that the hummus is a great appetizer!" said Mikhail Zaslavsky, a longtime Berliner.

"I didn't expect Berlin to be so overrun with refugees. Are the locals really ready to surrender to the mercy of newcomers?" I asked after we'd finished our first drink glass.

"Not just Berlin, but all of Germany," Mikhail countered.

"It's probably a belated belch from the colonial past," I said.

"Post-colonialist syndrome is more relevant to Belgium and other European countries than to Germany. The only thing left of the German colonies are a couple of beer factories in the Chinese provinces of Tianjin and Qingdao, which, by the way, are still operating. That's not the problem," Moisha's friend Vaclav said thoughtfully.

"The problem is that the government is following the lead of local industrialists," he continued. - And do you know why?

 “Why?” I asked.

"The post-war generation of Germans is retiring en masse, vacating around 700,000 jobs every year. And there aren't enough domestic labor reserves to fill them. And the local oligarchy's motto these days is something like: 'Strong hands are needed to save Germany's economy!' So, it doesn't matter to them where those hands come from," said Vaclav.

"The nature of oligarchs is the same in both Germany and Ukraine," I said.

"What are you saying!" Mikhail quipped. "Ukrainian oligarchs only know how to 'steal' from the budget, as your Yulia Tymoshenko so aptly put it.

 "And yours are downright lambs!" I said, offended on behalf of our oligarchs.

"Lambs or not, but there are around twenty thousand of them here," said Mikhail.

"A decent herd!" I agreed.

"This 'herd,' as you put it, has a combined wealth of two and a half trillion US dollars." "Germany owes its prosperity to them!" Vaclav enlightened me.

"Now I can imagine who the migrants will work for," I said, smiling peacefully to end this fruitless argument.

The waiter brought hummus prepared with garlic and lemon, vegetables, and hot flatbread.

"However, it turns out that supply exceeds demand," I said as we drank to the prosperity of the German economy.

"What are you talking about?" Mikhail asked, as if he'd forgotten what we'd been talking about.

"About the millions of migrants," I reminded him.

By this time, we'd all drunk and eaten. And there was no point in continuing the conversation...

"Today I was at the TV tower. And from there I saw, or perhaps I just imagined it, countless mosques that have landed on the territory of your capital..."

"Yes, there are at least a hundred of them in Berlin alone! And they are the center of the Muslim world."

"But the German government itself is inviting them!"

"And it's carrying out the will of the local oligarchs."

"I wonder who they are, these German oligarchs?" — First of all, these are Karl Albrecht and Theo Albrecht, Susanne Klatten, Reinhard Mohn, the Flick Family, the Otto Family, Ingeburg Herz, Reinhold Würth, the Porsche Family, Günther and Daniela Herz, Stefan Quandt, Kurt Engelhorn, the Rudolf August Oetker Family, Otto Beisheim, Johanna Quandt, the Haub Family, the Braun Family, Hasso Plattner, the August von Finck Family, the von Oppenheim Family…

 “And they decide Germany's fate?”

“I don't think they're the only ones. If my memory serves me right, there are about twenty thousand multimillionaires in the country. And their combined wealth is worth more than two and a half trillion US dollars.”

“And they, of course, aren't concerned about the rise in crime and the increasing number of attacks on local residents, especially women?

"The government's policy on this issue was voiced by Heiko Maas, Germany's Minister of Justice and Consumer Protection. He once stated in the press: 'We mustn't allow anyone to use these attacks to indiscriminately discredit all refugees...'"

"The minister is leaving something out in this statement. What is he trying to hide behind such generalities?" I asked.

"The whole point is that the post-war generation is retiring en masse. At least seven hundred thousand new jobs are created in Germany every year. And domestic resources aren't enough to fill them."

"So, only migrants can save the German economy. Is that it?"

"Exactly. That's why the government is ready to accept refugees from all the world's hotspots," Mikhail, who had been silent until then, chimed in. "At the same time, preference is given to young Muslims from Africa and the Middle East. Germany needs strong hands, many strong hands..."

"I don't understand why preference is given specifically to Muslims? Is this unique to Germany or to EU countries as a whole?" "I said, beginning to doubt the direction our country was drifting along.

"You're new here, Lenya, and you don't know much," Mikhail said, choking. "A few years ago, a new word appeared in the European political lexicon – 'Eurabia.' Dozens of books and articles have been written confirming the reality of the threat of Europe turning into Eurabia, where new rulers will forcefully impose Islam. It's claimed that rebellious Christians and Jews will be physically exterminated, and those who submit will be turned into slaves, 'dhimmis' in Islamic terminology."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 I remembered

I remembered that I wanted to shave. But where could I buy this damn shaving kit!? Frustrated, I hailed a taxi.

“Where are you going?” He said in Russian. And I took it for granted in this multinational city. “Going to see the girls?"

 “Why see the girls?

 “Well, all Russians, when they get to Berlin, first thing they do is go to a brothel. And there are plenty of them here.

 “What are you saying? It can’t be!” I said/

“Ow! You don't imagine, — said the driver. "Prostitutes bring in about fifteen billion euros in taxes to the German budget every year. Now that’s work!

“Very good. But I’m not Russian.”

“Really? Then where are you from?”

“I am Ukrainian.”

“Oh, I’m from Ukraine too! From Tsyuryupinsk. Have you heard of that city?”

“Yes, but no such city anymore already.”

“What do you mean? What does this mean, your 'no'?" I was born there, I grew up there, and lived there until I moved here.”

“Now it’s Oleshky.”

“Oh really! So, I not only have lost my homeland, but I’ve lost my hometown too,” the taxi driver lamented.

“There would be something to regret!”

“You can’t say that! It’s my small homeland after all,” he said, turning his snub-nosed face of a middle-aged Jew with blue Slavic eyes to me, and continued: “So, where are we going, fellow countryman?

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Mikhail, Mikhail Zaslavsky,” he introduced himself.

“Mikhail, I didn't come to Berlin for long. And I absolutely must buy a razor and spare blades?”

“Oh! All the shops are closed today. But we could try to find something suitable at one of the flea markets. At least on Arkonaplatz, it's not far from Mayerpark.”

“What are we standing around for? Let's go!”

I attentively looked at the boulevards passing by the taxi window, the prim buildings, and scrutinized the sidewalks and pavement.

"Damn! Not a single pothole, not a single puddle, even the tiniest one!”  I said, disappointed.

“But what do you think of this?” Said Mikhail, nodding his head towards a small group of people under the linden trees, who were dancing as if in a collective fit.

At first glance, it might have seemed that everyone who had come to this "rally" had a fever. And only after hearing the choral singing and seeing dark-skinned musicians in white silk suits, selflessly beating out African melodies from drums, blowing out saxophones, and emitting African melodies from banjos, did I realize that this was nothing other than a musical affirmation of identification as a people. And it was organized by refugees from Africa.

"Here they are, Vera Mason's clients!" I thought sadly. "But it's unlikely they'll agree to return to Mali or Sudan again..."

I was transfixed by the coffee-colored beauties with their thin braids, their buttocks swaying rhythmically to the music. And next to them, imitating them, danced busty, fat-bottomed Fraus and slender Fräuleins. Shaking their bodies, they seemed to be trying to prove that multiculturalism was more than just a phrase for them, the descendants of Goethe's Gretchens.

A sizable crowd of onlookers and tourists had gathered around the dancers, cheering the musicians and the dancers on with clapping. The celebration was in full swing, and it seemed no one and nothing could interrupt it.

"Africans are a cheerful people," I said. "They're the ones we should take as role models of resilience!"

"Well, they're all over the place! There is no place to settle them anymore," Mikhail said discontentedly. "The only places left are in the former concentration camps of Dachau and Buchenwald."

"The irony of fate," my dormant Brain declared, waking up. "Where Jews, Moishe's kinsmen, were once burned, today now their original enemies, the Muslims, will live."

Mikhail drove me to the flea market and waited while I bought a Gillette razor and a spare blade cartridge from the first mulatto I came across.

"We have a tradition of celebrating a purchase with strong drinks and good snacks; otherwise, the blades will quickly become unusable," I said, getting into the car.

 

"Unfortunately, I'm busy this evening. I'm meeting my old friend, Vaclav the Czech," Mikhail said.

"How about inviting him too? That would be great! We'll have a 'Three of Us' party, like in the old Soviet days.

 "Well, if you insist, we can try.”

"We went for dinner to the Hummus & Friends restaurant on Oranienburger Strasse in the Mitte district.

"This restaurant has two advantages: the first is that it's close to your home, and the second is that the hummus is a great appetizer!" said Mikhail Zaslavsky, a longtime Berliner.

"I didn't expect Berlin to be so overrun with refugees. Are the locals really ready to surrender to the mercy of newcomers?" I asked after we'd finished our first drink glass.

"Not just Berlin, but all of Germany," Mikhail countered.

"It's probably a belated belch from the colonial past," I said.

"Post-colonialist syndrome is more relevant to Belgium and other European countries than to Germany. The only thing left of the German colonies are a couple of beer factories in the Chinese provinces of Tianjin and Qingdao, which, by the way, are still operating. That's not the problem," Moisha's friend Vaclav said thoughtfully.

"The problem is that the government is following the lead of local industrialists," he continued. - And do you know why?

 “Why?” I asked.

"The post-war generation of Germans is retiring en masse, vacating around 700,000 jobs every year. And there aren't enough domestic labor reserves to fill them. And the local oligarchy's motto these days is something like: 'Strong hands are needed to save Germany's economy!' So, it doesn't matter to them where those hands come from," said Vaclav.

"The nature of oligarchs is the same in both Germany and Ukraine," I said.

"What are you saying!" Mikhail quipped. "Ukrainian oligarchs only know how to 'steal' from the budget, as your Yulia Tymoshenko so aptly put it.

 "And yours are downright lambs!" I said, offended on behalf of our oligarchs.

"Lambs or not, but there are around twenty thousand of them here," said Mikhail.

"A decent herd!" I agreed.

"This 'herd,' as you put it, has a combined wealth of two and a half trillion US dollars." "Germany owes its prosperity to them!" Vaclav enlightened me.

"Now I can imagine who the migrants will work for," I said, smiling peacefully to end this fruitless argument.

The waiter brought hummus prepared with garlic and lemon, vegetables, and hot flatbread.

"However, it turns out that supply exceeds demand," I said as we drank to the prosperity of the German economy.

"What are you talking about?" Mikhail asked, as if he'd forgotten what we'd been talking about.

"About the millions of migrants," I reminded him.

By this time, we'd all drunk and eaten. And there was no point in continuing the conversation...

"Today I was at the TV tower. And from there I saw, or perhaps I just imagined it, countless mosques that have landed on the territory of your capital..."

"Yes, there are at least a hundred of them in Berlin alone! And they are the center of the Muslim world."

"But the German government itself is inviting them!"

"And it's carrying out the will of the local oligarchs."

"I wonder who they are, these German oligarchs?" — First of all, these are Karl Albrecht and Theo Albrecht, Susanne Klatten, Reinhard Mohn, the Flick Family, the Otto Family, Ingeburg Herz, Reinhold Würth, the Porsche Family, Günther and Daniela Herz, Stefan Quandt, Kurt Engelhorn, the Rudolf August Oetker Family, Otto Beisheim, Johanna Quandt, the Haub Family, the Braun Family, Hasso Plattner, the August von Finck Family, the von Oppenheim Family…

 “And they decide Germany's fate?”

“I don't think they're the only ones. If my memory serves me right, there are about twenty thousand multimillionaires in the country. And their combined wealth is worth more than two and a half trillion US dollars.”

“And they, of course, aren't concerned about the rise in crime and the increasing number of attacks on local residents, especially women?

"The government's policy on this issue was voiced by Heiko Maas, Germany's Minister of Justice and Consumer Protection. He once stated in the press: 'We mustn't allow anyone to use these attacks to indiscriminately discredit all refugees...'"

"The minister is leaving something out in this statement. What is he trying to hide behind such generalities?" I asked.

"The whole point is that the post-war generation is retiring en masse. At least seven hundred thousand new jobs are created in Germany every year. And domestic resources aren't enough to fill them."

"So, only migrants can save the German economy. Is that it?"

"Exactly. That's why the government is ready to accept refugees from all the world's hotspots," Mikhail, who had been silent until then, chimed in. "At the same time, preference is given to young Muslims from Africa and the Middle East. Germany needs strong hands, many strong hands..."

"I don't understand why preference is given specifically to Muslims? Is this unique to Germany or to EU countries as a whole?" "I said, beginning to doubt the direction our country was drifting along.

"You're new here, Lenya, and you don't know much," Mikhail said, choking. "A few years ago, a new word appeared in the European political lexicon – 'Eurabia.' Dozens of books and articles have been written confirming the reality of the threat of Europe turning into Eurabia, where new rulers will forcefully impose Islam. It's claimed that rebellious Christians and Jews will be physically exterminated, and those who submit will be turned into slaves, 'dhimmis' in Islamic terminology."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 CHAPTER 13+

I remembered that I wanted to shave. But where could I buy this damn shaving kit!? Frustrated, I hailed a taxi.

“Where are you going?” He said in Russian. And I took it for granted in this multinational city. “Going to see the girls?"

 “Why see the girls?

 “Well, all Russians, when they get to Berlin, first thing they do is go to a brothel. And there are plenty of them here.

 “What are you saying? It can’t be!” I said/

“Ow! You don't imagine, — said the driver. "Prostitutes bring in about fifteen billion euros in taxes to the German budget every year. Now that’s work!

“Very good. But I’m not Russian.”

“Really? Then where are you from?”

“I am Ukrainian.”

“Oh, I’m from Ukraine too! From Tsyuryupinsk. Have you heard of that city?”

“Yes, but no such city anymore already.”

“What do you mean? What does this mean, your 'no'?" I was born there, I grew up there, and lived there until I moved here.”

“Now it’s Oleshky.”

“Oh really! So, I not only have lost my homeland, but I’ve lost my hometown too,” the taxi driver lamented.

“There would be something to regret!”

“You can’t say that! It’s my small homeland after all,” he said, turning his snub-nosed face of a middle-aged Jew with blue Slavic eyes to me, and continued: “So, where are we going, fellow countryman?

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Mikhail, Mikhail Zaslavsky,” he introduced himself.

“Mikhail, I didn't come to Berlin for long. And I absolutely must buy a razor and spare blades?”

“Oh! All the shops are closed today. But we could try to find something suitable at one of the flea markets. At least on Arkonaplatz, it's not far from Mayerpark.”

“What are we standing around for? Let's go!”

I attentively looked at the boulevards passing by the taxi window, the prim buildings, and scrutinized the sidewalks and pavement.

"Damn! Not a single pothole, not a single puddle, even the tiniest one!”  I said, disappointed.

“But what do you think of this?” Said Mikhail, nodding his head towards a small group of people under the linden trees, who were dancing as if in a collective fit.

At first glance, it might have seemed that everyone who had come to this "rally" had a fever. And only after hearing the choral singing and seeing dark-skinned musicians in white silk suits, selflessly beating out African melodies from drums, blowing out saxophones, and emitting African melodies from banjos, did I realize that this was nothing other than a musical affirmation of identification as a people. And it was organized by refugees from Africa.

"Here they are, Vera Mason's clients!" I thought sadly. "But it's unlikely they'll agree to return to Mali or Sudan again..."

I was transfixed by the coffee-colored beauties with their thin braids, their buttocks swaying rhythmically to the music. And next to them, imitating them, danced busty, fat-bottomed Fraus and slender Fräuleins. Shaking their bodies, they seemed to be trying to prove that multiculturalism was more than just a phrase for them, the descendants of Goethe's Gretchens.

A sizable crowd of onlookers and tourists had gathered around the dancers, cheering the musicians and the dancers on with clapping. The celebration was in full swing, and it seemed no one and nothing could interrupt it.

"Africans are a cheerful people," I said. "They're the ones we should take as role models of resilience!"

"Well, they're all over the place! There is no place to settle them anymore," Mikhail said discontentedly. "The only places left are in the former concentration camps of Dachau and Buchenwald."

"The irony of fate," my dormant Brain declared, waking up. "Where Jews, Moishe's kinsmen, were once burned, today now their original enemies, the Muslims, will live."

Mikhail drove me to the flea market and waited while I bought a Gillette razor and a spare blade cartridge from the first mulatto I came across.

"We have a tradition of celebrating a purchase with strong drinks and good snacks; otherwise, the blades will quickly become unusable," I said, getting into the car.

 

"Unfortunately, I'm busy this evening. I'm meeting my old friend, Vaclav the Czech," Mikhail said.

"How about inviting him too? That would be great! We'll have a 'Three of Us' party, like in the old Soviet days.

 "Well, if you insist, we can try.”

"We went for dinner to the Hummus & Friends restaurant on Oranienburger Strasse in the Mitte district.

"This restaurant has two advantages: the first is that it's close to your home, and the second is that the hummus is a great appetizer!" said Mikhail Zaslavsky, a longtime Berliner.

"I didn't expect Berlin to be so overrun with refugees. Are the locals really ready to surrender to the mercy of newcomers?" I asked after we'd finished our first drink glass.

"Not just Berlin, but all of Germany," Mikhail countered.

"It's probably a belated belch from the colonial past," I said.

"Post-colonialist syndrome is more relevant to Belgium and other European countries than to Germany. The only thing left of the German colonies are a couple of beer factories in the Chinese provinces of Tianjin and Qingdao, which, by the way, are still operating. That's not the problem," Moisha's friend Vaclav said thoughtfully.

"The problem is that the government is following the lead of local industrialists," he continued. - And do you know why?

 “Why?” I asked.

"The post-war generation of Germans is retiring en masse, vacating around 700,000 jobs every year. And there aren't enough domestic labor reserves to fill them. And the local oligarchy's motto these days is something like: 'Strong hands are needed to save Germany's economy!' So, it doesn't matter to them where those hands come from," said Vaclav.

"The nature of oligarchs is the same in both Germany and Ukraine," I said.

"What are you saying!" Mikhail quipped. "Ukrainian oligarchs only know how to 'steal' from the budget, as your Yulia Tymoshenko so aptly put it.

 "And yours are downright lambs!" I said, offended on behalf of our oligarchs.

"Lambs or not, but there are around twenty thousand of them here," said Mikhail.

"A decent herd!" I agreed.

"This 'herd,' as you put it, has a combined wealth of two and a half trillion US dollars." "Germany owes its prosperity to them!" Vaclav enlightened me.

"Now I can imagine who the migrants will work for," I said, smiling peacefully to end this fruitless argument.

The waiter brought hummus prepared with garlic and lemon, vegetables, and hot flatbread.

"However, it turns out that supply exceeds demand," I said as we drank to the prosperity of the German economy.

"What are you talking about?" Mikhail asked, as if he'd forgotten what we'd been talking about.

"About the millions of migrants," I reminded him.

By this time, we'd all drunk and eaten. And there was no point in continuing the conversation...

"Today I was at the TV tower. And from there I saw, or perhaps I just imagined it, countless mosques that have landed on the territory of your capital..."

"Yes, there are at least a hundred of them in Berlin alone! And they are the center of the Muslim world."

"But the German government itself is inviting them!"

"And it's carrying out the will of the local oligarchs."

"I wonder who they are, these German oligarchs?" — First of all, these are Karl Albrecht and Theo Albrecht, Susanne Klatten, Reinhard Mohn, the Flick Family, the Otto Family, Ingeburg Herz, Reinhold Würth, the Porsche Family, Günther and Daniela Herz, Stefan Quandt, Kurt Engelhorn, the Rudolf August Oetker Family, Otto Beisheim, Johanna Quandt, the Haub Family, the Braun Family, Hasso Plattner, the August von Finck Family, the von Oppenheim Family…

 “And they decide Germany's fate?”

“I don't think they're the only ones. If my memory serves me right, there are about twenty thousand multimillionaires in the country. And their combined wealth is worth more than two and a half trillion US dollars.”

“And they, of course, aren't concerned about the rise in crime and the increasing number of attacks on local residents, especially women?

"The government's policy on this issue was voiced by Heiko Maas, Germany's Minister of Justice and Consumer Protection. He once stated in the press: 'We mustn't allow anyone to use these attacks to indiscriminately discredit all refugees...'"

"The minister is leaving something out in this statement. What is he trying to hide behind such generalities?" I asked.

"The whole point is that the post-war generation is retiring en masse. At least seven hundred thousand new jobs are created in Germany every year. And domestic resources aren't enough to fill them."

"So, only migrants can save the German economy. Is that it?"

"Exactly. That's why the government is ready to accept refugees from all the world's hotspots," Mikhail, who had been silent until then, chimed in. "At the same time, preference is given to young Muslims from Africa and the Middle East. Germany needs strong hands, many strong hands..."

"I don't understand why preference is given specifically to Muslims? Is this unique to Germany or to EU countries as a whole?" "I said, beginning to doubt the direction our country was drifting along.

"You're new here, Lenya, and you don't know much," Mikhail said, choking. "A few years ago, a new word appeared in the European political lexicon – 'Eurabia.' Dozens of books and articles have been written confirming the reality of the threat of Europe turning into Eurabia, where new rulers will forcefully impose Islam. It's claimed that rebellious Christians and Jews will be physically exterminated, and those who submit will be turned into slaves, 'dhimmis' in Islamic terminology."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 CHAPTER 13+

I remembered that I wanted to shave. But where could I buy this damn shaving kit!? Frustrated, I hailed a taxi.

“Where are you going?” He said in Russian. And I took it for granted in this multinational city. “Going to see the girls?"

 “Why see the girls?

 “Well, all Russians, when they get to Berlin, first thing they do is go to a brothel. And there are plenty of them here.

 “What are you saying? It can’t be!” I said/

“Ow! You don't imagine, — said the driver. "Prostitutes bring in about fifteen billion euros in taxes to the German budget every year. Now that’s work!

“Very good. But I’m not Russian.”

“Really? Then where are you from?”

“I am Ukrainian.”

“Oh, I’m from Ukraine too! From Tsyuryupinsk. Have you heard of that city?”

“Yes, but no such city anymore already.”

“What do you mean? What does this mean, your 'no'?" I was born there, I grew up there, and lived there until I moved here.”

“Now it’s Oleshky.”

“Oh really! So, I not only have lost my homeland, but I’ve lost my hometown too,” the taxi driver lamented.

“There would be something to regret!”

“You can’t say that! It’s my small homeland after all,” he said, turning his snub-nosed face of a middle-aged Jew with blue Slavic eyes to me, and continued: “So, where are we going, fellow countryman?

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Mikhail, Mikhail Zaslavsky,” he introduced himself.

“Mikhail, I didn't come to Berlin for long. And I absolutely must buy a razor and spare blades?”

“Oh! All the shops are closed today. But we could try to find something suitable at one of the flea markets. At least on Arkonaplatz, it's not far from Mayerpark.”

“What are we standing around for? Let's go!”

I attentively looked at the boulevards passing by the taxi window, the prim buildings, and scrutinized the sidewalks and pavement.

"Damn! Not a single pothole, not a single puddle, even the tiniest one!”  I said, disappointed.

“But what do you think of this?” Said Mikhail, nodding his head towards a small group of people under the linden trees, who were dancing as if in a collective fit.

At first glance, it might have seemed that everyone who had come to this "rally" had a fever. And only after hearing the choral singing and seeing dark-skinned musicians in white silk suits, selflessly beating out African melodies from drums, blowing out saxophones, and emitting African melodies from banjos, did I realize that this was nothing other than a musical affirmation of identification as a people. And it was organized by refugees from Africa.

"Here they are, Vera Mason's clients!" I thought sadly. "But it's unlikely they'll agree to return to Mali or Sudan again..."

I was transfixed by the coffee-colored beauties with their thin braids, their buttocks swaying rhythmically to the music. And next to them, imitating them, danced busty, fat-bottomed Fraus and slender Fräuleins. Shaking their bodies, they seemed to be trying to prove that multiculturalism was more than just a phrase for them, the descendants of Goethe's Gretchens.

A sizable crowd of onlookers and tourists had gathered around the dancers, cheering the musicians and the dancers on with clapping. The celebration was in full swing, and it seemed no one and nothing could interrupt it.

"Africans are a cheerful people," I said. "They're the ones we should take as role models of resilience!"

"Well, they're all over the place! There is no place to settle them anymore," Mikhail said discontentedly. "The only places left are in the former concentration camps of Dachau and Buchenwald."

"The irony of fate," my dormant Brain declared, waking up. "Where Jews, Moishe's kinsmen, were once burned, today now their original enemies, the Muslims, will live."

Mikhail drove me to the flea market and waited while I bought a Gillette razor and a spare blade cartridge from the first mulatto I came across.

"We have a tradition of celebrating a purchase with strong drinks and good snacks; otherwise, the blades will quickly become unusable," I said, getting into the car.

 

"Unfortunately, I'm busy this evening. I'm meeting my old friend, Vaclav the Czech," Mikhail said.

"How about inviting him too? That would be great! We'll have a 'Three of Us' party, like in the old Soviet days.

 "Well, if you insist, we can try.”

"We went for dinner to the Hummus & Friends restaurant on Oranienburger Strasse in the Mitte district.

"This restaurant has two advantages: the first is that it's close to your home, and the second is that the hummus is a great appetizer!" said Mikhail Zaslavsky, a longtime Berliner.

"I didn't expect Berlin to be so overrun with refugees. Are the locals really ready to surrender to the mercy of newcomers?" I asked after we'd finished our first drink glass.

"Not just Berlin, but all of Germany," Mikhail countered.

"It's probably a belated belch from the colonial past," I said.

"Post-colonialist syndrome is more relevant to Belgium and other European countries than to Germany. The only thing left of the German colonies are a couple of beer factories in the Chinese provinces of Tianjin and Qingdao, which, by the way, are still operating. That's not the problem," Moisha's friend Vaclav said thoughtfully.

"The problem is that the government is following the lead of local industrialists," he continued. - And do you know why?

 “Why?” I asked.

"The post-war generation of Germans is retiring en masse, vacating around 700,000 jobs every year. And there aren't enough domestic labor reserves to fill them. And the local oligarchy's motto these days is something like: 'Strong hands are needed to save Germany's economy!' So, it doesn't matter to them where those hands come from," said Vaclav.

"The nature of oligarchs is the same in both Germany and Ukraine," I said.

"What are you saying!" Mikhail quipped. "Ukrainian oligarchs only know how to 'steal' from the budget, as your Yulia Tymoshenko so aptly put it.

 "And yours are downright lambs!" I said, offended on behalf of our oligarchs.

"Lambs or not, but there are around twenty thousand of them here," said Mikhail.

"A decent herd!" I agreed.

"This 'herd,' as you put it, has a combined wealth of two and a half trillion US dollars." "Germany owes its prosperity to them!" Vaclav enlightened me.

"Now I can imagine who the migrants will work for," I said, smiling peacefully to end this fruitless argument.

The waiter brought hummus prepared with garlic and lemon, vegetables, and hot flatbread.

"However, it turns out that supply exceeds demand," I said as we drank to the prosperity of the German economy.

"What are you talking about?" Mikhail asked, as if he'd forgotten what we'd been talking about.

"About the millions of migrants," I reminded him.

By this time, we'd all drunk and eaten. And there was no point in continuing the conversation...

"Today I was at the TV tower. And from there I saw, or perhaps I just imagined it, countless mosques that have landed on the territory of your capital..."

"Yes, there are at least a hundred of them in Berlin alone! And they are the center of the Muslim world."

"But the German government itself is inviting them!"

"And it's carrying out the will of the local oligarchs."

"I wonder who they are, these German oligarchs?" — First of all, these are Karl Albrecht and Theo Albrecht, Susanne Klatten, Reinhard Mohn, the Flick Family, the Otto Family, Ingeburg Herz, Reinhold Würth, the Porsche Family, Günther and Daniela Herz, Stefan Quandt, Kurt Engelhorn, the Rudolf August Oetker Family, Otto Beisheim, Johanna Quandt, the Haub Family, the Braun Family, Hasso Plattner, the August von Finck Family, the von Oppenheim Family…

 “And they decide Germany's fate?”

“I don't think they're the only ones. If my memory serves me right, there are about twenty thousand multimillionaires in the country. And their combined wealth is worth more than two and a half trillion US dollars.”

“And they, of course, aren't concerned about the rise in crime and the increasing number of attacks on local residents, especially women?

"The government's policy on this issue was voiced by Heiko Maas, Germany's Minister of Justice and Consumer Protection. He once stated in the press: 'We mustn't allow anyone to use these attacks to indiscriminately discredit all refugees...'"

"The minister is leaving something out in this statement. What is he trying to hide behind such generalities?" I asked.

"The whole point is that the post-war generation is retiring en masse. At least seven hundred thousand new jobs are created in Germany every year. And domestic resources aren't enough to fill them."

"So, only migrants can save the German economy. Is that it?"

"Exactly. That's why the government is ready to accept refugees from all the world's hotspots," Mikhail, who had been silent until then, chimed in. "At the same time, preference is given to young Muslims from Africa and the Middle East. Germany needs strong hands, many strong hands..."

"I don't understand why preference is given specifically to Muslims? Is this unique to Germany or to EU countries as a whole?" "I said, beginning to doubt the direction our country was drifting along.

"You're new here, Lenya, and you don't know much," Mikhail said, choking. "A few years ago, a new word appeared in the European political lexicon – 'Eurabia.' Dozens of books and articles have been written confirming the reality of the threat of Europe turning into Eurabia, where new rulers will forcefully impose Islam. It's claimed that rebellious Christians and Jews will be physically exterminated, and those who submit will be turned into slaves, 'dhimmis' in Islamic terminology."