Chapter 13(+)---14

 

 

 

It was the summer of 2021. I was walking the streets of the German capital, and, as always, I was thinking about everything at once and, of course, about something of my own. For example, I had remembered my grandfather Stepan, who had fought his way to this very Berlin in early May 1945; my father, who was lucky enough to see the end of the war in Prague; and my uncle Pavel, who died in the summer of 1942 near Kharkov, and whom I know only from one miraculously preserved photograph...

And so, I thought, Germany had repented of its sins, or rather, its atrocities. For a certain period in the USSR too, there had been discussions about the need for repentance for the crimes of the Soviet regime. However, over time, these sluggish debates died down. And the "shameful" past began to be served on the table of modernity like a delicacy, together with the inspirer of all victories, Stalin, in his modest generalissimo uniform.

Walking along Gruner Strasse, past the luxurious windows of the “Alexa” shopping center, and seeing the mannequins with their smooth, velvety faces, I remembered that I, too, could do with a shave. But where the hell could I buy a razor and blades?

In desperation, I hailed a taxi.

“Where are you heading?” the driver asked in Russian. In this multinational city, I took it completely for granted. “Going to see the girls?”

“Why would I be seeing girls?”

“Well, the first thing most Russians do when they get to Berlin is head straight for a brothel. And we’ve got plenty of them here.”

“What are you talking about? It can’t be!” I spoke.

“Oh, you have no idea,” the driver replied. “Prostitutes bring about fifteen billion euros in taxes into the German budget every year. Now that’s a real industry!”

“Good for them. But I’m not Russian.”

“Really? Then where are you from?”

“I’m Ukrainian.”

“Oh, I’m from Ukraine too! From Tsyuryupinsk. Ever heard of it?”

“Yes, but that city doesn’t exist anymore.”

“What do you mean, it doesn't exist?!” the driver gasped.

 “I was born there, grew up there, and lived there until I moved here.”

“Now it’s called Aleshky.”

"Is that true? So, I haven't just lost my homeland; I've lost my hometown too," the taxi driver lamented.

"Is that really something to cry over?"

"You shouldn't say that! It's my home soil, after all," he said, turning his middle-aged, snub-nosed Jewish face with blue Slavic eyes toward me, and continued, "So, where are we heading, compatriot?"

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Mikhail, Mikhail Zaslavsky," he introduced himself.

"Mikhail, I've just arrived in Berlin. And I need to buy a razor and some replacement blades."

"Oh! All the stores are closed today. But we could try to find something suitable at one of the flea markets. At least at Arkonaplatz, which is not far from Mauerpark."

“Then what are we waiting for? Let's go!”

I looked closely out the taxi window at the passing boulevards and pristine buildings, scrutinizing the sidewalks and the pavement.

“Damn it! Not a single pothole, not even the tiniest puddle!” I muttered, mock-disappointed.

"What do you think about this?" Mikhail asked, nodding toward a small group of people dancing under the linden trees, as if in a collective frenzy.

"It looks like they're all sick with fever," I said.

As we drove along the Unter den Linden boulevard, I counted about a dozen music bands, beating out African rhythms from tambourines, drums, and banjos. Saxophonists led the way, wringing piercing sounds from their glittering gold instruments, as if conversing in raised tones with God. One of them, with a philosopher's face and a graying beard reminiscent of Sanders Farrow, caught my attention because he managed to hit the highest notes, even altissimo. I asked Mikhail to stop for a couple of minutes to listen to this virtuoso. Slender, dark-skinned beauties in short skirts made from linden and chestnut branches swirled around the musicians. I was simply captivated by their rounded buttocks, vibrating to the music, and their thin braids curling around their heads like multicolored bush vipers. Next to them, imitating their movements, danced plump and skinny German women. Shaking their entire bodies, they seemed determined to prove to the world that multiculturalism was more than just a fashionable word for them, the descendants of Gretchen Goethe.

 Other white Europeans in the crowd of onlookers watched on all with guilty smiles, as if apologizing for having come to someone else's celebration without an invitation. The fiesta was in full swing, and it seemed no one and nothing could interrupt it.

"Africans are a cheerful people," I remarked. "They're the ones we should look up to as models of resilience!"

Well, Lenya, you don't know that. They're everywhere! There's nowhere left to house them," Mikhail said discontentedly. "Except maybe on the grounds of the former Dachau and Buchenwald concentration camps..."

"What a sad irony from the Almighty!" Brain reacted energetically to this news. "Where Jews were once burned, their closest enemies, the Muslims, will now live..."

"There they are, Vera Mason's clients!" I thought, when Mikhail pushed the jalopy onto the straight road.

"You're sorely mistaken, Lenya!" "These Africans, having tasted the civilized life in Berlin, are unlikely to agree to return to their Mali or Sudan..."

Mikhail drove me to the flea market and waited while I bought a Gillette razor and a pack of spare blades from the first mulatto vendor I came across.

“We have a tradition back home — celebrating a new purchase with a drink, otherwise the blades will quickly go dull,” I said, sliding back into the passenger seat.

“Unfortunately, I’m tied up this evening. I’m meeting an old friend of mine, Vaclav the Czech,” Mikhail replied.

“Why not invite him along? It’ll be great! We’ll have a proper 'Party of Three,' just like in the good old Soviet days.”

“Well, if you insist, we can give it a shot.”

We headed for dinner to the Hummus & Friends restaurant at 27 Oranienburger Strasse in the Mitte district. It featured a telltale inscription right above the entrance: "MAKE HUMMUS, NOT WALLS..."

“This place has two major perks: first, it’s practically next door to your house, and second, their hummus makes for a fantastic appetizer!” noted Mikhail Zaslavsky, who was already a longtime Berliner.

“I honestly didn't expect Berlin to be so overrun with refugees,” I remarked after we had drained our first glasses. “Are the locals really that ready to surrender to the mercy of the newcomers?”

“It’s not just Berlin—it’s the whole of Germany,” Mikhail countered.

“Perhaps it’s just a belated belch from their colonial past?” I suggested.

“Post-colonial syndrome is more relevant to Belgium or other European nations than to Germany,” Mikhail’s friend, Vaclav, interjected thoughtfully. “The only things left of the German colonies are a couple of breweries in the Chinese provinces of Tianjin and Qingdao—which, by the way, are still running to this day. No, the real problem is that the government is dancing to the tune of the local industrialists.”

“But why?” I asked.

“The post-war generation of Germans is retiring en masse, vacating around seven hundred thousand jobs every year,” Vaclav enlightened me. “And there simply aren't enough domestic labor reserves to fill them. The local oligarchy's motto these days is something along the lines of, 'Strong hands are needed to save Germany's economy!' So, it doesn't matter to them where those hands come from.”

“The nature of oligarchs is exactly the same, whether in Germany or Ukraine,” I remarked.

“What are you saying!” Mikhail quipped. “Ukrainian oligarchs only know how to dip their hands into the state budget—as your Yulia Tymoshenko so aptly put it.”

“And yours are downright lambs, I suppose?” I said, feeling oddly offended on behalf of our homegrown oligarchs.

“Lambs or not, there are around twenty thousand of them here,” Mikhail noted.

“A decent herd!” I agreed.

“This 'herd,' as you put it, possesses a combined wealth of two and a half trillion US dollars. Germany owes its prosperity to them!” Vaclav added.

“Now I can perfectly imagine who those migrants will be working for,” I said, offering a peaceful smile to put an end to this fruitless argument.

The waiter arrived, bringing hummus prepared with garlic and lemon, fresh vegetables, and piping-hot flatbread.

“However, it turns out that supply exceeds demand,” I said as we raised our glasses and drank to the prosperity of the German economy.

“What are you talking about?” Mikhail asked, as if he had already lost the thread of our conversation.

“About the millions of migrants,” I reminded him.

 “Today, I was up at the TV tower,” I began.

 “And from there, I saw—or perhaps I merely imagined it—countless mosques that have touched down across the territory of your capital...”

“Yes, there are at least a hundred of them in Berlin alone!” Mikhail replied. “And they are turning into the center of the Muslim world.”

“However, the German government itself is inviting these migrants, fulfilling the will of local oligarchs,” Vaclav noted.

“I wonder who they are, these German oligarchs?” I asked.

“First of all, we are talking about Karl and Theo Albrecht, Susanne Klatten, Reinhard Mohn, the Flick and Otto families, Ingeburg Herz, Reinhold Würth, the Porsche clan, Günther and Daniela Herz, Stefan Quandt, Kurt Engelhorn, the Rudolf August Oetker family, Otto Beisheim, Johanna Quandt, the Haub and Braun families, Hasso Plattner, the August von Finck family, the von Oppenheims…” Mikhail listed them off. “And they are the ones deciding Germany's fate?”

“And that is by no means a complete list,” Mikhail continued. “If my memory serves me right, there are about twenty thousand multimillionaires in the country. Their combined wealth is worth well over two and a half trillion US dollars.”

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

“The government's stance on this issue was perfectly voiced by Heiko Maas, Germany's Minister of Justice and Consumer Protection,” Vaclav interjected.

“He once stated in the press: ‘We must not allow anyone to use these attacks to indiscriminately discredit all refugees...’”

“The minister is leaving something out,” I noted. “What is he trying to hide behind such diplomatic platitudes?”

“The bottom line is that the post-war generation is retiring en masse,” Vaclav explained.

“At least seven hundred thousand new jobs open up in Germany every year, and domestic resources simply aren't enough to fill them.”

“So, only migrants can save the German economy. Is that the long and short of it?”

“Exactly. That's why the government is ready to accept refugees from all the world's hotspots,” Mikhail, who had been silent for a moment, chimed in.

“At the same time, preference is given to young Muslims from Africa and the Middle East. Germany needs able-bodied workers—a vast army of strong hands...”

“I don't understand why preference is given specifically to Muslims,” I said, beginning to seriously doubt the direction in which the continent was drifting. “Is this unique to Germany, or is it happening across the EU as a whole?”

“You're new here, Lenya, and there is a lot you don't know yet,” Mikhail said, his voice tightening with emotion.

“A few years ago, a new term emerged in the European political lexicon: 'Eurabia.' Dozens of books and articles have been written to prove how real this threat is—the threat of Europe turning into a 'Eurabia' where new rulers will forcefully impose Islam. They claim that rebellious Christians and Jews will be physically exterminated, while those who submit will be turned into second-class citizens, known as 'dhimmis' in Islamic terminology.”

“I read about this somewhere,” I admitted, “but I didn’t believe that things had gone that far…”

Mikhail froze with his glass halfway to his lips, while Vaclav let out a soft, ironical chuckle, shaking his head. The alcohol had loosened their tongues, but my sudden revelation seemed to bring a heavy, mystical silence to our table.  Suddenly, Vaclav slammed his hand onto the table, his face flushing with anger.

“Lenya, you sound like a textbook xenophobe!” he snapped.

“You just don't get it. This radical, paranoid rhetoric belongs strictly to the fringes—to the far-right extremists who only crawl out during government crises or Bundestag elections to scare voters. The 'open door' policy is by no means a failure. It is already bearing tangible fruit. It’s not for nothing that Germany remains Europe's undisputed economic powerhouse!” Vaclav Novotny, a fierce and uncompromising supporter of Angela Merkel's Christian Democratic Union, was practically vibrating with righteous indignation.

“How blissfully naive, Lenya!” my critical Brain whispered directly into my ear, dripping with cold, cynical amusement. “Just as the Germans willfully blinded themselves to the catastrophe of Nazism in the past, today they blindly ignore the double noose tightening around their necks: 'cheap' Russian gas and the vaunted fairy tale of multiculturalism. Renouncing national identity for the sake of gross domestic product is a direct, one-way path to turning a free European individual into a second-class 'dhimmi'...”

Hearing Brain's icy verdict, I suddenly thought with tender gratitude of the Congress of African Women and of dear Vera Mason. She, too, "professed" an "open door" policy, but her doors were open in the opposite, far more honest direction. Through them, the reversed streams of migrants, radical ideas, and reparations were meant to flow—straight from Europe back to those countries from which they had been drained for centuries by the force and cunning of capitalists of all stripes.

By this time, we had all drunk and eaten well, and there was little point in dragging the conversation out any further.  But then Bane decided to express his general message: “A global shift indeed!" He said slowly. "They call it historical necessity.  But look closer, Lenya. The mosques, the towers, the corporate empires—they are all just shifting coordinates on that very same map your grandfather was talking about. You are looking for boundaries where there are none left.”

I took a slow sip of my water, the taste of garlic and lemon still lingering on my tongue. Looking at my companions, who were already drifting back into their lighthearted, alcohol-induced banter, I realized that some truths are indeed meant to be seen only from a height of two hundred meters —or through the eyes of a ghost.

Finally, we finished dinner and went outside.

"Lenya, how are you feeling after the hummus?" Mikhail asked, taking my arm helpfully. "Come on, I will walk you home."

"I'm fine!" ─ I said, freeing my hand. ─ I think I'll go myself...

At this historic moment for the three of us, the silence of Oranienburg Strasse was shattered by the vulgar, guttural roar of an eight-cylinder engine. A huge, defiantly luxurious black convertible Cadillac rolled straight out onto the pedestrian area. At the wheel of this dreadnought, reclining leisurely on the leather seat, sat a gorgeous black woman in a turban the color of a ripe mango.

"Hey, Leonid!" she said in a gentle, velvety voice, pushing her glasses down to the tip of her nose. "Stop making eyes at those Prussian prostitutes! Jump in the car, let's go home..."

"This is Vera-Virginia, Vera—the very same one whose health we just drank to," I said, my voice hoarse from the excess of emotion.

"This same, Leonid?" Is she the founder of the Congress of African Women, the millionaire, and also your personal kidnapper?" Vatsval asked me with his cigarette between his lips.

"Yes, this is the one, " I replied.

I shook my friends' hands, stepped into the dark bowels of the Cadillac and sat down next to Vera.

"Well, I was returning home from a symposium on the decolonization of consciousness," she said, pulling up to a traffic light. And I see you. You're standing outside the restaurant, making eyes at the prostitutes.

"What are prostitutes, Vera! We just finished dinner, left the restaurant, and were already saying goodbye, getting ready to go home. And then you pulled up," I said, feeling guiltless myself.

Glancing at Vera's face again, I thought to myself, "She's a witch, but how beautiful..."

As Cadillac rounded the next bend, I felt a tingling sensation in the back of my neck. I looked around – in the backseat sat the ghost of my grandfather Stepan.

"Grandson," he whispered quietly. “Our grandmother Olga was also a witch, but so beautiful – a sight for sore eyes.' Do you remember her?"

"I remember, Grandpa, and I remember the black puppy 'Sharik' she gave me…"

"And what a street are we driving down?"

"Hochstrasse, Grandpa."

"Hochstrasse, you said? In '45, it was all in ruins here, and then in one of the basements I found my Gretchen..."

The Cadillac stopped. Vera got out.

Leo, we've arrived, get out of the car," she said.

 "Goodbye, Grandpa, you can't argue with a witch; when will see Gretchen, say hi for me" I said and stepped onto the hot Berlin asphalt." I said and stepped onto the hot Berlin asphalt.

Up in our rented apartment, Vera and I discussed the results of the symposium on the decolonization of consciousness, the situation of refugees and migrants from Africa in Germany, and went to bed.