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."
