Chapter 13(+)

 

 

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. I had remembered my grandfather Stepan, who had fought his way to this very Berlin; my father, who had seen the end of the war in Praga; 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, there had been discussions about the need for repentance for the crimes of the Soviet regime. But over time, these sluggish debates died down. And the "shameful" past began to be served at the table of modernity, at whose head sat the ennobled I. V. Stalin in his modest generalissimo uniform, like a delicacy.

I was just walking along Grunerstrasse, 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 said.

“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 what I call 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 Oleshky.”

"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 why are we just sitting here? Let's go!"

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

“Not much of a loss to regret, if you ask me!”

“You shouldn't say that! It’s my hometown, after all,” he said, turning his snub-nosed, middle-aged Jewish face with blue Slavic eyes toward me. He continued,

“So, where are we heading, fellow countryman?”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Mikhail. Mikhail Zaslavsky,” he introduced himself.

“Mikhail, I’m just passing through Berlin. I desperately need to buy a razor and some spare blades.”

“Ah! All the shops are closed today. But we could try our luck at one of the flea markets.

But you can try looking for something suitable at a flea market. At least in Mauerpark, this is not far from here.

“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.

“Well, what do you think of this then?” Mikhail said, nodding toward a small crowd gathered under the linden trees.

They were dancing as if gripped by a collective seizure. At first glance, it looked as though everyone at this "rally" had the tremors. But then I heard the choral singing and saw the dark-skinned musicians in white silk suits, passionately beating out African rhythms on drums, blowing into saxophones, and plucking melodies from banjos. Only then did I realize that this was a musical celebration of identity, organized by refugees from Africa.

I was transfixed by the coffee-colored beauties with their thin braids, their buttocks swaying rhythmically to the music. Right next to them, imitating their moves, danced busty, fat-bottomed Frauen and slender Fräuleins. Shaking their bodies, they seemed determined to prove that multiculturalism was more than just a buzzword to them, the descendants of Goethe's Gretchen.

A sizable crowd of onlookers and tourists had gathered around, cheering the musicians and dancers with rhythmic clapping. The celebration was in full swing, and it seemed nothing could interrupt it.

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

"They're all over the place! There's nowhere left to house them," Mikhail grumbled.

"The only places left are the former concentration camps of Dachau and Buchenwald."

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

"The irony of fate," my dormant Brain declared, suddenly waking up. "Where Jews, Mikhail’s kinsmen, were once burned, today they're settling their ancestral enemies—the Muslims!"

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

"We have a tradition of celebrating a purchase with a drink; 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.

"Why not invite him along? That would be great! We'll have a 'Three of Us' party, just 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 place has two advantages: first, it's close to your home, and second, the hummus makes a fantastic 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 the newcomers?" I asked after we'd finished our first drink glasss.

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

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

"Post-colonial syndrome is more relevant to Belgium and other European countries than to Germany. 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 operating. That's not the problem," Mikhail’s friend Vaclav said thoughtfully.

"The problem is that the government is dancing to the tune 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 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 'fleece' 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.

By this time, we had all drunk and eaten well, and there was little point in dragging the conversation out any further...

“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! And they are turning into the center of the Muslim world.”

“But the German government itself is inviting them!”

“And in doing so, it is merely carrying out the will of the local oligarchs.”

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

“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…”

“And they are the ones deciding 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. 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. 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 in masse. 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 until then, 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. Is this unique to Germany, or is it happening across the EU as a whole?” I asked, beginning to seriously doubt the direction in which the continent was drifting.

“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.”

“Yes, I’ve read something about it, but I could never believe it was actually that serious,” I admitted.

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...”

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.

Vaclav slammed his hand on the table, his face flushing.

"Lenya, you sound like a textbook xenophobe! 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 isn't a failure. It is 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 (CDU), 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, "professes" an "open door" policy. But her doors are open in the opposite, far more honest direction. Through them, the reversed streams of migrants, radical ideas, and reparations must 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.

“You didn’t imagine it, Lenya,” Mikhail said quietly, setting his glass down with an unusually sober precision. “They didn't just land. They are dropping anchor. And we are the ones helping them tie the knots.”

“Oh, come off it, Misha, stop with the apocalyptic drama!” Vaclav waved his hand dismissively, though his eyes remained anxious. “It’s just architecture. The world changes, Berlin changes. It’s a global shift, nothing more.”

 Brain chimed in inside my head with his usual cold, clinical tone.

“A global shift indeed,” Brain observed, suddenly waking up from his temporary slumber. “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. nd I see you. You're standing outside the restaurant, making eyes at the prostitutes.

"What 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.