Пятнадцать 15 Русский

 

Наша активность быстро превратила Конгресс африканских женщин из амбициозного стартапа в опасного игрока. Международные фонды первыми забили тревогу; они увидели в наших программах добровольной репатриации конкурентов, присваивающих гранты.

Затем священнослужители взялись за “оружие”. Влиятельный пастор пятидесятнической церкви, преподобный Кеси, увидев, как сокращается число его паствы, объявил полномасштабную войну Вере. Он публично обвинил ее в тайном распространении культа вуду, который, как утверждалось, был официально запрещен в ЕС.

  Но Вера отказалась идти на компромисс. Вместо этого она атаковала главных геополитических хищников, резко критикуя Китай за истощение ресурсов континента и открыто осуждая Россию за разжигание военных конфликтов в Сахеле и Мали. Мы нажили себе слишком много врагов.

Однажды мы решили сделать небольшой перерыв и отправились к знаменитой голландской плотине Афслёйтдейк. Это была прекрасная суббота. С Северного моря дул устойчивый, пропитанный йодом ветер, а кучевые облака плыли, словно каравеллы, по бледно-голубому небу. Пейзаж словно просился на холст, и я снова пожалел, что не стал художником.

Выехав из Амстердама через    туннель Эй, мы оказались в туристических, почти сказочных Нидерландах.

Дорожное покрытие на трассе А7 было безупречным. По обеим сторонам дороги проносились знакомые ветряные мельницы, аккуратные, похожие на игрушечные домики местных фермеров и зеленые луга, усеянные пасущимися коровами.

По пути мы заехали в Заанстад, чтобы купить настоящий голландский сыр — знаменитая сыроварня Катарины Хоеве находится прямо рядом с городом, где туристы могут бесплатно понаблюдать за процессом сыроварения.

А потом мы продолжили путь. Сегодня за рулём была Вера. Она управляла нашим «Кадиллаком» с лёгкостью и грацией знаменитой французской автогонщицы Мишель Мутон, обгоняя на поворотах тяжёлые грузовики Volvo, Scania, MAN и Mercedes-Benz.

Я вспомнил, как какой-то несчастный директор гонки — вероятно, женоненавистник и дурак — увидел Мишель в её новеньком комбинезоне Antonelli и заявил: «Единственный шлем, который должна носить женщина, — это салонный фен».

«Ну да, конечно, ты лжешь, Леня, как всегда, просто для того, чтобы показаться умным», — тут же саркастически заметил мой Мозг. У него не было рта, но он напрямую синхронизировался с генератором реальности ИИ через свои квантовые каналы. «Тото Рош выпалил эту чушь еще в 1958 году, обращаясь к Марии Терезе де Филиппис. А «Антонелли» — это на самом деле шлем и экипировка молодого итальянца из современной Формулы-1, который ты нашел в интернете!

Однако давай, продолжай выдумывать — Вере нравится беспорядок в твоей голове…»

“Но какая, к черту, разница? Главное, что Мишель в итоге выиграла четыре этапа чемпионата мира по ралли с командой Audi, заняла второе место в сезоне 1982 года, а в 1985 году одержала победу в изнурительной гонке Pikes Peak Hill Climb, помимо множества других побед...” — сказал я, отвечая Брейну.

Когда любишь женщину, видишь в ней только лучшее и всем сердцем принимаешь ее всю без остатка — ее лицо, тело, аромат — как абсолютное совершенство.

Зная, что я терпеть не могу, когда женщина пахнет как ужасный парфюмерный ад, Вера использовала исключительно натуральные очищающие средства: клубничное или мятное мыло, а также гели и кремы, изготовленные исключительно из трав и маточного молочка. Они не источают отвратительных запахов, характерных для химических лабораторий на тех же  заводах, где синтезируют изопрен и зарин.

Более того, все, что Вере нужно было сделать утром, — это умыться чистой холодной водой, и ее лицо мгновенно становилось таким же молодым, как у четырнадцатилетней нимфы.

«О, вот и тяжелая артиллерия летит», — снова беззвучно прожужжал мой мозг, посылая саркастический импульс в высшие сферы. — «Ты упомянул Набокова, смешал резиновый изопрен и боевой зарин в одной бутылке с Chanel... Леня, зарин в чистом виде на самом деле не имеет запаха; любой военный тебе это подтвердит! А что касается четырнадцатилетней нимфетки — будь осторожен на поворотах, а то Вера может просто дернуть руль «Кадиллака», и твоя нимфетка превратится в твою собственную медсестру в травматологическом отделении!»

Тем временем Вера в очередной раз продемонстрировала свое умение складывать и раскладывать пространство, словно домашний ковер. Вместо того чтобы потратить немногим больше часа, мы всего за тридцать минут добрались до знаменитой голландской плотины Афслёйтдейк.

Машина плавно остановилась. Мы ступили на гребень плотины и застыли, завороженные бескрайним пресноводным озером Эйсселмер.

Увидев это величественное сооружение, отвоеванное у бурного, соленого залива, Вера на мгновение потеряла дар речи. Она вспомнила недавний ужин с Лукасом ван Янсоном, капитаном и владельцем амстердамской шхуны-отеля, и их разговор о мужественных людях, которые веками боролись с океаном. Теперь, увидев масштабы этого сооружения своими глазами, она почувствовала еще большее уважение к голландцам.

«Знаешь, Вера, примерно в то же время, когда строили эту плотину, на моей бывшей родине, в Советском Союзе, велся масштабный строительный проект — Беломорско-Балтийский канал», — сказал я, всматриваясь в голубоватую даль. «И этот маршрут длиной в двести двадцать семь километров был построен всего за один год и девять месяцев, если верить официальным данным…»

«Впечатляет», — сказала Вера, удивленная темпами строительства.

— «Да, но справедливости ради, из всей длины канала только сорок восемь километров были созданы искусственно. Остальное состояло из естественных озер и рек».

«Но всё же это монументальный проект, и сроки кажутся невероятно сжатыми».

«Особенно если учесть, что его строили около ста тысяч советских заключенных», — добавил я. — «И практически без использования тяжелой техники».

«Почему именно заключенные?» — нахмурилась Вера.

«Потому что политические заключенные были самой дешевой рабочей силой в СССР», — ответил я.

«Леня, ты говоришь о настоящей дикости!» — возмущенно воскликнула она.

«Это и есть дикость, Вера. Особенно если учесть, что менее чем за два года во время строительства Беломорско-Балтийского канала погибли или умерли от болезней двенадцать тысяч человек», — резко ответил я, приводя официальную статистику. — Вот как дёшево большевики заплатили за свой первый «строительный проект века».

«Ладно, мне надоели эти разговоры», — сказала Вера, и ее раздражение явно нарастало. «В конце концов, мы приехали сюда отдохнуть, а не обсуждать политику. И знаешь, я хочу покататься на лодке по этому озеру».

Остаток пути мы проделали в молчании, раздраженные друг другом. Прибыв в курортный город Маккум, популярное место среди виндсерферов, мы без проблем арендовали небольшой моторный парусник. Однако, прежде чем мы успели отплыть от причала, воздух сотрясся от резкого, неестественного хлопка. Наш подвесной мотор Yamaha мгновенно превратился в груду дымящегося металлолома; с громким треском лопнул такелаж; заклинило рулевое управление. А упавшая мачта, разорвав паруса в клочья, чуть не раздавив нас. Инстинктивно я успел схватить Веру и прикрыть её своим телом. Бывший парусник остановился.

К счастью, мы отделались лишь синяками и сильным испугом, но ледяной ветер, дующий с Северного моря, дал нам пугающе ясное понимание: это не совпадение. Это было предупреждение. Однако мы не стали задерживаться на тонущей лодке в ожидании полиции. Вера лишь крепко зажмурила глаза, снова сжимая пространство, и в тот же миг мы оказались внутри сухого салона нашего «Кадиллака».

«Что ж, по крайней мере в Амстердаме мы посеяли семя сомнения в умах мигрантов и беженцев из Африки», — сказал я, приходя в себя. — «Пусть подумают, пусть сами решат, где сыр вкуснее: на родине или в голландской мышеловке».

Вера молча повернула руль, мягко улыбаясь дороге, которую наш «Кадиллак» пожирал километр за километром.

На улице словно таяло лето. На заправках, где мы останавливались, туристы протискивались мимо нас, обильно напомаженные дезодорантом. И воздух вокруг них превращался в тот самый парфюмерный ад, который способен задушить целый полк.

Я жадно вдохнул воздух и быстро вернулся в машину, уткнувшись носом в плечо Веры — от неё пахло чистой травой, утренней прохладой и мятой. Это было настоящее спасение.

«Ну что ж, Леня, — Вера поправила зеркало заднего вида, и в ее усталом, но решительном взгляде мелькнуло отражение брюссельского хайвея. — “В Брюссель?”

“В Брюссель — так в Брюссель!” — согласился я, понимая, что тихая гавань нам не светит.

Брюссель — это до предела наэлектризованное пространство. Конголезский узел и кроваво-каучуковый король Леопольд II –

 самая уязвимая и болезненная точка Бельгии, думал я, наблюдая, как сосредоточено Вера ведет наш “Кадиллак”.

После вольного, сонного Амстердама с его тайными садами мы попадаем в холодные, серые жернова европейской бюрократии, где колониальное прошлое буквально замуровано в гранит и бронзу. Бельгийская столица лишь притворялась сонной и благополучной. Под глянцевым фасадом евробюрократии бурлили опасные подводные течения. Город превратился в плавильный котел, где сошлись самые полярные силы: грантоеды и паразиты от мультикультуризма, обещающие спасти мир сразу после транша; фанатики новой цифровой веры, уповающие на искусственный интеллект как на панацею от всех бед; и, конечно, призраки прошлого. Здесь ярые монархисты−обожатеи короля Леопольда II — «строителя», превратившего некогда Конго в кровавую личную фабрику рабов, — сталкивались лицом к лицу с конголезскими реваншистами и сторонниками покойного маршала Мобуту, доевшего свою страну до костей. Сверху этот коктейль щедро приправляли левые политики, усердно взращивающие в местных обывателях коллективное чувство вины Запада перед третьим миром.

В воздухе пахло грозой. Достаточно было одной искры — например, попытки снести конный памятник палачу Конго Леопольду II, — чтобы Брюссель захлебнулся в уличной войне между властью и маргиналами. И этот взрыв угрожал не просто имиджу европейской столицы. Он бил прямой наводкой по главному делу жизни Веры Мэйсон. Под угрозой срыва оказался многолетний, титанический проект Конгресса африканских женщин по контролируемому возвращению беженцев из Европы на родину — проект, который должен был стать фундаментом для возрождения истощенного Африканского континента. И такого мы не могли допустить.

«Вперёд, Верочка! Там нас ждут великие дела!» — я мысленно приказал Вере.

Наш “Кадиллак” ворвался в бельгийскую столицу черной молнией и как раз вовремя. Местные экоактивисты и антиколониальные протестующие уже окружили памятник королю Леопольду II, готовясь свергнуть его с постамента под насмешки толпы.

Выехав на Тронную площадь Брюсселя, Вера подрулила прямо к постаменту памятника кровавому королю. Она вышла из машины и ступила на порыжевший от летней жары, но все еще пружинистый, газон. Там уже стояли ораторы, выступая по очереди перед собравшейся толпой. И каждый из ник получал свою долю признания у людей, решивших разломать, стереть с лица землю монумент, ставший причиной позора не только одной страны, но и все западной цивилизации.

Люди от нетерпения переминались с ноги на ногу, сжимая в руках, кто кирку, кто лом, кто просто сжав руки в кулаки. Они ждали сигнала, чтобы выплеснуть свою энергию на разрушение детища скульптора Томаса Викотта.

Последним выступал оратор из числа левых политиков маоистского толка, обрушив весь свой пыл революционера на бронзовую голову короля Леопольда, он уже поднял руку, чтобы дать старт праведному вандализму. И в этот момент вперед стремительно, как героиня с картины “Свобода, ведущая народ” Эжена Делакруа, вышла Вера Муйсон, — ее глаза источали мягкую силу, правая рука с открытой ладонью поднята вверх, левая бретелька платья сползла на плечо, обнажая округлую темно фиолетовую как баклажан грудь.

Остановив классическим жестом толпу от безрассудных действий, она спокойным, но твердым, требующим внимания голосом сказала: “Безумцы, кто затуманил ваши мозги! Кто направил ваши действия на эту бесполезную акцию — разрушить никчемный монумент никчемному правителю!

Отмщения требует не только Конго, отмщения требует вся Африка, от мыса Бен-Секка на севере, до мыса Игольный, на юге континента. И это отмщенье должно выражаться не в разрушении металлических истуканов или символов, олицетворяющих чью-то непомерную гордыню, а в требованиях выплаты репараций и контрибуций за все годы колониального ига.

Казалось, толпа осознала никчемность своего еще несовершенного акта вандализма, некоторые из ее состава, молодые и не очень мужчины, даже побросали на землю орудия, приготовленные для демонтажа памятника, и начали расходиться.

Вдруг группа обкуренных наркотическим зельем молодчиков в порванных джинсах, в кожаных жилетах с металлическим цепями, зажатыми в руках, отделилась от монолитной толпы и пошла на Веру.

Один из вожаков, размахивая над головой цепью, крикнул, “Сионистская шлюха, не мешай свершиться возмездию!”

«Внимание, Ленья! Квантовые радары фиксируют акт вандализма!» — подал мне пронзительный сигнал Брейн. —  «Леопольд, безусловно, был деспотом Конго, но, если они снесут этот исторический памятник, Бельгия потеряет часть своего очарования. Спасите памятник, вы, маргиналы!»

Я не терял ни секунды. Выскочив из «Кадиллака» с тяжелым разводным ключом наготове, я разразился тирадой, смешивая отборные ругательства на ломаном французском и фризском языках, которая мгновенно ошеломила толпу.

Пока они пытались понять, кто этот безумец и почему он защищает их покойного короля на непонятном диалекте, Вера села за руль, резко развернула «Кадиллак», отчего шины завизжали с оглушительным визгом. Эффект неожиданности сработал идеально: активисты в ужасе разбежались, убежденные, что началась российская интервенция Бельгии. Леопольд остался стоять на своем пьедестале, глядя на нас сверху вниз с легким удивлением.

Оставив удивленного Леопольда позади, наш «Кадиллак» выехал на площадь Рояль, где над площадью возвышался конный монумент Годфриду Буйонскому. Легендарный лидер Первого крестового похода застыл в бронзе, его знамя было высоко поднято, словно он все еще призывал западное христианство к походу на Иерусалим.

«Посмотри на него, Леня», — сказала Вера, замедляя ход у мощеной площади. — «Защитник Гроба Господня»! Интересно, что бы он сказал, если бы его бронзовые уши могли слышать современные улицы Брюсселя.

«Через историческое зеркало заднего вида моего разума — то самое, затуманенное, искаженное стекло, в котором я когда-то увидел своих родителей, слушающих, как Папа Урбан II благословляет крестоносцев.

Они посеяли ветер вечного конфликта, разжигая оборонительный джихад, который горел веками. Они искренне верили, что создают мир, где меч белого человека диктует условия существования.

И вот, историческое колесо совершило полный оборот, сгладив их наследие с тихой, демографической точностью.

Потомкам тех, кого убивал Годфрид Буйонский и его товарищи по крестовому походу, не нужен был собственный крестовый поход. Им не нужны были требушеты, тяжелые доспехи или хоть капля пролитой крови. Они просто   собрали вещи, сели на бюджетные рейсы, пересекли Средиземное море и вошли прямо в сердце королевства.

Бронзовый Годфрид застыл на бронзовом коне, его бронзовые глаза безучастно смотрели на шумную, многонациональную толпу внизу. Он отдал свою жизнь на завоевание Востока, совершенно не подозревая, что девять веков спустя Восток просто войдет в его гостиную, подпишет договор аренды и оставит его ни с чем, кроме бесполезного флаг Крестоносцев в бронзовой руке.

 

  

 

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.

 

 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 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 linden-lined 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 Ferow, 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.

“… 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.”

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

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

 ГЛАВА 13 Снова отредактированная

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 dull," 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, 27 in the Mitte district. C многозначительной надписью над входом: "ГОТОВЬТЕ ХУМУС, А НЕ СТЕНКИ..."

"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 glass.

"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. "The problem is that the government is dancing to the tune of local industrialists,"   Mikhail’s friend Vaclav said thoughtfully. — "But why?"

Брейн! Пожалуста проверь мой текст...

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.

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 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.

“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.

 

 

 

Rabobank

The German labor market is set to remain tight

26 июл. 2023 г. — The Price of Success Figure 1: Demand for labor is outstripping supply Figure 2: Almost half of German companies say they're limit...

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

“However, the German government itself is inviting migrants, fulfilling the will of 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…”  — Mikhail listed.

“And they are the ones deciding Germany's fate?”

Mikhail listed.

“And they are the ones deciding Germany's fate?”

“However, this is not a complete list. 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...’”

“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 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.”

 

 

 

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.”

“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 somewehere, but I dond’t believe that it went 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.

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.

Анатолий, привет! Твое распутывание этой

“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.

“… 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.”

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

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