I Sleep in Hitler's Room (14 page)

“I think Jesus was Jewish but I’m not sure.”

What do you mean?

“I think that he grew up in a Jewish area, but I am not sure who he was.”

Does it say anywhere in the New Testament that Jesus was Jewish?

“I am not sure. I didn’t read it so thoroughly.”

What Renate knows, she shares with me: There are 4,800 seats in the theater, and there are 104 performances in a season. Up to 800 people are on stage, and 2,000 work on the show. There are 5,000 people living in this town.

And she knows this:

“Everything in America has something to do with Jews.”

The Passion play is playing until October 3. What will she do come October 4?

“Big haircut! On the third of October we will all cry. The whole day. Everything you do on that day, you do it for the last time. In the last Hallelujah all the gates of the theater open and the whole community comes to see the last Hallelujah. And you think: What’s going to be in the next ten years? Maybe my parents won’t be alive for the next Passion play. You see the old people and you think: They won’t be next time around. And the young people, when you look at them, you say to yourself: What will be with them next time? Married? With children? Everybody is very emotional.”

I need to go to a place where nobody will mention the word
Jew
to me. Is there a place like that in Germany? Seek and you shall find, the saying goes. And I did. Schloss (castle) Hohenschwangau, the summer residence of King Maximilian, father to King Ludwig.

To stand here is to ride on a journey into Germany’s past.

It is here that you get a clue, a hint, of how this society was formed.

I understand Rabbi Helmut Schmidt a little bit better now.

The arrangement of paintings here, the colors of the walls, the furnishings, everything--they testify not only to immaculate taste and riches but also to inherent order. There is a secret door in here as well for “hanky-panky” business, our guide says as we walk into one of the rooms, wearing a big smile on his face. This German man loves his historically corrupt leaders.

We walk upstairs. Teutonic images in bronze and naked babes painted on the walls tell part of the story of how this country originated. Wagner used to come here, played on a piano standing right here. And that’s culture for you.

When the tour is done, I go to Schloss Neuschwanstein, the castle of King Ludwig II—at the same beautiful place known as Schwangau.

What heritage the German people have! A dream world.

This palace was built in homage to Richard Wagner and his works, says the guide, a smiling Bavarian lady. The king was very devout, she tells the tourists, and she points to his private chapel, a nice little room with young blond ladies on painted glass and an old man. And there is also a reading corner, with a place for books, but no iPad. He also had a phone, our guide tells us, and he used it to communicate with the other castle, Hohenschwangau.

All in all, this palace is a beauty no words can accurately describe. This is what the people of Germany have inherited from their rulers. It now belongs to the people. The Jews’ inheritance is the Wailing Wall. The Germans’, Schloss Neuschwanstein.

But I’m not going to talk about it. I’m very happy no one mentioned the word
Jew
to me today.

I catch up with the guide at the end of the tour.

That phone you showed us, is it the first in history? I ask her, impressed by Ludwig and German technology.

“Yes, first. It was invented by Siemens. It’s the first in the world.”

A young man, who seems to be the janitor of the place, listens in and interrupts the lady: “No. The first to invent the phone was Bell, not us.”

I write down what he says.

The lady looks at him and at me. Why are you writing this? she asks.

I am a journalist.

“You are not supposed to write anything,” she says, turning at once from a smiling lady into a classic bitch. “This property belongs to the government, and everything I said, all the words I used, are government property and can not be used. I would like to see your press card!”

I show it to her.

“Did you come here as press? Did you tell the authorities—”

Yes, I did.

She shuts up. Since the “authorities” know, I can obviously use her Government Words.

This woman is more deranged than Mr. King Ludwig.

It’s time to leave this German Government Property.

Not as easy a task as you might think.

Many steps take you down, and you must pass through two souvenir stores. No way out of it. This is something new to me, never seen this in the States. There are souvenir stores in America, but you are not forced to pass through them.

Well, this is not America. Here it’s a different system. It’s not Capitalism, it’s Forced Capitalism. I get it.

I hold in my hands a timetable that I got in Munich from the DB, detailing the bus and train schedules from the castle back to Munich.

Let’s try the buses; see if they arrive on time.

I’m happy to report to you my findings: Each of the buses arrives at their destinations on the minute. Exactly.

What a country!

I’m back in Munich. What should I do? Well, for one thing, I have to take care of my Goldman Sachs assets and my media holdings. Best thing, perhaps, would be to connect with other board members in town. Hence I go to the Jewish community, my business partners. The chief rabbi of the Jewish community in Munich, Rabbi Steven Langnas, welcomes me at the synagogue.

The rabbi is an “import” from the United States, but his family roots are Germanic. How do I know? He tells me. He also tells me, in case I ever wondered, that the congregation, an Orthodox community, has nine thousand members. I am delighted to know. Not only that, but soon I am going to be personally acquainted with this huge Jewish community. I can’t wait. It’s Friday night and time for the traditional Friday night services, to celebrate the coming Sabbath, in this beautiful Jewish center of Munich, a center that must have cost millions upon millions to build, and most likely was paid for by the German government. I’m not religious, but I’m excited to be here anyway. I start counting the nine thousand. Well, not really. The number of worshippers, including those who are tourists and guests from Israel and the United States: thirty-five. In other words, the place would be practically empty if not for the foreigners. For comparison: An average Orthodox temple in New York is full a on Friday night. What happened to the nine thousand? I’m not sure. When services are done, I go to the rabbi’s home for dinner and some questioning.

The chief rabbi of Munich lives in an apartment building, on one of the top floors. On the Sabbath, Orthodox Jews are not permitted to use elevators or to turn on the lights, and unlike the likeable rabbi from Berlin, this Jew has no German policeman around here to do any “Goy” work. So we walk up the stairs in the dark. Not very funny, let me tell you. But we make it. The Jews crossed a sea in Egypt, they should be able to mount stairs in Germany.

Once we’ve made it, the rabbi, Steven, greets the angels at his home, as custom dictates. “Welcome, angels,” he sings, to what sounds to me like a Germanic tune. “Bless me, Angels,” he sings. Yes, another American clergyman with angels on his head. As if I didn’t have enough with the “American prophet” in the north.

Do you believe in angels? I ask Steven.

“Yes, of course.”

What do the angels do?

“They walk along with people, protecting them from disaster.”

So how come there are car accidents?

“Because God sometimes overrules the angels.”

If that’s the case, can’t God protect the people without angels?

“Of course he can!”

Then why do we need angels to start with?

“Do you want some Schnapps?”

Yes.

He pours and we drink, to our health and to the health of the nine-thousand-strong Jewish community. Not that this goes without comment. The rabbi’s wife is not amused by any of this, and neither is she impressed. “Nine thousand?” she asks rhetorically. “You should ask how many of them are Jewish!”

And she doesn’t stop there. She goes on:

“There’s no future to Jewish life in Germany. This is a cursed country and no blessing will come out of it.” Whatever her husband is doing here, she tells me brazenly, is “a huge waste of time.” Interestingly, none of what she says is lost on her husband. “Did you get enough of what you need for your book?” he asks, so that his wife can hear his dissatisfaction with her comments . . .

I leave the Rabbi and his wife to decide on their own the future of Jewry in Germany.

I turn on the light in the stairways and then it suddenly dawns on me: I’m so empty-headed sometimes! I totally forgot to discuss with the rabbi our mutual holdings at Goldman Sachs!

On the morning after, I meet Dr. Dieter and his wife, Juliane, in an outside café next to the English Garden, the “Central Park” of Munich. Juliane talks about her teenage son, who “plays the music loud and says to me, his mom, ‘If you don’t like it, give me a house for myself.’ ” He is politically inclined and “he very strongly opposes Israel and identifies with the Palestinians.”

This couple, a physician and his wife, feel shame when anyone raises the German flag. “I am a European,” Dr. Dieter announces, “and proud of it. Europeans did much shit, too. But I am proud to be European still.”

Neither faults their son. It’s not his problem, they believe, but the problem of this country. The young people of Germany care about one thing only: The Bottle. Puberty strikes, and the youngsters get out of the house and buy drinks. The other day Dieter asked his son, How much do you drink outside? “Five beers,” his son told him. Five?! “Yes.”

Drinking among youth is not the only problem in Germany. “Germany is not running well,” the doctor says. “Take the DB. Never on time.”

I can’t let this pass without comment. I say to him: You, Germans, are just a bunch of complainers who can’t see how good they have it!

He’s quiet. Takes a few moments to digest my accusation. Then, eyes looking down, he says: “Yes. We are people who are not satisfied with what we have achieved, critical about ourselves, and pessimistic. But Swiss trains are more punctual. “

Oh, you’re so German!

“Probably . . .”

To the English Garden I go, to see people drinking beer from barrels. Something is wrong with this picture. People sit for hours, drinking more than camels. Others pass by, carrying bottles or mugs. It’s not only the Bavarians, by the way. Every time I meet any German, a beer joins the conversation. Why is it? Is it genetic? Do the people of Germany suffer from a natural disorder, a catastrophic liquid deficiency, such that they just must keep on irrigating themselves? I should have discussed this with Dr. Dieter! Why can’t I think in the moment?

Today is a beautiful day. It’s sunny, it’s warm, it’s June. After a few rainy days, people seem to warmly embrace the Return of Summer. Men in shorts and women in bikinis rush to grab the sun and get a little darker. Imagine if it were possible for darker-skinned people to leisurely lie down, just like these people here, but get whiter instead of darker. How many of them would take the opportunity?

It’s obvious that I have nothing to do.

Until Z. shows up. He is from the Jewish community in Munich and he wants to get something off his chest. I raise no objection. He talks:

“The community buildings (the Jewish Center) cost about 70 million euros, most of the money comes from the German government. We told the government that we had nine thousand members, but that’s not true. We don’t, it’s just on paper. We have at most five yundred people who are involved, not all of them Jews. But we wouldn’t get 70 million if we told the truth. In the school system we don’t have enough students either, not enough Jews. So we put in non-Jews and make them community members until the age of eighteen. When they’re 18 we kick them out, because they’re not Jews. That’s what we do to get money. This is the way it goes. This is an Orthodox community.

“Do you know how many families we actually have? Somewhere between ten and fifteen. I don’t have the exact number. Seventy million euros to build, plus you have to add all the money that it takes to maintain everything, for fifteen families at the most. That’s how the Jewish community operates. All about money and then calling Germans anti-Semites. If you see anti-Semitism in Germany now, you know why. Wouldn’t you be an anti-Semite if you saw people doing this? It’s only about money. The Jewish communities in Germany are only about money, not just the community in Munich. Go to our synagogue and see how many people come, between thirty and forty, which includes ten security guards. Waste of money. Who needs this? It’s a shame.”

Z. gets up and leaves. He leaves me to ponder on my own.

Sad.

But
Biergartens
are not places to be sad. These are places to have fun, and I’m not one to break with tradition. Here is a group of black singers and musicians playing African music of some sort, and they do it really well. They hardly miss a beat, almost perfect. Some white folks gather around them and enthusiastically dance to the tunes. But their dance lacks grace, talent, and its rhythm—if one can use such a word here—is totally misplaced. Here’s a white lady, a remarkably bad dancer, who keeps on laughing while she dances. I’ve seen this phenomenon before, but I still can’t understood why bad dancers laugh as they jump up and down in no particular order. I look at this scene and a thought comes to my mind: So good to just watch the little things in life without occupying myself with Jews all the time! And so, I make up my mind: No more dealing with Jews. I got addicted and didn’t notice. Well, I’m putting an end to this bad habit. Not one single word again about Jews. Jews have nothing to do with Germany; Germany is only beer and horrible white dancers. From now on I’ll occupy my time looking at white ladies who jump on floors to no rhythm and at the men who drink beer next to them.