I Sleep in Hitler's Room (35 page)

Today I’m in a bad mood. My apologies. No, the problem is not the Turkish women who wear hijab here, it’s the 82 million Germans who wear the burka. Eighty-two million Germans who have nothing better to do than be obsessed with 106,000 Jews living among them. It does boggle the mind.

Yes, I know that mine is a voice crying out from the wilderness. Have you ever tried to argue with a German intellectual? However strong your arguments are, he will never admit to being wrong. On the contrary: He will catch you making a semantic mistake and write a book about you to prove how ignorant you are. He will cite a thousand and one sources, none relating to the essence of what you’ve said, to prove beyond a doubt your ignorance and your prejudice. “The reason why Tuvia writes ‘he’ instead of ‘she’ proves beyond any shadow of any doubt that he suffers from a severe case of sexism.”

The Turkish community here is a wonderful community, but they have a little disease, a little sickness: They are allergic to Jews.

While with them, I told them what I thought of them. I was not afraid that “those Turks” would hurt me. On the contrary: I was straightforward with them. I respected them more than did any of those German journalists who have worked so hard to “protect” the “Turks.” We were comfortable enough with each other to respectfully disagree. It was Rainer, the German in the Bunker group, who wouldn’t face me.

And there was Gitti, the German lady, who’s for peace and love provided the Jew’s out.

It is on this day, as I leave the gates of peace and love, that hate enters me. I hate the Germans. Hate them, their big masks, their endless discussions, their constant preaching, their implicit or explicit Jew hating, their lack of spine, their exact ways, their exact lies, their stubbornness, their hidden racism, their constant need to be loved and congratulated, and their self-proclaimed Righteousness.

Worst of all: For the first time in my life I feel like a “Jew”—and it’s a horrible feeling.

Don’t cry, my dear. This too shall pass.

The train keeps moving on, and new horizons are born. Duisburg out, Köln in.

From the Turks and the Germans, on to the Gays and the Straights.

As you get off the train at the main station, the first thing you encounter is this huge Kölner Dom (Cologne Cathedral) or, for short “Dom.” I love it. Its majestic beauty confers a sense of calm.

Goodbye “Jews,” welcome magnificent church and your treasures!

Wishful thinking. Between the Dom and me, there Arnold stands. Arnold and company are engaged in political activism. They want to make a difference. They have been here, at the Dom’s square, for many years. They have a Permanent Exhibition here, called “Kölner Klagemauer” (Cologne’s Wailing Wall). This, of course, is a reference to the holiest shrine of the Jews in Jerusalem, the Wailing Wall. What a name. Cologne’s Wailing Wall. Stick it to the Jews, why not? This wall exhibits posters, pictures, flyers, political statements, and news. These are Peace and Love Germans. The only problem is, wouldn’t you know, the Jewish state of Israel stands in their way. Israel, they make it clear, is engaged in “Massacre,” “Land Grabs,” “Ethnic Cleansing,” “State Terror,” and other gems.

This Wailing Wall showcases photos of dead little Palestinian children in pools of blood, Israeli soldiers storming with guns over civilians, dead bodies in the style of Auschwitz, and other works of art. No dead Jew is shown here. No Jew ever died, in case you ever wondered. No suicide bombing ever happened, in cased you wanted to know. The lines drawn here are very clear: The Jews are the killers, the Arabs are the dead.

It’s a nice day in Köln and I have a chat with Arnold, the man who holds one of the signs.

So, Arnold, you love the Palestinians and you hate the Israelis. Is that so?

“No. Both sides are wrong.”

Really?

“Yes. And I am tired of them.”

Let’s see what the sign next to you reads: “Boycott Israel.” That’s your demand. Should we boycott only the Israelis or also the Palestinians?

“Both.”

Then why are your posters demanding only the boycott of Israel?

“We mean both of them.”

So maybe your posters should say “Boycott Palestine” and we would know that Israel is also included?

“Don’t ask me these questions! I’m not the boss.”

Who’s the boss?

“He’s in the men’s room.”

The boss is in the men’s room?

“He needs to ‘make’! What, you don’t want him to make?”

Let him ‘make.’ While the boss is making, I go to see Eva Gronbach, a young fashion designer. Eva loves to discuss her fashion ideas, she really does. Her clothes, I soon find out, contain a whole lecture. She talks and talks and talks, and I try my best to catch up. We meet at a café next to her home in one of Köln’s youngish neighborhoods, where people eat Bio. The young of Germany are into natural food, bio-something, organic, real—and all other good stuff. I hope no one is going to serve me sand here.

“I love being German, really love it. This is a free country, a real democracy. Here you can be anything you want. Eight years ago I designed a collection based on the German flag. Those days were not like today. You couldn’t do it back then. When I came to a restaurant or to a pub, clad with the German flag, people stopped talking. Nobody wanted to be near me. They thought I was an extremist or that I was nuts. But I love Germany. I used to hate it, with the heavy history, you know. But then I came to love it. I do. I love the German flag. It’s black on top, it’s heavy, but it’s gold at the bottom. What’s in the middle? It’s red. That’s desire. I have a strong Jewish desire also. You saw the golden squares on the sidewalks? I get goose bumps just looking at them. Jewish music, I love it. Sometimes I go to the synagogue here in Köln. I just go. Maybe one day I’ll create a collection based on Hasidic clothes. I wanted to make a collection for men wearing the burka, but I didn’t do it. I have a small baby, you know, and if some crazy fanatic comes, you never know. My collection today is made of original coal miners’ uniforms, and sometimes they’re very dirty and sweaty, with numbers on them and other images. But people love it. People who don’t work hard, I mean menial work, like to wear these clothes. It gives them a good feeling. My coats cost about 700 euros, and the t-shirts eighty-nine.”

I arrive in Köln on, as has been the rule on this journey of mine in Germany, a fluke. I’ve had enough with all that Islamic, Jewish, German Nazi history and wanted a break. Köln smiled at me from the map, but I have no idea where I’m going to stay.

I go to the local tourist-information office and ask for a recommendation. Some hotels in Germany offer special rates for the press. Two hours later they call to tell me they found a place for me: Excelsior Hotel Ernst. And it’s free. I had little clue what this hotel would be like. But now I am here. To say “five stars” would not do it justice. I have a suite. Right across is the Dom. History is staring at me. It took six hundred years, a tourist guide told me today, to build this church. It took me two hours to fully enjoy it. I can sit on the balcony and touch it. Almost. The refrigerator is stuffed with goodies, which are included in the price, as a young hotel assistant tells me. I have a Jacuzzi and two bathrooms. Marble floors in one section, modern paintings in another, beautiful rugs and carpets, and rare delicious fruits are presented daily. Love seats all over, leather chairs, and even a printer—just in case I’m in the mood to print what I write. This is a palace. Every limb and organ in my body is spoiled, and each particle in my body shouts in pleasure and delight. The food here is, let’s just say, exotic. In short, this is a spiritual experience. Say what you will about justice, socialism, communism, capitalism, fairness, religion, faith, freedom, humanity, righteousness, peace, love, and all other beautiful words. They all melt like the snow of yesterday at Excelsior. This place is the only reality. This is Heaven. Life in this Suite is the only thing that counts, the only truth. I fall in love with Germany again. I mean, why not? Truly, who cares about anything? I don’t. Nothing matters anymore. Not a thing.

I feel spiritual here. I feel I am a good man. I am nice. I feel excellent about myself. About the world. All people are good. As long as I have this Suite. Everybody is wonderful. I feel International today. My newspaper for today is the
International Herald Tribune
. Why? Because it has the word
International
in it. I love everybody. Love is my religion, PC my soul, Excelsior is me. I sit on one of the love seats and start reading. I like to read the most important news first, the right column of the front page. I always do that. “Scraping by in Gaza, but wanting a life.” This is the lead article for today. I fume. Again? The Americans also have nothing better to do? Why is everybody bothering me with Israel all the time? Get busy with Mormons, Mr. American! Since the day the Christians started following one Italian-looking Jew two thousand years ago, they just can’t stop it. When their newspaper editors have nothing to write, they write about Jews. I have an idea for you, editors, a good story to write about: Gay Games. I am not sure exactly what it is, but many folks in Köln are very busy preparing for it. It’s something like the Olympic Games for gays and lesbians and transvestites and others. Something like that. Sounds very interesting to me. It would make a nice headline: “Gay Games in the Mosque.” Everybody will read it. Guaranteed. Many copies will be sold and the publishers will make enough money to stay a weekend at the Excelsior. Yes.

Oh, I would like to have room service now. But what should I order? What do I need that I don’t have already? Let’s check the list.

On my bed are three pillows, one better than the other. On top of them is a little note for me.

To make my night’s sleep as comfortable as possible, the notes says, the hotel is pleased to offer me an additional selection of pillows.

Choices are, among others: Antiallergenic pillows, horsehair pillows, cherry-pit pillows. . .

What is this? What kind of people come here? More spoiled than God.

I’ve got to check this out. I become intrigued.

Wilhelm Luxem, a very capable man, is the managing director of Excelsior Hotel Ernst. I am going to spend some quality time with him.

The average person usually sleeping on my bed, what is he like?

“With a big ego, but not in a negative sense.”

Any particular person you remember who slept on “my bed” before?

“Henry Kissinger.”

What’s the rate of repeat clients?

“Quite high. Thirty-eight percent. There are people who have their own beds here. There’s this person from Vienna, for example, who likes his own bed. It’s the only bed he wants to sleep on. I don’t know why. He shipped his bed to us, so he can sleep on it whenever he comes here, and we store it when he’s away. He comes about four times a year.”

You keep his bed for him?

“Yes, we keep it. Some people keep their clothes stored with us. They don’t want to have anything to carry back and forth.”

Do you charge them for the storage?

“No! Why would I? This is the best marketing I can have: I know they will come back. Their bed is here. Their clothes are here. We believe in service, service is very important.”

Wilhelm has style. He treats me, King Tuvia, as I deserve. A shiny new Mercedes waits outside for me to take me to my next exploration: Meet the organizers of the Gay Games. But, as luck would have it, I somehow find myself stumbling into a gay bar. There I meet Eric, a man with a pretty strange haircut and something like a beard.

“Life for gays is good here,” he tells me, “and I feel accepted. But we will never be totally accepted, because we will always be the minority. Nature wants people to multiply and we don’t. It’s just a fact of life. What’s your name? Oh, do you speak Hebrew? Our barman, the manager, also speaks Hebrew. Would you like to get to know him?”

Is he Jewish?

“No, but he speaks Hebrew.”

How come?

“Ask him. His name is Oliver.”

It’s hard not to notice Oliver. He is kissing everybody, lip-kissing, and is kissed by everyone.

“All these kisses,” he tells me, “and I never get sick. Somebody up there must love me.”

So, it’s good to be gay?

“Yes.”

I have been wondering: Now that you have everything you wanted, I mean gay-wise, what’s next? You spent a lifetime fighting for equal rights, for recognition, and you got them. Or at least most of them. How do you go on with your life, a man who is used to fighting but has no reason to fight anymore? What else is there to do?

“Business.”

What?

“What we do here. Business . . .”

You mean, like this gay bar?

“Exactly.”

Are you Jewish?