I Sleep in Hitler's Room (3 page)

Not one word, my dear!

And this American hero suddenly feels like an American soldier in Afghanistan. I am here, dying to get out of here, but I have no clue how to do it. The Jewish traveler in me suddenly spots an English-speaking individual. A young Gypsy. He’s also going to Budapest, he tells me. Great! Thanks, my lucky stars! Can he show me the way to Budapest? Yes. Gladly. He takes me to a line. It‘s longer than the Great Wall of China. Better than an empty gate, wouldn’t you say? How do you negotiate this kind of line? I ask him.

“You wait,” he says.

How long?

“Three days,” he informs me in perfect English. If I want I can join him where he sleeps the nights.

Where is it?

“Right here, on the floor. Didn’t take shower for some time,” he tells me, “but life’s good.” His girlfriend is with him.

Where?

“Somewhere here,” he says, pointing at the millions. He leaves.

And somewhere in the middle of all this mess, I notice a plain little piece of paper, hanging from a thread above something that looks like a counter, with the word “Budapest” handwritten on it. That must be the place I have to go to. The Chinese wall, it turns out, is made of many little lines. I get to my line. An Italian man tells me that Budapest airport is closed but that it will reopen in the evening. He will get a seat for tonight, he tells me in confidence, because he knows people. “Do you know people?” he asks me.

What kind of people is he talking about?

“In the Industry.”

Yes, of course. The CEO of Budapest airport is my twin brother, but the problem is that he’s not aware of it yet. Would my new Italian friend be kind enough to pass this info to his contacts in the Industry? “You will have to pay,” he tells me.

Cell phone in hand, my new consultant goes away, dialing numbers here and there. He doesn’t have to stand on line. I do.

Rome is European, the thought comes into my head. Socialist, perhaps, or some form of it. Unwilling Capitalists, maybe. Like the Germans. Will be interesting to see, I comfort myself, the ways of the Unwilling. I will learn something, I tell my heart. It’s actually good, I try to reason with myself, that I am lost here in the middle of China. I look and watch. Around and around. There are quite a few Americans in my line, I notice. All stuck in Holy Rome.

The hours pass, and I get closer to the little paper above the sort of counter. An Italian clerk sits behind the counter, handling the masses. The man takes credit cards and issues new tickets. The people here, mind you, have already paid for their flights. But those flights are gone. They either stay here with the Gypsy and his girlfriend until their airline resumes flying, or they fork over their dollars and euros on all kinds of combinations with other airlines. Rome is democratic. You choose.

After hours, my turn. The Italian clerk tells me that my airline is not flying but another one is, and he will gladly find me a ticket for an additional 500 euros. Tonight. But he has to check if the flight is available. If it’s not, I can stick around in Rome, there’s a two-star hotel next to the airport for 300 euros a night. Oh, he found a ticket. “For tonight. 500 Euros, please. It’s available now.” Great, Budapest airport is open! “Now,” he says.

What does he mean?

“The airport is open now, tickets are 500 euros for an evening flight, but if the airport closes again you come tomorrow and we’ll renegotiate a new flight.”

Will that be free?

No! “For another 500 euros.”

Another 500?

“Yes.” This clerk only takes money, he doesn’t give any back. These are the rules. “Here you buy tickets,” he explains to me. “If I sell you a ticket and there is no flight, you go to the airline and complain. Not to me. Do you have suitcases? Do you want them with you? That’s extra. Ten euros for every kilo. How many kilos you have?”

This is Europe and I had better adjust. But it’s quite expensive to adjust. With my suitcases, that’s about 1,000 euros. For a flight that I’ve already paid for.

This clerk has had it with me, I can see it on his face. He doesn’t want to spend his time with New York Capitalists. No way. “If you don’t want to spend the 500 every day,” he notifies me, then “I could book you a flight for four days later.”

Four days later?

Yes. “Nothing available before. All booked. Your airline has a flight tomorrow morning, and it would be free because it’s the same airline, but that flight is booked. And everything is booked till four days later. What do you want?”

I am not sure of the exact meaning of
unwilling capitalism
, or
socialism
, or
social democraticism
, but I’m sure that I have to put a stop to today’s lesson. I “accidentally” dangle my press card in front of his eyes, and sure as day he catches sight of it.

“I have one ticket only,” he sternly says. “Only one! For tomorrow morning’s flight. No charge. But only one. One. Do you want it? I can’t give you more than one!”

Yes. I wanted to have all my concubines flying over with me, but I’ll settle for this one ticket.

I find myself a four-star hotel in the center of Rome, next to the American embassy, for about a third of the cost of the two-star hotel by the airport. That’s some kind of socialism, I guess. The hotel is very nice, and very good. Only problem is, I don’t have my suitcases with me. I have no clothes, except for the ones I have on me.

I slept with them. Walked a lot with them. In short: they stink. I let the faucet go, soak everything I have, all my clothes, in the water. I feel great: I beat the system! My Jewish heritage won. At exactly this moment my cell phone rings. It’s Alvaro, an Italian journalist.

“Would you like me to come over with my motorbike and I take you for a nightly tour of Rome?”

I take one look at my soaking wet clothes, and another look at my cell phone, and quickly decide. “I’m coming!”

I’m not going to spend the first night of my journey to Germany naked in a hotel room in Rome. Nope. Motorbike. Let the wind dry my clothes!

Alvaro is a fat man. I am a fat man. But his motorbike is stronger than Mussolini, and it carries us around Rome as if we were a couple of ants.

As he drives his bike with this wet man, in the midst of our night journey, Alvaro tells me that he’s the one who got Israel’s strongman Arik Sharon’s last media interview before Mr. Sharon disappeared from the map. And then he says: “What happened to the Jews? How they changed!”

The Jews, don’t you know, used to be good. Now they’re horrible.

It slowly dawns on me: I’m not in America. This is as clear as the night. I’ve lived thirty years in New York and I’ve never heard such a line. No. Alvaro doesn’t hate Jews. He loves them. Kind of. After the Vatican, he takes me on a tour of the “Oldest Jews.” In Rome, he tells me, we have the Most Original Jews. “Would you like me to take you to the most Authentic Jewish Restaurant?”

Yes, I say. Let me sit in a warmer place with my wet clothes. I take a look at the menu: choices of bacon. Choices of clams.

Is Alvaro for real? Or did he lose his mind?

Or, maybe, I lost mine.

This is a different continent. Definitely. Who knows what waits for me in Germany. If this is the starting point, heaven knows where it will end.

Alvaro is a kind man. And an intellectual as well. He is as familiar with history and philosophy as I am with my Diet Coke. Yes, I know a little bit: I spent fifteen years in various universities. Still, I don’t get one iota of his logic when he talks about Jews. I have no clue what he is saying. Not only about Jews, but about America as well. He found out, on his own, that the Twin Towers in New York were blown up by the American government. Yes, for real. He spends about an hour, very passionately, explaining to me all the details of how the Americans did it and why. He has all the info. He leaves me speechless: The man is either an idiot or a genius. It will take a battery of psychiatrists to decide. Not that this really matters: We’re busy eating, and the food is delicious.

Once we finish the “Jewish food,” Alvaro kindly prepares me for my journey:

“Catholics are corrupt. Germans are not. That’s why Reformation started with Germans. Luther. A German. Germans are the most democratic.”

Well, let’s find out!

I fly to Budapest the next day, stick around for a few days, and then fly to the Fatherland. Why do I write down these little details? It’s called record keeping . . . In any case, Hamburg is where I land, the date being May 1. I am in Germany!

In America we have Labor Day, and that’s in September. But I think May Day is better. The summer about to come, warmer weather in the offing. Good time to celebrate. I’m ready! I ask around where I could celebrate, and I’m told that the unions are having a “demo,” meaning demonstration, and that the “Anarchists,” folks of the radical left, are having a parade. Which would I like? In the United States, Labor Day is an excuse for establishments like Macy’s to have sales, 40 to 70 percent off, for example. Here, I quickly learn, the people like to enjoy the outside. OK with me. I choose both. I have time.

I start with the unions. A union guy speaks from the stage, via loudspeakers, and the people around are either drinking, eating, having something to smoke, or all the above. Few seem to be listening. I spot one listener, a man holding a banner of the leftist party Die Linke with a hot red color that I really like. I want to have it for myself, so I go to him. He is anticapitalist, he tells me. It’s his mission, he says, to “fight the people who only think about money,” those hated capitalists.

Fair. It’s his right. Germany is the most democratic nation, as the Italian Alvaro taught me, and in democracy you should be allowed to hate. No problem.

Well, one little problem: How do I get him to give me his banner?

Let me try talking him into it.

It looks nice, I say to him. I love the red. This is really a good red. Could I have it?

The anti-Capitalist seems happy that I like his flag. “You can get it on Die Linke’s website for five to ten Euros,” he says to me.

You are anticapitalist, right?

“Yes, right.”

Truth is, what’s ten euros between you and me? Not real money.

Bernard, an older man standing next to him, is a very passionate leftist, and very, very anticapitalist. What did the capitalists do to make him hate them so? “They want money!”

The union guy on the stage speaks loudly, almost screaming. What does he talk about? Well, money. People—workers, that is—should be getting more money. And more money. I ask Bernard if he supports this union guy.

He gets a bit upset with me. Of course he supports him, how stupid could I be! “People need to eat and they need money, can’t you get it?!”

I ask Bernard to explain to me what’s the difference between the union guy and the capitalists whom he hates so passionately. Don’t they both want the same thing, money?

Now Bernard gets really upset with me. He demands to know who I am and what country I am from. After all, it must take a special country to create an idiot like me.

I am from Jordan, I tell him.

Hearing this, Bernard softens. He obviously likes Jordan. Jordan is not really a Capitalist country, is it? Hot weather and stuff, he muses with me.

Tell me, Bernard, what’s your reason for living? What drives you?

I have no idea why I ask him this question. Just came to me. Like that.

What’s surprising is the man’s answers:

“Two things: Achieve peace. Fight the capitalists.”

There may be a little paradox there, but I say nothing. This May first is his day and I shouldn’t ruin it. Jordanians are hospitable people.

I check around a bit more, looking at the few stands in the area and trying to see if I can get something for free from these money-hater union folks, but no.

Time to parade!

A bunch of youngsters, holding a banner that says, “weg mit (article) §129” (away with Article 129), are standing by. I ask them what Article 129 is.

Some don’t really know, and others say it’s “something about prisoners.”

What?

“Something about freedom.”

Freedom of what?

“Freedom! Can’t you get it?!”

I don’t want to get anybody upset at me and so I shut up. Good Jordanian boy.

The parade hasn’t started yet. It’s going to take some time, obviously.

Luckily, time is a commodity I have.

These are no union people, these are youngsters. And these youngsters, so my impression is, share something extremely important with me: Like me, they also have time. Plenty of it.

As they prepare for the parade ahead, these young anticapitalists fill up their stomachs with fresh sliced fruits, ice creams, crepes, wursts, and beer. Some of them—don’t ask me to explain this—drink beer and immediately vomit it out. Then they drink again. Life is a cycle, I guess. They buy more beer. And some of them buy more than one bottle at a shot. Why not? Money is no problem, it seems. They have it aplenty.

Nothing happens, except for drinking and drinking, and then some eating.