All Russians Love Birch Trees (13 page)

In the dimly lit hallway I discovered that Windmill was the kind of man who first pulled a woman’s hair and then kissed her. His touches were mechanical and predictable. I looked at his body, how it lay on mine. I saw him kiss my forehead, nose, and lips. Tenderly, and just a little greedily. I saw him unbutton my dress and me helping him. I saw him touch my inner thighs, push aside my panties, lay his hands on my vagina, him putting on a condom. And then I saw him lift up my
pelvis, felt the penetration and winced. He interpreted this as a sign of lust and moved faster inside me. I pushed him away.

I went into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror for the first time in a while. I was naked and thinner than I had ever been. I had no hips. The ribs were clearly discernible and my stomach was caved in. I was disgusted by myself and the man I’d just fucked. He had used me and I had let it happen. I felt empty, sure that this was the low point of my life. But then I looked around the blue-tiled bathroom, and not only did I find a shower with a natural stone floor, but also makeup remover and a brush with long blond hair in it, and felt even worse.

On my way home I sat by myself in an empty S-Bahn car and watched raindrops burst on the windows.

9

Most days Cem came by around ten in the morning. When I heard him turn the key in the door I was already in the kitchen, waiting for him. My mother must have made a copy of my keys for him.

“You won’t believe this,” Cem said and threw his coat over the back of a chair. His coat gave off a little of the cold outside.

I didn’t inquire, only waited as he put the coffee-maker on the stove and heated some milk.

“My dad went to a CDU meeting yesterday.”

Outside, thick snowflakes fell. I watched them through the window, unwilling to believe what he’d just said.

“He went where?”

“To the CDU. The Christian Democratic Union. The conservatives.” When Cem thought he saw the appropriate reaction in my face, he continued: “It was about integration. When Baba read
Der Spiegel
and
Das Bild
he got scared. Of the Islamists, mind you. My
teyze
tried to explain to him that, statistically, he’d probably be considered an Islamist as well. But he didn’t listen to her. Said he wasn’t even a Muslim. Then he read an article by a CDU secretary general and wanted to hear my mother’s take on the whole affair. She said that he should take out the trash.”

“Did he do it?”

“What?”

“Did he take out the trash?”

Cem waved this off: “He went. To the CDU campaign rally. The room was packed. Only whites. In the middle of the room he spotted another
kanack
and tried to make eye contact with him. But the other one was embarrassed and looked away. The secretary general first praised the foreigners, saying they supply the export world champion with necessary skills. Due to the overidealized multicultural reveries of the Social Democrat / green coalition, Germany has lost a lot of time. The days of window dressing are over. Those who don’t meet their responsibilities as an immigrant should no longer expect tolerance. We will confront
those who refuse to integrate. To that end we need a strong state—which is also in the interest of the immigrants observing the law. Baba felt like this was directed at him and nodded his head in agreement. And it went from there. Hundreds of thousands of immigrants who refuse to integrate, who—despite some of them being well educated—make the conscious decision to seal themselves off from their German environment. Xenophobia and Germanophobia winding each other up. And warnings of false generalizations or referrals to a successful integration somewhere else don’t help those Germans concerned about the progress of their own children. Especially with schools that hardly have German students anymore—and it’s the same for preschools. And it also doesn’t help those who are afraid of violent attacks when their children are on their way to school or in the subway. Not at all. Therefore, we have to make it clear that we are seriously confronting the growing resentment toward deficiencies in the coexistence of Germans and immigrants. We have to ask ourselves whether the sanctions that we pushed through are applied consistently or whether they will have to be increased—for example, when someone drops out of an obligatory integration course. Faith plays a big role for many immigrants, especially those from predominantly Muslim countries. As do social and cultural practices informed by faith. They have the
same freedom of religion as we Christians do. But at the same time there cannot be a religious or cultural blank check when it comes to basic rights: gender equality and nonviolence in families. And if—as is proven by scientific studies—younger, religiously active Muslims in particular show violent behavior, Muslim organizations in Germany must take a firm stand on this. It is not enough to caution against Islamophobia. Successful integration demands plain language instead of window dressing, consistent action instead of exclusion. Cosmopolitanism, mutual respect, and law and order belong together. The coexistence of people of different cultures and religions requires a strong sense of identity. And this includes embracing our Christian tradition as a basis. Baba came home a broken man. Hadn’t known that it was that bad.”

“What now?”

“I don’t know. He spends all his time in front of the computer, looking for real estate in Turkey. Having been in Germany for forty-two years, he just now learned that he’s a Muslim.”

10

The next day I went to Windmill’s office. His secretary was surprised to see me and asked whether I had made an appointment.

For a brief moment I stood in front of her, a little hesitant. The wall behind her was full of pictures of Windmill either standing or sitting next to important people. For a moment I stared at her, irritated, then went into his office and sat down in one of the visitor chairs facing his desk. As always Windmill was wearing a perfectly ironed white shirt, leaving the top three buttons open. He immediately stopped filling out whatever forms he was filling out and gave me an insecure smile.

“Why don’t you turn on the radiator?”

“It’s not snowing anymore.”

“It’s cold.”

“I didn’t think I’d see you again this soon,” he said.

“I need a job.”

“Those are a little rare at the UN these days.”

Windmill’s expression turned to amusement. I couldn’t name a reason why he should get me a job, but it was worth a shot. His office was as cold as Lenin’s tomb. The interior decoration was neutral and predictable. A soft, lightly colored carpet, a desk with a glass top, above which hung an abstract painting. A large one.

“I want something in Israel.”

“Why Israel of all places?”

“Are you Claude Lanzmann?”

Windmill grinned and I quietly closed the door behind me.

11

Sami parked in the driveway at my house. On the phone I’d explained to him that it was urgent and he’d borrowed his father’s car—a large black company car whose sole raison d’être was to impress.

When I put on the seat belt Sami gave me a concerned look. His eyes went from gray to green to brown, depending on the light and angle. Now they were red from exhaustion. Sami started the car. I rolled down the window and turned the radio all the way up. The full moon shone.

I easily found the path along the narrow rows. Elisha’s marker was clean, with fresh flowers on top. I took a
small marble from my pocket and put it on the gravestone. Sami stood back and didn’t let me out of his sight. Eventually he did go back to the car, though. “I’m sorry,” I said to Elisha. I lay down on the marker, reaching out for him.

I had photos with me: two that Elisha had taken of me and two mirror shots of myself that I had taken after his death. I dug a hole next to his gravestone, put the photos inside, and lit them on fire. The photo paper burned quickly and two minutes later it was all over. I shoveled dirt over the hole and flattened the soil.

A few hours must have passed. Sami took me in his arms and carried me to the car. I hugged him and immediately let him go again. We sat silently in the car for a while. Then he pulled the keys from the ignition. He turned toward me, reached out for my hands, turned the palms face up and put them on his cheeks. I remembered his smell and the feeling of kissing him. When our lips almost touched I pushed him away with full force. His head hit the side window. I got out and ran up the road. At some point I stopped and went back to the car. Sami sat on the hood. The hurt look on his face startled me.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry,” he said.

“Did you hurt yourself?”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t,” I said.

“I know.”

I took his hand and hugged him, our mouths coming close again. Nothing happened.

We went for a walk through the village, wandering the streets in which Elisha had played as a child. Past the detached houses with closed shutters, past his parents’ restaurant, the post office. We crossed a schoolyard, stopping in front of a basketball hoop. No drunk teenage townies in sight. We looked out onto the dark water of the river that ran through the village, its name unknown to us. At the gas station we bought ice cream. The cashier asked Sami where he was from. Frankfurt, said Sami. No, where he was
really
from. I asked her what she meant. She smiled, a little lost. We tore the packaging off the ice cream. Mine was covered in dark chocolate and almonds, Sami’s was a hazelnut cone.

“Come on, tell her,” I teased. The cashier was ravenous for some exoticism.

“I’m from Madagascar,” Sami said. “We all live in tree houses there and eat nothing but bananas.”

“His first time trying ice cream,” I said. Sami grinned at me. At least things between us were good again.

The day began, the sky grew brighter, and the glowing neon sign for the autobahn rest stop was turned off. We shared the rest stop with a group of German soldiers. Their uniforms looked like oversized camouflage pajamas and they ate burgers. Entire meal deals with fries, chicken wings, and ice cream. Bellies hung over belts, and the thought crossed my mind that the uniform says a lot about the state of an army. Despite the fact that it was a German uniform, the soldiers looked like big, lazy animals. I couldn’t imagine that they had the license to kill and die somewhere, let alone by choice. I asked myself whether they in all seriousness expected me to respect them for that and I also asked myself whether they thought of African-Americans on their shooting ranges and yelled
Motherfucker
.

“I have the visa,” Sami said.

“Oh,” was all I could think of as a reply.

Sami regarded me curiously. “After a year. Can you imagine that? I waited for an entire year.”

“You lost an entire year.”

He looked at me. “It was good that I was here. Because of you.” He took a little pause. “All I’m saying is that I’m no terrorist. There was no reason to sleep on my parents’ couch for an entire year. I’m writing my thesis on German idealism. I taught at the university. I had friends and something like a girlfriend.”

“Oh.”

“She dumped me when it became clear that I wouldn’t be back for a while.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“Have you heard anything from Neda?” I tried to say this as casually as possible, but my voice trembled.

“No. What makes you think that I would?” Sami asked, genuinely surprised.

“So, you’re leaving?”

“Yes.”

“When?” I swallowed, trying to keep a businesslike tone, but the word shook.

“Next month. What are you going to do?”

“I got a fixed-term contract with the Tel Aviv office of a German foundation. I shouldn’t worry about Hebrew, they said.”

“But you know Hebrew.”

“No.”

“Why not? You’re Jewish. And your family lives in Israel.”

“Distant relatives. With the exception of one of my cousins. I never learned Hebrew.”

“First time that you admit to not being able to do something.” He smiled at me and then said: “Let’s go, I’m tired.”

12

I started packing everything into boxes. On some I wrote my name, on most the names of Elisha’s parents. More than half a year had passed since his death and his parents had regularly sent me postcards reminding me to send Elisha’s things. The postcards displayed Thuringian landscape shots. They came every week and in white envelopes, so that their content wouldn’t force itself upon the mailman. After a while the motifs started to repeat themselves. The cards were always written with a black ballpoint pen and in Horst’s narrow handwriting. Polite nothings became increasingly rare and often some words were illegible, because Horst was probably drunk and wrote them in phases
of emotional turmoil, complaining about the injustice done to him. I didn’t understand why, among all the options, he chose Thuringian landscapes. Thuringia had nothing to do with our subjective sense of justice.

It was not for me to judge, but Horst was anything but a good father. He drank away the proceeds from his wife’s restaurant and now and then coached the local soccer team. Elisha, never one to excel at sports, got a beating after every game. The way he saw it, the coach’s son shouldn’t grow up to be a weakling, or a homosexual. It had taken Elisha a while to comprehend that love isn’t expressed with fists.