My Berlin Hadj

(Note: This essay is a sequel to Homeless in Copenhagen in Greg’s ongoing series “Race-Tour 2016“)

I was in a groggy, allergy-compounded daze for the whole train ride. My night of Danish homelessness really took it out of me. For seven hours I faded in and out, all the while conscious of the sweat and grime that seemed to have replaced my khakis. How appropriate–on my way to Berlin, my Aryan Mecca, and I was getting the full hadji experience.

Despite how I must have smelled, at least I looked human, unlike some others. The train boarded a ship to ferry us from the Danish island of Lolland (actual name) to Merklenburg-Vorpommern, and we went to the upper decks. I munched on a chocolate bar and stared out into the treacherous Baltic that had deprived me of my watch and sunglasses (stolen while I was swimming). But the thing that scared me about this boat was not the sea it transversed, but the people it bore. Some of these fuckers were Soomalii. Others had certainly been pilgrims like me, but I doubt their hadj had terminated at the Spree. Others still looked like they had been boating before. The rest were Danish.

We went back below deck and reboarded the train. My seat-mate was a healthy, middle-aged Dane named Frederik. He must not have noticed the smell, because he played along as I struck up a conversation. He was on his way to Hamburg, to settle some shipping contracts. After some niceties, he brought up Trump in the usual liberal way. Detecting his illness, I decided to offer him a very small, very purple pill–I brought up Shillery’s connections to the Judeo- *cough* neo-cons. He took it well. I then brought up, in the politiest way possible, the Afromuzzie immivasion. I made the usual rational points, which he again took well.

I am always amazed that I can still carry on such respectable, middle-class conversations. I liked Frederik, he was the sort of man for whom I had borne immense respect as a teenager, the sort of man I thought I would become. But that is no longer possible. His opinions were, logically, preposterous. Worse yet they were a profound threat to me and my–our–people. But for some reason I still admired him. He was open-minded enough to listen to my points cooly and sincerely. It seems one can be more frank in speaking outside one’s usual social circle. If there is any value in diversity, it is that. Exposure to diversity is red-pilling.

The train stopped at the first station in Germany. Some officers in peaked-caps (I got hard) walked down the isles doing a face-check. They silently zeroed in on an East African and removed him. Fredrik and I watched out the window as four or five officers escorted the subhuman along the station platform. “Poor chap!” my seatmate exclaimed. I never understood why Europeans think English means British, what the hell. Anyway, meanwhile my spine got erect, my eyes bulged, and my the left side of my mouth quivered into a smirk. I must have crossed my thighs, because no one noticed the full extent of my physiological response. “Mmm” I managed.

I arrived at Berlin, and relief washed over me. I love Germany, but until now, I had not realized how much like home it felt. The street-signs, the chain-stores, the whole material culture is familiar. Most importantly, I have a reasonable command of German. With the languages of Scandinavia my knowledge is only passive and theoretical. I feel like a moron whenever I try to say something. But speaking German is like encountering an old friend. Maybe we have not kept up lately, but we have been through a lot together.

I escalated out of the train station–one of those typically post-war glass and metal things–and found the daylight. The first thing I noticed was the goddamn antifa graffiti. The following photos were all taken right around the train station:

“The German police protect the Fascists!” If only…
“Fuck Nazis, go away!”
Why do they have to be so tedious?

The lefties here must all be from out of town, because no Prussian would ever write something on a wall, even if he were a commie. I harrowed their filth quickly, because on the horizon the Reichstag appeared. Of course I know all the history. But my real excitement stemmed from how familiar I am with the building’s steps and facade, at least in the virtual world. World War II is the Trojan War for Americans. But we have no Iliad–we have Saving Private Ryan and Call of Duty: World at War. I must have played the Reichstag-level a hundred times, where you, as a Russian, reenact the Battle of Berlin, head-shooting your way through streams of conspicuously fighting-age German soldiers.

What it looked like.
What it felt like.

At the steps of the real Reichstag I saw the same fight. Two Germans were holding a demonstration in favor of a vaguely nationalist cause. They were getting a lot of silent attention, and a little heckling from some people who, by their age, seemed to be middle-class baby-boomers. What a shitty generation. Eager to practice my German and my politics, I asked one of the agitators what exactly their cause was. Their billboard said something about Germany still being occupied, but I could not tell if they were nationalists–political discourse is so tame in this country. The man handed me a brochure, as if that explained their position any better than the billboard. I asked explicitly if they supported a “Germany for the Germans,” to which he replied affirmatively. I guess that explains the heckling.

The Germans can only be proud of being defeated. The flag on the right bears the Russian “Victory Day” pattern.

Perhaps one other fact explains this strange scene. Three flags were flying outside the Reichstag (sorry to any Germany-fags, I don’t recognize any other name)–that of neutered Germany, the flag of the EU, and that of Georgia. Russian Georgia. “What are these cucks trying to pull” I thought. Did the Anglo-Zionist Empire tell Mutti Merkel to make noise about admitting Georgia to some Atlanticist organization? Or is it just Georgian heritage day in Germany? Very strange, but very predictable.

I sat down for a beer and some internet. Where is the Fuhrerbunker? I asked google. Surprisingly, it answered quickly and directly. Wasn’t this information supposed to be secret, lest Nazis like me start treating the site as a shrine? I strode through the streets, past the Reichstag, the Tiergarten, not the occasional Hadji, and the Brandenburg Gate. A bunch of Kurds were lazing about amidst signs and placards. They seemed to be bitching about the Iranian Government. I could not imagine why anyone here would care about their whining, then I turned left and spotted the American Embassy.

The real government is located in the building on the left
Scaffolds for the enemies of Kurdish freedom. Not sure why Westerners are supposed to care.

I passed through the throngs and entered a side-street lined with more post-war blockoffices. Ministries and embassies it seemed. The street ended in a T, atop which was a parking lot, interspersed with clumps of trees and surrounded by ugly apartments. I got an excited chill. The scene must have just as miserable when The Dream ended–right here. There was a sign with a map and detailed explanations in English and German. Either the Germans had grown tired of all the inquiries, or this was all an elaborate deception and the Fuhrer had spent his final days somewhere else.

I analyzed the map in an attempt to discern what mattered most to me. Where was my Fuhrer cremated? I have to admit, like everything else about the War, most of my knowledge comes from Jewliwood movies. In Der Untergang, the Germans lay Hitler’s corpse in a pit right outside the entrance to the bunker and burn it with what must have been the Reich’s last can of gasoline. I reckoned that it all happened (if it did at all) right at the lot’s entrance. Goebbels and Magda shot themselves somewhere in what was now the middle of the street. And to think–this sacred ground is subjected to auto traffic and Chinese tourists. The site of Hannibal’s suicide was probably similarly profaned in Roman times. How dare they. It was if the whole scene was calculated induce blase, I wanted to cry–partly to trigger the gawkers–but I could not. Even that they had taken from me.


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