Actually, I had always been uncomfortable about the history in the story. A barbarism had taken place there in the past, which I did not want to suffer. In order to attain the power over each other, the people killed themselves before with stones, bones and clubs, then with arrow and bow, with swords and also daggers. Then they did it with gunpowder and only put their finger on the trigger. Moreover, they came up with the gas and only turned on the tap to be able to destroy the others faster. Nowadays there are even bombs with which one can dissolve a whole bunch of people into dust and all houses and railroads remain standing.
Since I was now in such a way a being who was not allowed to decide where he is conceived - my parents did it in the Occident to get me - I lulled myself into the belief that the history did not concern me a shit where I was thrown on the world. Was I supposed to pray to Jehovah, Allah or Buddha to have the lice taken away from me? Which god was I supposed to serve, if I wasn't allowed to think I was one?
Then the earth powers attacked me to tempt me to make a decision, as there were nicotinism, caffeinism, alcoholism, cannibalism, sexualism, humanism, smogism and all the other isms.
Jedoch widerstand ich diesen, weil sie mir nur die Übelkeit im Leibe besorgten. Hätten mich auch hundert Pferde zu ihnen ziehen wollen, ich hätte mit aller Macht die Leine zu ihnen zerschnitten, damit sie mich nicht verführen könnten.
However, I resisted them, because they only caused me nausea in my body. If also a hundred horses had wanted to pull me to them, I would have cut the line to them with all power, so that they could not seduce me.
However, with increasing age my senses flattened to such an extent that the history in the earth power began to charm with my head. I had just cut the lines of the addictions in order not to fall into their clutches. Nevertheless, the reason then wanted to put the reins to me to explain to me the history how it had come from there. And that then suddenly took its strange course.
Now that I lived in Berlin, I was dependent on getting my food from the merchants. I had no place for the generation of the same on my square meters. That's why I always had to take the newspaper in order to find out where I could get the most pleasant food for my continuous living for the sake of the poop that I had to express for the sewage system. Because so the teachers taught me, only if I pooped or pissed, I would have the life in me.
Derob I found now while leafing through the Berlin newspaper on 'ner half page of the "capital city review" a black-gray large pile of pork goulash red-edged illustrated at the special price of seven marks and ninety-nine the kilo. THE offer at the Kaiser supermarket.
Dieweil I did not want to be put by the newspaper only the reins to the meal, I read me still the remainder of the side through, because I always wanted to experience the whole. The newspapermen wrote their articles, in order to let the paid advertisement come to the effect. The text was always the surreptitious advertising for the correct placement of the paid advertisement.
But, oh fright and gar-out! What was there on the big newspaper page with the fresh pork goulash ad? I couldn't believe my eyes. Had I perhaps turned my eyeballs in the wrong direction? I now read the printed aphorisms that filled the remaining half page:
After 50 years: First Holocaust memorial in the land of the former perpetrators.
A teaching house of democracy in the villa of terror.
The "House of the Wannsee Conference" memorial opens on Sunday.
A magnificent villa in the middle of a park-like waterfront property.
The sponsor is the association "Remembering for the Future".
Turn your gaze to the mounds of corpses.
New book on mass exterminations.
Path to Death. - Remembering January 30, 1933....
What did goulash have to do with the extermination of Jews? Was opinion again so far advanced as to chop certain groups of people down to size?
Since I did not want to have it taken out of context, as the believers usually did with their Bible or Koran claims, I decided to look at the villa of the extermination at the Wannsee. Had nevertheless apparently here the connections at the Berlin place the history still well survived. I had just met the last emperor as a cardboard figure at an exhibition in the armory Unter den Linden.
In order not to have to make the way there alone, I feared nevertheless secretly before the horror to be expected, I asked my friend Storch-Volker for company. His confidant Steuer-Harry, who had had the tires punctured on his car in Kreuzberg last night, chauffeured us to the Wahnsee with new wheels. So we rolled leisurely with discreet Rolling Stones sound on the main arteries of Berlin in the general traffic along in the direction of west-south-west to the villas at the Wannsee, where the properties of the wealthy lined up in park-like distances.
The big streets in Berlin usually had the characteristic of always going straight ahead when it came to important points. The princes, kings and emperors of the nobility had been well-disposed to us in their planning, so that we did not miss anything of their direct goals. Off we went. Kottbusser Damm. Hermannplatz. Hasenheide. Gneisenaustrasse and Potsdamer Strasse. Hauptstrasse and Rheinstrasse. Schlossstrasse. The beer brush. The Steglitz traffic circle corruption. Under the oaks. Potsdamer Chaussee. At Wannsee the Königstrasse. The first crashed, ghastly crushed Trabbis as ruins at the roadside. The walls had just fallen in the workers' and peasants' state, where the state chairman Erich only allowed his subjects to drive around in small Trabbi cars.
So the Königstraße and immediately the first right purely. This little street, called "Am Großen Wannsee", led us directly to the Villa des Schreckens, the Lehrhaus der Demokratie.
The search for a parking space did not cause any problems here, because the villa lots were so large here. Fortunately, only each villa drove a car and stored it in the basement of the villa, so that no one could scratch the expensive painted sheet metal at night. But you couldn't walk along the shore here, because the millionaires pushed their yachts directly into the Wannsee on their own property. "What does the world need people for?" flashed through my mind for the umpteenth time.
While we left the car at the curb, we headed on foot to the address given, Villa des Schreckens, number 58. However, we then stood in front of a mighty large, locked metal bar gate, through whose thick bars we could see a villa whose desire was ours, if it should be.
In a wall pillar, which held the iron bars together, there was a door intercom with a bell button. This we pressed and, after a beep, spoke, "We want to look at the Villa of Horror. Are we in the right place?" Suddenly, the iron gate opened by itself and we were granted first entry.
No human being was to be seen far and wide. Winter-bare trees in the park stretched their branches into the cold gray sky, if there still should be one. And right at the gate entrance on the right hung the first television surveillance eye, hidden and adapted. Not such a clunky gray thing as in the workers' and peasants' state on the public buildings. But they were mighty scared here in their mansion of horrors. Did Edgar Wallace have a hand in that? How many surveillance cameras were still hidden in the branches? Where were the microphones installed? Who sat at the monitors and stored the images? To give them the greatest possible chance of recognition, we walked the probably sixty steps from the gate to the Holocaust villa undauntedly and leisurely side by side, offering them the comparison with the mug shots with straight faces. To this only some hardy crows in the rough branches cawed their sound into the hidden microphones, to which the sand crunched under our shoes.
The actual Wahnsee Villa entrance door was now locked again. No shaking and no knocking helped. Now that we had been illuminated on the short walk through the park, which took two minutes, we didn't need to give another reason for our desire when we rang the bell. After a buzzer sounded in the door lock, the heavy portal was opened by light pressure.
We then stood in a bright, clean, white entrance room that resembled a small rotunda. The light fell on us from above, like a natural illumination. A marble staircase adapted to the circular wall space led to the upper floor on the right to the sleeping chambers, bathrooms and chambre separees, which had now been converted into exhibition rooms. On the stairs sat shocked young schoolgirls, who were fed up with the horror and were only waiting for their teacher, who apparently was thrilled by the horror and could no longer get out of the exhibition cellar, to allow them to escape into the winter gray outside, so that they could finally get away from here.
From her big eyes I read her desperate questions: Where is the beautiful, the heavenly ravishing? - Where is the idealistically picturesque, the immaculately fairy-tale-like? - Where is the pleasant gain? - Where the beautiful feeling?
An elderly woman now approached us quite kindly in the rotunda that we could take a tour here, starting on the right, and that a guide would also be available to us if we had any questions. The guide. The seducer and the guide. What strange names for the vile explanations. Asked about the history of the house, she replied that it was hanging on the right wall in the last room on the right. This interested us first of all, of course, because we wanted to know why the brown enforcers of their boss from Braunau had used this beautiful place by the lake for their deadly planning games.
So we made our way around to the right, as we had been advised. All the walls, windows and vistas were covered with oblong panes of frosted glass on which were mounted large ghastly photographs together with texts without any indication of the source. From each pane, images of desperate and tortured people looked at us in the blackest white. Concentration camps, gas chambers, and piles of corpses. Burning houses, people shot and hanging from gallows with thick ropes on their necks. Clerks, supervisors, enforcers and secret orders with Sieg Heil and Heil Hitler as the last greeting. And bulldozers pushing bodies together in mountains. The shudder ran down our spines. Horror roared at us. "What does the world need man for?" it came to me again.
The large glass panes of the disgust hung from the ceiling on thin long steel cables, so that they began to swing at the slightest breeze. If I now found myself in front of such a horrifying pane, I knew no orientation, even if I stood still. The pictured horror additionally moved my senses with the swinging disk to such a double degree that I was hardly able to read the letters even if I rolled my eyes. I started to sway. I became dizzy.
It was a single cabinet of abominations, terror and despair. Hadn't old Dante already painted the inferno for us in his Divine Comedy? Always these horrible repetitions. Homo sapiens never becomes reasonable.
The strange exhibition mavens showed us the most disgusting things and bureaucratically divided them into sections. Thus, each of the beautiful high villa rooms had a title:
Dictatorship in Germany. - Pre-war period. - War in Poland. - The ghettos.
Mass shootings. - The Wannsee Conference. - Deportations. - Hall of the Lands.
Transit camps. - Death Camps. - Auschwitz. - Life in the concentration camp. - The Ghetto Uprising.
The End. - The Liberation.
The Holocaust in hologram images. Fed by the brain waves generated by the combustion of the ingested natural substances in the human body. So everybody gets his electricity for the hologram pictures either from his own field or from the supermarket. You have to roll your eyes and find such a site, which creates pleasant holograms for you through your eyes in the brain. Only you are not always master of your eyes, because now and then they unexpectedly turn there, where you did not want to look with them at all. Then you still get an electric shock in your contact box.
With these thoughts it became weak around my heart. I realized that I was still not in control of my senses, because they were swinging uncontrollably back and forth in my extremities in this horrible consternation.
A lot of people were here now observing in the different rooms. They stared at the shards of horror with incomprehension on their faces. Strangely enough, there was a great consternation among them, although everything had already been published many times in the books. No wonder, since it took fifty years to revive this memorial. I only felt sorry for the young schoolchildren who had been pedagogically shuffled through here and who no longer wanted to know anything about the horror. The images of horror still entered their dreams, when they should have been thinking of a better future.
Before we left this ghastly place, we looked at the history of the house in the last room, why it was here that the perpetrators of the Wahnsee decided to arrange the so-called final solution of the Jewish question. There, however, our eyes went over again, because here everything came to light that had already been in the offing before. There were no more swinging panes of frosted glass hanging down from the wall. Here the prehistory was screwed in frames to the wall and revealed the strangest conditions.
As always in industrial ages, it was the factory owners who had the largest mansions built. The profit for such deeds flowed into their own pockets. While the last emperor was still sending the little people into the First World War in colorful outfits and euphorizing them for the people and the fatherland - you'll be home for Christmas - a certain factory owner, Ernst Marlier, had a villa built here in this beautiful place for his own amusement during the first two years of the war. However, he probably outgrew his palace in the difficulties caused by the war, because he sold it in 1921 to a certain Friedrich Minoux, a general manager of the Stinnes Group. The latter now settled in here quite amusingly, having earned quite a lot from the war without having to lie in the trenches. On a photo he laughed with wife and friend with cooled Champus to the photographer into the camera. In addition, the viewer, as such we could call ourselves, was given the explanation that that Minoux, after his employment with the Stinnes Group, opened a coal business in Berlin and earned money from business with GASAG, which still existed today under the same name as Berliner Gaswerke Aktiengesellschaft with main state participation. Until the end of the 1930s, he swindled GASAG out of 12 million gold marks and lived there in luxury until the Nazis took away his villa.
What horrible concatenations: One deceived the gas producers and the following murdered people with gas. Zyklon-B was their motto. So the brown superiors came to decide on the final gassing of the Jews in the villa of the gas cheat with a magnificent view of the Wahnsee. Because everything was to remain "top secret", they turned the Villa of Terror into a guest house for foreign police and SS officers in the name of a strange Nordhav foundation.
Thus, GASAG had fallen for the scam early on and had allowed itself to be ripped off for years until the Nazis realized it and carried it on in their interests. Hoping that the exhibition organizers were not trying to pull a fast one on GASAG, which had only been ripped off, we could not help but notice the vile smell of gas that haunted the place.
After the Second World War - who actually started to number the wars? - The military of the various sides made themselves comfortable here, until the villa was used for a few years as a residential adult education center in the name of August Bebel. Then the decision-makers realized that this was the right place for a school hostel in the encircled front city of Berlin. Fortunately, this was put into practice and for over 36 years - just as long as the old Marlier, the gas cheat, the Nazis, the military and the Heimvolks-Hochschule (Home People's High School) together ruled and switched here - just as long as Neukölln workers' children refreshed themselves here on Wannsee beach. And how the kids happily recovered from the backyard city fug, testified a beautiful photo on the wall. In front of a villa façade thickly covered with ivy, the students rejoiced in a large group shot on the terrace facing the Wannsee into the year 1988.
For three years, the chronicle of the house is silent, because some people must not have liked it. After all, the exuberant merriment of the children generated a certain noise level. The Germans had long been convinced that quiet was the first duty of a citizen, no matter what was done in the quiet. Some homeowners who had saved their villas from the Nazi era in order to enjoy their Adolf pensions in peace had complained. Perhaps that was why this facility had been closed as a school hostel. Who knew? Sometimes even some old granny can make a lot of noise, even though she had once been a child.
And now, after 50 years, history has been brought back to the point here:
The historical place. In this house, on Jan. 20, 1942, fourteen top officials of the ministerial bureaucracy and the SS negotiated the organizational implementation of the decision to deport and murder the Jews of Europe to the East, under the chairmanship of SS-Obergruppenführer and head of the Reich Security Main Office Heydrich. The meeting was called the "Wannsee Conference" after its location. The minutes of the conference, prepared by Adolf Eichmann, were not found in the files of the Foreign Office until 1947.
For the 50th anniversary, the house was restored as a memorial to this ghastly conference of atrocities. One promised oneself probably so thereby only an apparent peace outward for the mansion owners here. Who wanted to make a noise here because of such repulsiveness? Besides, the initiators were probably thinking of getting an indulgence for what had happened. Only they were still a little afraid of their feelings of guilt by securing and monitoring the entrances in such a way. Was this supposed to be a confessional of the society? It wondered when people would want to sit here again and decide what to do, to take this thing to the extreme again? The lessons can also be picked up differently.
Now the story was up to our necks and we left the place of the terrible memory. There was not a spark in any of us to approve of such a thing. On the way out, we were still longing for a catalog, so that we could memorize these abominations piece by piece at home. However, such a catalog was not available. The staff handed us only two leaflets and held out a strange questionnaire à la Burger King "How were we? The questions followed the usual patterns. If someone liked something, he was given the opportunity to mark a corresponding zero.
How should one actually like murder? One set of questions took the whole matter to the extreme, namely: "How interesting did you find the individual rooms of the exhibition?" Here you could even choose between "interesting", "less interesting" or "I don't remember" for "mass shootings", "deportation", "death camps", "Auschwitz" or "concentration camp". And at the end there was the sentence: "Thank you very much for your effort!"
However, we did not let ourselves be thanked for such an effort, because it was too barbaric for us. We could not consider history as a commodity! So we finally left the place of horror and fell in our thoughts to the most vehement questions:
How was it possible for people to do this to each other?
How was it possible that one kind of people queued up for gassing and were herded along by another kind?
How was it possible that one party tortured the other to death without one comrade helping the other to prevent its death or damage?
How was it possible that everyone complied with orders while the real culprits sat at their desks?
How was it possible that everyone thought of themselves first to save their own lives?
How was it possible that everyone was still lugging around his suitcase in horror?
How was it possible that the dead still had their gold teeth knocked out?
How was it possible that one party said, "Life is when the other dies?"
How was it possible that it became so possible?
It seemed to us as if they had promised each other in mouth and hand that one would forgive the other his death in the most absurd folly, which normally no sensible person could ever commit.
And how we quarreled about the people who called themselves German, although we were counted among them by our identity card. But what kind of people is it?
What does it have to do with the Categorical Imperative?
What are the dreams of a ghost-seer?
Who must complete the circle to which he is destined?
Who is righteous and morally good?
Where is the joy of the gods?
Where is the daughter from Elysium?
Why does the Lord command your ways in the Christian West?
Why do they call themselves Christians?
With this headache, our stomach growled at us: "First comes the food, then comes morale!" So now, in our desire to see the food as the next thing, we could no longer think, we set out to find the food in the nearby German Democratic Republic.