The Eve of Fräulein Hell
Tuesday, January 27th, 2009Fall 2008
1900 Hours
Destination Unknown
True Account in the Life of That Israel Girl
Mischief finds me in this seemingly benign city I call home. Such was the case last fall when I ventured out upon an adventure to make new friends. I found myself at a networking event where an intimate group met for dinner at a swanky restaurant in a celeb part of town. The set-up: Asian IT Consultant greets me from a reserved table. As she introduces herself, she immediately goes to work.
“Your profile says you’re a writer. What do you write?”
“Just this and that,” I reply.
“What exactly is this and that?” she presses.
“A little blog,” I respond.
“What kind of blog?” she pushes.
“A pro-Israel take on foreign policy,” That Israel Girl [me] answers.
She nods. “My husband is from Iran.”

Iran
“Persian?” I ask.
She laughs, then shakes her head. “No, from Iran.”
“That’s really nice,” I say.
“Lee should be here by now,” she checks her watch. “He’s always late. A girlfriend of mine is also going to join us. She’s German. Hope you don’t mind?”
An Iranian and a German, what luck, but shall I say, interesting…
A few minutes later, Lee shows up. He’s a throwback to the rat pack days both in age and black fedora. Mr. Rat Pack wastes no time launching into a tirade against then, President Bush. I flash a smile that says, I’m committed to diplomacy tonight.
An imaginary movie clipboard clamps down: Take One–Scene One–Action: Through my Semitic eyes, she enters the restaurant in slow motion. She’s the quintessential hausfrau; blond hair, tight bun placed high atop her head, plump physique, and buttoned-up attire. While many Germans are smitten by debauchery, it appears she’ll have none of that. She takes a seat with gracious determination in spite of her rotund shape. Her German friend has arrived.
I’ll call my new found friend, Schlotzklink. She explains the company she owns markets to ethnic groups. “Niche marketing?” I ask. She nods, with a sweet smile. Mr. Rat Pack then takes the lead as he pours out his “love for Germany.” His German lessons are really progressing. He can’t wait to go back there. He turns to me and asks about the subject of my blog. When I tell him, he asks me, “Why won’t the Jews just let the Germans go?” Stunned, I reply, “We have.” But what I’m really

Germany
thinking is…Everyone has the right to redemption. Germany’s deep investments in Iran however, a country led by a dangerous, neo-Nazi regime, makes me wonder if they really want redemption. How did I get hooked up with this crowd again?
Scholtzklink comes alive, “What is your blog about?”
“Israel,” I reply.
“Israel?” She asks as if the Jewish State were a despicable aftertaste. “In Germany, I lived right next to a mosque. I used to love to hear the Muslims pray five times a day. So beautiful,” she adds, with distinct haughtiness. Wait a minute. Is she challenging me to a duel? The room goes deaf, then black as my eyes focus on her through a rifle’s telescopic lens. It’s just her and me. Game on, fraulein.
The waitress asks her if she wants a drink. She’s hesitant. “No..no thank you.” Our waitress departs as Schlotzklink leans forward, then speaks in hushed tone. “Germans get depressed. It’s very cold in Germany. A lot of people don’t know that it gets dark in winter around 3:30 in the afternoon. The lack of sun makes a lot of us depressed. I used to go into deep depressions because of it.” Hhm, alcohol augments depression, I calculate. “Have a drink, it’ll relax you,” I say. My thoughts spiral deeper
into Machevellianism as I dream up a covert operation involving the sale of massive amounts of hard alcohol into Germany. Given the German police’s recent ban on the Israeli flag during Gaza protests, yet their “ability” to overlook Germans illegally singing Nazi songs in public, I’d say such fantasies are warranted.
Schlotzklink continues, “The gap between those poverty stricken in Germany versus the wealthy is becoming really pronounced. The poorer Germans live near and in the region that was formerly East Germany. That’s where I lived.”
How thrilling, I muse to myself. “How unfortunate,” I comment.
As the night wears on, I can’t wait for its end. Welcome to Fraulein hell. Wait a minute, I’ve been here before–flashback to past dalliances with a pure blooded German boy. Schlotzklink’s prince charming, my Gestapo nightmare. The kind of guy she’d find enticing…”I had a boyfriend who was born and raised in Germany,” I carefully begin. Then the dagger, “He was quite wealthy. Spoiled me to death.” Snow White’s wicked queen glares at me from across the table, still I continue, “His father was CEO of a German international, multi-conglomerate.” I raise my eyebrows and smirk. The music comes to an abrupt halt.
When the check comes, everyone rushes to cover her many drinks as she complains about her dire economic straits. I offer nothing but my share. Outside on the boulevard, we say our adieus. Our obligatory hand shakes and manufactured
smiles promise we’ll never see each other again. Schlotzklink gives me a sick smile. I almost bite into her poison apple. Then I stop, and remember who I am. Other Jews might want to take a look at this anti-Semitism that awaits them beyond their realm.
Although my performance was spot on charmingly girlish, the night leaves me uneasy. I confess to you that when I was a child, my sleep was haunted by nightmares of Nazi’s hunting me down in the ruins of Europe. Somewhere along the way things changed–I changed. Israel found me–empowered me. And now I have no fear.
Sources:
(1) “German Police ban Israeli flags,” Benjamin Weinthal, Jerusalem Post.com, Jan. 14, 2009
(2) “The Country with Real Leverage in Tehran,” Diethard Pallaschke, Wall Street Journal Europe, July 10, 2008
(3) “Schlotzklink” referenced from “Fascist Women,” university paper prepared by That Israel Girl for “Women In History”







