The Last Time They Say They Saw Their Daddy Was In A Glass Cage In Jerusalem

The following semi-fictional piece was written for Drunkenbastardman back in August 2005.

Several characters are (very loosely) based on real people.

The fate of one of those people (who later, to my complete surprise and dismay, joined up with the Gadaffi regime) remains unknown.

The Last Time They Say They Saw Their Daddy Was In A Glass Cage In Jerusalem

I was talking the other day to Saul Schreiber.

‘Hey,’ I said, ‘how was Max’s birthday party?’

‘Oy,’ groaned Saul.

‘That bad?’

‘Oh, you can’t believe. I nearly made a Nazi cry. Well, actually she wasn’t a Nazi. But she probably is now.’
‘What happened?’

‘Eh, it’s a long story. All right, so you know Max is going out with a Saudi girl …’

‘Yeah.’

‘So nearly all Max’s friends are Muslim or Arab, that whole scene. So we go to this restaurant for his birthday and we’re having a nice time. Everybody’s talking and getting along and then we go off to some shisha place in Edgeware. And by now everybody’s had a few glasses of wine—'

‘They were drinking?’ I asked.

‘Hey, I wasn’t exactly keeping strictly glatt kosher myself, if you know what I mean,’ said Saul.

‘I get it.’

‘So we go to this place and I’m having a really nice conversation with this guy, Mustafa. He’s a Libyan Arab. We’re getting along pretty well. We’re talking about Alfarabi and Averroes and Andalusian poetry. This guy is smart and articulate. We’re connecting. And then the conversation turns over to ethnicity and Max, that bastard Max, has to go and ask me if I consider myself an African first or a Jew first or a European first. And the whole fucken table turns around and looks at me. The whole evening, the whole evening I manage to keep that little detail under wraps because I know, I know exactly what’s going to happen. And it’s exactly what happened.’

‘They wanted to talk about Israel,’ I ventured.

‘Yes. Exactly. Now first of all I’m not a fucken Israeli.’

‘But you are fucking an Israeli,’ I said.

‘Hey, you leave my girlfriend outta this. That doesn’t have anything to do with anything. I was born in Belgium, I grew up in Johannesburg and I live in London. What the fuck do I have to do with Israel? I mean, didn’t these fuckers notice the way I behaved. Did I ever once during dinner say something remotely like, “Hey, so you’re a Muslim. What’s the deal with suicide bombers?” Did I say, “You’re an African Arab, how’s that whole Darfur genocide thing coming along for you?” “You’re Iranian, eh? Why does your government hang sixteen-year-old gay boys in public places?” No. That’s just fucken rude. But with me it’s straight away an inquisition. All of a sudden I’m sitting here having to defend a country I don’t even live in. Do I fucken look like Alan Derschowitz?’

‘And another thing,’ said Saul, ‘before he gets on my case, Mustafa has to go and tell me he has nothing against the Jewish people. In fact, just ask his girlfriend, he’s a big fan of Woody Allen. “Dude, I wasn’t even thinking of accusing you of anti-Semitism”, I say. “Oh no”, he says, “an Arab can’t be an anti-Semite because, you see, Arabs are Semites.” Oh give me a fucken break. Now I am starting to get nervous. That’s the most spurious crap I’ve heard in a long time. First of all, the term “anti-Semitism” was coined by some professorial German fuckwit in the eighteenth century and his whole intention was to coin a term for Jew hatred that would seem “scientific” and acceptable. He wanted people to say “I’m an anti-Semite”, to say it loud and say it proud. Sure, if you wanna get pedantic you can say Arabs speak a Semitic language. But nobody, unless they’ve eaten a sheet of blotter acid, speaks of anti-Semitism and thinks they’re talking about Osama bin Laden or Muammar Gaddafi. Second of all, that kind of logic, that’s like the Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan of Alabama getting up and declaring, “Ah ain’t no dagnab racist. See, because ah am a white man. And whites are a race, therefore ah cain’t be no racist.”’

‘Okay,’ continued Saul, ‘so I’m dragged into a debate with Mustafa and to be fair it’s not actually torture. I mean, he’s an intelligent, articulate guy. He’s charismatic and respectful and we’re arguing passionately, but there’s a good vibe between us. Hell, I’ve even used some of the arguments he’s throwing at me against my verkrampte Zionist friends. But his girlfriend!’ Saul rolled his eyes. ‘She’s sitting next to him …’

‘I can see where this is going,’ I said.

‘His girlfriend, she’s German. She’s a convert to Islam. That doesn’t have anything to do with anything. But she met Mustafa through some kinda evangelical program and she’s the one who converted. That should tell how damn charismatic Mustafa is. Anyway, so Ilsa over here, she’s coming out with all these sanctimonious, snide little digs. We’re having a serious discussion and she’s coming on with this smug attitude. Really offensive. I mean, she was on her high horse, it was so fucking high if I was at the same altitude I’d be suffering a fucken nosebleed. My man Mustafa and I are now getting onto the heavy shit—justice and reconciliation. If Socrates and Plato were in the room they’d be applauding the fucken probity of this symposium. And right at this moment Ilsa, She Wolf of the SS over here, decides to make some nasty little fucken holier-than-thou remark. I mean, of all the fucken people in the room she should be the one thinking twice about poking the Jew with a stick. I wasn’t angry. Well, not really. I just wanted her to butt out and let the grownups talk. So I said it. The words, they left my mouth even before my brain had a chance to process them.’

‘What did you say?’ I asked.

‘I turned to her and said, “A German is lecturing me about justice?”’

‘Ouch.’

‘She went white. The blood just drained from her face. She didn’t say a word. For five minutes she just sat there. Stunned.’

‘See, you know what you did wrong?’ I said. ‘You didn’t do things the right way. You should have prefixed your remarks. First you should have told her you have nothing against the German people. In fact, just ask your girlfriend, you’re a big fan of Werner Herzog. Then you can say any kind of obnoxious shit you like and it’s automatically all right.’

‘Maybe,’ said Saul. ‘So she sits there for five minutes not saying a word, which was quite all right with me. Then she gets up and puts her hand on my shoulder and leans over and says to me, “I can’t sit here anymore. You hit below the belt.” And she goes and sits on the other side of the room. Now, of course, I feel like shit. I’m sitting here feeling guilty.’

‘Hey,’ I said, ‘if she doesn’t like the smell of gas, she should stay out of the kitchen.’

‘I’m feeling guilty and she’s sitting there looking at me like I’m the nastiest thing she’s ever seen,’ said Saul. ‘And it’s not just me that’s getting these dirty looks. She’s glaring at Mustafa like he’s Judas. I don’t know if he didn’t hear what I said or if he didn’t think it was so bad but he’s still yakking away with me like we’re old buddies. Max, thank God, has changed the subject. We’re now talking about colonialism and Mustafa is explaining to me how the Arab invasion and settlement and forced conversion of North Africa was not a glaring example of colonialism but something completely different. But you know me, I’m such a fucken dolt I can’t understand how that could possibly be. So we’re talking like this for, like, maybe half an hour. And then I decide to get up and go over and apologise to Ilsa. I go over and sit down next to her. I’m quiet and respectful and I say sorry. I’m talking a proper apology. No equivocations. No I’m sorry but … Straight up. “I was a prick. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made that crack.”’

Saul,’ I said, ‘I’m impressed. Secretly deep down you’re actually a mensch.’

‘No wait,’ said Saul. ‘This is where it gets good. So she turns and she looks at me and she’s getting teary and she’s starting to breathe heavily and I can just see it coming – an attack of self-righteousness. And I’m thinking, “Please girl. Don’t go there. I said I’m sorry let’s just move on before things get nasty.” So she says something to me about her parents. I’m not exactly sure what, she was so worked up. Fucken hell. I am an insensitive bastard, I know. But I’m not going to publicly accuse somebody’s parents of being Nazi war criminals.’

‘Even if their name was Adolf Eichmann Junior?’ I asked.

‘Even if their name was Adolf Eichmann Junior and the last time they say they saw their daddy was in a glass cage in Jerusalem,’ said Saul.

‘Anyway,’ continued Saul. ‘So I just sit and nod my head and look contrite. And then it comes, bam! She says to me, “You don’t know how difficult it is for my generation. We’re always learning new lessons.” Whoa, pull the fucken brakes on that self-righteous cattle truck. It was a fucken picnic for my grandparents’ generation? I’m sorry that they didn’t learn any lessons like your generation but they were too busy being dead! You can’t be older than thirty three—it’s difficult for your generation …?’

‘So what did you say to her?’ I asked.

‘I didn’t say anything. I just sat there listening to her going on about how hard it was for her. And all the time I’m thinking about when I was six years and I was sitting in the lounge listening to my grandmother and her cronies talking. And they’re all complaining to her about how bitter and unpleasant my Aunty Bella is—she was my grandmother’s cousin. And my grandmother says, “Oh well, you see. You have to understand why Bella is like she is. When she was back in Poland the Germans used her baby for target practice. They threw him in the air and shot him. They thought it was a big joke.” I’d have liked to see Ilsa try her martyr act with my Aunty Bella.’

‘But you wanna know what the worst part of this whole thing was?’ Saul asked. ‘The worst part was that for two weeks I felt like a complete and total shit. I couldn’t sleep. I had so much guilt coming up through my system. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, sweating and sick with this panicky feeling, just totally guilty. Why did I have to go and make a crack like that? I mean, thank God I didn’t have her phone number. Otherwise there’d be that horrible three o’clock in the morning phone call … “Hello, Ilsa. It’s Saul. Yeah, I know it’s late but I just had to call. I just want you to know how absolutely awful I feel. Yeah, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry my ancestors went and nearly got themselves exterminated by your ancestors. Yes, yes, it was damn inconsiderate of them …”’