GBL 1/GBL 1.iso/gay_text/nazis.txt

Text File | 1992-10-15 | 19.0 KB | 305 lines

NAZIS ON MY MIND by Zipper Bird

-- American student liquidated by love in land of the Fuehrer


Everyone who visits Munich (where Hitler rose to power) goes to the
Hofbrauhaus, famous for its festive Bavarian atmosphere. There on an
evening in the summer of 1978, the humid air in the main room smelled
like stale beer and cigarette smoke, and there was little "festiveness"
to be found, except for a few drunken tourists who were talking about
all the places they'd "hit" while touring Europe. Slumped behind a
table on a bench, trying to appear non-touristy by staring down  other
tourists, I peered at the one-liter mug of beer that was placed in
front of me by a multi-stein carrying Sieglinda type, probably the
daughter of Helga of the SS. The beer reminded me of urine, and I
wondered how I was going to drink a whole liter of it, as I looked at a
plate of sausage being served at the next table. "Their whole meal,
beer and sausage, will look the same coming out as it does going in" I
thought to myself.

Tourists were out in full force, both English-speaking and German, as
were a number of older locals, x-Nazis no doubt, especially the two
geezers in lederhosen sitting at a corner table. Lederhosen were a
favorite costume of Hitler, during his rabble rousing years. Hitler
knew that any cause, no matter how idiotic, if put across with enough
zeal, could be successful. Other old men, who appeared nailed to their
benches like human beer conduits, sat alone and gaped at the tourists.
The two in lederhosen looked sedated enough, probably having had more
than a couple of beers, and I was trying to screw up my courage to ask
them the burning question of the evening, as I thought of ways to
phrase it in German: "Good evening, would you be so kind as to direct
me to the beer hall where your beloved Fuehrer threw his fit?" a smile
crossing my lips as I went over the German phrasing in my mind. I
imagined the one with the pig eyes, to whom I decided to direct the
question, pointing to a room with the sign "DELOUSING SHOWER" above,
which I'd have to go through first, in order to be made pure, before
visiting the sacred room of the famous 1923 beer hall putsch. That's
where Hitler, a mere anarchist bum at the time, held up his beer stein,
and as a heavy machine gun made its appearance at his side, he took a
dramatic swallow, then dashed his stein to the floor, rushed to the
center of the crowded room, leaped up on a table, and fired his famous
shot into the ceiling. He then forced his way through the dumfounded
throng to the podium and proclaimed "the national socialist revolution
has begun." A bit premature for his coup d'etat, which didn't happen
for another ten years, he got arrested and thrown in Landsberg prison
where he wrote Mein Kampf. Still in my daydream, I was thinking of
other things to tell "pig eyes" like: "Did you know your beloved
Fuehrer only had one testicle -- yeah that's right, and he probably had
crabs too...he's the one who should have been the first in the
shower...Hitler's own niece bumped herself off because he could only
screw her up the ass after he shit on her face, while a dog fucked him
up the ass...and you think I need a shower!" I thought about my
translation of all that, some of it nonsense, into colloquial Low
German and laughed to myself, reasoning that even if I made one little
mistake, they probably wouldn't know what I was talking about. I
envisioned a series of "bittes?" and standing there for an hour trying
to make them understand the subtlety of my insults, some true...well,
the one about his screwing his niece and her suicide anyway...Hitler
loved dogs too. Whether dogs loved him is open to speculation.

Second thoughts crept into my mind about asking or telling pig eyes in
lederhosen anything. Perhaps the lederhosen couple were barely aware of
the Final Solution when they were young men. They could have been
residents of some remote town, braved the harsh winter outside
Leningrad serving as ordinary soldiers on the Russian Front, lost
family in the war, come home disillusioned to find their whole world
upsidedown. Now they wear lederhosen and come to Hofbrauhaus to recall
a simpler, happier time of innocence. "Who am I?" I thought, "just a
student of German history, not even a Jew. Of the six million who died
in the Holocaust, not one was even an ancestor of mine as far as I
know."

My attraction for the Holocaust begins when I felt swept away during my
first German history course as an undergraduate in Binghamton, New
York. Embodied in the Holocaust is all the drama and questions that a
hungry mind could feed on for a lifetime. The complexity of issues and
theories is staggering. I found myself drawn into the implications of
Hannah Arendt's concept "the banality of evil," which she used to
describe the banal environment in which people, especially in
beurocratic jobs, carried out the Final Solution. It wasn't groups of
depraved carpet chewing maniacs who carried out the vast workings of
mass extermination. It was a large proportion of ordinary people who
followed orders, shirking moral responsibility by blaming others -- the
ones who gave the orders. It was the railroad station master who did
his job unquestioningly, even though transports consisting of box cars
crammed with doomed people were crossing his tracks. "Oh it was awful,"
he would say later "the sound of all those people screaming and
crying...it was so awful for ME to have to endure that sound every
day...It was a difficult job and I did my best...and the smell..."

As my thoughts began to race, the beerhouse air started getting too
stuffy and smoke-filled for me to breathe, and I loosened my
shirtcollar another button. The thought popped into my head that
compared with the people in the transports, I was much better off in my
minor discomfort...after all, I was only suffering jetlag and humidity,
nothing in comparison to what they endured... I'd read too much about
the Holocaust without experiencing it. Sometimes I felt like the
gawkers who rush to disaster sights. At the same time, I was immersed
in the scholarly issues deeply, wrestling with the ironies, feeling
like I was reliving horrors as I sat safely in the library at Yale
reading about them, rarely spending a weekend away from it. The time to
choose a topic for my doctoral thesis was at hand and this trip to
Germany, my first, was supposed to help me decide among several
possible options.

Not only was there the psychological burden of reliving a past I never
experienced, I started to face a moral dilemma in my everyday life. I
could be blind to some harm I was doing, ignoring my parents, putting
emotional relationships on the back burner, or even missing some larger
picture in my own narrow focus to get a doctorate. Was I going to teach
college, and be consumed by thought in the process, or be a fulfilled
human being. Jogging out to the local park in New Haven and having a
stranger suck me off was not fulfilling, but at least I wasn't letting
sexuality rule my life. I just didn't have time for lovers and although
I met a few students at Yale with whom I really could have become
involved, I had to consider how much of myself I had to give to
someone, especially when I was totally absorbed in school work. Whether
one examines the political, social, psychological or economic reasons
for the German government's adoption of official policy of race
extermination, the Holocaust remains unfathomable, and I found myself
wrapped up in the contradictions, dwelling on the darkest aspects of
human nature, my own included, in an attempt to answer the question
"why did it happen?"

After an hour of Hofbrauhaus gaeity -- it seemed like I was the only
faggot in th place -- I decided to get up and politely ask someone on
the way out the location of the Burgerbraukeller, the site of the
famous beer hall putsch. Just as I was about to get up, an American
wearing an orange polyester shirt stood up at a neighboring bench and
said enthusiastically, "hey, anyone wanna see the Hitler room?" Myself
and a few others followed him through a doorway leading to a smaller
room which contained six tables. This was a side room where Hitler
often met with early founders of the Nazi movement. I knew the beer
hall putsch of 1923 did not take place in Hofbrauhaus, but in another
nearby beer hall, the Burgerbraukeller, to which the American kindly
directed me. I thanked him and left his informal tour group, just as it
was headed to another Hofbrauhaus sight, the place were Hitler and
other Nazi prominents probably pee-peed.

After 3 hours of touring historic beer halls, I stood in the quiet
cobble stone street feeling dizzy from beer and jetlag. I was also
lonely. Almost as penniless as Hitler when he roamed from men's shelter
to men's shelter, hawking his handpainted postcards in the street while
ranting to other bums about the architecture he'd one day create, I
realized I had only a half hour to make it back to the budget "youth
hostel" where I'd checked in earlier that day. "The front door is to be
locked at 11 p.m.," the desk clerk had told me in a tone and manner
that was reminiscent of the staccato delivery used by Gestapo in
Hollywood movies. He even had the same thinning slicked-back hair and
wire-rimmed glasses as the protypical Nazi. As my Taxi drove up to the
hostel, there he was at the door, the same grease ball (who no doubt
would have made great lubrication for the extermination machinery of
the Final Solution) who checked me in, turning his key in the door,
locking it. He stood there on the other side of the glass door looking
at me, a sly grin on his face, pointing to his watch. I looked at my
watch. I was 20 seconds late. I felt like shouting "Well, break out a
cannister of Zyclon-B, I'm twenty fucking seconds late!" Zyclon-B is
the poison that what used in the gas chambers, a powder which, upon
contact with air, would vaporize into a lethal gas. Instead of shouting
anything, I tried to look helpless, whimpering a little for effect, and
he grudgingly opened the door, giving me a short lecture on the
importance of following time schedules precisely. "I always rely on my
kindness to strangers" I said out loud to myself, paraphrasing Blanche
Dubois, as I went down the hall to my room.

The plain walls of the spartan single room stared at me as I lay on the
bed, Nazis goose stepping through my mind, thoughts about tomorrow's
trip to Dachau tormenting me. "Lucky not to be going to Dachau in a box
car...or even having to spend the night in one of the large rooms down
the hall which had bunk beds with as many as 30 prisoners, I mean
youths, snoring away" I thought.

Still awake 3 hours later, and starting to feel horny, I decided to
take a shower in the large hostel bathroom which was much like those
found in gymnasium locker rooms. Maybe I could wash the Nazis out of my
mind by taking a nice hot shower and beating off a few times. There was
an adjoining room that had several toilet stalls which opened onto a
large shower area with no drying room. "These krauts are so fucking
efficient" I thought to myself, "they have you dry off in the same room
you shit in." Just as I was entering the shower room, a handsome dark
haired Italian looking guy, strong body, lower half wrapped in a towel,
went into a toilet stall. I picked a showerhead that was within sight
of his stall and started to soap up. I could feel his eyes on me,
looking through the crack in his stall door, as I started to get hard.
"What the hell" I thought, I'll flash him and if he isn't interested,
he won't do anything. I felt wickedly delightful, as I rubbed soap over
my chest and felt my cock growing larger all by itself. Soon, he
stepped out and joined me in the shower. He nodded to me smiling
slightly, and fixed his light brown eyes on my cock. He looked
intensely handsome, as I nodded back, turning to hide my hardon as much
as I could. When he took off his towel, I couldn't believe my eyes. His
huge uncut cock was already 8 inches long, at least, and getting bigger
by the second. The hair pattern on his strong chest and body was
beautiful, and he had thick bushy black pubic hair that extended up to
his navel. He began stroking his long dark uncut cock and I moved
closer and just watched as his beautiful foreskin moved back and forth
over a dark swollen knob. His cock kept getting longer and the motion
of his foreskin over his shiney wet knob started to hypnotize me.
Looking up into his expressive Italian eyes, I felt ignited by their
glowing amber color which exuded the craven lust of a wild animal.

I thought to myself that if greaseball dropped a cannister of Zyklon-B
into the shower at that moment, I'd still survive, just to fuck with
this handsome, hairy Italian wolf stud. Feeling his large hands on my
shoulders as he pushed down, wanting me to kneel and suck his cock,
which I did eagerly, he knelt down following me and we 69d on the
shower room floor as a spray of warm water spilled over us. His 11 inch
tool, for all of its length, was of moderate width and I was able to
take it into my mouth easily, retracting his succulent foreskin with my
lips and tongue as I sucked hard. A wave of desire to feel his
beautiful cock up my ass swept over me along with streams of warm
water, as we changed positions and began kissing long, hard and deep.
We felt each other all over and he sucked my nipples, using his tongue
expertly, until they were both hard. I felt his tongue travelling down
my body as he sucked my cock and balls, his finger entering my ass hole
with urgency. He could sense what I wanted and enjoyed teasing me about
it. I raised my legs and he slowly aimed his 11 inch member at my
waiting hole and leaned forward into me, fitting as much in as he
could. The fucking grew so violent I was slipping across the floor with
each thrust of his strong pelvis and had to finally brace my back
against a wall. Low moans of mutual pleasure caused a hum in the shower
room, as sound reflected off the tile walls. I felt as though his eyes,
tongue, and cock were burning out every want and need that I'd ever
had. I felt like I was being reshaped physically, and that when I came,
I might explode into the universe and become part of it.

His gutteral groaning crescendoed to where my body was resonating to
its frequency and then, after a period where I fell practically
unconscious with bliss, there was only soft moaning and the sound of
the shower. Seconds later, I was back in the womb, feeling safe and
whole, Still on the shower room floor, covered with a load of semen
which was being gently rubbed over my stomach muscles by his
beautifully formed fingers, I was in the arms of a young Italian whose
name I didn't even know. I knew he was Italian because he'd uttered a
few words during our primal scene, like "amore."

As my train was pulling into Florence, Giovanni was on the platform
waiting for me, wringing his hands in anxious anticipation. Hanging out
an open window and waving, I felt goose bumps cover my body as I
spotted him standing there before he saw me, a look of concern on his
face, worried that I might not be on the train. He finally saw me and
started jumping up and down like a child.

I thought back to the morning before, seeing Giovanni off at the train
station from Munich and waving goodbye. Giovanni spoke very little
German, his English was bad also. We spoke in French. I was explaining
to him why I couldn't go back to Florence with him that morning, about
having to go to Dachau, which is right outside of Munich, and how it
was an important stop on my study tour since I wasn't travelling to
Poland. He was an apprentice glass-blower in a factory in Florence and
had to be back that evening or lose his job. Partly because of our
broken French, and partly because of the nature of my studies, he
didn't really understand why I had to go to Dachau concentration camp
that day and couldn't go to Florence with him right then. He didn't
want to be a day without me. I had trouble with it in my own mind and
was was wondering how I would explain to him that after staying with
him in Florence for a few days, I would have to continue my study tour
to: Berlin, where Hitler shot himself; Berchtesgaden, his Eagle's Nest
retreat; Vienna, where he failed his entrance exam to the Art Academy
and ended up selling handpainted postcards in the street; and Linz,
where he grew up. How would Giovanni understand my obsession with
Hitler.

As Giovanni's train started pulling out, I began shuddering, a phantom
polar wind freezing my flesh on this warm summer day. I had a vision of
his his train as a transport that was headed to one of the
extermination camps in Poland where he would be gassed, part of the
Final Solution. At once realizing how irrational this image was, a calm
began to spread over me as fragmentary memories of the previous eight
hours spent with Giovanni started to form a warm feeling in the center
of my chest. Whatever Hitler's plan was for a Final Solution, my
personal philosophy would have to take another track for my mental well
being, and I couldn't allow myself to be drawn deeper into the
maelstrom of delusionary confusion and horror that my studies in the
Holocaust were causing.

Standing in the bleak square of Dachau concentration camp, surrounded
by plain buildings, guard towers and barbed wire, I felt out of place,
liquidated from lack of sleep and blissful love for Giovanni. I
experienced a revelation while walking back to the youth hostel after
watching Giovanni's train pull out earlier in the morning. Instead of
bearing the heavy emotional burden, the thousands of deaths that had
taken place in this location weighing on me, I felt lighter than air,
as if floating above the ground, in the knowledge that my personal
final solution was in "amore." Is there anything of greater worth in
this world to seek, than love?

The years of vicarious suffering I did during my intense study of the
Holocaust were not wasted. I learned a lot from it. I chose another
concept of Hannah Arendt's as my guide for personal conduct in the face
of potential persecution, as a gay person. That is, to be a "conscious
pariah," aware that I'm a minority, and to recognize predjudice when it
happens, confronting it, or fleeing to safety if it escalates to
another Final Solution.

After the first month of living in Florence with Giovanni in a small
apartment filled with beautiful glass objects he'd blown and shaped
himself, during which time he showed me the many artistic riches of
Italy, our attraction and love for each other didn't seem to have an
end. I telephoned my thesis advisor at Yale and withdrew from the
doctoral program.

THE END