Three nazi tales: II, The Facebook

As recently as two weeks ago I came across an article at a Spanish newspaper (in Spanish) written by a well known spanish polemist (this site is unluckily also in Spanish, though there is a non-working British flag in the upper left which should allow one to change the language); a regular one of the neoconservative, pan-nationalcatholic TV-channel intereconomía. The author was disappointed that no official tribute is payed to the blue division anymore.

The blue division consisted of spaniards which voluntarily enrolled to fight WW2 as part of the nazi army. This broadly makes them nazis from my point of view. Most of them came from franco's army, which broadly makes them fascists for me. I'd even say that there isn't any difference in here. More about the blue division can be found in the wikipedia, I was delaying the link on purpose to have you read my opinion first.

As members of the nazi army they fought the Russian campaign. Serving the nazi army. The polemist claims that they fought with real courage and honor, and that this makes a great score. He also remarks as merits of the blue division that they could once have raped a russian girl, but they didn't though they had a clear chance and big urge to do so.

franco's children. So far so good.

I read this article through one of my facebook contacts: a young boy once actively involved in the recent #spanishrevolution which demands more democracy among other stuff. He was in full agreement with the polemist. He argues that what really matters is that "they died for their ideals, whatever they were"; that they gave everything for nothing --quite a pity, I shall guess...--; and that all of this makes them "the last great heroes of this country" (this last in capitals, which I refuse to reproduce in here).

A cold opinion in the internet, sharp as the side view of the letters I write right now. Words of my generation. A reminder that time is cyclic, that we've already been in this planet for a while and history is exhausted, and that we have no other fate than playing it over and over again as the fractal piece of a rusty pianola.

Three nazi tales: I, Oranienburgerstraße.

At the corner Friedrichstraße with Oranienburgerstraße there was a pizza restaurant. I didn't use to go there: too expensive for me. But it was near the place I study and could see it everyday. Two weeks ago I walked by with two friends who were visiting me.

The place isn't a restaurant anymore. It was closed. The inside was dusty and the furniture removed out of its place, chopped into splinters. At each and every one of the wide windows someone had painted gross jewish crosses from the bottom to the top. I double checked the calendar: it was 2011. I double checked the place: it was Berlin-Mitte.

We left the place towards Brandenburger Tor. A shade of sadness. We slipped through a bunch of Syrian people demonstrating for the current president of their country who has been recently accused of crimes against the humanity by Amnesty International. "We'll blast you all", one could read on their shirts, or see the smiling face of president al-asad. "We'll blast you all", my sorrow sang.

Berlin, Warschauerstraße

The walk between Warschauerstraße and my room at a student's residence at Ostbahnhof was like playing a ramshackle piano on the dislocated tiled floor. That, whenever I walked the tiled floor. There was also this trip down the stairs from the high bridge at Warschauerstraße, where you could fuck around the dirt underneath, fuck up a lad or a chick who wouldn't complain about the sour smell; then walk the narrow vanishing path while any short of tick could get attached as it jumped out of the weeds which now and ever tried to erase the walkway; pass the tumbledown cottage, once --if ever-- a kind of train relay station; already near to the student's residence the huge Berghain disco stands, over and over again chosen the best one in the world, whoever decides it. The companion as good: any drunkard who got so far; a couple, an orgy shook the bushes, laughed the waxing waning moon which slipped roundly at either side; some children playing dirty vodka or rum sat on the curb of a road driving nowhere.

For a last time: back to the stairs descending from the high high bridge over the train rails, the bridge itself being Warschauerstraße. And the stairs hanging held by an armless night, with all the majesty of a suicide drop. And this was my preferred way back home.

For a last time, I say, cause they aren't there anymore. Now only a wailing of wind rocks the bridge, the soul. And my drunk steps, and this void. And I must walk back playing the quivering tiles, which soon won't quiver anymore. And as I pass by I see the old path changed into a neat BMX rink. The relay station is now being build into a railway museum or whatever. Yeah, the disco is still there. You can get ice cream inside. And whoever it chooses, s/he'll choose it again as the best one in the world. But people like me, the beaten downs, are not allowed in anymore. Instead, mama kids pretending to be whores but who wouldn't fuck --even suck a shit-- when sunk on the bitter night.

So this is what it means the fall of the Berlin wall. Capitalism as a busy beaver working back and fort, to and fro; fixing up whatever soviet disruption remains. Like a come of age of the whole city, mature enough that it doesn't need me anymore.