Munich: A Third Generation Grudge
By Eanet Fischer

Standing in the desolate wind scorched Feldherrnhalle on the Odeonsplatz in Munich, I am at a loss. Ten minutes ago I was sipping tea in a warm café off Marienplatz and now after emerging from a side street, the spiritual heart of National Socialism is standing unassumingly in front of me.
 
And it is flanked in modern coffee houses and high-end car dealerships.

"I need a second," I tell my German friend Elizabeth who seems bemused, pauses, considers saying something and then walks off cheerfully.

I grew up to an onslaught of holocaust history in Sunday school. I've seen most of the Hollywoodizations and ubiquitous Third Reich documentaries on The History Channel, but here I am standing toe to toe with birthplace of the most heinous chapter of recent Western history.

And it is much smaller than I expected.

I stand on sandy, iced-over tile work trying to work myself into frenzy, but it feels contrived, and I give up.  On the surrounding street a tall, slender, middle age couple in scarves and matching pea coats walk briskly with their heads down.  They disappear into the mouth of a side street. I look over and see Elizabeth rubbing the nose of one of the lions outside the Residenz  Palace.

It is supposed to bring her good luck.

It's hard to envision that some 65-years earlier Hitler could have been standing here leading an SS rally. It's hard to reconcile the modern Germany I have seen with its ugly past. I walk up Feldherrnhalle's steps and turn around where I imagine Hitler might have stood and survey the baron parade field. I suspect anyone watching me knows what I am doing, so I scurry off embarrassed to find Elizabeth.

It feels eerily surreal to be here, but it might just be the cold.

The concept of nationalism is understandably still a touchy subject here.  For all its merits, Germans are famously self-conscious about their country. In all my time here the only flags I have seen were being sold as World Cup merchandise. 

The next evening I ask Elizabeth to take me to see Hitler's apartment. She begrudgingly agrees, but has no idea where it is.  We are forced to look it up on the Internet. Finding the exact address requires considerable sleuthing. 

An hour later we emerge from the Prinzregentenplatz U-Bahn station in front of a theatre in a largely residential neighborhood consisting of blocks of luxurious apartment buildings.  The pace feels lethargic compared to the pedestrian area downtown.  There is something about the saturated hues of streetlight hitting the old snow that feels euphoric and Christmassy.

I check the building numbers; we are heading in the right direction. We overshoot, which I realize when I turn around to locate Elizabeth and see the balconied facade of the imposing building I recognize instantly from the picture.  This is the building where Hitler's niece Geli Raubal (whom some historians speculate was the only woman he ever loved) killed herself, the building where Hitler brushed his teeth and farted and slept at night with a clear conscience.

"I need a second," I tell Elizabeth.

She looks at me debating whether to say something.

"I think your fascination with the whole Nazi thing is a little macabre."

I take a deep breath and sigh loudly. "You couldn't really understand," I say enunciating every syllable with my teeth and lips.

And in that moment I become more of a Jew than I have ever been at any point in my life.

"Then explain it to me because this is getting a little old—we weren't all Nazis; I feel you're blaming me."

And I launch into a blistering diatribe, which begins like this: "When your people are enslaved and systematically exterminated repeatedly over the course of history for being born a certain way, there are some things you don't let go."

I begin to spit out words in a muffled shout, which feels especially taboo, as this is Germany.

People don't make scenes in Germany.

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