One Hundred Years Ago, a German Baron from the Baltics established a Kingdom in Mongolia – March 1921: Roman von Ungern-Sternberg

Zur deutschen Fassung.


With the spectacular opening episode of this historical series, I wanted to point out that World War I ended neither with the armistice nor with the peace treaty. Shooting, fighting, conquering, occupying and liberating continued everywhere. The aftermath of the Great War will continue to haunt us for many episodes to come. Exactly one hundred years ago, in March 1921, for example, French and Belgian troops occupied parts of Germany, the Polish-Russian War was settled by the Treaty of Riga, and Emperor Charles I of Austria-Hungary attempted to coup his way back to power.

These are all interesting topics, but we are going further east today, where the aftermath not only of World War I, but also of the Russian October Revolution is raging. And how it is raging!

You know that already, from Doctor Zhivago, but contrary to popular myth, the carnage was not caused by the quarrel between Tonya and Lara. Russia, which hadn’t necessarily won World War I, but certainly hadn’t lost it either, and had been gifted with not one, but two revolutions, somehow didn’t manage to rest on its laurels. Instead, the October Revolution of 1917 was immediately followed by the Russian Civil War, which dragged on for another agonizing five years. Longer than the World War had lasted. And much more complicated.

Simplifying drastically and not taking into account the heterogeneity of the warring parties, the military interference of Germany, France, Great Britain, the USA, Japan, the Ottoman Empire and the Czechoslovak Legion who took the wrong way and ended up in Siberia, nor the national independence movements in Finland, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Ukraine, Abkhazia, Bessarabia and the People’s Republic of Tannu-Tuva, as well as the changing alliances, it was like this: There were the Reds and the Whites. The Reds were the Bolsheviks. The Whites were all those who were against the Reds, that is monarchists, democrats, nationalists and moderate socialists.

Got it?

Some advice for students of history: Never attend the lecture on the Russian Civil War! It’s like a four-dimensional labyrinth with mirror-inverted wormholes. You won’t find your way out of it ever again.

In order not to get bogged down in details, which is a constant danger on this blog, we leave the big picture and focus on just one person, following him for a few years through the Russian Civil War and a few hundred kilometers across the steppe. Or more like a few thousand kilometers, because Russia is huge.

That one person is, no, not Doctor Zhivago. It is a Baltic German baron, i.e. a member of that German-speaking upper class in Estonia and Latvia who, as descendants of the Crusaders, subjugated the Estonians and Latvians. Roman Nikolai Maximilian Feodorovich von Ungern-Sternberg was his name. (The history of the Baltic Germans would provide material for a hundred digressions, but I’ll write about them when I am in the Baltics again.) Because the Baltic Germans liked to maltreat people, the Russian tsar gladly recruited them for the administration or the military.

Roman, not having learned anything useful, was drawn to the army, too. He fought in the Russo-Japanese War of 1904/05, incidentally the first war that a European country lost against a non-European country. After that, he bummed around a bit, served with a Cossack regiment in Transbaikalia, got drunk too often, quit the service, rode his horse to Mongolia, where, for lack of anything else to do, he learned Mongolian and read up on Tibetan, Hindu and Buddhist teachings. At the outbreak of World War I in 1914, he returned to Estonia in time to invade East Prussia with the Russian army. (Ethnicity was not yet so important at the time of the multi-ethnic empires, and Germans fought Germans on other fronts as well. Each for his emperor or tsar, who were certainly grateful for it.)

And when the World War was over, there was this stupid revolution, which didn’t fit into the baron’s concept at all. For one thing, as a nobleman he was loyal to the tsar. For another, the Estonians were now independent and revolted against the German overlords.

Roman von Ungern-Sternberg sided with the Whites, no question. Granted, loyalty to the tsar had become a questionable concept after the tsar and his family had been murdered. But Bolshevism, where barons were relegated to earn the same as bus drivers, was nothing for the nobleman. He was also angry that the revolutionary people had set fire to his manor house and that he had to move into one of those prefabricated apartment blocks.

What’s a cavalry officer to do when everything is a pain in the horse’s butt? Naturally, he takes a horse and rides east. He robbed trains under the pretext of cutting off supplies for the Bolsheviks. He held up traveling merchants to extract “customs” payments from them. And soon, he was back in Transbaikalia, setting up an Asiatic Cavalry Division, made out of Mongols, Buryats, Kyrgyz, Manchurians, Tibetans, Kazakhs, Evenks, Uyghurs, Bargas.

With all the evils that henceforth emanated from this man, I don’t even know where to begin. If the Russian Civil War had already been extremely brutal, Ungern-Sternberg stepped it up a notch and became the most fearsome commander of the Whites. With bloodthirsty brutality, he murdered opponents, alleged opponents, prisoners, his own soldiers, civilians, and above all Jews. To Jews he gave no pardon, they were hunted down until the last child was slain.

At some point, it had nothing to do with the Russian Civil War any longer, which had become a hopeless cause for the Whites anyway. Unpleasant-Sternberg simply lived out his hateful anti-Semitism. He behaved like a warlord with a private army.

Because this is getting too bloodthirsty for us, we change the setting a bit and move south to Mongolia. It lies roughly between Russia and China and had been a Chinese province for 200 years at the time of our story. But China was having a bit of domestic trouble (a virus, production shortfalls in the Apple factory or trouble with students in Hong Kong, I don’t know), and the Mongol princes thought: “If such trifle countries like Lithuania or Czechoslovakia can become independent, so can we.” (Mongolia, even if you’ve overlooked it until now, is pretty large.)

You must know that the Mongols are mainly Buddhists and therefore have a chief lama called Bogdo Gegen. That is the title, not the name. Just like the Dalai Lama, who has the same job with the Tibetans. Exactly, this is the guy who is always smiling for no reason, who makes harmless statements that people put on their Instagraph too feel “enlightened”, and who has accomplished zero point zero for his people.

The Mongols, as I said, had known the Chinese for 200 years and knew: “Smiling won’t get us anywhere.” Instead, they elected the eighth Bogdo Gegen as Bogdo Khan, i.e. the ruler of Mongolia, which thus declared itself independent. The Mongols contacted the Russian tsar (before his assassination, obviously) and received a huge loan, which they invested in a winter palace that still exists in Ulan Bator today.

There, they prayed for independence.

When that didn’t help and, to make matters worse, their Russian sponsor was shot, the Mongol princes sent desperate pleading and begging letters around the world. (Just like princes from Nigeria do today.) Two hundred letters, three hundred letters, four hundred letters. All with pompous seals, written with camel blood and delivered by Mongolian eagles. Very impressive.

But nobody could read the letters. Because nobody spoke Mongolian.

Wait! You remember the Baron’s youth, when he studied Buddhism and Mongolian? He was constantly ridiculed for indulging in such Far Eastern ballyhoo instead of studying something solid like civil engineering or multimedia marketing, but now it was a sign of fate. His fate and that of the Mongols: Baron Roman von Ungern-Sternberg received one of those letters, summoned his multinational cavalry, bid adieu to the (already hopeless) fight against the Bolsheviks, and rode off toward Mongolia in August 1920. Of course not without looting and killing everything on the way.

Tragically, quite some time had passed since the letter was sent, and not as uneventfully as arrogant Westerners might imagine that time passes in Mongolia. In 1919, Chinese troops had regained control of Mongolia and deposed the Bogdo Khan in 1920. Nevertheless, during the long ride Ungern-Sternberg made the plan to unite all Central Asian peoples (Tibetans, Buryats, Uyghurs, Mongols, Kyrgyz, etc.) into a “Great Mongol Empire”, which should last forever and for all times as the monarchist bulwark against Europe and the civilizing bulwark against China. Nominally, Baron von Ungern-Sternberg was still fighting for the dead tsar, but in reality, he already saw himself as the new Genghis Khan.

In October 1920, the Asiatic Cavalry Division arrived in Urga (now Ulan Bator and still the capital of Mongolia) and was defeated twice by the numerically superior Chinese. Ungern-Sternberg deliberated for a few months, habitually passing the time by raiding villages and monasteries. Finally, in February 1921, he remembered a stratagem of Genghis Khan’s: He had fires lit on the hills around Urga to simulate a large army. The Chinese therefore did not throw the full defensive force at his cavalry, and the cavalrymen rode into the city, where they liberated the Bogdo Khan and put the Chinese troops to flight. (To avoid another such fiasco, China has since built the Great Wall and developed drones.)

Bogdo Khan and Roman von Ungern-Sternberg subsequently argued about who was the more important man in town. The Mongol invasion had gone to the baron’s head, and he saw himself as the reincarnation of Genghis Khan. The Bogdo Khan didn’t much warm to the idea of the Great Mongol Empire; Mongolia alone was big enough for him. Finally, the two agreed that Ungern-Sternberg would install the Bogdo Khan as ruler of the newly proclaimed Kingdom of Mongolia in March 1921, exactly 100 years ago. In return, the new king recognized the baron as the founder of the state, as a heroic general, and as the incarnation of the Tibetan patron deity Jamsaran, a particularly wrathful deity.

As is well known, the wrath fitted like a glove. The baron made it clear that he was the real boss and that the king only served as figurehead. He had lists drawn up of all the Jews living in Mongolia. Many of them had fled the Russian Civil War to the supposed safety of the Far East. But now Baron von Ungern-Sternberg went from house to house with anti-Semitic obsession to exterminate Jewry in Mongolia. Even the German occupiers 20 years later, known to be extremely fanatical, did not come this far east.

And for only one reason: Because Roman von Ungern-Sternberg was already dead. Otherwise, of course, he would have made a pact with the Wehrmacht to fight against Jews and Bolsheviks, his dearest enemies. In the end, we were saved from this by a rebellion of his own people, when the baron ranted about having to advance on Tibet next. That was too far and difficult (there were no trains to Lhasa at the time), and the guys arrested their leader and handed him to the Bolsheviks.

The trial was rather short, probably for a shortage of lawyers. Annoyed by the baron’s anti-Semitic tirades (“Bolshevism was invented by the Hebrews in Babylon 3,000 years ago”), the judge suggested if he wouldn’t perhaps simply want to be shot. Compared to other methods of execution, this was quite a concession. (Do keep that in mind if you’re ever in a similar situation.)

“I would prefer not to,” Roman von Ungern-Sternberg replied, but the objection died in the hail of bullets from the Kalashnikovs along with the German Genghis Khan.

Mongolia, by the way, remained independent. Today, there are still voices that revere Baron von Ungern-Sternberg as the founder of the country. But much more important seems to be the question where the baron buried his legendary gold treasure. That is why people are digging and burrowing everywhere in Mongolia.

You don’t have to dig that deep to find people in Mongolia whose fascination with history, with the German baron and with everything that Germany has exported to the wider world since then, is rather unclouded by historical judgment.

So much for the swastika apologists who always claim: “Well, in Buddhism it has a totally different meaning.”

Links:

  • All articles of the series “One Hundred Years Ago …”.
  • More history.
  • More reports from Russia.
  • Speaking of Far Eastern religious leaders: The next Dalai Lama once gave me a ride when I was hitchhiking. A very nice young man!
  • Neo-Nazis are not only found in Mongolia, but also in Mexico, in Bolivia, in Colombia, and probably, NASA will soon discover some on Mars.
  • If this article has provided you with an interesting topic for a presentation at school or has prevented you from an ill-advised trip to Mongolia, I would be happy about any support for this blog. In return, there will be many more curious stories from a hundred years ago, the effects of which we still encounter today.
Posted in China, History, Military, Russia | Tagged , , , | 13 Comments

International Women’s Day

Zur deutschen Fassung.


Today is International Women’s Day, but many of you don’t seem to know how to properly celebrate or commemorate it.

  • It’s NOT a day for those who forgot Valentine’s Day,
  • NOR is is a second chance for those whose object of affection has since changed.
  • It’s NOT a day to send flowers and hearts and other cheesy messages to your Facebook friends.
  • It’s NOT Mothers’ Day.
  • NOTHING is achieved by wishing someone a “happy Women’s Day”.
  • It’s NOT a day for companies to offer “Women’s Day Specials”.

No, it’s a day to fight!

Partisans Italy.jpg

As these Italian partisans show us, you can still be fashionable if you want to, but the guns and the fight are what counts.

8th of March is a political day, a day of justice, a day of equal rights and participation. Special Women’s Day offers with lots of stereotypical pink hearts are rather counterproductive and backward if you want women to progress beyond the status of Barbie dolls.

The only place where I have seen it done right was in Bolivia:

WomensDay

Links:

  • More from Bolivia, an exemplary country in many ways.
Posted in Bolivia, Italy, Travel | Tagged , , | 13 Comments

A Postcard from Málaga

Zur deutschen Fassung.


Outside the town hall, Antonio stands with a sign, no, with several signs against high taxes and levies.

Against which ones, I ask.

“All of them!”

I am probing further and learn that it’s about something like a property appreciation tax, which he has to pay for now living in the apartment of his mother, who passed away two years ago. And if he won’t pay, the apartment will be taken away from him, he says. He only has a pension of 436 euros a month and can’t afford the payments, he laments.

That’s why he is in front of the town hall every day. For two years already. Except on weekends, when he goes to church.

What happened to the apartment, I inquire anxiously.

“I still live there. I can pay the taxes in installments.”

And to get home, he probably takes the tax-subsidized bus. (Pensioners who earn less than 800 euros a month can use the bus for free.)

As I leave, Antonio calls out “Arriba España!“, a battle cry of the Franco dictatorship. Maybe he isn’t really here for the taxes after all.

Links:

Posted in Andalusia, Economics, Photography, Spain, Travel | Tagged , | 3 Comments

More Exciting than a Thriller

Zur deutschen Fassung.


It’s been months, if not years, since I last saw a good movie in the theater. On TV, they are showing “Outbreak,” “Pandemic” and cheap adaptations thereof every day.

But fortunately, there is this Russian lawyer and exposer of corruption, Alexei Navalny. He makes one film after another. And most of them are more captivating, better researched and better produced than most commercial films.

I know, Navalny is controversial, and I am the last person to approve of his nationalistic and xenophobic statements. (If he has moved on since then, he should finally distance himself from them.) But his films are really good.

The most famous film by now is “A Palace for Putin”. In feature length, it’s about much more than Putin’s 100 billion ruble (and butt-ugly) palace, the property for which is 39 times the size of the Principality of Monaco. It is about the system of corruption at the highest level, who pockets what money where and how, about the middlemen and straw men (or rather straw grandmothers, whose granddaughters always happen to have affairs with Putin). And it’s about the beginnings of this biggest heist in modern history – in Dresden, Germany.

If your Russian has gotten a little rusty since Perestroika, don’t worry. The films have English subtitles.

Equally meticulously researched is the film that reveals the exact sequence of events, the many years of planning, and the perpetrators of the Novichok attack on Navalny (and previous attempted attacks):

It’s really like a thriller. The story becomes even more incredible when Navalny finds out the phone numbers of the killers and calls them, one after the other. They all hang up. Only one of them is careless enough to speak with Navalny, who poses as a superior from the state apparatus, about what went wrong with the poison attack and how he made evidence disappear.

In Russia, all this evidence does not even lead to the opening of a criminal investigation. Instead, Navalny is sent to the gulag. After trials which the European Court of Human Rights declared unlawful and arbitrary.

Let’s hope he will have to work on a potato farm or something else on ground level. Because in Russia, critical journalists surprisingly often fall from high-rise windows.

Links:

Posted in Human Rights, Politics, Russia | Tagged , , , , | 1 Comment

One Hundred Years Ago, someone kept his New Year’s Resolutions, but didn’t care about the Lives of Others – February 1921: Winston Churchill

Zur deutschen Fassung.


It’s the end of February. If you are like me, most of your New Year’s resolutions have already dissipated, been forgotten or pushed to March or April. The smarter ones among you won’t have made any resolutions in the first place.

But if you want to feel really bad, consider young Winston Churchill’s New Year’s resolutions, as reported in his autobiography My Early Life:

I therefore planned the sequence of the year 1899 as follows: To return to India and win the Polo Tournament: to send in my papers and leave the army: to relieve my mother from paying my allowance: to write my new book and the letters to the Pioneer: and to look out for a chance of entering Parliament.

These plans as will be seen were in the main carried out.

After all, a year has 365 days. Why limit oneself to resolutions regarding exercise, diet or learning a new language?

As we all know, Churchill’s career did take off, both in literature (he won a Nobel Prize) and in politics (he won a World War). Apparently, he was so multi-talented that he was not only a Member of Parliament and eventually Prime Minister, but served as President of the Board of Trade, Home Secretary, First Lord of the Admiralty, Minister of Munitions, Minister of Air, Minister of Defence, Chancellor of the Exchequer and Secretary of State for the Colonies.

It is the latter office that we shall focus on, because Winston Churchill assumed it in February 1921, exactly a hundred years ago. I also want to focus on it because it puts a rather different light on the “savior of the free world”. As always in this series, the centenary serves merely as a starting point and we will explore Churchill’s view on colonialism before and after that.

The River War, the product of Churchill’s above resolution was, rather shocking for a 24-year old, already his third book. It was also, even more shocking, full of crudely racist and anti-Islamic passages. This was not some youthful sin which he cared to rectify with advancing age and increasing responsibility. Quite the contrary. Churchill held deeply racist views that would put him in the camp of white supremacists today.

In 1937, for example, when he was already warning the world about the Nazis, Churchill said:

I do not admit for instance, that a great wrong has been done to the Red Indians of America or the black people of Australia. I do not admit that a wrong has been done to these people by the fact that a stronger race, a higher-grade race, a more worldly wise race to put it that way, has come in and taken their place.

Again and again, his thinking reveals this belief in a racial hierarchy, with white Protestants being superior to white Catholics (i.e. the Irish), Jews superior to Muslims, and Anglo-Saxons superior to everyone else.

Apologists will say that this was the thinking of the day. But it wasn’t. Not for many people. Even in the UK, even at the time and even within his own Conservative Party, Churchill was regarded as an extreme racist.

And as late as 1954, he said about the Chinese:

I hate people with slit eyes and pigtails. I don’t like the look of them or the smell of them.

Surely no accident for someone known for his gifted oratory.

Among all the people insulted, humiliated and treated horribly, I want to turn the focus on India, a British colony until 1947.

At one point, Churchill explicitly told his Secretary of State for India that he “hated Indians” and considered them “a beastly people with a beastly religion”. (I am not sure if he didn’t know that there were Indians of different religions, or if he didn’t care.) He was particularly imbued with hatred against Mahatma Gandhi, suggesting that Gandhi “ought to be lain bound hand and foot at the gates of Delhi, and then trampled on by an enormous elephant with the new Viceroy seated on its back.”

When the Atlantic Charter, proclaimed by Churchill and US President Roosevelt in 1941, named self-determination of the peoples as one of the guiding principles for the post-war world, Churchill explicitly declared that this would not apply to India. And that despite Indians contributing to the Allied war effort with over 2.5 million men, back then the largest volunteer force in the world.

The low point in a life filled with low points was probably the Bengal Famine of 1943. More than 3 million people starved to death, while Churchill ordered the diversion of grain from starving Indians to British soldiers and to build up buffer stocks in Greece and Yugoslavia.

“The starvation of anyway underfed Bengalis is less serious than that of sturdy Greeks,” Churchill applied his racial hierarchy. And, he said, it was the Indians’ own fault for “breeding like rabbits”. (Churchill had five children himself.)

Again, this is not some retroactive application of modern morals. People at the time realized the inhumanity. British officials pleaded with Churchill, but to no avail. Canada and the USA offered to send help, but Churchill turned it down. The Indian colony was not allowed to spend its own reserves or use its own ships to import food. Vessels bringing wheat from Australia were not allowed to unload in Indian ports and were ordered to continue to Europe instead.

Considering that British rule was sought to be justified on the ground that “it keeps the people from killing each other”, this was rather cynical. All this makes me wonder about the people, textbooks, novels and films that still romanticize colonialism, which is not a problem pertinent only to the United Kingdom. Or maybe it doesn’t make me wonder, because it’s the same old European feeling of racial superiority. (“But we brought them the railroad.”) That’s why I welcome any debate, and if a few statues need to be toppled or spray-painted for that, so be it.


Obviously, a famine is not a monocausal event. But if I had tried to get any deeper into the course and the causes of the famine, my complete lack of knowledge about India would have become even more evident.

In this article, I have drawn on Inglorious Empire: What the British did to India by Shashi Tharoor. Thanks to Dieter for sending me the book! More books are always welcome, as would be an expert on Mongolian history, on the history of chess, on Irish history and on the Tulsa massacre – especially those willing to take over for one episode of this series.

Links:

Posted in History, India, UK | Tagged , | 17 Comments

“The Impostor” by Javier Cercas

Zur deutschen Fassung.

Impostors who portray their lives as more adventurous than they are don’t just exist in novels and in blogs. Some live among us. Or, when impostorism conspires with narcissism, they force their way onto the big stage.

Now, everyone is thinking of Donald Trump.

But much more interesting is an impostor and narcissist who is also intelligent. Who deceives all his life, but never enriches himself.

Someone like Enric Marco from Barcelona.

Marco, who turns 100 this year, probably had his greatest performance in 2005, when he addressed the Spanish Parliament on Holocaust Remembrance Day. As chairman of an association of Spaniards who survived the Nazi concentration camps. And as a former inmate of the Flossenbürg concentration camp.

A few months later, historian Benito Bermejo revealed that Marco had invented this part of his biography. He had never been interned in a concentration camp. It is true that Marco was in Germany during World War II, but not, as he had claimed, as a resistance fighter who had joined the French Resistance. In truth, he worked as a metalworker at a German shipyard in Kiel, conveniently avoiding military service in Spain.

When things got dicey in Germany in 1943, he absconded to Spain. The Germans didn’t bother to look for him, and the Spanish military did not draft him because they thought he was still in Germany. Marco started a family, concealing the existence of his already established first family, and became a car mechanic.

A life like a novel.

That’s how he survived the oppression of the Franco era. Not exactly underground, but under the radar of the authorities. When he was bored, he told of his exploits in the Spanish Civil War, always on the front line, shoulder to shoulder with the well-known heads of the anarchists, in the attempted liberation of Mallorca, in the Résistance. But only in a small circle, because in the times of the dictatorship, anti-fascists were not en vogue.

That changed after Franco’s death. When the anarcho-syndicalist trade union CNT was reestablished in 1976, Marco went to the meetings. There he expanded on his life story, in which he had now fought underground for the CNT’s cause during the decades of Franco’s dictatorship. For this reason, he said, he had to flee Spain, but had been betrayed and arrested in Marseilles, and had thus ended up in a concentration camp. Although none of the other trade unionists knew this lively, energetic man who could tell stories so well, they elected him president of the Catalan section of the CNT in 1977 and president at the national level the following year.

A life like a novel.

The CNT fell out between different factions, Marco was not re-elected and eventually expelled. His car repair shop did not fulfill him, so he began to study history on the side. At university, he met a young student whom he impressed with his heroic stories of civil war, anti-fascist struggle, escape and underground. With her, he started his third family.

But soon, he was bored again. So he got himself elected to the parents’ council of his children’s school. As was almost inevitable, within a very short time he became vice-chairman of the Parents’ Association of Catalonia. He negotiated with the ministers of education, he gave speeches, and he forced his way into every newspaper photograph.

But at some point, his daughters had finished school, and Marco could not for the life of him remain in the Parents’ Association. He needed a new job, especially since he was now retired. Being a retiree without a second job can be mind-numbingly boring. That was nothing for Marco.

He went to Amical de Mauthausen, an association of Spanish concentration camp survivors, and said that he would like to contribute to keep the memory from fading into oblivion. He could visit a school now and then to give a lecture. It turned into more than a few lectures. Soon, Marco was the organization’s most sought-after speaker, he spoke in schools across the country, he appeared on radio and television, and – this should surprise no one by now – in 2001 he became chairman of Amical de Mauthausen.

A life like a novel.

Javier Cercas, the author of the book “The Impostor” from which I took this story, did not have to invent anything. He was able to write a novel without any fiction because the protagonist provides enough fiction.

And so “The Impostor” is not only a biography, but also a book about the research that Cercas and others undertook over years. The sophistication with which Marco concocted his legend is impressive, but so is the way Cercas uncovers it piece by piece. Chance discoveries in old newspapers or archives often help, but Marco himself continues to be extremely talkative. His craving for recognition goes to the point of self-destruction. But his imagination is also the source of his strength. Like Don Quixote.

What I found excellent about the book is how Cercas embeds Marco’s life, real and invented, in the history of Spain. From the Civil War to the will to forget to the memory circus, as the author calls it. Marco, the historian who became famous as an eyewitness, as a mirror of how Spain deals with history. Or does not deal with it.

Cercas embeds all this in thoughts about fiction and truth, about literature, about psychology and philosophy, which, however, sometimes gets too out of hand. If the author had restrained himself a bit, dispensed with repetitions and superfluous details, the book could have been shortened by at least 100 pages. But nevertheless, it remains an interesting book that you won’t forget about quickly.

Links:

Posted in Books, History, Holocaust, Spain | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments

A Postcard from Las Vegas

Zur deutschen Fassung.


When people say that law school is boring, I always have to laugh.

For my second internship, I worked for the district attorney’s office. In Las Vegas. On the very first day, we went to an Indian reservation. After that, a couple of murder trials. A tour of the prison. Seeing the Jackson clan in court. An invitation to attend an execution, to which I responded “hell, no!” An invitation to go on a ride-along with the police, to which I responded “hell, yes!”

I chose the night shift, ostensibly so I wouldn’t miss a day in court. In reality, because I hoped there would be more action.

At 5:30 p.m., I found myself at a precinct in the northwest of the most crime-ridden city in the United States. The police officers were sitting in a room that looked like a classroom. The desks and chairs were far too small for the men, all of whom rather big and burly. They were goofing around until the lieutenant walked in. On a map on the blackboard, he marked where a bank had just been robbed, where a man had been stabbed, where a woman had been sexually assaulted, and where they planned to uncover a drug den.

Then he introduced me and my secret mission. Mike, very tall, very burly, with a black mustache, a picture-book cop, said: “He can come with me.” In Las Vegas, officers usually go on patrol alone because that way, there are more patrol cars on the street at the same time. “Taxpayers want to see something for their money,” the prosecutor had explained this strategy.

We all went to the locker room, where I didn’t get a uniform, but a bulletproof vest. Wearing it under my sweater, I already felt much bigger and stronger.

In the parking lot behind the building, the cars were checked for the night shift. Tire pressure. Lights. Siren. And the radio. It seemed to work, because it was already squawking. “Two juveniles in stolen vehicle northbound on I-95.”

I thought it was a test, but Mike called out to me: “Get in and buckle up!”

Two police cars roared off ahead of us; we were the third one. With sirens. With blue lights. With screeching tires. At over 100 km/h. In the middle of the city. In rush-hour traffic. In the US, unlike in civilized countries, drivers don’t leave a lane for vehicles with flashing blue lights; you have to somehow weave your way through.

Mike operated the steering wheel, the lights, the siren and the horn with his left hand. With his right hand, he operated the radio and a computer that was mounted in front of me on the passenger side. It provided information about the stolen vehicle. “Shit, all this effort for a Corolla.”

Mike could operate twelve things at once, except the brakes. We were approaching a major intersection, the light was red. Neither the two police cars in front of us, nor we slowed down. Mike explained that the police cars were equipped with a device that could manipulate the traffic light and turn it green. At the very last moment, it did turn green. Too late for a driver coming from the right, who rammed the second police car, which crashed into a lamppost, causing it to topple over and hit a number of other cars.

Mike kept on driving at 100 km/h, glancing in the rearview mirror only briefly and reassuring me that nothing had happened to his partner. To be on the safe side, he radioed in the accident. “By the way, if anything happens to me,” he said, “go on frequency 33 and say ‘officer down, officer down.’ And then get yourself to safety.” There was a pump-action shotgun mounted between the two seats, but apparently I wasn’t supposed to use that.

American police cars have a battering ram. That came into play when we pulled up to the stolen Toyota. The two remaining police cars took turns ramming the Corolla, whose owner was no doubt delighted. Around us, it was still rush hour traffic. (That was in 1997, when people didn’t have cell phones with cameras. Meanwhile, the police are filming themselves.)

The officers tried to force the stolen vehicle off the road, but the thieves drove into the parking lot of a supermarket instead. Our cars came to a halt with screeching tires, the two policemen jumped out with guns drawn, ran towards the car that had caused the whole mayhem, shouting loudly, and pulled out two shaking young men. I don’t know if they fell over or were pushed to the ground, but they were handcuffed immediately.

Around us, people were pushing cereal, Coke bottles and steaks in shopping carts, some of which were larger than the Corolla.

The sun was just setting. I enjoyed the last rays of warm light, grinning from ear to ear and thinking, neither for the first nor the last time that evening: “This is like a movie!”

The night went on, of course, with helicopters, a hunt in the desert, a suicide on a volcano, and lots of donuts, but for this series, I promised to keep it short. That’s what you get for complaining about the alleged lengthiness of my articles.

Links:

Posted in Law, Travel, USA | Tagged , , , | 4 Comments

A Postcard from Paris

Zur deutschen Fassung.


So, there I was, stranded at the airport in New York, having missed the flight to Frankfurt. (See last episode.)

It was a Friday afternoon, and I was supposed to be home by Sunday, so I could prepare for the coming week. At that time, I was still working as a busy lawyer, which limited my spontaneity for long-distance travel tremendously. (A year and another missed return flight later, I would therefore terminate this self-exploitation, but that’s another story.)

The woman from United Airlines who had foiled my plans promptly made up for it: “The next flight to Frankfurt doesn’t leave until tomorrow. If we find an open seat on another flight to Europe today, would that be of any help to you?”

“Oh yes!”, I replied, delighted about the idea. Once in Europe, I would be able to get home or to the office from any place by train, a much more flexible means of transport, going once every hour.

She typed a bit into her computer (those were already widely used at the time) and read out the results of the research.

“So, tonight we still have seats available to Barcelona, London and Paris.”

Barcelona I already knew.

London I knew even better.

Paris I had never been to.

“Then I’ll fly to Paris,” I decided, barely able to conceal my joy at this unexpected turn of events.

I had to pay a $100 rebooking fee, and the next morning I was in Paris. Without a guidebook, without a map, without a hotel, without much French. (An attempt to brush up on it had once failed miserably.)

If fate took me to Paris, I might as well stay for a day, I thought to myself. So I took the metro to somewhere that looked like the city center on the metro map, got off, looked around, and decided it was fine. I went to the first hotel and asked if they had a room for one night. “Oui, monsieur.” They had a map of the city, too.

That’s how people used to travel, without internet or GPS. Somehow, it was more fun.

I was ambulating aimlessly until I came to a river. It was the Seine. That was a good sign. I walked along the right bank until I came to a bridge. Then I crossed the bridge and continued on the left bank. Until the next bridge. And so on.

There were many bridges. And from each one, the view was great.

The tourists were not as annoying back then as they are today. People took less pictures, because there was no Instagraph and such. One simply enjoyed oneself. I did the same.

In the gardens of Trocadéro, I could finally tell where I was by looking at the city map. Because on the other side of the river, there was the Eiffel Tower.

I walked a bit further, to the Arc de Triomphe, but really looking for a baguette, and then back to the Eiffel Tower. The queue for climbing the rickety steel scaffolding was long, so I forewent the fear of heights. Instead, I laid down in the warm summer meadow on Mars Field, enjoying a baguette and a book.

From French class, which had always been a France class too, came memories of sights I could visit: Montmartre, Louvre, Notre-Dame, DGSE, Dôme des Invalides, Centre Pompidou.

But I treat places with respect, just as I treat people. And respect demands that one brings the necessary time for a visit. I didn’t have that. Paris is a city where you need two or three weeks. For an initial overview. So I didn’t even start to scratch the surface, but rather remained on Mars Field all day, gazing at the sun, at the tower, and into the sky.

Links:

Posted in France, Travel | Tagged , | 10 Comments

A Postcard from New York

Zur deutschen Fassung.


In August 2008, I was visiting friends in New York. It was a very hot summer. I remember that clearly, because due to the heat, I couldn’t go running before midnight. My friends lived in Harlem, and everybody, except for me, found it dangerous to go running at midnight, all the way down to Central Park, once around the park, and back north on Malcolm X Boulevard. I don’t know what people were worried about, because there is much less traffic at night.

On the last day, I arranged to meet with another friend. At the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

I was early, because I was excited to see her again.

She was late, and I don’t know if that meant anything.

Always clever and always trying to look clever, I had brought a book. “Twelve Angry Men” by Reginald Rose. I don’t know how long I was waiting, sitting on the steps in front of the museum, but I finished the whole book before she turned up. I should have been angry like twelve men myself, but as soon as I saw her, all anger was blown away, as if a fierce autumn storm had swept down 5th Avenue.

We enjoyed the museum.

The Benin masks, which back then, we didn’t yet think of as looted art. Paintings. Calligraphy. Arms and armor. A hippopotamus. The patio from the castle of Vélez-Blanco, not knowing that ten years later, I would step into that very castle in Andalusia, connecting continents, stories and memories.

We enjoyed the museum – and each other – so much, that I felt in no rush to get to the airport. My flight back to Germany was in the afternoon.

Eventually, hours later, I managed to part ways with the lovely lady, take the wrong subway, lose another half hour, and arrive at JFK airport 45 minutes before departure.

That should suffice, I thought, being used to small airports like Nuremberg or Malta.

“No way you gonna make it,” said the lady at the check-in counter, without the typical American optimism.

“I can run really fast,” I said, thankful for the nightly exercise.

“You are not the problem, the luggage is. We can’t get it to the gate in time,” she explained the complicated inner workings of an airport.

And thus, I missed my flight to Europe.

I texted my friend, thinking that this was a sign from God and that we should spend more time together, happily ever after. She never replied.

(To be continued next week.)

Links:

Posted in Love, USA | Tagged , , | 1 Comment

The Danger of Digits and Digitalization

“Wow, already 28 likes and three comments,” she thought, proud of having run five miles in less than 45 minutes for the first time. But still only 291 Instagraph followers, she checked to her disappointment, for the fifth time that day.

Stepping off bus number 247 and onto Radford Road, she was still looking at the screen of her new I-phone 11, when she was hit by a 12-ton truck.

Links:

Posted in Technology | Tagged , | 4 Comments