Caliphate

Erfurt, Federal Republic of Germany,

1 February, 2005

The sounds of the concert still echoed in their ears even as Gabi's and Mahmoud's eyes were etched with the pyrotechnic display.

Rammstein was in town.

"I'm not so sure I liked what you've shown me of the inner soul of modern Germany any more than you liked the sermon at the mosque," Mahmoud said, as they walked to his small car parked not far away.

"Surely you're not one of those who see neo-Nazism in a harmless concert." Gabi gave his hand a half-mocking squeeze.

Mahmoud shook his head. His face looked . . . confused. "No, no . . . not neo-Nazis. This . . . that, goes back much further than the Nazis. I didn't see Triumph of the Will in there; for one thing it wasn't orderly enough. For another it was too . . . primitive."

"Then what did you see, lover?"

Mahmoud hesitated, still thinking and still trying to frame his thoughts in words. "Did you study your own history in school, Gabi?"

"Yes, of course."

"Hermann? The Teutoberger Wald?"

"That, yes," she admitted.

"That's what that music makes me see. I saw Roman legionaries sacrificed over flat rocks. I saw them nailed to trees. In the fires of the concert I saw them being burned alive . . . in the Teutoberger Wald." He chewed his lower lip for a few moments, then said, "Maybe the Nazis, themselves, were just a symptom—sure, an extreme symptom—of something deeper in the soul, something very primitive, very dark, very real . . . and very scary. Also something very envious; Amerika was not, after all, a love song."

They both went silent then, still walking and holding hands. They heard the chant before they recognized it. When they recognized it, the two were almost at Mahmoud's auto. And by then it was too late.

"Kanaken raus! Kanaken raus! Kanaken raus! Kanaken . . . "

There were nine of them, standing around Mahmoud's car, pounding on it with their fists in time with the chant: "Kanaken raus!" They wore leather and chains, or bomber jackets, and high, American-style, jump boots. Some were pierced; still others tattooed, though with only one exception the tattoos could only be seen where the neck met the chest and the shirts and jackets failed to cover them. The one exception had the numbers "88" tattooed on his forehead.

"There are nine of them, Mahmoud," Gabi cautioned.

"Yes," he agreed, sadly, "but I only have the one car."

Gabi screamed as a booted foot came down on Mahmoud's head for the dozenth time. In the near distance, a siren wailed with the peculiar soul-searing screech of the Polizei. It was a sound that conveyed images of burning buildings pouring off bricks as they crumbled, amidst ruined, blasted city blocks, with bombers droning overhead.

After a final flurry of kicks, the thugs turned as one and took off into the darkness. Perhaps they would be caught and perhaps not.

By the time the police car stopped, Gabi was on her knees, bent over Mahmoud's prostrate body, weeping. He was unconscious, his scalp split, blood seeping onto the asphalt of the pavement, and his face covered with it.

While one policeman trotted over to investigate, the other called for an ambulance.

"Animals!" Gabi screeched. "Animals!"

"Yes," the policeman agreed. "But at least the assholes haven't learned how to march in step." He saw that Mahmoud was breathing, then felt at his neck for a pulse. Satisfied with that, the policeman touched lightly around the bloody hair and scalp.

"I think he'll be all right, eventually," the officer said in an attempt to calm the woman. "I don't envy him the headache he'll have, though. Can you tell me what happened?"

Between gasps and bouts of tears, Gabi explained as best she could. As she did, the policeman, still listening, walked around the car, illuminating outside and in with his flashlight. As he did, the other policeman, call to the ambulance service completed, came to see to Mahmoud.

"Nothing on the outside to indicate the driver wasn't German," he observed, "but . . . oh, oh . . . " The light settled on a text laying on the back seat. The cover was in Arabic. "This must have caught their eye."

"That?" Gabi said, incredulously. "That's the Rubiyat of Omar Khayyam. It's a book of poetry."

"It's in a foreign, non-Latin or Gothic alphabet," the policeman said. "That's often enough. With easterners especially is that often enough, particularly if they're unemployed."

"You're his wife?" the policeman asked.

"He's ask . . . we live together," Gabi answered.

"I don't envy you either then, the task of cleaning up his vomit when he returns home from the hospital."