Schlachtefest of Hitler-fans
“Schlachtefest”. The Slaughter Festival. Images of farmers taking large knives to the throats of oversized pigs peppered my thoughts. I could almost hear the fresh roasting sizzle of the slabs of pork. I was in the small East German town of Lübbenau during a recent excapade through the German state of Brandenburg. The town sits in a beautifully forested area I was hoping would be ripe with the colors of autumn. A wet and warm season lead to a rather dissapointing foliage but the town still retained its charm. It occupies a rather prominent area of ditches and canals that make up an extensive waternetwork throughout the region — a forested Venice. The sunset-from-a-boat I’d anticipated on catching was called-off due to inclement weather, so I took up the walk to Schlachtefest in the nearby town of Ragow after running across a plakate on a wall outside the train station.
I found Ragow on the map of Lübbenau outside of the train station. Next town over. I’d be there in 20 minutes I figured. After the third kilometer, reality set in. Schlachtefest wasn’t right around the corner as I’d anticipated. It would be another two kilometers till I reached the Heavenly Gates, but I was willing to toil through the rain to receive my reward (so long as I had a beer in the hand to accompany the walk).
Destination: Ragow. The place made Splendora look like a thriving metropolis. My spirits remained high however — you’ve always got to appreciate that local charm. I found the fest in the town inn. Following the sounds of the music, I peeked my head past the large doors of the main hall to find a crowd of about 60 people, all of whom could have told me about their fondest memories of the Elvis craze of the fifties (if Elvis, and his hips, had been able to break into the Communist regulations). With a 15 euro entrance fee (drinks non-inclusive) and my patch of brown being the only color of hair in the room, I stealthly closed the door behind me and made my way back to Lübbenau in hopes of catching the next train to civilization.
It was a long walk, and to punctuate it with something other than doldrums, I stopped at the several inns pick-marking the sides of the country road’s darkness. With every beer ordered, I was greeted with a “how did you get here?”. I just kinda smiled sheepishly and said “I don’t know”, drank my beer then dissapeared in the darkness as just another stranger. With my thumb stuck out to any headlights passing by, I slowly began to realize that I was not going to catch the last train into Berlin. I fell in a hole that went all the way up to my hip. I was dripping with rain. Break lights. A car pulled over and gave me a ride into town. A nice kid, who once again asked me “how did you get out here?”. Same answer as before.
Thus ended my adventure through Brandenburg — it all began in Cottbus, a nice little town south-east of Berlin; nothing amazing about the town but a nice get-a-way none-the-less. The park is what struck me though; the prince who used to own it knew how to do things. One day my palace in the Hill Country will hopefully borrow several traits from this prince’s former grounds.
But my adventure hadn’t come to an end afterall. The German train service was broken, which should really come as no surprise considering their track record (those devious socialistic state-owned monopoly controlling crooks!!!) and I found myself on a three hour bus ride cavorting through the tiny hamlets of the East German countryside. In front of me sat an overly-friendly African man who didn’t shut his mouth once during the journey, and his Turkish friend, who didn’t mutter much more than five words in the corresponding time. In the back of the bus sat a young man with a shaved head, black jacket and NPD button on his lapel — Hitler-fan. I thought nothing of him until we came across a quiet stop lost somewhere in the middle of the night. There in the darkness was another similarly dressed group of large, shaved-headed young men. I’m not sure if the Hitler-fan in the back of the bus knew this group or not, but they immediately got each other riled up with their “seig heils” and waves we’ve been conditioned to hate since our youths. They were working each other up likeanimals at a feeding frenzy. I looked around the bus. Beside me was an open seat. Behind me were a group of anti-fascist punks. In front of me, apart from the two listed above, were a group of Pakistanis and another group of punks. I could feel the tension mount as we all took a collective holding of breath. The bus driver pulled up to the stop. The Nazis were pointing in our direction. The bus driver continued conversing with them.
I’d had it. I got it in my head that I was going to go down and go down swinging, but I wasn’t going to put up with any Nazi-thuggery. If they made any comments I deemed inappropriate, I was going to let them know and hope that the rest of the bus would be behind me. I had it set in my mind: No more silence.
The bus driver got back on the bus. The Nazis remained outside. We travelled back to Berlin through the dark, all letting out a collective sigh of relief. The long drive allowed me to refocus my hate on the German Rail system. Scheiß Deutsche Bahn!