“France?” He speaks without greeting.
“No, I’m from the Czech Republic.”
“Sit down. I’m from Germany.” replies in fluent Russian the driver of a flashy Pajero SUV. We are in northern Kyrgyzstan. It would be strange if I didn’t know from H that there is a minority of German minorities living here in the Rot-Front who came here during the Second World War because they refused to fight at the front because of their faith. And so they founded the peaceful village of Rot Front. Well, it was still called something else then. Of course, I’ve forgotten how, so this important ethnological fact will remain forgotten forever, just like the milking of the local cows. I didn’t find out.
“Yeah, H told me that you have a German majority here in Rot Front.” I’m trying to sound smart. I guess it worked.
“There are so many German tourists here in the summer, you wouldn’t understand. They go around the village asking us stupid questions. Why did you come? How do you live here? Don’t you want to go to Germany? They’ve shit themselves, haven’t they? They run bus tours here. They dump them here and then they wander around the village looking into my house. I’m not some animal in a zoo to be given tours. Bus tours full of German tourists. They’re interested in how we live here. Tsk. How do we live here, normally. Like everywhere else. We live.” throwing his hands around in disgust.
“Well, I went to Germany right after the Soviet Union broke up.” He explains. “I went to Germany because we were bullied here for being German. You can’t even imagine. For example. My teacher at school told me I was German shit. German shit! Teacher. So we came to Germany. Yay, we’re home, we thought.” He laughs bitterly. “Well, the first thing they told us there was: the fucking Russians have arrived! So what the hell, well, we went back again.” I express my condolences to those involved in silence.
“A lot of people here sold their houses, all their possessions, and went back to Germany. Well, they found it impossible to live there. So they came back to Kyrgyzstan again, bought their houses back again… And they live here. There’s freedom here. Real freedom. Not like in Europe. We can do what we need to do here. And there is nature.” He declares, and I realize I’ve never thought of it that way.
“Only, I never learned Kyrgyz. Now I’m sorry. I went to a Russian school and we only spoke Russian. And then… well, I just didn’t learn anymore. I understand some of it, but I’m like a dog. I understand everything, but I can’t speak.”
And with this beautiful phrase we drive to his work.
“Bye-bye. Good luck.”
“All right.”
The image of a German gentleman in a fluffy dog costume will probably stay in my head forever.
