issue67thekruppfactor

                                                      ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM

***BIO*** Jerry G. Erwin: born in Nurgev, Latvia, was raised in western Kentucky, excelling in gymnastics and advanced solar physics, receiving a fellowship at Grossgow University in New York, where he graduated with honors in both bio-reverse genetics and ancient aramaic literature. Mr. Erwin has had numerous articles and fiction published in both literary and academic magazines, and is currently editing his 15 volume historic, psychoanalytical novel “Predatory effects of the Bicameral mind” (with drawings).

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THE KRUPP FACTOR

by Jerry G. Erwin

Laura was my seventh Jew.

So to speak. I'm not sure why I've always been attracted to the chosen women, but it's definitely a pattern I have fallen into over the years. Perhaps it's the Jewish peoples' history of persecution, survival--and, in the case of the females--a certain Bohemian sensuality unmatched by my own bland female tribe, the gentiles. I also feel that Jewish women possess a natural perception that cuts through the superficial, day to day bullshit of ordinary relationships, which--ironically enough--also explains why Jewish women eventually want to neatly and efficiently slit my throat and leave my anglo body behind like one more historic Hebrew tragedy, vowing "never again!" as they stalk out the door.

Which brings me to the subject at hand. A Krupp coffee maker. The newest model. Black plastic and polished chrome in its undeniably sleek and efficient superiority, as so many German gadgets are. Its proud owner was my voluptuous and intelligent seventh Jewish lover, Laura. The first time I was in her apartment I commented on the Krupps' impressive style and technology, saying how well it fit into the decor of her modern, ultra-clean kitchen. She smiled, thanking me for the compliment, rounding out an already highly successful evening of dinner at a good Italian restaurant, a bottle of excellent French wine, and a rousing all American lovemaking session in her fat, fluffy white bed of a thousand delicate pillows.

"What?" she gave me a doubting look, bothered with my next comment as I ran my finger over the top of her new Java machine. "Where did you hear that?" she asked in response to me saying that the Krupp company had been accused of war crimes in WWII, having allowed their factories to be utilized as virtual death/work camps for the Nazis, in the manufacturing of--not efficient, sleek coffee makers--but munitions, to continue the war effort against the allies. I went on to tell an amazed and bothered Laura that because of the Krupps' world class efficiency and brutal exploitation of the Jews, the war was extended months beyond when it would have ended, resulting in the loss of thousands of more lives.

Laura stared for several agonized moments at her shiny, sleek coffee maker. Finally, in a truly painful voice she said, "I just got that on sale at Nordstroms."

I nodded along to the compounded tragedy. I went on to explain that I read all this in a book titled, The Arms of Krupp, that detailed the historic crime in gruesome, inhuman detail, which I could bring by for her perusal.

"Yes," she said, "please do," continuing to stare at the snazzy black and chrome unit, as if just being told the most sordid and inexcusable information about a friend she had trusted and respected. "But, wasn't Krupp forced to go along with it?" she hopefully asked, because her groovy bean machine really did make such excellent coffee every morning before she went off to her boring office job of too many years.

"No," I regretfully informed her, "they really didn't need any encouragement. They worked enthusiastically hand in hand with the Nazis, which is why a lot of people wanted them prosecuted. But politics took over and they were spared in order to convert their factories and resources into rebuilding the German economy through normal, consumer means, like . . ." I glanced over at the unlikely offspring of overt fascism.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Laura abruptly moved out of the kitchen, unable to look into the guilty, black and chrome face of that sophisticated gadget, which now pulsated (not percolated) with the residue of hate, destruction, and death.

I deeply sympathized, agreeing to go back with her to Nordstroms in the morning to trade the Nazi coffee machine in for a good old American model--well, perhaps a Braun--as her morning coffee was important to her, so let's not get carried away. But I assured her that the Braun company (also German, with some very sleek and snazzy models of their own) had no history of collaborating with Nazis.

As upset as Laura was, it did worm around to my benefit, when I managed to console her back into her lovely, delicate bed of a thousand scented pillows, with flickering candle light reflecting so perfectly over her persecuted hips, breasts, and succulently betrayed mouth, as she hungrily enveloped my exploitative nature with a timeless vengeance that left me all warm and tingly inside.

"Thanks for telling me about that," she said afterwards, laying content and cooing in my embrace. I gave her a little kiss as she sighed into my ribs, making me feel good and hopeful about my seventh Jewish relationship.

So, you could imagine my profound disappointment when, only three months later, Laura sent me on my way with a brown paper bag containing the few personal items I kept at her place: A pair of jeans and T-shirt, underwear, my back up toothbrush, some pre-shave lotion and, oddly enough, the copy of The Arms Of Krupp. I was truly perplexed. Why was she returning the book?

"I don't want ANYTHING that belongs to you in anyway," she spit it at me. "So, just take it along with everything else and get the fuck out of here!" She turned sharply to the kitchen.

"Laura," I called out to her, "can't we talk about this?" But she was ignoring me and distracting her anger by fixing herself a cup of decaf in her Braun coffee maker. In a moment of purely childish reprisal I found myself saying: "You know Laura, I didn't want to tell you this before, because you were so upset with the Krupp thing, but . . . the Braun company was actually involved in allowing their factories near Berlin to be used as transport points to concentration camps in the east." A complete and total lie, but . . .

Bulls eye!!!

She stormed back into the living room with that cup of decaf in her trembling hand; her dark, sultry Jewish eyes burning into my passive-aggressive gentile head, as she dramatically turned on her strong, historically wandering Bohemian thighs like an olympic discus champion and violently hurled the cup at my face while screaming: "You hypocritical, manipulative, over-sexed motherfucker!"

I ducked as the excellently brewed and scalding decaf flew past my skull into the picture window, smashing it into a thousand, offended pieces. The silence that followed was as deafening as the unmarked graves of countless WWII Jewish victims. Only Laura's genetic rage could be felt, permeating the room like a deranged and wrathful God, as she stood there in what I realized was a magnificent and perfect fury, but . . . it was not the time to pay the woman esoteric compliments.

As with my previous six Jewish lovers, I casually turned and walked out of the modern, ultra-clean apartment with my brown paper bag in hand, and that eight hundred some page record of her peoples' tortured history laying dog eared, silent and removed below my toothbrush, pre-shave lotion, and fruit of the looms.

"Never again," as always--personally and historically--more of a plea than an ultimatum.

Sept. 2006