Thema: [WoD] Nazis als Antagonisten - Nazis als Protagonisten

[Nin]

Da sich  [VtM] Weltkriege und Kalter Krieg? , der Titel sagt es ja schon, nur auf VtM bezieht, habe ich jetzt doch noch mal einen eigenen Beitrag zu dem Thema aufgemacht, in dem ich gerne diskutieren würde, ob und wenn ja wie, Nazis in den WoD Settings ihren Platz haben.

Ich möchte noch mal auf die Beiträge des oben verlinkten Themas verweisen ... da steht schon so einiges und wichtiges.

[Nin]

WHO WILL TELL THE CHILDREN?
By Janet Berliner (aus dem „Charnel Houses of Europe – The Shoah“, Seite 7 bis 11)
Recently, I wrote a story about a girl named Jennie, a contemporary Jewish American teenager who was forced to face
her heritage. Her response, at least initially, was a feeling that she was being put upon. She had nothing to do with the
past. She was not involved.
It's not my problem. All of that stuff happened ages ago. Why rehash ancient history? Forget it already.
Forget it? Forget prejudice, violence, ethnic strife, genocide? I don't think so.
So what do we do to ensure that our children and their children and their children remember? For if they do not remember,
the attempt to make it happen again will be repeated, as it has been this decade in Rwanda.
Which group will be singled out the next time around? Redheads, perhaps, or blue-eyed blondes?
It's not the "N word" or the "J word," or what's politically correct and what's not that matters. It's learning that we are setting
each other apart without regard for human dignity and making it possible for genocide to reoccur when we say things
like, "There's a black man at the door," instead of "There's a man at the door," or "I bought the car at a great price. Boy,
did I Jew him down."
Again I ask, what do we do about it? What can we do about it?
The answer is that we must do what we can, each in our own way — in short stories, in essays, in poetry and novels,
often using magic realism to define truths too painful and ugly to be faced in any other form.
Each time I complete a piece of work, I think — I hope — that I am done with it. That I have paid my dues.
But for some things the dues can never fully be paid.
In a sense, it is like the bodily functions that most of us perform daily. Each day, having performed them, we feel relief.
We feel clean. And then the offal begins to gather once more and as surely as night follows day, the pressing need for
elimination returns.
So it is with my creative bowels. When I think that I have written enough, I discover that I must write more. And while I
do, I question if that is in fact the answer to educating our children's children. The survivors are old. Their children are
growing old. Their grandchildren say it is not their problem. Many of them do not know about their roots; still more do not
care. What, I ask myself, will work to educate and inform the children of the new millennium? Will they read William Styron's
Sophie's Choice, will they watch Vittorio de Sica's The Garden of the Finzi-Continis, or do we have to feed them
horrors in some form that makes it palatable for them?
If we give them a Holocaust Web site, will it serve as a tool of awareness, or will it simply turn evil into a game?
Before Steven Spielberg made Schindler's List, I was told repeatedly that no one wanted to hear about the Holocaust.
That wasn't true, was it? His film was a box-office smash, even in Germany.
Why does that surprise me?
Because I was in Berlin in the '70s when the government insisted that all schoolchildren watch a documentary on Hitler.
The children stomped and sang along and complained, asking why they too could not march and sing and have "that
kind of fun." I was there in the '80s when groups of German children were taken to visit the sites of concentration camps
and complained because they were not able to see the machinery in action. I was there in the '90s when a game was
developed that invited the participants to devise better ways of ridding the world of Jews.
On the day that Richard Dansky called to ask me to write this essay, I had written the last scene of the third book in a
trilogy of Holocaust novels. I was going through my research materials, packing them away with a sense of relief, when
the telephone rang. As I lifted the receiver, I held in one hand a precious sepia photograph, the one that gave birth to
Jennie's story. The photograph — of my grandmother with her older brother and three sisters — was taken sometime
around 1929. The glass had cracked, so I was removing the photograph in order to put it into a new frame.
"Hello," I said, idly turning the photograph over. The script on the back was tiny, fine and faded. I used magnifying glass
to read it:
- Siegfried Lichtenstein. Born 1880. An officer in the Kaiser's Army. Mostly invalid after the war. Applied to go to Johannesburg,
but stayed in Regensburg, Bavaria, when his wife was refused a visa. He thought that he was safe,
what with half the banes missing in his face. He was one of the first to be deported.
- Hedwig Lichtenstein. Born 1882. Married Heimann. Lived in Regensburg. Immigrated to Melbourne, Australia. Died
1968.
- Erna Lichtenstein. Born 1886. Lived in Berlin. Deported to Theresienstadt in 1938 and died in the gas chamber.
- Ella Lichtenstein. Born 1888. Married Joseph Kahn. In 1932, the family with two children immigrated to Amsterdam,
Holland. In 1939, the husband was taken to a workcamp, the children to an unknown destination ("For their safety")
and their eight-roomed home was filled with Nazis for whom Ella had to keep house. (I was there in I960. The
neighbors told me that Ella was taken to Auschwitz 1942.)
- My darling wife, Recha Lichtenstein. Born 1887. Married James Abraham. Arrived safely Cape Town, South Africa,
13th June, 1936.
Recha Lichtenstein Abraham.
My adored grandmother. The storyteller of the family saved and brought to South Africa through the ingenuity of my
mother — her youngest daughter....
I heard what Richard said on the phone that day through the keening voices of the collective unconscious of the dead —
my own family and the family of humanity. Richard explained earnestly what it was he was trying to do.
I started to argue, to say that the Holocaust was not a game, but a voice inside my head stopped me. We must teach
them through the tools with which they are comfortable, it said. Once upon a time, I thought, there were bards and storytellers
who passed on the words of the elders around campfires. Then came the era when the pen was mightier than the
sword. But there are few bards now, and as we approach the millennium, the pen diminishes in power.
While Richard waited patiently for my answer, I recalled a day I spent in Nice, in an old stone building overlooking the
Mediterranean. As if it were happening again, I saw myself being handed a trust by my great-uncle, a Holocaust survivor
who had nary an organ fully intact. Our conversation switched back and forth between six languages, only five of which I
fully understood — something he did out of old habit from his concentration-camp days when such devices were some
protection from eavesdroppers. He gave me a copy of La Deportation. The book was a compilation of black-and-white
photographs which had recently been released from the French government's archives. They were stark and unembellished
by text, snapshots taken by German guards and "technicians" in the camps and sent to their families to show them
what their sons and brothers and fathers were doing during their work day.
"Take this to America," my great-uncle said. "Make them publish it."
I hand carried eight copies of that heavy book to the States. For a year, I devoted myself to trying to get it reprinted here.
Every copy of the book was stolen from the publishers to whom I sent it. The book was never reprinted here, nor do I
have a copy today. My great-uncle is dead. But in my own mind's eye, those black-and-white photographs, taken with
box cameras (the toys of that time) teach the full lesson of the atrocities of which humankind is capable of inflicting.
Remembering, I asked Richard to whom he wished me to address this essay. "That's up to you," he said. "By whom do
you wish most to be heard?"
"By the children," I said, picturing the Children's Memorial Garden at Yad Vashem. It was there, on the outskirts of Jerusalem,
that I had the most profoundly moving experience of my life. "That is my greatest fear — that when my generation
is gone, there will be no one left who will tell them the true history of humankind's darkest moment."
Seven years ago, I flew to Israel to meet Ilan Bar, my half-brother. He was 44; I had just turned 50.1 arrived in Tel-Aviv
as Yom Kippur was coming to a close. Ilan did not have to identify himself; he looked exactly like my father — his father
— had looked when I last saw him, right before his death.
I had only seen my father twice, once when I was five and again when I was 17. As for Ilan, I not only had never met him,
but until a few weeks before that moment I did not even know that I had a brother.
Ilan is a guide. En route to his flat, he told me that he was leaving the following day to take a party of staunch Spanish
Catholics on a three-day tour of Jerusalem. Though I speak no Spanish, they had agreed to allow me to come along. I
toured the cobbled streets of the Old City, covered my head and arms to enter a mosque and rode a camel into the desert.
Then, together with three other brave souls, we drove toward Mount Herzl and the Holocaust Memorial known as Yad
Vashem.
There is a circular underground structure at Yad Vashem, a memorial built by Abraham and Edita Spiegel of Beverly Hills
in memory of their son Uziel, who perished in Auschwitz. It commemorates the one-and-a-half million Jewish children
who perished in the Holocaust. One-and-a-half million... 1,500,000.. .children.
The memorial hall itself stands in darkness. It is built in much the same way as a Disneyland ride. You walk into the
darkness through a small anteroom in which three-dimensional photos of children are exhibited. A railing separates you
from a circular floor. The walls and ceiling are a series of convoluted mirrors. Five burning memorial candles are multiplied
into tens millions of pinpricks of light, symbolizing the souls of children who perished. Softly the chant begins... a
litany of their names forcing the weight of your body in a circle through the darkness and back out into the stark sunlight.
I knew then that even if I lived to be 1000 years old, could not remove that experience from my consciousness. wished
that I could take each person in the world by the hand and lead them into that hall of lights.
Sadly, I cannot do that. So I try to do it with words. From Israel I traveled to Berlin to visit my aged mother, who had returned
there to work for Die Mahnung ("The Warning"), the newspaper arm of the League of the Persecuted of the Nazi
Regime. Through them, the search for survivors continues, as does vigilance against anti-Semitism. This continuing
campaign rests mostly in the hands of an incredible elderly woman, Dr. Rehfeld Waltraud, herself not a Jew, but lifelong
fighter against prejudice and racial injustice. In the newspaper's small offices in a prewar building on Mommsenstrasse,
the battle against Who Cares and It Never Happened goes on.
Last week, my mother attended a religious service at the rebuilt temple in Oranienburg, near the first of the forced labor
camps. While she was at that service, here in the United States, where all races should be united against bigotry, Reverend
Farrakahn was televised spewing hatred at the Jews.
In this manner, insanity and entertainment have become interchangeable. We can look at the program guides and choose
to do any of the following: Watch the Disney Channel; Watch Discovery; Watch a murder trial; Hear David Duke
address his hooded comrades about an all-white Christian America; See Farrakahn, surrounded by his uniformed
guards, use rhetoric and mannerisms almost identical to Hitler's.
Those are the facts as I write this, from Las Vegas, where a few nights ago, I (a 57" weakling) told a 6'2" truck driver that
he would have to refrain from making racial slurs — in this case against Mexicans — or see me in the parking lot.
While my challenge stopped the man's mouth, the incident proved to me again that the battle against the worst of the
human spirit is not over. And since that is so, it becomes clear what we must do. While we must not stop talking and
writing and making films, we must also be brave enough to make acts of injustice accessible by way of the new mechanics...
be it by way of the Internet and CD-ROM, tours of the Museum of Tolerance... or projects like this.
Read it and weep.
Read it and learn.
May it never happen again.
— Janet Berliner Las Vegas, NV October 1996

[Nin]

Ich hab 99 auf einem Horror Con ("Die Nacht") mal ein Gypsies Abenteuer angeboten. Das lief verdammt gut (im Sinne von Atmosphäre, Horror und Anti-Faschismus). Aber auch hier waren die Nazis die Antagonisten ... und es war ein OneShot!

(Klicke zum Anzeigen/Verstecken)

Das "Zigeunerlager" in Auschwitz

Kurzinhaltsangabe

„Gypsies“ ist ein Rollenspiel, das in der World of Darkness von White Wolf spielt. Dies ist eine Welt, die der unseren sehr
ähnlich ist, nur ist sie noch hoffnungsloser, noch elender. Die Wälder sind finsterer und monströser, die Städte sind Labyrinthe
und in deren Schatten das Verbrechen lauert. Die meisten Menschen gehen mit hoch geschlagenem Kragen,
zügig durch die Straßen. Sie wollen nicht sehen, nicht wissen, was im Dunklen auf sie lauert.

Für die, die sich in den anderen White Wolf Systeme auskennen erklärt sich „Gypsies“ am besten dadurch, dass die
Charaktere in „Gypsies“ eigentlich normale Menschen spielen, doch deren Blut wurde durch magisches Wissen bereichert
und so verfügen sie über übernatürliche Fähigkeiten. Gleichzeitig trifft sie aber auch auf das Misstrauen und die
Verachtung durch die anderen Menschen.

Die Sinti, Roma und Kale warten hoffnungsvoll auf das Ende dieser Welt, denn sie werden bei der kommenden Convergence
(vgl. Gehenna, die Apokalypse, die letzten Schlacht im Erleuchtungskrieg, dem alles verschlingendem Vergessen,
dem kaltem Winter) die entscheidende Rolle spielen.

„Gypsies“ ist aber auch gleichzeitig ein Crossover-System, da die einzelnen Familien sich teilweise den anderen White
Wolf Systemen zuordnen lassen.

Doch konkret zu diesem Abend,... zu dieser Nacht...

...Polen 1943. Die fünf Familien der Roma beauftragen die geeignetsten aus ihrem Clan mit einem Spezialauftrag.

Mirella / Kostos, Kind von Sarrath, The Lupines, (Familie mit Kontakten zu Werwölfen),
Napolina / Petreko, Kind von Dracian, The Ravnos, (Familie mit Kontakten zu Vampiren),
Mena / Lazaros, Kind von Dimitri, The Urmen, (Familie mit Kontakten zu Feen),
Dosia / Choro, Kind von Daenna, The Phuri Dae (Familie mit magischen Fähigkeiten),
Vana / Niglo, Schwester/Bruder von Korasca, The Tsurara. (Familie der Gypsies).

Sie sollen einen magischen Artefakt besorgen. Dieser Gegenstand ist einer der fünf Gypsy-Samen des Baum des Wissens,
er trägt den Namen Jalomasin („Der Samen der Sterne“) und ist in der Verwahrung der Familie der Urmen. Aber
auch die anderen Familien sind an diesem Samen und an seinem Wissen interessiert, wobei durchaus unterschiedliche
Vorstellungen haben, was mit Jalomasin geschehen soll.

Doch dieser magischen Gegenstand, Jalomasin, befindet sich in den Händen der Nazis oder zumindest in dem von
ihnen kontrolliertem Gebiet. Das allein macht den Auftrag schon relativ schwierig und extrem gefährlich – was aber tun,
wenn sich dieser Artefakt in einem der Konzentrationslager Auschwitz befindet?

In die Hölle zu gelangen ist sicher nicht das Problem – wie aber wieder mit Jalomasin lebend aus diesen Lagern herauskommen?
Und die Auserwählten fühlen sich dieser Aufgabe verpflichtet – selbst wenn es sie das Leben kosten sollte.

[Onkel Knopp]

Man müsste mal irgendwo eine Proberunde für interessierte starten und dann mal Nazi-Chars in der WoD spielen, ich wäre dabei. Probieren geht ja bekanntlich über studieren.

[yennico]

Ich hab 99 auf einem Horror Con ("Die Nacht") mal ein Gypsies Abenteuer angeboten. Das lief verdammt gut (im Sinne von Atmosphäre, Horror und Anti-Faschismus). Aber auch hier waren die Nazis die Antagonisten ... und es war ein OneShot!

Das Abenteuer klingt interessant. Magst Du noch ein wenig mehr erzählen?

(Klicke zum Anzeigen/Verstecken)

Was genau waren die unterschiedlichen Ziele der Familien für die Samen?
Was haben die Gypsies im KZ gemacht bzw. mussten sie da machen?
Wussten die Nazis was sie dort wichtiges im KZ hatten?