In 1989 my daughter is born and the Berlin Wall comes down. In 2011 people all over the Middle East are rising up and demanding free, democratic societies.
I am in my early twenties, sitting under a tree by a small lake in West Berlin. I am furiously writing in my journal, sensing that if I do not put my words down quick enough, my thoughts and memories will fall into the water and drown. It is 1973 and I am living in Dusseldorf, West Germany as a “Mittelschule” English teacher. After being a student at Gottingen Universitat from 1968 to 69, all I could think about was returning to Europe. And here I am in West Berlin on a paid-for, organized trip for foreign teachers. We have sat in the third row of the opera house and seen Beethoven's Fidelio. We have climbed the huge stone steps to a floor-to-ceiling windowed monolith to hear the Berlin Philharmonic. The opera's haunting overture, the symphony's musical power, the history and art I have only previously read about in text books captured here in museums have made my head and heart spin.
As a foreign traveler, however, I am not comfortable in groups. Similar to when I was a university student, I want to blend in, become one with this ancestral country of mine. And so I break away on my own and plan some day trips to East Berlin. East Berlin, East Germany has barely been mentioned during our lectures and discussions. That other country, the one behind The Wall, houses Germans too. As a student near the East/West German border, I felt the rumble of Soviet tanks as they quelled the late sixties Czechoslovakian discontent. I want to see; I want to know what is behind the curtain.
I take the tram to Check Point Charlie, the easiest cross over station. As I enter the austere, drab colored station, the Russian guards and men behind the windowed counters seem to be staring at me. I feel chilled to the bone as I hand over my passport and take a seat on an uncomfortable wooden bench. The other people waiting with me are silent. My curious eyes wander to the serious faces of the mannequin guards. When my name is called, I walk slowly to the window and try to politely smile. The tall, glaring man shoves my passport forward through a small opening and motions me onward to the right. One of the mannequins moves an arm and opens the iron gate to let me pass. I walk through to the other side of Check Point Charlie and enter a world that has literally been stuck at the end of World War II.
Where West Berlin has been a hub of cars and people and modern buildings, the streets of the East are deadly silent. I feel as though I am in a science fiction movie. There are a few people walking towards the main, open square and I follow them. This square is surrounded by apartment structures, worn and in need of repair. I sit on a stone ledge of what must have once been a water fountain. I look and I wonder. A few people are carrying cloth shopping bags; one elderly gentleman is smoking, some are conversing softly. Nothing is loud here; nothing is bright. Grays, browns and blacks dominate...even the sky is covered in sooty clouds.
I wander from the square down a narrow, typically European stone-cobbled street. At the end of this street I turn and see the still remaining debris of bombed out concrete buildings. As I head back to the square I notice a small theater with a poster advertising a Bertolt Brecht play, Galileo Galilee. I jot down the performance dates and times. This is the Germany I want to see. This is the history I want to understand.
The square is more crowded when I return. I yearn to communicate with someone but find I am terribly shy. Then suddenly a young woman standing next to me starts to speak. I turn towards her and reply in my finest German. I do not look American and she is surprised when she learns I am a visiting teacher. We converse comfortably as women often do and she invites me to her small apartment on the other side of our meeting place. I quickly accept and just as quickly find myself inside a three-room living space made for one occupant on the Western side, but housing a whole family here. As we stand in the kitchen while she makes us coffee, I notice how simple and sparse her living quarters are. The cupboards have only canned goods. One loaf of bakery bread sits on the counter and there is little fresh fruit or produce. We sip our coffee and she talks about the long lines to buy food but her talk is not negative or bitter. She has grown up here and this is all she knows. Fresh food or canned food, it is all the same. Whatever is available is what they eat. Her brother comes home and we exchange “ Guten Tags”. Their parents both have jobs and for this they are grateful. At the end of our visit, I vow to come back the next day and our smiles brighten the drab surroundings.
On my next cross over to East Berlin, I feel I am coming home. My visit with my friends is not until the late afternoon. I have no plans except to walk and keep my eyes open. I see war monuments...huge warriors on horseback...standing ominously in the middle of once lush green parks. I veer away from the main streets and to my delight come upon an old museum housing ancient artifacts and paintings. It's open and I pay the fee and enter. The prevalent dust and stillness make me wonder if anyone knows about this treasure. There appears an older, sturdy, round woman and a slender, dark-haired young man in the next room. We glance at one another and as only seems to happen with strangers on a foreign journey, we end up in pleasant conversation. The woman and man are an aunt and a nephew visiting from Hungary. Having German as my second language has opened more exotic doors for me than I can count. This older woman and I make a fast and intimate connection. She literally takes me under her historical and personal wing, feeding me tidbits of knowledge about the museum's contents, about her life in Budapest, Hungary and how this is their first visit to East Berlin. Their travel is restricted to the Eastern Bloc countries, though she hopes one day to visit the West.
I am elated when I leave the museum. I have a Hungarian address in my pocket and a sincere invitation to have homemade goulash! It will be much later the following year, but I do make it to Hungary to visit the sister of an Hungarian/American friend of mine and I do have a warm, goulash-and-pastry-filled visit with this woman friend.
Back at the square I head to the northern apartment and ring the bell. My East Berlin friends greet me as if I am a close relative. We sit down to coffee and kuchen and deep conversation. The brother is soon to join the army and when this happens he will not be allowed to have any contact with any American. They have given me their address and we do write for a few months, but just as the brother predicted the writing stops when he becomes an East German soldier. They have been gracious, generous hosts and I have never forgotten their kindness. The sky is fading from day to night as they walk me to the crossing station. We stop at the entrance and hug. It feels so awkward to me that they can go no further. They cannot go where I can go. They cannot walk to the western side of their own city. They smile and wave as I enter the building. My heart, however, is heavy and sad. The Wall, the guards are there to keep us apart. But we human beings “Menschen” have met and we have touched one another and cannot be separated for long.
I return to East Berlin one more time. I visit a small museum located directly on the East/West German border by the Wall. Here there are pictures and tributes to people who have attempted to cross the Wall to the West. Some have successfully escaped and some have not. People have hidden in special compartments under cars and in trunks. People have climbed the Wall and made it. People have climbed the Wall and been shot. As I sit in the theater watching Bertolt Brecht I know why humans never stop striving for freedom and justice. It's in our genes to make connections, to climb over obstacles if we are to grow and change and develop as people. And if we can't climb over walls, we will walk through them.
© 2011
No comments:
Post a Comment