The sun is slowly creeping from
behind the houses as the train comes in. You get out and follow
the signs. Everything is in German, so you're not mistaken. This
is Berlin. It feels like any other city, but don't let appearances
fool you. There is no other city in the world like this one.
May be the railway station is a giveaway. It is a little bit
more rundown than most other railway stations in Germany. That
is because the railways are run by the East Germans. At the end
of the war, the allies felt is was much easier to let the Russians
run all transportation in the city and nothing has changed since.
The whole city is an anxiously
maintained status quo. It is still under military rule, although
there is a mayor and a city council. But all their decisions
have to be confirmed by the military authority. Members of the
occupational forces can ask for your ID anytime and arrest you
for no reason. Any newspaper can be taken out of circulation
without notice. But usually they don't exercise these rights.
Usually..
There is a wall around this city.
It was not designed to keep people in, but to keep people out.
A reversed prison. Built overnight on a Sunday in 1961. It has
cost so much in the meanwhile that if its builders had used their
funds differently, they could easily have put a man on the moon
first.
The wall is where the city stops.
Where roads stop, railways stop, people stop. It is a nomansland
that can be entered by accident, for instance when you're taking
a city train. There is a railway station that lies on East German
soil, but can only be used by Westberliners. There are streets
that are part of Westberlin, but the quay or the sidewalk is
East German. If they want to, East German border guards can arrest
you.
On the other hand, the Westberlin
police doesn't have any jurisdiction there. So if you ever get
in trouble, get to the nearest wall. The wall isn't actually
built right on the border, but a few feet behind. So with your
back against the wall, there is nothing they can do. They have
to call the military police that is in charge of that specific
sector. The military can go wherever they want. Even to East
Berlin. They can move freely across the entire city without any
formalities. By the way, so can the Russians.
You can easily get a hotel for
$20 in the center of town. Actually, it isn't the center of town.
All the signs that show you where the center of town is just
get you to the border. The center of town is on the other side.
Still, it is the right place to be. It's where the bars and the
discotheques are located. Where the action is. Where the whores
are standing at night near the show cases, like they're are just
another item you can buy.
This is a strange city. It is
an island in the land, a place where no compass does work, cause
you'll always end up in the East, whichever direction you take.
It's a capital without a country, a city under a glass cover.
A place where the absurd has become normal, and the normal has
become absurd. Crime rates are extremely low, well below the
West German average. If you get robbed of $20 you're sure of
a place in the local newspaper.
The people that live here are
different too. Strong, crude and with a bitter sense of humor.
Even the women. You'll find a lot of hills in Berlin, but these
are not natural hills. They consist of rubble that was collected
and piled up by hand after the war had ended and the devastating
bombing had stopped. The city was almost devoid of men at that
time, so the women took care of that. They still take care. Of
themselves and of you, if need be. But first of all of themselves.
Those who are here chose to be
here. Some of them were born here and just stayed. Others came
here for a weekend and stayed. Some came because no one else
wanted to come and stayed. Berlin has got the second largest
Turkish community in the world, even if you take Turkey itself
into account. But some are here for a reason. Sometimes because
German law is a bit different here. You can't get drafted, for
instance, so if you're German and want to study, why not do it
here.
Some come here to heal. It is
a city that hosts those who don't fit in anywhere else and makes
them feel special and welcome. Transvestites, homosexuals, artists,
punks, fascists. Those who are in need for a place that is even
crazier than they are. Kafka would have loved this city.
You've left the railway station
and the sun is starting to smile. You look at the clock of a
church that has stopped being a church, so they built another
one beside it. It's still early in the morning, but you know
a bar that is still open. Bars and discotheques can be open whenever
they want, 24 hours a day. That may not seem out of the ordinary
for an American, but here in Germany it is quite unusual. Another
advantage of being under military rule.
A man is sitting on the sidewalk.
He's pretty drunk or stoned, you can't tell. You recognize him.
It's Herman Brood, a Dutch rock singer and known drug addict
who was married to Nina Hagen for a few weeks. She grew up in
East Berlin, being the daughter of a wellknown folksinger and
an equally wellknown actress. Her father was thrown out of East
Germany ten years ago, because the party didn't quite like his
songs. She followed him a few years later, cause she was not
considered to be "a good example for the GDR youth".
Too bad for a girl who earned her first fame with the hitsingle
"You forgot the colorfilm".
It's not unusual to meet a celebrity
like this. It is the eighties and everyone is flocking together
in this city. You might just as easily meet David Bowie at "Romy
Haag", a trendy transvestite bar, owned by a Dutch transsexual
from the Hague. Or rub shoulders with Nick Cave in "Dschungel".
They're all here.
You get in and ask for a coffee.
The bartender tells you in a loud voice that he is closing up.
You yell back at him. It's not hard to get mad, cause you've
had a long trip and you're dead tired. Just when you're about
to leave, he winks you and tells you to sit down. If you don't
mind that your chair will be the last one that is put on top
of the table, you can stay. He offers you a cigarette and thank
him without making a sound. You're finally there. Home. Home
is where you sit right now, this old brown wooden table in a
bar that is closing up.
The bartender brings you your
coffee. Breakfast, he tells you. Breakfast it is. There are even
cafes in Berlin where you can order a breakfast like this, like
"Fantom". It's called "The existentialist",
after Jean Paul Sartre. You can also ask for a "Morning
After Pill" over there, which is black coffee and an aspirin.
You smile and no one seems to notice. You love this city. It's
like returning to the arms of a familiar lover. She doesn't ask
where you've been, because that hardly matters. She doesn't ask
you when you're going, cause you're here. You're just madly making
love to her like there is no morning.
You've finished your coffee and
reach for your wallet, but the bartender mumbles cause he doesn't
want your money. He was having a coffee anyway. You stick up
you hand and greet him, but there is no answer. When you get
outside, Herman is still there. There is a lot of traffic on
the street now. Germans start work early. Sometimes as early
as seven in the morning. All you want right now is a bed. You
want it all for yourself. No need to share it. That is for another
night.
The singles in Berlin say that
the hardest part of being a single in Berlin is staying a single.
Its very easy to make friends here. Even if you don't speak the
language. If Berliners can't make themselves understood by words,
they use their hands, their faces, even their legs if need be.
You were like that once. Speaking only Dutch, a little bit of
English and a few words of German you learned at school. You
met a girl. The right girl at the wrong time in the wrong place.
She taught you German and laughed when she learned that you picked
up "Berlinerisch" instead.
You still remember, standing
on her balcony at Leninplatz 28, looking down on the bold crown
of a giant granite statue of Lenin. You just made love and it
is getting late. In a few hours you have to return to Westberlin,
because your visa is only valid until midnight. She brings you
to the border, kisses you and patiently waits for you to return.
At the border, you are not alone.
The checkpoint is nicknamed "The Palace of Tears" and
for good reason. Dozens of people are saying their goodbyes here
and some of them are crying. But you have no intention to return
to Westberlin. As soon as you check out, you apply for another
visa. Officially, you'll have to wait until seven in the morning,
but sometimes you are lucky.
She's still there. She smiles,
because you made it. You say they made you pay ten bucks to spend
the night with her. She smiles, because she knows what you are
talking about. You have to exchange 25 good West German Marks
for 25 worthless East German Marks. If you don't spend them,
you either have to throw them away or place them on an East German
account. Hardly anybody does that. It's such a hassle and it
won't free you from the obligation to exchange another 25 DM
the next time you return.
She's picked up a "Schwarz
Taxi" while she was waiting. It's very hard to get a cab
in East Berlin since there are so very few of them. Sometimes
there are fifty people waiting at a taxistand and every ten minutes
a single cab comes by. She opens up the door and you get in.
It is just a private car, so there is no meter. The fare is a
matter of negotiation. She's much better at that than you. It
doesn't matter. She always takes care of you.
She turns on the light as she
gets in. You take a casual look at your watch and see that the
whole procedure has taken one and a half hour. Well, it could
be worse. You could have been out there, alone, invited by the
whores while you're trying to make it to your hotel. She opens
up a bottle of cheap East German wine and pours you a glass.
She doesn't turn on the TV, but puts on an old record of Leonard
Cohen instead. She asks you if you can bring another one. It's
an East German release, but records like this are only available
for a few weeks and can not be backordered. Sure, you say. As
she undresses she starts to giggle. You ask what is so funny
and she answers that a couple on the other side of the street
is making out and didn't close the curtains.
She's already sleeping, holding
you tight. Your fingers play with her long blonde hair. In a
few weeks you won't be here anymore. You wonder whether you were
here at all. Was it just a dream. Can a place like this really
be. Holds the darkness that you are about to receive more truth
than this awakening. Where will you be when you wake up. What
will you see when you open up your eyes again. A smile. A hotelroom.
The familiar ceiling of your own bedroom. The comforting scent
of her body lures you into the dream.
She sits on the side of the bed.
Watches you for hours. 'You sleep so beautifully' she says. You
wonder what is so beautiful about a man sleeping and visiting
his dreams under the covers of darkness.
You wish you could sleep like
that again, but you know you've left paradise a long time ago.
Even an angel couldn't hold you there. There is a change in the
air. You feel it coming like a thunderstorm on a summer afternoon.
This city has a soul, it mesmerized you the first time you laid
eyes on it. But you feel it is drained, dissipating into the
void.
When you enter to your hotel,
everything seems the same. You briefly glance at the calendar
over the counter. It's the ninth of November.
Hans Bezemer
September 2001
Learn more about Berlin
Berlin.de (Tourism)
http://www.restless-soul.co.uk/berlin1.htm
http://www.andreas.com/berlin.html
http://freepages.travel.rootsweb.com/~gideon/1tabcont.htm
http://members.nbci.com/norbert_schnitzler/DDR/Reise/Berlin45-85/_catalog.html
http://www.erich-mielke.de/
In German
http://www.heise.de/tp/deutsch/inhalt/kino/2480/1.html
http://www.berlin-street.de/index.html
http://home.nexgo.de/netzspinne/1989.htm
