Tag Archives: memories

Chiseling Down the Wall – My Berlin Wall Memories

4 Nov

The first time I saw the Berlin Wall was the summer between my sophomore and junior year in high school. We had just moved to West Berlin because my Dad, who had been laid off from Pan American World Airways for 14 years, had unexpectedly been recalled…and sent to Berlin.

I remember when we got the news that we’d be moving. We’d known the assignment was to come through that day, so I’d made Mom promise to leave a message for me at school telling me where we’d be moving to. To my surprise, in the middle of algebra class, my teacher handed me a note. It read simply, “Berlin”.

Suddenly the world opened up for me. Visions of bratwurst, dirndls and Cold War spy movies filled my mind.

Clearly, I had no idea what I was getting in to.

By the time we’d moved into our apartment in the Dahlem district of Berlin, registered me for school in the US Department of Defense-run Berlin American High School, and learned to avert my eyes when walking through city parks where there were clothing-optional volleyball games in progress, I felt like I’d aged about a million years from that day in algebra class. West Berlin was not what I had expected.

It was better.

With the exception, of course, that every aspect of life was controlled by The Wall.

My mom and cousin Eleanor banging out their bits of the wall.

My mom and cousin Eleanor banging out their bits of the wall.

Living in the city, going about my daily life, I didn’t give the wall much thought. But whenever a sports team or, in my case, the Drama Fest team, had to go to another West German city for a competition, we had to climb aboard the Duty Train (the nightly military train that took soldiers and their families across East Germany in the dark) with the window shades pulled, so that no Westerners could see the glory that was the DDR, the Deutsches Democratic Republic of Germany.

It was impossible for civilians to ride this train, except in the case of students like myself, so I’d come with an armload of special papers while my military-dependent friends could pretty much just hop onboard. The Duty Train was really the only way out of the city apart from flying. There were day passes available to military dependents to enter East Berlin, and as civilians we could enter the East through Checkpoint Charlie, but there were many rules and curfews required if you did so.

One of the rules was that you weren’t allowed to take any paper money – East Marks – back into West Germany. My uncle (when he and my aunt visited us one Christmas and we all went into the East) chose to be stubborn rather than spending his leftover marks. He opened an East German bank account with his ten marks…the equivalent of less than five dollars. I suppose the account still exists, though it’s more likely that the bank itself dissolved with the fall of the wall.

The gate that December.  Note the Soviet flag still flying.

The gate that December. Note the Soviet flag still flying.

Another rule about crossing into East Berlin was that civilians couldn’t drive their cars. This meant that whenever we wanted to go there – which was only twice for me – we were required to walk through Checkpoint Charlie and be scrutinized by the East German guards.

This wasn’t too big of a deal, but it took awhile, depending on whether the guards felt like opening the window or not, and on how long the lines were. Both times I visited they glanced at my passport and waved me through. Both times my mother, however, was scrutinized. She must have looked like she’d be easily intimidated. She would stand there, trying to look cross and aloof, but probably the shaking of her hand as she handed over her passport gave her away. I actually wanted to be scrutinized. I thought it would be fun. But no, they picked on Mom instead.

I disliked visiting the East. Oh, it was interesting seeing Alexander Platz and visiting the Russian-run department store, but it was a gloomy place, a gray place. The above-ground subway, the S-Bahn, gave a shrill whistle at every stop which always gave me a headache, and seeing the windows of the houses that faced the wall literally boarded up and seeing the guards with their guns patrolling no-man’s land and their guard towers and their utter disdain for us westerners was a little off-putting.

Of course, never far from one’s mind when visiting East Berlin, was the fact that you could leave…and every single person you saw around you could not. Well, they could go into the rest of East Germany, but they certainly couldn’t go into the west.

(By the way, if you ever get to Berlin today, the Checkpoint Charlie Wall Museum (Mauermuseum) is a must-see. It tells the story – and often preserves the means – of the many escapes and escape attempts that were made in the 27-year existence of the wall. There is little more humbling in life than to realize how you’ve taken your freedom for granted.)

I remember one time going to a fair and riding a Ferris Wheel that was set up right alongside the wall. Every time we reached the apex of the wheel ride we could see over the wall and into the streets and lives of the East Germans on the other side. I felt like a bird must feel. Only birds have the right to fly anywhere they choose. Even they had more freedom than the East Germans.

A hole in the wall...with the "Pope's Revenge" in the background.

A hole in the wall…with the “Pope’s Revenge” in the background.

I visited the wall several times while in my two years in Berlin. Usually we’d take the U-Bahn, the underground, to the Reichstag (now the Bundestag) and get out there, walking the short way to the Brandenburg Gate. My mother and I did that when President Reagan came to speak at the wall, in the spring of 1987. We had signed up for tickets, which we clutched, along with our passports and civilian ID cards, as we joined the line which snaked back and forth for row upon row.

There were three checkpoints along the way, all manned by West German guards. I handed my pile of documents to the first. He glanced down, prepared to wave me forward, then gave a snort. A snort which could only be called a laugh.

He looked up at me. “Gretchen?” He asked.

I nodded, confused.

Then, with another laugh, he handed me my papers and waved me on.

I shuffled forward, uncertain and a little perplexed.

At the next checkpoint, it happened again.

Papers handed over, name read, guard guffawed. Only this time he called over his friends to add a little humor to their day as well. “Gretchen!” he said, lending his German pronunciation to my name. “Ya, ha ha!” his friends agreed.

As I approached the third and final checkpoint, Mom and I prepared ourselves for the laugh fest.

I handed my documents over and, sure enough, the guard smiled and chuckled.

“It’s my name, right?” I asked. “Mein namen?”

“Ya,” the guard replied. “Das ist ein kinder namen.”*

A name for children.

Fine. Whatever. Give me my passport, please.

And then, after taking our place in the standing crowd and seeing East German guards staring down at us from the top of the Brandenburg Gate with rifles slung over their shoulders, the president appeared. When I looked back up, the soldiers were gone.

“Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall,” President Reagan said. And I laughed a little, inside, at the absurdity of the thought.

Turns out I was the who was absurd. And I’m so glad.

A not-very-good shot of President Reagan speaking at the wall.

A not-very-good shot of President Reagan speaking at the wall.

I was in college back in the States on November 9, 1989 – 25 years ago this month – so I wasn’t there when the wall actually opened up, but I went back several weeks later for Christmas. My parents and my cousin Eleanor (who was visiting for Christmas) and I took the U-Bahn to the Brandenburg Gate, bringing a hammer and chisel with us to claim our small piece of history. The crowds had thinned greatly from the initial days after the opening of the wall, but there were several people there, chiseling and hammering and swigging from bottles of wine.

We approached a large hole in the wall and gazed through into the former No-Man’s Land, the place of such loathing and horror in the past. An East German guard, still patrolling but unarmed, walked up on his side of the wall and smiled at us. He was still wearing his uniform, complete with Russian-style fur hat with the ear flaps folded up.

In broken German, Eleanor struck up a conversation with him and he replied amiably, smiling all the while. We were making friends with a man who, only weeks ago, would have had orders to shoot us.

Eleanor and the guard, in an unprecedented cultural exchange.

Eleanor and the guard, in an unprecedented cultural exchange.

I went back to Berlin a few years ago, walked through the Brandenburg Gate, saw the renamed Reichstag and the US Embassy abutting the Gate itself, stayed in a Hilton hotel in the former East Berlin. Such decadence in the city that had been so dreary!

The Brandenburg Gate from the East, taken in 2012.  The US Embassy is the building to the left.

The Brandenburg Gate from the East, taken in 2012. The US Embassy is the building to the left.

Every moment of my time there was surreal. It was beyond fantastic to see the city I had come to love as it was meant to be. A unified whole.

PS – I know that reunification wasn’t all easy, what with broken Trabants on the autobahn and sales of pornography skyrocketing (blue jeans and bananas rounded out the top three most-bought items by the East Germans). But still, reunification brought about the ultimate end of World War II (the end of the Allied Occupation in the city) and the end of Germany’s split personality, so to speak. And while it might not have been easy, it was, in the end, Sehr Gut.

*My apologies if my German is incorrect!


Coffee. It’s What’s for Breakfast.

25 Oct

My functional work space at home. Luckily a cup of coffee tastes just as good here as in a lavish study.

I am sitting at my favorite coffee shop, at my favorite table, drinking my favorite beverage: Orange Juice. Ha ha! Just kidding. That struck me as funny. (Maybe if they added caffeine to orange juice…who knows? The direction of the entire world could turn on such a thing!) Coffee, actually, is what I’m drinking. With lots of cream. Even better if it’s in a cute mug.

I began to drink coffee in 8th grade at my neighbor Tish’s house. Tish is from Mississippi – which, on Orcas Island, WA, automatically makes a person unique. She is one of those people who loves everybody as if they deserved it, and makes you feel special simply for being you. She drank her coffee with brown sugar and served it in heavy pottery mugs. Whenever I see mugs like that I immediately “see” her tall kitchen stools at her heavy butcher-block table and smell sea-scented air, log cabin and lolloping Black Lab. I felt infinitely grown-up sitting there, chatting away with Tish, holding that huge mug of cozy goodness – which, inexplicably, I drank black.

When I left the island I left coffee behind for a few years and when I picked the habit up again in college my tastes had changed. No longer could I take it straight and bitter, now I wanted it mixed with hot chocolate or cream. LOTS of cream. (But never hazelnut creamer anymore, thank you very much, because somewhere in there I OD’d on it and I haven’t touched the stuff since. I am a fan of Nutella, though – who isn’t?)

So many cute mugs! (These are all my favorites) How does a girl choose?! Each one has a story. The Peter Rabbit I bought for myself because I needed it. (Ha!) And the bird one I bought as a gift but couldn't bear to part with it. The handle-less one is from Berlin - The KaDeWe. The black polka-dot I got at a antique/junk store for one dollar. The Norse one Colin bought for me for Christmas a few months early, then forgot where he hid it for two years. The last bird one I bought on our honeymoon.

I actually did have one coffee moment in high school, from whence cometh my need for so much cream. I was with my mom in Paris, on a Spring Break trip from Berlin, and we ordered espresso and it came in those adorable little demitasse cups that no girl who ever played house as a child could resist. I took one sip from that tiny cup – feeling sophisticated in my pink Nikes and green Benetton sweatshirt – and I think I refrained from spitting it all over my mother, but I’m not entirely certain.

It was vile. I was scarred for life by that tiny cup of French coffee.

But my favorite coffee moment came after college. I met my husband at Covenant Park Bible Camp, in northern(ish) Minnesota. I was the Program Director and he was the Maintenance Director. (That pretty much sums up our marriage duties today as well.) One morning at breakfast in the Dining Hall, my mother (who was the speaker that week) saw Colin drinking coffee. Mom knew – though I think she was still in denial as to the real reason – that I talked about Colin inordinately more than the other staff members I worked with. She had never met this young man, however, so when we found ourselves right beside him (“How did that happen? Huh.”) I casually said, “Mom, this is Colin.” And my mother – bless her heart – said to Colin, “Oh, I see you drink coffee, too.” And she held up her mug, indicating that they were in the same coffee-drinking club together. “Joe-drinkers Anonymous” perhaps, as if this was an exclusive club, a rare and wonderful thing to find a fellow coffee drinker.

I don’t mean to poke fun. I’m sure she was feeling nervous about meeting this, her last daughter’s first real beau, but it just was so funny. So Mom.

My dear college roommate, Rose, gave me this mug when I complained once that I didn't have any cute mugs. Obviously, this need for cute drinking vessels has been an on-going concern of mine. Though the mug is 20ish years old, the chocolate-covered coffee beans are far less elderly. The spoon is from Berlin...and I could not resist it. The coaster is made by our daughter Katie.

“I see you drink coffee, too,” Colin and I will say to each other from time to time over our steaming mugs and we smile and I get goose bumps, because that memory is part of what makes us a family. Coffee – black, sweet, or cream-colored – is intricately connected with the things that bring me joy.

Including writing, here in this coffee shop.

What’s your favorite coffee memory?

%d bloggers like this: