Memories of Berlin

May 7, 2006

As I was rereading what I wrote about Border Crossings and then The Changing of the Roll, I was reminded of other cultural experiences and another part of our trip to Germany. And I chuckled inside.

During the European Team Leaders conference we had a couple free evenings and one free day in which we could chose to do whatever we wanted to do. The hotel we were staying in was located in what was formerly East Germany, and was just a few blocks from where the Berlin Wall used to stand. During those two free evenings, Mel and I walked the few blocks over to see the government buildings and the Brandenburg Gate.

I was surprised to learn that the Brandenburg Gate was actually in East Germany during the Cold War, and that the Berlin Wall ran not too many meters in “front” of it all those years. We walked around, taking many photos. While we were at the gate and enjoying our selves, we heard noises coming from father down the main street and soon realized there was some sort of protest going on. We had heard earlier that some sort of labor dispute was happening throughout the city and we had heard several protest marches, accompanied by the sounds of sirens, protest chants and general yelling.

As the marchers drew closer we could hear their loud speaker blaring out political messages. Oh dear! This was an anti- America march! Sure enough, we soon saw the banners held above the crowd, declaring their opinions about America, President Bush and the possible war in Iraq. It was definitely very anti-American.

I was dressed in black slacks, black shoes and my ankle length heavy black winter coat. I had been wearing my black fur hat, my Russian “shopka.” These hats are the traditional fur hats that are associated with Russians (or Ukrainians, Belarussians, etc) in winter. I took it off and gave it to Mel. He was wearing black jeans, black shoes and his forest green heavy winter coat. With the shopka on he looked much more Russian. It’s not that we were ashamed to be Americans – no, if someone had stopped us and asked us questions we would have answered proudly that we were, indeed, Americans. But at that moment, the last thing we wanted to be was a focal point for all of the hatred that was being displayed. We did not want to be a “flash point.” And so we stood there and watched and listened and marveled to ourselves at how much hate there is in the world, and how much misunderstanding.

(As a side-note: We have a dear friend in southern California who once told us that the shopkas look like muffins and that people who are wearing them look like they are wearing muffins on their heads. Muffin heads. I have always thought that was funny. Shopkas are, however, very warm – too warm for me. I can only wear mine of the bitter cold days.)

A couple days later, on our free day, we got instructions on how to find Checkpoint Charlie. We took off walking and worked our way over, visiting several spots along the Berlin Wall trail. The wall is completely gone now, just a memorial brick line has been left running along the streets, through parking lots and across sidewalks. We did find one section that has been preserved, at the edge of the ultra-modern Sony Center. A sheet of cement, standing alone with a marker to declare what it is. It has been spray painted with graffiti. I was shocked at how small it was – all those years growing up I had imagined a wall two stories high, at least, and thick enough to walk on. Not this 8 or 10 inch thick, probably three meter tall sheet of cement. Similar sheets of cement are found all over the former Soviet Union, used to block people out of building sites or for temporary fences wherever needed.

The whole area was such a contrast to us and I wondered how the people of East Germany had viewed what we were seeing at that point. On the East side of the wall stood old buildings, German – yes, but also with the gray Soviet look that covers everything we have seen in our travels around Ukraine. On the West side, there stood the Sony Center – sky scrapers of glass and steel, neon lights and the highest, most modern technologies. An incredible contrast – one that is still being worked on. The buildings on the East side are being repaired, remodeled and brought into the modern world. But there are so many of them, and the costs so great – it will take time. Much time.

We wandered on over to Checkpoint Charlie, one of the crossing points between East Germany and Berlin, a former gate in the Berlin Wall. This crossing area had been controlled by the American military in Berlin, and was called Checkpoint C, or Checkpoint “Charlie.” An American flag was still flying over the little guard hut, now standing lonely in the middle of a busy street, rather than at the edge of a wall of separation.

On the corner of the street is a museum dedicated to the history of the Berlin wall. Mel paid for our tickets and we entered the museum. To be frank, the museum was very depressing to me. There was too much to write about at this time. I eventually told Mel I would meet him at the exit point, I couldn’t handle any more of the photos of people being shot in East Germany as they tried to cross the area before the wall, the lists of people who had died trying to reach freedom in the West. It was just too much.

I found a small café at the exit of the museum, bought a cup of coffee or maybe a soft drink and just sat and waited for him. When I was younger I read many novels set in World War II and had enjoyed reading them. But this was too much. I was actually touching a part of history filled with pain and anguish, fear and control, hopelessness and despair. Only a few success stories balance the scale. Thank God the wall is now gone and “freedom” has arrived across the former Soviet Union.

As we left the museum, we decided to find a café and get something to eat. We walked a couple blocks down the street and found a likely café. We entered and were seated at a table. The menu was in German, but we were able to work out what a couple of the dishes available were. I don’t remember what Mel ordered, a sandwich of some sort I think. I ordered a plate of hard sausages and bread.

The waiter brought out a basket of bread, a bottle of oil and a plate of a variety of thinly sliced sausages and if I remember correctly, some German mustard. It was all quite tasty.

Now, I had only had oil served with bread one time before, in Jackson, Mississippi. We were invited during a missions conference to have dinner with a young family. With the meal they served oil, flavored with herbs, and a small white round dish to pour the oil into. The idea was, dip bread into the oil and eat. Very tasty and a new experience for me.

In this little German café, on the table sat a little white round plate, maybe three inches in diameter. My plate was covered in sausages, the bread was in a basket. So, I reached over, pulled the little white saucer over beside my plate, and poured about a tablespoon of oil on it. The saucer was almost flat, but there was enough of a “bowl” to hold the oil without problem. I happily munched my bread and oil with a slice of the sausage. I poured a bit more oil onto the little white disc and the waiter saw me.

“Stop!” He actually shouted. Then ran over, grabbed the little white disc and looking at me in total disgust, said in fair English. “THAT is the cigarette ASH TRAY!”

He stomped off and quickly returned with a plate almost 14 inches across, and with a snort of total disgust, walked off.

I wanted to crawl under the table. My face was beet red. But I was laughing so hard I could hardly hold the bottle as I slowly poured a tiny dab of oil onto the edge of the enormous plate he had given me. Mel and I just looked at each other. He even laughed out loud. Very quickly we finished eating, asked for the check and left. VERY quickly.

So – what are my main memories of Berlin, you might ask.

Contrasts. Historical Pain. Anti-American Hatred. Good Food.

The only place in the world where I have eaten out of an ash tray.

And lived to tell about it. Whenever I talk about that trip to Germany, that trip to Berlin – the first thing I remember is that little white ash tray.