![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
la_rainetteMy favorite piece of sentimental junk? Um, the graffiti'd piece of the Berlin Wall I won for an essay-writing contest in German, because of the words around the edge: "Freedom inside the mind helped bring this wall down".
God, that hit so close to home, you have no idea.
I am half German, I believe I have stressed that enough.
Have I ever told you where my family comes from? Have I told you about that place I love above all other places in the world? If you take a map of Germany, and trace a straight line between Berlin and Rostock, you will see a large (well, large for European standards) lake that roughly ressembles a dinosaur.
Around the head of the dinosaur, there is a small town called Waren. The dinosaur is called Muritz (with an Umlaut on the u that I cannot be bothered to look for just now). My mother was born there, in Waren-Muritz.
That's right: on that side of the wall.
I used to spend all my summers there. I still have my East German passport. I have lived within the boundaries of the wall, albeit for short period of times, and have fallen asleep more than once, as a child, because of sheer boredom at the border (it took a couple of hours to cross over).
Freedom inside the mind, yes. They had one enormous advantage over Western people, with regard to the media: they had no illusions. They always knew they were being lied to. They knew all there is to know about propaganda. The best, the most ferocious jokes I ever heard about politics and politicians were made in Germany.
Wir sind das Volk, wir sind ein Volk.
I do not know one single German person who owns a piece of that wall. I asked my mom this morning if she did, and she was utterly flabbergasted: "wie bitte, was?" The question didn't even make sense to her. How would anyone want to have a piece of that wall? It's not like you can forget, anyways. That wall should not be forgotten, and hopefully will not be forgotten. Parts of it have been kept, in Berlin, in a museum.
The day the wall opened for the first time in Berlin was also the day my father died. That hurt too much to leave space for anything else.
I went to Berlin, on a day-trip, a month later. I left from Birmingham, where I was living at the time, with many people armed with hammers, like scavengers, all intent on getting their little souvenir, hey, I was there! I was offered the hammer at some point. I didn't touch it. I couldn't. I couldn't.
Then, shortly before Christmas, we left for Waren, because we couldn't bear to spend the holidays on our own in France. We took the night train to Berlin, and spent two days over there with friends of our family.
The second she saw us at the trainstation, Brigitte exclaimed: "you can sleep for 2 hours, then, we'll have to go: they're opening the Brandenburger Tor today".
So we were there. It was unplanned, this meeting with History. But we were there. I have pictures of that moment, not a single one good, all of them showing hats and umbrellas: it was raining that day, and I realized a bitter truth that day: despite being very tall for French standards, in Germany, I am only very slightly above average.
The wall around the Tor was covered in rejoicing people. It was a high wall, hard to climb, but you only had to walk up to it, and lift your arms, and hands would grab you, hoist you up, and people would hug you.
To me, the spirit of the day is in this moment: as we were walking towards the newly opened door in the wall, we met a couple coming in from the other direction: a man in a suit, a woman in a fur coat, carrying plastic glasses and a bottle of champagne. Brigitte, who was delirious with joy at the idea of seeing again all these places where she had played as a child, and that she hadn't seen since, looked at them with mingled tears and laughter and said: "Prost!".
They looked at us.
"Wait, wait!" they called.
They topped their glasses, and gave us the half-full bottle with radiant smiles. That was the best champagne I have ever tasted - not the wine itself, but the spirit behind it.
I have not forgotten these people. Only very recently have I realized that they probably remember us, too.
I still weep when I think of - all this. I am weeping now, as a matter-of-fact.
Don't forget. Don't forget.
Don't be dupes, either.
(I'm not sure I am making sense, if I don't please forgive me. The Wall, and Germany, are very important parts of my life.)
God, that hit so close to home, you have no idea.
I am half German, I believe I have stressed that enough.
Have I ever told you where my family comes from? Have I told you about that place I love above all other places in the world? If you take a map of Germany, and trace a straight line between Berlin and Rostock, you will see a large (well, large for European standards) lake that roughly ressembles a dinosaur.
Around the head of the dinosaur, there is a small town called Waren. The dinosaur is called Muritz (with an Umlaut on the u that I cannot be bothered to look for just now). My mother was born there, in Waren-Muritz.
That's right: on that side of the wall.
I used to spend all my summers there. I still have my East German passport. I have lived within the boundaries of the wall, albeit for short period of times, and have fallen asleep more than once, as a child, because of sheer boredom at the border (it took a couple of hours to cross over).
Freedom inside the mind, yes. They had one enormous advantage over Western people, with regard to the media: they had no illusions. They always knew they were being lied to. They knew all there is to know about propaganda. The best, the most ferocious jokes I ever heard about politics and politicians were made in Germany.
Wir sind das Volk, wir sind ein Volk.
I do not know one single German person who owns a piece of that wall. I asked my mom this morning if she did, and she was utterly flabbergasted: "wie bitte, was?" The question didn't even make sense to her. How would anyone want to have a piece of that wall? It's not like you can forget, anyways. That wall should not be forgotten, and hopefully will not be forgotten. Parts of it have been kept, in Berlin, in a museum.
The day the wall opened for the first time in Berlin was also the day my father died. That hurt too much to leave space for anything else.
I went to Berlin, on a day-trip, a month later. I left from Birmingham, where I was living at the time, with many people armed with hammers, like scavengers, all intent on getting their little souvenir, hey, I was there! I was offered the hammer at some point. I didn't touch it. I couldn't. I couldn't.
Then, shortly before Christmas, we left for Waren, because we couldn't bear to spend the holidays on our own in France. We took the night train to Berlin, and spent two days over there with friends of our family.
The second she saw us at the trainstation, Brigitte exclaimed: "you can sleep for 2 hours, then, we'll have to go: they're opening the Brandenburger Tor today".
So we were there. It was unplanned, this meeting with History. But we were there. I have pictures of that moment, not a single one good, all of them showing hats and umbrellas: it was raining that day, and I realized a bitter truth that day: despite being very tall for French standards, in Germany, I am only very slightly above average.
The wall around the Tor was covered in rejoicing people. It was a high wall, hard to climb, but you only had to walk up to it, and lift your arms, and hands would grab you, hoist you up, and people would hug you.
To me, the spirit of the day is in this moment: as we were walking towards the newly opened door in the wall, we met a couple coming in from the other direction: a man in a suit, a woman in a fur coat, carrying plastic glasses and a bottle of champagne. Brigitte, who was delirious with joy at the idea of seeing again all these places where she had played as a child, and that she hadn't seen since, looked at them with mingled tears and laughter and said: "Prost!".
They looked at us.
"Wait, wait!" they called.
They topped their glasses, and gave us the half-full bottle with radiant smiles. That was the best champagne I have ever tasted - not the wine itself, but the spirit behind it.
I have not forgotten these people. Only very recently have I realized that they probably remember us, too.
I still weep when I think of - all this. I am weeping now, as a matter-of-fact.
Don't forget. Don't forget.
Don't be dupes, either.
(I'm not sure I am making sense, if I don't please forgive me. The Wall, and Germany, are very important parts of my life.)
