After a day of rest, I struggled over to Treptower Park's Soviet War
Memorial, a dignified square kilometer of sculpture and open space. One enters
through an arch ("Eternal fame to the heroes who fell for freedom and the
liberation of their socialist homeland") and walks down a tree-lined avenue to a
marble statue of Mother Russia. Turn left to two huge stone flags with 4m-high
bronze soldiers in front and a football field-size area in back. ("The Motherland
will not forget her heroes")
The football field has white stone slabs on the sides and an 11m-high statue
at the far end (a soldier holds a child in one hand and spears a swastika with a
sword held in the other hand). Each slab is edged with a quote from Uncle Joe and
faced with relief sculptures of various phases of the war.
|
The Germans attack |
| The Russians arm |
|
|
The Russians fight back |
Under the big statue is a mausoleum with a socialist-realist mosaic surmounted
with the words "today everyone recognizes that the Soviet people through its
sacrificial struggle saved European civilization from the protagonists of the
Fascist pogroms."
Although this monument was one of the most striking things I saw in all of
Berlin, it was virtually untouristed. In fact, most of the West Berliners I spoke
with had never heard of it. My hour at the monument was shared only by four older
Russians and an English group, whose leader said "you are lucky to see it now
because it will be gone in fifty years."
Anxious to see the German point of view, I stopped next at the Checkpoint
Charlie museum, highlighting escape methods from Soviet-ruled East Germany. Newer
rooms contain walls devoted to Gandhi in India and the struggle against Communism
in the Warsaw Pact countries. At first these displays made sense to me, covering
the common theme of "unwelcome guests in various countries." But then I wondered
about the parallels that were being drawn. After all, the Czechs and Poles never
planned to kill half the Russians and enslave the rest. I felt sorry for the 80
people killed trying to get through the Wall yet couldn't help thinking that it
would have gone much harder for the Russians had Germany won the war.
In the evening, I joined a bunch of embassy staff for dinner in Kreuzberg,
Berlin's Turkish/hip quarter. One of the diplomats spoke Turkish and had worked
in our embassy there. Seen through his eyes, the neighborhood was astonishingly
rich and peculiar. Many of the locals are super left-wing Turks or even Communist
Kurds. Numerous signs supported Peru's Maoist Shining Path guerrillas. Someone
had gotten up on a ladder and done a rather nice portrait of the recently
arrested Shining Path leader in his prison stripes, 10m up the side of a
building. Every little square was packed with Turkish families enjoying the warm
evening. Children played together in the center and adults chatted on benches.
Men wore Western suits, but their wives looked exotic in head scarves.
Once we stepped inside the restaurant, the Turks vanished to be replaced by
long tables of raucous Germans laughing loudly and a bit drunkenly every 30
seconds or so. The menu was simple: roast chicken, roast chicken, or roast
chicken. "Berlin is so interesting, you guys are really lucky to be stationed
here, livin' large at taxpayer expense!" I remarked. "I like the city, but even
after 15 years and speaking fluent German, I feel barriers with western Germans
that I never felt with Italians, British, Turks, French, or Americans. Part of it
is the smugness. For example, Germans will give you a long lecture about how much
better they are at recycling than Americans. The truth is that their consumers
are better but their industry is so much worse that the U.S. is better at
recycling overall," noted an economics expert. "I've been having trouble dating
here," complained a single fellow, "all the women look as though they just lost
their best friend."
On the subway ride home I sat next to a really beautiful young woman with dark
features and heavy silver jewelry. "Your English is remarkably good compared to
most of the Germans I've met," I offered. "I'm not German. I'm Turkish!" she
replied. "I was born here, but I'm not a German citizen. My passport is Turkish
and that's true sometimes even for third-generation immigrants." Why couldn't she
get a German passport? "Oh, the laws are Byzantine, but I could get a German
passport if I wanted one. I don't. I don't have that much affinity for German
culture, to tell you the truth, and even if I did, Germans would never accept me
as German."
My last full day in Berlin was
a Saturday and it underscored a lot of my previous experiences in Germany. Stores
can only legally open during certain hours, mostly coinciding with the hours that
people work. Thus, the only time many people can shop is Saturday between nine
and one. Imagine midtown Manhattan on the Saturday before Christmas and you'll
have a fair idea of how crowded Berlin's main shopping district is every
Saturday. Shopping is a special case of a general principle: Only one way of
life is sanctioned in Germany. There are prescribed times for shopping,
eating, and working. Want to shop for a book after 6:30 at night? Drive to
Switzerland. You'd like to have a late dinner? Drive to France. Fancy buying
ingredients for ethnic food? Fly to the U.S. People who like the prescribed way
of life find that everything is convenient for them. People who don't want to
live that way are often unhappy and consider emigrating. I never fully understood
why the U.S. has the world's lowest rate of emigration. Italy and France, for
example, oftentimes seem like nicer places to live. [In 29 years I've only met
one American who expressed a genuine preference for longterm life overseas and I
love his reason. He once read a survey of Americans who lived near airports. More
than 80% of the people reported that airplane noise bothered them when they were
watching TV but only 10% said that it disturbed them while making love.] In
Germany, however, the reason nobody leaves the U.S. hit me: it is impossible to
be a misfit in America. Each of us can choose a culture, climate, landscape,
working hours, shopping hours, etc.
Whilst traveling in third countries, I'd had some difficulty understanding
prejudiced anti-American statements I'd heard from so many young West Germans,
but spending time here cleared up some of my confusion. First of all,
older Germans from both East and West like Americans because they compare
us to the Russians. For young West Germans, however, history starts when they
became ten years old. Among the ones who've never been to America, there is a
common laundry list of negative prejudices. America the land is an string of
impoverished ghettos separated by vast distances of sometimes attractive scenery
punctuated by wasteful, polluting and inefficient factories. Americans the people
are too selfish to help the poor. Americans as people are ignorant of geography,
culture, and cuisine. Americans are loud and shallow. We get no credit for never
having started a world war, enslaved and plundered our part of conquered Germany,
nor rolled over Canada and Mexico and sent their citizens to the gas
chambers.
My epiphany came on this crowded Saturday: prejudiced Germans have only met
American tourists in Germany. American tourists in Germany are in a bad mood
because (1) the Germans around them are in a bad mood, (2) the bizarre opening
laws leave them without essential items when they need them, (3) they can't get
the variety of food they're used to, (4) the country is crowded, and (5) the
prices are shocking. New Zealanders love every nationality because even people
who are miserable at home catch the contagious national happiness there; Germans
dislike many nationalities because even people who are happy at home catch the
contagious national tension there.
Some German prejudices can't be explained by my pet theory. I looked up "USA"
in a German encyclopedia once to see if that were the source of the German belief
that Americans are geography ignoramuses. The first picture was captioned "USA:
Morain Lake in Banff National Park in the Rocky Mountains" (for those of you
whose geography is as bad as the Germans think, Banff is a good 250 km into
Canada). The next night I encountered a well-educated 25ish German woman whose
dream was to visit Siberia. I told her about my plans to drive to Alaska and she
looked very confused. It turned out that she thought Alaska was an island in the
North Atlantic.
Feeling uncommonly proud of myself for having developed so many brilliant
insights and for having successfully done a little pre-Prague shopping, I dropped
into the Egyptian museum to see the bust of Nefertiti. This is allegedly the
finest thing ever to be hauled out of ancient Egypt. It was very fine and
beautiful to the modern eye, which is impressive in something that old, but
Egyptian stuff looks pretty forlorn when it has been ripped out of context.
Back out in front of the Schloss Charlottenburg I noted the huge line of German
tour buses--this is where all the people who don't visit the Soviet War Memorial
go. Jean and Carlos met me and we joined a guided tour of this palace. It
encapsulates official tourist Berlin rather nicely. First, it is a mediocre copy
of French styles and concentrates more on quantity than quality. Second, most of
its original art, particularly the beautiful ceilings, were destroyed by Allied
bombs. Third, the only way to see it was an overlong tour narrated ad
nauseam only in German. The narration was so boring that we tuned it out and
chatted with Vera, a super-German blonde, and Steve, her British boyfriend.
Vera was about to forsake her native land to join Steve in London. As soon as
she said this, the drama of the 1993 European unification hit me: one can simply
decide to live and work in any country now without having to romance any
bureaucracy. I asked Vera if she didn't mind leaving her native country. "I don't
really like Germans or Germany. Besides, now is a good time to leave." Because of
the economic downturn? "No, because of the political situation. There is so much
tension between factions and I don't like the hatred of immigrants."
Vera was about the 50th German I'd met who had mentioned emigration and by
then I had decided that the country was divided into two groups: people who could
never fit in anywhere that wasn't exactly like Germany, and people who could
never fit in anywhere that was too much like Germany. Members of the first group
would be appalled to find that most American restaurants don't have special
glasses for different kinds of beer. Members of the second group are exemplified
by Dr. Anton, my companion from Heathrow to Stuttgart. Anton had worked in
hospitals in New Zealand, England and Germany. "I'm emigrating to New Zealand in
January because people die happy there. If they're 60 and get cancer, they don't
mind dying because they've lived 60 good years. Sixty-year-old Germans struggle
bitterly for life because they've never been happy." [Anton was also notable for
his folk wisdom. A reference to a Black Forest girl with a heart of gold brought
this response: Ein Mann ein Wort. Eine Frau ein Wörterbuch. ("A man a word;
a woman a dictionary."]
We ate dinner at a pricey "Mexican" restaurant, with a choice of two
quasi-Mexican dishes and 20 beers. Then we decamped to a party attended by a
surprising number of South Americans of German descent. In a perverse twist on
the U.S./England situation, they had come back to the Old World seeking economic
opportunity. They reminded me of the super-patriot American immigrants of the
1920s who loved the U.S. with their heart and soul (was it Irving Berlin who said
he loved to pay income tax?). When they found I was American, they vented their
rage on the subject of the U.S.'s new
Holocaust
Memorial. They vehemently concurred with the prevailing German opinion that
it should have been balanced by another memorial to the wondrous achievements of
the new democratic Germany. I quipped that they could donate one of their
monuments to the victims of Stalinism but nobody laughed.
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