BRLO (Berlin)

 

Nursing a Blurred Vision IPA for a few extra minutes of enjoying pleasant, if not threatening, weather. A sparrow is trying to manage and protect a huge chunk of bread, but rivals make that job increasingly difficult. Many people are sneezing because of the high pollen levels.

Pulled kikok chicken sandwich with red cabbage-tomato salsa, beetroot yogurt, and roasted onions. BRLO Blurry Vision Hazy IPA.

The Room of Names

There is no escaping the primary memorial for the victims of the Holocaust in central Berlin: The Memorial for the Murdered Jews in Europe. It is direct and to the point. The Jews of Europe did not die as a result of war but were murdered. What happened was a deliberate act.

In a darkened room in the memorial, there are projectors illuminating the names, and when it is known the birth and death dates, of individual victims of National Socialism on the four walls. A commentator, in hushed tones, reads a short biography of the person named, first in German, then in English. There are six benches situated in the room where visitors can sit and contemplate on the lives of victims, and their own, while listening to these short biographies. Based on testimonies, many of the biographies are heartbreaking, short and incomplete; sometimes indicating that a person was probably present at a massacre and was never heard from again. It is difficult to imagine that about half the victims of the Holocaust have not, or unlikely ever to be, identified. At first glance this may seem to be odd or unexplainable; however, I consider what if I were among the 200 or so survivors of my current domicile of roughly 10,000. What it must be like to overcome the trauma, and guilt, of such a cataclysmic event and then be burdened with the responsibility of remembering as many people as I could; piecing together details of their lives and recording their names and lives for posterity. It is little wonder that many of the victims are remain unknown.

Platz des 9. November 1989

Platz des 9. November 1989

Bösebrücke, on Bonholmerstrasße, was the bridge that served as a border crossing between East and West Berlin during the Cold War. Situated outside the central district of Berlin, it crosses only railroad tracks rather than water, and is one of the last places you can still see the Berlin Wall in its original form. The crossing facilitated a passage from the Soviet into the French occupation sector and was the first place where the wall was opened on 9 November 1989. After the premature announcement from the East German government that private travel would be allowed to the West, people began to clamor at Bösebrücke to make their first foray into West Berlin. At 9:20 PM, to relieve the pressure of people crowding the gate seeking exit from East Berlin, a few people were allowed to cross into West Berlin. Their passports were stamped invalid. Three hours later, the East German border guards reported that 20,000 people had crossed the border. 

Barbed wire still attached to the wall

It has been nearly thirty years since the fall of the Berlin Wall. I watch a group of school kids participating in a school exercise, taking notes listening to a woman, about my age, discussing the events that led to the fall of the Berlin Wall and the subsequent collapse of East Germany. The kids were unimpressed, teasing each other just out of the sight of the teacher, giving each other piggyback rides, and generally more interested in the traffic that transited the bridge than in the remains of the wall. The fall of the Berlin Wall was a seminal event in my life, both personally and academically; yet for these kids it is ancient history. When I was about their age, the Second World War had been over for about thirty years. The end of World War II, the death of Hitler and the dropping of atomic bombs on Japan, seemed far removed from my life. It still does. It is only natural for these students to have the same feeling.

​

Tempelhofer Feld

Tempelhof was one of the oldest and most important airports in the world. Opened in 1923, it was particularly famous as being the focal point of the Berlin Airlift of 1948-49, when the Soviet Union denied Western Allies access to West Berlin in one of the first major crises of the Cold War. Cargo airplanes from several different countries landed at Tempelhof to provide provisions to the beleaguered city. Soon airmen, led by Gail Halvorsen began dropping pieces of candy attached to small parachute to the children of Berlin in an attempt to raise morale. Halvorsen would earn the name “Uncle Wiggly Wings” and the “Candy Bomber” because of his efforts. The airport remained a major transportation hub throughout the Cold War period, but closed in 2008. After its closure, and a campaign to retain the airport, it was decided that the airport and its runways should be used as a park. Today, in addition to a couple of “Grillplatz” (A BBQ area), the runways are used for human activities while most of the grass areas are used by wildlife, including several ground-nesting bird species.

I made the trip to Tempelhofer on the Pentecost holiday. Many people were taking advantage of the park despite the weather being overcast, cool and windy. I decided, as a novelty, to walk the entire length of the runway thinking about what a different perspective it was traveling the large concrete path by foot rather than by airplane. As I walked, there was a myriad of family stories going on around me on runway 27A: An older brother, or cousin, in his late teens is patiently teaching a girl of about eight how to ride a skateboard. A quarter of a mile further, I saw a father on rollerblades teaching his young daughter how to ride a bike. Several people were flying kites of various shapes and sizes.

There were several young men, joined by a small number of young women, drinking beer in the park. The sight of two or three men carrying a case or two of beer into a public park would probably we worrying to many Americans. Indeed, the amount of beer being consumed by a few people was staggering, and it is common to see men, with their backs to the crowds, urinating into the meadow where, I suspect, some of those thousands of nesting birds receive a not-so-nice surprise. Given the number of people who use the park, especially in the grill area, the amount of debris and trash is remarkable low. A similar park in the US would generate more litter. That is not to say that Tempelhofer is pristine, there are the occasional broken beer bottles on the runway, but it is remarkably cleaner than one would expect. 

The imbiss at Olivaerplatz

It is a simple snack, or a quick lunch for me while in Berlin: roast bratwurst on a hard roll (Rostbratwurst im brot). It is good, easy and relatively inexpensive. The bratwurst served in Berlin is much longer and not quite as thick as those served in America. Both sides of the sausage hang temptingly out both sides of the fist-sized bun. It is almost if it demands that you eat both ends before you have any of the bread.

Curry uwe

Curry uwe imbiss is an unassuming place at the edge of Olivaerplatz, a square that commemorates the Treaty of Oliva of 1660 ending the Northern War (1655-60). It is small, about the size of a food truck but looks as if it has been there for decades. Eating there means that one must stand at one of the three tables precariously covered by a tent-awning, or in the elements at one of the two small tables in the back. The two tables in back are usually frequented by older people who appear to be regulars. Whoever is working at the imbiss, when not busy, can be found having a smoke and/or chat with those sitting at the table. The conversation is usually convivial.

Plaque commemorating the Peace of Oliva

On days when it is nice I usually take my bratwurst, with a good helping of mustard (senf), further into the square. Olivaerplatz today is a park that has flower gardens and park benches. On a cool afternoon in May I sat at a bench quite some distance from the imbiss and began to eat. Almost immediately a small sparrow appeared at my feet begging for food. I took another bite and was startled when my new acquaintance tried to land on my knee. I wanted to see if the sparrow would land on my knee, but I did not want my entire bratwurst sandwich to become the sparrow’s lunch. I broke off a small piece of bread and threw it to the ground. The sparrow hopped to it right away, struggled with it and then flew off. I was hoping to entice my friend to land on my knee with a second piece of bread, but alas the one piece of bread was enough of a meal.

East Germany: 25 years after the wall

Traveling through what was East Germany is insightful. The towns of eastern Germany have largely been depopulated over the last couple of decades. The train ride from Berlin to Dresden takes one through some sparsely populated territory. The train, however, does bypass a few small towns with abandoned buildings and rundown train stations. There are several stories that describe the exodus of young people from the region to find work and opportunities in the western parts of the country.

The one city doing well in southeast Germany is the cultural city of Dresden. The city is, of course, famous for the bombing it experienced in the final months of the Second World War. On the nights of 13 and 14 February 1945, British and American airplanes dropped 600,000 incendiary bombs and created massive fires in the city that was known as the “Florence of the Elbe.” The fires soon engulfed Dresden in a firestorm, destroying the city and killing approximately 25,000. Before the bombing, the city had been virtually untouched and was a destination for refugees fleeing conflict and devastation.

Frauenkirche at night

My introduction to the firebombing of Dresden came in high school when I devoured the books of Kurt Vonnegut. In Slaughterhouse-Five, Vonnegut builds a fictional story around his real-life experience as a prisoner of war interred in Dresden. His description of the removal of bodies and cleaning up the debris in the days following the attack are harrowing. It as a significant and insightful introduction into the effects of war. As a teenager, Dresden seemed unreal and exotic – I could not have imagined ever visiting. The bombing occurred a long time ago, in a place far away. As a teenager, I could not imagine a city being rebuilt. But Vonnegut’s staccato words, describing his outrage of what happened, haunted me. Years later, the chance to exit a train and find myself in a city that still bore the scars of the firestorm was important to me.

In the intervening years much of the city has been rebuilt. It is difficult to tell that the Frauenkirche, which was originally completed in 1743, is actually an excellent reconstruction of the church completed in 2005. Only the darker stones in the building indicate which where original; lighted colored stones are ones used in the reconstruction. I read an account about the church that said as the firestorm grew in intensity, the temperature inside the church grew to 1800°F. The sandstone columns began glowing red and eventually exploded sending the dome crashing through the floor of the church. A small section of the original dome sits outside the church to demonstrate the amount of weight that was supported by those columns.

The Zwinger

Similarly, the Zwinger, royal palace built in the early eighteenth century, is beautifully restored. But it is more difficult to identify which parts survived and which are reconstructions. Like the Frauenkirche, the Zwinger was been heavily damaged, but was rebuilt much earlier and completed in the early 1960s. Not all buildings are exact reproductions of the pre-war design. The synagogue of Dresden is built on the same land as the synagogue that was destroyed during Kristallnacht 1938. Yet, the new synagogue is modern building that does incorporate the only surviving element from the original nineteenth century building, a golden Star of David.

Bad Schandau from the train

Every year I travel the train route from Dresden to the Czech border I promise myself that I will return and stop off at some of the little German villages that line the Elbe River. The most tempting, and easily accessible, is Bad Schandau. The sereneness of the river, combined with interesting rock formations and the occasional castle that line the dramatic ridges, beckons me to visit. Perhaps I have over-idealized such a trip after several viewings from a train seat. Nevertheless, I look forward to that journey.

Wandering in Spandau

Statue of Joachim II outside St. Nicholas Church

Because Berlin was constructed of several small towns incorporated into a modern city in 1920, these former cities have become distinct neighborhoods within the German capital. My exploration, taking place on a Monday holiday, entered a city that is more familiar for the prison that housed the Nazi prisoners through most of the Cold War than for the buildings and events that took place there. Spandau prison was demolished in 1987 after its last prisoner, Rudolf Hess, died.

A leisurely walk from the train station is St. Nicholas Church, one of the oldest in Berlin. Dating from the first half of the 14^th century, the church is most famous as the site where, on 1 November 1539, Elector Joachim II took communion under the Lutheran rite, which is both bread and wine. He was a member of the house of Hohenzollern and Prince Elector of Brandenburg, one of the most important principalities of the Holy Roman Empire. Joachim did not officially convert to Lutheranism until 1555 for political reasons. The church, well off the tourist track, has an interesting history aside from its role in the Protestant Reformation and was a real treat for someone interested in Lutheran heritage.

The great thing about exploring on a holiday is that all the shops are closed and there is very little pedestrian traffic. This meant that I could wander Spandau without having a number of people rushing around completing their errands. Of course, the downside is that many places are closed and, therefore, food, drink and comfort options are limited.

Entrance to Zitadelle

A walk around the Zitadelle, a medieval fort built to protect Spandau, provided a little interaction with nature. The water that surrounds the fort is an excellent location for birds and small animals. As I walked the perimeter the dead leaves and underbrush was alive with rustlings of small birds or animals, it was difficult to tell which.

I found a small park at Stresowplatz, where a sign indicated that the square had once been a bustling business district. Now it is comprised mainly of apartment blocks. Unfortunately, the sign was too badly damaged, with stickers and graffiti, to be able to decipher.

An unidentified bird in the undergrowth at the Zitadelle

Coming back to the center of the Spandau, I noticed a Woolworth Store. The chain has long since disappeared in the United States; however, it continues in Germany, Austria and Mexico. I have fond memories of the Woolworth in Southland Terrace while growing up. When I was very young I was bitten by a gerbil in that store. I remember being taken to the back (behind the curtain if you will) and I was impressed that there was something beyond the store – a secret world. Later, Woolworth was a place that I frequently bought records. Most of the time there was nothing new, but good bargains on interesting albums and 45s. I distinctly remember the lunch counter nearby where you could order a quick burger or grilled cheese. The pickles served on the side were always better than the ones you could get at home. 

The Woolworth chain began with its first store in Utica, New York in 1878, but did not last long. Frank Whitfield Woolworth then moved his store to Lancaster, Pennsylvania, where it thrived. Soon it became the most successful five and dime store in the United States and the world. It was so successful that it figured in the popular songs, such as, “I Can’t Give You Anything But Love.” The corporate headquarters, The Woolworth Building, at Broadway and Park Place, is still one of the most iconic buildings in lower Manhattan.

The Woolworth in Spandau Berlin

Although the Woolworth in Spandau was not open, I could not resist the temptation to have a peek inside the windows. Looking at the goods that are served in the modern successor to the classic five and dime, there is very little to remind me of the old store. There are no longer wax bottles with liquid sugar or candy cigarettes in a huge candy aisle near the checkout counter. There are no small turtles along the back wall waiting to be taken home as a pet. In other words, while the sign on the outside serves as a nostalgic reminder, the store does not satiate my longing to revisit the places of my adolescence. 

Some thoughts on Leigh Fermor’s A Time For Gifts

One of the great travel writers of the twentieth century, Patric Leigh Fermor provides an elegant and intoxicating view of Europe during the 1930s. In December 1933, just months after Hitler became chancellor of Germany, the 18-year old Leigh Fermor sets out to walk across Europe from Holland to Istanbul. Forty years later he revisits his journals, the treasured mementos of any traveler, and begins to construct a planned three-volume remembrance of that fateful journey. A Time for Gifts is the first of those three volumes and it takes us to a world lost because of time, war and practice. Each time I picked up the book, a respite in my busy schedule, I found that a smile crept across my face.

Rather than an interesting time-capsule approach to the subject, Leigh Fermor relies on his journals and memories, he contextualizes what he thought, saw and experienced. The book does so without the heavy foreshadowing one might expect. Obviously, the reader knows what is coming. Yet, there are no overburdening allusions to the tragedies or events that are about to come;  we know that bad things are going to happen to some of the people he encounters and we are free to speculate without the author telling us what happened. 

In an introductory letter to his friend Xan Fielding, Leigh Fermor sets the context for his journey. He notes, writing decades later, that the impulses and desires of youth works to keep us unfocused and in trouble. Leigh Fermor gives perspectives and can better explain some of his actions. His tendency to engage in social activities, his attention to connections with women, and the temptation of constant parties, all conspire to allow his talents to go to waste. He decides to take a radical step, to break out of a life set to be wasted.

One of the primary interests of the author in A Time for Gifts is an earlier history of Europe that most of us are aware of today. While not specifically mentioned, the gathering clouds of the First World War casts long shadows over the book. Leigh Fermor concentrates on the bloodletting that surrounded the Thirty Years’ War, but conveniently neglects the more recent devastation that was World War I. Perhaps it is all too fresh and raw. The continent convulsed during the war and the monuments, even a hundred years later, are ubiquitous; every small town has a monument or cairn commemorating those who fell during the Great War. Since the journey takes place in the interwar years, his trip, the countries he visits and the politics of the time are all shaped by the aftermath of the First World War and the impending gloom of the coming Second World War.

Nevertheless, from the perspective of the reader, there is a sense of uneasiness and concern about the fate of the people the author meets on his journey. Toward the end of one chapter I had a sense of foreboding about Baron Pips that he did not survive the war (as he was Jewish). But by the final paragraph of the chapter, we are relieved to find that Pips survives and thrives. The book does an excellent job of building tension and creating empathy for the people he meets. But the story does highlight what is lost: six million Jews, as well as several million others, die. Sure, Baron Pips is unique, but who is not?

At one point the young Briton is confronted, chastise and ridiculed by a supporter of Hitler in a beer hall; however, many other people come to his defense. It is an example of how fanatic supporters often hold individuals accountable for the actions of their group or government. It is also an example of how some people internalize the messages of their leaders or governments, while others overcome their cognitive dissonance to come to his aid. Leigh Fermor finds a tremendous amount of kindness throughout his trip. In another example, in Heidelberg, after he is taken in by an elderly couple during the middle of a snowstorm. He quite rightly asks if a German traveler would be treated the same in England. It is a question that haunts many of the students who travel to Europe with me.

The simple gift of a five-year old daughter of a German innkeeper in Bingen early on Christmas morning was very touching. I was sympathetic to his inability to think of a gift with which to reciprocate. Leigh Fermor’s description of beautiful faces of the innkeeper’s daughters, aged 5 to 15, led me to immediately consider what will happen to these young girls ten years down the road. Germany will is be pummeled by Allied planes; deprivation and devastation will be widespread. I am sure it was on Leigh Fermor’s mind as he edited his notes years later. What happened to that sweet five-year old, who would have been about seventeen, when the war ended? Her sweet and kind gesture was unlikely saved her from the deprivations suffered a dozen years later. 

Other encounters offer interesting travel insights and observations. Leigh Fermor ruminates on the importance of eggs. There one point in which he describes the delight in carefully removing the egg from the shell with a spoon and having it with buttered bread. Another incident has him riding in the back of a lorry with a fifteen-year old girl who gives him a birthday gift of a dozen eggs. For those of us who are drawn to travel by foot, Leigh Fermor offers quotable passages to explain our passion to others. When he is tempted to take a ride to go further down the Danube, he reminds himself that “all horsepower corrupts.” I have often noted that to walk provides an opportunity to observe. Walking at three miles an hour, as opposed to traveling by auto at sixty-plus or by train at 120-mph, allows for a study rather than a glance. If you see something of interest, walking affords the chance to study rather than a fleeting glimpse. Leigh Fermor concurs noting that while walking it is impossible to be out of touch.

A Time for Gifts is a difficult book to describe, yet at the end of the day it is a book about the joys of travel, walking and meeting people. I smiled knowingly when Leigh Fermor writes that he would wander the city and kept repeating to himself, “I’m in Vienna.” There are so many times when I have found myself in exotic or remote locations and have had to remind myself to take time to remember where I am – to enjoy the experience or to embrace my travel achievement. Leigh Fermor offers sage advice and valuable insight. He is a polymath who is both steeped in literature and enjoys a Laurel and Hardy film at the same time. For those of us who are interested in travel, history and thinking, A Time for Gifts is essential reading.

Patric Leigh Fermor, A Time for Gifts: On Foot to Constantinople: From the Hook of Holland to the Middle Danube (New York Review Books, 2005; originally published, London: J. Murray, 1977).

On the occasion of your 106th birthday

I have been thinking about you a lot lately; it has been a little over 25 years since you died. Many of the things that you might have recognized are no more. The church building that you loved and nurtured is still standing; however, the congregation that you knew has been disbursed. The buildings of the railroad where you toiled in a lifetime of work are still standing, but the company has long since been bought and it is now part of a major international corporation. Sadly your son is no longer with us; however, your grandsons and your great-grandchildren thrive and are happy.

Even though you are no longer with us, you are in my mind. You are still a role model, especially when it comes to treating people with kindness and patience. Your memory reminds me that quietness and thoughtfulness are not vices; they are comforting to those around us. It is those who are patient and kind get the most out of life. Greatness is not found in grandiose awards, but in the simple recognition of your friends and neighbors. 

You once told me, a couple years before you died, how much you enjoyed your travels. I still remember long drives on Sunday afternoons in the country, just exploring. We were seeing what was “around that bend” or “over that hill.” Your one travel regret, you said, was that you never had the opportunity to visit the land of our ancestors, and of your mother: Germany. I have been there and I am lucky enough to visit often. You should know it is interesting and beautiful and you would have loved it. On the day before your first birthday after your death, momentous events in Berlin changed the world. It was remarkable and I remembered you that evening. All these years later, I continue to think of you often and especially every time I find myself in Germany. 

Happy birthday, Fred. 

Berlin Zoo

Entrance to the Berlin Zoo

I have an ambivalent feeling about zoos as travel destinations. On one hand the animals are not free to roam their habitats and live a life that is natural to them. On the other, the animals are well-fed and protected from predators, disease and discomfort. With the decline of natural habitats, zoos around the world might be the place to save many species, at least until better solutions can be found. Nevertheless, over the years zoos have been an excellent place to take nieces, nephews and younger friends for an entertaining day out.

The Berlin Zoo opened on 1 August 1844 and was the first zoo in Germany, and the ninth in Europe. The animals were originally part of the menagerie of Prussian King Frederick William III. After his death, his heir (Frederick William IV) gave the animals and land for the construction of the zoo. After successful building campaigns and collection, the zoo faced a crisis during the Second World War. Prior to the war, the zoo had a population of 1196 mammals and 2516 birds. The zoo, along with the rest of Berlin, was heavily damaged and many buildings housing animals were destroyed. By the end of the war only ninety-one animals (mammals and birds) survived, including Knautschke, a male hippopotamus.

Born in in 1943, Knautschke was the only remaining hippo in the zoo after the war and became a favorite among visitors as a symbol of survival amongst the ruins of Berlin. It made international headlines in the 1950s when Knautschke was reunited with his mate Grete from the Leipzig zoo for breeding purposes. He lived until 1988 when he was seriously injured by his own son (Nantes) and had to be euthanized. The seemingly quixotic monument to Knautschke is a statue that stands at a heavy-used intersection of the park, just outside the hippopotamus enclosure.

The statue of Knautsche

Knautschke remains highly popular at the Berlin Zoo, at least his statue does. While I waited patiently to take a picture of him, many children came running out of nowhere to climb on him and have, what appeared to be, an obligatory photography by doting parents. At one point I had been waiting for a while when a father placed his two children on Knautschke’s back for the second time (the first time he had taken pictures while other children were on the great hippo as well). He fumbled with his camera/phone, snapped a picture and then disaster occurred. He was talking to his daughter who I assume was about four years old, when his three year old son tried to get down, slid off the back of Knautschke and landed face first on the mulch surrounding the statue. There was a hesitation, and then the three year old let out a deafening scream. When his father picked him up, the little boy’s face and nose were a mixture of mulch and blood. Another father, who was pushing an empty pram, came running over with a travel-sized package of tissues and to offer support. A while later, I saw the father, no doubt, explaining the situation to the children’s mother via the same phone he so anxiously took the fateful photograph. There was a look of panic in his eyes.

500-year old English Oak

Given the devastation of the war, it is amazing when any objects of being survived the Second World War in Berlin. As such, that a 500-year old tree still survives in the zoo is amazing. The English Oak, also near the hippopotamus pen, is estimated to have begun growing in 1480 and survived the founding and growth of the park, as well as the war. Today the oak is the oldest tree in the zoo and very much alive; however, it has lost its crown. Thus, its days are likely numbered.

Bobby the Gorilla

Germans have long been known for revering and commemorating animals.  At the entrance to the zoo there is a statue of Bobby the Gorilla (1928-1935) who inspired the popular song, Mein Gorilla hat ‘en Villa im Zoo (My Gorilla Has a Villa in the Zoo). A sculpture of a group of polar bears, created in 1930, forms a gathering place near cafes and food stands adjacent to the exit of the park. My real objective for the trip was to find the memorial statue of Knut, the young polar bear that captured the world’s attention a few years ago. After winning the hearts of many people around the world, his tragic death was a shock and a year later the Berlin Zoo unveiled the tribute in his honor. I, like many people, was captivated by the pictures of the young polar bear. I even have a small plastic polar bear on a window seal that I refer to as Knut.

Eisbär (Polar Bear) - not Knut 

My Sunday morning at the zoo, by myself, made me think a lot about the purpose of such a venue. One of the first things I saw in the zoo was a little boy, of about six or seven years, who clearly has a fascination for things that reminded me of myself. When I saw him, he was at the flamingo pen dutifully copying the information that was provided on the sign. Meanwhile his parents and younger siblings looked on. After I spotted him, I immediately went to the nearest shaded park bench to write a brief note about what I had observed in my journal. Perhaps what that little boy and I record in our journals are different, but I understand and respect his motivation. For this little boy, the zoo was a source of inspiration.

Animals, especially our pets, are a central part of our lives. When I travel this comes into sharp focus; I miss my own and I see how many people in Europe walk and tote their dogs around (presumably, most house cats are too cool and disinterested to walk around European cities). Monument and memorials to famous animals are not uncommon. For example, the monument to Martha, the last known passenger pigeon, at the Cincinnati Zoo is particularly moving.  In an era where we are experiencing a mass extinction of several species, the practice of memorializing animals might become even more common. 

A frequent and faithful stop

Each year when I travel to Berlin, inevitably I visit the same place: the launderette in Wilmersdorf. There is a reason: it is clean, convenient and I have figured out how to use it. The establishment is more high tech than most because it has a central board where on pays money and controls the machines. In many ways I look forward to this stop because I can have clean clothes and regroup for the next portion of the trip.

Over the past eight years, or so, I have patronized this particular laundry mat, the same man has managed (or owned) the business. Although he is stern and somewhat severe, he is always kind and gracious to people who need help. But for people who do not follow his rules (some of which are unwritten) he offers pointed advice and directions. Once, several years ago, he chastised me for placing the wheels of my suitcase on a table used for folding laundry. I understand why as this helps to keep the place clean and prevents clean laundry from becoming dirty. Nevertheless, I was a little embarrassed by his chastisement.

During my visit this year an incident between the manager and an elder man escalated. The conversation, in German, was heated and rapid enough that I did not understand what the disagreement was about. A younger German-speaking customer, folding his laundry, kept shaking his head in disagreement each time the elderly man spoke. I reflected as I finished folding my own laundry that the manager’s actions were why I came back each year. He provides a clean comfortable place that is helpful and comfortable for his clients. It is one of the small charms of my Berlin sojourns. 

Adenauerplatz

There is a small statue of Konrad Adenauer on the square that takes his name in western Berlin. He was an interesting man who was mayor of Cologne during the interwar years and lost his position when Nazis came to power in 1933. Despite being a conservative, he declined to support Hitler and National Socialism. He was arrested and threatened with deportation from time to time. After the Second World War he became the first chancellor of Germany under the Bonn Republic in 1949, a post in which he would serve until 1963 when he was 87 years old.

I often stay near Adenauerplatz when I am in Berlin these days. Consequently, it is not uncommon to walk through the square when I am catching a u-bahn or exploring neighborhoods. This year’s stay was particularly poignant for me.  My friend, John Adams, gave me a substantial biography of Adenauer from his library as a gift a few years ago. His work as a reporter, and his interest in Germany, meant that he had a keen interest in Germany. He admired Adenauer quite a bit and we had several conversations about him and Germany in general. John passed away this past December after a battle with melanoma. As I passed Adenauer’s statue the other day while on a walk, I smile and thought wryly of John. Although I have been aware of Adenauer’s importance to post-war Germany history and politics, I am grateful for John’s insights and conversation.

World War I monuments in Berlin

How history is perceived depends upon how a society is impacted by it. Although the German army collapsed at the end of the First World War in 1918 and the country was subsequently forced to surrender, monuments to soldiers are more acceptable than from the Second World War. Nevertheless, such monuments are not often easily found and tend to be in obscure places. I find it interesting that they regularly do not portray heroic soldiers scaling barbed wire.

Triariis Bello Occisis

On a small street adjacent to Zoologischer Garten train station, Jebenstrasse, the Triariis Bello Occisis Monument honors fallen reserve soldiers and officers of the army.  It is as if the statue sits behind the station because it is on the opposite side of the main square. The monument is away from the gaze of tourists and travelers. Knowing the background to the Latin phrase makes the monument all the more interesting and poignant. The monument is designed to honor third-tiered soldiers (hence the derivation of the word triarii), the last and most decisive portion of the army, generally made up of the oldest and most experienced troops. They were seen as the last resort.

Not too far away, the monument to the Faithful Dead of the XXII Reserve Corps stands in front of the main building of the Universität der Kunst on Bundesalle. Yet again, although more readily visible the monument is away from the normal tourist track. The soldiers are honored, just not ostentatiously.

Universität der Kunst

It is sometimes difficult for American students to understand that the outcomes of war do not always have the same meaning for everyone. Being on the losing side of a war demands a different type of memorialization. Countries that were occupied (as you will see in coming posts), often have different types of monuments and memorials. But certainly, not every society sees war as noble or normal.