{"id":9475,"date":"2018-06-30T20:02:20","date_gmt":"2018-06-30T19:02:20","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=9475"},"modified":"2018-07-02T08:00:13","modified_gmt":"2018-07-02T07:00:13","slug":"the-good-people-from-the-west","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=9475","title":{"rendered":"The Good People from the West"},"content":{"rendered":"

The Wall had been down for three years when I first talked to somebody from the former GDR, not in Germany but in the community room of a hostel in Truckee, where I was waiting for a phone call from the police. My rental car had been stolen \u2013 and with it, my money, passport, airline ticket, and clothes. \u201cThe door wasn\u2019t locked,\u201d I\u2019d said to the officer in the morning, \u201cbut I was back after two minutes. There\u2019s practically nobody out there. The fucking place is empty. I am the only guest.\u201d
\n          I was sitting on a rundown sofa in front of the hostel\u2019s fireplace to catch some warmth in my T-shirt \u2013 I\u2019d taken it for granted that California would be warm and sunny and not as cold and gray as my hometown \u2013 when a guy came in. He was tanned and had shoulder-long, sun-bleached hair, like the surfers I\u2019d seen in L.A., but was dressed appropriately (sweater, coat) apart from his feet which looked tiny and vulnerable in fake Birkenstocks. \u201cHow you doing?\u201d he said with the most horrible German accent. That\u2019s when I knew for sure. They didn\u2019t learn English at school, only Russian.
\n          \u201cFine,\u201d I answered in English. I was still hoping to be gone shortly and the last I wanted to do was chat in my mother tongue with a compatriot, not to mention a fake one.
\n          He looked me up and down, then he said, \u201cFirst time in America?\u201d
\n          \u201cNo,\u201d I lied, reaching for one of the books on the coffee table, which turned out to be by Hermann Hesse.
\n          \u201cSteppenwolf,\u201d the guy said. \u201cBig thing in my home country.\u201d He extended his hand, smiled, and said, \u201cMichael.\u201d
\n          \u201cRobert.\u201d
\n          \u201cAll right,\u201d he said.
\n          A little later I heard him shuffle behind me, then he laughed and said in German, \u201cSeems that we can\u2019t escape each other.\u201d
\n          I turned around. He was standing behind the makeshift reception counter in the corner. I just wanted to say something when the guy who registered me the day before came in from the back door. \u201cHey, Michael, did you enjoy it?\u201d
\n          \u201cJa<\/em>,\u201d he said, holding his hands wide apart. \u201cCatch fish big wie Delfin.\u201d (If he didn\u2019t know \u2013 or didn\u2019t like \u2013 a word in English, he just switched to German.) He turned back to me. \u201cAre you hungry? I\u2019m cooking fish tonight!\u201d
\n          \u201cIt\u2019s okay,\u201d the other guy said. \u201cYou can pay when you get your stuff back.\u201d
\n          \u201cHe can help out,\u201d Michael said. \u201cEarn bed and food, all right?\u201d He looked at the other guy who shrugged and retreated to the back. \u201cWhat about wood?\u201d Michael called after him in English. \u201cIs it genug<\/em>?\u201d
\n          \u201cCould use some extra hands.\u201d
\n          \u201cMorgen<\/em>. Today is\u2026 \u201c He paused and looked at me, then he said, \u201cCelebration.\u201d He smiled and switched back to German. \u201cDon\u2019t worry. I won\u2019t let down a compatriot.\u201d
\n          I grew up right next to the former border. When in November 1989 all these pale, pathetically clothed people with their horrible haircuts and wounded eyes invaded our town all of a sudden, my friends and I were shocked. The older generations may have cheered; we looked at them with a mixture of disgust and pity. \u201cLet\u2019s check it out,\u201d my then-girlfriend said the following spring, but I didn\u2019t want to mess up my new car on the bad roads over there.
\n          \u201cWhat kind of car was it again, Robert?\u201d
\n          The way he pronounced my name made me regret that I ever told him. \u201cA red Honda. Nothing special. You don\u2019t get far with a rented car anyway.\u201d
\n          \u201cWell,\u201d Michael said, \u201cdepends what you\u2019re planning to do with it. Don\u2019t get your hopes too high, Robert.\u201d
\n          \u201cMaybe I should take a bus to San Francisco and go straight to the embassy.\u201d I smiled and said, \u201cCould you lend me some money for the ticket and maybe a coffee? There\u2019s nothing I can leave as a deposit though. You\u2019d have to trust me.\u201d
\n          \u201cIm Westen nichts Neues,\u201c he said.
\n          I didn\u2019t get it. I hadn\u2019t seen the movie. Nor read the book.
\n          \u201cWhat about your boots?\u201d Michael laughed. \u201cListen, Robert, I wouldn\u2019t do that. If the police stop you, they\u2019ll put you in jail. I heard of foreigners who rotted in jail for years.\u201d He slapped me on the back. \u201cAs I said, I won\u2019t let down a compatriot. You can help James with the wood. He\u2019s having problems with his back lately. Aren\u2019t you cold, Robert?\u201d
\n          \u201cNo,\u201d I said, stepping back so that he wouldn\u2019t notice the goose-bumps covering my naked arms. <\/p>\n

          While Michael was cooking I sat on the sofa, holding the book, pretending to read. Despite the fire I was freezing. Finally Michael stuck his head through the door and said, \u201cLet\u2019s eat.\u201d
\n          It was only the two of us; the other guy hadn\u2019t returned. \u201cSmells fantastic,\u201d I said as I sat down.
\n          \u201cMy father often took me fishing on the weekends, to R\u00fcgen, ever been?\u201d He piled up potatoes on my plate. \u201cDid you ever visit the East, Robert?\u201d
\n          I took a sip from the American beer, which was weak compared to the one in Germany but at least not the horrible GDR swill a friend of mine once brought to a party as a joke. \u201cI was too busy studying.\u201d
\n          \u201cPity,\u201d he said.
\n          I nodded even though it was the last place I wanted to go. The photographs in our history books had given me the creeps: old men in gray suits, housewives queuing in front of empty shop windows, treeless ghost towns, and parades with lines and lines of soldiers marching in lockstep.
\n          \u201cWe always came back with an overfilled trunk.\u201d Michael carefully balanced a huge trout on the potato hill. \u201cOur whole neighborhood lived from it for weeks.\u201d He sat down and reached for knife and fork. \u201cWe had plenty to eat in the GDR.\u201d
\n          I picked into a potato. My appetite had suddenly gone. \u201cThank you for cooking,\u201d I said.
\n          \u201cYou gotta finish your plate if you don\u2019t want any rain tomorrow.\u201d Michael got up, turned the radio on, switched stations, and eventually sang along to Let\u2019s get together and feel alright<\/em> in his horrible accent. When the next song began, he turned the radio off. \u201cMy old man was in the same hospital in capitalist Germany for treatment,\u201d he said. \u201cHe lay in the lounger on that terrace overlooking the lake, what was it called again?\u201d
\n          I shrugged. The whole thing was news to me.
\n          \u201cAnyway, he was there, right next to Bob Marley, and had no idea who that guy was.\u201d
\n          \u201cThey let him out?\u201d
\n          \u201cThey let him out and back in again when he was cured. My old man used to say that the devil was sitting in between them and they had to draw lots. When it fell on him, Bob swapped loungers, that\u2019s what my old man says. Never knew his music but liked him anyway. Said that they were both fighting for the right cause. My old man wanted to flee after the operation, but how could he with that guy believing in him?\u201d
\n          \u201cI was never much of a reggae fan,\u201d I said.
\n          \u201cCoffee?\u201d he said.
\n          \u201cIf it\u2019s not the stuff you had in the GDR?\u201d
\n          He laughed. \u201cYou\u2019re right. It was awful.\u201d He passed me a cup, still laughing. \u201cOnce or twice a year my mother\u2019s uncle from Frankfurt came by. Sat in the middle of the sofa, placed his fake leather suitcase on the table, and took out one parcel after the other, packed in layers of old TV-papers. West TV, of course. Our kitchen smelled of cakes or bread coming fresh from the oven, but we had to cheer at cheap store-bought stuff.\u201d He leaned back and was silent as if trying to get back to these moments. \u201cBut the coffee,\u201d he said after a while, \u201cwell, I guess it was the coffee that made my parents play along.\u201d
\n          \u201cCan I have a refill?\u201d
\n           \u201cSure.\u201d He passed me the pot which was cold by now and so was the coffee. \u201cWhat about you? Did you send care packages too?\u201d
\n          \u201cMy grandmother did for Christmas.\u201d
\n          \u201cGood girl!\u201d Michael opened a drawer, took out a pack of cigarettes, Karo<\/em>, the most popular brand in the former GDR, and sat down again. He offered me one, I shook my head. \u201cI am not much of a smoker.\u201d
\n          \u201cTake it,\u201d he said, holding the lighter next to my head.
\n          I took one out, put it into my mouth, and leaned forward to reach the flame.
\n          Michael grinned. \u201cSay thank you, Robert.\u201d<\/p>\n

          My mother was born in Thuringia shortly after the war broke out. How her parents came to live in the West had never been a topic and neither had my grandmother\u2019s brother, who still lived in the East. Even the packing and the sending of the said packages were only discussed between my mother and my grandmother. Once I came into the kitchen while they were filling a huge cardboard box with presents for cousins I only knew from blurry photographs. When there was no new camera waiting for me under our Christmas tree a few weeks later, just a used one, I blamed them.
\n          Michael shoved the cigarettes back to me as soon as I\u2019d finished smoking. \u201cTake another one.\u201d
\n          \u201cThey are a bit too strong for me.\u201d
\n          He smiled and said, \u201cThe cancer rate is twice as high in the former East, did you know?\u201d
\n          I smiled back. \u201cYour cars weren\u2019t helping, I guess.\u201d
\n          People in my hometown had thrown coins and food from their windows as the endless line of tiny cardboard vehicles slowly passed along every street, turning our clear blue sky into a smog dome. When we were drunk one night, we passed a snot-green Trabi covered with bananas and money. We checked that nobody was watching and each of us grabbed two marks for a beer.
\n          Michael pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and passed it to me. \u201cTake it, Robert.\u201d
\n          I tried to inhale as little as possible, hoping he wouldn\u2019t realize, and held the cigarette in my hand until there was only the filter left. \u201cCan I have the same bed?\u201d I cleared my throat and added, \u201cI\u2019ll talk to my parents first thing in the morning. They\u2019ll wire some money.\u201d
\n          \u201cI\u2019m so sorry,\u201d Michael said, \u201cDidn\u2019t I tell you that the rooms are being renovated? But I\u2019ve got a cot upstairs. I\u2019ll bring it down for you.\u201d He opened the cabinet and produced a bottle of green liquid. \u201cFirst a toast.\u201d He filled two glasses to the brim, passed me one, and held up his. \u201cA toast to the homeland.\u201d And, closing his eyes, he began to sing his old national anthem: From the ruins risen newly, To the future turned, we stand. Let us serve your good\u00a0weal truly, Germany, our fatherland<\/em>. He opened his eyes again and smiled, \u201cSorry, I forgot.\u201d He turned around and opened the drawer to take out a sharpie with which he wrote the lyrics on the fridge. \u201cRobert, do you know the melody? No? Let me teach you.\u201d
\n          We drank a glass of the sweet peppermint liquor after each verse and eventually replaced the empty bottle with a red one. It was long past midnight when he finally brought down the cot, and yet he woke me up when it was still pitch dark outside. \u201cRobert,\u201d he said, blinding me with a torch, \u201cwe need wood.\u201d
\n          I was naked. My body was so stiff from the cold that I could hardly move. \u201cWhere are my clothes?\u201d
\n          \u201cIn the washing machine. God, you made a mess.\u201d He pointed at a pile of clothes on the sofa. \u201cThey should fit.\u201d
\n          I got up and wrapped the thin sheet around me like a toga. \u201cI\u2019d like to have a shower first.\u201d
\n          \u201cLater, Robert, go get us some wood first, will you? It\u2019s fucking cold in here.\u201d
\n          I waited for him to leave but he didn\u2019t move so I let go of the sheet and quickly slipped into shabby underwear and socks. I put on a pair of jeans, the kind we laughed at in \u201889, and pulled a pullover over my head, which left my hair static for at least a minute. As I reached for my cowboy boots, which I\u2019d bought in San Francisco the day of my arrival, he said, \u201cLet\u2019s swap.\u201d
\n          \u201cCome on,\u201d I said, \u201cyour feet are much smaller than mine.\u201d
\n          He grabbed an old TV magazine, tore a page out, balled it up, and said, \u201cWhen you guys sent us your old sneakers, they never came in the right size. But necessity is the mother of invention.\u201d
\n          Not only were his feet smaller than mine, I also was nearly a head taller and my shoulders were much wider. I could easily beat him up, I thought, and yet, I passed him my boots, watched as he filled them with newspaper clippings, and slipped into his fake Birkenstocks even though my toes and heels went over the edge. \u201cWhere\u2019s the wood?\u201d
\n          \u201cHold on. I don\u2019t want you to freeze to death, Robert.\u201d He handed me an oversized fake leather jacket with huge patches that looked as if cut from an Indian rug; all men from the GDR, no matter what age, seemed to be wearing them when they invaded the West. \u201cTake this,\u201d he said.
\n          \u201cI\u2019m fine,\u201d I said.
\n          He smiled. \u201cIf you say so.\u201d
\n          I followed him to the back door and out of the house. It was raining heavily. I was soaking wet when we arrived at a shed. He loosened the latch, opened the door, and said, \u201cI totally forgot. There\u2019s none left. Would you mind chopping some?\u201d He stepped inside, took a hatchet from a hook at the wall, and pressed it into my hands. \u201cYou know how to do it, right?\u201d
\n          I didn\u2019t, but nonetheless I said, \u201cWhere do you have your supplies?\u201d
\n          \u201cThere.\u201d He turned around and pointed at the small wood down the hill. \u201cTake as much as you want.\u201d
\n          \u201cIt\u2019s raining!\u201d
\n          \u201cYour fault, Robert. You didn\u2019t finish your plate.\u201d He patted my shoulder and said, \u201cSure about the jacket?\u201d<\/p>\n

          The trees were too big and too wet. After an hour or so I gave up and returned to the house. A huge fire was burning, a stack of logs was piled up against the wall. \u201cThe thing is, everybody has to contribute one\u2019s share. Luckily, a neighbor helped out,\u201d Michael said. \u201cHe lives down the road. Good guy. Very interested in our country. Took the first flight to Berlin when the Wall came down, fancy that! He was crying, he said, he walked through the Brandenburg Gate and along Unter den Linden, and he couldn\u2019t stop crying.\u201d Michael put a mug of coffee on the table. \u201cCareful, Robert, it\u2019s hot.\u201d
\n          \u201cCan I use your phone?\u201d
\n          \u201cSure. But sit down first. Get yourself some rest.\u201d He gently pushed me onto the chair, saying, \u201cGod, you\u2019re wet. You\u2019ll catch a cold.\u201d He grabbed the horrible jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders. \u201cMuch better.\u201d
\n          I reached for the mug, burnt my already callused and blistered hands, and let it drop onto the table, spilling half of the coffee.
\n          Michael sighed. \u201cDidn\u2019t I warn you?\u201d
\n          I stood up. \u201cPlease let me call my parents now.\u201d
\n          \u201cGo ahead.\u201d
\n          I reached behind the counter to pick up the phone, quickly punched in the number, got lost twice, made it really slow the third time. There was no tone. I put down the receiver, picked it up again. Still no tone. \u201cIt\u2019s dead.\u201d
\n          \u201cHappens sometimes. Probably the rain.\u201d He smiled. \u201cWe didn\u2019t have a phone, Robert. Most of us didn\u2019t. We paid a visit when we wanted to talk to somebody.\u201d
\n          I only now noticed that the stairway to the upper floor with the only bathroom was blocked. In the morning I\u2019d urinated sheltered by the trees, but I would have to go soon again, and not for a pee only. I walked to the fireplace and sat down next to it to give my clothes a chance to get dry.
\n          He patted me on the shoulder. \u201cTime for a schnapps, I\u2019d say.\u201d
\n          \u201cYou\u2019re really enjoying this, aren\u2019t you?\u201d
\n          He laughed. \u201cIt gets lonely sometimes. The price of freedom. Can\u2019t have the cake and eat it too.\u201d He got up, returned with the green bottle and two glasses, and his strong cigarettes. \u201cThis place is busy in summer, but the rest of the year not many people show up.\u201d
\n          \u201cGermans?\u201d
\n          \u201cA few.\u201d
\n          He offered me a cigarette, I accepted. After the third I couldn\u2019t hold back anymore. \u201cI have to go to the bathroom,\u201d I said.
\n          \u201cWell, Robert, it\u2019s also under construction. Just make a few steps away from the house so that it doesn\u2019t start to reek like a public pissoir here.\u201d
\n          \u201cCan I have some toilet paper? Or these wipes from the kitchen?\u201d
\n          \u201cWe ran out of both, sorry.\u201d Michael passed me the TV magazine. \u201cBack to the roots.\u201d<\/p>\n

          In San Francisco, a man had been distributing large posters. There was a red square on it, surrounded by a white frame. In the middle the words: I don\u2019t remember. I asked him what he meant by it and he said, \u201cIt\u2019s what most Germans answered when I asked them about the Fall of the Berlin Wall.\u201d
\n          I laughed. \u201cThat\u2019s why I\u2019m here. To get away from all that shit.\u201d
\n          He was an artist from NYC. Like so many Americans he had German ancestors but didn\u2019t speak the language. \u201cWhere are you from?\u201d he wanted to know before we separated. \u201cEast or West?\u201d
\n          \u201cYou shouldn\u2019t ask that,\u201d I said. \u201cIt\u2019s humiliating.\u201d
\n          \u201cWhy?\u201d
\n          \u201cBecause\u2026\u201d I began, but then I just said, \u201cFrom the West.\u201d<\/p>\n

          Michael was still sitting in front of the fireplace when I came back. I sat down next to him and held my wet feet into the warmth. He turned his head and said, \u201cTake another cigarette.\u201d
\n          \u201cThank you,\u201d I said, and this time I meant it.
\n          We sat in silence for a while, smoking and drinking. Then I said, \u201cI really need to go to the embassy. Can you take me to San Francisco? I\u2019ll pay you five hundred dollars.\u201d
\n          \u201cRobert.\u201d
\n           \u201cA thousand.\u201d
\n          He laughed. \u201cYou really think you can buy me with a hundred deutschmarks?\u201d
\n          That\u2019s what they got as a welcome present. There were endless queues in front of every bank. They were not only distributing money but pens, sweets, toys, and all kinds of giveaways. I didn\u2019t have the feeling that they really controlled passports, there was no time. \u201cWhat if I pretend to have lost my ID?\u201d a friend of mine said. I looked at his brand new Levi\u2019s, the Fred Perry jacket we both had \u2013 his black, mine blue \u2013 and his Doc Martens he\u2019d taken great pains to clean in the morning. \u201cThey\u2019d never notice,\u201d I said, laughing.
\n          With a wide grin Michael added, \u201cOr bananas.\u201d
\n          The rain still hadn\u2019t stopped. Even with that ugly jacket, I\u2019d be soaking wet if I walked to the police. \u201cYou can keep my boots,\u201d I said.
\n          He put two cigarettes into his mouth, lit them, and carefully placed one between my lips. My best friend used to do it. We started smoking at the age of thirteen. I quit a couple of years later when I changed schools but never forgot the tenderness of that gesture, especially after I\u2019d read somewhere that the first drag is the most harmful.
\n          \u201cThe problem with you guys,\u201d Michael said, \u201chas always been that you think money gets you everywhere. You want to get rich to have a fancy car, a bigger house, a younger woman. If you\u2019re unhappy, it\u2019s because of money. But what if for once money doesn\u2019t help? What if nobody cares how much money you have?\u201d
\n          I jumped up and flipped the cigarette into the fire. \u201cWeren\u2019t you happy? Weren\u2019t you fucking happy to be free? To go wherever you wanted for the first time? To say whatever you wanted? To meet whom you wanted? To trust people because there was no Stasi anymore? To finally have shops with overfilling shelves? To buy all these things yourself instead of waiting for packages once a year?\u201d
\n           \u201cRobert,\u201d he said. \u201cYou still don\u2019t get it.\u201d
\n          That year, I was soon fed up with the documentaries about people walking through supermarkets crying, about their complaining how hard it had been for them to know what we all had, these masses of people blocking our streets and shops and restaurants. Fortunately, I\u2019d just graduated and could go away from that chaos. I was living in France when I heard about the reunification in the news. I listened to it with the same disinterest I would have shown for a famine in some unpronounceable African country.
\n          I took a seat as far away from him as possible. \u201cWhat if we hadn\u2019t let you in? You all would have had to turn around and go back home. You\u2019d have been shot or put into prison for the rest of your lives. Don\u2019t you remember what happened in Prague?\u201d
\n          Michael looked at me in silence. \u201cRobert,\u201d he finally said, holding up his glass, \u201cwould you mind doing the dishes?\u201d
\n          I got up and carried our glasses to the kitchen. The pile had grown overnight, as if the whole street had been dumping their dishes into our sink. I rolled up my sleeves and turned the water on. Then I turned it off again and opened the door to the community room.
\n          \u201cYes, Robert?\u201d
\n          \u201cYou guys left your kids in the apartment. You didn\u2019t care if they died in their own shit. It\u2019s you who are cheap. The whole lot of you sold your souls to go shopping. Freedom of speech? Freedom to study what you wanted? Freedom to travel? My ass!\u201d<\/p>\n

          It was dinner time when I was done but I wouldn\u2019t ask for anything to eat. The cot had vanished so I lay down on the sofa and covered myself with the ugly jacket. Despite the cold \u2013 the fire had burnt down hours ago \u2013 I fell asleep at once. But Michael woke me up, \u201cYou must be hungry, Robert,\u201d he said, and since I was, I sat up again and accepted the plate with potatoes, sauerkraut, and a very dark indefinable mash. I greedily shoved it into my mouth.
\n          Michael watched me with a big smile. \u201cGood?\u201d
\n          \u201cWhat is it?\u201d
\n          \u201cDead grandma.\u201d
\n          I stopped chewing.
\n          \u201cJust blood sausage,\u201d Michael said laughing. \u201cThat\u2019s how we call it. Tote Oma. But yours is still alive, no worries.\u201d He nodded toward the window behind which the rain was pouring down as strong as before. \u201cEat up this time.\u201d
\n          I finished my plate and carried it to the kitchen to rinse it. Sinking back onto the sofa I said, \u201cWhy are you keeping me here?\u201d
\n          Michael stood up, walked to the front door, and opened it. \u201cIs it locked?\u201d
\n          I leaned back and closed my eyes. I needed to sleep. If I didn\u2019t answer, he would leave me alone, I hoped. And really, I heard him walking out of the room after a while. But he returned, carrying a metal box. \u201cI want to show you something, Robert.\u201d He sat down next to me, opened the box, and took out a photograph of a young woman leaning against a tree. \u201cThat\u2019s Ingrid,\u201d he said. \u201cGreat tits. Sat behind me in school. She always wanted to become an actress. Went to Berlin at the age of fifteen, an aunt of hers was living there. Every night she was standing in front of Berliner Ensemble until they hired her for all kinds of odd jobs. As she was cleaning the stage, Tenschert watched her. You wouldn\u2019t have heard of him, of course. He was a famous director in the GDR.\u201d He smiled and passed me the photograph. \u201cA week later she performed in Brecht\u2019s Mother<\/em>.\u201d
\n          I looked at the girl in the tight black dress, who\u2019d obviously wanted to copy Kim Wilde.
\n          \u201cLanghoff fired her. He brought his people over from the West.\u201d Michael gave me another photograph of three guys dressed in black, leather jackets, hair punk style. He pointed at the tall guy in the middle. \u201cThis is Alex, biggest Who fan ever. Somebody smuggled their songbook over which he translated with the help of a dictionary that only had half of the pages left. Most of the songs were totally unknown to him, but they played them anyway, in German.\u201d He laughed. \u201cWe were disappointed when we heard the original for the first time.\u201d
\n          The next photograph showed two men wearing old-fashioned suits and a woman in an evening dress. One of the men reminded me of Jean-Paul Belmondo in his early, serious films, the black-and-white ones. The other man had his arm around the woman\u2019s shoulder and was leaning into her as if he wanted to smell her perfume, eyes closed, smiling.
\n          \u201cThat\u2019s Tina. She\u2019s a poet,\u201d Michael said. \u201cBehind her, her husband Marco, translator and literary theorist. He used to write the epilog to French classics for R\u00fctten und L\u00f6ning. You don\u2019t know them, right? It was a prestigious publisher, gone of course.\u201d He pointed at young Belmondo\u2019s doppelganger. \u201cFranz, activist, performance artist, musician, painter, and my best friend.\u201d
\n          He gave me another photograph, of a family this time, the child maybe two years old. Father and mother were around my age, and they were all lying in bed, their heads bent over a huge picture-book. \u201cMy brother, my sister-in-law, and the cutest nephew you can imagine. She\u2019s a doctor, he\u2019s an electrician, and baby Kevin is in fourth grade now. He likes airplanes and the Beatles.\u201d
\n          Another photograph, of a woman in her forties, wearing a work coat, hammering away on some piece of stone. \u201cMy aunt Tatiana. She was trained by Inge Hunzinger. You wouldn\u2019t have heard of her either. She\u2019s a famous sculptor.\u201d
\n          I felt like back in school and decided that the wisest thing to do was to keep my mouth shut and listen.
\n          Michael put the next one on the pile, saying, \u201cHer boyfriend Richy, he works at a morgue. Tatiana\u2019s favorite workplace. She helps them to resurrect, she says.\u201d
\n          This went on until the box was empty. Then he left the room and came back with the cot and a sleeping bag. \u201cYou see us and there\u2019s only one story in your head: totalitarian state, shortage, uniformity, subordinate mentality. We\u2019re all the same to you, aren\u2019t we? One look at us and you feel that you know everything.\u201d He unfolded the cot, opened the zip of the sleeping bag, pressed a pillow into a freshly washed case (I could smell the softener), and said, \u201cYes, you opened your borders. But you expected us to be ever so thankful, to condemn our fatherland. We had to denounce our past. Happiness, love, music, even sex wasn\u2019t something you imagined us having. A life of misery, but thank God it was over on November 9th, when the Good People from the West saved us.\u201d<\/p>\n

          The next morning I was woken up by quiet footsteps, definitely not Michael\u2019s, unless he\u2019d gotten out of my boots. It was the guy who\u2019d checked me in. He told me that there was coffee in the kitchen and fresh bagels too. I got up, went outside to pee, and only fully realized when I was walking toward the house again that it had stopped raining.
\n          A little later I sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, gazing out the window when I saw the red Honda. At two o\u2019clock in the afternoon I reached the airport, in the evening I boarded a plane to Frankfurt. Next to me sat a seventy-six-year-old woman from Chicago, born in Weimar and married to a translator from Minneapolis, who took her to the States when the Nuremberg trials were over. She showed me a black-and-white photograph of two young women, both faces beaming with beauty and hope. \u201cThat\u2019s my cousin. I haven\u2019t seen her since I left Germany,\u201d she said. \u201cWe went to a nightclub in Berlin, it was somewhere on Pariser Strasse, do you know it?\u201d
\n          \u201cI\u2019ve never been to Berlin.\u201d
\n          \u201cOh, yes,\u201d she said. \u201cYou weren\u2019t allowed of course.\u201d
\n          I didn\u2019t correct her, and neither did I tell her that we\u2019d been calling it Prison Berlin.
\n          She put the photograph back into her purse. She couldn\u2019t believe it when she was watching the news that night, she said. She would always remember Peter Jennings in his khaki trench coat, standing in front of all these beautiful, colorful, courageous people climbing or jumping down the wall, and how small it suddenly looked, how harmless, like a toy. It took her two years to find her cousin, but here she was now, on her way to be reunified with her.
\n          \u201cThat\u2019s nice,\u201d I said.
\n          She smiled, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her blouse, then she touched my underarm and said, \u201cI am so happy for you guys, so happy.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Wall had been down for three years when I first talked to somebody from the former GDR, not in Germany but in the community room of a hostel in Truckee, where I was waiting for a phone call from the police. 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