Crossing an old border

This bridge sat across the border between East and West Berlin. I was told the bridge was unused during the whole time the wall was up. And I could see that it might have even had a section removed in the middle. It was an interesting feeling.

View from bridge onto the River Spee.

I thought the two hands coming together were clever.

On the east side is a remaining stretch of the wall. It looks like a simple wall without the guards and turrets and no-man’s-land.

I was in Berlin a few weeks ago. It was the first time back in over 20 years. While in Berlin, I felt foolish always asking questions about East and West, especially since the wall went down so long ago. But the Berliners were so understanding (thank you).

Berlin is special to me because it’s my father’s home town, which he left one scary evening, with his mother and sister and all they could carry, in June 1939. Ah, the stories he’s told me.

The last time I was in Berlin, it was with my dad. He told a lot about how Berlin used to be in his and his father’s time. Young as I was at the time of our visit, I understood why he acted in a guarded but sharp way when we visited East Berlin on a tour bus. To him, the wall had stolen so much of Berlin’s beauty for the East and he couldn’t put up with all the krap the East Berlin tour guide tried to pass off on us.

I laughed as my dad made the guide uncomfortable, poking holes in so much of what she said. But I don’t recall him ever speaking in German to her or revealing that he was from Berlin. She probably thought he was just an annoying American, not someone who had some stupid political gash cut through his hometown.

It actually meant something to me to walk through Brandenburg Tor. I hope he can come and walk through it himself, with me and my children. We all need to hear those City stories again and to cross that old border that people finally stood up and erased.