Tag Archives: Germany

On the U-Bahn II

A young girl stepped onto the train. She had very short red hair beneath a yin-yang headscarf, and was wearing black leggings and Doc Marten boots.

She sat next to an old lady, who looked quite perplexed for some reason. Eventually I noticed that the girl had a bulge in her jacket, and she was stroking something inside. The old lady was watching.

Eventually, a small pink nose ventured out from inside the jacket. The old lady said something to the young girl, and they began to chat to each other. Eventually the young girl brought out the rat and let the old lady stroke it.

The rat was a pale golden yellow colour; it sniffed at the air inquisitively and looked around the crowded carriage. Nobody seemed to pay it much attention.

The girl smiled. I thought to myself, “I bet she’d post to talk.bizarre.”

Cultural Centers

We went to the British Council Library to take back some library books XQ had borrowed. On the way we passed the American Cultural Center (sic). It wasn’t what I was expecting; it was a quiet, featureless white building. It wasn’t covered in neon, and it didn’t have any giant paintings of Mickey Mouse on the side. It didn’t even have a flag.

The British Council Library had a selection of video cassettes for hire. I looked through to see what they had chosen as representative of British culture. The largest section wasComedy, which for some reason includedMax Headroom. Just about every genre of TV comedy was represented, from the heights ofYes, Minister to the execrable depths ofBenny Hill, fromMonty Python’s Flying Circus toRed Dwarf.

The only notable gap was that they didn’t have any tapes ofAllo, Allo. I suppose Germany isn’t quite ready for loveable cuddly comedy Nazis yet.

On the U-Bahn

A young girl stepped onto the train. She had very short red hair beneath a yin-yang headscarf, and was wearing black leggings and Doc Marten boots.

She sat next to an old lady, who looked quite perplexed for some reason. Eventually I noticed that the girl had a bulge in her jacket, and she was stroking something inside. The old lady was watching.

Eventually, a small pink nose ventured out from inside the jacket. The old lady said something to the young girl, and they began to chat to each other. Eventually the young girl brought out the rat and let the old lady stroke it.

The rat was a pale golden yellow colour; it sniffed at the air inquisitively and looked around the crowded carriage. Nobody seemed to pay it much attention.

The girl smiled.

On the U-Bahn

A middle-aged man lurched onto the train as it stopped at Friedrichstrasse. He sat down opposite me, and mumbled something loudly in German. I gave him a blank look, reluctant to say anything. He was cuddling a large bottle of vodka, and began slowly unscrewing the cap. He spoke to me again, and I prodded XQ. She said something to him, and they ended up in conversation.

XQ explained to him that we were British, and that I didn’t speak German, only French and English. He said that he had been to England once, many years ago, and that he had forgotten the language. I could believe that, given that my last German lesson had been almost ten years ago and I’d forgotten almost everything in that time.

The man explained that he had been a soldier in the Volksarmee, the People’s Army of the DDR. When the Communist state had collapsed, he had been out of a job. After years of military life, he had been completely unprepared for the task of fending for himself. He had gone from a respected and feared member of the elite to a homeless drunk sleeping in doorways in the space of a year or two.

My first thought was that anyone who was prepared to join the People’s Army, and shoot civilians who were trying to escape to the West, probably deserved what was coming to him. On the other hand, he seemed a nice enough person. He didn’t hate foreigners, he wasn’t a Communist, he was simply an ordinary guy who had picked a career with good promotion prospects and the chance of travel. He had done his job, and his reward was to sleep on the streets.

As was often the case, my own reactions to life in the former Eastern Bloc were making me feel uneasy. It was easy for me to judge him harshly; but what would I have done under the Communist regime he had grown up in? Often I found myself laughing at how things had been in the east; the cobbled streets, the propaganda, the Trabbis, the shortages.

The idea of paying in advance and waiting twelve years for a Trabant is undeniably funny. I suspect that it was rather less funny for those who received their Trabbis just before the DDR collapsed. Next year, the Trabbi will be banned from the roads.

I have a sneaking suspicion that totalitarianism is only funny when it happens to someone else.

Spies Like Us

The two young women walked down Unter den Linden, past a poster advertising a retrospective of DDR propoganda posters in one of the museums.

The poster depicted the Berlin Wall, or “anti-fascist protection shield” as the government of the DDR had called it. Beyond the wall, two capitalists were leaning over, trying to grasp at the buildings of Berlin (East). One wore a Nazi helmet and had an evil grin; the other had swastika symbols instead of eyes. “They are waiting to grab us”, warned the poster.

One young woman sighed, and said to the other “Well, they got us in the end.”

She paused, uncertain, and turned to look at XQ. “That is, you got us in the end.”

Soyuz chic

The sky was overcast but beginning to clear as we walked into the reception area at the bottom of the Fernsehturm, the famous TV tower. The tower rises in brutal Soviet modernity overlooking Alexanderplatz, the area which used to be the showcase of the DDR.

An illuminated sign said that there was no view to be seen, but I thought otherwise and the girl in the ticket booth was willing to take our money. We walked into the base of the tower, the interior of which resembles a set from “2001”, a space-age womb of ribbed curving walls and soft lighting. For some unknown reason, the cramped lifts were colder than any other area of the tower.

Approximately 45 seconds and 300 metres later, we stepped out into the observation lounge. The tower is basically shaped like a huge sharpened spike, with first a sphere and then a smaller cylinder impaled on it about a third of the way down. The part of the spike under the sphere is the usual concrete, the top part is painted in red and white stripes, and the cylindrical bit is fitted with a selection of dishes, aerials and microwave receivers. The whole construction looks like what you’d get if you crossed a Soyuz spacecraft with a giraffe.

The observation lounge is in the bottom part of the sphere, with its windows angled at about 45 degrees to the vertical. The glass seemed to be about a centimetre thick, and I had sudden visions of James Bond fighting some evil East German spy

XQ pointed out the various old buildings as the evil Communist spy gave Bond a vicious left hook, lifting him and throwing him against the window. Miraculously, the glass failed to give way. Quickly, the spy jumped up onto the window ledge, and he and Bond began grappling with each other as XQ indicated the Museum Island and the course of the river.

Bond eventually manoeuvred his assailant’s back against the glass, punching him viciously in the stomach. As the East German struggled for breath, Bond grabbed his trusty Walther PPK and shot at the corner of the window. The glass fractured and collapsed under the weight of the spy, and he scrabbled to grab the window frame to prevent himself from falling back and following the shards of glass in their lengthy descent.

A cold wind whipped in from the broken window as XQ pointed down at Marx-Engels-Platz. Bond smiled slightly as he walked up to the East German and gave him a gentle push. His grip broken, the evil Communist spy plunged three hundred metres to his death. I leant forwards and watched him fall, the statues of Marx and Engels in the background.

XQ finished her narration, and we decided to climb the stairs to the revolving restaurant. Ever since as a child I’d first read about London’s Post Office Tower, I’d wanted to sit in a revolving restaurant. Sadly, once the Post Office Tower had been declared an Official Secret for reasons of national security, the restaurant had been closed.

We found an empty table and sat by the windows, facing each other. Eventually XQ waved at one of the passing waitresses, and she tossed a menu to us with all the polite grace I had come to expect in the East. Even without the moody expression and air of “I suppose you can order something, if you insist”, it was plain that she was an Ossi. The over-use of tacky makeup and the slightly seventies cut of her clothes made it sadly obvious.

We scoured the menu for something that wasn’t too much of a rip-off. Eventually XQ settled on something hot, fruity and alcoholic, and I picked a coffee and some Black Forest Gateau.

When the food and drinks eventually arrived, they were surprisingly good. We sat and watched the world revolve around us, chatting about the various buildings that swam into view.

A lone sponge finger swept majestically past on the window ledge, a lonely confectionery digit seemingly raised in obscene salute towards the DDR buildings and statues beneath it. A couple of the buildings still had adverts for Skoda, Intourist or Berolina, no longer illuminated, but most had been torn down and replaced with bright neon saying Technics, Casio and Coca Cola.

I suddenly felt sorry for Karl Marx. What a fate, to have his statue in Marx-Engels-Platz, forced to stare at these bright symbols of capitalist victory 24 hours a day.

Luxury accomodation

Helen had made friends with a doctor and his family in Neuruppin. He owned a small flat in Berlin, and had offered to lend it to us for a few days.

The flat was a short bus ride from Prezlauer Allee, in what is a fairly well-off suburb by DDR standards. The cars parked in the streets were a mixture of Trabbis, Skodas, and newer Volkswagens and Audis. The block of flats was the usual featureless slab, with dark stairwells hidden behind featureless numbered doors. We found door 108, and walked up the stairs until we found the flat.

The first problem was negotiating the front door. The DDR-made locks operated bizarrely; I found that I could take the key out at any point, and that each of the two keys could make four entire revolutions in its lock, making two or three “clunk” noises on the way. Eventually I worked it out, and we stepped inside.

The flat was fairly small; about the size of my flat in Cambridge. A main room approximately four metres by six, a rather smaller bedroom, and a bathroom and kitchen that were smaller still. The difference was that this flat had belonged to a family of four. The style was different too, of course; the ducts and pipework from the flat above protruded from the ceiling of this flat, and no doubt our toilet was piped through someone else’s bathroom.

The journey into the centre of Berlin and back each day was fairly easy. In fact, the return bus trip from the station became something of a running joke. We would stand at the bus stop late at night, and I’d periodically glance at my watch. When it said (for example) 22:11, I’d say to Helen “The bus will turn that corner in thirty seconds.” We’d then stand and silently count the seconds. Sure enough, the bus would appear, and make its way slowly down the road to arrive within seconds of 22:12. I suppose I’m easily amused.

Of course, to someone living in Cambridge the very idea that buses might run at ten o’clock at night is absurd. The buses from the Innovation Centre and Science Park back into town stop shortly after six. And the idea that a bus might turn up at the time indicated on the timetable — well, it’s so crazy it’s laughable.

Luxury accomodation

XQ had made friends with a doctor and his family in Neuruppin. He owned a small flat in Berlin, and had offered to lend it to us for a few days.

The flat was a short bus ride from Prezlauer Allee, in what is a fairly well-off suburb by DDR standards. The cars parked in the streets were a mixture of Trabbis, Skodas, and newer Volkswagens and Audis. The block of flats was the usual featureless slab, with dark stairwells hidden behind featureless numbered doors. We found door 108, and walked up the stairs until we found the flat.

The first problem was negotiating the front door. The DDR-made locks operated bizarrely; I found that I could take the key out at any point, and that each of the two keys could make four entire revolutions in its lock, making two or three “clunk” noises on the way. Eventually I worked it out, and we stepped inside.

The flat was fairly small; about the size of my flat in Cambridge. A main room approximately four metres by six, a rather smaller bedroom, and a bathroom and kitchen that were smaller still. The difference was that this flat had belonged to a family of four. The style was different too, of course; the ducts and pipework from the flat above protruded from the ceiling of this flat, and no doubt our toilet was piped through someone else’s bathroom.

The journey into the centre of Berlin and back each day was fairly easy. In fact, the return bus trip from the station became something of a running joke. We would stand at the bus stop late at night, and I’d periodically glance at my watch. When it said (for example) 22:11, I’d say to XQ “The bus will turn that corner in thirty seconds.” We’d then stand and silently count the seconds. Sure enough, the bus would appear, and make its way slowly down the road to arrive within seconds of 22:12. I suppose I’m easily amused.

Of course, to someone living in Cambridge the very idea that buses might run at ten o’clock at night is absurd. The buses from the Innovation Centre and Science Park back into town stop shortly after six. And the idea that a bus might turn up at the time indicated on the timetable — well, it’s so crazy it’s laughable.

Information society

We went to the Neuruppin town library and browsed through the bookshelves. Many of the old DDR-produced books are still on the shelf; they can’t afford to replace them all at once. I had a look through some of them. The Modern English textbook was interesting. It started off in the usual way: “This is John. John lives in a house in England. John has a dog called Fido.”

However, by chapter 8, John was attending Trades Union rallies and campaigning for workers’ rights. Set texts included speeches by union leaders from the British Labour movement. Questions included “Why do workers in capitalist societies need to join Trades Unions?”

There was also a short paragraph which (the book helpfully explained) was what a capitalist had said when asked about an “investment” he had made. This paragraph was followed by some questions:

The capitalist said “I had to risk everything”. What was he risking? Who does it belong to? Who would have suffered if his investment had been foolish? What are the effects on society of his behaviour?

Later, in a chapter on shopping, questions included:

Why did John worry that he would not have enough money to buy the goods he needed? How do we avoid such problems in a modern Socialist society?

A follow-up question said:

Write about a shopping trip of your own to your local store. You may find the following phrases useful:

wide selection of goods

good quality products

cheap and affordable prices

friendly and efficient service

Even Helen laughed at that one. She’s been to Russia.

The picture books are no less bizarre. I looked through a picture book of Berlin. The pictures of happy, smiling people in 70s clothes (this was a book printed in the mid 80s) were interspersed with little poems, like:

Many happy people live and work in Berlin
capital of the DDR
A modern socialist society
liberated with the help of the Soviet Union

The picture book of London was more subtle. The pictures of shopping streets, for example, weren’t taken in Oxford Street, but instead in a run-down district near Soho. There were plenty of pictures of the House of Commons and Buckingham Palace, and pictures of policemen staring sternly at the camera. Pictures which showed people in close-up seemed to be around ten years old; obviously they didn’t want to show 80s fashions or cars.

We wandered through the library to the literature section. Charles Dickens had been incredibly popular under the old regime, although now his novels were clearly labelled Fiction. The old DDR reprints were still on the shelves, though. The English textbook had included some passages from Dickens, of course, with the expected questions about why young children in capitalist societies were forced up chimneys and made to steal by capitalist men.

The text was laughable to my eyes, but the picture books were really quite subtle. They were propaganda exercises of course, but spotting the bias was quite tricky, even for me.

Of course, the fact that many of the pupils in the school remember being a student in the DDR only makes things more uncomfortable for the teachers. Even the non-Party members had to read out official announcements — and read them out with every ounce of enthusiasm and sincerity they could fake lest one of the pupils report them to the Stasi.

As late as 1988, all the teachers in Neuruppin had had to read out a class announcement which had basically said:

“I’m afraid your fellow pupil will not be joining us again. He and his family have defected to the West. This is a time for great sorrow. It is bad enough that his parents decided to defect, but he has betrayed
his country by going with them.”

Obviously even the most naive pupils in the Sixth Form now take what teacher tells them with a large pinch of salt.

Information society

We went to the Neuruppin town library and browsed through the bookshelves. Many of the old DDR-produced books are still on the shelf; they can’t afford to replace them all at once. I had a look through some of them.

The Modern English textbook was interesting. It started off in the usual way: “This is John. John lives in a house in England. John has a dog called Fido.”

However, by chapter 8, John was attending Trades Union rallies and campaigning for workers’ rights. Set texts included speeches by union leaders from the British Labour movement. Questions included “Why do workers in capitalist societies need to join Trades Unions?”

There was also a short paragraph which (the book helpfully explained) was what a capitalist had said when asked about an “investment” he had made. This paragraph was followed by some questions:

The capitalist said “I had to risk everything”. What was he risking? Who does it belong to? Who would have suffered if his investment had been foolish? What are the effects on society of his behaviour?

Later, in a chapter on shopping, questions included this one:

Why did John worry that he would not have enough money to buy the goods he needed? How do we avoid such problems in a modern Socialist society?

A follow-up question said:

Write about a shopping trip of your own to your local store. You may find the following phrases useful:

  • wide selection of goods
  • good quality products
  • cheap and affordable prices
  • friendly and efficient service

Even XQ laughed at that one. She’s been to Russia.

The picture books are no less bizarre. I looked through a picture book of Berlin. The pictures of happy, smiling people in 70s clothes (this was a book printed in the mid 80s) were interspersed with little poems, like:

Many happy people live and work in Berlin
capital of the DDR
A modern socialist society
liberated with the help of the Soviet Union

The picture book of London was more subtle. The pictures of shopping streets, for example, weren’t taken in Oxford Street, but instead in a run-down district near Soho. There were plenty of pictures of the House of Commons and Buckingham Palace, and pictures of policemen staring sternly at the camera. Pictures which showed people in close-up seemed to be around ten years old; obviously they didn’t want to show 80s fashions or cars.

We wandered through the library to the literature section. Charles Dickens had been incredibly popular under the old regime, although now his novels were clearly labelled Fiction. The old DDR reprints were still on the shelves, though. The English textbook had included some passages from Dickens, of course, with the expected questions about why young children in capitalist societies were forced up chimneys and made to steal by capitalist men.

The text was laughable to my eyes, but the picture books were really quite subtle. They were propaganda exercises of course, but spotting the bias was quite tricky, even for me.

Of course, the fact that many of the pupils in the school remember being a student in the DDR only makes things more uncomfortable for the teachers. Even the non-Party members had to read out official announcements—and read them out with every ounce of enthusiasm and sincerity they could fake lest one of the pupils report them to the Stasi.

As late as 1988, all the teachers in Neuruppin had had to read out a class announcement which had basically said:

“I’m afraid your fellow pupil insert name will not be joining us again. He and his family have defected to the West. This is a time for great sorrow. It is bad enough that his parents decided to defect, but he has betrayed his country by going with them.”

Obviously even the most naïve pupils in the Sixth Form now take what teacher tells them with a large pinch of salt.