Falling in Love with Berlin

At midnight, one night deep in the middle of winter of 1992, I stood at the top of a World War II flak tower in the heart of Berlin, overlooking an ocean of lights below, trying to decide what to do next.  A good-looking, 25-year-old man stood behind me, wrapping me in his embrace, trying to keep me warm against the icy wind, and whispering in my ear that I should stay here…in Berlin.

I was a recent college graduate, and the best paying job I could find in the US during the recession was as a bartender.  I had come to Germany in the summer of 1990 to learn German, and work in Duisburg as an English teacher.  Virtually destroyed in World War II, with industrial complexes belched heavy metals into the air during the long, dark winter months, the city held little charm.  A year after arriving,  I couldn’t wait to leave.

Visiting a friend’s mother in Berlin on my way home, I was unexpectedly caught in Berlin’s spell.   The Wall had come down just 18 months before.  At 3 a.m., two friends and I walked to the Brandenburg Gate, finding it brightly lit, but completely deserted.  I couldn’t believe I could really touch it, and when I did, I felt a surge of energy fill me.  I was captivated.  I didn’t want to leave the city.

Six months later, in January of 1992, I was back in Berlin, looking for work on the American army base in the city.  After a month of sitting all day in the base employment office with no prospects , I packed my bags.  But on my last night out, I met this beguilingly handsome, blue-eyed, dark blonde, third-generation Berliner from the East.  He offered to take me on a tour of his side of the city, if I would delay my flight home.

Anhalter Bahnhof

For two weeks, day after cold, wet, exciting, thrilling day, he led me around the eastern part of the city.  He showed me crumbling facades of apartment buildings, museums, and long-dead train stations with bullet holes from World War II visible; sidewalks where grenades, mortars and artillery had displaced the concrete and left lingering scars; massive memorials built to honor Russian war dead; and the flak towers which had withstood direct hits from American bombers.  He told me about his time in the East German army as a gunner in an elite unit of Russian T-80 tanks.  Late at night he confided secretly to me of his search for his late, great uncle Max’s machine gun and other weapons from World War II, supposedly buried somewhere at a small garden house plot outside the city.

As an American, the war came alive for me in a way that I couldn’t have imagined.  The city and he were an undeniably exciting mix of history and adventure.  My money was gone, I didn’t have a job, had no long-term place to stay, but on that icy February night as I looked out over the city which I had already come to love, my vision blurred with tears when I thought of leaving it.

So my affair with Berlin and World War II history started…