Memorials

Yesterday was glorious, probably the nicest weather I've seen here so far, so I took advantage by heading out to see a few more of the places recommended in the guide book. I plotted a route so I could avoid using public transport but walk all the way beneath the deep blue sky instead.

My first port of call was the infamous 'Checkpoint Charlie', the site of the erstwhile border control point between the East and West; between the Russian and American sectors of the divided city. Today it straddles the metropolitan Friedrichstrasse, nestling up against a busy intersection and U-Bahn station. However, in an attempt to capture the original look of the barrier, a literal 'checkpoint' in the shape of a white guard hut, signs, pile of sandbags and even a 'real solider' (an man carrying a Stars and Stripes flag, dressed up in army uniform and posing for photographs). I was disappointed in the uncharacteristically gimmicky-ness of it all. It made me feel a little uneasy; what had been a dangerous and reputed point of control was now somewhere tourists went to pose for photographs with an actor. Berlin is not somewhere that normally stoops to such theme-park style cheapness to showcase its monuments, normally favouring a much grittier approach. A woman was weaving in and out of the tourists, begging for money and the monument was flanked on one side (the American side, appropriately, I suppose) by a large branch of McDonald's. I hear there is a good museum somewhere near by which is far less plastic, yet I squeezed my way out of the crowds and moved on.

My next port of call was in fact a mystery to me before arrival, but intriguingly pointed out on my map as the 'Topographie des Terrors'. This involved walking westwardly away from Checkpoint Charlie, past a further stretch of tourist pulls such as tethered balloon flights and finally to the site itself, which at first glance looked like a building site that had been cleared but not yet worked on. Recognisably, however, one side was bordered by a stretch of the original Berlin Wall, in its original location, its stark flat grey surface and curved top unmistakable.

Beneath this stretch of wall were bits of brick and rubble, discernible as parts of buildings. Information boards informed me not only of what they were, but indeed the whole purpose of this site being on the map. This street, in fact this whole area, had once housed the most crucial offices and departments belonging to the Nazi Party. It was where, in short, some of the most earth-shattering decisions in the whole of human political history were made.

 In much more typically simple, stark style, this fact is remembered here. No frills. Just parts of destroyed basements, with occasional signs pointing out which cavity once held prisoners, or which was the headquarters of the SS Main Office.

In the centre of the open area, a squat square building, which I headed for next. Admission free, inside turned out to be a fascinating timeline bursting with information about the rise and fall of the Third Reich. Boards hanging from the ceiling chock-full of facts, stories, photographs and newspaper clippings chronicled the events, explaining in a way that's never before been so clear to me, exactly how Hitler manipulated his Party and the people and how his power and influence swallowed up so much of Europe during those black years, not so long ago. An hour or more was easily passed in that information centre, and I'd thoroughly recommend it to anyone.

Tourist balloon hovers above the Berlin Wall

 

 

 

 

I emerged, dazzled, into the sunshine again and continued westwardly and then north, until I met the ultra modern, uber shiny Potsdamer Platz, the complete antithesis of where I had just come from. Everything here is square, and silver, and white, and tall, and glass. It is offices, restaurants, a busy train station, cinemas and bars. It is a capital city. 

It is also just a few minutes' walk from the edge of Tiergarten, the enormous park which lies just to the west of Berlin's centre and Brandenburg Gate. I was heading for the Holocaust Memorial, located across the road from the park and just south of the Gate, but first I had spotted on my map something intriguingly labelled as Denkmal für die im Nationalsozialismus verfolgten Homosexuellen, just inside the park. It had to be investigated. I noticed the information board for it first, pointing towards the street so that passersby would notice it more readily, I suppose. It explained that homosexuality had been made a crime in 1935 and how homosexuals (men, in particular) were one of the target groups identified by the Nazis to be elimated, thousands being sent to and murdered in Concentration Camps. It went on to explain that whilst other victims of the Holocaust were commemorated in the years that followed, the ban on homosexuality remained in force until 1969. Thus, since then, "due to its history", as the sign goes on to explain, as a nation Germany actively opposes the violation of the human rights of gay men and women. The 'Memorial to Homosexuals Persecuted Under Nazism', as the label on the map translates as, plays a small role in honouring this. From the outside, a tall black box reminiscent of the top of a periscope. But as you approach, a moving image catches your attention. Through a window in the box, a video is playing, showing a loop of 2 men embracing. They look at each other tenderly, one whispers into the other's ear, they smile and kiss. It is quite touching. It still seems quite bold, even in 2015. I liked it very much.

My final destination was across the road. The memorial to the gays was on the west, and the Jews on the east of Ebertstrasse. I had heard mixed reviews of this next memorial, ranging from 'very emotional' to 'just a load of concrete blocks'. Well, although the latter is technically true, and I can see why it wouldn't appeal to all, I thought this load of concrete blocks had rather a lot to say for themselves.

From the outside, indeed, ahead all that is visible are rows of grey blocks, of varying heights, with a general rise towards the centre. It resembles the skyline of an American city at some angles, yet with a more Soviet feel, considering the greyness of it all. 

 Its narrow lanes between blocks invite you to delve inside, and as you furrow further in, the columns get taller, giving the impression of being in a dark maze. The pathways undulate, so from time to time you get closer to daylight again, before being plunged back down. It is deliberately disorientating; the scale is oppressive (later reading - thanks Wikipedia! - has informed me that the site is 4.7 acres in size and consists of 2711 slabs in total). 

Entering the Jewish Memorial

I get what the designer has tried to achieve here. Its scale is impressive. It is bleak and stark and no-nonsense. Its columns are not furnished with names, numbers or explanations. You can invent your own path through the columns and experience your own ideas and emotions without being told what to think. It is a very long way from brash Checkpoint Charlie. For want of a better analogy, it's one of those 'Marmite' things I suppose. And from my Christian, British, Western, born-in-the-1980s perspective, I rather enjoy Marmite.

Sachsenhausen

On a suitably bleak, grey day yesterday, we paid a visit to the Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp, in the small town on Oranienburg, just north of Berlin. This was my first trip to such a site and it was every bit as fascinating and grim as I expected, if not more so.

Sachsenhausen was one of the very first camps of its kind and thus was used for training and experimentation. It spans a vast area, triangular in shape with the entrance gate at the narrowest corner, bearing the infamous slogan ‘Arbeit Macht Frei’. Beyond is a huge expanse, a memorial at one end, marking the execution area and a few huts have been saved/reconstructed to preserve the original feel and intent. It was bitterly cold and the wind whipped mercilessly across the landscape. We were freezing cold wrapped up in coats and scarves, so it was unimaginable to have been out there in the thin striped uniforms of the prisoners. 

 

2 of the barrack huts were available to go inside, although they were badly burnt in the early 90s by a Neo-Nazi group. The place was simply packed full of information, more than anyone could ever read, from the unimaginably horrifying statistics to the stories of individuals who passed through the camp, often accompanied by photographs or documents listing their name.

One room contained examples of how the prisoners were tortured or killed. Sachsenhausen was not intended originally to be an extermination camp, but a work camp, however, killings did become frequent there and some sadistic methods of doing so were used. Public hangings of those who had misbehaved were also carried out, and it was another of the interred who was forced to kick the stand from beneath the victim. Ovens were installed near the extermination area to burn the bodies.

There was also a large infirmary area. Prisoners who were qualified medics treated their fellow inmates, but the place also attracted outside doctors who used the sick or dead as a means to carry out research and thus further their careers.

A cold prison block housed 2 rows of small cells, where certain people were isolated and tortured, tied up, flogged and/or killed. 

Visiting a place such as Sachsenhausen is challenging, but, I have come to believe, essential really. It’s sickening and horrifying and utterly impossible to imagine how such inhumane cruelty occurred in such recent history, by ordinary people. There is an argument for destroying what remains of these camps and obliterating what the Nazis created. But without seeing it and remembering it and learning from it, history can fade from view, especially as the last survivors pass away over the coming years. What happened there, and in the other Camps like it, is too important to forget. Its victims must be commemorated, remembered and their legacy must prevent us from ever allowing such terror again.

Skiing

Ollie’s parents came out to visit this week and with them we escaped Berlin to drive south, to the ski resort of Oberwiesenthal, on the Czech border southwest of Dresden. Our accommodation was in fact in a village a 20 minute drive from the main resort, down a snow covered track through a pine forest, in the middle of nowhere. It was odd on the drive down in bright sunshine and 10 degree temperatures to imagine we would be skiing the following day. However, as we headed higher, the temperature dropped and patches of snow did start to appear, growing thicker and deeper until we reached the winter of the low mountains. 

View from a walk near our hotel

The resort itself, when we arrived on Friday morning, was packed. We hadn’t quite realised that it was the local schools’ half term holiday as well as in the UK. The bar area at the bottom was lorded over by a DJ wearing a ridiculous hat, playing terrible and very loud party songs and yelling every few minutes about the Gluhwein available to buy. We hired our equipment first and the boys headed straight off to the big cable car, whilst I stayed on the nursery slope with Ollie’s mum. I have only skied once before, so wanted to check I could still stay upright and remember, most importantly, how to stop. Unfortunately, there was no drag lift here, despite the fact that we were clearly not the only ones using this part of the slope to practise on. Thus, it was rather an exhausting experience, trudging up the hill with our skis repeatedly (the ride down took far less than a minute). Still, it built my confidence and after lunch the others persuaded me to take the lift halfway up the slope and try from there. It was a blue run and considerably steeper than it had appeared from the bottom, so I soon realised my overambitious mistake! It was rather terrifying, and there were about 3 points at which the slope got too steep, I couldn’t slow down, stop or turn, so made the executive decision instead to throw myself to the ground and slide on my side down the hill until friction took over and I ground to a halt. Not the most stylish method of getting down, but the snow was thankfully soft and I escaped relatively unbruised! Somehow I got to the bottom in one piece, relieved when we reached the foothills I’d been practising on earlier, and resolved not to do that again in a hurry. Thus I happily pootled around on the small hill again for the rest of the afternoon, and finished the experience off with a mug of Gluhwein, caving to the DJ’s relentless shouting.

From the top of the slope - yikes!

From confident cruiser...

    

... to out of control maniac

The following day, the others decided they fancied trying a bit of cross country skiing, something that, despite being regular skiers, they’d never done before. Feeling a little achy after my experiences from the previous day, I was up for sitting it out but went along to check out the beginning of the course. Seeing that it immediately began with a steep-ish downhill on a bend, I knew I wanted to sit it out. I was less than confident after my experience on the slope that I would be able to control myself, let alone ski along the flat later. Plus, I couldn’t see what lie ahead beyond the beginning, so couldn’t size up my enemy. Instead, I imagined a peaceful day pottering around the local village and reading my book over a heiße Schokolade. No such luck. I was peer pressured into taking part, and so we trudged back down to base camp to hire skis. 

Cross country skis are longer and thinner than downhill skis and the very tips are pointed rather than round. The boots are much softer, lighter and more comfortable than normal ski boots and clip onto the ski at the toe end only, so your heel can move up and down. They also (at least, the basic version we hired) have no braking system. No sharp edges at all to dig into the ground. It is the equivalent of strapping two long thin plastic tea trays to your feet and throwing yourself down a hill. In other words, it’s completely insane.

To help steer you, there are tracks on the route, made by a machine initially but it looks simply like you’re following the exact way that everyone else has gone, as they consist simply of 2 grooves carved into the snow. Thus, the initial downhill round a bend wasn’t as bad as I feared, as within the tracks you can’t go wrong. Granted, you can’t stop yourself, but have to just go with it and slow down naturally as the slope evens out at the bottom. It was beyond that I had an issue. I found it ridiculously hard. I actually found myself longing for that blue run again. On the flat or up, one has to kind of half walk, half slide, using your long poles to help propel yourself along/stop yourself sliding backwards. It was exhausting, punishing on the muscles and roasting hot work. I could think of no more stupid way imaginable to get from A to B. I could have easily walked on the path beside the track at twice the speed and less than half the exertion. It was very frustrating and utterly painful. Thus, when we reached the end of the first stretch, marked by a road, car park and café, I refused to go any further. The others set off on a circular route whilst I had a coffee, wandered about the local bit of woodland and sat in the sun. Far more sensible, I felt.

On their return, they claimed to have enjoyed themselves and also said the path the whole way was easily accessible to people on foot, so after lunch at the café, I left my equipment there and walked alongside them skiing. Ah! Feet are such well designed appendages! Walking is such a sensible way of getting about! I could easily keep pace with them (until they went careering down a hill, in which case I caught up at the bottom) and enjoyed the walk through the snowy woodland. At one point we had to climb a long, steep hill, which I walked up easily alongside the others doing sort of strange penguin impressions. I found my niche in helping pick people up who fell over, passing the bottled water between those who needed it and offering to carry the items of clothing that were peeled off en route. We were passed by dog walkers, holidaymakers indulging in a horse and carriage ride through the snow and more advanced cross country skiers. I could barely watch as Ollie and Graham skied back down the long hill we’d climbed: there was a bit of a drop into the trees on one side and with no way of steering or stopping, it seemed pure chance they didn’t fly off the edge.

Cross country skiing

And one of many other far more sensible modes of transport.

By the time we’d got back to the first leg which I’d skied along that morning, Graham and Beverley also had to remove their skis and walk: the track had disappeared for most of the way and been replaced by treacherous ice. The 3 of us ached in places we didn’t know it was possible to ache. Ollie drove us back to Berlin that night and I resolved never to put a pair of those ridiculous things on my feet again. I think I’m designed for more solid ground.

Doctors

Last week, we needed a GP appointment for Ollie. He hadn’t figured out the system as yet, although does pay health insurance, so all we needed to do was to find a doctor. Although this on the surface seemed a simple task, the niggling feeling of the challenge ahead turned out to be justified.

We began by digging out his relocation ‘Welcome to Germany, expats!’ type booklet, which contained a section on healthcare, including listing at the back English speaking German doctors. They were divided into specialities, suggesting that if you had a specific problem, you should approach the appropriate doctor directly, ie if you had a skin complaint, you’d head on down to the local dermatologist. It was definitely a GP we needed though, and indeed at the top of the list were a few General Practitioners. So far so good, although only one in the short list was within Mitte (our area of town), and on looking up the address it was quite a distance away. 

So, we turned to Google next, searching again for English speaking GPs in Berlin. One website listed a chap just round the corner from us, so I was cajoled into giving them a ring. “Guten Morgen, sprechen Sie Englisch?’ I ventured. ‘Nein’ came the blunt reply. Ahhh. The website I was using provided the phrase for “I would like an appointment”, so I gave that a go, and the woman at the other end said something back, which I deciphered as meaning ‘not today’. I asked if tomorrow was possible, and she gabbled something else, so I threw the phone at Ollie. He talked to her with his more advanced language skills and established there was no appointment for another 3 weeks. Interesting. 

Ollie got some advice from work, and was told that although this was often the case, it was standard practice to turn up at a doctors’ and wait to be seen. Thus, the next day, we set off for the same place we’d rang. Far from finding an NHS style health centre, however, we instead were met by a heavy door, framed on one side by a row of buzzers, one of which carried the name of the doctor Google had told us. Unsure how to proceed, we were debating the issue when we noticed a sign on the wall which anyway indicated that they were in fact closed that day. Back to the drawing board again.

At home, we decided to forget about the English speaking part, thinking we could get by with a few words, Google translate and pointing, and looked up any GPs within a small radius. Armed with a list, we headed out again. The first was just 5 minutes from our place, in a different direction than before, and we found the same sort of set up when we got there: another big front door with a series of buzzers, the name of the doctor on one. I was finding the system most bizarre. It seemed that doctors did not practise in small groups, like in the UK, but as individuals, in rooms in apartment blocks. It struck me that if this were indeed the case, it must be a rather lonely profession here. This particular chap’s surgery was not due to start for another 20 minutes or so, so again we went home to wait in the warm. I had packed my bag assuming a long wait wherever we ended up: books, bottles of water etc. 

On returning, just after it reopened, we decided to brave pressing the buzzer to see what happened. In fact, it automatically opened the front door, beyond which was a hallway and stairs leading upwards. I noticed on the way in that beneath the doctor’s name on the sign was a word that looked very much like the English word ‘Urologist’ and wondered if we were even going to find a GP within. On the landing above, we pushed open another door and found, comfortingly, something far more familiar looking – a reception desk, a small waiting room and a couple of sealed doors. However, the few other patients in there were all men over a certain age, which fuelled my concern that we were perhaps in a rather specialised environment and could accidently end up getting a prostate check… 

After a wait, Ollie asked the receptionist in German if it was possible to see the doctor and she looked at us as if we were slightly mad. We couldn’t quite translate what she replied, but it was a negative response anyway, and Ollie thought he caught the word ‘Juli’ (July)… This wasn’t going well.

Outside again, feeling somewhat defeated and wondering how on earth it could be this difficult, we pointed our feet towards the next on our list. It was quite a walk away and I worried the journey in the cold would do nothing to improve Ollie’s condition. There was little choice though, so on we headed. 

On turning the corner onto Friedrichstrasse, we passed a chemist and happened to notice more plaques featuring names of doctors on the outside wall suggesting once again, consulting rooms inside. Feeling at this stage we had nothing to lose, we walked this time with more confidence into the building and up the stairs. There were a number of doors off the main stairwell, each labelled with an individual doctor’s name. We picked one at random and went in, to find a small reception area. We asked at the desk again, and the stereotypically grumpy woman behind fired some questions at us, then, apparently satisfied, told us to sit down. When she’d finished dealing with someone else, she brusquely took the details from Ollie’s insurance card and asked us to sit again. Within approximately 2 minutes, another lady in scrub-type clothing appeared and called Ollie through. Within another few minutes he was back out, mission accomplished. Apparently she’d poked his throat and eyes, asked him how long he needed to be signed off work for and signed a form. And that was it. Bizarre. On later inspection of the form, we realised that, if our translation was correct, she may in fact have been a gynaecologist. Still not quite sure we have all this figured out…

Gates

Before, when I thought of Berlin, I thought of the Brandenburg Gate. And when I thought of the Brandenburg Gate, I thought of Berlin. I could conjure up an image of the thing, standing solidly there, generally at night time and generally surrounded by a raucous mob. I was aware that it had played an important part in Germany’s history and that it was the most symbolic landmark of its capital city. London: Big Ben. Paris: Eiffel Tower. Berlin: Brandenburg Gate. It’s what they put on the postcards and t-shirts. Beyond these things, I thought little else of it and knew little else of it, not knowing that one day I would be able to walk to the thing from my place of residence in less than half an hour.

And this is what I have done today. Right out of my front door, left at the end of the road, all the way down and then a final right. Voila. There it looms staunchly, solidly, proudly immobile. 

The walk there involved a mosey down Friedrichstrasse, a hip, busy area lined with shops both of the high-end variety and those more commonly found on the high street. A hop over the busy river bridge and then a dive under the screeching noise of Friedrichstrasse station, where the homeless cower under layers of blankets and commuters and shoppers file in and out of its various entrances and exits.

View from the bridge on Friedrichstrasse

The road opens out into a wide intersection, at which I took my final right and was on the main drag down to the Gate. This road was quieter in terms of traffic, but bustling with tourists and the way down was paved with information points, touristy shops, cafes and even the Berlin branch of Madame Tussaud’s.

The Brandenburger Tor, as it is called in German, stands stoically amongst this swarm. This tourist hub lies to its east side. Sightseers drain like droplets from buses, trains, trams and walks, filtering into the pedestrianised cobbled basin. Like any tourist site, locals cash in: horses and carriages line up waiting patiently to provide sightseeing tours in old-fashioned comfort, rickshaw riders lay back in their vehicles hoping to swipe some business from the equestrian competition and the city tour buses all have stops strategically positioned here. The shops all have racks of overpriced postcards outside and the first commercial building beyond the Gate is, of course, a Starbucks. 

 

On the western side, a different picture. A busy road extends from the Gate, almost due west, vaguely resembling the way the Champs Elysee extends from the Arc de Triomphe. It’s a greener picture here than in Paris however, as the Gate marks the easternmost fringe of the colossal Tiergarten  - a huge city park hosting Berlin’s zoo. In addition, on the northwestern side of the Gate rises the glistening Reichstag building - Germany’s House of Parliament - its glassy roof arching upwards like a transparent beehive. A small pedestrianised area can also be found on this side of the Gate, home of information boards and often small scale political protests. Looking back through the monument to the East, the iconic TV tower looms on the horizon, visible as it is from so many locations across the city.

Reichstag Building

Through the Gate looking East.

Atop the Brandenburg Gate itself are the iconic quadriga (horses and chariot), replaced, added to and refurbished at various intervals in the monument’s tumultuous history following war damage. Together with the Iron Cross, they serve as a quiet reminder of the Gate’s role in the country’s military history, captured in a thousand daily selfies by the modern day, coffee-swilling crowd below. The place has its faults, just like any other tourist attraction worldwide. But it remains beguiling and altogether an impressive and humbling site.