In my studies as a history major and specifically in my classes in London, I have encountered the effects of imperialism, the proverbial flexing of power imperial forces wield and the devastating effects that war can have on a city. I, however, had scarcely experienced either of these historical themes in real life. I quickly discovered many of these sentiments on my first trip. I was immediately submerged in post-World War II and Cold War visions, some harboring resentment for the United States, others relaying images of a city still developing in the wake of the aforementioned engagements: Berlin.
Upon my arrival late Friday night, I was greeted by several neo-Nazis out for a night on the town, clad in combat boots, with shaved heads and swastikas proudly displayed for all to see. My initial reaction: “For a city supposedly so embarrassed by their societal transgressions, this is a fairly robust way of displaying such humility.” I would soon learn that this lack of shame was not evident through the entire city, but rather was subtly engrained in a city searching for identity and struggling to define itself. The people were happy, and the city’s inhabitants were colorful, displaying their true feelings through the liberality of their dress, the colors of their hair and the even more colorful taunts in broken English. Even the Wall, long a symbol of oppression had been decorated. These crafty Germans were turning lemons into lemonade.
It remained, however, impossible to escape the horrors of the last century in a city where buildings still lay in shambles because of the Soviet occupation, the most lavish buildings in the city were erected for the price of low income housing, where a wall tore families apart and where Hitler’s failed attempt at world domination came to an end. Scarcely have I seen contrasts so sharp: Shrapnel in a building standing immediately next to a building constructed in the last five years; a seemingly quaint area, filled with street art—beautiful—but undeniably tarnishing.
This overwhelming sense of urban failure was inescapable, and was often purveyed through several smaller, subtler, but gruesome nonetheless motifs throughout the city.
It was easy to make Berlin seem like a city ravished by torment and left for dead by its liberators, many of the images were more difficult to digest than I had expected. But the supposed savior from this torment should have been exalted in the minds of Germans, right? Where were the museums dedicated to Germany’s liberation and the fall of the Soviets at American hands? These seemingly happy people harbored a bit more resentment than I had initially imagined, we were not so esteemed on the domestic front. Attempts to make conversation with locals were quickly scoffed at and avoided; tourists were barreled over in the street by people on a mission to get God knows where. Through this heap of unwelcomed sentiment, I came across perhaps the least welcoming of all:
A smile is all we could muster up as we hurriedly turned it into a joke. Sure, its funny to some college kids, but in the larger social context, this graffiti has not been cleaned up, and exists at the entrance to a bank! Our disappointment could not have been more pervasive. The help we delivered to this war torn country? As far as the Germans were concerned, was our occupation a matter of preventing further Soviet wrath in the years of the Cold War. Or was it seen as our own agenda? Did the Germans look at our actions in Berlin as preventative measures to save ourselves?
Many of these questions would remain unanswered for the duration of my stay. It became increasingly evident that the United States had never truly left Germany, and the city of Berlin would never truly escape the wrath brought upon it by Hitler’s agenda and the Communist concepts that developed into the wall. As we stood over the place where Hitler took his life, I was overcome by the knowledge of the shame that Germans felt in the wake of the revelation of the terror. There existed, unmarked with exception of the mention by our tour guide, a parking lot covering the spot; a strange monument to a man who is so prominently featured in our text books today. My prior conjecture based on the men in the train terminal had clearly been premature.
This city was dark, cold, poorly lit, dashed to rubble, brand new and exceedingly old at the same time, and yet there was so much hope. As we walked through the streets, we learned of plans to rebuild various monuments to try to bring the city square together, we learned about schnitzel, the German language, the German people and their political stances. We visited sights that had been destroyed in each of the World Wars, and wondered with amazement that we had all be alive when the Wall was torn down – a fact that had never hit home with any of us until viewing its effects. The only direction for this city to move was up.
And through it all; the war, the rubble, the graffiti, the bashfulness and the resentment, Berlin became my favorite city, albeit the first one I had visited. The cultural turmoil that existed in this place in the last one hundred years made me itch with excitement over the historical validity. At the end of the trip, after experiencing the construction, the nightlife, and the historical turmoil, I was able to find peace and serenity on a street corner – peace and serenity in a piece of litter strewn aside by a homeless man or a college student, no doubt – but as they say, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.
All images and text in this essay copyright Robby Schoder
