Nazi Berlin of his children, the ravaged Berlin of 1945 and the reconstructed, divided Berlin of his grandchildren. All one and the same city, all within the space of one lifetime.
Within that period, there was half a century, from 1871 to 1918, during which Berlin bore the title of ‘imperial capital’. Standing on the banks of the Oder, fifty kilometres outside Berlin, one found oneself at the geographic centre of the German Empire, 600 kilometres from Aken and800 kilometres from Königsberg, the present-day Kaliningrad. Today that spot is marked by a Polish border post.
Berlin was the parvenu of Europe, but the city – with the frenetic energy of all newcomers – did everything it could to make up for its lagging behind London, Paris and Rome. Even today some of the neigh-bourhoods resemble a febrile European dream: a Jugendstil villa here, something a bit Venetian there, beside it a bit of Paris or Munich, with styles and shapes filched from all over the continent. The myth of Berlin was fabricated as well: supposedly, the city had started out as a Germanic settlement, with the bear as its symbol and eponym. In actual fact, however, for the first 600 years of its existence Berlin was a purely Slavic village. Its name has nothing to do with bears, but with the Slavic word
brl
, meaning ‘swamp’. The actual connotation is something along the lines of ‘Swampy Place’, in Old Polish. Yet that, of course, is hardly the stuff of which a Great German historical tradition can be made.
I had come to Berlin aboard the TGV and the ICE, travelling at 300kph past the villages of northern France, past cows with dungy backsides, a woman hanging the laundry, a pensive hare in a bare field.
Next came the broad, stern German lowlands. We were cruising at 200 kph now. The passengers in the first-class compartment spoke only to their mobiles: ‘Yeah, put my name on that EP.’ ‘Take a look at whether that Fassinger order is already on the net.’
After Wuppertal, a group of skinheads settled in on the platform between compartments. They sat there smoking and drinking beer, occasionally breaking into raucous laughter and loud belching. Beans, goulash soup and potatoes with sausage were being served in the club car. The first-class passengers ate in silence. The skinheads and the restaurant personnel were the only ones who spoke. ‘Shit!’ the boys kept yelling at each other, ‘Shit! Shit!’ It was a grey day, an unremitting greyish-green, all the way from Paris to Berlin.
Now, from my room, I look out on a courtyard full of brown leaves, a part of the earth where no one ever walks, sits or plays, occupied only by a large tree grasping for light. Darkness is falling. There is snow in the air. The windows across the way are dark, except for one warm, yellow rectangle, behind which someone is writing at a table.
These are lovely, private surroundings, excellent for getting some work done on my dispatches or doing a little background reading. For days I have been immersed in the diary of Käthe Kollwitz: sculptress and cartoonist for the satirical weekly
Simplicissimus
; wife of the social democrat general practitioner Karl Kollwitz; mother of two sons, Hans and Peter. A vivacious woman who was gradually tethered to earth by life at respectable Weissenburger Strasse 25. Here, to quote a few of her entries, is how she saw Berlin at the time:
8 September, 1909
Went with Peter to Tempelhof airfield yesterday. Wright flew for fifty-two minutes. He looked handsome, and seemed sure of himself. Once Wright had flown by, a little boy asked: ‘Is he real? I thought he was glued to it.’ The North Pole was discovered by both Cook
and
Peary.
30 November, 1909
With Karl and Hans to the third Sombart reading, which was about whether there was such a thing as a Jewish essence, and if so what that might be … He talked about ghetto Jews and non-ghetto Jews. Why are the Spanish Jews, who are of pure Semitic origin, not ghetto Jews?
Within that period, there was half a century, from 1871 to 1918, during which Berlin bore the title of ‘imperial capital’. Standing on the banks of the Oder, fifty kilometres outside Berlin, one found oneself at the geographic centre of the German Empire, 600 kilometres from Aken and800 kilometres from Königsberg, the present-day Kaliningrad. Today that spot is marked by a Polish border post.
Berlin was the parvenu of Europe, but the city – with the frenetic energy of all newcomers – did everything it could to make up for its lagging behind London, Paris and Rome. Even today some of the neigh-bourhoods resemble a febrile European dream: a Jugendstil villa here, something a bit Venetian there, beside it a bit of Paris or Munich, with styles and shapes filched from all over the continent. The myth of Berlin was fabricated as well: supposedly, the city had started out as a Germanic settlement, with the bear as its symbol and eponym. In actual fact, however, for the first 600 years of its existence Berlin was a purely Slavic village. Its name has nothing to do with bears, but with the Slavic word
brl
, meaning ‘swamp’. The actual connotation is something along the lines of ‘Swampy Place’, in Old Polish. Yet that, of course, is hardly the stuff of which a Great German historical tradition can be made.
I had come to Berlin aboard the TGV and the ICE, travelling at 300kph past the villages of northern France, past cows with dungy backsides, a woman hanging the laundry, a pensive hare in a bare field.
Next came the broad, stern German lowlands. We were cruising at 200 kph now. The passengers in the first-class compartment spoke only to their mobiles: ‘Yeah, put my name on that EP.’ ‘Take a look at whether that Fassinger order is already on the net.’
After Wuppertal, a group of skinheads settled in on the platform between compartments. They sat there smoking and drinking beer, occasionally breaking into raucous laughter and loud belching. Beans, goulash soup and potatoes with sausage were being served in the club car. The first-class passengers ate in silence. The skinheads and the restaurant personnel were the only ones who spoke. ‘Shit!’ the boys kept yelling at each other, ‘Shit! Shit!’ It was a grey day, an unremitting greyish-green, all the way from Paris to Berlin.
Now, from my room, I look out on a courtyard full of brown leaves, a part of the earth where no one ever walks, sits or plays, occupied only by a large tree grasping for light. Darkness is falling. There is snow in the air. The windows across the way are dark, except for one warm, yellow rectangle, behind which someone is writing at a table.
These are lovely, private surroundings, excellent for getting some work done on my dispatches or doing a little background reading. For days I have been immersed in the diary of Käthe Kollwitz: sculptress and cartoonist for the satirical weekly
Simplicissimus
; wife of the social democrat general practitioner Karl Kollwitz; mother of two sons, Hans and Peter. A vivacious woman who was gradually tethered to earth by life at respectable Weissenburger Strasse 25. Here, to quote a few of her entries, is how she saw Berlin at the time:
8 September, 1909
Went with Peter to Tempelhof airfield yesterday. Wright flew for fifty-two minutes. He looked handsome, and seemed sure of himself. Once Wright had flown by, a little boy asked: ‘Is he real? I thought he was glued to it.’ The North Pole was discovered by both Cook
and
Peary.
30 November, 1909
With Karl and Hans to the third Sombart reading, which was about whether there was such a thing as a Jewish essence, and if so what that might be … He talked about ghetto Jews and non-ghetto Jews. Why are the Spanish Jews, who are of pure Semitic origin, not ghetto Jews?
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