Hello everyone. I am starting a new serialized story prompted in part by my recent time in Berlin as well as by bits and pieces from several old films and books. Here is the opening episode. New episodes will be posted here daily, so watch for them and enjoy.
Berlin Diary
Episode 1. Thursday afternoon, 30 July 1936.
With nose pressed against the glass, I gazed out as my train pulled into the cavernous interior of Berlin’s Anhalter Bahnhof. I studied the expectant faces of the clusters of people standing on the platform under the “Gleis 4” signs, each searching for the faces of loved ones or friends aboard the green-liveried Deutsche Reichsbahn coaches.
With a hiss of steam and the metallic howl of locking steel wheels, the express shuddered to a jolting halt. The man sitting next to me rose from his seat and kindly reached up to the overhead rack to hand me my suitcase. Thanking him politely, I exited the compartment and made my way down the corridor to the carriage door.
I hopped down to the platform, pressing my little cloche hat to my head, and joined the throng streaming toward the prominently placed overhead sign that read “Ausgang.” As we neared the end of the platform, everyone dutifully queued up before a checkpoint manned by two brown-shirted SA stormtroopers … one sitting at a small table, the other standing behind, hands on hips … both stony-faced.
The SA men were taking their work seriously. The queue inched forward. People chatted. No one seemed anxious. Germans are certainly docile in the face of authority, I noted. Bored, I craned my neck to stare in wonder at the station’s huge vaulted iron and glass canopy roof.
In time, I reached the head of the queue. The SA man at the desk looked me over from head to toe, holding his gaze for a moment part way down … presumably to mentally assess the size and shape of my breasts hidden beneath my puffy sleeved pale yellow blouse … then with a frown he growled, “Ihre Papieren bitte.”
I set my suitcase down, fumbled in my handbag for passport and papers, and then handed them over with a smile that was not returned. He snatched them from me, leaving me to stare at the flat top of his brown kepi hat while he leaned forward to study my papers. Then he looked up at me, his piercing blue eyes studiously matching the photo in my passport to my face.
“You are Barbara Moore … American?” he asked unnecessarily in carefully clipped English.
I nodded affirmatively.
“Student?” he continued, adding quizzically “32 years old?”
“Here in Berlin to take up my post graduate studies at Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität,” I offered helpfully and a little proudly too.
He looked at me blankly, passing my papers back with a nod to his colleague, who leafed through them indifferently. I rocked gently to and fro on my heels, feeling a little self-conscious … eyes cast down at the pleats of my fashionable new “handkerchief” serge blue skirt … waiting nervously. After what seemed an eternity, the second SA man looked up, and actually smiled.
“What is your area of study Fräulein Moore?”
“Modern German art and literature.”
He nodded, offered me my papers back, clicked his heels, threw out his arm and barked, “Heil Hitler!”
I raised my hand uncertainly and sidled awkwardly past him, holding my breath, taking care not to look back, and made a bee-line for the station exit.
Passing through the oversized front portal doors, and emerging on the edge of Askanischer Platz ... directly across from the imposing facade of the Excelsior Hotel, the largest in Europe ... I let out an audible sigh of relief. A rush of exultations raced through my mind … “Made it! Thank God that SA trooper was satisfied! But, now I am here! Here in Berlin! … a dream come true after all I have had to do make it happen! … and what an auspicious time to arrive too! … in two days Berlin will host the Olympic Games … the XI Olympiad … and I will be here to witness it!”
As I made my way away from the station in the direction of nearby Potsdamer Platz, the pre-Olympic excitement was palpable. Berlin was decked out everywhere in red bunting and banners adorned with black swastikas set in white disks. Even on a Thursday afternoon, the streets were full of people enjoying the festival-like atmosphere.
I wanted to stay and take it all in … to take my place at a sidewalk café on one of the world’s most infamous squares, and just watch the people … but with suitcase in hand and the afternoon waning, I knew that I had better seek out my lodgings. So, after asking directions, I headed off on foot for Bülowstrasse and the boarding house where a room was waiting for me.
My knock on the door was answered by a Frau Kranke, a middle-aged hatchet-faced woman with a Party pin prominently displayed on the white collar of her faded floral print dress. We exchanged perfunctory greetings. She didn’t smile even once. I was lectured on the rules of the establishment, including the strict prohibition on male visitors in my room, and led upstairs to the door of my lodging just off the second floor landing.
I opened the door and wrinkled my nose. It smelled a bit musty. I set my suitcase on the floor, and began my inspection by opening and closing the wardrobe door. Turning about slowly, I took in the faded wallpaper, the threadbare drapes, the sagging bed mattress, the cracked lampshade on the night stand, and the cheaply framed portrait of Adolf Hitler mounted prominently over the headboard.
Frau Kranke informed me of the bath down the hall and the need to reserve time for its use, and of the charge for hot water. I inquired whether the bath was immediately free, explaining my need to freshen up after my long journey. She nodded in the affirmative, then held out her hand and demanded two month’s rent in advance.
I rummaged in my handbag for the money, which she snatched without a word and stomped off, leaving me to collapse on the bed, feeling a little less happy than before. Perhaps in two months I can find something more suitable I told myself.
Then, remembering the bath, I slowly undressed, padded nakedly across the short distance to the wardrobe and removed the frayed, and not all too large, bath towel hanging inside. I wrapped it around my torso, tucking it under my armpits. It came down just to the very tops of my thighs.
Stepping over to the door, I opened it cautiously and peeked down the hallway to see whether the coast was clear. It was, so I rushed down to the bathroom as quickly as I could … only to find the door locked!
I rapped gently. It opened immediately and a tall young man emerged to block the doorway with his lean muscular body, wet hair combed straight back and wearing only a small towel around his waist. He was incredibly handsome … in an Adonis-like way ... causing me to stare at him speechless.
“Well, well … now, who are you?” he said in German, regarding my skimpily towel-clad figure with a shamelessly rakish grin.
TO BE CONTINUED
Berlin Diary
Episode 1. Thursday afternoon, 30 July 1936.
With nose pressed against the glass, I gazed out as my train pulled into the cavernous interior of Berlin’s Anhalter Bahnhof. I studied the expectant faces of the clusters of people standing on the platform under the “Gleis 4” signs, each searching for the faces of loved ones or friends aboard the green-liveried Deutsche Reichsbahn coaches.
With a hiss of steam and the metallic howl of locking steel wheels, the express shuddered to a jolting halt. The man sitting next to me rose from his seat and kindly reached up to the overhead rack to hand me my suitcase. Thanking him politely, I exited the compartment and made my way down the corridor to the carriage door.
I hopped down to the platform, pressing my little cloche hat to my head, and joined the throng streaming toward the prominently placed overhead sign that read “Ausgang.” As we neared the end of the platform, everyone dutifully queued up before a checkpoint manned by two brown-shirted SA stormtroopers … one sitting at a small table, the other standing behind, hands on hips … both stony-faced.
The SA men were taking their work seriously. The queue inched forward. People chatted. No one seemed anxious. Germans are certainly docile in the face of authority, I noted. Bored, I craned my neck to stare in wonder at the station’s huge vaulted iron and glass canopy roof.
In time, I reached the head of the queue. The SA man at the desk looked me over from head to toe, holding his gaze for a moment part way down … presumably to mentally assess the size and shape of my breasts hidden beneath my puffy sleeved pale yellow blouse … then with a frown he growled, “Ihre Papieren bitte.”
I set my suitcase down, fumbled in my handbag for passport and papers, and then handed them over with a smile that was not returned. He snatched them from me, leaving me to stare at the flat top of his brown kepi hat while he leaned forward to study my papers. Then he looked up at me, his piercing blue eyes studiously matching the photo in my passport to my face.
“You are Barbara Moore … American?” he asked unnecessarily in carefully clipped English.
I nodded affirmatively.
“Student?” he continued, adding quizzically “32 years old?”
“Here in Berlin to take up my post graduate studies at Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität,” I offered helpfully and a little proudly too.
He looked at me blankly, passing my papers back with a nod to his colleague, who leafed through them indifferently. I rocked gently to and fro on my heels, feeling a little self-conscious … eyes cast down at the pleats of my fashionable new “handkerchief” serge blue skirt … waiting nervously. After what seemed an eternity, the second SA man looked up, and actually smiled.
“What is your area of study Fräulein Moore?”
“Modern German art and literature.”
He nodded, offered me my papers back, clicked his heels, threw out his arm and barked, “Heil Hitler!”
I raised my hand uncertainly and sidled awkwardly past him, holding my breath, taking care not to look back, and made a bee-line for the station exit.
Passing through the oversized front portal doors, and emerging on the edge of Askanischer Platz ... directly across from the imposing facade of the Excelsior Hotel, the largest in Europe ... I let out an audible sigh of relief. A rush of exultations raced through my mind … “Made it! Thank God that SA trooper was satisfied! But, now I am here! Here in Berlin! … a dream come true after all I have had to do make it happen! … and what an auspicious time to arrive too! … in two days Berlin will host the Olympic Games … the XI Olympiad … and I will be here to witness it!”
As I made my way away from the station in the direction of nearby Potsdamer Platz, the pre-Olympic excitement was palpable. Berlin was decked out everywhere in red bunting and banners adorned with black swastikas set in white disks. Even on a Thursday afternoon, the streets were full of people enjoying the festival-like atmosphere.
I wanted to stay and take it all in … to take my place at a sidewalk café on one of the world’s most infamous squares, and just watch the people … but with suitcase in hand and the afternoon waning, I knew that I had better seek out my lodgings. So, after asking directions, I headed off on foot for Bülowstrasse and the boarding house where a room was waiting for me.
My knock on the door was answered by a Frau Kranke, a middle-aged hatchet-faced woman with a Party pin prominently displayed on the white collar of her faded floral print dress. We exchanged perfunctory greetings. She didn’t smile even once. I was lectured on the rules of the establishment, including the strict prohibition on male visitors in my room, and led upstairs to the door of my lodging just off the second floor landing.
I opened the door and wrinkled my nose. It smelled a bit musty. I set my suitcase on the floor, and began my inspection by opening and closing the wardrobe door. Turning about slowly, I took in the faded wallpaper, the threadbare drapes, the sagging bed mattress, the cracked lampshade on the night stand, and the cheaply framed portrait of Adolf Hitler mounted prominently over the headboard.
Frau Kranke informed me of the bath down the hall and the need to reserve time for its use, and of the charge for hot water. I inquired whether the bath was immediately free, explaining my need to freshen up after my long journey. She nodded in the affirmative, then held out her hand and demanded two month’s rent in advance.
I rummaged in my handbag for the money, which she snatched without a word and stomped off, leaving me to collapse on the bed, feeling a little less happy than before. Perhaps in two months I can find something more suitable I told myself.
Then, remembering the bath, I slowly undressed, padded nakedly across the short distance to the wardrobe and removed the frayed, and not all too large, bath towel hanging inside. I wrapped it around my torso, tucking it under my armpits. It came down just to the very tops of my thighs.
Stepping over to the door, I opened it cautiously and peeked down the hallway to see whether the coast was clear. It was, so I rushed down to the bathroom as quickly as I could … only to find the door locked!
I rapped gently. It opened immediately and a tall young man emerged to block the doorway with his lean muscular body, wet hair combed straight back and wearing only a small towel around his waist. He was incredibly handsome … in an Adonis-like way ... causing me to stare at him speechless.
“Well, well … now, who are you?” he said in German, regarding my skimpily towel-clad figure with a shamelessly rakish grin.
TO BE CONTINUED
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