The West

The West, Fall 1989

"We should go," Angie says: "What's wrong with us? The Wall has been open for ten days already, and we still haven't gone."

"Yes," I answer, "you‘re right." I don't even know why all these people returning from West Berlin, with stuffed plastic shopping bags full of toilet paper and beer cans, bother me that much.

The revolution is over; let's all go shopping. Very embarrassing. Or maybe I am afraid that they are right. Maybe that's all there is. Or perhaps the East German toilet paper was really not soft enough (the joke went, that they made it so rough so that even the last asshole would turn red).

"Though I do want the 100 West Mark," Angie says. (The West German government announced that each citizen of East Germany would receive the gift of 100 Deutsch Mark)

I start laughing: "Oh, me too" - in my mind I've already spent it all, reinventing myself.

So we go. We take the streetcar from work, then walk through the former fenced off so-called "border near area." No more cops here, no more fences. I almost feel sorry for the border guards. What are they guarding now? And how difficult it must be trying to smile. We show our newly received passports, get a stamp and pass the border.

Then we walk into the West, the free part of Berlin. The sky is not bluer, the grass not greener. How could it be on this rainy November day anyway?

Instead of communist slogans, there is toothpaste advertising. Strawberries in winter and bananas and many fruits and vegetables that I've never seen before in my life. But Freedom? I can't see it anywhere. But yes, what does Freedom look like?

We look at each other, Angie raises an eyebrow and I say "it stinks." Yes, that's what it is, it stinks. Not at all like the smell I had forever associated with the West. Every time we opened a packet from our relatives in the West this mix of coffee, chocolate, oranges, and flowery soap hovered over our house. It was the best smell ever, this is what I had expected and now: it stinks.

It stinks, and the people look ugly. I had always thought that in a country where you can buy all the fancy clothing and real jeans, everybody would look elegant and beautiful. Instead, tackiness and dog shit everywhere, and definitely not more happiness than in the East. Thank God I did not escape to this, it would have been such a disappointment, I think with a smile.

We walk and walk. This is what we know; walking. We both walk for a living, delivering mail and newspapers.

Slowly my fantasy of reinventing myself fades away.

The only smiling people are other East Germans ...and we grin at each other somewhat sheepishly, The Turkish fruit sellers ignore us. They know we do not have any money. Later I am to learn that they are more West German than I will ever be - but I have never seen so many Turks or in fact any foreign looking people who actually have some rights and businesses. In fact, I have never seen a grocery shop with fresh produce other than cabbage and apples.

"Let's find a bank and pick up the money and get it over with," Angie says. We can see the line up from a mile away. Nobody but some children talk, and they are doing fantasy shopping for millionaires, embarrassing all of us in the process.

Finally, it's our turn, again we show our IDs, and now we are 100 Deutsch Mark richer.

"I have had enough," I say. "Let's go back..."

When we are back in the East, I actually feel home.