Rudy shrugs but I can tell she’s embarrassed and I wish I’d never said anything. “Yeah, well, I’ve always been too busy – with school and work and stuff.”
“Sure. That makes this even better then. I’m honoured that your first trip abroad is with me.” As soon as I say it I worry that it sounds too over the top but thankfully Rudy grins.
“Yeah, well, so you should.”
We settle back into a comfortable silence and I gaze through the window as the green of the Berlin suburbs gradually fades into the grey of the cityscape. When the train gets to Alexanderplatz I nudge Rudy. “This is our stop.”
I lead Rudy out of the station and around the corner and point across the road. “Here we are.” I point to the first of the brightly coloured murals. “It’s all that’s left of the Berlin Wall, which used to separate the east of the city from the west. When they tore the Wall down in 1991 they kept this part and turned it into an art gallery. Artists came from all over the world to paint murals on it.”
Now Rudy looks impressed. “Wow.”
The traffic lights change and we cross over. Rudy gazes at the first mural, then off down the street. The wall stretches further than the eye can see. She looks back at me, for once her expression is soft and unguarded.
“I think this might be the best day of my life,” she says quietly, before turning to look back at the picture.
RUDY
Walking along the Berlin Wall gives me the same feeling I got when the plane was taking off. With every mural we look at, my spirits soar to a higher altitude. There are so many different styles of artwork on display here, from bold abstracts that remind me of Jean-Michel Basquiat, to cartoon characters and more muted pictures in pastel shades of grey and blue.
“This is one of my favourites,” Clementine says as we reach a painting of a wall bursting open and a sea of faces pouring through. The colours are beautiful. The soft yellow, pink and peach of the faces contrast sharply against the dark blue background and the stark white of the wall. It reminds me of what the Berlin Wall used to be for and it sends a shudder through me.
“Can you imagine if something like this happened in the UK?” I say. “Like, what if the government decided to build a wall between Brighton and Hove and we weren’t allowed to see each other just because of where we lived?”
“I know. It’s horrible, isn’t it?” Clementine replies. “But that’s why I love this gallery. It’s proof that building walls between people doesn’t work.”
We walk on. In spite of the cold, grey weather there’s still quite a lot of people about, stopping to take photos and selfies. Up ahead of us a small crowd has gathered around a dark-haired, heavy-set man sitting on a crate in front of a small card table. He’s doing the classic magic trick where the crowd has to guess which of three beakers a ball is under. He’s not very good, though. As he whisks the beakers round, the bright blue of the ball is clearly visible beneath the yellow one. Sure enough, one of the people watching guesses correctly and wins ten Euros.
“It’s all a con,” Clementine whispers as we walk past. “He gets his friends to pretend to play and win to make it look really easy. Then, when someone else plays, he moves so quickly you can’t see where the ball is and he ends up taking their money.”
There’s something really grim about this; turning the Wall – and everything it should symbolize – into a place to con people out of money. We carry on walking and come to a painting of an old-style white car bursting through an eggshell-blue wall.
“That was the kind of car the East Germans used to drive,” Clementine explains.
I look at the tag at the bottom of the picture. It says Birgit K. It sounds like a woman’s name. I imagine what it must be like to be asked to create a piece of art for somewhere as iconic as this, not to worry about anyone destroying it, or arresting you. I take a photo of the painting to send to Tyler, and we carry on walking.
“This is probably the most famous of all the murals here,” Clementine says as we get to a close-up painting of two men kissing. The most impactful thing about the painting is that the kiss seems so unlikely. The men look so old and strait-laced, and they’re dressed in the kind of formal suits managers would wear to a business convention.
“Do you know who they are?” I ask.
“I think they were the Soviet and East German leaders,” Clementine says. “Hang on, I’ll check.” She takes her phone from her pocket. “Yes, that’s right. Apparently it was based on an actual photo of them kissing.” Clementine points to the words painted along the bottom. “And apparently that says ‘God help me to survive this deadly love affair’.”
“Wow.”
This is definitely the most popular of all the murals, with more people than ever clustering around taking pictures, some of them kissing in front of it.
“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Clementine says, breaking me from my trance. “Politicians think they have all the power, but really it’s the artists. The artists speak the truth.”
I pause for a moment, to really let her words sink in, as if I’m taking a mental photograph of this moment. Because I never want to forget it. I never want to forget this place and all it represents. I never want to forget this feeling of finally arriving where I was always supposed to be. And then, before I can stop myself, I grab Clementine in a hug.
CLEMENTINE
I arranged for us to meet Dad by the television tower. As soon as the huge structure looms into view, glowing white against the darkening sky, Rudy gasps.
“It’s Berlin’s equivalent of the Eiffel Tower, or Nelson’s Column in London,” I explain.
“Or the Clock Tower in Brighton,” Rudy laughs. “It looks like a giant wand.” She takes her phone from her pocket and takes a photo of it. “I’ve got to send a picture to Tyler.”
The only downside of Rudy’s enthusiasm about Berlin is that she keeps sending photos of things to Tyler and this keeps setting off little wistful pangs inside me. If only I had a Tyler to send things to. Or the Tyler to send things to. No. No. No. I push my wistful thoughts from my brain.
“It was built back in the days of the Wall,” I tell her, remembering what Dad told me when I first came here. “Europe didn’t allow East Germany to have enough airwaves to broadcast television programmes, so they built this themselves. I think it was their way of saying, we don’t need you.”
“Like a giant ‘eff you’.” Rudy laughs.
“Exactly.”
Rudy turns slowly in a full circle, taking in the shops and the station and the concourse crowded with commuters making their way home. “This place is so interesting.”
I wait for her to say, “I wish Tyler could see it” but she doesn’t. Instead she just smiles. But it’s not her usual cocky smile; it’s a lot softer, shyer. “Thank you so much for inviting me.”
“Thank you for coming. I was…” I break off, unsure if I ought to say it.
“What?”
“I was really disappointed when I thought you couldn’t come.”
“Me too.”
“I mean, I know we haven’t known each other all that long but…” Again I run out of words.
“But?” She looks at me.
I think of how she hugged me earlier and I decide to risk sounding over the top and uncool. “But I think you’re great and I’m so pleased we’re friends—”
“Clementine!” Dad’s voice interrupts me. I turn and see him striding across the precinct towards us. As usual, his tie is askew and his coat is flapping open. Dad’s one of those people who look scruffier the more they try to look smart. The tension of the last few weeks, which I’d been wearing like a protective skin, begins to slip away.
“Hey, Dad,” I call, my voice suddenly wobbly.
As soon as Dad reaches us he hugs me. I inhale the trace of his aftershave. I feel myself shrinking back to a smaller version of me; one who used to curl up for hours on his knee. Dad lets go and turns to smile at Rudy. “And you must be the infamous Rudy.�
�
“Dad! She’s not infamous!” I say, my cheeks beginning to burn.
“Yes, I am.” Rudy grins.
“It’s great to meet you,” Dad says, holding his hand out in greeting.
Rudy takes his hand and shakes it vigorously. “Good to meet you too, sir.”
Dad laughs. “No need for that. Valentino will be fine – I always wanted to be called Valentino.”
“That’s not your name?” Rudy looks confused.
“It is – it’s his idea of a joke,” I say, cringing.
“Oh, right.” Thankfully Rudy laughs and actually sounds like she means it.
Dad claps his hands together. “So, are you guys hungry?”
“Yes!” Rudy and I say in unison.
“Great. I told Ada we’d meet in that Italian place by the station. Then maybe over dinner you can show me some of your artwork,” Dad says to Rudy, “if you’ve got any pictures on your phone?”
“Sure.”
“I still can’t believe you got arrested.”
“We didn’t get arrested!” I exclaim.
“We got let off with a caution,” Rudy says.
“Well, whatever. So, how long have you been doing street art, Rudy?”
As we make our way across the precinct and Dad and Rudy fall into conversation it feels so bittersweet. If only my life could always feel this happy, and this easy.
RUDY
It turns out that Clementine’s dad is really nice and the evening flies by as he and his partner, Ada, tell me all kinds of cool facts about Berlin. By the time we get back to their apartment, which I’m relieved to see is way closer in size and appearance to my flat than Clementine’s house in Hove, I’m feeling that weird kind of wired-tired from all the excitement and travelling.
“We’ve set up an airbed for you in Clem’s room,” her dad says, showing us into a room next door to the lounge. Although he’s called it Clem’s room, there’s no real sign of it being hers. No pictures on the wall, or books on the shelves. There’s even a cot in the corner.
“Oh,” Clementine says, looking really surprised.
Her dad smiles as he follows her gaze. “Yes, we’re getting ready for the new arrival. I hope you don’t mind but we were thinking of painting this room yellow – to make it look more like a nursery.”
Clementine’s doing this strange impression of a smile but I can tell it isn’t for real. I can see the hurt in her eyes. Over the years I’ve often wondered if my dad has got a new family somewhere and that’s why he no longer cares about me. It’s a horrible feeling.
“Are you OK?” I ask as soon as her dad says goodnight and leaves the room.
“Yeah.” She sits down on the end of her bed. “I just wish…”
“What?” I sit down next to her.
“I wish I didn’t feel so alone,” she says.
“What? You’re not alone,” I exclaim. “You’ve got me for a start.”
“I know but sometimes I wish I had – this is going to sound really pitiful…” She breaks off, her face flushing.
“Go on…”
“I wish I had someone special,” she practically whispers, “like Dad has Ada and you have Tyler.”
“You do know that Tyler and I – we aren’t together. He’s just my friend – well, more like a brother.”
“Really?” Her face breaks into a grin. The kind of goofy grin someone gives when they’ve just been handed a surprise gift.
But although the thought that she might like Tyler gives me a sinking feeling, I realize something even stronger. True friendship is about putting someone else’s happiness above your own fears. If Clementine and Tyler do like each other I’ve got to figure out a way to deal with it.
CLEMENTINE
Rudy and Tyler aren’t together. It’s weird because even though this news made me ecstatically happy at first, the feeling soon faded. Ever since Rudy hugged me earlier, by the Wall, I’ve felt like our friendship has moved onto a new, deeper, level and I don’t want anything to ruin that. She and Tyler might not be going out but they’re so close, it would still feel really awkward if anything were to happen between him and me. I’m just about to get ready for bed when my phone pings with a Facebook message. As I take it from my pocket I tell myself not to get excited – it could be from anyone. But it’s not – it’s from Gina.
“Oh, wow,” I exclaim under my breath.
“What is it?” Rudy asks.
“I’ve got a message from my mum’s old friend.” My fingers are trembling as I click on it. What if Gina’s angry that I contacted her? What if she’s telling me she wants nothing to do with Mum? As the message opens I catch a glimpse of the word “lovely” and I relax slightly and start to read.
Dear Clementine,
It was such a lovely surprise to hear from you! And I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to reply – your message had gone into my “other” folder on here, as we aren’t Facebook friends. I was very upset to hear about your mum – not to mention angry! Reading your message was confirmation of my worst fears about Vincent. The minute your mum fell pregnant with Damon he started trying to control every aspect of her life – even down to the friends she had – or didn’t have. Anyway, I would love to meet up with her again. I’ve missed her so much and feel terrible for giving up on our friendship. Just let me know what you want me to do.
Sending you lots of love,
Auntie Gina xxx
I put my phone down and sigh.
“What is it? What’s happened?” Rudy asks.
“My fightback against Vincent has officially begun.”
RUDY
On our second day in Berlin, Clementine and I take the bus to the Jewish Museum. As soon as we sit down at the back of the bus I feel my phone vibrate. I assume it’s yet another of Mum’s messages checking that Clementine’s dad isn’t a mass murderer and he hasn’t baked me up into a pie or something, but when I check I see that it’s an Instagram message … from LADZ. My heart instantly starts to race. For a second I think of ignoring it – I don’t want anything to ruin my time in Berlin – but if I don’t read it I’m just going to be stressing about what it might say. I click the message open.
No worries. I’m sorry for ruining yours too. Maybe I’ll run into you one of these days. Peace.
“Is it your mum again?” Clementine asks.
I shake my head. “No, it’s LADZ.”
“What?” Clementine’s eyes go saucer-wide. “As in the guy who ruined our picture?”
I nod and tell her about the message I sent him.
“What did he say?” she asks. I show her my phone. “Wow.”
“I know.” Even though I’ll always think LADZ’s butt cheek picture was stupid I can’t help feeling a wave of relief.
“What do you think he means about running into you one of these days? Do you think he wants to meet?”
I shrug my shoulders like I don’t care but there’s something about his words that is making me have to fight the urge to grin. I picture LADZ and me sitting on a bench by the seafront, and me schooling him in the evils of misogyny.
“Well, at least we know he won’t ruin any more of our art… If we’re ever able to make any more,” Clementine adds wistfully.
“Oh, we will,” I say, looking out of the window, my mind buzzing with determination and excitement.
The Jewish Museum is in a residential neighbourhood lined with tall apartment blocks. It looks like one of those super posh stately homes you get in the countryside back in England, with an ornate cream façade and a red-tiled roof.
“There’s a whole newer part to the museum at the back,” Clementine says as we cross the road. “The architect who designed it wanted the building to make a statement.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s hard to explain. You’ll see when we get inside.”
We walk through the entrance straight into airport-style security. As I follow Clementine through the body-scanner, the implications are insta
ntly sobering.
We leave our coats and bags in the cloakroom and walk through to the newer part of the museum, where the architecture dramatically changes. It’s like no building I’ve ever been in before, with jagged corridors and sloping floors. The exhibits are arranged along long corridors lined with glass cases, each displaying some kind of object or photo, every one telling a story. Each corridor is called an Axis of something. The Axis of Emigration tells the stories of the Jews who fled Berlin at the start of the war.
I stop in front of a glass case containing a handmade card, decorated with a dried, pressed violet. The description next to it tells the story of a couple called Ernst and Rosa Jakubowski who emigrated from Berlin to Italy. Ernst was arrested at the outbreak of the war and taken to some kind of prison camp. He’d sent the card to Rosa from the camp to celebrate the arrival of spring. The flower is faded now and the card is yellowing with age but there’s something so beautiful about it. Even though Ernst was trapped inside a prison camp, even though he’d been torn away from his wife and family, he still had the urge to create. And he created something full of joy and hope. I feel a weird kind of energy rising inside me. Even in the face of the worst kind of evil, people can create beauty. People must create beauty.
I carry on reading and my heart practically cracks in two. Ernst was deported to Auschwitz and died on a death march from the camp. I swallow hard to try and stop myself from crying. I look back at the flower on the card. I think of what Clementine said yesterday at the Wall, about artists having the power because they speak the truth. I think of how many people must have seen this card and its terrible, beautiful truth. And I make a silent vow to never stop telling the truth through my painting. For the sake of Ernst and all the fierce artists who came before me.
Next to me, Clementine winces as she reads Ernst’s story. We walk on in silence.
When we reach the end of the corridor we go into a narrow, triangular-shaped room. It’s empty and the walls reach up the entire height of the building and the only light is coming through a slit in the ceiling. There’s something suffocating about it, like being in a prison. I think back to what Clementine said about the person who designed it wanting the building to make a statement and I realize that this entire place is a work of art. But reading these personal stories is shattering. The families who were torn apart. The love stories with such tragic endings. It makes me feel ashamed for getting so stressed about Tyler liking Clementine and for being so selfish.
Clementine and Rudy Page 21
