The House by the Lake

by Thomas Harding

  With the Fuhrmanns gone, and two of the rooms enlarged, the lake house appeared very spacious. At last, it felt fully theirs. So much so, in fact, that Wolfgang began laughingly to call it their Kleine Villa, and Villa Wolfgang.

  View of Berlin Wall from Groß Glienicke Lake

  PART IV

  VILLA WOLFGANG

  January 2014

  I am sitting in a small Groß Glienicke cafe with Bernd Kühne, Wolfgang’s son. He wears work clothes: paint-spattered blue trousers, an old pair of running shoes and a navy-blue parka. He is eager to talk, but tired. Now fifty-four years old, he tells me he has problems with his kidneys, and that he has just come from the hospital where he has undergone dialysis, a treatment he has to endure three times a week.

  We speak about his life, about his parents and how he remembers the house. He answers each query calmly, candidly, never seeming to tire or take offence at my intrusion. During our conversation many customers come over to say hello to Bernd. He is a man well liked in the village.

  At one point Bernd tells me that, during the DDR era, his was one of the few families to have a telephone in the village. I ask if this is significant. He pauses, and says that it might be evidence that someone in the house worked as an informant. ‘Your father?’ I ask. ‘Not my father,’ he says, ‘but perhaps my stepmother, his second wife.’

  Hoping that I am not crossing too many boundaries, I ask Bernd if he’s ever wanted to see his father’s Stasi file, his stepmother’s, possibly even his own? I tell him that it can take up to three years to see a file once an application has been submitted. He pauses again. I imagine him weighing the risks: might he find out something he could later regret – a girlfriend who spied on him, a work colleague who reported on him, perhaps even a family member who exchanged information for profit? Yes, Bernd says, he would very much like to see what they have, if I can find it.

  As we’re picking up our coats, Bernd talks about his childhood at the house, about the other family who had lived there before them: the Fuhrmanns. They knew the Meisels, he thinks – a widow and her son. The son might still live in the village.

  I thank him, and rush back to our hotel to telephone my researcher. There has always been a gap in our knowledge of the house – a missing inhabitant or inhabitants between the Kühnes and the Meisels. The researcher calls back, excitedly – she’s found him. He’s suggested that we meet.

  A few days later I am walking to the lake house with Lothar Fuhrmann and his wife Sieglinde. Now in their seventies, they are both dressed in large sweaters, loose trousers and tired-looking boots. It is their first return in almost fifty years, despite living less than two hundred metres away.

  As we pass through the overgrown meadow above the house, they see the building for the first time. ‘Nay, nay, nay,’ moans Sieglinde. She appears shocked at the house’s dilapidated state. Tears slide down her cheeks, ‘This is so terrible,’ she says. Her husband is equally taken aback. ‘It was so beautiful when we used to live here,’ says Lothar. ‘Not any more.’

  At first Lothar and Sieglinde speak freely as they walk around the property. They talk about their romance, their time living at the house and the changes that have swept the village. For them, it was ‘normal’ to grow up next to the Wall, and they ‘became used to it’. They also say that life was better before the Wall came down. At least then, they say, childcare and housing were free, food was cheap and jobs were plentiful. Travel restrictions and government surveillance were a small price to pay for such benefits, they tell me.

  Despite the years that have passed, they are still able to describe the house as it was in extraordinary detail. From what they say, it appears that the house changed very little from the days of my grandmother’s childhood.

  Their excitement is infectious, and I begin asking more questions. I have read a lot about the Wall, its politics and construction, and I want to understand just what it was like to live within its shadow. ‘What did you and your friends do for fun?’ I ask. ‘What was your daily routine?’ and ‘How could you have a relationship while living in the border zone?’

  But as I press, the Fuhrmanns grow quieter. ‘It is personal,’ they say as we walk back. ‘And besides, why would anyone care about our story?’

  On my return to England, despite their earlier lukewarm response, I am eager to share my research with my family – the secrets I’ve unearthed about the house.

  A few weeks later, we gather at my aunt and uncle’s flat in central London. In front of me sit twenty family members: my parents, uncles, aunts and cousins. I am anxious. This feels like pitching an idea at a business meeting. Telling myself to relax, I start to talk.

  I show them pictures from the 1930s along with those from the 1940s, 1960s and 1990s, explaining how the house has changed over the years. I recall my meetings with people who remember the house and the stories that they shared. Finally, I tell them about the city of Potsdam’s intention to demolish the house.

  I had expected interest, possibly even thanks. Instead, I hear anger and resentment. One cousin tells me that I am being sentimental, that the family had never spent much time at the house. When I mention the film shot by Dr Alexander from the 1930s – the wide-grinned kids playing football on the lawn, Elsie and Bella splashing around in the lake – he shuts me down. Another relative raises practical concerns, suggesting that it will be impossible to organise such a project from England. I hear myself saying that what is required is a ‘leap of faith’, and realise that even I find these words unconvincing.

  I am not totally surprised by the resistance. After all, we have painful history here. Their anger and fear echo the emotions that I had myself felt before spending time at the lake, before I had met the people who lived there. Yet I am disappointed. While I had never thought that they would forgive what had happened in the past, I had hoped that my family would be open to something new, that they might be interested in a exploring a different future.

  Realising that the meeting is a disaster, I try to wind it down. ‘OK then,’ I say. ‘Thank you all for coming …’

  Then, one of my younger cousins speaks up. She says that she is excited. She is ready, whenever, to fly out to Berlin, to meet the locals, to roll up her sleeves, and begin clearing up the house. Another says that it could be an opportunity to heal, a chance to start afresh. And a third adds that if we are honouring all of the families who lived in the house, then there is ‘real power to this idea’.

  After two hours of honest and sometimes bruising communication, the meeting comes to a close. There appears to be some support for the project, but there is also an equal amount of resistance. I wonder how I am going to move this forward if I can’t even persuade my own family.

  23

  KÜHNE

  1965

  ON 27 MAY 1965, many in Groß Glienicke were surprised to learn that they would soon experience a royal fly-by.

  Those villagers secretly watching West German television saw the live broadcast pictures of a plane approaching RAF-Gatow. Inside, the broadcaster announced, was Queen Elizabeth II and her husband, the Duke of Edinburgh, arriving as part of the first visit by the British head of state to West Berlin. Those who were quick enough ran outside and were just in time to see a red, white and blue plane roar overhead, readying for landing at the nearby airfield.

  The Queen’s trip followed on from President John F. Kennedy’s visit two years earlier, which had attracted massive international media attention, especially his declaration of ‘Ich bin ein Berliner’. Since that time, it appeared that the West had decided not to force the issue of the separation of Berlin into two cities. While they considered the Wall an affront to democracy and all that the West held dear, they feared what would happen if they attempted to break through the barrier. Similarly, the Soviet Union, though outwardly outraged by the build-up of American and British forces in Berlin, and still desperate to gain control of the entire city, was thankful that the mass exodus from the DDR had dramatically
fallen since the construction of the Wall, averting a collapse in the country’s economy. The situation was far from ideal for either side, but tensions seemed to have lessened in the years since the Wall had been built.

  According to The Times two soldiers rolled out a red carpet to the side of the plane as soon as the royal aircraft had slowed to a stop. In a pale yellow coat and matching yellow hat1, white handbag, white gloves and white heels, the Queen walked down the plane’s steps, at the bottom of which she was met by the West German Chancellor Ludwig Erhard and the Berlin mayor, Willy Brandt – who handed her a bunch of red flowers.

  After inspecting the British troops at the airfield, the royal party drove in an open-topped black Mercedes through the streets of West Berlin, which were, as reported by The Times, ‘deep with happy crowds’. As the vehicles slowed, the Queen and her husband stood up, smiling and waving at the masses who, in return, cheered and fluttered palm-size Union Jacks. Some reports estimated that over one million people, almost half of West Berlin, had turned out to see the Queen.

  At the Brandenburg Gate, the cars paused, while the mayor pointed at the Wall and explained its history and fortifications. Seeing two DDR sentries standing at the Wall, the Duke of Edinburgh waved, without eliciting a response. On the far side of the barrier, some eighty metres down Unter den Linden, a crowd of five hundred East Berlin citizens had gathered – but, according to The Times journalist, over one hundred policemen blocked their view.

  Leaving the Brandenburg Gate, the Queen was driven along the Berlin Wall to the Potsdamer Platz, and then on to West Berlin’s town hall in Schöneberg, for an afternoon rally, attended by over 100,000 people. As she sat on a dais above the steps of the sandstone town hall the crowd chanted ‘E-li-za-beth, E-li-za-beth’.

  Speaking first, Willy Brandt thanked the Queen and her country for their years of support, and his words were met with cheers and clapping from the crowd. He continued: ‘Today we have been able to show ourselves as we would like to be, relaxed and friendly. In this we have been helped by Your Majesty’s dignity, but also, if I may speak frankly, Your Majesty’s charm.’

  When the Queen stood, the crowd immediately hushed. She spoke of her admiration for the people of Germany. ‘Nowhere is the tragedy of a divided world made more evident than in this city. While other cities have enjoyed twenty years of peaceful redevelopment and progress, Berlin has never ceased to struggle for her existence.’

  The final speaker was the chancellor who, having said that Germany’s desire for reunification would not be stalled by the ‘wall of tyranny’, ended by shouting out, ‘Long live the Queen.’ His chant was echoed by the crowd.

  Much of the royal visit was covered by Radio in the American Sector (RIAS), which was hungrily devoured by the villagers of Groß Glienicke, Wolfgang and Irene among them. The visit was, however, not reported by the East German media. To Bernd’s family, this was yet more evidence that the press could not be trusted.

  By now, it was apparent that the villagers could be separated into three new categories2. The first were the believers. These included the party apparatchiks and the ardent communists, who, despite all evidence to the contrary, continued to cling to their revolutionary precepts. Then there were those who didn’t believe all they heard, who could see through the lies of the party bosses, and who sang the obligatory songs and abided by the laws they knew to be inane or, worse, unjust and dangerous and yet kept silent. Members of this group might confess their doubts in private, but never in public. The final group were the dissenters, those who bravely rejected the status quo and called for its replacement. This was the smallest of the three groups, and many of its members were harassed by the Stasi, held without trial and tortured. The Kühne and Fuhrmann families belonged to the second group.

  That September, Bernd Kühne attended his first day at ‘School Number 2’, one of three in the vicinity.

  As his family lived within the border security zone, Bernd had first to walk through the checkpoint at the Potsdamer Tor. The passes of any adult were carefully checked and only when approved was a button pressed, the light changed from red to green, and the person was waved along. As a child, and a familiar face, Bernd was swiftly nodded through.

  Turning left on the Potsdamer Chaussee, Bernd passed the Drei Linden, and then took another left onto Dorfstraße, past the church and into the school. As the school building was also located within the Grenzgebiet, and as the vast majority of the schoolchildren’s parents lacked permission to enter the border security zone, most had to drop their children fifty metres from the school’s front door.

  Inside, Bernd was ushered to his classroom and introduced to his fellow students. Later, before lunch, the children were walked up to the Drei Linden, which was now state-owned and had been converted into a school canteen. Back in class that afternoon, Bernd asked his teacher, ‘Why can’t we drive to the West?’ His classmates sniggered at the question, making Bernd feel self-conscious and stupid. He decided he didn’t like the building, the students or the teachers. He much preferred the familiarity of his own home, his garden and the animals in the sheds. After the class had quietened down, the teacher looked at Bernd and said kindly, ‘We cannot drive to the West because we cannot afford roads.’ Not knowing any better, Bernd believed this statement, though he was left with a nagging doubt. At the end of the day he walked home in tears. It was only after considerable encouragement from his mother that he returned to school the following morning.

  Bernd’s core subjects were German, Mathematics, History and Russian. He, along with his classmates, was expected to join the Thälmann Pioneers3, a national youth organisation named after Ernst Thälmann, the former head of the German Communist Party. Each week Bernd attended ‘lectures’ at which he and his classmates had to repeat lines such as: ‘We Thälmann Pioneers are friends of the Soviet Union, and protect peace while hating the warmongers.’

  During the spring they took part in outdoor activities, much like the scouts, learning survival skills and basic orienteering. Bernd and his fellow Pioneers wore red scarves, a symbol, according to the organisation’s manual, ‘of our devotion to the cause of the working class and its party, the Socialist Unity Party of Germany’. They were told that it was their mission to love nature and all its beauty. A highlight of each meeting was the raising of the national flag, during which a leader would call out, ‘We want to prepare for peace and socialism,’ before the children shouted back, ‘Always ready!’

  On 13 August 1966, dressed in their Thälmann Pioneers uniforms, seventy boys and girls walked out of School Number 2 for a field trip. Carrying flowers and gifts which they had made with paper and glue, and accompanied by their teachers, they made their way along the Dorfstraße towards the barracks which housed the border patrol guards of Groß Glienicke Regiment 34.

  Thälmann Pioneers meet soldiers, Groß Glienicke

  As they approached, an armed guard lifted the barrier, and the children were ushered inside towards the parade ground. There they were met by a long line of neatly dressed border patrol guards. Together, soldiers and children would celebrate the fifth anniversary of the building of the Anti-Fascist Protection Barrier.

  Having handed their gifts to the soldiers, a few of the children were invited to hold one of the guards’ rifles. After photographs were taken for the local newspaper, the children went for a swim in the regiment’s swimming pool. Afterwards, they were shown a film which explained the work of the border patrol soldiers and how they protected the republic.

  According to the editor of the Chronik4, the state-controlled village chronicle, the event was a ‘great success’. Once the children had thanked the soldiers for protecting the border, as a result of which ‘they could study in peace and quiet’, they returned to the school to resume their classes.

  As he grew older, one of Bernd’s favourite school pastimes was to gather small sticks with his friends during morning break and then throw them over the border fence, which ran along the back of th
e school playground, trying to set off the trigger wires. Most times they missed, but if they were lucky, and the stick was heavy enough, they struck the first wire, which let out a green flare. If a teacher saw them, he would yell, ‘Don’t throw sticks at our Anti-Fascist Protection Device!’

  On a few occasions, they were able to hit the second wire5, sending a red flare into the sky. Within minutes three or more trucks would arrive, and troops would pile out, looking for the suspected escapee. When none could be found, the troops would confer, glare at the schoolkids, and then reset the trigger wires. As soon as the troops left, one of Bernd’s friends would shout, ‘Let’s go and see the fireworks!’ and he and his classmates would try to hit the trigger wires again.

  Though no great lover of team sports, Bernd enjoyed running. He showed ability as a sprinter, but was truly impressive over longer distances. Before long, his teachers noticed his talent and Bernd was selected for races against other schools. He developed a reputation among his peers and began to take pride in his skill as an athlete.

  While Bernd made friends at school, he wasn’t able to invite them home, unless they too had passes permitting them to enter the border security zone. This was one of the most annoying aspects of living at the lake house. Birthdays were a particular challenge. It was sometimes possible to sneak some friends past the guards, but next to impossible to get everyone through. Indeed, even if they had been able to, many of the parents would have forbidden their children, given the risks.