The Berlin Paradox

by Alain Xalabarde

  The Berlin Paradox

  ALAIN XALABARDE

  Copyright © 2019 Alain Xalabarde

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781096068587

  To my wife; she who made me

  believe in meaning again.

  CONTENTS

  1960

  1

  PROLOGUE

  3

  VII

  9

  VIII

  13

  IX

  21

  X

  25

  XI

  33

  1970

  39

  XII

  41

  XIII

  47

  XIV

  57

  1950

  61

  IV

  63

  V

  69

  VI

  73

  1990

  77

  XVIII

  79

  XIX

  85

  XX

  89

  1980

  93

  XV

  95

  XVI

  99

  XVII

  103

  1940

  107

  I

  109

  II

  113

  III

  117

  THE AUTHOR

  121

  INTRODUCTION

  Living in Berlin is like getting a hug from a hermit who hasn’t showered in months. It’s not very pleasant, but you know she has a good heart.

  Berlin is a tough city, and it doesn’t treat its people with grace. But that’s just the way the city was raised. It had a hard life. It knows nothing else.

  I’ve been no exception. Berlin hasn’t been easy on me, but I was already a lost cause. I fell madly in love with it as soon as I laid eyes on her for the first time. Like people, cities build strong personalities through suffering, and Berlin has a mesmerizing personality, if you have the stamina to discover it.

  It was during my first winter in the city that I decided to create a game that would take players on a journey of the 20th century’s history through the eyes of its capital.

  After many months of trial and error, I realized it didn’t make a good game after all. However, all that intense research had given birth to a story which I felt couldn’t be scrapped, and so, I decided to port it into a medium that would better suit its mood.

  Five years later, and on the 30th anniversary of the fall of the wall of Berlin, I have an ode in my hands. An ode to rebuilding oneself. An ode to finding purpose. An ode to stoicism. An ode to Berlin.

  If you love Berlin already, I hope you enjoy reading it. If you don’t, I hope by the end of it you will fall in love with this misunderstood monster.

  1960

  PROLOGUE

  To be human is the struggle to be immortal, and it is that struggle that tests what part of our humanity we are willing to give up in exchange for immortality.

  The day my father joined the army, he became immortal. He may not have known it at the time, but he left a permanent footprint on history books. Everyone he killed, everyone he spared, had an ever-lasting effect on the world today. His actions had a weight that new generations can only dream of having. I joined the air force right after school, but what is the purpose of joining an army if there is no war to fight? No ideal to defend. No history to change. It is selfish to desire conflict when we were just struck by the most brutal war in history. It is egotistical, stupid and even self-destructive. I should be grateful for our ancestors' sacrifice and appreciate these times of prosperity. But is it selfish to desire a purpose? Is it selfish to desire immortality?

  That’s more or less what I told them when I volunteered for this programme, and it seems like it had the intended effect on them. I got in. And although yesterday was supposed to be one of the happiest days of my life, if there’s something I have learned living in post-war Soviet Union it’s that happiness is never earned gratuitously. Every smile, every moment of joy, has a price. I was given both news only minutes apart. I was told Mother died early in the morning. Later that same day, Chief Marshal Vershinin officially welcomed us to the cosmonaut programme, finally revealing the real reason why we were brought here. Most of us had already guessed it weeks ago, but being here, now, makes it real.

  I’ve been given permission to travel to my mother’s funeral, but I refused. I cannot leave this place. I cannot miss an opportunity like this. This is my chance to leave the footprint I’ve been longing for. The same sort of footprint my father left. It's the reason why I joined the air force, it's the reason I immediately volunteered for this program, and it's the reason why my mother's death takes a second priority, as harsh as that may sound. They have assured me that they will wait for my return. However, I know very well how these things are run. A single day away from this place will surely put me far behind all the other candidates. I will stay.

  Unsurprisingly, my sister doesn’t agree. She demands an explanation, but I’m not authorized to give her one. At least not a real one. Despite the distance, it feels as if I have her head on my shoulder, her tears dampening my uniform. I can picture her alone in the cemetery a few days from now. My mother and her. No one else. Nobody left. At least my mother will have one person there to say goodbye.

  My sister already bought the tickets from Berlin to Kaliningrad. She will be leaving tomorrow. She hopes to find me there. She will be disappointed.

  I would later find out that my sister was caught on the border and didn’t make it to my mother’s funeral. Mother died alone after all. Her only company was an anonymous undertaker.

  * * *

  Only weeks after training began, the chief doctor calls me in. I sit in his office. It smells damp. He looks nervous. I’m nervous too. I think I know what he’s going to say, but I will not fully comprehend his reasoning.

  My fears are confirmed. I’ve been expulsed from the Soviet space programme. They have found an anomaly in my blood. They ignored it at first, but have decided not to take any risks.

  An anomaly in my blood. It sounds like bullshit. It sounds like something a scientist would make up in order to get rid of me. I suspect the real reason has to do with my father. Maybe the first Soviet in space shouldn’t be a direct descendant of a German. Even my mother’s pure Russian ancestry can’t save me from this fact. Or maybe I’m just overthinking it. Perhaps it’s an excuse. An excuse I’m making up to hide the fact that maybe I’m simply not good enough.

  I pack my bags later that day, say goodbye to Dmitri. We first met each other back in Kirghiz. We practically learnt how to fly together. It’s not that I prefer him over the others, but we have inevitably grown closer because of our common past. To be honest, I wanted to leave Kirghiz as soon as I arrived. The city of Kant was far from what I had known until then. I have always felt like a foreigner, no matter where I was, but never as much as in Kirghiz. I wish Dmitri luck. Although I do not know this now, he will never go into space either, but at least he'd be smart enough to steer away from the scandals that would mean the expulsion of some of our other colleagues and to the infamous “Lost Cosmonauts”. Lost Cosmonauts? It's amazing the consequences a few drinks can have on human history. I say goodbye to the others and that same day I take a train back to Moscow.

  Days later, the first thing I do when I arrive to Kaliningrad is visit my mother’s grave. I apologize for having missed her funeral. For letting her die alone in exchange for what I now know was a lost cause. I’m embarrassed to say it out loud, so I don’t. It doesn’t matter. She can’t hear me anyway.

  When I visit our apartment, I find that someone else has already taken
it. I am told that my sister finally did make her way to Kaliningrad. Late, but on time to do all the necessary paperwork. The man who lives there now with his family hands me a letter. It was left to him by my sister. At first I think it’s from her, but then I recognize the handwriting. My stomach burns. My heart accelerates. I should be happy that she left some last words for me, but instead I feel anxious. Ashamed that I will repay her unconditional kindness and thoughtfulness with nothing but silence.

  Dear son,

  If you’re reading this, you’ve returned to Kaliningrad a little too late. You probably haven’t even called your sister yet. That’s alright. Call her now. She’ll forgive you. You know she always will. She’s just like me.

  Tell her you’ll be visiting her soon. Leave Kaliningrad, my son. There are only memories of death there. The city has been decaying since the end of the war. It too, will perish, like everything else. I urge you to join your sister in Berlin. There are opportunities there. Opportunities to start anew. The city is looking back at its past, lifting itself from the rubble, and creating a new identity for itself. So should you.

  I’ve spoken much about your father’s hometown, although very little about him. I wish I had more time. There are things I couldn’t explain when you were younger. Things I couldn’t explain even now. Just know that your father was a good man.

  Love, your mother.

  “Your father was a good man”. It doesn’t sound like something my mother would say. Of course he was a good man. She has always spoken highly of him. Of his bravery. They both fled Germany before the war, during the communist persecutions. He’d later join the Soviet army and find death defending what he loved. What hasn’t she told me? There was nothing more to say.

  My thoughts are interrupted by the new tenant. He holds an old book in his hand. He says my mother wanted me to have it. I ask about the rest of the books, but I’m told the pedagogical institute took them. She was an avid reader, and she shared her passion for history in the best way she could: becoming a teacher. Instead of fairy tales, she would put me to sleep with stories of Prussian Kaisers and anecdotes about how close Berlin was to becoming a socialist powerhouse before Hitler took parliament.

  Although purely of Russian descent, she always had a special slot in her heart for Deutschland. Though her ties to my dad would bring her much distress after the war, she never let herself be put down. Always defended him. To the end. Always reminded cynics of the sacrifices he had made in the name of communism. He died here, in Königsberg, fighting against his own German people, a year before the city would be annexed by the Soviet Union and renamed to Kaliningrad. At the end of the war, my mother was faced with a choice. Her husband was deceased, and she had two children under her care. There was nowhere to go. The government was offering housing in newly ravished Kaliningrad. It was an opportunity to be near the place where her husband had died, a chance for a new life. Unfortunately, at the time the city was populated almost exclusively by outcasts and military personnel, but my mother was a warrior - a survivor.

  I take a closer look at the book. It doesn’t take me long to recognize it. It’s the one she brought to our first and only trip to Berlin. She took it everywhere with her. We would walk for hours, until we’d eventually reach our destination. If we were lucky, the place she was looking for hadn’t been turned to rubble. She’d use the book as a reference and adlib the rest. She was so eloquent. I’d listen attentively, fascinated by how many facts she could fit in her head.

  I walk away from our old apartment with the book and letter in hand. She might have a point. After all, I’m the only family my sister has left.

  VII

  I knew sister would want to celebrate my birthday, so I left the house. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Now I am completely drunk. Alone and drunk, which is the worst kind of drunk. I never drink, and I definitely never get drunk. But today was a special occasion. A stranger with a shiny bald head struck up a conversation with me at the bar. When he found out it was my birthday he bought me a drink. And then another. Now the night is over and it’s time to go home.

  It’s dark out in the streets of Berlin. I don’t know the time. My eyesight is blurry. I can’t read my watch. Whatever the time is, it’s too late. Too late to change anything. Too late to keep trying. Too late for me.

  What? No. It’s too late to be out in the streets at night all by myself. I can’t think straight. I don’t even remember if I’m still in the East. I hope so. It’s hard to tell without any physical border. I do hope I don’t stumble upon any officers before I get home. I don’t have my military identification with me. It’d be embarrassing to have my colleagues see me like this. What an idiot. It’s time to go home.

  I find a couple holding each other close. They seem to be cold and trying to keep each other warm. Is it cold? I can’t feel it. Am I wearing a jacket? Fuck. Where’s my jacket? Wait, I’m wearing it. It’s not cold. Maybe it’s never cold enough for a Russian in Berlin.

  The couple walks up to me. Don’t touch me, I think. They say something. I don’t catch it. I ignore them. The guy repeats what he said, this time louder. I still don’t get what he’s saying. I don’t speak English. I shake my head and walk faster, stumbling to the side and almost falling on my face. Don’t touch me.

  Shit. The couple was American. I’m probably in the West. Am I? Where am I? I shouldn’t be in the West. Not in this condition. How far did I walk? It’s too late to take the train. I can’t risk walking all the way to the station. There are probably no trains this late anyhow. Maybe sister can take me in today. It’s my birthday after all. She wouldn’t turn me away. Would she? Did she try to see me at my apartment today? I hope not. That’d be embarrassing. Either way, it’s less embarrassing than having my colleagues find me.

  I need to see my sister. I can’t control myself. I can’t.

  I aimlessly walk down a few blocks until I find a landmark. I know this place. I’m actually really close to my sister’s place. Why did I come to this neighbourhood? I hate this neighbourhood.

  In the distance I find two police officers strolling down the street. This is not a good place to be in. I discreetly change direction and sneak into a side street. I think they saw me already and I just gave them a suspicious enough reason to go after me. I shouldn’t try to do this kind of stuff while I’m drunk.

  I hear their hard shoes slapping against the cold, hard pavement, echoing down the whole street. I fall to the ground and roll under a car before they make a turn into my street.

  The two officers have made the turn. They’re silent now. I can feel them looking around. Looking for me. They slowly walk in my direction. They call for me. They ask where I am. I guess Germany lost all their smart people in the war.

  I see the officer’s shoes walking beside me. He doesn’t even stop for a moment. Completely walks on by, oblivious.

  When they are far enough, I crawl out and stand up slowly, making sure no one is around. I need to get to my sister.

  This unexpected rush of adrenaline helped me sober up. I can finally think straight. I feel the cold on the palms of my hands. Damn. It is cold. It’s very cold. My head, protected only by a short layer of hair, feels every slight breeze of chilling wind. God dammit it’s cold. I rub my hands down the sides of my legs, clench them into fists and start running. This will keep me warm.

  I’m not far now. Right in front of that construction site. What a mess.

  I reach her doorstep. Her windows are dark. All her lights are down. Is she home? Maybe she’s just sleeping. I ring the bell.

  I wait. Nothing.

  I ring again, a little longer this time.

  I wait. A light turns on. I look up. I see her silhouette pop out the window, staring down at me. She rubs her eyes, takes a moment and finally recognizes me. She murmurs my name in surprise. Her whisper echoes in the empty street. She disappears and I hear her light footsteps scatter across the skeleton of the building. She’s coming down the stairs. She opens the door.
>
  It’s dark, and I can barely make out her facial features, but her blue eyes sparkle in the darkness of the night. She repeats my name and hugs me. She says she came to my apartment. Shit. But I wasn’t there. Nevertheless, she asks me to come in.

  Once inside I don’t want to talk. I know I have to, but I don’t want to. I take off my boots and lay on the worn-out sofa. She shoves my legs aside and sits next to me.

  She’s speaking, but I’m not listening. It’s the same speech as always. I don’t blame her for it, but I don’t want to hear it again. She keeps silent. Rubs her soft hand over my head. I feel like I may scratch her delicate skin with my rough buzzcut.