by Margo Gorman
The sense of desolation around the new church attracted her in spite of her tendency to avoid anything holy. There was a photo exhibition of the old church which had been slap bang in the middle of the wall. The people who had designed the new one to replace it were obviously not the usual religious hypocrites. This was surely a case of ‘less is more’. She’d tried to persuade her mother of that when they were doing up the living room but her mother was such a kitsch freak with traces of the hippy she once was and she would always add some Indian patterned cushions or a little shelf for photos which became a place of clutter and another opportunity to have an altar of candles and flowers for Michael.
Here, there was only the stark wood and cement structure – a never-ending circle of something. Of secret suffering maybe. No window on the world outside. The bits of the old church as a reminder of what happened. She had to admit that she preferred this new church to the old one that the Commies had torn down. It was a far better symbol of religion than any other church she had been in. ‘If I ever got married, I would get married here,’ she told herself. ‘I would dress up Gothic style for it.’
Potsdamer Platz next on the list. The empty space overlooked by surveillance towers well filled up according to the aunt. By all accounts, as she said, never having been there herself. Coffee in the shopping centre, trying to work out where she was sitting in relation to the old Berlin. Walking around, Aisling found it impossible to tell what had been east and what had been west. Piecing together the bits from the Bernauer Strasse museum. Glitzy domes were apparently all the rage with the architects doing the makeover after the wall came down. Glamour and glitz for the plebs in the Sony Centre. Glassy stars and big screens. One big thing in favour of Berlin – no sense of snobbery. Scruffs and designer dolls rubbing shoulders. Moving on to the Reichstag. Dome for the people, making the polarities of east and west irrelevant. Does it really? Check out Checkpoint Charlie. More touristy than Bernauer Strasse: so glad to have been there first.
Chapter Eleven – War years
No sleep again. Aisling doodled as she leafed a few more pages from the sheaf. Was it all unposted letters of loneliness? Was the friend Mary in Ireland dead or alive? The letters gave the Second World War an original slant. Shapes forming for her own graphics. The old photo images of Berlin merging with the images in her guide book, merging with the photos she took. Could she reproduce a mix of old and new? Make Brigitte’s story her story too? They would all laugh at her for wanting to write a comic book. Even Maeve had laughed at her for reading comic books. ‘What about Asterix comics?’ she reminded her.
‘That’s different. Those comic books are all about superheros, fantasy and weirdoes’.
‘And what’s so different about the novels you read, Maeve?’
‘You can’t compare adult literature with those comics – they’re for children, Aisling. Time you grew up.’Time to tell Maeve there is a developing genre of graphic novels? No Maeve to tell and too soon to tell anyone anyway.
The anti-heroine Brigitte – two-faced young and old. Would it be possible to get hold of the film she mentioned in one letter, “Mein Leben für Irland”. Nazi propaganda using the Irish hero giving up his life in the struggle against British Imperialism. Excitement stirring. No-one to douse it. Material here for a comic-strip in book form to poke fun at nationalism by mixing the stereotypes. Using montage to merge image and experience. Ambition bites life into the crackling paper. No-one to ridicule her dreams of making her living with her comic-strips and cartoons. A sci-fi reality perspective on the past and present. Using a mix of styles of comic-strips and cartoons. Mixing the “Troubles” in the North, the border in Ireland and the Berlin wall. Forget the marketing and iconic images for sales pitch. Of course it could be hard to persuade her parents to give her an allowance if she quit her university course. How to survive? Worry about that later. Now for dipping into real history.
January 1941
Dear Mary,
Another new year and still this blasted war. I’m fed up waiting for it to be over. I didn’t even think to write to you this past year. This letter is my only New Year’s resolution. I can’t be bothered even to check to-day’s date on the calendar – every day is much like another. They call New Year’s Eve Sylvester here. On my first one we had a party but the partying days are over for now. I like the sound of Sylvester rather than New Year’s Eve. I wonder why it is Sylvester, I must ask Delia. It’s hard to believe that another year of waiting is over and we’re on our way to the end of this one. All I know is that it’s Sunday and the nights are still long and dark. Even after Mass there are people doing the Heil Hitler at each other. We stick together in a group and rush home to finish preparing Sunday dinner. I have to do most of it now as Maria has gone to work in a factory. I don’t really mind but by the time it is over I am ready for an afternoon nap and then it is nearly dark again.
We still have coffee in the afternoon on Sundays but now it is later and we have bread and jam not cake. Then we have cocoa and more bread and jam for ‘Abendbrot’. We are lucky to have that. Cocoa is a rare treat this winter. I don’t ask where Delia got it. To-day I am tired but too restless for a nap so I write here for the first time in a long time. It’s good to have my own tongue in my head for a change. I’ve got very used to German now. Delia and I speak it together sometimes to give me practice. The strangeness of it makes me feel like I am someone else.
The best night so far this year was the outing to the pictures with Delia. After our bread and cocoa, Dieter was falling asleep on the sofa and Delia put him to bed. I heard them laughing in the bedroom so thought Delia would go to bed too. Then she came back in with her hat and gloves in her hand.
‘Get your coat on. We are going to leave all the boys sleeping and go out,’ she said to me, ‘There’s a film on about Ireland.’
It was like old times when we linked arms together and laughed our way onto the tram. We are more like sisters now. I thought she was joking when she said the film was about Ireland but she wasn’t, ‘Mein Leben für Irland – My life for Ireland.’ In the cinema she laughed and cried a lot. I cried mostly because it was such a sad story. I couldn’t see what Delia found so funny especially as she was the only one to laugh. Maybe it was the way that they presented Ireland. I found that odd too. For me it hard to believe that the story really was about Ireland, it could have been anywhere really. Delia told me that they made it in Germany of course and the school was a real school. Many of the young actors were from the Hitler Youth. I could believe that because of all that stamping of shiny boots.
The fire where they burnt the books was meant to be a symbol of rejecting British rule and becoming Irish but it made me feel uncomfortable. It reminded me of the burning of the books in Berlin more than about anything in Ireland. When Delia and Dieter spoke about it, they said that it marked the end of any freedom of expression. It must be true because they never spoke of it again even to each other and now everybody is careful what they say and who they say it too. There are so many things that are forbidden, like tuning in to any broadcast from abroad. We miss that. Sometimes I catch Delia with her ear right up to the wireless and wonder what she is listening to but I don’t ask. Sometimes in the film, Delia gripped my arm tight. I liked the boy who gave his life for Ireland. I could believe in him. He looked manlier than the other boys. I could fall for him all right. He was a good actor too. You could see how he was torn between some sense of loyalty to the British and support for the Irish cause. But the strongest feeling he had was for his friend’s mother that was clear. He really did love her and it was really sad to see him dying in her arms. He wanted her to believe in him and he got his wish. I think he gave his life for her and not for Ireland.
Afterwards we talked about it on the way home and I wondered if Delia saw a different film. She said it was all a way of persuading people to die for their country. It was to convince Germans they should be ready to give up their lives in the fight against the British. She
told me the man in charge of making the film was the brother-in-law of Goebbels. She spoke lowly into my ear and in rapid English with a strong Leitrim accent when she was telling me this. She switched to German if she saw anybody coming within earshot. I was surprised because I thought it was a film about love when love is hopeless. It wasn’t just the difference in their ages. The woman he loved was married. You could tell the filmmakers had a simple view of the struggle against the British. It made it look like a clear-cut fight between the British and the Irish and it wasn’t always like that. I’d love to watch it with you one day in English.
Yours Biddy
*
17th March 1942
Dear Mary,
To-day I’m homesick. Really homesick for the first time since I came here. Saint Patrick’s Day isn’t celebrated here so I’d miss it anyway but it made me realise what a sorry state we are in here. In Ireland St. Patrick’s day was a chance to let your hair down in the middle of Lent. Now it feels like Lent the whole year only worse. We never have visitors now and hardly even dare speak to people in the street. I feel embarrassed now when I see Frau Goldman in the street. She and her husband used to be regular dinner guests before this horrible time started. I don’t bump into her often, as she doesn’t go out. I see the children set off very early in the morning. Dieter says they have to walk to a Jewish school because they aren’t allowed to go to the nearby school anymore. Herr Goldman was sent away to a labour camp leaving his wife and the children alone. I expect Frau Goldman is glad now that her mother lives with them – unless she feels that she has to look after her too. She used to complain about her mother trying to organise everyone but it must be better to have her there than not. More rations for one thing. Delia was furious when Herr Goldman was sent away. He is a violinist in the orchestra – a labour camp could destroy his hands and maybe his health. Apparently some musicians are forced to do manual labour. Delia says that she also heard that they have orchestras in the camps for the German SS so maybe they took him because he is such a good violinist and he’ll be looked after because of that. Dieter doesn’t say much. He just shakes his head.
I’m glad Ireland is not in the war. Do you have rations too?
Yours, Biddy
*
8th September 1942:
Dear Mary,
It’s strange to remember times when things were still normal. I see the Goldman children at the window sometimes – staring out into the street and stepping back when they see me look up. They are not allowed to go to any school now and I’m afraid for them. It’s not safe on the streets for anyone with a yellow star and they say that even women and children are sent to camps now. I don’t understand politics – or religion either for that matter. I’ve got used to the war now but I still spend every spare moment hoping it will be over soon. I don’t care who wins as long as it’s over. Everybody complains but the curfews and the shortages can’t last forever. Don’t tell Mammy but I’m still not sorry I stayed in Berlin. This can’t last forever. One day we’ll be jumping on a tram here together.
Yours, Biddy
*
15th September 1942
Dear Mary,
Twice in one month even though I am dropping with tiredness! I was too tired to write you my news. I am no longer a nanny! Klaus started school now too. The school is the one that is just behind the house so the two older boys can go there together. They don’t need me to take them or fetch them. Josef, the youngest has a place in the crèche where I work. Dieter arranged it for me. The crèche is for hospital staff and I can take Josef with me every day on the tram.
How are things in Ireland?
Yours, Biddy
*
4th October 1942
Dear Mary,
I’m too tired to write really but I wish I had someone to talk to. Now I have got used to speaking German all the time and I’ve almost forgotten my own tongue. The work at the crèche is harder than being at home. I get all the heavy work but I won’t complain. At least we are still here. Dieter and Delia don’t talk about leaving, not even to me. Dieter can’t leave and Delia won’t leave without him. They don’t want to fight and they can’t talk about it without fighting. I don’t know how long the truce will last. Delia also has to work now. She translates from German to English in some office but she only works until 2 o clock and she comes back to be there when the two older boys get out of school. She hates her work but she says she has to do it and it means we are all safe.
She asked me to-day about my work and if they ask me about where I come from. She tells me to make sure that I tell everyone that I am Irish and that Ireland is neutral in the war. I should make sure to put in that the Irish hate the British and fought against the British for their freedom. We speak about this in German and she makes me repeat it to her several times. I don’t tell her that I hardly ever get a chance to talk to anybody at work but they all know I am Irish. Tonight I can’t sleep even though I can feel the tiredness go through to my bones.
Yours, Biddy
*
November 20th 1942
Dear Mary,
I’m afraid that they will send me home. Delia and Dieter have been talking late at night and I try to listen through the wall. Apparently the German army is not doing well on the Eastern Front. It’s funny to think of the British, the Russians and the Americans all fighting Germany. I can’t hear any words through the wall but I know they are talking about Delia moving to Bavaria. They are not fighting about it anymore so they are planning something. Delia doesn’t want to stay with Dieter’s parents but Dieter has other relatives there. When we eat together now, they often speak German very quickly. I know it’s because they don’t want me to understand everything. Delia only tells me what they want me to know. Sometimes she says that Dieter might have to move into the hospital. Sometimes that he might be transferred to Bavaria. When we were taking soup this evening, Dieter said he was sorry that he didn’t send Delia and me back to Ireland when he had the chance. Delia was angry then. I’m glad he didn’t because if she had gone back to Ireland, she would have taken me for sure and I would never have got back here again. I still want to live here even though I am homesick sometimes. Without the war, of course!
Yours, Biddy
*
November 23rd 1942
Dear Mary,
I still haven’t posted the letters but I want to tell you I was right. Delia told me to-day that she is leaving with the children to live in Bavaria. She insists that I go with them. When I said no that I would stay in Berlin, Delia was shocked. Then I told them I would wait for a chance to go back to Ireland. They both looked at each other and said nothing. I told them I know I can’t leave now. The truth is that I really want to stay here. The war can’t last forever. Dieter kept saying how sorry he is that he missed the chance. At one time he could have arranged for me to get back to Ireland by going through France to Cherbourg by train and then the ferry direct to Cork but not now. He could have arranged all the German papers. Delia shakes her head, ‘Not on her own – even then,’ and insists again that I come with them to Bavaria and wait until the war is over. I say little as I am determined to stay. They can’t make me go to Bavaria. I am old enough to make my own decisions. They say Bavaria is more like Ireland. It gives me another reason not to go.
I still have my work. I think Dieter suspects that I have some other reason to stay that I don’t want to tell them. He just shakes his head and looks worried. It’s too late to worry now. I’m looking forward to the day the two of us can laugh away our worries.
Yours, Biddy.
*
29th December 1942
Dear Mary,
December has been a long month. We seemed to spend a lot of time sorting things into boxes to put them in the cellar for storage or into the trunk that Delia took with her. Delia would put something in one, then take it out and put it in the other. She gave a running commentary on why the tablecloth or the set of cutlery or the china or
whatever was important to her. It feels strange now with the apartment empty. Every room rattles. Dieter’s study is the only room that feels the same. There are spaces on the shelves where he took away many of the books. Most of what remains is in German and medical by the looks of them. I like to sit in there. If he does move to the hospital I will bring a bed in here. Dieter wanted Delia to leave earlier but she insisted on staying for Christmas and he gave in. I said that if I changed my mind I would join them later.
They went today.
Yours, Biddy
*
30th December 1942
Dear Mary,
I went back to the kindergarten yesterday and told them that I will stay on but Josef will not be coming any more. The leader says she will soon leave anyway. She doesn’t say why. At least I still have a job of sorts and a rations book.
Your Biddy
*
31st December 1942
Dear Mary,
Sylvester again. What a way to welcome the New Year! I hope we all have a better year this year.
The day after Delia left, Dieter said that he will not stay here very much and I could sleep in his study. He told me some nurses would move into their apartment.
Yours, Biddy
*
30th January 1943
Dear Mary,
I missed Dieter when he came to pick up some clothes not long after New Year. He left a note saying that he will come to see me in the kindergarten.
Every day now there is talk of the Eastern front. Nobody dares say how many lives have been lost already in the Battle of Stalingrad. There’s a lot of low murmuring when the new matron is not listening. She is the only one with any enthusiasm left for the führer. I thought I heard someone say millions were dead already in the Battle of Stalingrad. Surely there could not be millions of people killed, even if they were not all soldiers. I must have been mistaken. Adelheid, one of the women who work at the crèche, has two sons in the 6th army. She shakes her head and cries when the children cry. I hope the new matron doesn’t catch her. I worry about her. She has been kind to me. She’s my only friend here. The work is harder than ever but I am glad of it. When I get home I fall into bed. It passes the time but I feel like my life is stuck in a station waiting room, just waiting for the war to be over so I can really start my life in Berlin.