1990
XVIII
I was right. It’s nighttime after all. Is it just me, or does the air smell different? I bring out the theater ticket again and read the date on it. 1990. Wow. I also find the name of the theater: “GRIPS”. I look up and there it is, the theater, conveniently placed right outside the metro station. I ask a young passerby for the time. He points at his watch without saying a word, and leaves before I’m able to make any more questions.
The street is shiny and wet. I’m sure it was raining just minutes ago. I love the sound cars make when they pass me by on a damp road. I have about half an hour. Luckily I find some money in my pocket which I can use to buy an extremely expensive bag of chips in a convenience store nearby.
I wait outside the theater, where people have begun to gather. I stand at the edge of the crowd and push my hands into my pockets. I look at the people walking by. They look so different. So happy. It’s strange to see people this happy. It’s a completely different generation. A woman makes eye contact with me. She holds some guy closely by the arm. She laughs at something he just said. That is, until she sees me. She tilts her head and stops walking. The guy is pulled back abruptly by her firm grip. He asks her if she’s ok. She doesn’t take her eyes off me. She slowly makes her way towards me and it is then when I recognize my sister, thirty years older.
I immediately look down and away, hoping she’ll think I’m somebody else, but she doesn’t. She stands right beside me. I can feel her warmth.
She says my name. I ignore her.
The guy she’s with asks if everything is fine. She doesn’t even acknowledge his presence anymore. She repeats my name and speaks to me in Russian. She asks if it’s really me. I answer in German. I lie. I say I do not speak Russian. I turn my face away from her. She holds my cheek with her soft, cold hand and turns my head. I push her arm away and insist that she doesn’t know me. I tell her to stay away if she doesn’t want any trouble. I try to be rude, but it’s impossible to avoid a hint of affection in my words. The guy she’s with stands between us. He apologizes to me and takes her away. She backs off, though still unsure. Maybe she’s just crazy. It’s been a long time. Maybe she still sees her brother’s face in weird-looking bald strangers.
She finally breaks eye contact, but keeps turning her head towards me as they both walk away.
I notice people around have been staring. I know it. But I ignore it. Keep your head down and your mind busy until the end of the show. Just forget it. Forget it.
The play sardonically puts me up to date with history. It’s a moving story of a girl separated by the wall. Her mother in the east, her father in the west. At some point they join her father in the west. Soon after, the wall comes down and, disappointed by the west, she moves back to the east. Huh.
The actors take a bow and the audience applauds. Knowing now what these people have gone through in the last few years changes the perception of the time I live in. This city is alien to me. I don’t know what to expect from it anymore. It’s like a childhood friend you meet after many years of being apart. Even though you were the closest of friends back then, you realize you know nothing of this person anymore. He looks like what you’d imagine he would look like, but it’s not him. Inside, he’s someone else entirely.
I exit the theater and find Burak waiting for me outside. The years have taken a toll on him. His skin is as wrinkled as a brown paper bag. His beard hasn’t been combed in weeks.
We walk towards his car. I feel like I should be making small talk, but I’m not very good at that. He keeps to himself. I can tell he is thinking of a million other things. We arrive to his car. He’s bought a new once since we last met. Whatever it is he is doing now, business must be going well for him. The car is a red Volkswagen. I don’t pay much attention to the model. It’s looks quite ugly, to be honest, but once I sit inside I find it quite comfortable.
We drive down to Kreuzberg and he quickly finds a parking spot. The neighbourhood has changed a lot since I last saw it.
It seems he still lives in the same apartment block. We walk up the stairs and he opens the door. This time the house is much tidier. There are no boxes. It is also quieter. There is nobody waiting to greet us. He walks me to a different room from the last time. It’s very old-fashioned compared to the rest of the apartment, which is mostly covered with posters of music bands and movies I’ve never heard of. On the night table is a picture of, I’m guessing, Burak’s mother. She looks very elegant, and a ray of sunlight makes the back of her head glow. I’d like to ask about her, but I choose not to.
I sit on the bed and he soon brings me a set of clothes and a towel. He asks me if I’m hungry and leaves before I am able to answer. I get up and grab the clothes. I open the wardrobe. It is full of women’s dresses. They are all very conservative and it smells damp inside, as if they haven’t been worn in a while. I decide to close it and leave my clothes on a chair.
I join Burak in the kitchen. He is making a sandwich. No. Scratch that. He is putting a pack of salami, cheese and a loaf of bread on the table. I begin making my own sandwich and wonder if he should be eating salami in the first place. He opens the fridge, brings out two cans of beer and places them on the table. I guess he’s more German and less Turkish than I assumed.
I ask him if we’ll be meeting with anyone. I’d like to say the girl’s name, but I still don’t know it.
He shakes his head. I ask what happened. I interrupt him as he is about to answer and ask about ‘the female scientist’ (that’s how I choose to address her). He says she’s gone. My heart twists inside my chest. He says she moved with her husband to Austria, or maybe it was Switzerland. After the wall fell, the Russians cut all the funding. They paid him enough to keep track of any future visits (like this one). I ask him how many trips I have left. He answers that he was told not to give out that sort of information.
I ask him what the plan is. He opens his mouth and the doorbell rings. His reaction tells me that he wasn’t expecting anyone tonight. He gets up and walks to the foyer. I hear him opening the door. He shouts with dread and I jump to my feet. I run to the foyer and I find a woman holding a toddler by the hand and carrying a baby in her arms. Burak shakes his head, but she insists fervently. Burak yells something in Turkish and points in my direction. The woman is startled when she sees me. She keeps silent for a moment and bows her head slightly, embarrassed. A moment later however, she gently pushes the toddler inside the house and hands Burak the baby. Burak complains, but the woman, who I’m guessing is his ex-wife, sticks a finger in his face and threatens him. Burak takes a deep breath and shakes his head. The woman kisses both her children and storms down the stairs.
Burak closes the door and turns to me. He apologizes. Explains himself with an elaborate story that sounds too messy to follow. The toddler runs towards me and punches me in the leg. Burak scolds him in Turkish and a second later the baby begins to cry.
XIX
I stand in front of the Reichstag. It is early morning but there is no one around. I can only hear the wind. The sky is grey and unsettled. Scattered columns of black smoke rise high up into the air around the city. Something buzzes right past my ear, like some sort of oversized wasp. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand. I turn around and find an army of soviet soldiers running towards me from across the field. They all have my father’s face. Another bullet buzzes right by my ear. I duck instinctively. A landmine explodes and rips the body of one of the soldiers into chunks of meat. I turn back to the Reichstag and find a swarm of German soldiers shooting machine guns against the soviet troops. I run for cover and jump into a ditch. More than a ditch, it’s the crater left by a mortar. I peek my head above the hole and look closely at the German soldiers. They all, too, have my father’s face. Someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around. I find a child staring right at me. He holds out his hand. He has a live grenade inside of his minuscule fist. I rapidly reach out to grab it but it explodes in our face.
&n
bsp; I wake up in Burak’s mother’s bed. Drenched in sweat. I breathe in hard. My mouth is dry. I feel a tiny hand tapping my shoulder. I shake underneath the sheets and turn my head. Burak’s toddler is staring at me. His dark eyes sparkle in the darkness of the night. He holds out his hand. He opens his fist, but there’s nothing inside of it. I don’t understand what he’s asking for. He babbles and hops on the spot. He pokes his grandma’s picture on the night table. The picture frame rocks back and forth, struggling to keep up straight. The toddler finally turns around and runs out the room.
I reach out and grab the picture frame and make the wobbling stop. My heart is still racing. My mind has nothing to fear, but my body thinks otherwise. I try to lay back down and cover myself with the sheets. I stare at the doorway, waiting for someone to show up at any second, but no one comes. My eyelids drop slowly as I slowly fall back asleep. Just before my eyes are fully shut, I think I see the shadow of a person entering the door frame, but it’s too late. My brain has switched off and I fall back into deep sleep.
* * *
Burak woke me up quite early in the morning. I think his kids wouldn’t let him sleep and he didn’t want to take the burden alone. I offered to make breakfast while he entertained the children. It’s only now, when I reach the kitchen, that I realize I can’t cook. I make some coffee, prepare a couple bowls of cereal and bring a carton of milk. Seems to be sufficient for Burak. The bags under his eyes say he’s too tired to ask for more.
An hour later I decide to go out for a walk. The high-pitched screaming and running is getting under my skin. Burak understands and simply asks me not to go too far. I nod, but I don’t follow his advice.
I walk all the way to the Tiergarten. Berlin has a strange new personality. Even the light seems different. On the way I find the four-story-high bunker in Pallasstrasse. I remember it well, but it catches my eye because they’ve built an apartment block right around it. As if they couldn’t simply destroy the largest civil bunker in Berlin and the newer buildings were determined to expand and engulf it like an overgrown vine.
Nevertheless, the city still maintains its spirit. It’s different now from what I remember, but different in the same way that a child grows into an adult. The city shows many scars, it has built a stronger personality. It is less naive. It is more confident. I’d go as far as saying that it actually intimidates me. In a good way, of course. I feel overwhelmed by its new personality. I no longer feel like I have any knowledge of who it truly is.
A couple of hours later I return to Burak’s apartment. The kids are gone now, and the apartment smells like marijuana. He offers me a puff, but I politely refuse. I sit beside him and we both watch television in silence.
Finally, I break the silence and ask him when my next trip will be. He takes a moment before replying that the program has been cancelled. I no longer need to travel. I tell him that now, in 1990, I may, indeed, no longer need to travel, but that in the past I still have the obligation to do so. He stares at me with a confused expression. I realize that my perception of time has been altered and is no longer the same as other’s. For Burak time is linear. Normal. Not even I understand my own perception of time.
A minute later he continues by saying that if I really want to continue travelling, he is in possession of a code and the location where it can be used. I’m unsure that I want to continue, but the more I think about it, the harder it is to see myself in this new world. I am oblivious to the past 40 years, I have no job waiting for me, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to approach my sister, the few friends I had have probably forgotten me by now… heck, I don’t even know where I’d find the blond doctor. The only person I know is Burak, and we seem to be as compatible as oil and water.
Besides, there are too many open questions. I don’t think I’d be able to live with the burden of the doubt.
Before going to sleep, Burak gives me the address of this new location. I also ask him for a map of Berlin. After he is gone to bed, I try to make sense of all the locations I’ve travelled from so far. I try to find a pattern, but it makes no sense.
Half an hour later I wake up with my face drooling over the map. I put it away and go straight to sleep.
XX
Burak is not as protective as the doctor. I told him in the morning that I wish to travel and he agreed that we could do so as soon as possible. Maybe he’s just careless. Then again, that I already knew about him.
Before we leave the apartment, he packs a duffle bag with some tools and a scruffy notebook. We drive in his ugly Volkswagen southbound and park it near the Trabrennbahn, the trotting track in Mariendorf. I’ve never heard of this place. It’s amazing the amount of surprises this city still holds for its residents. To my surprise, this is precisely our destination. I remind Burak to bring the duffel bag with him. He shakes his head and says it’s too early.
It’s quite busy today at the Trabrennbahn. I didn’t expect this sort of place to still function this well. Burak places some bets, we get a couple of beers and find some seats. I feel a little nervous for taking it so easy. I feel like I’m slacking at work. I convince myself that I should take a break and simply enjoy the race.
It is actually more enjoyable than what I had expected. There’s something charming about it, almost primal. I’ve never been in close contact with animals, and the simple thought of riding a chariot sends exhilarating sensations through my spine.
The race is over sooner than I had hoped. Burak lost all his bets. His bad luck makes me feel uneasy. We exit the premises and walk directly to a nearby restaurant. I remind him that I have no money. He shakes his head and says that I am his guest. During our meal I ponder about my relationship with him. I figured that the reason it feels odd is because it’s unclear who he is to me. With other people I seem to clearly know who they are and what their purpose in my life is. With Burak it’s quite different. I convince myself that it isn’t something to be repulsed by and to simply take it in as it is.
After the very early dinner we drink a little. Burak much more than I. The mood is infused with our traditional awkward silence, until, all of the sudden, Burak begins to speak, in a tone I had never heard before.
He asks me if I know what life is all about. I think about the question for a moment, but before I am able to answer, he interrupts. Good. I had nothing smart to say. He says that his grandfather once told him that life is like a candle. It begins as an impeccable piece of wax until someone spoils it by lighting it on fire. Although the candle gets smaller as it melts, the flame is always as hot and bright as the first time it is lit. If you’re a good candle, people shall gather around you and you shall serve your purpose until the end of your existence. People will read books next to you, they will cook, they will tell stories. However, if the candle sits alone in a room, lighting up the empty walls, its life and purpose is rendered useless. Once the candle fades out, it is easy to clean up. A wet napkin is enough to remove the leftover wax and a new fresh candle can be placed in that same spot.
Burak leans over to me for his last words. He tells me that his grandfather told him this back in Turkey, in his living room, by the light emanating from the candle on top of the side table beside the sofa. He says that he would tell him many stories beside that table. He says the last time he was in Turkey it was five years ago. They were selling off his grandfather’s house. He says he saw the side table still beside the sofa. He blew the dust off of it and saw the stains of all the candles that had been lit on top of that table throughout the years.
With that, Burak sits back and stretches his arms in the air. I don’t quite understand what made him tell me this now, but I feel like we are somehow closer for it. He takes one more sip from his booze and explains what his reply to his grandfather. He was seven at the time. He told him that if he were a candle, he’d accidentally fall off the table and burn the whole house down - that would definitely leave a mark. Burak laughs with a raspy voice. My god. It’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh. It is no
t even close to what I had imagined.
* * *
Night has fallen. Burak and I walk back to the car. He grabs the duffel bag and we walk behind a side street. He brings out a crowbar and asks me to stay on the lookout. I look up and down the street. In the distance I see a man. I stare at him, but he soon walks off to the side.
Burak opens a manhole beneath us. We enter the sewers carefully. He takes out a small torchlight and I follow him from behind. He seems lost. I ask him if he is. He nods. He says he has the address, but it doesn’t mean he has been there before.
Burak gently taps the walls with his crowbar as we continue deeper though the tunnels. The stench is getting worse with every step. Finally, he taps something metallic. He scrapes the filthy moss off the wall and a metal door is revealed. On the front of it is a dial, as if it were a bank safe. He takes out the scruffy notebook and turns the dial back and forth. The door clicks. He sticks the crowback through the cracks of the metal door and finally, it budges. A humid whiff of air emerges from inside.
The lab seems to be among the smaller ones. It doesn’t take us too long before we reach the time booth. Burak takes his notebook out once more. He opens a fuse box and turns the switches on. I am amazed to see the lights turn on, after all these years. I ask Burak about it, but he says they still weren’t able to figure out where the power source comes from.
After about an hour, I am standing naked inside the booth. Burak seems a little confused by the instructions in the notebook. This doesn’t comfort me. I patiently watch him through the porthole. He paces up and down the room, with the notebook always in his hand. He finally gives me the thumbs up and the machine starts its cycle. He smiles awkwardly through the porthole. I begin to feel a little dizzy. Burak’s smile quickly fades and he turns around as if hearing something. I can’t hear anything from inside the booth. But I do see someone enter the room. Who the hell is that? It’s too dark to make out who it is. The stranger holds up a gun and without hesitation fires a round straight to Burak’s chest. I push against the booth’s door in desperation, but it’s too late. I’m somewhen else.
The Berlin Paradox Page 7