Alain Xalabarde - The Berlin Paradox - Chronicles of a Soviet Time Traveler

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.

“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.

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.