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

Behind it is an even darker corridor which looks like it’s in a worse condition than the previous room. Part of the ceiling has caved in and there are scattered puddles of dark water. Where the fuck am I? And most importantly, how the fuck do I get out of here?

A loud rumble shakes the ground below my naked feet. Dust falls from the walls. I hear faraway footsteps splashing on water. Before I can even decide which way to run, an artificial ray of light cast by a flimsy flashlight shines like a curious squirrel around the corner. I take cover behind a pile of rubble. I find a small plank of wood and grip it firmly in my hand.

The steps get closer, and the flashlight shines wider. I wait. A stranger’s voice calls my name in the loudest whisper I have ever heard. He has an accent, but I can’t put my finger on it. He calls again, adding a German curse word to the end of the sentence for good measure. His voice seems to be losing patience. I look at myself, completely naked and vulnerable. My balls dangling like wet tea bags. I can’t tell whether this person is armed, nonetheless, I have no chance against him in this state. My only option is to trust him.

I answer back with a question. I ask who he is. He says his name is Burak. His voice has a casual tone, as if we had known each other for years. I can finally pick-out his accent. Arab. Maybe Turkish. Probably Turkish.

He turns the corner and finally finds me, his flashlight beaming straight into my eyes, blinding me. I can’t see his face. I stand before him like a shaved rat, shielding my eyes uncomfortably. He throws some clothes at me and asks me to put them on. I gladly comply. I put on some jeans, a thin shirt, a thick jacket and a pair of hefty boots without socks. He apologizes for forgetting to bring socks. Before I’m able to acknowledge, he offers me a bag of peanuts. I tell him I’m not hungry, but he insists. I dip my hand inside and feel that it is mostly filled with salt, with only a few peanuts hidden inside. I take one out and dust it off. Burak tells me I should be eating the salt. The peanuts are just to make it easier to swallow. He knows. Who is he?

I do as he says, shoving a peanut in my mouth and mixing it with a large pinch of salt. It’s not the pleasant snack I was hoping after a long trip. I can only discern his silhouette in the dark. His head thrashes from one side to the other as if someone else were about to walk into the derelict building at any moment. I ask him how did he know I was here. He says I told him. What?

I’m about to ask him something else when he pulls me by the arm and leads me to the exit.

Berlin looks pretty much the same at first glance, but I will soon find out that it isn’t the same at all.

Burak has led me through the sewers and out into a remote alley of Kreuzberg. He seems quite young to be involved in something like this. I have the feeling he may be even younger than I. He’s surely no older than thirty. Probably mid twenties.

We are nowhere near the cemetery I entered just minutes ago. In fact, we’re about five kilometers away from it, near what I’d later learn to be Wrangelbrunnen fountain. The sun is bright outside. I have no idea what time of the day it is. Maybe morning. Maybe late afternoon. How did I get all the way to Kreuzberg?

Now that we’re outside I feel the unforgiving cold scratch into my scalp. I run my hand over my head and feel nothing but skin. My hair is gone. I touch my eyebrows. Nothing. They’re gone too. The doctor said nothing about this. I look at myself on the reflection of a store’s window. It’s amazing how different I look without any hair. I don’t look like the same person. I am unrecognizable even to myself.

Burak slaps me on the shoulder and signals me to keep walking. I try to keep up with him. We walk past a couple of streets more and he enters a grey apartment block. He runs up the stairs, expecting me to be as energetic as he is. Unfortunately, I can barely bend my knees. He takes my arm over his shoulder and helps me up all the way to the second floor. He rummages in his pocket and takes out a set of keys. I hear babies crying next door. I can smell a distinct, pungent, sour food in the whole staircase, but I’m not sure what it is.

First thing Burak does when we enter the house is shout out for his mother. He also says something in Turkish which I cannot understand. A woman appears from behind a door frame. She is covered with a long, black hijab and it’s hard to tell her age, but her voice is mature and rugged. She gives her son a quick answer and quickly disappears back inside the room.

The corridor is packed with small boxes along the side of it that go all the way to the ceiling. Burak opens the door to a room and we both walk inside. He opens a drawer and throws me a pair of socks. The room is also riddled with small boxes. I find a couple of open ones and peek inside. They carry vinyl records, jeans and porn magazines. I ask him if all these boxes have the same contents. He nods and says that it’s his business. I don’t quite understand, but I decide it’s the least of my concerns right now. I have bigger things to ask.

He hands me a newspaper and lands it on my thighs. He says Dr. Vodnik thought I’d like to see it. I open the newspaper up. On the front page I see a cosmonaut. At first I think it’s my old friend Gagarin — he finally made it to space after all. I guess this is the doctor’s way of telling me I made it to the future. Something doesn’t seem quite right about the picture though. I quickly notice an american flag on the cosmonaut’s shoulder and a sandy surface beneath his feet. That’s not Gagarin. I read the title. It’s in English, but I can understand a word: Moon. I search for the date at the head of the page. 1969. It’s 1969? How long have I been asleep. Burak tells me the newspaper is actually a year old. It’s 1970, and he points out that I haven’t been sleeping.

I feel lightheaded and weak. Burak sees this, puts his hand in the pockets of my jacket and pulls out the salted peanuts. I eat a few more. He says I should eat the whole bag if possible.

He clears his bed of crumpled clothes and invites me to take a nap. I do feel tired. As I drift off I hear him say that he’ll wake me up in a couple of hours to cross the border. I don’t quite understand which border, but before I am able to question him, I have fallen asleep.

Two hours later, on the dot, my shoulder is shaken. My sticky eyelids flicker open and I see Burak’s dark eyes staring at me. I carefully sit upright, regaining consciousness. Burak seems to be in a constant hurry, ever since I first met him. It’s like he’s always got some place to go.

He pats me on the back and asks me to grab a box. He does too. Together we walk out of the apartment. He exchanges some indiscernible words with his mother and he closes the main door behind him.

Outside it is getting dark already. I follow Burak down the street where a small Citroën 2CV panel van is waiting for us like an obedient dog. I would say it was pistachio-colored, but the abundant rust now dominates as the principal color.

Burak opens the back doors and we place the boxes inside, where others have already been carefully loaded. He walks around to the driver’s seat, opens the door with a strident squealing emanating from the old hinges, and sits inside, shaking the flimsy car from side to side as he accommodates into the small seat. He opens the opposite door and I enter the car too. It is even colder in the car than it is outside. How is it possible? Burak starts the ignition and the car coughs as if it were an old man with the flu. The engine finally kicks in and roars like a lion cub.

Burak drives down the dimly lit streets of Berlin without saying a word. I thought of striking up a conversation, but I can tell by the look on his face that he is deeply brooding about something else. I don’t think it’d be a good thing to break his concentration. It also allows for me to have some time for myself. It is then that I realize I have no idea where we are going or who this man truly is. I’d be worried if it wasn’t for the fact that I’ve gotten used to the idea of trusting strangers using basic intuition.