(This was published today in TOI's new Crest edition. Written in almost 20 minutes, perhaps less...!)
Many years ago, in a time that feels now like it was another life, we lived in Germany. It was West Germany then, a clearly distinguished part of the world very separate in almost every way from the other Germany, the place known as ‘East’. Between the two was a vast realm where nightmare ruled and red-eyed dogs patrolled on leashes held tight by hard-eyed soldiers, where life was a matter of belonging to the place from where escape was vital or to where escape had to be made. In our small village, high in the hills and nestled into the Black Forest, a small suburb of Heidelberg, life was sunny, the bread was fresh and crusty, the bank manager was amiable and the walk to school wound through the woods where the biggest danger may have been the rare wild boar or wolf, of which more was heard than seen.
I was very young then, my memories of that time and place more impressions than actual data. I had heard vaguely of the great divide between east and west, but believed it to be something that happened to someone else, me and mine undisturbed by its reality. And then we traveled across that rift for the first time. Father had to attend a conference, Mother and I would go with him, as we always did. Packed into our car, German-made, German-registered, with German number plates…West German. The autobahns were as clear, clean and efficient as only the Germans could create. The traffic marvelously disciplined, the super-fast lane a speedway for cars I only now can appreciate – Audis, Porsches, Ferraris. The turn-off for Berlin and the East was significant only because Mother suddenly said an audible prayer and asked me to sit up straight. The city was lively, lights on and traffic buzzing. And then there was a more careful control. Checkpoint Charlie. As Indians, we had no restrictions; as Herr Professor with a reputed institute, Father was entitled to an obvious respect. But rules were rules.
The evening was cold. The car was examined carefully. There was nothing underneath and no one hidden behind the seats or in the boot. But there was something: We had the wrong kind of number plates. They had to be changed. Father was outside, doing things with a screwdriver. We sat, Mother and I, in a small and very cold room, where the man behind the desk was not unfriendly, but hardly encouraging. Mother’s hand was cold, I was curious. At barely ten years old, it made little sense. Peering through the window into the deepening dark, I dimly saw high walls. Along the top wound rolls of barbed wire, punctuated by what looked like small houses – you could see the silhouettes of a couple of men in each; they were holding guns, I was told later. Outside, guards walked purposefully past, dogs pacing by their sides. Once it was all over, we drove across what was called No-Man’s Land, where many had died, I learned much later at a museum exhibit in the United States, trying to run away from the repressive world that was the East to a more gemutlich one in the West.
We lived in Germany when the Wall was still a symbol of division - in lifestyle, opportunity, economy and, of course, philosophy, apart from politics. At that time, there were two distinct Germanies, two vastly different lives. We travelled through Checkpoint Charlie a number of times and my very young memory still sees moments of watching the dogs and the soldiers march grimly along that narrow divide between the two nations. Having mirrors rolled under the car and the seats pulled out and poked to see if anyone was inside when crossing into Czechoslovakia, as it was then, or having our luggage turned inside out while going into Hungary, for instance, was not as dark an experience. My kiddie vision of the wall was not a graffiti-laden stretch, but grey brick, cold and truly nightmarish.
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