Stories from a Divided Germany

This timeline is created from the "avatar" entries written by the students in Professor Elizabeth Drummond's HIST 4910 Topics in Public History: Divided Germany in Postwar Europe course in the  Department of History  at  Loyola Marymount University  (Los Angeles, spring 2020).

At the beginning of the semester, each student randomly drew an "avatar," receiving only a few biographical details about the individual (birth year, birthplace, and some basic data about their parents, including religion, occupation, and political affiliations). The rest of the avatar's life was the student's to create. At six points in the semester, students responded to the events of the time in Germany in the voices of their avatars, in the form of letters, diary entries, or some other form of ego writing. In writing these pieces, they needed to be sure to have their avatars respond to events in ways that were plausible, to create a life that would have been historically consistent with the period we were studying. In a second part attached to each of the six letters or diary entries, they justified their choices by citing evidence from the class discussions and readings.

Each student contributed one of their six avatar writings to this timeline. Stitched together, we hope that you get a sense of what different German lives might have looked like at different times in the period from 1945 to 2000 – a window into history through imagined personal stories. We've also integrated a podcast about the history of the postwar period – "Divided Germany" – into the timeline, with episodes (seven total) appearing at different points in the timeline.

25 May 1949: Stanislas Krzawa (GP)

Stanislas was born in 1935 to Polish-speaking Catholics who had migrated from East Prussia to the Ruhr area (later West Germany) in the 1920s to work in the coal mines. Stanislas's father was active in the Social Democratic Party and imprisoned by the Nazis in Sachsenhausen for eighteen months.

They say Germany is Germany again. The talk in the streets is of freedom, a return to the days when Germany was free to be German, ruled by Germans. They say the British will soon be gone. It feels like a festival all around. People seem happy about the future again.

I am not so happy. Mother and Father are not happy either. Seeing German flags waved on the streets and draped in windows made Father very nervous. Over dinner tonight he warned Josef and I not to speak Polish when out in public. If anyone we didn’t know asked, we were to tell them our name was Braun and we were from Pomerania. He looked very troubled and ate little of his dinner, and he and Mother went off to bed early. Josef is looking after Sofia and Olivia tonight so I have the last of the candlelight to write before bed this evening. He is still too young to understand, I think. Even to me it sometimes only seems like a long nightmare.

I was too young to really remember Father before they took him away, but if I try very hard I can almost picture the thick beard and the echoes of his laughter when he rocked me on his knee- at least, so Mother has told me. The man I met that day so soon after my fourth birthday carries none of that joy now. Father has barely smiled since the day he returned from where the police took him. He and Mother look nothing like the old worn photographs I’ve seen in the attic. They seemed so full of life and joy in Prussia. Now there is only sadness, and fear.

I can feel it too, though I dare not let Josef and the girls see it on my face. Hans and Johannes and all the other miners’ sons were always kind to me during the Hitler days, but I could sense that their fathers did not like me. I did not understand why, I had never done anything to them, but whenever I got too excited at play and forgot to keep my tongue from Polish I could see the disgust and hatred in their eyes. I miss Otto. I still remember that day he told me that his parents had forbidden him from seeing “that Polish boy.” It was my ninth birthday, and I had been so happy at seeing my friend up until that moment. I told him it was all right, that Hitler wouldn’t be mad at him for playing with me since I wasn’t Jewish. He just looked at me all sad and ran off. I tried to say hello to him when I saw him in the market the next few weeks, but his mother always pulled him closer to her and he looked away. I remember crying at first, and then I just stopped trying to say hello when I saw him.

I don’t want for Germany to be free again if it means Hitler’s men can come back. Everyone on the streets seems happy, but Father says people here were happy when Hitler was elected as well. Hitler brought them jobs and money and said Germany was going to be powerful. Now Father says people are talking about how Adenauer or Schumacher are going to give people jobs and money and make Germany powerful again.

The boys at school seem excited by the idea of a free Germany. Mostly they spoke of plentiful food and work and did not mention the government, but I could see a few of the boys who had worn swastikas glancing back at me from time to time. Arnold Klein did say something about the Jews, but Leopold reached over and knocked him on the head and Arnold shut up. I kept my head down at the back of the class and did not speak up.

I am not excited about this new Germany. I have seen some of the men who once wore swastikas still walking about in the market. The men who looked disgusted at me and said awful things to Father still sometimes talk about the good days under Hitler when everyone had plenty of food and enough money to buy more. They say the Americans say Germany has changed and everything is all right now, but I’m worried and scared. The same people who Mother says threw bricks through the Cohens’ windows are still our neighbors today. I don’t want to live in a country where I still feel afraid to speak Polish in public.

16 January 1950: Günter (KD)

Günter was born in 1938 in Munich (later West Germany) to a Catholic family. His father was a career civil servant who joined the Nazi Party in 1934.

Dear Diary,

I am writing to you today in regards to the confusion of my family's history, which has only been brought to my attention through a newspaper article in this morning's Münchner Merkur. The editor was a young American female whose father was seen as a noble man in the US military. She was filled with hatred towards the fascist Germans and planned to create a newspaper that would usher in American ideology.

Most of the students at my school come from areas within and around Munich, but we had a few American students whose parents came over to work for the US government. Today, I returned to school for the first time after a long winter break. I walked the halls with eyes staring at me from every direction. I had absolutely no idea what was going on. I was in absolute confusion, was something on my face? Was my hair messed up? Did I put my pants on backwards? The confusion and disarray continued until a crumpled paper was thrown at me from the back of the room in English class where most of the American students sit. As I looked down at the crumpled paper a note read “Nazi Benefactor.” I had no idea what the note was implying or why someone would call me such a name.

As I left class, a family friend, Gertude, handed me the newspaper, and I looked down to my father's name written all over it. The newspaper was exposing my father for his commitment to the Nazi cause in hope of ruining his spot for a seat in new local office. My father, who is a very kind and loving man, joined the Nazi party in 1934 and was a local civil servant here in Munich. However, I did not know much of his Nazi past for he never really discussed those times of his life to me. The only thing I remember growing up as a little boy was my dad's resentment of the Nuremberg trials and denazification. My dad expressed many times that he believed the trials were unfair, often stating “How can I be criticized for my actions which were not a crime at the time, I was only doing what was told of me?” My dad was declared a “follower” and paid little in terms of punishment. Besides this I had no recollection of my family's past, particularly my father's.

The school newspaper I read today began to make me question everything… Was my father an awful person? Did he really reside with the ideals of the Nazi party? Who am I? And who is my family?

After school, I ran home, questioning all that was said in this morning's newspaper. When I returned home, my mother was sitting at the kitchen table with her hand against her head. I could tell she was very anxious and in disarray, but I did not question why. As I waited for my father to return from work, I continued to read the newspaper article, which I had snuck in to my room with my backpack. As I continue to read, I continue to question the loving father I had always remembered. Eventually my mind could no longer take all that was filling my head. As dinner came, I walked down the stairs with the newspaper in my hand and laid it on the kitchen table where my father was sitting. As he looked down from the newspaper he was in utter apprehension, as if he seemed he did not know what to say. When he looked up at me, all he could say is “this is no discussion for a child.” A child… A child! How could he call me a child, I am 12 years old and can comprehend more than what they wrote about him in the newspaper… Everything was bad and immoral.

After my father’s remark, I made my way back to my bedroom. I had no words for my dad’s response and was weary about all he was hiding from me. Now, as I lay in bed, writing to you, my diary, all I wonder is “who is my father?”

Early 1950s: Birgit (MB)

Birgit was adopted from Pognitz Displaced Persons camp in 1946 at age 3 or 4. Little was known about her background, except that she did not speak German at first. Her adoptive parents were devout Catholics who lived in a small town in upper Bavaria (West Germany); her father was a housepainter, and her mother a cleaning woman.

“Hallo.” Though I cannot see him, I can hear the click of the door as Papa locks it behind him and steps into the foyer. I place the knife I was chopping onions with into the sink, imagining his paint-splattered shoes being tucked against the wall where they always go. He enters the kitchen a moment later.

“Good evening,” I answer routinely, scooping the cut onions and turning to place them in the dutch oven on the stove. “Mama sent note that she’d be home late.” He hums. Mama is usually home late, which is why I’ve learned to prepare dinner. I like cooking, I like knowing the steps it takes to produce a meal. I don’t have to turn around to know he’s hung his jacket near the doorway and snatched a tangerine from the basket by its side. As I expect, his next step is to go into the other room where his newspaper lies on the table and packet of tobacco wedged into his favorite seat. Everything is routine. I like routine.

I like Mama and Papa. They do not lie to me and when they took me in, they told me. I’m not Mama and Papa’s only child. They had one before me that left them. I think they found me as fate. When people stop us on the street, old women always manage to make a comment about how I have my mother’s hair and my papa’s nose. I stare into their wrinkled faces with a blankness to my eye. The thick bundles of hair on all of our heads might be the biggest thing throwing people off, but then when you look closer you see the reddish tones that appear in Mama’s hair and my nose that slopes and widens in a way unlike the both of them. Not to mention, the warm tones that darken my skin especially in the sunny seasons. But I did not come from Mama, so it makes sense.

It was only once on the street when someone spat at me, that I mustered an idea of where I might have come from. All I know is that Mama and Papa got me from a camp and that they do not know anything else. Sometimes words appear in my head and leave my mouth, but they stare back in silence and I realize they don’t understand it. Sometimes I don’t even know what the words mean though they feel so familiar on my lips.

Papa motions toward me to join him and Mama in the living room. They are kneeling on the carpet facing one another. I know what is coming. I kneel in between them. I fold my hands just as they taught me a few months ago. I look out of the corner of my eye to see if Papa notices how well I’m praying. He is not. His eyes are squeezed shut and he’s whispering to himself. I wonder what he’s saying and who he is talking to. Mama has tried to explain to me before but I don’t feel ready to talk to God yet. I don’t know what to believe anymore. “Birgit,” Mama nudges me. I pretend I don’t feel her elbow digging into my ribs.

Mama doesn’t make an effort with me. Not like Papa does. Papa will come home from painting houses all day and immediately sink into his large armchair, always motioning for me to sit in his lap. He loves asking about my studies and telling me stories about growing up in Burghausen. Papa talks of playing football for SV Wacker Burghausen when he was young and living in Berlin when he finished school. Before this year, Papa did not work. I had more time to see him and make him laugh. He was always home to cook for me and tell me new jokes. Now I only see him at night. After his first day of work, I ran into his lap. He pushed me off. “Not now, Birgit,” he muttered. He never did that before. I wasn’t prepared for it. Now I wait for him to invite me, but he never does anymore.

1953: Ilse (MH)

Ilse was born in 1946 in an agricultural village in Saxony (East Germany). Her father was a Lutheran pastor.

I love my family very much. My papa is very smart and strict. He is the pastor at church, so he has to be serious because it is a very important job. Hanna at school says that papa's job is not important anymore, but mama says that she is wrong and I'm not supposed to repeat that. Mama is very busy. She is always at her job, which is called "committee" except for on Sundays when she goes to church. I asked my sister Gisela what mama does all day at work, and she said that mama is rebuilding Germany and that is very important. I am proud of mama for doing that. Gisela is my big sister who I love very much. She is 16 and really pretty. I can't wait to be 16 too. Except now Gisela is always sad. She used to take me to the market for sweets but one day last week she came home from school and was crying to mama. My brother Rolf told me it's because one of the soldiers hurt her and so she is sad. Rolf told me not to tell anyone at school. Gisela doesn't take me to the market anymore and now Rolf pulls me faster when we pass the soldiers on the way to school. I'm not surprised that they were mean to Gisela. The soldiers are like tall rows of corn when there's no wind. They're very quiet and have sour faces. Rolf and Moritz are my two brothers. They are 13 and 11. Rolf is tough and good at sports. He really wants to join a club for older boys but papa said no. Mama told him they would think on it. I hope they let Rolf join because Hanna's brother is in it and she thinks she's so fancy because of it. Moritz is smart as a whip. He can read faster than Rolf! Moritz doesn't like to play outside with me much, but that's okay because he loves to be my audience. Then there's me. I'm Ilse, and I am 7 years old, which means I am the youngest person in my family. I'm sick of being little. I want to be a star!! In the summer I have concerts for my whole family to come and see right outside the house! I sing a song called Gloria for papa which he loves a lot (I can tell because he smiles a little). I really want to have a bigger audience so I'm thinking of inviting the soldiers and singing a song I learned in school for them. I told my idea to Gisela but she yelled at me to never talk to them so I might not.

Heidelberg, 14 November 1955: Egon Engel (JVD)

Egon was born in 1935 in Munich (later West Germany) to a Catholic family. His father was a tailor, and both parents supported the Nazis from 1926 on.

What I am witnessing is a massive heightening of tension. It is beginning to appear on everybody’s faces, the stress and the constant look of worry, as if something is going to happen. I’m not saying this simply because I seem to only spend time with peers and professors these days. Something bigger is looming that transcends these borders.

In taking a look at the society and infrastructure of our nation, one would not disagree that the Federal Republic is doing well (in fact, it is flourishing). Ever since the occupation, it feels as if the market has been completely transformed. Billboards and postings of advertisements for canned sauerkraut and Coca-Cola and British tea are all I can see on my morning walk to the campus. I guess it is good for prosperity, but I also seem to forget to look at people anymore or listen to the birds chirping. And I feel as if this is the reason secretly why everyone is looming. It’s almost as if the Berlinerstraße has been transformed into an alternate universe.

German society has undergone massive changes in the past ten years. We remain a divided country with different political, social, and radically different economic policies. I think most Germans in the West secretly wish for unification, but will there ever be a possibility with how the Christian Democratic Union worships at the feet of America and the East bows down to the Soviets? We are always looking beyond and to the future and we’re forgetting about one another on an individual basis because we are too concerned with greater needs. Germany must focus on the whole of it by working together immediately, with their heads out of the clouds.

Religion is by far my least favorite course at the university. All of this talk of God and spirituality may make some feel better about themselves and situation by placing them outside of the realm of reality, but that scheiße sure doesn’t work on me. Growing up Catholic never convinced me of anything either. Everyone in this country acts so ‘holier than thou’, like they are just faking their satisfaction no matter how unhappy they truly are. Consumerism and material obsession eats at the hearts and minds of the German people. I am becoming convinced that this Christian-biased religious obsession in schools and in politics is the new cop-out for the next ideology that will take over this country. Look how well that’s worked out.

I have been to university for a bit at this point, but it still dumbfounds me that I have the privilege of going. It was my dream to study literature, and all of that hard work and study for the Abitur paid off. I could not have come to Heidelberg if it weren't for the two restaurant jobs I work and the generous scholarship from a private family. But I don’t look to God or thank some spirit for my luck; I believe I did all of this myself. It is such a shame that more children in the country cannot continue in school due to the unforeseen costs. In Munich, only five of us went on to study at a university. I was the only one with a father who was a tailor and not an attorney or a banker. The economic reform has only put a sheer façade of hope on the society of the country. Many seem to forget that a strong capitalist market creates vast elitism and crevices within our society of inequality. When downwards of five percent of the students pass the Abitur and actually continue on to complete their higher education, how can we truly expect to see a prosperous and educated society that is distinctly and recognizably different from the evil Germany the world knows us as!

Even in the German Democratic Republic there is widespread equality in education. The two territories are so tied up in their own ways and beliefs, maybe they should listen to one another more and actually try to work things out and find common ground. I think that the people of West Germany genuinely would like a unified Germany too, but the likelihood of it being feasible is so low because political and economic interests seem to transcend actual human want and need. Our territory may supersede East German economic capability, but it comes in the form of short-term gratification with long-term changes in human dignity and focus.

Hamburg, 11 July 1956: Ingrid (CP)

Ingrid was born in 1935 in Hamburg (later West Germany). Her father was a medical student from German West Africa who was expelled from the university by the Nazis. He then joined the navy and died in 1944.

Dear Eva,

I was glad to hear back from you so soon, with you being so far away I worry about you and your family. My mother has been great, she has been spending less hours at the school lately and I think it has really brought up her mood. My stepfather is happy about it as well because she is able to spend more time around the house. I was worried at first when she said she would not need to stay so long that her pay might suffer but apparently, they have hired an assistant so she simply does not need to work so much! 

The other day my stepfather said something which made me feel quite odd. He was discussing his job at the hospital and mentioned that a few of the doctors had been in the army, fighting for the Nazis. I know that while the SS members were initially fired, many had come back, but the way he explained it seemed as though they had all come back. Perhaps I'm overreacting, but I can't help but feel a bit nauseous when I think that the same doctors who performed experiments and sterilizations on people in camps are the ones who I visit when I’m ill. Maybe because those people looked like my father. I know that when they look at me they most likely don't even realize that I am mixed race but… I wonder if they knew how they would treat me. But then my step father speaks of the amazing work that they're doing and I doubt myself for doubting them, what a mess! 

Speaking of my stepfather, his brother, my uncle Alrik stayed with us in Hamburg for almost a week! It was quite exciting to have a government man here and to hear all the praise he had for our government. Things have been so wonderful I feel as though we take for granted the leadership, or at least that's what he said. He talked about how lucky we were to be accepted back into the Western economy, and I suppose he’s right. There are so many American goods in the supermarkets these days mother and I are shocked whenever we go. Just the other day I got a pair of blue jeans! They came all the way from the states and they are wonderful. 

I wonder what would have happened if we had not received the help we did from the Americans. He seemed to think we would be in quite a mess. He explained to me why it is so much better to model ourselves after the west rather than the soviets to the east and how the idea of a communist economy will never work! He told me that Germany was going to only get stronger from here, the way the government has allowed businesses to flourish is why we are all living so happily now. And he must be right. I feel as though everyday things get better, not just for us but for everyone! So, odd to think that so close to our city is the border and across that line everything is different. 

I do hope that things continue to grow as they have. I will be going back to school soon and then in a year I will be teaching these things to children! Perhaps not as in depth but as Alrik and my stepfather said, I ought to know more than what I teach. I never thought I would be a teacher like mother but it does seem like the best thing for me now. 

Tell me all about your new job when you have the time! It sounds so wonderful, I hope that you are having a good time there. Being a secretary for such a busy man must be exhausting but I know you will perform past what they expect, you always have! Write me soon!

Love, Ingrid 

August 1956: Rosemarie (DG)

Rosemarie was born in 1938 to a Catholic family in Cologne (later West Germany). Her father was a Wehrmacht soldier on the Eastern front; he captured and held as a POW until 1956.

Dear Diary,

I just came back from grocery shopping with mother and Wilhelm. We came home to find my father talking to our neighbors. It’s still kind of strange to see him here, standing in our home. He has always been a part of this family but after he was taken as a prisoner of war, mother had to find a way to still make this house feel like home without him. The day he came back was a complete shock to all of us. The only time I had seen my mother cry that much was the day we found out he wasn’t coming back home when he was captured. Of course, we all embraced him with open arms but I could sense something different about him. Maybe it was being away from him for so long but he had this look in his eye when I spoke to him that didn’t sit well with me. I’m not sure if mother or Wilhelm noticed but I’ve thought about bringing it up. At least to Wilhelm because I know he’s noticed my change in demeanor towards our father. It has been a little over five months since he’s been back and I still haven’t had a conversation with him that wasn’t stilted. I try not to be left alone with him for too long out of fear of suffering through any awkward silences with him. I know that’s not how I should be feeling towards my own father, especially someone who has suffered a great deal to return home, but I can’t help it. Last week in school, my close friend Helga came to class in tears. She said her family received word that her father, who was also a prisoner of war, might be dead. Mother says our chancellor Konrad Adenauer reached an agreement to send the rest of the prisoners of war home but unfortunately her father did not make it. It breaks my heart seeing my friend in such a state, however I feel nothing for her father knowing he had pledged his allegiance to the Nazi party. I know I sound heartless and cruel but in my opinion we have one less evil person in this world. I would never dare speak these words out loud. Although our side of Germany is trying to forget the shameful past of Nazi Germany, I can tell that it is not the same for everyone.

Students at my school voice their opinions of how we shouldn’t have surrendered so easily. Opinions that no doubt are mirrors of their parents who are still bitter of the wars outcome. Aside from that, we don’t seem to be doing too bad in comparison to the east. We have family in East Germany, a cousin from my mother’s side, that write to us occasionally. Our cousin, Erika, is our age as well and usually writes about her life in the east. She writes of the constant food shortages and their rigorous school curriculum. It’s strange how we live in the same country and yet we live completely different lives. We struggled a lot to make ends meet when father wasn’t around, but now that he’s back the financial burden has been lifted from all of us. Mother quit her job and now takes care of all of us as well as the house. Father managed to find a job at a steel factory from an old contact when he was stationed at the eastern front. It’s not much but we’re better off than where we were three years ago. Wilhelm and I no longer have to work and have been focusing more on school. I want to continue in furthering my education to get a job in the future. As years go by, I have become more and more interested in politics and the state of our country. I wait for the newspaper every morning and read it before anyone wakes up. Mother doesn’t approve of me talking politics. Just a couple days ago she said: “Oh, those silly things won’t matter once you get married. You should be more focused on learning how to run a home, not worrying about the economy!” It amazes me how vastly different we are when it comes to those things. At 18, I believe that I have finally found where my values and beliefs lie in terms of the kind of future I want for myself and this country. I don’t want to be a sheep just blindly following anyone that makes empty promises. That’s what happened with this country last time and look where that left us. I want to be important. I want to be someone that will create change. 

Forever yours, Rosemarie

1960: Inge Winter (TM)

Inga was born in 1948 in Chemnitz (Karl-Marx-Stadt, East Germany). Her father was a factory foreman in the 1930s and 1940s and then joined the Communist Party in 1945 and became a senior factory official; her mother worked for a textile firm and then became an official in the Socialist Unity Party (SED) in 1946.

Dear Diary,

Today mama and I went shopping for a dress for my Jugendweihe. I’m almost 13, so I’ll have one soon and I’m very excited. Almost everyone in my class is going to have one, except for a few kids because their parents are Christian. My parents used to be Christian, but they don’t go to church anymore and they make sure I don’t talk about religion because they say it’s not something other people should know about. They say before the communists came to Germany, everyone was Christian. But now you aren’t supposed to go to church, so we don’t. My parents still make us say grace before eating dinner though.

Anyway, I wanted a pretty dress, but mama said it would look better if I wore a more practical dress. Mama has lots of pretty dresses from before the war, and sometimes she lets me put them on and wear some of her makeup. She says that good communists shouldn’t wear dresses like that anymore, and that if I want to impress my teachers and club leaders I should wear something more practical. She tells me these things, but I see her go and put on those dresses sometimes too.

I can’t wait to see what presents I get for my Jugendweihe. I really want one of those new green plastic hair dryers, but I don’t know if my parents will get me one. We own many plastic things, because my mama and papa get them as gifts from work, but my parents never use them. They think plastic is cheap and tacky, but they tell me never to say that to anyone at school. I like how colorful plastic is, and I like all of the little knick-knacks you can buy, but my parents hate it, so we use the same old stuff we’ve always had.

I really hope mama will bake me a cake for my party. She is really busy with work and everything at home, so she may not have time. Also, the store near our house hasn’t had any chocolate in a while, so she may not be able to make the kind of cake I like. Sometimes I wish we could just go over to West Berlin and go to their stores. They have so much chocolate they don’t know what to do with it. A girl in school told me that you can get everything in just one grocery store instead of having to go to a few, and that you can even pick out your groceries yourself. I wish we could do that here, and I often hear my parents complaining about how empty the stores are here. Whenever I ask them why we can’t just go over the border and shop there, they tell me that I must never say anything like that in school. I know they work really hard, and we definitely have more money than most kids at school because my parents have good jobs, but I still wonder what life was like before, and if my life would be any different in the West. I heard in the West they don’t even have a Jugendweihe, though, so that’s unfortunate for them.

There are even some kids in my class who aren’t going to have a Jugendweihe. Some of them are Christian and Jewish, but some just say that their parents don’t want them to do it because they don’t like all the changes the communists are making. I feel bad for these kids, because they don’t get to join scouts or do other fun things we get to do. Mama and papa sometimes talk about the new changes and say that supporting the communists is the right thing to do. They say that I am going to have so many opportunities most other kids don’t have because they support the party. I will be able to go to a good university and make money and have a good life. Mama and papa say that they do everything for me, so I feel bad for these kid because their parents don’t love them enough to support the party so they can have nice opportunities. 

28 June 1960: Gisela (HW)

Gisela was born in 1940 in Thuringia (later East Germany). Her father had been a Wehrmacht officer in Africa during the war.

It seems as though the fields outside my window grow smaller and smaller by the day. Just in the last month, we have had to kill off our best breeding goat and cow. They became so thin and sickly that they stopped produced milk; father made the decision to use them for meat and wool instead, since we needed a quicker sale than dairy product. Mother says that we’ve never been this poor, and now it may be bad enough to consider crossing the border to the West. I say that it would never get bad enough for us to surrender to capitalism. It would eat us alive faster than anything over here could. They don’t understand how lucky we have it here, what with the guaranteed rationing we receive. The Soviets are doing everything they can to keep us happy and safe from the further infiltration of the Western influences. Mother and father, upon crossing the border, would settle their things, look around, and ask where their jobs and rations were. How ignorant! Yet, I don’t think they will ever have the courage to actually move. Though we have significantly less land than we used to, there are still substantial fields and animals to attend to. Leaving it behind would be hard for them, let alone blatantly obvious that the residents have left. That’s what I have argued––we would be easy to catch. Mother is overly paranoid and believes that the Stasi is keeping close watch on us. She often runs across the house, calling for my father, scared that she has seen someone come up to the door or had heard a knock. There have only been a few instances of a soldier actually being at the door, and they seem relatively harmless. I am normally attentive to their questions and answer with allegiances that they want to hear from a young GDR resident. My parents fake their allegiance for the Stasi, but I must admit, they are fairly skilled at it. Our farm strives to serve all of the GDR, my father says. Stasi troops keep eye contact with my father longer than seems necessary, but I understand that they must keep a strong hold on farmers, because we are the most important citizens in the GDR. We should feel valued, I tell my parents to reassure them. But with each passing week, and more people crossing the border, my mother’s paranoia has grown worse and seemingly more irrational.

In the distance, I can see the barbed-wire fence that marks the border. I hear that in other parts along the Eastern border, residents are helping soldiers clear the boundary line to construct a real wall, a concrete one. I hope the troops come to our town soon; we need a stable wall quite badly. Though, the flow of people has grown considerably less. There used to be travelers every day. I could see people trampling through the fields and creeping under the holes of the wire. Some even had tools to cut the wire back. Some were alone with a single backpack carrying their belongings; others had entire families following them, each weighed down with at least two bags strapped across their shoulders. There were not many soldiers to regulate the traffic. I heard from a neighbor in town while I was collecting our bread rations that most people were now traveling to Berlin to be airlifted out of the East.It is safest this way, Herr Keller had said. I did not catch whether he was giving discrete instructions to Frau Hahn, or if she had even asked. They both spoke in low voices, checking over their shoulders frequently. You never knew who was listening these days.

Mother and father are too scared to report people. They feel they are betraying their neighbors, that these people are just looking for more opportunity, for a better life. Sie sind verückt! These are lies. These people are traitors; they are greedy opportunists who are just looking for the filthy amounts of money that the westerners have. I have been thinking about going out into our fields at night with a lantern to catch people right in the act, but my parents beg of me not to. But what if it brings us benefits? Wouldn’t it be worth an extra ration? Or at least friendlier relations with the Soviet troops? It seems more than worth it to me. We should do as they tell us.

26 August 1961: Greta (GG)

Greta was born in 1935 in Munich (later West Germany) to a Catholic family. Her father was a tailor, and both parents supported the Nazis from 1926 on.

Dear Diary,

It has been only three weeks since Cousin Erna’s family has come to live with us. And although she and her husband feared what life would be like leaving their home and jobs, to me, it seems that they feared what would happen if they stayed even more. Things were not easy for them in East Berlin. We knew we had to begin a plan to pull them out of the clutches of the communists. When mother and I took a trip to visit them last month, we were shocked by the conditions in which they were living. The community found it consistently difficult to procure enough groceries to feed their families, Erna had told us. Their radio would only play a single station, and oh, how I missed listening to music. They could not even dance! I don’t mean to be rude, but I just could not wait to return home to our radio. During our stay, her husband kept reminding us that we were constantly under a watchful eye – of whom it was, we did not know. He, Erna, and their two sons lived each day in uncertainty and tension. It angers me that so many others are forced to live lives of uncertainty, fear, and – at the very least – blandness. Mother and Cousin Erna had been in contact for months coming up with a way for her to come to West Germany with her family. That is why we have been working tirelessly to bring Erna’s family out of the East and into Munich with us for the time being. We were able to walk them across the border into West Berlin and secure a train ride back to Munich, under the impression of a vacation. Mother and I brought several of their belongings back with us last month to help them lighten their travel load. It was terrifying knowing what we were doing; yet to hardly any surprise, we were comforted by the knowledge of several thousands who were doing the same.

I am relieved, though also frightened, by how impeccable our timing was. Shortly after our return, broadcasting all over Germany was the announcement of fortification of the border in Berlin. First, they strung barbed wire and substantially decreased the number of checkpoints into East Berlin. The government forced laborers to construct a cement wall and shut away their people from the freedom that they rightfully deserved to visit in the West. We all huddled around the radio as we listened. Erna burst into tears and my mother comforted her. I do not blame her for being scared; we all are. Families and friends have been separated by this iron curtain that the communists have forced upon the good people of Germany.

Now we are receiving news of a young man who was shot to death by border guards in the East. His name was Günter, and he was the assistant to a tailor – a tailor like my father. Günter was only two years younger than me and even though I did not know him, I have been grieving the death of an innocent German who sought a better life for himself. It makes me so angry and I would just hate to live a life behind those walls the way that they are in Berlin. Why can’t we just be one Germany, unified and peaceful again? We have seen enough war and do not need another one. Neither the East nor the West can maintain a proper social and economic structure with all the refugees pouring out of the East. Thousands and thousands leaving the East, and they are losing valuable contributors to their society. The only way I can think to solve this issue is to remove the communist obstacle altogether!

I am not sure what to make of the mess in Germany anymore. We are just so glad that we were able to help Erna and her family out at the time we did. Who knows? Had we waited any longer, we may have never heard from or seen them again. It could have been one of her sons trying to escape the border guards the same way that Gunter did. Our family is relieved to be with them, yet nervous that such drastic measures have been put into place since then. Sometimes I sit beside myself and play scenarios in my head of attempting rescues of those oppressed in the communist East. For now, I will stay listening to the news, but the anger boiling within me over the denial freedom and democracy to ALL German people is sometimes too much to manage.

30 August 1961: Brigitte Schulte (AS)

Brigitte was born in 1935 to a Protestant family in Leipzig (later East Germany). Her father, a shopkeeper, joined the NSDAP in 1926.

It’s been three months now since I crossed permanently into West Berlin. I’m glad I did, especially now with the newly solidified border in place. The East was feeling more stifling with each passing day, and I knew in likelihood that I would be facing a life of poverty that I have grown exasperated with coping with thus far. I also know if I had tried to cross over much later, I may not have lived to tell the tale. It has only been a couple weeks and there have already been several brutal deaths by people attempting to scramble across the border. There was one just yesterday, I heard from a neighbor; a young man attempting to swim to freedom. It broke my heart to hear how close he was to making it to safety.

I was not able to bring much with me when I came over, not even my money, for my Ostmarks are worth nothing here (Lieselotte advised me to do this, so it would not appear to the authorities that I was attempting to flee). I brought a few valuable belongings and pawned them when I arrived, as well as a few small mementos which are my one link to home now. Papa has not spoken to me since I crossed over. He, like many other people his generation, complained constantly that the West is stealing East Germans for themselves and pulling the economy there into further disrepair, and he feels I have betrayed my roots. But here, I’ve heard more complaints about how the influx of Easterners has driven up prices, made the job market more competitive, and been more of an inconvenience than anything else. I still exchange letters with Mama. She has reconnected with several members of the community and have been holding their own bible groups. I can sense in her that she is uplifted by having spirituality back in her life in this way, but I worry for her. She tells me that things just keep getting worse as time goes by and people keep fleeing. I know she doesn’t mean to make me feel judged by telling me this, but I feel guilty nonetheless.

My whole life, I was taught in school to beware of the fascist West, the enemy from which we should keep ourselves at a considerable distance. It is only now, after a lifetime of education and some time on the other side, that I see things differently. I was taught to think in ways that are compatible with the ideologies of the Soviet Union. I was taught that the Soviet Union was the example of democracy that we should work our whole lives to preserve and promote. I felt at a certain point when I became an adolescent that the regulations at the border were incompatible with what I understood democracy, and I see it now more than I had before. The people of the East are trapped in, and I would have been too.

I try not to think about it, but it hurts to know that I cannot return home. I left for many reasons, but there are other reasons still that I wish I could go back to visit and to see Leipzig, my beloved hometown. It’s odd to still be among Germans and yet to feel like a foreigner, an outsider. I don’t usually tell people that I came across the border. Many people don’t have an opinion on it either way, but some are very upset. I was always so proud of being German, but now I feel that I somehow have to prove myself as such. I can almost sympathize with the Italians and others who are not from Germany, in a way, which frustrates me because I am not like them. I am German! It is of some, but still very little consolation to have met other East Germans on this side. Many are in a similar position as me - struggling to find their place here. I have met more Easterners here than I ever had Westerners in the East. I don’t think I had grasped how wide the disparity between the directions of traffic were until now.

I am trying to get work as a teacher for the time being, but my documents show that I am from Leipzig, and I am passed on for jobs in favor of West Germans. I would like to continue my studies to pursue more specialization, which would likely give me a leg up among even other West German candidates. But I cannot afford to pay for school. I try to remind myself, though, that even though I am struggling now, the economy here has more doors open to me than I would have back home.

November 1961: Peter (KU)

Peter was born in 1938 to a Protestant family in what became East Germany. His father was a judge who had joined the NSDAP in 1934; his mother was from a family of East Prussian landowners.

Dear Diary,

Franz has become a good friend over these past two years. We conduct most of our work together, sometimes getting off topic talking about the SED and the future of East Germany. Franz tells tales of how he’s witnessed so many people find their calling thanks to the GDR. It is those moments that I know I made the right choice in supporting my State.

Franz and I like to stroll next to the Wall in Berlin. Not only is it nice to get fresh air, but it also gives us an opportunity to strike when the iron is hot. Today, Franz and I find a bench near an apartment building. We sit and gaze through the chain link.

“Want a smoke? I got a fresh pack.” I take the cigarette and Franz lights me up. “How’s your father doing?” Franz knows the details of my father’s past. He makes sure to bring him up in conversation almost every day. Probably to make sure my emotions are not interfering with my duties, which would never be an issue.

“He’s still the same drunken fool he was the last time you asked. However, he now prefers to watch Western programs, only ever so rarely.” Franz blows a cloud out. “Good to know, I’ll put that in his file.”

A metal clank breaks through the conversation. Franz perks up, looking from side to side. He stands, motioning for me to follow him. We hide behind a corner as we hear a man’s voice echo down the walkway. “Buddy, you here?” A child’s voice whispers, “Hi Daddy! I miss you!”

Franz pulls out his notepad and I hand him my pen. “How’s your mother?” “She has a job!” Slight chuckles come from the father. “That’s great, fantastic! And I hope you’re getting your education?”

“Don’t worry son, I’m coming home soon, I promise!” Franz looks up at me. He pockets his notepad and whispers, “You head home, I’ll take care of him. Say hello to your dear mother for me.” Franz turns the corner and disappears.

I walk in the opposite direction of the shouting father. If I were him, wouldn’t I want to bring my son over here? There’s so much more chance for prosperity in the GDR. He could have any opportunity he wished, like I did. His mother would still have a job here. They would be protected by the GDR. I guess I’ll never understand the weak minded.

I approach my front door. As I rummage through my pockets to find my keys, I hear clamoring and grunting. Fitting the key into the lock, I inhale deeply, preparing myself for the chaos better known as Karl.

CRASH. A vase shatters on the wall next to my head. “THESE DAMN SOCIALISTS. BOLSHEVIK ASSHOLES!!” I race towards Karl. I attempt to pin his arms to his side, but he breaks free and knocks me stomach first into the table.

“What is all this racket about?!” Mother races down the staircase, worry in her crystal blue eyes. “MY SON- MY OWN BLOOD WORKS FOR THE TRAITOR! THE SOVIETS TOOK OUR GLORY!” Karl shoves my mother to the side.

“YOU DON’T LAY A HAND ON HER!” The words flow out of my mouth without my brain processing. Next thing I know, my fist connects with my father’s cheek and he is knocked back into his chair. I pin him down and look back at mother. “Are you okay?” She rubs her arm. “I’ll be alright.” I point to the phone, but she already knows.

Next thing I know, Franz enters my living space. He claps me on the back as other Stasi officers walk in to grab Karl and escort him out of the house. “How could you do this to me, son? Treat me like trash. I’m your own flesh and blood. You see what these assholes have done to you?” He grabs onto my arm, but I shake him free. I slam the door behind him.

Franz tells me I did the right thing. I know I did, he was stuck in his old ways, still blinded by the fascist teachings. I truly don’t think that could have ever changed for him. Anyways, I couldn’t have his reckless behavior around my mother. At least I know now she will be safe when I’m not at home.

When you think about it, both fathers aren’t very different. They’re willing to go against the construct of their society for their weak beliefs. They just haven’t seen the true power of the GDR like I have. I feel sorry for them.

5 April 1963: Bernd (ZG)

Bernd was born in 1946 in the Föhrenwald Displaced Persons camp in the American zone to German-Jewish survivors of Dachau. He and his family live in a small town near Munich (West Germany), where his father is a pharmacist.

Dear Diary,

I went to another rock concert last night with Dieter. My feet are still sore from all the jumping and dancing but it was all worth it. I wore my beat up pair of Levi’s and a white t-shirt, which has become one of my go-to outfits. Dieter ended up dancing with Krista for a good chunk of the night. The two of them have been flirting like crazy, but Krista will still ditch him at some point for her friends. I sort of feel bad for the guy, but then again, he is much more popular than me. I feel like dancing is less of a partner thing and more of a group activity now. Everyone can join in. And I am not just saying that because no girls wanted to dance with me. Afterwards we went to grab some curry and naan at the new Indian place near the venue. Some of the dishes are a little too spicy for my taste buds, but it’s still so delicious.

Dieter almost wasn’t able to come with me to the show tonight. Dieter’s parents are way stricter than mine. His family always worries about how he might end up in a group like the Gladow Gang or some other crazy notion. His dad thinks I am a bad influence because I took Dieter to his first concert. It’s ridiculous. The way you dress, music you listen to, and movies you watch are not going to turn you into a criminal. Dieter wouldn’t hurt a fly. And let’s be real, I am terrified of silly things like public speaking, so I wouldn’t call myself a “hooligan” in any way shape or form. Though, Dieter’s parents aren’t alone as most older people are worried about our generation. My parents are way less worried than the other families. My mom thinks that we should be more embracing of outside cultures. Dad also says how kids have always caused trouble and parents have always been worried about the youth. It is a continuous cycle of rebellion. I grew up hearing jazz music at home, and apparently people used to think that jazz was primitive and anti-German. So, it goes to show what crazy things people can believe I guess.

By the time I got back home it was really late and I accidentally woke up Erika. She is always asking me if she can come along but my parents and I both think she is too young. I wasn’t going to concerts when I was 12, so it is only fair that the same rules apply to her. Erika has a similar taste in music as me, but not when it comes to movies. She thinks westerns are dumb and boring. While I know that they are not works of “art,” I still think that they’re a fun time. Whenever I have some extra cash I try to go and see the newest film. Most of my friends at school like them too. Speaking of extra cash, I have to go and help at the pharmacy this afternoon so I should probably get my day started.

14 April 1963: Karl (MN)

Karl was born in 1945 to Communist Party members who spent the Nazi period in exile in Moscow, returning to East Berlin after the war.

Explaining rock to Edith and Rudi:

 You are both fans of the classics. You value the music of Bach or Beethoven and you relax by hearing music of your heritage and your culture. For you, everything must be respectable and proper. That is what you respond to. For me, it is not the same.

 I have grown up in a different country, and every one of my experiences differs from yours. I find solace in different practices, I find different jokes funny, and I dress differently because I need to feel separate from what I am surrounded by. I am grateful to live with you in the West, but some of the same problems exist here that existed in East Berlin.

You are mistrustful of what you don’t understand. You believe that anything new is a threat to what you have lived with all of your lives. Bach and Beethoven may soothe you or help you rationalize your pain or your happiness through music, but so may rock music. The only contrast between our choices of music are that yours is older and more accepted and mine is younger. Listen to Elvis Presley or Ray Charles or Bill Haley and you hear noise and anti-music. How do you know that I don’t hear the same things when I listen to your strings and orchestras?

I can’t relate to classical music. Bach and Beethoven lived decades ago in a world that was different, in a Germany that wasn’t as divided as it is now. They had their time and should be remembered, but they aren’t enough for me, and they don’t ease my troubles like these living people do. I can see Bill Haley and hear his music in movie theaters and when he tours, but I can only ever hear your musicians through renditions of their music. I, and my generation, need something more direct. We need what rock can give us.

You may ask me why I should have troubles. I would say that it is natural, and that, moving from socialism to capitalism is a move towards better things. But the SED and the older generations in this country think the same way about rock and westerns, and everything that I love that happens to be American.

Young people don’t hate Germany. The problem is that Germany hates that it can’t be America. It is too preoccupied with forgetting itself, but it can’t build a fake personality to show to the world while it suffers in private. Moving from East Berlin, I knew I would be surrounded by the wall, but I didn’t think I would be walled in. I thought I would be free to think whatever and wanted and do whatever made me feel better. And although this has largely been true, being able to buy oranges and bananas without waiting in line for hours wears off, and classical music doesn’t help me forget what is happening to my friends and family who stayed. I try to step forward and I run back. Dressing up in a leather jacket with greased hair and going to dance to music so fast and so exciting like rock makes me forget all of my steps and my roles. I doesn’t force me to be anything but me, and I lets me stand up for myself.

I think I know what you’ll argue against me. You could say that I’m being Americanized or losing my sense of morality or falling into something that will only cause violence and bring us back to our past. You may complain that it’s visceral and threatening and sexual, but you’d just be telling me things I already know. Young Germans need something visceral, threatening and sexual because everything around them is so rigid and unchanging. We’re trapped in a problem we’re told we can’t solve because we’re too young. Or we’re told that there is no problem because we are good westerners. You forget all of the people who want this life desperately and can’t have it. And, unlike them, you make jokes about the Nazis and let them rule the country still. You think we might become them, but that is not true. We never lived through the war. We never participated, but we still suffer the traumas it caused through you and feel that pain without a solution. Right now, the only way we, and I know how to heal is to dance our troubles away. Maybe you should join in.

14 June 1964: Lothar (NS)

Lothar was born in 1940 in Thuringia (later East Germany). His father had been a Wehrmacht officer in Africa during the war.

I turned on my Sternradio today and found a station that plays music which is much, much different than the state broadcasts about the strength of the economy and superiority of socialism to the evils of capitalism. A radio host spoke on this newfound station, stating that West Germany would soon accept “rock and roll” and the sounds of guitars and drums. I guess those must have been the new instruments I was hearing, because this music was a stark difference from the classical music which I’m used to. Even so, I couldn’t help tapping my foot to this new type of music. So, I showed the station to Marianne when she came home from the textile factory. When I turned on the radio for her, a song came on called “Komm gib mir deine Hand” by a group called “The Beatles.” Both of us were bobbing our heads and tapping our feet along to the beat. And then Marianne must have really enjoyed the song, because she started dancing by herself and swung me around. I like that it’s our little secret, and a guilty pleasure in a sense.

However, we cannot listen to this station often, because you never know who else is listening. If friends of ours are over, we must turn the dial back to a typical Eastern station, so as not to arouse suspicion. In a similar vein, we cannot listen to this station too loudly either, lest a neighbor or Stasi hear it. Then, if we end up dancing to the rock and roll, we make sure we are not in front of a window, just in case someone wonders what we’re dancing to. After all, this is typical western music, and I remember Neues Deutschland running articles on rock and roll music, saying how it was “American cultural barbarism”. Of course, these were articles in the mid 1950s when rock and roll had apparently started to become popular, but I had only heard it by chance upon switching stations, and had not heard it beforehand.

Read more from Lothar in December 1966.

August 1965: Klaus Berger (AG)

Klaus was born in New York City in 1942 to Communist Party members in exile. His parents returned to their native Dortmund (West Germany) in 1945.

Dear Diary,

It started with the words, “Have you ever listened to Elvis Presley?” The first touch of American music I embraced was this handsome man who loved to thrusts his hips and stirred all the girls around the globe. At first, I was adverse to all the commotion around a single man, for worse and for better. But, something in me was pushed forward by his vigor… and the energy that shone on everyone around me. Listening to Elvis evoked the same sense of rebellion as the way I opposed my parents my whole life… I knew I was born in America, but I never imagined I would ever feel the sense of kinship to it as I have recently. Both jazz and rock ‘n’ roll are deeply ingrained in my bones, and it exudes so much excitement in my working life. I went to a club last week brimming with young people in fruitful clothing. Seeing the girls and guys twirl, flip, and swing around without a care. The way everything was free and wild was very exhilarating. Then I reconciled with American movies. I felt the energy of the protagonist of Westerns, laid back and retaining his own convictions. He was against everyone, but he still managed to persevere with his own style… I somehow admired that. I’ve been so much into American celebrities that my eyes perk up everytime someone mentions Marilyn Monroe… not trying to be weird, but she’s an attractive and very beautiful woman. I’ve been so on top of knowing when a new song is released or if a new movie is coming out soon… All my friends keep my updated as well. The fervor for American goods has really consumed the population… have I been missing out on this type of youth in my childhood? Was America what I was truly striving for from the beginning…?

I know there’s been a commotion with this youthful rigor. These “swing youths” were too much like blah blah and acted like blah blah. There’s more crime than ever because blah blah. It’s all the same: older generations trying to tie us down with their own conventional and brainwashing ideals! Equality? As if. They look at Black Germans the way my parents would tell me to look at them. Sexuality? Why can’t women do what they want, the same way my dad always had his “business meetings” on Friday nights. Crime? Yes, a crime to rid of globalization and prevent our country from truly prospering with new ideas. All I hear are hooligan this and American trash that. I feel trapped and criticized for wanting to like these things. For all my life, I’ve struggled to discover who I am in this fast-changing world. I’ve lost touch with everything I ever wanted in life because I was told what to believe and told how to live in a world made by other people’s consequences. I feel like I have the right to love these new things, to cultivate the new generation in breaking away from the past and embracing a culture that they want to experience. My parents always preached to me about equality, but I couldn’t seem to believe in them… and now I understand that every opposing action I did was built up for this moment when I can truly rebel against a wider group of people who constrain me to their beliefs… That was their identity and life, not mine. This is my version of German. What’s theirs?

Brigitte Hoffman (NT)

Brigitte was born in 1947 to a German mother, who had been active in the Bund deutscher Mädel during the Nazi period, and an African American GI in the American zone. Brigitte and her mother live near Hamburg (West Germany).

17 July 1966

Dear diary,

It’s been a while, I know. I’m now nineteen years old, and I’m on vacation. I just returned from university. I am currently studying medicine. It definitely wasn’t easy. I made the highest score on the test and the board of directors assumed I cheated. I should be used to that treatment by now, considering that was my upbringing. Each time I got a high score, my teachers would either refuse to acknowledge my accomplishments or call my mother down to the office to claim that I’ve cheated. I know medical school may seem random, considering that I’ve never written about science in here. However, I like it. I’ve always wanted to care for the sick, even though there are students and professors who tell me I’ll only be a CNA at most after graduation. I also know that I will have racist patients ask me where I’m from as some professors have, but I’ve learned to where a brave face.

It’s so good to be home. I can’t wait to connect with my friends again. Elke and I are close friends now and I’ve integrated her into my friend group with Angelica and Christine. We’ve had so much fun together. I’ve missed these girls so much. I remember one summer when Angelica, Christine, and I went to see Bill Haley. He stopped in town briefly before he finished his concert in Berlin, not that he could stay for long. The sixteen-year-old girls lost their minds! (Not that I blame them; the guy was gorgeous) They ripped up the chairs and almost attacked him. He couldn’t finish the set! Society called us ‘teens gone wild!’ I missed those days. It was another day of normalcy for me.

20 July 1966

Dear diary,

I finally got to see Mom’s side of the family after all these years! Grandma said I grow more beautiful each day; however, she said she wished I hadn’t met her wearing a t-shirt and jeans. I’m a lady, not a halbstarke! I should carry myself as such so ignorant whites wouldn’t have another reason to be against me. I understand where she’s coming from, but they judge me even when I speak the most proper German.

After dinner, Grandma and I stayed up late talking. Although we don’t see each other often, we spoke as if we saw each other every day. Then she looked out the window and stated, “Nuremberg is so different now. Different than it used to be.” I asked her what she meant. She looked at me with a smile and said I should ask my mother because it’s part of her story and mine. She lovingly caressed my face and said Gute Nacht, Schönheit like always, and she went to bed.

21 July 1966

Dear diary,

I don’t know what to say. With all the courage I could find, I came downstairs the next morning with my mom’s photo that I’ve been holding onto for years. I sat grandma’s dining room table set at the center of the living room and waited for her to wake up. She came downstairs asking what I would like for breakfast. She looked up at me and saw there was something on my mind. I didn’t say anything; I simply slid the photo in her direction. I told her I found it in her jewelry box when I was seven and I’ve been keeping it ever since because I was scared. I was scared of how she would react. I knew it was something she didn’t want me to see. I knew it had something to do with the past which she refuses to discuss, whether it’s hers, Germany’s, or my father’s. Then, she yelled at me for snooping around in her things. I told her she owes me the right to know about what happened because everything that’s happened in Germany and whatever decision she made to be with my father affects me! I didn’t ask for this, but it’s happened, and she has no right to deny me that right just because it makes her uncomfortable! I am the result of her decision.

She just stared at me. To tell the truth, I surprised myself. I didn’t expect this outburst. I’ve been writing my feelings for years and I only started confiding in Elke. Even then I didn’t tell her the whole story. I never meant to take it out my mom, my only cheerleader. However, she left me no choice. She can’t keep treating me like I’m someone special when people see me as an outsider in my own country. I have to know!

I expected her to walk up to her room. Instead she calmly sat down and asked me to sit next to her. She told me everything. My mom was an active member of the League of German Girls. Her parents were middle-class citizens who benefited from Hitler’s promises. They attended every Hitler rally; her dad would prop her up on his shoulders to watch. As she grew older, however, she started to question the party’s ideology. When she witnessed the Nazis harass a Jew in the public square, she asked herself how she could follow such a party. She was afraid to leave the party. During this time, attendance for League of German Girls was mandatory. She told me if I had time, she’ll tell me about my father.

November 1966: Charlotte (HS)

Charlotte was born in 1946 in an agricultural village in Saxony (East Germany). Her father was a Lutheran pastor.

I’m not entirely disappointed with the results of my experiment and my classmates at university said it actually looks quite chique, maybe even Parisian. None of them have ever been to Paris although Vera said her father went to Paris in the 1940s which she quickly caught herself on. One can only imagine what her father was doing in Paris in the 40s, and the other girls said they doubt it had very much to do with observing fashion and trends. At any rate, I’m not taking their praise and running off to Sibylle any time soon to become a fashion columnist. Always the perfectionist, I have my qualms with the final product. But given that fashion at this point in my life style is purely to impress my schoolmates, and that the dress Ella squirm with jealousy, I’m willing to chalk it up to a success.

I must admit that my latest fashion endeavor did not have the most virtuous of motives. Last month, while taking our Mittagspause, I pointed out that I would absolutely die for the floral suit. The other girls agreed that it was terribly chique and we all lamented that we would probably have to wait five years to even dream of seeing it in stores at which point it would be so outmodish. Two weeks later, Ella Rath came flouncing into our Law and Marxism seminar flaunting the floral pantsuit. I’ve always hated her, she’s by far the least qualified law student here and everyone knows she was able to steal her spot from an actually gifted candidate because her father was a Communist instigator in the 30s and had to flee to Russia when the Nazis came to power. She thinks she’s so cool and modisch swaggering around Dresden in her Sibylle clothes and casually snacking on her West German chocolates. I’m really of the opinion that if she had any spark of intelligence her father would have been able to get her into one of the more prestigious universities in Berlin. When I saw her drooling over the sweater dress in the November issue I knew I had snag it first. And by that I obviously mean make it myself. I spent an entire week laboring over it, I even took a train to Leipzig to find the sweater material I wanted. I have never been so glad that my mother forced me to learn sewing. I may have failed an exam last week, but the look on Ella’s face when I came into seminar wearing my sweater dress was well worth it. 

Last night, Vera invited me to a rock n’ roll show to celebrate my victory over Ella Rath. I’d never been to a rock n’ roll show before, it’s not popular in Dresden given that we don’t get Western radio reception out here. The music was also expressly forbidden in my household growing up. My father said the values propagated by rock n’ roll were sacrilegious. My father will probably never forgive me anyway for registering as an atheist and moving in with my mother after their divorce so I could get into university. I might as well add rock n’ roll to the list. I thought maybe I could wear the sweater dress to the concert, but Vera laughed out loud at the idea. “Rock n’ roll is all about subverting the traditional feminine,” Vera emphatically proclaimed. She told me she’d do my makeup for me, I should wear my dirtiest clothes, and “really stop giving so much of a shit”. Vera is from Leipzig and she can be quite alternative, occasionally foul, and she always speaks her mind. I wish I could be that brave, I admire her entirely. After seeing the band Renft, I was not surprised to learn that they are Leipzig natives too. Despite my initial reservations, I think Vera may have converted me into a full on rock n’ roll fan. I’ve never heard music you could really let loose and dance to before. It was fun being surrounded by people my own age without worrying about them watching my every move, questioning my motives, looking for a way to step on me to get closer to the top of the class. We are going back to Leipzig this weekend to get a Renft record and Vera thinks there are a few other bands I’ll like as well. In December, when we are pouring over the next Sibylle, I’m going to try and find out what she likes and make a chique outfit for her. I’ll be sure not to make it too traditionally feminine.

Lothar (NS)

28 December 1966

In a twist of irony, I am now conscripted into the Grenztruppen der DDR. Right now I am training outside of Erfurt, and I will be stationed somewhere along the southern border after I complete my training. And man is this training rigorous! Ever since the Grenztruppen became an arm of the NVA, we receive military training now, instead of police-style training. You can thank the Berlin Wall for that “upgrade.”

My period as a border guard causes me to miss both Marianne and Martin dearly. But luckily, since Martin is not yet 18 months, she still does not need to work since she is covered by paid child leave, which I must admit, is a marvel of the GDR; practically no other nation has it. At least, this is what Neues Deutschland says. Before I left, Martin learned how to walk all on his own, and it is quite disheartening and disappointing that I will not see other stages of Martin’s early growth. Luckily, I hear that my conscription only lasts for around 18 months, so I’ll be back Marianne and Martin, and I’ll do my best to visit as much as possible!

9 July 1969

Little Martin turned 4 today! For his birthday, Marianne and I gave him a Sandmännchen doll, since we watch this show with him during viewing events with other parents. Televisions are too expensive for us and both of us hear that the waiting list for TVs is taking months to years to fulfill orders, so we are alright with attending these viewing events. Anyways, we got Martin another gift besides his favorite character; an Indian set! There are 5 Indian figurines with miniature bows and arrows, and the box depicts a scene where they are staving off American cowboy invaders.

Speaking of cowboys, the subliminal messaging on this box is much different from the books which I used to read that had to have been smuggled into the East. Books like The Ox-Bow Incident, which I read as a teenager and had to hide from Werner’s searches. A group of us, including Peter, even got a hold of a Western movie named Northwest Passage, and that had a completely different, hostile depiction of Indians in it. Now that I have matured, I realize that the way Indians are depicted in Western forms of media is definitely flawed. After all, it is Americans who tend to be violent, my father who fought against them told me of some of their tactics, and I remember their bombing campaigns. Now these images of American aggression in Vietnam are so prevalent in our newspapers too, just proving their imperialist ways. So, I agree with the Indian narrative of this history instead. Wow, I did not expect to rant about American militarism based off of my son’s birthday gift, but hey, I side with the GDR on this one. I’ll still leave it to the West to create fun rock and roll though.

Friedrich (Freddy) Fischer (EB)

Freddy was born in 1935 to a Protestant family in Leipzig (later East Germany). His father, a shopkeeper, joined the NSDAP in 1926.

2 October 1972 (23.15 Uhr)

This Oktober marks almost two years since my conscription into the Magdeburg Baueinheit. The journey certainly hasn’t been easy; a decade ago, I was in quite a different place, the beliefs from which have not changed much. When they first began drafting soldiers, I was one of the several pacifists arrested in Berlin for refusing armed service. My objection mostly stemmed from my loss of Martha at the Berlin wall, as well as growing up Protestant, which aligned me with young church activists. I remember Monika and Ingrid visiting me regularly behind bars and passing on letters from Mutti and my baby sister Tanja. How passionate I was in my twenties! No wonder my works sold so well then. It seems that drive has waned a bit over the years—in tandem with my increasing skepticism of state affairs—but I am much happier with my art now, even if it sometimes sails into dangerous waters. As of late, I was inspired by Peter Herrmann’s Der Ewige Soldat. I was able to view it before its removal from the Berlin art scene. The art must have had an impact on the DDR’s peace narrative to warrant action.

After my release, Mutti came down with a series of aches and fevers. We learned that these symptoms rose from her overtime and exposure to chemicals at the factory. Many people were leaving Leipzig because of its heavy industry, the streets I once biked through resembling a ghost town. Mutti’s declining health and my Stiefvater Georg’s conscription gave me a valid enough reason to stay behind and take care of my family. It was difficult being separated from Ingrid, but we did our best to check-in. She would even save up money to come down and help me watch Tanja over her school breaks. However, by 1970, our fulfilling days were put on hold, as I could no longer prevent my conscription.

I was fortunate to have even bypassed it to begin with, and even luckier upon becoming a Bausoldat tasked with repairing shelters and armaments. If I had been stationed at the border, I don’t think I would’ve been able to stomach the idea of surveilling (or shooting) my comrades. Jürgen, my poor friend, was posited in such a situation without much say, though his service was temporary and nothing awful came of it. Conversely, as a so-called Spatensoldat, I have been under greater scrutiny from my superiors and looked down upon by those who took on combative military responsibilities, even though I too am a part of the Ehrendienst and contribute to our socialist state. Labor deficiencies have kept me and my troops very busy; we do the work people often overlook. When I have time, I sketch commissions for the others, who request everything from their partners to food and cars. It takes my mind off of layering bricks all day.

Now that I have returned to Berlin for a couple of days, Ingrid and I can celebrate the last of Oktoberfest and our 9th anniversary. Given my current station in life, I do not want to rush us into marriage. It is enough to have breaks here and there to watch a movie or go to a club. We took up slow-dancing to “Are You Lonesome Tonight” by Elvis yesterday; Monika greatly disagrees with his hips, but adores this song too. Our old friend’s most recent fascination has been an episode on American culture from Telematch. How she got a hold of this Wessi series, I will never know. Over dinner, we shared a good laugh about Tanja’s recent letter to me. She found my old leather jacket and coupled it with jeans, which gave Mutti quite the scare. Must be all the “anti-music” and Ami influences provoking my sister into a life of crime. After all these years, you would think our state would keep with the times, though I should speak for myself; Ingrid gets upset with me for mishandling her television.

Tomorrow, I take the afternoon train and return to my post. If there were any moment worthwhile freezing, it would be the way Ingrid looked last night…

21 November 1972

Mein Schatz,

I am overjoyed to hear that Monika accompanied you to the hospital in my stead. It must be such a difficult time for you, but relieves me knowing you are not alone. I have been thinking over your suggestion of abortion for the past month. While it did try my conscience, I found out that one of my roommates decided on one with his sweetheart back home. This made me consider how common a practice it is, and ultimately, how it is you who will be carrying our child. I think back to when Mutti was with Tanja, and while she did decide to go through with the pregnancy, it took a toll on her body.

I won’t even be able to see you again until late January, and therefore can only support you from afar. I am sure that you will make the best decision for yourself. Know that I love you always.

Bis bald, Freddy

Marion (LM)

Marion was born in 1946 in East Berlin to a Jewish father, who was a journalist, and a Protestant mother.

18 February 1980

Dear Diary,

The last few weeks have been rough. The longer time goes on, the worse I am feeling. I am physically exhausted, and my body just aches all the time. The baby still isn’t due for a few weeks so I’m hoping I start feeling better before then. I will say, not working has been a strange experience. Karl has started to pick up some extra shifts at work so he’s not around as much as I would like him to be. My mom comes over when she can and helps me clean the apartment and cook. I never thought I would miss working as much as I do, it will be strange when I eventually go back. But I am planning on taking off as much time as I can, I want to make sure the baby is all settled before going back. I do miss my friends though. Agatha comes over when she can, but she’s busy with her two children so we don’t see each other much. I’ve been able to make some new friends through my mom. I’ve started to go to church with her again which has been nice. Overall today has been a pretty good day. After making breakfast for Karl before he went off to work, I was able to fall back asleep again which was nice. Then I spent the morning drafting a complaint letter to send to the housing department. This is my first time writing a complaint. I’m not really sure why I haven’t done it before, I know my mom writes them every now and then. I think I just never felt like I had time to do it, and when I did it didn’t feel important enough to do. But now with the baby coming, I’m worried about some parts of the apartment. There is pretty bad water damage in the bathroom that Karl and I have been asking the building manager to fix for months now. I’ve talked to some of our neighbors about this sort of thing and they say they have similar problems. One of them told me about how her heating has been out for a week now, and this isn’t the first time. All of this is even more frustrating because these units were only built three years ago. I figured all of this warranted a petition. I’m going to have Karl read over it when he gets home from work to see if it sounds alright. I should get going so I can start dinner, I’m planning on making stew.

20 February 1980

Dear Diary,

I was just thinking this morning about how glad I am that I have kept this book for all of these years. I should dig into my old stuff sometime soon and read through my old diaries, I’m sure that would be fun. I’ll have to keep this entry brief because I’m about to go to church with my mom. We’re meeting with the women’s group to discuss some things. I don’t know why I’m being so vague…this is my diary after all. While the group is a women’s church group, we don’t do much talking about God. It’s a space where we all feel safe to talk about our real feelings about the Party and our government. Last week we talked about how frustrating it is that we can’t find all the things we need in our markets. In the past few years some goods have become less accessible to us. My mom still works at the market she did when I was growing up, so she has seen these changes firsthand. There are no chocolates available anymore. It’s even hard to find underwear for a decent price these days. I’m glad that I started going with my mom. When I went to church when I was younger, I was mostly bored by all of the jargon. But now I understand why my mom has always been so involved, it’s nice to have a place where you feel like you can really talk to people. I’ve enjoyed spending more time with my mom. Since she found I was pregnant she’s been really helpful. I know Karl and I have the same feelings about our country, but I was nervous to tell him at first about what we were actually doing at these meetings. You never know how people will react to these things. He was excited when I told him about it and decided to start joining us once a week. When the baby comes, I might stop going for a while, I don’t want to put her in any sort of danger. While it is important to protect our human rights, I also don’t want to put a target on our back.

Late 1980: Karl Schulz (CK)

Karl was born in 1948 in Chemnitz (Karl-Marx-Stadt, East Germany). His father was a factory foreman in the 1930s and 1940s and then joined the Communist Party in 1945 and became a senior factory official; his mother worked for a textile firm and then became an official in the Socialist Unity Party (SED) in 1946.

It is late 1980, and all people can talk about is Poland. I have been keeping this journal for at least twenty years now, and as always, people always talk about things I do not understand. I work in a factory. A resins factory. One might consider it ironic. All along the lines I hear people talking about Solidarity, and why it is either good or bad. I do not care. I do not care. It is already difficult for me to find to food I wish to eat. Or enough to feel full. I get the same amount of food as Martin, who is at least a quarter of a meter shorter than me. It is ridiculous. I now see why mother had the difficulties she had when trying to find food as well as take care of the home.

Speaking of Martin, he is very strange. Martin talks to me a lot and asks me what other people have said. He calls me his big toucan, his parrot. I am not sure if I like what he calls me, as I am not a bird, but he does cover for me at times, so I guess he is a friend. I think he is too fidgety though. He acts as if someone is always listening. Even if they are, I do not think he should be afraid. If he is good, they should not hurt him. If he accidentally finds someone who should not be in his room, then he should report them to the police. If he accidentally walks into the wrong room, then he should politely excuse himself.

Funny story from a few days ago. It has admittedly been some time since I have sat down and written to myself, so looking back, I guess I did not write upon it. Apparently, I live on the same floor as some western student who is studying Hitler or something at university. I was never smart enough for university. They always said I just did not think right. They can be sure of that, that night, as I had been out with some of my comrades at the hostel. Or is it pub? Or bar? I should really learn the difference. Anyways, I had a bit to drink, read the number wrong, and forced my way into a room when my key did not work. The room had a lot of wires and machines and a man who looked very confused and surprised to see me. I had only just then realized that this was not my room, and asked which room this was, to which the man politely told me the room number and then to leave. Later I got a bill for the damages, but I have to admit it was sort of funny, especially when I met the foreign boy on the stairwell and told him the story. His face made the funniest expression. I have not seen either him or the man who lived next door to him. I hope I can be good friends with them.

Admittedly, I have lost track of my friends from school. Then again, many were not right in the head. Phillip got arrested for something. I think it was something like inciting dissent or something. I do not know, but I lost contact with him after that. Michael works in the factory, but he actively avoids Martin, and by extension, me. Most people do not like Martin. I can see why. His nose is too big for his face, as are his teeth. Harold is gone. I think he got an exit visa and now spends long durations of time outside of the wall. Reading back, it is funny seeing what I used to think the wall used to be. I was a weird kid filled with strange ideas.

Speaking of strange ideas, a lot of people have been sending letters about housing. I do not see why, as my room is fine. I have a small stove, room for a bed, a desk, and a bathroom. All wood or metal, no plastic. I hate plastics. It took some time getting the furniture I wanted, even if it was just a bedframe, a chair, and a desk. A solid wood desk is very nice and feels sturdy. Working for most of the day and grabbing food at night works for me. I write in this journal for fun, and to reflect on the day. I am glad I talked to Mr. Winter after all these years. He is still teaching kindergarten, and the years have been kind to him. He now has the thickest glasses I have ever seen, and they make his eyes massive. He says this year is going to be his last year of teaching, as he is getting quite old. I will be sure to visit him in the future. In fact, I will write that on my calendar now.

Ingrid Elisabeth Schmidt (EM)

Ingrid was born in 1946 as a refugee in the Soviet Occupation Zone to German-speaking expellees from Prague, where her father had been a jeweler.

15 November 1980

Today I went out with Freddy to look at different properties for a dance studio. For the last five years I’ve been teaching dance part-time in our apartment while Martha is in her after-school programs. Martha’s seven now and I think she’d like it if our family owned a dance studio downtown that all her friends could come to. We left Martha at home with Ilse, a friend I met back when I was a part-time waitress at a club before having Martha. Freddy and I saw a couple of different options, but they are all pretty expensive. There was one that we can probably afford, and it needs some fixing up. It’s a good thing that I have two jobs and that Freddie’s art is popular among a lot of people we know.

1 December 1980

Freddy and I have been fighting more and more lately. We try to hide it from Martha, but I think she’s starting to notice. The other day Freddy told me that he was going to request an exit visa to go to West Berlin. Of course, he was going to take Martha and me with him, but he didn’t even ask if I wanted to go. His friend Manfred Krug was allowed an exit poll three years ago. Krug was an actor and singer who protested the expulsion of songwriter Wolf Biermann. Freddie said he could file a petition for an exit visa like Krug, arguing that it’s too hard to live in the East as an artist. However, when Krug left for the West, he had to leave all his property to the government. What about my studio? I finally am having my dreams realized and if we leave it’s going to all get taken away.

The East is all I’ve ever known. I feel important here and with my family. I work to provide for my family and all the government programs are really helpful. I couldn’t be a dance tutor without free childcare or after-school programs. But Freddy says that in the West he would do better as an artist, and we could probably live in a nice house instead of an apartment. I would like that since our apartment here is so terrible. Our apartment building is too over-crowded, and the hot water hasn’t been working for the last three days and no one has come to fix it in spite of my multiple complaints.

Another problem is the shortages. I haven’t been able to get the things I need for some time now. It’s so incredibly difficult, even if you ask the grocer to look in the back. It’s also hard for me to find the time to wait in line for groceries with two jobs. I need to pick up Martha from her after-school program by 5 pm and then my dance lessons start at 5:30. I try to get groceries on the weekends but that’s when all the women do their shopping and I miss out on quality time with my family. Lately I’ve been using the underground to get the stuff I can’t find in the stores. I know that I could get in some trouble – but it’s nothing compared to Freddy’s paintings. If a Stasi or an informer ever saw some of his paintings he keeps at home, I don’t even know what could happen to him. I think it’s dangerous for our family. I’ve always supported Freddy’s work and accepted our different beliefs, but I feel like he’s getting too radical for our family recently.

I don’t know what we are going to do. I agree with Freddy that there’s a lot about the East that just isn’t good, especially housing and the food shortages. But I’d be scared to leave. And I’d be worried about giving up all that I’ve built up here, especially my career.

10 November 1989: Margot König (ML)

Margot was born in 1945 to Communist Party members who spent the Nazi period in exile in Moscow, returning to East Berlin after the war.

I didn’t think I would be alive to see what I have seen today. The border is no more. People, quite literally, have begun to chip it away. I don’t know if this will last, but we are allowed to freely travel to the West now. Despite my hesitation to believe this is happening outside of my dreams, it also seems impossible that this could all be taken away from us again. Florian and I stepped foot in Kreuzberg among East and West Germans alike and no one stopped us. No one tried to shoot us. People danced in the streets and began hammering at the wall.

Part of me is scared; the timid part of my heart, I admit. This isn’t the revolution Florian and Anna and I have so carefully planned for. I don’t know who I am without the wall keeping me here. The West, what little I have seen and known of it, has seemed so far from me. It’s been something to long for, not something to have. Despite my frustrations with the East, my disillusionment with it, I can’t help but see the flaws of the West. I was raised a Communist. If I do not like suppression of speech that has occurred in the East, nor do I like control of consumerism that goes on in the West. To think that this other half of the city, these other people who live so differently, are here and are with us now, is a fact I can barely comprehend.

Read more from Margot in November 1998.

November 1990: Claudia Brodsky

Claudia was born in 1946 as a refugee in the Soviet Occupation Zone to German-speaking expellees from Prague, where her father had been a jeweler.

I think I will be in perpetual disbelief that this past year has become our reality. That while my aging parents are still in old East Germany, I can see them regularly. That my baby brother Juergen is now a working man living with me and Hanna. That my decision to flee westward with the Sweitzer family would result in a nearly three-decade separation from my family. As much as I regret the years missed in our lives together, especially seeing Juergen grow up, I don’t think I would exchange anything for my life here in West Berlin. Who knows if I ever would’ve met Hanna or pursued academia. While different from my young high school-aged intentions, I’m content with my choice to leave big industry and follow the path I fought for.

We drive over to see my parents every Sunday now to spend the entire day with them exchanging stories of the past 28 years, usually followed by tears and hugs, attending church, making delightful meals followed by card games, movies, even walks around the old neighborhood. It’s surprising how little’s changed since my childhood, especially in terms of my father’s job. I swear I’ve always known him to be such a hardworking, persistently stubborn man. Especially since my mother has stopped working and become more actively involved in public matters, he’s been working consistently with very little improvement in their life. So, I know every time I buy them some new furniture or bring over a new fun book or gift that he’s proud and grateful of the woman I’ve become and made for myself.

A surprise to me, my mother began her involvement with the Protestant church since Juergen started at the university and it’s become a frequent topic of conversation between herself and Hanna. Hanna’s always been my activist babe so she’s convinced that my mother was part of these grassroots women’s groups who’d frequent these churches. To my mother’s credit, I think this change in her life has been the best possible thing for building a relationship with Hanna. There's such a beautiful, remarkable mutual admiration between them.

It was difficult when the border first opened up because my parents weren’t particularly keen on crossing over to visit in fear of repercussions from his work, the guards, the state, the oppressive forces that kept us apart all these years but never mind that. I’m just grateful to see them now every week. Juergen on the other hand… he was the first one I saw just days after the border opened up. It was nearly impossible to find him but he was able to find the Sweitzer family and locate me. Seeing his fully-grown face was a moment I’ll remember forever. So it wasn’t unsurprising that Hanna immediately offered for him to move in with us until he found work and could support himself. As much as Hanna is convinced we’ll live alone again, back to our routine lives, I know she loves having him around. Turns out he had been highly active in youth protests against the state and responsible for participating in many acts of protest, peaceful and destructive alike. In fact, his desire to flee the East was why we were able to find my family so quickly from nearly the beginning of lessened tensions. Hanna’s since convinced him to take interest in the Green Party and is now proudly associated with everyone in her network so I’m sure it won’t be long until he’s making political gains and strides himself within the movement.

As for myself, this process has been strange. I’m proud of Helmut Kohl’s commitment to uniting the two Germanies while maintaining our notion of democratic and capitalist principles. Incredibly grateful these have allowed us to further progress and expand our society. Yet, it’s difficult for me sometimes to realize the actualization of these changes. Because my parents’ living conditions are still nowhere near what they should, especially considering how advanced the Western portion of our city is. Additionally, they’ve been so infiltrated with the ways of Eastern life and state that my father struggles to recognize his ability to live freely and who knows, start a business. It just seems as though these don’t feel attainable or realistic. Even after he exchanged their earnings and have lifted themselves out of the poverty, it remains nowhere near the lives I want my parents to live, especially given the freedoms and opportunities this new government champions. My anxieties and frustrations aside, I’m grateful to have my family back in my life and that will forever be the most important outcome through all this.

14 November 1992: Ilse (RA)

Ilse was born in 1938 to a Catholic family in Cologne (later West Germany). Her father was a Wehrmacht soldier on the Eastern front; he captured and held as a POW until 1956.

I can’t believe I’m back in the city. Berlin. I never thought the day would come that I would come back here and feel okay with it?

Of course I need to be okay with it, it’s not the same anymore. It’s all different, immensely different. I was scared at first. My boyfriend and I enjoyed our time and our nice privacy in our small town but he thought it was time to get back to busy civilization and I agreed.

It was weird finally coming back. It’s only been a few years since the wall came down and something still seems off. Not necessarily off but just odd. Yes the wall is down but that doesn’t mean we completely forget it right? The wall became a part of our identity for so long. Honestly when the wall was coming down, I was nervous. I had no clue what the GDR world was like, what if it never dies? They say we will unite under one but what if we still don’t? The thought overcame me. I’ve been living my whole life in this world of West Germany, it’s all I know. To be unified with a whole other world just sort of terrified me. We’ve already been through so much, what if this also goes poorly? Then what? What do we do?

On the other hand though, I was excited. The unification meant so much for Germany. I for once in a long time felt like a proud German. A German that was no longer going to be identified by the separation, or my father’s participation in the war, but just as a German. It felt amazing, it felt freeing. Scary but riveting. This is a world I was not yet introduced to yet, and I was finally ready to be a part of it.

Now I still walk around and things blow my mind. My friends who used to live over the wall under the GDR are still blown away by getting to drink coca cola. It’s the little things that I didn’t think would make such a big impact till now. It feels like we are starting over again, and even a few years out there is still so much more to come. Even though we are progressing, the sense of the past still lingers around. Will there ever be a time when we don’t have to live in the past anymore. I feel like that is very hard to ask. Each of us are all approaching this in our own separate ways.

Some of my friends with their GDR past still seem to want some aspects of it or long for some aspects of it which remain fascinating to me. They weren’t against the unification at all but a part of me believes that they somewhat were. It’s not necessarily that they didn’t want to be unified under one, it’s just hard to change and I understand that.

It’s hard to be structured in such a specific way and then that structure just be completely taken away. It’s hard to be taken away from that norm that we thought was the norm. But now I am used to it. Now I walk around this newly unified Germany and I’m proud. I just wish there wasn’t this constant sense of the past. This constant thing of Nazi-ism, the Cold War, the Wall, all in the air. It makes me wonder if there will ever be a time when we will never be haunted by our past. Will there ever be a day when we won't be categorized by what Germany was all those years back? I sure hope not. I truly believe now Germany is better than that. It is a new chapter we are living in right now and we must keep going forward with this. This contact with the past may never go away, and I guess in a way it is okay to remember what happened. To remember what happened is to help us continue to move into the right direction. Every corner of Berlin is something different, something historical, it’s hard to believe that I live here now in a time where it finally just is just Berlin. I get to be a part of this new chapter and whatever this city has to face again. Hopefully, Berlin changes for the good, and history will possibly be on our side now that this divide is finally over.

19 April 1993: Jakub Symanski (CS)

Jakub was born in 1946 in a refugee camp near Kiel (FRG) to "ethnic German" expellees from former German lands. His parents, peasant farmers, spoke Polish at home.

I went to the east for the first time last month. I really didn’t have all that much of a reason. I just wanted to. I’m getting older now. Call it a midlife crisis, but I wanted to have that experience. Well, the first thing that surprised me was that it was honestly not all that special. Well, I guess in the ways I thought it was going to be. I mean, it was more of Germany alright.

Okay, I know that sounds ridiculous, but think about it how I have. I heard stories about the East almost nonstop. They seemed like this mysterious “other” to me my whole life with this mysterious aura of menacing energy. They’ve always said it over and over to me in Kiel when I was getting my start. Those communists were the antithesis of all we worked to be here in the west.

Well, it might have still been true. I did wait a full two and halfish years to go see it for myself. Most people got the jump on going there almost right away. Plenty of time for the red to slowly drain out of the area and to become a bit more… well, familiar to here for lack of a better word.

Communism really did just retreat, at least that was the way it felt like. Was it a total invention of the propaganda? Suppose I’ll never know for sure. Of course, that’s all totally illogical. Of course, it was there. Sure fooled me when I took my first step into East Berlin and saw that Coke billboard out and about. Funnily enough reminded me more of my own youth than gave me some crazy insight into a world I had only heard by word of mouth.

The whole world seems to be falling apart, lots of things are changing… Yet I can’t seem to stop myself from just doing as I always did here in Kiel. It seems like most people would like to do the same. It’s funny though. When I was a young kid, a very young one in fact… I was just as different as those folks in the GDR from the Americans who took strong influence in developing this half of Germany. My parents migrated from a nation the red curtain had been pulled over. Yet, I’m here. As capitalist as ever. They had enveloped me before I had even realized it.

What a world this is. Transformations come and go and in the flash of an eye, the world has adapted to it like it was always the case. I’ll remember it all though. Just like I remember what it was like to struggle to speak the language I need to use every second of every day. I won’t forget that it this state of life was never truly a constant.

3 November 1998: Margot König

The exhibition opened this weekend. I haven’t had time to write about it, but I think it was a success. Father came. I do believe that was the first time in my life that he has ever been to a show. He didn’t speak to anyone besides me and Florian, unsurprisingly. Since Mother died, he has tried to be kinder to me, but I don’t think that’s why he came. No. In fact, I know that isn’t why he came. He wanted to see the portrait. I don’t blame him.

I was commissioned to take a few portraits for a collaborative show at the Hamburger Bahnhof Museum. Artists were supposed to illustrate the people who represented the coming together of East and West Germany. I had not thought, really thought, about reunification in a long time. When it happened almost a decade ago now, I remember feeling scared. I remember the fear acutely, though I tell most people about the joy. It is the story they expect and it seems harder to contradict them and tell my own story than to simply coalesce and fit myself neatly into the overarching narrative. In truth, the portraits I took helped me come to terms with some of what I have felt in silence for years now.

I took my mother's portrait before she died. That’s why my father came. He stood in front of it for a long time. I was drinking champagne and talking with the curator of the museum, thanking her for her work on the project when I noticed him. He just stood and stood. I wanted to go to him and put my head on his shoulder, but since my mother’s death I no longer know how to speak to my father. He seems so much more fragile in this unfamiliar world and he is old now.

I was surprised at the end of the night when he came over to me to congratulate me. “You have accomplished something here, Margot. Your mother would be very proud.” “Are you?” I asked him.

He didn’t say anything but just looked over in the direction of my mother’s portrait. “You should go look at your file, Margot. Go look before I am dead too.”

I was stunned. He had never spoken to me about my file before, though—due to the denied travel papers that seem like a lifetime ago—I knew I must have one.

I had sworn to Florian and myself that I would never look at my Stasi file. I didn’t want to know. I think it is because I find it difficult enough to love my father now. I knew that our relationship would not survive if I found out what I knew to be true.

Just like his old ways, my father was trying to guilt me into granting him access to my heart; my forgiveness. Yesterday, though, I went.

And what I found has brought me pain. Not because of the betrayal I felt about those who had informed on me, but because of who had not. My father had never spoken a word against me. There was not a scrap of paper that betrayed me to the state as a rebel or dissenter or an artist in my father’s hand. He was innocent. I skimmed through the rest of my file, and I was not surprised by any of the other names. I had been distrustful my whole life, but neither my father nor my mother nor Florian were guilty. Anna, of course, was there, her codename typed evenly across the top of several reports. But she begged my forgiveness the day the Stasi files were released. She and I reconciled when I showed up uninvited to her wedding to Sarah, though Florian still struggles to look her in the eye. They were friends first, after all.

I have not yet found it in myself to call my father. I wished, not for the first or last time, that I could talk to my mother. I wished I could ask her to beg his forgiveness for me, as she had so many times during my life. How could I have spent so many years resenting him for something he had never done? Papa, I am sorry.

You and your father both want a better world, my mother said once, as we cleaned dishes together. “I don’t like his idea of a better world.” I said. “And he cannot believe in yours,” She said.

Now we live in a Germany that neither of us recognize and my mother is gone. It’s time for me to call him.