Scaramouch
Random word list:
mythopoesy
thorough
Scaramouch
throat-clearing
maple-leaved
Word chosen: Scaramouch
Definition: A stock character in commedia dell’arte and farce who is a cowardly braggart, easily beaten and frightened.
Free association word list:
Cyrano de Bergerac
French class
Mrs. Setzer
Katie
Heather
Europe trip
six weeks
fun
Britain
France
Belgium
Netherlands
Switzerland
Austria
Lichtenstein
West Germany
East Germany
Berlin Wall
No Man’s Land
Wall comes down
old man
sledge hammer
pieces
ghost
spirits
anger
hatred
fear
solace
healing
Word chosen: Berlin Wall
Writing:
In the summer of 1990, I was part of a tour group from high school that went to Europe for six weeks. While there, the Berlin Wall fell, East and West Germany became economically unified (the political parts were still in the works), and West Germany won the World Cup Soccer tournament.
The part that I remember the best was helping bring down the wall. Sure, pressure from Western countries, and from within Germany itself was what caused the wall to be destroyed, but I was one of the millions of people that actually picked up a sledge hammer to swing it at the steel and concrete construct that had so harshly divided the great country of Germany for so many decades.
There was a fairly large gathering of people near the wall that can only be described as a party. Most of our group joined the party, and enough of us spoke enough German to gather that they were there to take turns tearing down this section of the wall. Most of the people were in their college days, but there were a few older people watching.
There was a fairly old man off to the side that was not partaking in the festivities. Instead, he was wailing on the wall with his sledge hammer and crying the whole time. I could tell that this meant more to him than merely tearing down a symbol of hatred and tyranny. This was affecting him on a personal level far deeper than I could have imagined.
At one point he leaned the sledge hammer against his hip to catch his breath, but I could tell that he didn’t want to stop. His old, worn-out body just could not keep up with the emotional waves that were washing over him. I knew that he could not stand the break from tearing down the wall. He would push himself to the ends of his life in his effort to swing that hammer.
I broke off from the party, and approached the man. I asked him if he spoke English as I did not speak German. With a slight accent (he was obviously well versed in English) he told me that he did, and asked me what I wanted. With a lump in my throat, I asked him if I could help him tear down the wall.
With sadness in his eyes, he smiled at me, and handed me the sledge hammer. I took it up with the same fervor that he had applied to the wall. My young teenage body could hold up to these rigors much better than his frame could. As his proxy, I helped knock huge chunks from the wall. The man never once cheered me on, voiced his approval, or told me that I was doing a good job. I just swung, and swung, and swung.
Somewhere during the swinging of the old man’s hammer, I could feel a visceral rage building inside me. I knew the history of the wall. I had read stories about the wall. I knew what it had done to the great society of Germany. The greater my physical exhaustion built up, the greater my hatred of this concrete and steel wall became. I ended with a few mighty blows that were driven from deep within me. As I stood there sweating and swinging, I screamed out a barbaric yawp that caused me to swing the hammer harder than I’ve ever swung anything before.
I finally stepped back from the wall, and looked at the old man. This time he smiled at me, and the smile reached his eyes. He put his hand on my shoulder, and told me that I had done enough. I had done my part. He thanked me for my assistance, and told me that it was time to get something to drink. We had both worked up a mighty thirst.
I dropped the sledge hammer and left it where it fell. Before we walked away, I grabbed a handful of pebbles, dust, and stone from the wall to shove in my pocket. The old man took me to a nearby beer hall, and we spent the next hour talking. Well, I spent the time listening, and he spent the time talking. Somehow, I got the feeling that he this was the first time that he had told anyone his story in a very long time. It was cathartic for him to tell his story, and I loved listening to every moment of it even though the tale was a sad one.
I’ll sum up the story as I’ve already written enough here today…
He lived in what I grew up calling East Berlin, but worked in West Berlin. It was all one Berlin at the time. One day, while going home, he found a wood and wire fence in his way blocking the road with Soviet soldiers guarding the fence. He tried to find a way around it, but could not. He was cut off from his family. He tried for several days to find a way through, but could not without extreme risk of getting shot. He had heard stories of people trying to breach the fence only to die for their efforts.
Over the years the wood and wire fence grew into the Berlin Wall that I grew up learning about. As the years passed, he exchanged letters with his wife and two daughters on the other side of the wall. It was the only contact that he had with the family that he was forcibly divided from.
One day, his letters were returned to him undelivered, and the letters from the other side of the wall stopped arriving. He never did learn what happened to them. They just vanished. He blamed the Berlin Wall for all of this, and I don’t blame him one bit. There’s no telling what happened to his family. He said that now that he had access to East Germany, he was going to spend the rest of his days trying to find out what happened to them.
I wish that I had the forethought to write down the man’s name, phone number, address, or something. I never did. This was over 17 years ago, and I can’t for the life of me recall his name. I wish that I could, but it wouldn’t help. I never did get his last name. A first name isn’t much help in tracking down a person on another continent.
Sometimes my thoughts stray to that night in Berlin, and I wonder what happened to the old man. Sometimes I wonder if he ever found his wife or two daughters. He was fairly old back then, and I’m not entirely sure he’s still around. If he is, I hope that he’s sitting in front of a raging fire, drinking some fine German beer, and listening to the sounds of his grand-children’s laughter as he watches the faces of his two daughters smile back him.
