Potsdam II

       Potsdam II

The war did its share of destruction in Potsdam and the communist  administration of the East zone which was the Russian zone, did the rest. Not only was the Garnison church heavily bombed, but the ruins were removed leaving an empty space good for parking their funny little Trabis, the only car manufactured in East Germany. When I was a child we took a steam engine train which stopped just at the edge of town. From there we walked across the parade ground where more often than not a group of recruits were practicing  their goose stepping, past the Bittschriften Linde ( the Linden tree to which the subjects could pin their petitions) to Breitestrasse corner Breite(Broad)brücke to Nr. 27. When I came back the first time many years after the war, things had changed.

This time I had to take a bus from Berlin. The wall deviding Germany into two parts was still standing, but restrictions had eased and it was possible to go and visit. With me on the bus were mostly Berliners who were finally able to visit their relatives after all these years of separation. Nr. 27 was still standing, seemingly unharmed, but the canal was gone. Now Breitestrasse really was broad but totally drab. Walking into and around town and talking  to a few people, I encountered caution. As if people were constantly looking over their shoulders. The chancellery in which my grandfather had worked stood, un-harmed, and I decided to take a look inside, only to encounter total silence.

I walked up the stairs to the mezzanine. Nobody. Up and down the hall past closed office doors. Total silence. Until I found one slightly ajar . Just as I pushed it open a bit two people passed inside from one room to the next, bending  over  some papers. I think I only got as far as clearing  my throat when they literally flew apart , their faces registering  great  anxiety, if not real fright. Fright of having been caught  at some conspiracy I assume. All over town, when trying to talk to people, I met wth suspicion, sometimes out-right hostility. Passing two people standing together talking they would immediately pull apart as if afraid of being  overheard. Caution seemed  to be the order of the day.

Many street names had been changed  to honor communist politicians.Breitestrasse was now Wilhelm Külzstrasse, whoever he was. Though the ruins had been neatly removed,neglect  and poverty were evident. The street where my father grew up, once a not very long but elegant stretch just outside the original town now looked delapidated. All the enameled  plates with the housenumbers were chipped, sometimes barely readable

A disturbing moment, for me, was the view from the “deathstrip” on the opposite side of the  Havel river, the Russian side.

I had gone  to Sakrow across the river to look for my great grandfather’s  grave and just check out the area where my father and his two sisters had spent many holidays of their childhood.After passing a few houses I went to the edge of the river and started walking along it a bit on the narrow path. The Havel is not very wide there, even I, who never was a very good swimmer,  would be able to swim it. Though, should you try it, you would be  shot. Walking along it I still could feel the sinister purpose of the path.These days,thank God were now over, though not yet forgotten.