Berlin, 2016

It's Monday night, December 19, 2016. I'm standing in the lobby of a Frankfurt hotel, staring at a TV monitor. The Berlin Christmas market next to the Kaiser Wilhelm church is on the news. Strings of Christmas lights shine behind the flashing red and blue of emergency vehicles. I try to decipher the German headline scrolling by on the bottom of the screen. Something has gone terribly wrong. Not much later, I find out about the truck.

Two days before, Ping and I had passed through that very spot several times, happily wandering from stall to stall, enjoying the holiday spirit in the Christmas market. A few yards away, we had sipped warm cups of Glüwein. Pictures of the scene on the internet today make my heart ache. We'd been there--right there--and nothing bad had happened. Not on that day. Not to us. It wasn't our time.

Being in Berlin was already an emotional experience for me for other reasons. 

A little background. In my early teens, I was obsessed with World War II. As I struggled with everything from the confusion surrounding Vietnam to zealous religious beliefs to my own deep internal conflicts, WWII offered a simple dichotomy. Evil had raised its ugly head, but Good had emerged victorious.

Hitler, Himmler, Mengele, Goering and Goebbels conceived and carried out some of the worst atrocities in recent history. Auschwitz, Dachau, Mauthousen and Ravensbrück actually existed. The miraculous evacuation of Dunkirk, the Battle of the Bulge, and D-Day actually happened. Good people did amazing things against impossible odds. It's also true that IBM, Kodak, Standard Oil, Chase Bank and others made fortunes supplying both sides. The United States remains the only country ever to have dropped an atomic bomb on someone else. We did it twice. Things weren't so simple even then.

In Berlin last week, I got to go inside the preserved wreckage of the Kaiser Wilhelm church. I saw what it looked like before and after the Allied bombing. The blasted out rosette remains empty. I walked in Tiergarten Park, whose towering trees are all younger than 71 years old. Every one of their predecessors had been chopped up and burned for firewood after the war. We crossed the street.

Tears welled up as the setting sun lit the inside of the Brandenburg Gate and I realized what I had just done: I had casually crossed the street from West Berlin to East Berlin! No papers had been scrutinized, no looks of suspicion had been leveled at me. I could walk back anytime I wanted. No shots would be fired. All I had to watch out for was traffic. 

A double row of bricks embedded in the pavement marks the line where the Soviet-built tank barrier once walled off the Brandenburg Gate. Cars drive across it all day.

This city had suffered under one tyrant only to be divided up, dominated and isolated by another. What struck me was how free it felt that day. People of all ages hung out at the Christmas market, laughing and talking over steaming mugs of mulled wine or hot cocoa. Locals smiled and joked with us in two languages, counted out my coins for me when I forgot my glasses, and cheerfully waited to pass while Ping took a picture of some new delight. A peaceful demonstration blocked traffic, escorted fore and aft by the Polizei. The only order barked was the one that stopped a car trying to squeeze in a right turn after the intersection was closed to let the demonstrators proceed safely.

Two days later, a hijacked truck plowed into the crowd at the market by the bombed-out remains of the church.

I wasn't around for WWII. I was in a different hemisphere during most of the Cold War, but I remember listening to the radio with rapt attention as the wall came down in 1989. Crossing the street to the Brandenburg Gate brought me full circle. And having wandered through that Christmas market in Berlin made the truck attack all the more real.

Would I go back? Absolutely. I would go back to Berlin, just like I would go back to Istanbul and Ankara. These are special places. Why? Not only because I've been there; that just makes them special to me, personally. They're part of the world, part of this planet. That makes them special in their own right. That's enough.

This is the world in which we live, but that's the point: we LIVE here. We LIVE. So does everyone else with whom we agree or disagree, whom we understand or do not understand, who hold us in high esteem or in contempt--these are the people of this planet. This is our home. These are our times. 

The same questions that have been asked of every human being before are now being asked of us: "Who will you be in these circumstances? How will you respond?"

May I answer not with a fist, a creed or an ideology, but with open eyes, a clear head, a strong backbone and an open heart.

On one of the sections of the Berlin wall left standing (directly translated):
"You have learned what freedom means and never forget."

Story Time: The Ride

The Ride

By Mark Ivan Cole

December 6, 2016

"The Ride" - Illustration by Mark Ivan Cole

The gas station just off the highway was closed. No surprise at this time of night. It was Christmas Eve, after all. I found a spot by the dumpster, mostly out of the wind and snow. Folding my creaky bones into the corner, I barricaded myself in with my backpack. Lots of gaps, but it would have to do.

I was finally dozing off when I heard the jingling of tire chains. A battered old SUV turned off the road and pulled into the empty gas station lot. Fresh snow crunched under the treads as the vehicle slowly came to a stop a few feet away from me. The driver’s window rolled opened.

“You going somewhere?” asked an old man’s voice.

“Provo,” I said. No reason. It was just somewhere to go.

“Perfect,” said the old man. “I’m going there, myself. Want a ride? Heater still works.”

That was tempting. “No gas money,” I said.

“All the same to me,” he said. “Wanna go?”

“Sure.” I brushed the snow off of me and came around to the passenger’s side.

The driver was a wiry old fellow with a beard that was much grayer and even bushier than mine. The deep creases around his eyes crinkled when he smiled. I didn’t smell alcohol, so that was good.

“Sorry about the mess,” he said, hoisting a couple of grocery bags off the floor. He piled them into the backseat on top of a bunch of other stuff. “You’ll have to hang on to your pack up front here, at least for now.”

“No problem,” I said. I prefer to hold onto my backpack anyway, partly because it carries everything I own, and partly because it’s a nice buffer if I need one.

“Chris,” said the driver, holding out his hand.

I reached over and shook it. Good, steady grip for a skinny old man. “Steve,” I said.

“Nice to meet you, Steve.”

“Is that Chris with a C or Kris with a K?” I asked.

The old guy cackled. “With a C!” he crowed. “Nice of you to ask. Is that Steve as in Steven, Stephan, or Stefan?”

“Just Steve,” I said.

“That works!” said Chris.

He pulled back out onto the road and we set off at a decent pace. In a couple of minutes, we came to the edge of town.
“Listen, I gotta make a couple stops as we go, is that okay with you?” he asked.

“It’s your bus,” I said.

“Nice,” he said. “I like that. Here we go.”

We turned down a dark side road and came to a stop by a small house. Reaching behind me, he picked up the two grocery bags he’d put in the back.

“Be right back,” he said.

I watched him limp through the snow to the entryway of the little house. He fiddled with the knob a bit before opening the front door, put the bags inside, and then carefully shut the door, checking to see if it was locked. Satisfied, he limped back to the SUV and climbed in, grinning from ear to ear.

Without a word, he put the truck in gear and made his way back to the main road. We hadn’t gone more than a mile when he pulled down another side road and stopped in front of another little house, even more run down than the first. He grabbed another couple of grocery bags and set those inside, just as he had done at the last place. As he limped back to the SUV, I saw him shaking his head. He gave a heavy sigh as he dropped the transmission into drive and pulled away.

Another half a mile and we pulled off the main road again, this time stopping in front of a trailer park.

“What are you, Santa Claus?” I asked.

“Ha! Now that would be a fine trick, wouldn’t it?” he said. “Listen, can you help me with these? I’ve got four places here and if you’ll grab a few bags, we can do them all in one shot. It’s cold out there, but we’ll warm up again before the next stop.”

I grabbed a couple of grocery bags out of the back.

“Oh, not those,” he said. “Sorry. Shoulda been more specific. You take these and I’ll get the other ones.”

I shouldered my backpack and stepped out of the SUV.

“Quiet with that door, okay?” whispered the old man. “Folks are asleep already.”

I nodded, picked up my grocery bags and carefully bumped the door shut. He pointed his chin off to the left and I followed him to a little covered porch. We came up the steps and I waited while he fiddled with the knob before opening the front door. He put one of his bags inside. After he shut the door, he checked to make sure it was locked, just like last time. He nodded at me and limped back down the steps. I was right behind him.

We went to another trailer a few lots down and did the same thing. This time he left two bags. A few trailers further, he left another bag. Each time, he fiddled with the doorknob, and each time, he checked to make sure it was locked before we left. We crossed the street to a double-wide trailer and quietly approached the steps.

The old man was about to try the doorknob when I reached out and stopped him.

“Dog,” I hissed. I could hear scratching on the inside of the door.

The old guy just grinned. He clucked his tongue twice. The dog inside whimpered and scratched all the more. The old guy slowly opened the door and reached inside. A huge German shepherd licked his hand happily and ducked under it to be petted. It didn’t seem to mind me being there. Old Chris nodded his head to tell me to put the bags inside. Very, very slowly, I set the bags inside the door while Chris pet the dog.

“Good boy,” whispered the old guy. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to the German shepherd or me.

I backed away slowly while Chris scratched the dog behind the ears. Then he shut the door, checked it, and limped back to the road.

Once inside the warm cab of the SUV, he put the transmission into reverse and backed out to the main road again.

“Thanks,” he said. “That was easier with your help!”

“You certainly have a way with dogs,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “I like dogs. Cats, too, only they don’t show up as often.”

“You have a way with locks, too,” I commented; “unless everyone leaves their front door open for you.”

“Well, we just make sure to leave it buttoned up properly, one way or the other,” he said.

We drove on through the night, stopping in town after town to drop off more stuff. The SUV held a lot, apparently. It was kind of fun. Felt sort of like ding-dong-ditch, but with a happy twist.

“What’s in these bags anyway?” I asked, as we pulled away from a darkened row of apartments.

“Oh, this and that,” he said. “Stuff people need.”

“Like what?” I persisted.

The old guy shrugged. “Take this next place, for instance,” he said. “It’s not much, just a cake mix.”

“A cake mix?”

“Devils Food Cake,” he said. “No nutritional value, maybe, but sometimes you just need a good chocolate cake, you know? Sometimes it’s just the thing.”

 We drove on through the snow. The long night was getting to me.

“How do you know these people?” I asked.

“Same as anybody does, I suppose,” he said. “How do you know me?”

“You stopped and asked if I wanted a ride.”

“Yup. You cross paths with a lot of folks. Just got to pay attention,” he said.

“How long till the next stop?” I asked, yawning. The heater made me drowsy.

“Pretty far this time,” he said. “Nod off if you want. I’ll let you know if I need help.”

I was already half asleep by the end of the sentence.

  --  --  --

When I awoke, it was getting light out.

“Steve,” said the old guy. “Steve, we’re in Provo.”

I rubbed my eyes. We were in a strip mall parking lot. The place was deserted.

“We’re near the train station,” he said. “Will that do?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Okay,” he said. “I gotta keep moving, so I’m gonna take off, but you take care, eh?”

“Yeah,” I said. “You, too.” Sleepily, I opened the door and sort of rolled out of the old SUV. I pulled on my backpack. It seemed heavy. “Thanks for the ride, Chris.”

“No problem,” he said, flashing me that big, crinkly grin. “Oh, one more thing. Could you drop off this bag for me? It’s just a couple blocks from here, up that way.”

“Um, sure,” I said, taking the grocery bag he put on the passenger seat.

“The address is in the bag,” he said. “And read the note before you go. See ya, Steve! Nice talking to you. Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,” I said. I shut the door and waved good bye as the SUV crunched away in the snow, tire chains jingling.

Thick white flakes were still coming down. I found a dry spot under the awning of one of the stores and took the note out of the grocery bag.

Dear Steve,

Great to have found you there at the gas station! Thanks so much for your help tonight. I don’t usually have company so this was a treat. Hope you got some good rest.

Mrs. Jackson at 1770 Birch is a nice widow in her eighties. Used to cut hair for a living but she doesn’t get out much these days. There’s six bucks and a new pair of scissors in the bag. She probably won’t take the six bucks but she’ll appreciate the scissors and I’m betting she puts them to use right away. Let her.

Also, it’s not much, but there’s a couple cans of stew, a few cans of vegetables and one of those boxes of cake mix. It’s enough for two people for lunch so you might as well stay because she’s gonna invite you anyway. If she needs eggs and milk you can get them just around the corner from her place. They’re open on Christmas, bless their hearts. Six bucks ought to cover it. Make sure you thank Julia behind the counter for working today.

By the way, Mrs. Jackson has a few things around the house that could use some fixing. Her husband’s tools are still in the corner closet. Just saying.

Merry Christmas, Ho Ho Ho and all that!  —Chris K.