Berlin
Although in certain areas one can explicitly distinguish between East German and West German highways, the journey to Berlin is pleasant. I am amazed that today, thirty years after the fall of the barrier between East and West Germany, there is still such a difference between the East German highways and the West German highways.
It is the end of June 2023, and we are still living in a relatively sane era where our new right-wing government led by the narcissist, the little piglet, the prince of darkness and the spineless yes men who serve them, is what bothers us the most. Every piece of news coming from the eastern Mediterranean is only related to them and disturbs our peace. At this point, October seems as far away as the sun is from the moon.
I am passing near Leipzig and learning about some interesting events. The first of these is that on October 7, 1989, to mark the fortieth anniversary of the German Republic, Gorbachov, the President of the Soviet Union, visits East Berlin where he urges East German President Mr. Honecker to implement political reforms, saying, "Life punishes those who miss the train." I don’t know... for us, the Jews, life punished everyone who got to the train.
The second historical event occurs on October 9, 1989, when seventy thousand brave citizens march silently past the Stasi secret police headquarters in Leipzig. Due to the inferior number of the fascist regime's police, the protest march proceeds without confrontation from the secret police. A few months later, the totalitarian communist regime of the German Democratic Republic, namely East Germany, crumbles.
I am not particularly moved by this information, and I do not know how I feel about Berlin, which many of my people cannot be indifferent to, and quite a few others choose to live there. Part of that minority who has chosen to live in this city is a tiny family dynasty of mine - a second cousin, her husband, and their one-year-old son. Besides them, I also have a friend who has abandoned the Holy Land and is living a new openly gay life in the progressive West.
In exchange for companionship, a hot shower, and a foreign bed at my second cousin's home, I abandon Nadedet on Wörtherberg Dam Street next to the massive Hoffner furniture store. There is no doubt that it is quite difficult to leave my home on wheels on a random street in a foreign city, but I was told that family is important and that we need to have social interaction, and at the end of the day, I really like my friend and the little second cousin family.
And now, a story.
After a thorough cleansing of the body in a torrent of hot water, donning black clothes and a faux leather pilot’s jacket, applying a black stripe on my eyelids, dark lipstick to my lips, and gel to flatten my curls, around nine o’clock I heads out to the famous area of bars and nightclubs in the city. Here, every kind of gender and inclination has a bar, a cafe or a club of its own. LGBQTPLUSWXYZ, they're all here. I have already found the friendly Winterfeldplatz neighborhood on Google Maps, and now I am following the route marked out on my phone.
The place is called "Gedenkort Hilde Radusch," which means "Meet at Hilde Radusch" where women, presumably, introduce themselves to each other. It turns out this is a place that only operates during the day when one wants to learn about the life and work of Hilde Radusch who did not hide her sexual orientation and her support for communism even during the Nazi period and was arrested and punished for it, but survived to tell her story. Currently, I am not interested in the brave dead German woman. I long for someone extraordinarily alive.
Up the street, tables on the sidewalk indicate additional meeting spots. I walk towards them and, without scrutinizing the dark figures standing and sitting around too closely, I approach the bar.
"Club soda with ice and lemon, please," I says to a beautiful Maltese bartender with mocha-colored skin and a clean shaven head. "You are not from here, eh?" over the music the Maltese shouts back at me, laughing with dimpled cheeks. What a shame I don’t drink alcohol. I could have stayed here all night just ordering drinks from this beauty. I nod and return a smile to Dimples.
Somehow, almost always, in all these bars, it is the bartenders who attract me the most. Perhaps because they serve everyone with a blend of professionalism mixed with just the right amount of casual friendliness. I watch the long-limbed Maltese juggling her bottles and glasses, moving her hips to the rhythm of the music. Someone sits down next to me, but I pay no attention and just stare at the exotic bartender. Minutes pass, I sip my soda, and as usual, from deep down, despair begins to build up. Why would this beautiful Maltese have anything to do with me?
A gentle bump of shoulder to shoulder draws my attention to the woman sitting beside me. "Oh, sorry!" the woman says, and I reply, "It's okay," while sipping the remainder of my soda. "What are you drinking?" the woman asks in English, without a strong German accent. "Soda," I apologize. "Can I get you another one, or do you want something a bit stronger?" I study my neighbor's face. In the dim bar light, she looks to be in her fifties, her long hair pulled back into a sort of bun on the top of her head, her forehead is high, and her eyes slightly slanted upwards, with a straight nose and a full bottom lip. She is beautiful. The neighbor tilts her head to the side. "Yeah, yeah, soda is great," I say. "You don’t drink alcohol," the neighbor notes. "Right," I nod. The German signals to the bartender and orders some cocktail for herself and soda for me.
"So you don't drink alcohol because you're Muslim?" my neighbor asks. "I don't drink alcohol because I've had enough," I reply. "Tonight or in general?" "In general." "And you're not Muslim...?" "Correct. I am not Muslim." "So can I ask where you're from?" I hesitate. There’s no telling how the non-Jews will react to my identity. I say, "I'm from the Middle East." "You’re from the Middle East and you’re not Muslim. That means you’re either a Lebanese Christian or an Israeli Jew." The German gaze lingers on me, and I nod a solitary nod. "I’m not a Lebanese Christian." I am impressed that the European knows something about the Middle East. "Do you have a problem with that?" I ask. "Not at all," my new friend replies.
It turns out this woman was born in Marj Ayoun in Lebanon, and like me, she is not Muslim but an Orthodox Christian. "I used to look every day towards Metula and pray that God would show me the way to Israel." A feeling of warmth washes over me. Here sits someone from my hood, someone who knows how to scoop up hummus with a torn bit of pita and what river is being referred to. After weeks among relatively light-skinned Europeans, I feel I have found a sister.
"How should I call you?" I ask my neighbor. "Sarah," she replies, "and what’s your name?" she asks. "Havatselet," I respond. "What is that?" Sarah doesn’t understand. I explain how to pronounce the name: "It's like 'have a salad.'" The Lebanese German looks at me confused. "What?" she asks again. "Eat a salad," I explain with a kind of a gesture, and Sarah bursts into laughter. It always works. The ice is now officially broken.
At eleven, the music gets louder, and Sarah asks me if I want to dance. "Yes!" I want to. We leave our bar stools, and a large gap opens between us. I am exactly one hundred sixty centimeters tall, while Sarah, by all estimates, is closer to two meters. "God save me!" I think to myself, looking up. "What did your parents feed you?"I ask. Sarah looks at me and says, "Hummus, tahini, and a lot of salad!" She grabs my hand and pulls me to the center of the dance floor.
It's already past midnight, and again we are sitting by the bar. The conversation flows, amusing and intriguing. The disdain for Middle Eastern machismo, the aversion to the "whose the largest man in the room" mentality that characterizes too many Jews and Arabs, and especially our yearning for a peaceful and normal life "like in the villages in Europe where people have lived the same way for a hundreds of years,” I say. Sarah nods and declares: “In my opinion, there is a fundamental difference between the Judeo-Christian religions and the Islam. Jews and Christians sanctify life, while Muslims sanctify death.”
“Listen,” I say, “I feel like I’m in a movie, and unlike the salad girl, in this movie, the heroine dares to ask.” “Ask,” Sarah replies. “I’m wandering. I mean, I'm traveling around and I won’t be staying in Berlin for more than two weeks. Would you like to sleep with me tonight?” “Yes,” Sarah says. “The question is just where,” I give her a questioning look. “I have a husband at home…” Sarah says. “Ah,” a little less bold, I nod and after a moment say, “You’re invited to my camper van, just know that the length of the bed is the same as the length of the driver…” Sarah bursts into hearty laughter. “I’m very flexible,” she says, and we leave the bar.
Somewhere near dawn, Sarah goes on her way and I continue to sleep for a few more hours.
Later, I will meet with my second cousins dynasty again, and tomorrow I will go for a walk with Leopold in Berlin, and he will tell me many very interesting things about the city. In the meantime, I will find a camper van parking area called "Camping Krusini," located in a pine forest by a lake in the southeast of the city. The stay there costs about 23 euros per night, and the place provides showers, toilets, a grocery store, a laundry, water to fill the water tank, gray water drainage spots, and endless paths along the river and into the forests. Paradise.
Even though we did exchange phone numbers I never met Sarah again probably because Sarah has a husband who is sleeping in their shared bed in one of Berlin's finer neighborhoods and I've already been to that movie.
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