The Wall

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It was August 1963, and the weather was kind, as if to soften the hard edges of the world around me. I arrived at the Hauptbahnhof Berlin after a long trip from Munich, weary and uncertain. The air of the city felt dense with the echoes of history and recent events—Kennedy’s voice still seemed to reverberate from the walls, his declaration, "Ich bin ein Berliner," a defiant echo against the oppressive silence that divided East and West.

At 23, I was travelling alone, and Berlin’s streets were strange and unsettling, like the corridors of a house in which I did not belong. Despite my unease, I made my way to Checkpoint Charlie, or “Checkpoint C,” the infamous crossing point where the city’s lifeblood seemed to freeze. The sight of the Wall, stretching endlessly, rough and imposing, made me shiver. I walked alongside it, tracing my fingers over its cold, impersonal surface, feeling the weight of a divided world press down upon my shoulders.

I was bound for the Hook of Holland, where the Harwich ferry awaited, but the journey required more than a simple ticket. To leave West Berlin, I had to obtain a special visa that necessitated a journey into East Berlin by train—a prospect that filled me with a quiet dread. With every step, it felt as though I was crossing not just a physical boundary but some invisible line between freedom and the unknown.

After securing the visa, my relief was palpable. I hurried back to the Hauptbahnhof, my heart pounding, and boarded the next westbound train. This train, with its worn seats and the faint scent of distant places, had clearly travelled from deep within the eastern regions of Europe. It was full, yet I found a seat among a family group. Though we shared no common language, they welcomed me with gentle smiles and gestures. They offered me food from their modest supply, and in that moment, the fear and uncertainty seemed to recede, replaced by the simple warmth of human kindness.

As we rolled westward through Germany and on to Holland, I felt, for the first time in days, a flicker of hope, like the faintest glimmer of dawn after a long, cold night.