It's September 1994; changing fall weather has brought a long, hot summer to an end. Soon it will be my
47
th Birthday, and not much time has passed since I watched the big military ceremony at the
Brandenburg Gate on the occasion of the Allies' farewell. It has become clear to me that the times have
changed; times that bring back so many happy memories and experiences.
The more I think about it, the more I miss those times. The memories overflow, and I try to organize them;
or rather to sort them into the past decades. For almost half a century I lived on a personal level, and
later on a professional level, with the Americans. Such a major period of one's life leaves marks engraved
that cannot simply be covered up, let alone removed. Whereas the negative experiences thankfully fade away
with time, the positive impressions become all the more prominent.
How did it actually all start back then? In 1947, I was born in the Berlin district of Zehlendorf.
Even before I was born, the Americans were already playing a part in my life, as my mother later told me.
It was just before the third Christmas after the end of the war. The people who had survived this awful
time were gathered in the bosom of their families and were simply finding pleasure in the peaceful harmony.
Poverty was not necessarily seen as a bad thing. The majority of people did not generally have very much,
but they demonstrated modesty and a willingness to share. They thankfully made the most of every little
extra that was offered to them, whatever it was. The telling smells of home-baked cakes and Christmas
pastry wafted out from many an apartment; a pleasant smell that had almost been completely forgotten.
In those days, wax candles shone in the windows. They were intended to remind people of the many men still
being held as prisoners of war, and who were slowly being allowed to return home.
Late in the afternoon of December 21, 1947, on a cold winter day, my mother's water broke quite suddenly
and unexpectedly. As I was not due until the end of February 1948; my grandparents who were present at the
time thought it must just be an upset stomach. However, as the pains became noticeably worse, they too
became rather concerned. Due to a temporary electricity outage and the lack of telephone, my grandfather
saw no other alternative than to go out onto the street and try to stop a vehicle that could take my
mother quickly to the hospital. In those days there were not many motor vehicles on the streets, but luck
was on his side. Moments later, a big car stopped, occupied by two Americans in uniform. Without a moment's
hesitation they willingly whisked him and my mother off to "Haus Dahlem", the best-known maternity ward in
our vicinity. A few minutes later I was born. My happy grandfather walked back home, completely overwhelmed,
and I experienced my first Christmas - thanks to American assistance.
At the age of five, I had my second experience with Americans. After that experience, I was quite sure that
I never wanted to have anything to do with them again. It all came about when my parents quite spontaneously
decided to pack off me and my three-year-old sister Dagmar to Frankfurt am Main for a few weeks. At that
time, American families were offering to welcome German children into their own families in order to fatten
them up a bit, so to speak. The idea itself seemed brilliant, but in my case things did not at all as
intended. After a long bus trip, Dagmar and I, holding hands like in the German fairytale "Hansel and Gretel",
found ourselves in a big parking lot literally packed full of people. Suddenly, an huge man appeared before
us with a female companion. The man leaned down over us and spoke a strange language that I had never heard
before in my life. Oh boy, what was that? I felt scared and clutched onto my little sister. Laughing, he
forcefully prised apart brother's and sister's hands, picked up Dagmar, turned around without uttering a
word and disappeared with her into the crowd of people. I burst into tears and was so deep in shock that
I didn't understand what was happening when shortly afterwards, an American host family was found for me
as well. Because of worry, homesickness and a very high fever, I had to be taken back home after only a
few days. Only a short time after returning to my familiar old surroundings, I felt much better. Unlike me,
my little sister returned home after a few weeks, as had been planned, and she was squealing with delight.
She proudly told us all about an "Uncle Teddy". The little one did not know, of course, that American
children call their fathers "Daddy". She had simply understood "Teddy", and it had made her think of her
small and dearly loved cuddly stuffed animal. It just shows how different children can be. Maybe I would
have reacted quite differently, had it not been for the unfortunate and sudden separation from my sister.
However, I had been all alone in completely strange surroundings; abandoned, so to speak, by God and the
rest of the world; so I can still to this day understand why I acted as I did.
I could not know at the time that the dislike that I had developed towards the Americans would change
completely just a few years later.
As my parents' marriage broke down in the years that followed, my mother moved into her own apartment with
my two younger sisters. Even before my parents' divorce, I was sent to live with my grandparents. Oma &
Opa, as I called them, lived on Onkel-Tom-Strasse. It was with them that I spent the childhood and teenage
years that lay before me.
With Grandpa in the Grunewald
