Six years had passed since my father’s arrest in East Germany in the fateful month of October 1983. Six years felt as long and sombre as Berlin’s frigid nights. Six years, with their days and nights, summers and winters, during which I had been unable to see my father, hear his laughter, or see his charming dimples when he playfully teased me and laughed.
The last time I had seen my father was on the day of his trial. I had been there, in the East Berlin tribunal, with my mother, aunt, and cousin Hannah sitting close together on the front bench.
The courtroom had been overcrowded, and my father had sat in his corner, looking exhausted and unwell. It had been a difficult day for all of us and the memory of it still haunts me to this day.
The words of the arrogant judge still echoed in my head like steel hammers. I remembered when he had looked at my father with his cold, malicious gaze as he declared him guilty and sentenced him to fifteen years in prison.
Since then, all attempts from around the world to release my father or reduce his punishment had failed, even those citing his old age and health concerns. My father’s case had indeed been a matter of international public concern for quite some time.
I remember during the first year of my father’s arrest, our small, modest apartment had been filled to the brim with people from all origins who had come to offer plenty of support and comfort. Simultaneously, the stream of reporters had been almost endless, day and night.
Reporters from various international agencies had come to us, and many television and radio stations worldwide had reported on my father’s arrest. Many international newspapers also had reported the news, making it one of the year’s most popular stories.
I remember my mother sitting every morning in the same blue velvet armchair by the window, repeating the same words, wiping her tears with her white handkerchief.
As for me, the image of myself squeezed through the reporters’ crowds still haunts my memory. Unlike my mother, my young age had not helped me avoid the pressure of press interrogations. In every meeting, I sat close to my mum, holding her hand, and responding to the reporters’ questions.
I still remember how I used to stutter and hold my breath between sentences, trying to choose the right words while avoiding the endless bright flashes of the cameras, which poured onto my pale, sad face as if chasing a photo of a thief trapped in a corner.
Then suddenly, I got bored. I felt weary of responding to the same questions, bored of seeing the same faces, and bored of the insincere sympathy and fake sighs. Then, one day, feeling overwhelmed, I left my seat in the middle of an interview and closed the door of my room in the journalists’ faces, leaving my mother to speak to them alone. I never went back.
Later, in the second year, news of my father’s arrest had become just a few hollow words swiftly read by the broadcaster, devoid of any emotion. Then, over time, my father’s name had disappeared from all the news reports, even those of the news agency he had worked with for more than thirty years.
Meanwhile, the footsteps toward our house had gradually decreased until we spent a month or two without hearing a phone ring or a knock on the door, except for visits from my mother’s friends or the postman delivering letters from Hannah.
At first, everything had been painful for me, and I had been crying silently in my room. Then, as I grew older, I stopped blaming people. I stopped feeling let down and ungrateful. I realised that society was simply unfeeling, even harsh sometimes and that it was like a fast train that brutally crushed anyone who stopped in its path. I had to learn how not to stand helpless in its path so that it would not crush me. Luckily, I found what I was looking for with Hannah.
Hannah had never disappeared from our lives. She had been the only one who asked about us and gave us hope. Even after my aunt had died, Hannah’s news and letters had never stopped.
Sometimes I felt that if it weren’t for Hannah, I would have drowned in the sea of sadness and pessimism that my mother was dragging me into without realising that she was smashing me from the inside.
Overnight, I became a young woman, nearly seventeen years old. I had completed my secondary education, obtained my baccalaureate with honours, and was preparing to enrol at the University of Berlin to study journalism, just like my father.
Occasionally, I worked as a correspondent for a local radio station, reporting on the situation in East Germany based on updates Hannah used to send in her countless letters.
“You’re beginning to resemble your father a lot.” That’s what my mother always used to tell me every time she saw me bent over my desk, busy preparing my reports. Didn’t my father very often say to me, “You are your father’s daughter”?
“I am too late,” I yelled as I bit my biscuit and gulped my hot coffee. “Mum, why didn’t you wake me up at 6 o’clock as I asked you yesterday?”
“It is only half past seven. Come on, Matilda! Your radio station is just a minute’s drive,” responded my mum, trying to raise her voice above the sound of the hover before it got louder. “Matilda, when will you grow up, huh? I’ve told you a thousand times not to eat in bed at night. Look at all those crumbs on the sides of your bed. What a shame!”
“Sorry, mum,” I shouted, fighting back my chuckles. “I stayed up last night editing my report. I got hungry.”
Then I hugged her tightly behind her back and whispered into her ears, “The report about the mass protests in Alexanderplatz was a challenge for me, mum. It is not like others. I feel that from the day of the 9th of October, when 70,000 people gathered in Leipzig to protest against communism, something is going to happen, something that will turn all the tables.”
“Nothing will change, Matilda,” responded my mum coldly. “Do you think that people, with bare hands, can defeat the army? Do you believe that these protests would change anything except yelling for long hours without listening ears, huh?”
“Yes, I do,” I confirmed, clutching my car keys and struggling to close my leather boots. “Please, Mum. Didn’t you see this peaceful great protest of Alexanderplatz that had forced the government to resign, huh? Half a million people gathered in Alexanderplatz in the heart of East Berlin. Can’t you imagine the great power released by these people as if they had melted into one body, claiming the same demands for freedom and rights? That was incredible, mum. Come on, be fair. You’ve seen all that on TV!
“So what?” responded my mother. “The government of East Germany resigned, but Krenz remained head of the Communist Party and the country’s leader.”
“Just wait and see!” I murmured with a confident smile as I kissed her on both cheeks. “These protests will never stop, mum. They’ve already spread here, in West Berlin.”
Then I added, “By the way, today there is an important press conference that will be broadcast all around the world. I must follow every detail of it, every word of the speech. I think crucial decisions will be made by the East German government under the pressure of the masses. Remember this day, my beloved mum. This 9th of November 1989 will be a hot day. Just keep on watching the news.”
“Love you, mum!” I shouted as I hurried down the stairs. “Don’t miss the action, girl!” I let out a small yell of excitement. “Today will be unlike any other day.”
