A Square in East Berlin

By Torsten Shulz

Comedy and tragedy intertwine in this entertaining account of life in communist East Berlin as seen through the eyes of a teenage boy. Published originally in German, Harry Guest has provided a funny and engaging translation. The story is sprinkled with outlandish characters, from Granma Otti perpetually in search of her next husband, to Fishface Winkler, whose demise at the hands of an unknown assailant scandalizes the square and leads to the search for the perpetrator. At times a mystery, at others a cultural travelogue, A Square in East Berlin reveals the reality of life beyond the Berlin Wall.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Impress Books
• Release date: Sep 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781907605321

Book preview

1

Granma Otti used to visit St Peter’s Cemetery almost every day. So I wasn’t surprised she decided to go there even though it was October 7th, 1968. Foundation of the Republic Day of course, but my grandmother saw no reason to alter her daily routine because of that. Far from it. To go to the cemetery or just stay at home instead of dutifully watching the People’s Army trundle by was her way of making a personal protest.

On that day, as on most days, I was on Boxhagener Platz playing football with Jimmy Glitschie and Mirko Buskov. We were taking turns guarding goal but felt equally happy when the ball went bouncing away and we had to run and grab it before it landed on the main road.

‘Holger! Come on! I want you.’ My grandmother was standing behind me suddenly. She was carrying a rake and a watering-can so I knew all too well where she was off to.

‘Can’t go on playing now.’ This meant I had to go with her. No excuses possible. No argument either.

‘Another time then.’ Jimmy’s tone was sympathetic, while Mirko Buskov said, ‘Have fun!’ with unconcealed malice.

Gran pressed her beastly watering-can of grey lead into my hand and tripped away taking short, brisk steps. We got to the Karl-Marx-Allee in less than fifteen minutes. Just like each year on October 7th, tanks and rocket-launchers were rumbling down the avenue. Soldiers peered out of the cramped little windows acknowledging waves and cheers from the crowd on the pavement behind the cordon. It was embarrassing enough having to lug the wretched can around each time for her, but really horrible to be so near the parade now and not be able to behave like everyone else. My grandmother made the situation worse by complaining at the top of her voice. I must admit, though, she always added to my store of colourful vocabulary.

Now she was shouting. Angrily. ‘Just look at that. The buggers have blocked the way to the cemetery.’ The buggers referred to were the ‘Commie bastards’ or ‘Ruddy Ulricht’s pack of thugs’ as Gran described them on other occasions. She swished the rake around in the air as if to defy the tanks. Oh no! I thought. I hope there’s no-one here I know!

I had lunch with my grandmother after school every day. She’d often greet me at the door with ‘Frau Runkehl’s off to the doctors today again and her hubby’s grave’s dry as anything. Turnips for dinner’ or ‘Old Mother Schneider’s none too steady on her pins. I’ll be nipping over. See there’s anything I can do.’

My grandmother took a great interest in the doddery old women round our way – and in their graves. Or, to be precise, in the graves belonging to the husbands they’d soon be lying next to. ‘Won’t be long before Alma’s in there too,’ she’d say as she gave the gravestone a good going-over with a damp cloth. Or ‘Here’s old Herbert now. You lonely there without your Else? Don’t worry. Won’t be too long now.’

When I got back to the square from the cemetery I’d behave as if I’d never been away but my team-mates couldn’t resist making casual remarks like ‘Any new corpses up there?’ or ‘Funny! Smells a bit mouldy round here all of a sudden.’

‘Come on, come on.’ I could never be quick enough for Gran. She was certainly in one hell of a hurry today. I was terrified she’d actually shove her way through the cordon and strut across the road paying no attention to the column of tanks but, thank God, we got to the other side of the Karl-Marx-Allee using the underpass. ‘Done it!’ she cried in triumph as if she’d somehow gained an extraordinary victory and off she went again at top speed.

Just before the gates of the cemetery she stopped short and I almost bumped straight into her. What was she up to now? Had she forgotten the pecking-order of the graves she was going to water? I looked at her anxiously. ‘Ah yes,’ she whispered suddenly. ‘He’s there all right.’

It sounded just as if danger was in the offing. Were we about to be attacked? There was also an undertone of curiosity – even pleasurable anticipation. Like at Christmas before the presents got opened. She lifted her chin and walked on letting her eyes wander over the rows of graves. Only the fact she never moved her head showed how tense she was. After we’d gone about thirty yards she hissed at me urgently. ‘Mustn’t be conspicuous. Turn round but do it casual like, see.’ Saying these words she kept looking straight ahead. ‘Inconspicuous. That’s the ticket.’

I turned round but obviously not casually enough. The man following us lifted a hand in greeting and I turned back quickly.

‘Well?’ Gran was all ears.

I had recognised the man. ‘One of Granpa Rudi’s boozing-buddies,’ I told her. This description came from my grandmother and I loved using it.

‘I know that,’ she replied rather impatiently. ‘What’s he doing? That’s what I want to know.’

‘Following us.’

‘Just as I thought, ‘she said with complete indifference, took a few steps and stopped again.

‘Morning Frau Henschel.’ Our pursuer offered this greeting once he’d caught up with us. ‘So you came after all. I must say I’m delighted.’

‘As for that,’ my grandmother said, ‘I come here practically every day. So it’s not unusual, see what I mean? By the way this is my grandson, Holger.’

I was surprised, not to say alarmed. Had I done something wrong? Or was my grandmother gaining time by using me as a topic of conversation?

‘Oh I know him all right,’ the man replied. ‘See him almost every day I do. On the square like.’

I too used to see him almost every day when he popped in to the Fire Alarm to play cards and drink beer. His head had always made a great impression on me as it seemed far too big for his thin body. I used to think how strong his neck must be to hold up such a huge head. And not only the head. His nose was enormous, big and bulbous, and now I was so close to him I could see it had pores you could stick matches into. Aha. So that’s what the pores in a sozzler’s nose look like, is it? I could hardly keep my eyes off them.

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ said the proud possessor of this nose. ‘Reason why I asked you to come here, well, it’s like this, see. I’m off for three weeks. To Bavaria, as a matter of fact. Seeing some relatives. And I was just sort of wondering whether you couldn’t give my wife a bit of a sprinkling while I’m away.’ He was obviously afraid Gran would refuse his request because without taking a breath he went on. ‘I can show you the grave. No trouble. It’s better, isn’t it, that way, rather than just describe the way it looks. You could spend the whole day trying to locate it otherwise. And her grave’s easy as pie to look after. I mean, there’s nothing to rake, no weeds to pull up. Just a little bit of a sprinkle and bob’s your uncle. And if rain’s forecast you wouldn’t have to bother!’

He gave a kind of laugh as if he’d made a joke or perhaps because he was embarrassed. Gran seemed a bit put out. ‘Yes. Well. Why not. I’m always hereabouts any old how, as you might say.’ Then she couldn’t stop herself letting on that she knew exactly where his wife’s grave was to be found.

The man with the huge head and a tippler’s nose beamed at her, obviously thrilled my grandmother had paid him so much attention, but she cut him off briskly by saying, ‘Well, I know where all the likely graves are to be found. Leastways in this cemetery. Nothing strange about it. It’s no more than a pastime for me – a kind of hobby if you like to call it that. See what I mean?’

‘I understand,’ he nodded. But perhaps he was considering what on earth he could say next.

‘Well, we’d better be off now,’ said my grandmother. ‘Holger here’s in a hurry to get back to his football.’

She moved off quickly as if there were only a few minutes before the whistle blew for an unbelievably important game in which I was to be the star player. Never before had she considered my football to be of any importance. That was okay by me. I followed her, watering-can in hand. After some fifty yards she stopped again. Sheltering by a family tomb she peered out at the entrance to the cemetery. Then as soon as the bloke who’d asked her to water his wife’s grave had disappeared she said, ‘Come on then. I’ll show you what’s to be watered. Let’s make a start, eh?’

Once more she was off like a streak of lightning. We were there in less time than it takes to tell. A tiny urn like most of the others my grandmother tended. ‘Just look at that!’ She gestured at the rank weeds disapprovingly. No proper plants. Not even a scrap of greenery for decoration. Nothing. Just a thin wooden cross sticking up out of the weeds and on it ‘Here lies Magda Wegner (1890–1967). At peace.’ That she was indeed lying there – and peacefully – seemed to me so obvious it didn’t need mentioning. Gran, however, stressed the fact. ‘Nice peaceful woman. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Didn’t deserve a grave like this. Hardly a year gone by since they put her there and nobody’s been to tend her grave let alone stick in a flower or two.’

‘What’s the point of watering it now then?’

‘Helping the weeds to grow, silly!’ Gran gave a laugh and then went all serious. ‘Wants something from me, he does. Otherwise why do you think he came up to me yesterday, asking as how he could ask me something at the cemetery today? You think he’d do that if he wasn’t going to ask a favour? Eh?’

2

The fact Karl Wegner, Magda’s widower, spoke to my grandmother on October 6th to see if she’d do a spot of weed-sprinkling on the 7th apparently wasn’t the first indication of his attentiveness.

‘He’s been spying me out,’ Gran shouted over the rumble of military traffic as we made our way back home. ‘And not just when I’m off to the graves. No. I’m hardly out of the door on the way to market but he’s standing there ready with a how-you-doing-then-this-fine-morning … And you know when all this started?’ She paused a moment before answering her own question. ‘Since Rudi hasn’t been seen outside, that’s when. What do you say about that then, eh?’ By this time she’d run out of breath.

She was right though. Rudi, my grandmother’s husband, had indeed been in bed now for a fortnight – except for the times when he’d crawl off with his headaches to the toilet and squat there for half or even a whole hour. Sometimes I’d wonder if he’d ever come out again. Gran used to fling open the door to see if he was all right. I’d hear her yelling at him. ‘You could at least flush the bloody thing.’ Then he’d spring into life and pull the chain so as to escape any further outbreak of wrath from my grandmother.

Yes, now, what could I say about that? Karl Wegner, like Rudi a regular at the Fire Alarm, now a freshly turned-out widower, was he more or less blatantly intending to seduce the wife of his sickly boozing-buddy? ‘I’d never have thought it,’ I said, giving out that I was far more a man of the world than I actually was. ‘I wouldn’t have thought that for a single moment.’

‘What do you mean?’ Gran responded promptly. ‘You think I look like an old scarecrow then?’

‘By no means,’ I answered hurriedly. ‘Quite the opposite.’

I did wonder for a moment what the opposite of an old scarecrow could be, but couldn’t think of an example. Anyway, it seemed to me my grandmother looked exactly as she always did.

I’d never actually given the matter any thought. All right, she was seventy-four years old, stood roughly five foot