When a city enters a time of crisis, the floodgates open themselves up to spectators. People flock and crowd; families with film cameras and matching sunglasses press against hippies with backpacks rotting from the inside out. Those lucky enough to witness the spectacle firsthand enter a state of superiority. They saw with their own eyes while everyone who came after must scuffle over leftovers. An afterthought. Tittering together the true viewers speak plainly as though in code: no one else could attempt to understand, and so they are better for it.
I was unfortunate enough to believe I had more time to prepare for the Berlin Wall to fall. And where was I as Heaven’s hammer came crashing down? Muddling about in America’s damnable land, God’s chosen country. Still, as soon as the news reached me, I booked a flight criss-crossing states to see the felling for myself. I was served bottom-shelf gin and top-notch tonic by a woman wearing too much perfume and lipstick smudged in the corners of her mouth. Behold the icon of Americana herself.
“How many people have died on airplanes?” I asked her.
“It’s not the airplane that kills you, it’s the impact.” She smiled, and her teeth were stained red.
My own eyes co-signed to witness-hood, I needed to be able to tell my future children and their children’s children that I was there in the aftermath, that their patriarch had his hand in history. If I couldn’t generate a firsthand account, the least I could do was involve myself post-facto, scribbling my own name in the margins of the collective memory record.
Berlin was in a state of metamorphosis. Buildings old and new were cobbled against city streets, a hodge-podge of eras, a menagerie of the past and present coalesced into a backlit gray skyline. The graffiti fractured, scattered bits of what used to be words winding their way along what was left of the wall. My insides twisted at this perversion. A defacing of honor, colored lines slashed through noble stone. These punks couldn’t just let history lie in dignity, they had to fuck its desecrated corpse. I held up my camera, but there was an intrusion into my shot, a trespass of grotesque proportions. A tent so garish, red fabric like peeled skin, bleeding into what could have been beautiful. It promised SOUVENIRS in block letters and three languages, and as my camera scanned the figure behind the booth beckoned me over.
“Welcome, welcome! Looking to impress a friend? Pretentious in-laws? Trying to be a part of something bigger than yourself?” He seemed to vibrate with energy. A buzzing beneath tongue and teeth, elastic skin stretched over both muscle and bone. “Why not buy a certifiable piece of the now-fallen Berlin Wall?” The man talked fast, a sardonic grin worming through his rubberized face that warped with every word. He gestured, and various gravel formations filled my vision, each with a piece of rubber gum stuck to the side. “Stock is limited.”
“And what’s this?” I tapped the red glob that had molded itself to the small slabs.
“Stamp of authentication.” He disappeared briefly, leaving an empty breath of crisp air, spoiled by the sounds of incessant rummaging. He popped back up, proudly revealing a mass of wax, paired with a horrid wooden stamp. “Carved it myself.” I was speechless.
“You rely on that as a certification of authenticity? Globs of goo onto pieces pulled straight from history? You’re touting the remnants of a late-and-great historical symbol. You’re accelerating the transience of the already temporary object. Your wax won’t win over the ephemeral nature of concrete dust. Do you not realize what you have done? You’re nothing, only a peddler, far too stupid to see the value of what you have before you. Dare I even say it? Do I even need to? You’re a swindler.”
“They need the stamp.” The man looked at me, the face of patient condescension, as though I was some child. “Otherwise, it’s nothing but a piece of rock and gravel.” I rolled my eyes at this two-bit conman. The man sighed, an emulation of acquiescence. “Alright… you’ve got me. How about this: a discount.” He pointed to the wall. “If you want to pick out a piece yourself, I’ll authenticate it at a gross price cut. Disgusting, frankly. Sickening, even.”
“Why would I do that? I could just pick a rock and take it home myself, free of charge.”
He drummed his fingers on the table, a tune I didn’t recognize. “I think I just threw up in my mouth.”
“Excuse me? I’m a customer, and-”
“You haven’t bought anything yet. A consumer, yes, ever hungry forever more. But you’re not my customer. As it stands, you’re also nothing. A mere proto-purchaser.”
I shook my head, dismissing his attempts at identity politics. “Well, how do I know your rocks are the real deal? You could have stamped anything to make a quick buck.”
The man’s eyebrows raised, and his face twisted in tandem. Shock and appall. He returned to rummaging for a moment, and in a flourish revealed a papered statement, card stock and all.
“I’m a notarized certifier. You can trust me.”
“Who would notarize you?”
“Glorious days! It just so happens that I’m also a certified notarizer.”
My teeth froze in my mouth. This man made me sick. There was nothing I’d rather do less than place my golden trust near those wax and dust encrusted hands.
“A cyclical calling. It all checks out, I promise.”
“Papers all the way down.” I shook my head, stepping back from the booth. “I’ll find a place in history myself.” I turned from the man, who seemed to shrug, and I picked my own path to the Berlin Wall. It was a shattered state all in the name of reunification. My hand grazed stone, and I felt a welling up inside, as though I was meant to be here, sights set on-
“Entschuldigung?” A sing-song saying in a serious tone. Music to my ears, though a tune I didn’t want to hear. I shifted, catching sight of the intruder, a woman in uniform. Shiny buckles and scuffed boots, she looked at me with narrowed eyes. Her hand hovered by her side.
“Yes?” I schooled my face, attempting an implication that she was the foolish one for questioning me.
“Ah. You are an American tourist.” She seemed almost relieved. “Do not touch the wall, sir.”
“I’m not a tourist! I’m German, through and through.”
The uniform sized me up, scanning up and down. She had maneuvered her way between me and my prize. If I wanted to claim what I deserved I would have to be fast. Or better yet, clever. My fingers itched.
“Prove it,” she said.
“What? I’m telling you. That’s proof enough.”
Her lips had thinned into a line. “No.”
No? Aghast I turned, hoping for witnesses to this absurdity. But I only saw the booth, man still sat before stone. “What about him?” I pointed, the man waved. “He’s selling pieces of the wall, you know. I’d assume you’d want to do something about that.”
She looked behind me, unwilling to even pretend to show some concern. “He has a permit.”
At second glance the man waved a piece of paper at me, a white flag for the confrontation at large. His grin plastered on.
“That…” I was floundering. How could authority abandon me so? There was no path forward without a guiding hand from up on high. I took a step to the side, trying to evade the woman before me. “That’s simply preposterous.”
She tilted her head but chose to follow, sliding along the ruins. We danced our way through remnants of time now-memorial.
“It’s rather uncomplicated. I’m going to have to ask you to leave. If you don’t comply, I’ll be forced to arrest you, and contact the U.S. consulate.”
“I’m a German!” The whirlpool inside had long since consumed me. No longer balanced on the wave of distress, the scales shifted, tipping me towards drastic measures. The wall was right there! I was so close! My fingers brushed, and instead of a handheld grounding I found my face pressed against the wall I so longed for. My cheeks burned and glowed, heated by visions of the past itself. Torn away too soon, my hands encased behind my back, I was wrenched from the wall by the woman in green.
She took me to a building past description: white walls and thin windows. Hauled in on trumped up charges, the officer pushed me into a chair, metal teeth holding me in place, and she returned to the other side of the desk, walls of paper between us. Files highly risen, her eyes peered out from a slit in the stacks. I couldn’t see her nametag.
“I don’t have a German passport.” I explained.
“Then I’ll have to see your American one,” she said. My skin crawled, rising with the crescendoing hum.
“I don’t have it with me.”
“What kind of tourist doesn’t carry a passport?”
“I’m not a tourist! I don’t need a passport!”
We were at a stalemate. Prisons were hosts of purgatory - those inside wished for liminality, hoping for a transitional state, but found themselves stuck in stasis instead.
I asked to speak with a superior. The eyes behind papers changed colors, but they still bore the same expression. I slogged through mottled voices, trying to explain that I too was a person.
“I cannot complete your intake if you refuse to cooperate.” It was all the same woman.
“And I cannot be taken for someone else.” I did not have a visa. There was nothing proving my part in the world. I held out plane tickets and hotel room keys, bus passes and restaurant receipts, all in an attempt to catalog a life well-lived. For all my efforts, I was left in a pale cell, while others had the luxury of deliberation.
“Look on the bright side: you have the room to yourself,” she said. And so I was left, with nothing but my own thoughts to keep me company. And the figure laying across the metal bed frame, who seemed to start in surprise when I spoke to him.
“Can you believe it? Luck, she says. I’m an American citizen, you know. I know my rights.”
“You shouldn’t talk to me, they’ll decide you’re crazy. Get institutionalized. It’s what happened to my last cellmate, and my cellmate before him.”
I paused in my pacing, sitting across from the man. He seemed scattered, a collection of loose lines scribbled quickly to draw up a person. His eyes pointed in two different directions, but they were both a brilliant shade of blue.
“I’m already going crazy,” I said. “How could this happen to a sane man? I’ve done everything right.”
“A recorded pattern of consistent behavior. The subject, over a period of time, exhibits the following diagnostic criteria:”
“Now you’re just saying things.”
“Defensiveness.”
“Cut that out.”
“Belligerence.”
“I’ll call the guards on you.”
“Unyielding trust in authority.”
I leaned forward, the bedframe squeaking in protest. The man gathered himself up in a bundle, attempting to move as far as the small room allowed.
“What are you doing in my room?” I asked. Why would I say that? Have I fallen so far to consider this cell “mine”? To claim that it belongs to me is to accept that I belong here.
He shivered, a frown taking hold. “You don’t, technically.” The sheets folded, and unfolded. He sat cross-legged. “A prisoner is privileged to have the truest state of existence. While those experiencing so-called freedom struggle to maneuver in the world, losing themselves in the cracks, those in jail are kept safe in record. We are only real in the eyes of others, and to be in prison is to be watched. A veritable panopticon that reminds you time and time again that you exist. Who you are is decided and reiterated: in files tucked away and forms filled out.”
“They weren’t able to complete my paperwork.”
He lunged towards me, taking my shirt in his hands. “Don’t let them lose it! Don’t let them forget! Or you won’t ever be real again!” I pushed him away and he oozed, languid back over the bed. “That’s what happened to me. I was supposed to be released ages ago, but my paperwork got lost in the shuffle. There’s not supposed to be someone in this room, so there isn’t.”
“Why don’t you just walk out?”
He quietly cackled, a shuttering that rattled his body completely. “I can’t leave without the proper forms.” He swirled a finger in the air. “They won’t let me pass through the gates.” I took in this man, then shuffled to the window, hoping to see out. “I’m sure that won’t happen to you.” He tried to cover, convincing himself more than me. “I’m just a stupid American tourist.”
Cold air brushed my face. My cellmate seemed resigned to my ignorance of him, and voice trailed off in some such muttering. I scanned the lot outside, hoping for a glimpse of some shot at freedom.
No such luck. The sun set, and the sky grew dark. Food appeared at the cell door. The officer read aloud nutrition facts. Calories and vitamins, grams and percentages. Food pyramid, coagulated to curate a whole.
“117. 280. 35. 24 grams of protein. Vitamin A. Vitamin C. Folic Acid. B12. 100% of your Daily Recommended Intake.”
I split it with my cellmate.
He bemoaned around a full mouth that the door was left locked now that there was someone real in it. He couldn’t wander the halls. A prisoner in his own home, he says. The call is coming from inside the house, he says.
I settled down to try to sleep, hoping in my heart that this was all some nightmare, one that would resolve itself quickly. After all, I’m a real person, with real paperwork, and those in charge know what they’re doing. It was all mere misunderstanding. I comforted myself, though my thoughts were interrupted by a scraping sound. An itch in my brain that was not being scratched, but dug out completely. I glanced at my cellmate, but he had long since succumbed to slumber. Crumbs encrusted.
It was the wall. A scratching at the wall. My ear pressed so far against it until the sounds were unmistakable. A steady chipping, measured to the time of my heartbeat. I slowly raised myself up, so I could peek over the edge of the window. Before me stood a worn-clothed figure. He carefully was sculpting off pieces of my cell, dropping them into a little bag by his feet. He looked up.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him. It was odd, wasn’t it? He caused this mess, and now he appeared to what, gloat over his doing?
“You seemed so insistent that you would be a part of history.” He spread his hands, new dust splattered over old. “I would be remiss to not get in on the action. I plan to sell the stones from your cell for profit.” I gripped the bars of my cage.
“This is not my legacy.” I reached my hand out, but he just took a step back. “This does not represent me.”
“The late and great political prisoner. His words wasted in his time, he is renowned throughout the ages for his biting commentary, and critiques of the world at large.” He pulled out the wax, the oozing sludge that it was. “And you too could own a part of the authenticated cell wall he was stuck in! For the low, low price of a few euros (dollars also accepted), you too could own history itself.”
“That’s not true! I will be released soon, I swear!”
He tsked. Fingers wiggling in admonishment. “Pity. Could be a martyr, if you play your cards right.” I paused in my attempts to knock the wax ball from his hand. The man held it just out of reach.
“This isn’t a game,” I said. He tossed the ball at me, and I plucked it out of the air. “Martyrdom is serious. Not just anyone can take up the mantle. It requires courage and strength, bravery and honor.”
“A camera and a friend in the press,” said the man. Hands held out in supplication, I returned the wax to him. He rolled it between his fingers.
“I could be a martyr.” I stood up straighter, welcoming the glinting embrace of the moon’s illumination. Glowing with sainthood itself.
“Are you willing to die for it?”
“... No.”
“That’s it for me, then.” He upended his bag, dirt and rocks waterfalling into a pool beneath his feet. “My time is precious. Finite. Every hour is one I will never get back.” His disappointment was palpable, I tasted it on my tongue, coating my throat in hot oil, burning holes through my stomach. I was no martyr. “What a waste.” He left me in the empty room, the only real person to ever exist.
My paperwork was filed and completed the next morning. Punctual, every hour on the hour I was moved. Cellblock, to waiting room, to office, to car, to airport terminal and finally to the flight itself. Cold cylinder in the sky. I may have been absolved of my crimes but my sins remained, and they wished for me to return to the land where absolution was a mere indulgence away. The land of indulging, undulating before me: America at last.
My flight miles ticked me up to business class, and I stretched my legs. A flight attendant—my flight attendant, who had been my guardian angel from the very beginning, sky bound and transient, no one ever died on airplanes because they become reborn immediately after—brought me a mimosa with pulp intact. I grabbed her arm, clutching onto flesh so real.
“Are you happy to be going back home to America?” I asked.
“How funny! I’m German, dear.”