Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me

In a few days it will have been twenty years since the Berlin Wall's collapse. Who would have ever thought that it would go without a raucous, or a single shot being fired, paving the way to reunification, a quiet end to the Cold War.


In 1991, I stood at Checkpoint Charlie, one of the main arteries for crossing between the two halves of Berlin, the place where American and Soviet tanks had a stand off almost barrel to barrel.


Having seen the East six years prior, it was fascinating to watch the drastic change and activity- double decker buses loaded with tourists, bicyclists, Audi's and Trabbis whizzed by while merchants, many of them foreigners sold souvenirs of the German flag and remnants of the wall, splattered with graffiti, a symbol of the division that once was - the East and the West.


For me, I knew I was living through history with the sudden implosion of the Communist regime but despite the peace with the Exodus came social problems in lifestyle, wealth, political beliefs and other matters that caused a division between brothers. It seemed everywhere I turned the topic of conversation were tales of morose, pervaded by adult nostalgia, or freighted with spiritual disenchantment's.


The Westerners who extended their hand in a humanitarian gesture and valued freedom expected that reunification would come with a price- and they bickered, rightly so, they were already heavily taxed and even higher taxes were placed on them to compensate for additional subsidies. And it would be a while, perhaps even a generation before the Easterners could adapt to a new way of living.


Based on my personal experiences, I witnessed Easterners with a different work ethic. Striving for accolades and incentives were unknown, what they valued was equality. With competition they would retreat into a fantasy world where they yearned for the past- the life they once knew. Despite the fact that suicide rates were high, in the former German Democratic Republic (GDR), they knew what to expect, and there was a comfort zone.


The profound rift between the brothers made me think of Cain and Abel, born to the same parents yet split in their desires. After Cain kills Abel out of envy he is forever cursed with alienation. The distinctive note of his act is that alienation is largely a matter of cultural circumstance.


Author Günter Grass called the division of Germany a "punishment for Auschwitz" but I'd also add that no country ever had to live with so much dishonor. No country disappeared in such an orderly fashion as East Germany, but no divided country ever had such a hard time finding its identity. Lets' hope these feuding brothers find their way back to each other and form a family where wealth is there for everybody. But they will each have to work to earn it.

O' Divine One- Where art Thou?

There were a handful of reasons why I left Berlin in 1993 and returned to the States, each framed by earlier events that are explained in my memoir, Echo Between Us, but today I recall the whirlwind of my German memories in which I was immersed.

The best part of being in Europe was everyone I met. Bright young women and men, all artists, who measured their lives with the passion they expressed, buzzing and beating their wings around town- to me Berlin was a hive.

I've never met people in the usual traditional ways that people meet- I've made a habit of talking to strangers, and one of those strangers who became my friend, Benjamin Rawitz, I pay tribute to- an extraordinary man, who was born to play the piano, who was a regular at local concert stages but his influence went beyond that, a musician's musician with graceful nimble fingers and a kind gentle soul.

The first time I met Benjamin Rawitz, I was standing in a long line at KaDeWe, the largest department store in Europe. Expensive, luxurious, a shopping paradise and a legend, I also was a proud credit card holder. I inhaled the scent of leather, as I waited to buy myself a pair of mahogany kidskin gloves, a man watched me with quick curious eyes. “entschuldigen, ist dieses die Linie”? I asked in my wild broken German with a Spanish accent. Benny rattled on and I held up my hand. “Wait, do you speak English”, I asked, to which he smiled mastering charm. Detecting a french accent, I learned he was an Israeli living in Brussels.

How I remember that day, the encapsulation of everything I love most about this world: we walked out together passing the perfume counter discussing music, books, and the arts. It was drizzling slightly and down the street we went, I was laughing. It was fall, a season of my content.

Benny and I became quick friends and we had a friendship that was pure and simple; we recognized our tribal markings and discussed spirituality and the after life while sitting in sidewalk cafes together. We added all the things we aspired to do. When he left the city we developed a stronger tie slowly over time on a lost art- letter writing.

As time marched on we learned of each others artistic triumphs and disasters but none was so unfortunate that it stopped either of us from dreaming and living our each respective passions.

As any writer is aware, writing requires one to spend great lengths of time in monastic solitude. I enjoy this period when my mind spins more plots than my fingers could ever type, a ritual of silence. During one of these periods Benny's last card came to me that read- “A little bit of luck never hurt anybody.... I'm waiting to hear that something positive happens to you”!

Then I got the news, it was late August of 2006, Benny was dead. The tender man who would not swat a fly, murdered, his battered body in the basement of his apartment building; his nose had been broken and the frontal bone of his face smashed.

For three days in my own private war, I would talk to God, wail and twitch, begging for peace for Benny's soul. As a current passed through my body, feeling the voltage of violence that I abhor, every one of my muscles tensed. I battled with my mind even more, not wanting to see the ugliness of a brutal, barbaric murder, and yet seeing it every time I closed my eyes. Both my body and my mind writhed in unison, reaching a final end. I prayed that in his life he would remember a soft human touch; a simple handshake, and the flesh of another person without the psychological physical torture in the confines of his final hours from two perverse misfits who didn't have an ounce of respect for life.

Benny's killers were brought to trial and incarcerated. Today one of them, a minor escaped after having killed his baby daughter and her grandmother. This tragedy indicates that the laws in Belgium are too permissive and law enforcement officials have to do everything in their power to find him immediately; since his disturbed dark side is a threat to everyone he comes across.

Thumbing through Benny's photos of India, I miss you Benny. These words come to mind, from the revered Hindu text and philosophical classic, the Bhagavad Gita, “He who sees everyone in himself, and himself in everyone, thus seeing the same God living in all, he, the sage, no more kills the Self by self.”




Listen to Benjamin Rawitz-Castel playing Schumann
http://www.fototime.com/ftweb/bin/ft.dll/detailfs?userid={0B199B1B-2F0E-4CAA-A55A-0F96A12EBFCF}&ndx=1&slideshow=0&A

Smetteneh is sour cream in Yiddish, but Prague is far from sour.

After attending the Frankfurt book fair, I settle in to begin a new chapter of my life in Berlin. Taking my photos to be developed, I meet a new friend, Karen, I already know two Karen's and often meet people with the same name in threes.

Unlike the other Karen's who are German, this Karen is American, originally from Washington, D.C. who has come to Berlin with her husband, a French Canadian cinematographer.

That same afternoon we go for coffee and she spontaneously invites me to her home that weekend.

On Saturday I arrive with apple strudel and my favorite vanilla ice cream, by Movenpik.

There is an easy flow between us, by the end of the night her question puzzles me, “You know a lot of Jews don’t you?”
Remembering Mrs. Rubin, my friend Beverly's mother from adolescence. “They have been instrumental in my life.”
“I thought so, there is something about you that is very soulful, I see it in your eyes, a hurt or depth of some kind. Next week is Yom Kippur, my husband will be out of town, he’s gone for stretches of time. I’d like to go to a synagogue in the East, will you join me for services?”
“I've only been to a Passover Seder. What do I need to do?”
“You don’t have to do a thing. It begins with Kol Nidre, the night before Yom Kippur, it ushers in the holiest day of the year, traditionally a fast day. There will be music. We begin with dinner. Be here by 4:30, we’ll eat and go to services they start at 6.

Karen serves boiled chicken and makes a blessing over the wine. We enter a cavernous red brick synagogue on Rykestrasse in a courtyard and I’m amazed that the Temple is still in tact with what seems to be much of the original interior. I look around-only a handful of humble worshipers. How could they stay and why after having survived hunger, treachery and disease. Were they left behind, forgotten? Since Jews are known as people with long memories surely these people are not vindictive.

“How was this synagogue not destroyed?”
“It survived Kristallnacht through an act of fate and fortune-it’s surrounded by housing.”

The ark and bimah are tremendous, ornate affairs of marble and columns and balustrades. A deep balcony, swathed in stone and supported by low Romanesque pedestals, runs along the flanks of the building. There’s also a choir loft and an organ. I lean into her, “This Temple resembles a church.”

Karen looks at me and says “Jews had to identify with the dominant culture, it’s the only way to survive.”
“So what’s the significance of this day?”
“All vows, obligations and oaths are deemed forgiven, absolved and void.”
“Between who?”
“Individuals and God.”

If it's Jewish to make a deal with God, I’ve been doing that kind of bargaining my whole life. That night I go home and journal the experience feeling as if I have lifted and mended a piece of my heart.

Two months later vacationing with Werner in Prague it’s the eve of the New Year. We walk through the cobblestone streets of the historic Old Town Square and head for the famous Charles Bridge. The charming streets are lined with quaint old buildings straight out of a Grimm's fairy tale. Most would believe that Paris is the most beautiful city in Europe but I can't agree after having seen Prague. Both cities share great architecture, character, layers of history and a river that divides the city. At night Prague is illuminated in golden hues that give the Art Nouveau buildings a splendor that make me feel I'm walking on a stage set. I also don't see a speck of trash or graffiti. Even the pavements are decorated with colored mosaics. After a long morning of walking and almost hobbling from the bumpy cobblestone streets, we go to lunch and encounter crowds of Italian tourists. The waiter comes over to greet us and after a few minutes of placing our order, he comes back to tell us that the trout we ordered is no longer available.

“Fine, do you have any soup” I ask.
“Certainly, Madam” he says in very clear English.
“I’ll take a cabbage soup, but please make sure it has plenty of vegetables,”I add.
Ten minutes later, he appears again. I begin to think what now?
“My regrets, we are out of cabbage soup.”
“In that case, I’ll take chicken noodle.”
“We haven’t chicken today,” he says.

Knowing the Czechs may be have the same fatty rich diet as the Germans do which lacks vegetables I order what believe may be stocked in their pantries.

“What about potato soup?”
“We are out of potatoes.”

In my mind, this is beginning to sound like the I Love Lucy episode where she, Ricky and the Mertzes on their road trip to California have a hard time finding accommodations. They locate an Inn only to find one selection on the menu.

“What do you have” I ask.
“We have cheese, ham and bread” he says.

Werner sensing my frustration says, “A cheese sandwich for the lady and a ham sandwich for me.”

After lunch, we find a shop with records, books, and postcards. The man behind the counter is dressed in a sport jacket with suede patch elbows like a Professor taking notes behind the counter. Werner speaks to him in English and the man shakes his head, indicating he doesn’t understand. He tries German; still no luck. I speak to the shopkeeper in my broken German and we have a conversation, albeit a brief one but we understand each other perfectly!

“What did he say” asks Werner.
“He said we could look around if we wish, the books and maps are in the back of the store.” The shopkeeper disappears into the stacks.When he is gone, I look through a couple of CD’s in a box on the counter. I choose two; one by Smetana the other Dvorak. The shopkeeper returns and unfolds a map before me of Prague, he begins to circle areas, “You find interesting” he says in broken English.

I hand the shopkeeper my credit card for the CD’s.
“And please add the cost of the map”.
“It’s yours.”

Werner and I leave and locate a cozy bench to study our map. We hear music being spilled out from a nearby open window, a piano is being tuned. Prague is a city in which classical music is the core of all life, like the air one breathes, it’s to be inhaled, and it is– either in chamber music by way of the city’s churches or street musicians or simply by what we’re listening to now, untangling the emotions, someone tuning and then playing a piano.

We head pass Josefov Street, the Jewish Quarter, a neighborhood of the past, to visit the sixteenth century Pinkas Synagogue but our timing is off, a man with a lined face and shriveled body meets us at the gate “Geschlossen.”

“The names of the Bohemians killed in the camps are painted on the walls” I tell Werner. Inquisitive, he replies “We should try to see it, we’ll come again.”

That night we go to see a cabaret, it promises food and wine and a glass of champagne to ring in the new year. We are served an open face sandwich as an entrée. I look down at my plate- biggest difference between Paris and Prague– in Paris you dine, in Prague you don't. No doubt, I will live on stale sandwiches during my stay.