Punctuated by the occasional empty vodka bottle and stray beer can, the river Spree is decidedly not what one would call clean. It snakes lazily through the city along aged canals, under stone bridges and before grand museums, oozing a scent vaguely of sewage which goes quite well with its brown and frothy appearance. And yet, despite its obvious pollution, the river is beautiful.
The sky is clear and piercing blue and the river exudes an air of pleasant calm as it winds through the Old City. A man plays accordion as tourists wander by in some state of bliss only evoked by gentle currents and old European architecture. It’s lovely. Pausing to lift my hair from a sweaty neck, I lean against the carved stone guard rail and gaze down at the water. So nice, so pleasant. At first glance I think it a jellyfish, the undefined shape floating just below the water’s surface. But this is Berlin and fresh water and obviously the Spree is devoid of the jellyfish we so regularly encounter in the murky waters of home. It must be a plastic bag. And yet so callous a title for this mysterious apparition doesn’t seem right. It’s more gossamer, more transparent, like some discarded wedding veil. Something once loved now lost, “left to the current.” And maybe somewhere in my psyche the thought is forced, some understanding in the back of one’s head we’ve been ordered never to forget, but in the image of this particular piece of water borne detritus, my mind travels fluidly back in time. Back to this street when soldiers goose stepped and storefronts bore signs defining who could be a customer. Back to when millions were ordered to pack (a single suitcase, a yellow star) and were marshalled away. Leather-soled shoes on cobblestone streets. Leather-soled shoes on a street once their own, rendered no longer. One suitcase, soon to be stolen, valuables scattered, things once loved now lost. And here I stand, rubber-soled shoes on cobblestone streets, so welcomed. Don’t even have to belong to belong. It’s lovely here. It’s lovely and easy to almost forget what I was ordered never to forget. Easy to forget or ignore or at least push far back the names on brass blocks, the unerasable fact that on these streets people were marched to their murder. Millions killed. And it’s so lovely here. Blue sky and gentle currents. Ornate carvings and accordion notes. I return my gaze to the ghost in the Spree. Just a plastic bag probably. Some pollution in a lovely river. A shame.
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AuthorStudent at the University of Washington, Sophie Aanerud, will be studying abroad in Berlin, Germany. Here are some of her thoughts . . . Archives
August 2017
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