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My good friend the eminent German composer Boris Blacher has had a complex and twisted career, an illustration of the hazards and vicissitudes to which a creative artist is subjected in our absurd and cruel century. We’ll ask the Rufers to join us and it will be like old times.” 2 “You see, times have changed now we can invite you for dinner. “Come for dinner.” And he laughed in the phone. When arc you going to come?” I suggested after dinner. We got your wire and we’re expecting you. “Oh! Hello,” answered a cheerful voice at the phone. I picked up the telephone and called a friend, the composer Boris Blacher. “No, the Hotel does not have a Berlin-Ost telephone book and Russian numbers you can’t get,” he replied with a proud finality in his voice. He looked at me in astonishment, visibly taken aback by my unexpected request. I asked for a telephone directory and inquired whether it contained Russian sector numbers. what ladies!!” And having thus completed his lament, he added sententiously, “It costed de manachment nearly a million marks to put de Hotel again into a ships-shape.” “What could you do mit de French and English Journalisten? So disorderly, so disorderly. “Darin it was all a mess,”he continued in English.
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It looked newly painted, waxed, dusted, brushed, polished, rubbed, and scrubbed. We stopped at the Hotel am Zoo where the Herr Fortier himself took me up in a silent and sedate lift to a large, impeccable room. It had become, like so much else in Berlin, part of a curious, neo-romantic bombscape. Some of it was already covered with moss, grass, and even ivy. The mass of pinkish ruins had receded into the background and had acquired an ageless permanent visage. Boys and girls passed my “bug” on new bicycles.
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They walked faster, and some had new clothes, new handbags, new shoes. The people looked younger, fresher, fatter. No more the sallow elderly men, the gaunt women with their sickly children, who dragged themselves along the streets of Berlin in 19, with sullen expressions. But most of the cavities had been cleared of rubble and transformed into parking lots the ruins had been tidied and surrounded by brick walls the rubble had been piled in orderly heaps, encased in flower beds, or framed with borders of freshly mowed grass.Īnd the people had changed. True enough, between them were gaping cavities, blocks of ruins, heaps of rubble.
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From the low windows of the car, I could see rows of small stores, their show windows packed with goods, and one-story dwellings, newly built and freshly painted. Then I climbed into a tiny “bug" - the Volkswagen-type taxi - and we began driving towards the center of West Berlin. The wornout sofas and club chairs stood in the same old places the same sickening smell of doughnuts and coffee the same row of bored, jaundiced porters in their black Luftwaffe overalls. Inside, the terminal seemed equally unchanged. The plane skimmed the jagged ruins towards the gray semicircle of the Tempelhof Terminal. The same pitiful squares of vegetable gardens planted between ruins and rubble the same treeless parks the same naked sadness, ruin, and desolation. Yes, there it was, so familiar, so unchanged - just as I had left it three years ago. I looked out of the window where the left wing dipped menacingly over the ground.
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“Thank heavens, it’s nearly over!" I thought as a last bump jolted me half out of the seat. FASTEN your safety belts, please,” said the neutral voice in the loud-speaker.