ambulance in West Berlin, and here, in the derelict fringes of the border, there were no phones, and even the Germans were tourists. I asked him if he wanted to sit and rest a while but he did not seem to hear me.
I was repeating my question when I heard a car horn and a ragged cheer. The concentrated illumination of Checkpoint Charlie projected a milky halo from behind a deserted building ahead of us. Within minutes we emerged, right by the café and before us was the dream-likeslow-motion familiarity of the scene I had watched with Jenny that morning; the frontier furniture of guard-rooms, multilingual signs and stripy gates, and the well-wishers still greeting pedestrians from the east, still thumping Trabant rooftops, but with less passion now, as though to demonstrate a difference between TV drama and real life.
I had hold of Bernard’s arm as we paused to take this in. Then we edged through the crowd towards the café’s entrance. But the people we passed were in a queue. They were being let inside only as spaces became vacant. Who would want to give up a table at this hour of the night? Through windows mottled by condensation we could see the privileged eaters and drinkers wrapped in their fug.
I was about to force a way in, pleading medical necessity, when Bernard broke free and hurried away from me to cross the road towards the traffic island where most of the crowd was standing, by the American guardroom. Until then I hadn’t seen what he had seen. Later he assured me that all the elements of the situation had been in place when we first arrived, but it was only when I called after him and followed him that I saw the red flag. It was supported on a short pole, a sawn-off broomstick perhaps, held by a slight man in his early twenties. He looked Turkish. He had black curls and black clothes – a black double-breasted jacket worn over a black t-shirt and black jeans. He was strolling up and down in front of the crowd, head tipped back, the flag on its pole slanted across his shoulder. When he stepped backwards into the path of a Wartburg he refused to move, and the car was obliged to manoeuvre round him.
As a provocation it was already beginning to succeed, and this was what was drawing Bernard towards the road. The young man’s antagonists were a mixed bunch,but what I saw in that first instant were two men in suits – business types or solicitors – right by the kerb. As the young man passed, one of them flicked him under the chin. It was not so much a blow as an expression of contempt. The romantic revolutionary jerked away and pretended nothing had happened. An old lady in a fur hat screamed a long sentence at him and raised an umbrella. She was restrained by the gentleman at her side. The flag-man raised his standard higher. The second solicitor type took a step forwards and punched out at his ear. It did not connect well, but it was enough to make the young man falter. Disdaining to touch the side of his head where the punch had landed, he continued his parade. By this time Bernard was half way across the road and I was just behind.
As far as I was concerned, the flag-man could have what he was asking for. My anxiety was for Bernard. His left knee seemed to be giving him trouble, but he was limping ahead of me at a fair pace. He had already seen what was coming next, an uglier manifestation, coming at a run from the direction of Kochstrasse. There were half a dozen of them, calling to each other as they came. I heard the words they were calling, but at the time I ignored them. I preferred to think that a long evening in the rejoicing city had starved them of action. They had seen a man punched in the head, and had been energised. They were aged between sixteen and twenty. Collectively they exuded a runtish viciousness, an extravagant air of underprivilege, with their acned pallor, shaved heads, and loose wet mouths. The Turk saw them charging towards him and tossed his head like a tango dancer and
I was repeating my question when I heard a car horn and a ragged cheer. The concentrated illumination of Checkpoint Charlie projected a milky halo from behind a deserted building ahead of us. Within minutes we emerged, right by the café and before us was the dream-likeslow-motion familiarity of the scene I had watched with Jenny that morning; the frontier furniture of guard-rooms, multilingual signs and stripy gates, and the well-wishers still greeting pedestrians from the east, still thumping Trabant rooftops, but with less passion now, as though to demonstrate a difference between TV drama and real life.
I had hold of Bernard’s arm as we paused to take this in. Then we edged through the crowd towards the café’s entrance. But the people we passed were in a queue. They were being let inside only as spaces became vacant. Who would want to give up a table at this hour of the night? Through windows mottled by condensation we could see the privileged eaters and drinkers wrapped in their fug.
I was about to force a way in, pleading medical necessity, when Bernard broke free and hurried away from me to cross the road towards the traffic island where most of the crowd was standing, by the American guardroom. Until then I hadn’t seen what he had seen. Later he assured me that all the elements of the situation had been in place when we first arrived, but it was only when I called after him and followed him that I saw the red flag. It was supported on a short pole, a sawn-off broomstick perhaps, held by a slight man in his early twenties. He looked Turkish. He had black curls and black clothes – a black double-breasted jacket worn over a black t-shirt and black jeans. He was strolling up and down in front of the crowd, head tipped back, the flag on its pole slanted across his shoulder. When he stepped backwards into the path of a Wartburg he refused to move, and the car was obliged to manoeuvre round him.
As a provocation it was already beginning to succeed, and this was what was drawing Bernard towards the road. The young man’s antagonists were a mixed bunch,but what I saw in that first instant were two men in suits – business types or solicitors – right by the kerb. As the young man passed, one of them flicked him under the chin. It was not so much a blow as an expression of contempt. The romantic revolutionary jerked away and pretended nothing had happened. An old lady in a fur hat screamed a long sentence at him and raised an umbrella. She was restrained by the gentleman at her side. The flag-man raised his standard higher. The second solicitor type took a step forwards and punched out at his ear. It did not connect well, but it was enough to make the young man falter. Disdaining to touch the side of his head where the punch had landed, he continued his parade. By this time Bernard was half way across the road and I was just behind.
As far as I was concerned, the flag-man could have what he was asking for. My anxiety was for Bernard. His left knee seemed to be giving him trouble, but he was limping ahead of me at a fair pace. He had already seen what was coming next, an uglier manifestation, coming at a run from the direction of Kochstrasse. There were half a dozen of them, calling to each other as they came. I heard the words they were calling, but at the time I ignored them. I preferred to think that a long evening in the rejoicing city had starved them of action. They had seen a man punched in the head, and had been energised. They were aged between sixteen and twenty. Collectively they exuded a runtish viciousness, an extravagant air of underprivilege, with their acned pallor, shaved heads, and loose wet mouths. The Turk saw them charging towards him and tossed his head like a tango dancer and
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