Beorn
03-24-2009, 12:34 AM
The Ghosts of East Berlin
Despite living in a city burd*ened with such a vividly bloody history, Berliners are characteristically reluctant to invest much credence in the possibility of paranormal signifiers of death. While the equally historic Edinburgh has created an entire tourist industry from its grisly past, in Berlin the terrors of the last century are still too recent to be trivialised by such paranormal joviality.
Here, amongst the bustling coffee shops, elegant bars and red-faced currywurst vendors, very real bullet holes indiscriminately scar the scenery and put anything too metaphorical or ethereal firmly in its place. And while Berlin may be mutely respectful of its lost souls, it manages to get on with living in their shadow.
Down one particularly idyllic eastside street, photographer Heike Schneider-Matzigkeit and I discover the Friedhofspark Pappelallee, a listed graveyard established in 1847 which now neatly incorporates a children’s playground. In an inspired amalgam of life and death, grinning infants play happily and obliviously among the dearly departed who lie here, symbolised by nothing more than weathered stone. This unusually welcoming cemetery can be found in Prenzlauer Berg, a scenic refuge of flourishing bohemia where antiquarian booksellers, galleries and independent record shops quietly thrive in cobbled leafy streets. Their very existence is not only in defiance of the literature-burning, artist-eradicating Nazis but also of the post-war Communist regime. Knowing Prenzlauer Berg to be a notorious breeding ground for alternative viewpoints, the German Democratic Republic planned to flatten and redevelop the area Soviet-style, with prefabricated high-rises – an act of cultural terrorism only halted by a lack of funds. Indeed, time would prove the Party’s distrust of Prenzlauer Berg well founded, as the grand Gethsemane Church on Stargarder Strasse became a hive of GDR resistance. Prior to the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, a crowd of up to 3,000 gathered there to speak out against the regime, while many households in the area burnt candles throughout the night in a show of support.
Remaining remarkably unscathed by World War II bombardments and bland post-war redevelopment, Prenzlauer Berg’s history remains intact. Berlin’s oldest water tower, near Kollwitzplatz, is a key landmark, and one which has become inextricably affiliated with the macabre. Set back from the pavement behind an abundance of foliage and Victorian-esque street lighting, this haunting, lighthouse-like structure from the 19th century feels strangely out of step with the vibrancy of the surrounding neighbourhood. Buried in its shadow is a large subterranean water chamber. Believing their victims’ anguished cries would be amplified by the rich acoustics and act as an effect*ive warning to other ‘subversives’, the Nazis employed this drained space for acts of torture. The tower has now been developed into a number of unafford*able circular apartments, its dark past only acknowledged by a small plaque.
A few blocks away is Mauerpark and its celebrated Sunday flea-market. Here, flocks of American hipsters peruse classic East Berlin bric-a-brac and memorabilia with relish, apparently ignorant of the surviving ‘Crying Boy’ (http://www.forteantimes.com/features/articles/1308/the_curse_of_the_crying_boy.html) paintings breeding amongst their number. Propped up carelessly against a stall – which has yet to burst into flames – the notoriously cursed budget art pieces no doubt have their own incendiary GDR stories to tell.
On the river Spree, just walking distance from the iconic Brandenburg Gate, lie the remains of the Palast der Republik. Until its recent dismantl*ing, the former GDR parliament building stood as a horrendously compelling work of 1970s futurist architecture. Resembling a golden Borg ship straight out of Star Trek, it was jarringly juxtaposed with the rather more timeless Berliner Dom (Berlin Cathedral) just across the road. In addition to being a political forum, the Palast housed an entire network of high and low cultural happenings, encompassing two auditoria and a bowling alley alongside a range of restaurants and galleries. [1] One of the last events to be mounted there was ‘FRAKTALE IV’, an exhibition curated wholly around the theme of death. Viewing the exhibition deep inside the Palast’s cold and colossal gutted shell was a stirring experience and an evocative reminder of the powerful ideological grip of the Communist era. Following a series of lengthy polit*ical battles regarding the Palast’s future, demolition commenced in February 2006. Nonetheless, the task of obliterat*ion is taking considerably longer than expected, as it’s feared that hasty dismantling may cause the neighbouring Cathedral to collapse alongside it. While it’s clearly a challenge to forc*ibly erase the past, this is undoubtedly the final chance to wave off Berlin’s most controversial building. Despite the city’s typical disbelief in paranormal notions, the Palast der Republik is reputedly haunted, although regrettably I have been unable to uncover any firsthand accounts. The fact that it was itself built on the former site of Berlin’s historical Stadtschloss – viewed by the Communist authorities as ‘imperialistic’ and thus criminally destroyed – suggests that a healthy future of bygone resonances is probably assured.
Travelling further east towards the district of Treptow, we go in search of Berlin’s legendary deserted GDR amusement park. Christened ‘Spreepark’ due to its proximity to the city’s river, it at one time attracted over a million visitors each year. Stopping to ask directions at a nearby burger joint, we are offered no helpful information, only a stark warning not to venture there after twilight. Indeed, the park’s reputation as a refuge of innocence was forever violated when its owner Norbert Witte was imprisoned in May 2004 for attempting to smuggle 180kg of cocaine (worth £14 million) from Peru in the masts of the ‘flying carpet’ ride.
Shrouded in inner-city woodland, Spreepark would indeed be tough to find if it wasn’t for its 45m (150ft) Ferris wheel, which looms statically above the treetops. There’s something inherently creepy about an abandoned funfair, a place of childhood dreams now cloaked in cobwebs, rust and silence. This evening, as the sun falls on its once glittering attractions, it’s hard to argue with such notions. Creepier still, for a city financially bankrupt and with debts of approximately 50 billion euro, it’s curious that Berlin can afford to invest in rigorous 24-hour security to guard a defunct Communist remodel of Alton Towers. Tonight, we witness growling dogs, 3m (10ft) wire fences and determined-looking men on mount*ain bikes who circle the perimeter, brand*ishing walkie-talkies. Considering the park’s less than wholesome history, a conspiracy of Area 51 proportions could well be afoot. More plausibly, the militant security could be down to mundane health and safety issues. Spreepark’s towering rollercoaster has rusted to disrepair, while its carriages, which hang precariously suspended from its tracks high above the ground, have turned from garish purple to camouflage green. Elsewhere, giant plastic dinosaurs à la Jurassic Park, withered by constant exposure to the elements, lie symbolically and sadly in the undergrowth. Like a failed Communist dream personified, it’s easy to understand why Spreepark has become a solid fixture of Berlin’s modern-day folklore.
Across the river stands the former Communist state radio station HQ. Once, this was the GDR’s ambitious propaganda nerve centre, broadcasting material to suit a wide array of East German tastes. Today, however, it silently decomposes in the corner of a privately owned commercial estate. Flanked by security guards, we offer bogus ID at the military base-style entrance and enter the grounds unhind*ered. It being a largely unused and isol*ated space, there is little in the way of lighting to guide us across the deserted courtyard. By the time we reach our destination – a towering construction of considerable size – we have suddenly become rather reluctant to continue. Nonetheless, we push aside the undergrowth which has partly obscured the main entrance and make our way inside. We’re greeted by what can only be described as destruction on a grand scale. Broken shards of glass and rubble litter the darkened hallway; multicoloured wires hang lifelessly, yanked from the ceiling. Despite the evening’s relatively calm weather, wind whistles harshly through countless broken windows, causing doors in the unseen distance to slam back and forth at a jarring volume. Fighting our way through a thick dust, we pass innumerable radio studios which have been forcefully taken apart, their equipment looted and their control booth windows smashed. This frenzied act of defacement presumably occurred as a continuation of the purging of all things Communist that began with the fall of the Wall. Finally, we head cautiously to the basement.
Here we stumble on another long hallway punctuated, Shining-style, by door after door. This lower part of the building, despite its oppress*ive atmo*sphere, is less disturbed by vandal*ism and almost feels as if it could still be inhabited today. At the end of the corridor, we observe a number of hatches in the wall; these tunnel off into the darkness, allowing just enough room for a non-claustrophobic adult to make a crawl for freedom. It’s likely that they go on to form part of Berlin’s extensive sub*terr*an*ean tunnel network, an elaborate alternat*ive underground universe still shrouded in much mystery. Exploring the basement further, we find a room filled with GDR medical instruments, another by unused packets of soap and toothpaste. Most disturbingly, to the right-hand side of the hallway, we discover a cramped prison cell. We decide it’s time to leave.
The following morning, storm clouds hang moodily across the sky. Aptly, we are heading deeper into former GDR territory towards Südwestkirchhof Stahnsdorf, one of Europe’s largest graveyards and home to many late Berliners. Considering its history, this burial ground’s doomy significance is hardly surprising. Built on the edge of the city to absorb the needs of a rising population, the site opened in 1909, and from 1913 to 1961 a train exclusively populated by Berlin’s deceased ran to the cemetery’s very own station. In the 1930s, during a chapter of typical Nazi distastefulness, 30,000 dead were dug up from the city’s more central graveyards to make way for Albert Speer’s grand ‘North-South axis’, part of the plan to transform Berlin into a new capital, Germania. Their bodies were brought to Stahnsdorf and reburied in their respective coffins.
Notably, Friedrich Wilhelm Murnau, director of the original Nosferatu, is also entombed here; he apparently exuded such magnetism from beyond the grave that Marlene Dietrich felt compelled to keep his death mask on her desk. Stahnsdorf cemetery undeniably possesses a touch of otherworldly beauty, with its lavish tombstones, maudlin sculptures and works by some of Berlin’s once-leading architects. More unnerving is the sector of the cemetery that hosts fallen British WW1 soldiers. Here, visitors have purportedly sensed an eerie presence observing them, as if the fallen fighters themselves are sternly guarding their own resting place.
On a slightly less haunting note, in October 2007 political magazine Der Spiegel reported that a pack of wild boar had invaded the grounds of Südwestkirchhof Stahnsdorf, “devastating flowerbeds, ploughing up lawns and covering hundreds of memorial stones with soil.”
“They came at the weekend,” explained cemetery administrator Olaf Ihlefeldt. “There must have been 10 or 15 of them including their young and they were digging for worms…” [2]
Later, back in central Berlin we are introduced to ex-GDR U-Bahn (underground) driver Detlef who offers to take us on a night-time tour of the Eastern tracks. During WWII, the U-Bahn stations were employed as makeshift air raid shelters and a place of refuge for the wounded; however, they proved no safe haven from Allied bombs. Worse still, Hitler, concerned that the invading Russians would use the underground to their advantage, ruthlessly ordered it to be flooded, consequently drowning countless numbers of civilians. Hurtling through an unnatural darkness at breakneck speed, it’s compelling to view the Berlin underground from a veteran’s perspective. “I’ve been driving night trains for 30 years” he tells us. “Until the Wall collapsed, my train dated back to 1926”. Despite the oppression, Detlef has fond memories of the German Democratic Republic. “Passengers are less friendly these days and hardly acknowledge us drivers”, he says, resignedly. During so many years on the job, he has unsurprisingly at times flirted with disaster. “I almost lost my life in 1986 when the train in front of me caught fire under Alexanderplatz. We escaped in the nick of time through an emergency exit hole.”
On this grave note, we ask Detlef if he has witnessed any ghosts or experienced any other odd phenomena down here in the tunn*els beneath the city. We are greeted by dismissive laughter; he’d rather tell us about a couple on Bülowstrasse who make love with their curtains open.
Such paranormal indifference regarding the U-Bahn compares poorly with London’s own Underground, in which virtually every station has a manifestation or ghostly tale associated with it. But then, in this city, half-remembered ghoulish anecdotes are not required. Here, fact is stranger, darker and more potent than any fictionally embellished nightmare. Indeed, the scope of the terror this place has endured in relatively recent history is almost unimaginable. Berlin’s tragic past is a living entity, entwined in its conflicted architecture and constantly evolving landscape, and its resonance affects not only the personality of the city itself, but everybody and everything that dwells here.
NOTES
1 Ein Rückblick: Palast Der Republik – A Retrospective, 2006
2 http://************/6hfq9u
Source (http://www.forteantimes.com/features/fortean_traveller/1542/the_ghosts_of_east_berlin.html)
Despite living in a city burd*ened with such a vividly bloody history, Berliners are characteristically reluctant to invest much credence in the possibility of paranormal signifiers of death. While the equally historic Edinburgh has created an entire tourist industry from its grisly past, in Berlin the terrors of the last century are still too recent to be trivialised by such paranormal joviality.
Here, amongst the bustling coffee shops, elegant bars and red-faced currywurst vendors, very real bullet holes indiscriminately scar the scenery and put anything too metaphorical or ethereal firmly in its place. And while Berlin may be mutely respectful of its lost souls, it manages to get on with living in their shadow.
Down one particularly idyllic eastside street, photographer Heike Schneider-Matzigkeit and I discover the Friedhofspark Pappelallee, a listed graveyard established in 1847 which now neatly incorporates a children’s playground. In an inspired amalgam of life and death, grinning infants play happily and obliviously among the dearly departed who lie here, symbolised by nothing more than weathered stone. This unusually welcoming cemetery can be found in Prenzlauer Berg, a scenic refuge of flourishing bohemia where antiquarian booksellers, galleries and independent record shops quietly thrive in cobbled leafy streets. Their very existence is not only in defiance of the literature-burning, artist-eradicating Nazis but also of the post-war Communist regime. Knowing Prenzlauer Berg to be a notorious breeding ground for alternative viewpoints, the German Democratic Republic planned to flatten and redevelop the area Soviet-style, with prefabricated high-rises – an act of cultural terrorism only halted by a lack of funds. Indeed, time would prove the Party’s distrust of Prenzlauer Berg well founded, as the grand Gethsemane Church on Stargarder Strasse became a hive of GDR resistance. Prior to the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, a crowd of up to 3,000 gathered there to speak out against the regime, while many households in the area burnt candles throughout the night in a show of support.
Remaining remarkably unscathed by World War II bombardments and bland post-war redevelopment, Prenzlauer Berg’s history remains intact. Berlin’s oldest water tower, near Kollwitzplatz, is a key landmark, and one which has become inextricably affiliated with the macabre. Set back from the pavement behind an abundance of foliage and Victorian-esque street lighting, this haunting, lighthouse-like structure from the 19th century feels strangely out of step with the vibrancy of the surrounding neighbourhood. Buried in its shadow is a large subterranean water chamber. Believing their victims’ anguished cries would be amplified by the rich acoustics and act as an effect*ive warning to other ‘subversives’, the Nazis employed this drained space for acts of torture. The tower has now been developed into a number of unafford*able circular apartments, its dark past only acknowledged by a small plaque.
A few blocks away is Mauerpark and its celebrated Sunday flea-market. Here, flocks of American hipsters peruse classic East Berlin bric-a-brac and memorabilia with relish, apparently ignorant of the surviving ‘Crying Boy’ (http://www.forteantimes.com/features/articles/1308/the_curse_of_the_crying_boy.html) paintings breeding amongst their number. Propped up carelessly against a stall – which has yet to burst into flames – the notoriously cursed budget art pieces no doubt have their own incendiary GDR stories to tell.
On the river Spree, just walking distance from the iconic Brandenburg Gate, lie the remains of the Palast der Republik. Until its recent dismantl*ing, the former GDR parliament building stood as a horrendously compelling work of 1970s futurist architecture. Resembling a golden Borg ship straight out of Star Trek, it was jarringly juxtaposed with the rather more timeless Berliner Dom (Berlin Cathedral) just across the road. In addition to being a political forum, the Palast housed an entire network of high and low cultural happenings, encompassing two auditoria and a bowling alley alongside a range of restaurants and galleries. [1] One of the last events to be mounted there was ‘FRAKTALE IV’, an exhibition curated wholly around the theme of death. Viewing the exhibition deep inside the Palast’s cold and colossal gutted shell was a stirring experience and an evocative reminder of the powerful ideological grip of the Communist era. Following a series of lengthy polit*ical battles regarding the Palast’s future, demolition commenced in February 2006. Nonetheless, the task of obliterat*ion is taking considerably longer than expected, as it’s feared that hasty dismantling may cause the neighbouring Cathedral to collapse alongside it. While it’s clearly a challenge to forc*ibly erase the past, this is undoubtedly the final chance to wave off Berlin’s most controversial building. Despite the city’s typical disbelief in paranormal notions, the Palast der Republik is reputedly haunted, although regrettably I have been unable to uncover any firsthand accounts. The fact that it was itself built on the former site of Berlin’s historical Stadtschloss – viewed by the Communist authorities as ‘imperialistic’ and thus criminally destroyed – suggests that a healthy future of bygone resonances is probably assured.
Travelling further east towards the district of Treptow, we go in search of Berlin’s legendary deserted GDR amusement park. Christened ‘Spreepark’ due to its proximity to the city’s river, it at one time attracted over a million visitors each year. Stopping to ask directions at a nearby burger joint, we are offered no helpful information, only a stark warning not to venture there after twilight. Indeed, the park’s reputation as a refuge of innocence was forever violated when its owner Norbert Witte was imprisoned in May 2004 for attempting to smuggle 180kg of cocaine (worth £14 million) from Peru in the masts of the ‘flying carpet’ ride.
Shrouded in inner-city woodland, Spreepark would indeed be tough to find if it wasn’t for its 45m (150ft) Ferris wheel, which looms statically above the treetops. There’s something inherently creepy about an abandoned funfair, a place of childhood dreams now cloaked in cobwebs, rust and silence. This evening, as the sun falls on its once glittering attractions, it’s hard to argue with such notions. Creepier still, for a city financially bankrupt and with debts of approximately 50 billion euro, it’s curious that Berlin can afford to invest in rigorous 24-hour security to guard a defunct Communist remodel of Alton Towers. Tonight, we witness growling dogs, 3m (10ft) wire fences and determined-looking men on mount*ain bikes who circle the perimeter, brand*ishing walkie-talkies. Considering the park’s less than wholesome history, a conspiracy of Area 51 proportions could well be afoot. More plausibly, the militant security could be down to mundane health and safety issues. Spreepark’s towering rollercoaster has rusted to disrepair, while its carriages, which hang precariously suspended from its tracks high above the ground, have turned from garish purple to camouflage green. Elsewhere, giant plastic dinosaurs à la Jurassic Park, withered by constant exposure to the elements, lie symbolically and sadly in the undergrowth. Like a failed Communist dream personified, it’s easy to understand why Spreepark has become a solid fixture of Berlin’s modern-day folklore.
Across the river stands the former Communist state radio station HQ. Once, this was the GDR’s ambitious propaganda nerve centre, broadcasting material to suit a wide array of East German tastes. Today, however, it silently decomposes in the corner of a privately owned commercial estate. Flanked by security guards, we offer bogus ID at the military base-style entrance and enter the grounds unhind*ered. It being a largely unused and isol*ated space, there is little in the way of lighting to guide us across the deserted courtyard. By the time we reach our destination – a towering construction of considerable size – we have suddenly become rather reluctant to continue. Nonetheless, we push aside the undergrowth which has partly obscured the main entrance and make our way inside. We’re greeted by what can only be described as destruction on a grand scale. Broken shards of glass and rubble litter the darkened hallway; multicoloured wires hang lifelessly, yanked from the ceiling. Despite the evening’s relatively calm weather, wind whistles harshly through countless broken windows, causing doors in the unseen distance to slam back and forth at a jarring volume. Fighting our way through a thick dust, we pass innumerable radio studios which have been forcefully taken apart, their equipment looted and their control booth windows smashed. This frenzied act of defacement presumably occurred as a continuation of the purging of all things Communist that began with the fall of the Wall. Finally, we head cautiously to the basement.
Here we stumble on another long hallway punctuated, Shining-style, by door after door. This lower part of the building, despite its oppress*ive atmo*sphere, is less disturbed by vandal*ism and almost feels as if it could still be inhabited today. At the end of the corridor, we observe a number of hatches in the wall; these tunnel off into the darkness, allowing just enough room for a non-claustrophobic adult to make a crawl for freedom. It’s likely that they go on to form part of Berlin’s extensive sub*terr*an*ean tunnel network, an elaborate alternat*ive underground universe still shrouded in much mystery. Exploring the basement further, we find a room filled with GDR medical instruments, another by unused packets of soap and toothpaste. Most disturbingly, to the right-hand side of the hallway, we discover a cramped prison cell. We decide it’s time to leave.
The following morning, storm clouds hang moodily across the sky. Aptly, we are heading deeper into former GDR territory towards Südwestkirchhof Stahnsdorf, one of Europe’s largest graveyards and home to many late Berliners. Considering its history, this burial ground’s doomy significance is hardly surprising. Built on the edge of the city to absorb the needs of a rising population, the site opened in 1909, and from 1913 to 1961 a train exclusively populated by Berlin’s deceased ran to the cemetery’s very own station. In the 1930s, during a chapter of typical Nazi distastefulness, 30,000 dead were dug up from the city’s more central graveyards to make way for Albert Speer’s grand ‘North-South axis’, part of the plan to transform Berlin into a new capital, Germania. Their bodies were brought to Stahnsdorf and reburied in their respective coffins.
Notably, Friedrich Wilhelm Murnau, director of the original Nosferatu, is also entombed here; he apparently exuded such magnetism from beyond the grave that Marlene Dietrich felt compelled to keep his death mask on her desk. Stahnsdorf cemetery undeniably possesses a touch of otherworldly beauty, with its lavish tombstones, maudlin sculptures and works by some of Berlin’s once-leading architects. More unnerving is the sector of the cemetery that hosts fallen British WW1 soldiers. Here, visitors have purportedly sensed an eerie presence observing them, as if the fallen fighters themselves are sternly guarding their own resting place.
On a slightly less haunting note, in October 2007 political magazine Der Spiegel reported that a pack of wild boar had invaded the grounds of Südwestkirchhof Stahnsdorf, “devastating flowerbeds, ploughing up lawns and covering hundreds of memorial stones with soil.”
“They came at the weekend,” explained cemetery administrator Olaf Ihlefeldt. “There must have been 10 or 15 of them including their young and they were digging for worms…” [2]
Later, back in central Berlin we are introduced to ex-GDR U-Bahn (underground) driver Detlef who offers to take us on a night-time tour of the Eastern tracks. During WWII, the U-Bahn stations were employed as makeshift air raid shelters and a place of refuge for the wounded; however, they proved no safe haven from Allied bombs. Worse still, Hitler, concerned that the invading Russians would use the underground to their advantage, ruthlessly ordered it to be flooded, consequently drowning countless numbers of civilians. Hurtling through an unnatural darkness at breakneck speed, it’s compelling to view the Berlin underground from a veteran’s perspective. “I’ve been driving night trains for 30 years” he tells us. “Until the Wall collapsed, my train dated back to 1926”. Despite the oppression, Detlef has fond memories of the German Democratic Republic. “Passengers are less friendly these days and hardly acknowledge us drivers”, he says, resignedly. During so many years on the job, he has unsurprisingly at times flirted with disaster. “I almost lost my life in 1986 when the train in front of me caught fire under Alexanderplatz. We escaped in the nick of time through an emergency exit hole.”
On this grave note, we ask Detlef if he has witnessed any ghosts or experienced any other odd phenomena down here in the tunn*els beneath the city. We are greeted by dismissive laughter; he’d rather tell us about a couple on Bülowstrasse who make love with their curtains open.
Such paranormal indifference regarding the U-Bahn compares poorly with London’s own Underground, in which virtually every station has a manifestation or ghostly tale associated with it. But then, in this city, half-remembered ghoulish anecdotes are not required. Here, fact is stranger, darker and more potent than any fictionally embellished nightmare. Indeed, the scope of the terror this place has endured in relatively recent history is almost unimaginable. Berlin’s tragic past is a living entity, entwined in its conflicted architecture and constantly evolving landscape, and its resonance affects not only the personality of the city itself, but everybody and everything that dwells here.
NOTES
1 Ein Rückblick: Palast Der Republik – A Retrospective, 2006
2 http://************/6hfq9u
Source (http://www.forteantimes.com/features/fortean_traveller/1542/the_ghosts_of_east_berlin.html)