family, multiple timed bombings at the Brussels airport reverberated across Europe. We talked about it in lowered voices with our friends in the public markets of Barcelona. The day this spring that I arrived in Berlin, the first refugees were being sent back to Turkey from Greece as part of the deal the EU had struck with Turkey to control migrant movement. Borders had closed, and were closing. At the same time, I discovered more programs in place in Germany to help with integration, some quite inventive; the “subject” of refugees had also become hot, with at least a dozen new titles stacked on bookstore tables throughout the city. The refugee crisis had itself migrated from the political arena to the larger realm of culture. The refugees were now being sheltered all over the city in hotels and public buildings; everyone could answer the question, “where are the refugees?” Why, down the street, around the corner, not far from here. The two weeks in Berlin in April resulted in new material—interviews, travels, little personal social experiments—that I’ve added to update the Notebook for its republication as an e-book. It maintains the form of a chronology.
I have tried to be as faithful as possible in my reporting of interviews. I have not tried to verify the facts that people presented (when they told them to me); I have tried, rather, to convey the experience of talking with them, what it was like to be there, and to listen, to ask. The form of the interviews may seem to move like the “streaming” metaphor one finds everywhere in use to describe the movement of people across national borders.
Washington, DC
April 13, 2016
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First thanks go to the refugees seeking asylum in Germany, most of whom requested that I not use their real names, and who talked with me, humored my naiveté, dispelled some of my ignorance, and disabused me of preconceptions.
Thanks to Barbara Gügold and the IES Abroad Institute for a research associate fellowship that brought me to Berlin in October 2015; and to the faculty at the Institut für Anglistik und Amerikanistik, Humboldt Universität zu Berlin. The Berlin Notebook was conceived of, researched, written, and published with support of a John Simon Guggenheim Foundation fellowship, and additional funding from the English Department at the University of Maryland, College Park. Thanks to those institutions for their support.
I’ve had the good fortune to work with stellar editors at the Los Angeles Review of Books who supported this project from the beginning: Gabrielle Calvocoressi was the first to express enthusiasm, and kept me going throughout October with her encouragement; Tom Lutz has stood firmly behind me the whole time; and Michael Ursell’s skillful, sympathetic editing made the Notebook readable and sharp. My thanks to all of them.
Among others I interviewed, I’d especially like to thank the poets Lian Yang, Alistair Noon, and Alexander Booth; artist Susanne Gerber; film-maker Karsten Eckardt; Rabbi Walter Rothschild; Cantor Jalda Rebling and Anna Adam of Ohel Hachidusch; Joseph Aish of Baghdad; the members of Freygang Band; Razan Nassreddine of the Berliner Multaka: Treffpunkt Projekt; photographer Alexandra Kinga Fekete; Syrian journalist Yasmine Merei; and all those volunteers working with the relief organization, Moabit Hilft.
Thanks also to Rosmarie Waldrop—poet, translator, editor, and publisher extrordinaire—for permission to print her translation of Gehard Rühm’s poem, “europe 1954” (I My Feet: Poems & Constellations, “Dichten =” series, number 7, Burning Deck, 2004).
I am indebted—verschuldet und verpflichtet—to Linda Parshall for help with the German. Any errors are due to my ignorance and inattention. (When she trained her hawk-eye on the typescript, the English also improved).
For six weeks in October 2015 and April 2016, Sarah Blake held down the fort in DC while I was in Germany. Her novelist’s attention to the typescript pushed it further in the right direction. There are no thanks equal to my gratitude and love.
Parts of the Berlin Notebook have been published in Tikkun (www.tikkun.org), B O D Y (www.bodyliterature.com), and The Threepenny Review (www.threepennyreview.com).
ICH BIN EIN BERLINER?
Thursday, October 1, 2015
Getting into Germany couldn’t have been easier. I said good morning to the blank-faced woman at Passport Control; she found a blank page in my passport, stamped it; I pulled my bag from the conveyor belt and walked into the heavily policed shopping mall of Flughafen Tegel International. My eyes were dry and itchy from staying up all night on the plane reading Patrick Cockburn’s The Rise of the Islamic State and trying to learn a few words of Arabic with my Nemo phone app. Marhaban. Hello. Na’am. Yes. Herzliches Willkommen. No, wrong language. I’d hear the phrase soon from the folks at the Institute sponsoring my trip; how many others entering the country today would hear likewise?
Stepping outside, the airport shade felt chilly; the temperature would be dipping lower with every few days, and people living on the street would wait longer for the morning sun to warm them. October would bring rain. Sickness would follow. I stepped back through the sliding glass to don my German kitschy Jack Wolfskin fleece, with a giant paw print stitched between the shoulders. Ich bin ein Berliner? Hardly, but I was happy to be back for the month.
In the cab to Mitte, the city center, I asked the Turkish driver how long he had lived in Berlin. 30 years. Did he like Berlin? Oh, ja, sure. Where are the refugees? He gave his head a quarter turn, What? I repeated my question. What? He didn’t understand the word—die Flüchtlinge (literally, the fleers)—and it wasn’t my German, as bad as it is. He had never heard the word (maybe I should have said Asylbewerber—asylum seeker—but I hadn’t learned it yet myself).
Germany has known its Flüchtlinge of course, fugitives fleeing Nazism in the 1930’s, so many that in 1933 the League of Nations created its High Commission for Refugees, now the UNHCR, located in Berlin near old Checkpoint Charlie. But before that, try 1685, when the Edict of Fontainbleau outlawed Protestantism in France and hundreds of thousands of Huguenots fled, that time to Germany. I thought of Franz Tunda, the Austrian lieutenant in Joseph Roth’s novel, Die Flucht ohne Ende (Flight without End), who escapes from the Russian P.O.W. camp at the end of WWI and flees back to Europe. Could the ironical itinerant Roth, himself always on the move between hotels, ever have guessed that the title of his 1927 novel might refract the experience of so many 21st century non-Europeans, today’s Flüchtlinge? Flight without end. A political plight becoming a state of mind.
I pressed my cabbie, the Syrians, I said, though I could have added, and the Afghans, and the Eritreans ... Ah, ja, die Syrer; he shook his head and said, I don’t know. But they’re here, in Berlin, right? Ja, they’re here, but I don’t know where. We crossed a small bridge over the Spree into Moabit, the immigrant thick Kiez originally settled by fleeing Huguenots, and the location of the State Office of Health and Welfare (Landesamt für Gesundheit und Soziales, or Lageso), the office where the refugees in Berlin wait to register with the state. (Gesundheit, indeed; I thought of the coming cold.) I think they’re near, I said. Ja, they are near, he said, his head moving left to right scanning an intersection as we slid through, it’s a big problem.
*
The taxi driver dropped me on a quiet street off Chauseestrasse in the Scheunenviertel Kiez (literally “barn quarter”), Berlin’s old Jewish Quarter that maintains the winding lanes of a village even as it’s exploded as a hip area for shopping, dining, and looking at contemporary art in the converted barn courtyards of its yesteryear (the hay barns were kept to the old city outskirts due to fires). The building in which the Institute had situated me is small and mod, like a cheap imitation Mondrian you could live in. When I knocked on
