Living in this part of the city, right on the
very edge, makes me somehow more aware of those times at the edge of night or
day. Dusk and dawn are the times – at least now in autumn – when your senses
seem to be at their sharpest, not yet dulled by work or commuting or the need
to do the shopping. And for animals and birds, they are times that send an
imperative signal: Time to get up. Time to hunt. Time to be on the move. Time
to sleep. They can't turn over and hit the snooze button, or force themselves
awake with a cup of tea. Sun, moon and
stars tell them what they need to be doing. So dawn and dusk are a time to keep
your eyes open. You never know what you might see.
Especially here in Berlin, where there are a
number of creatures out and about that you would be very surprised to see in
England. The most beautiful and most remote are the cranes that at dawn often
pass over our house en route to their feeding grounds out in Brandenburg. Most
people love the cranes. Why wouldn't you? They are graceful, agile, wild,
calling to each other as they pass in their huge flocks through the sunrise,
doing no harm. But other creatures are...well, to put it mildly, not quite so graceful.
And their relationship with the human race is a little more complicated.
 |
| Where the wild things live |
A couple of weeks ago I went out at a
relatively civilised hour, but not very
late, to buy some rolls for breakfast. Cycling down to the track that (apparently)
used to be a favourite place for spies to hang out, I got to the reedbeds and was
surprised to see the edges of the paths – in fact any green spaces at all – were
no longer green. Instead, it looked as though a giant rotovator had made a
clean sweep of the entire area. The earth was turned over in huge chunks, all
greenery subsumed or – well, eaten, I presume. Even the path itself had
disappeared in some places. Everything was quiet, no sound but the birds
chirping in the trees, and a disgruntled elderly couple poking at the ground
with sticks. What had happened?
The Wildschwein
were back.
 |
| Don't worry, I didn't get this close (Photo: wildschweine.net) |
Wild boar – not an exotic sight here, but an
often invisible force. They move by night and sleep by day...but in spring, you
might see them trotting along with a herd of little boar behind them. If you do
– watch out! It's best to keep quite still and if you have a dog – pretend you
haven't. The dog will probably try and pretend it's not with you, either.
In autumn, Wildschwein become particularly
active, moving around Berlin and Brandenburg in search of food, ignoring any borders, rooting up
lawns and gardens, passing invisibly (well, mostly) over huge distances. Once I
saw one in summer, which practically never happens. Katharina and I had gone
for a swim at the lake. It was a hot day, and the banks of the lake were
crowded with trippers and sun-worshippers. Suddenly, out of the hedge exploded
a young boar. It was evidently a teenager that had lost its way, and at the
sight of us all, froze. The human teenagers around us froze too, sun-cream in
hand or towel at their knees, mouths gaping in surprise. No-one moved. Time
seemed to stand still while the young boar wobbled desperately on its gangly legs,
head turning from side to side, looking for an escape – then dashed back into
the bushes again. A buzz of excitement arose. Where had it come from? Where did
it go? Luckily, no enormous mother sow had followed it...
These animals really are wild, and it was exciting
to realise they were living their wild lives just out of sight while we bathed
in the lake. There have been mutterings and mutiny against this force of
nature, though. Especially in Spandau, to the north-west of Berlin, and in
Stahnsdorf, our neighbouring district in former East Germany. Spandauers – well,
they would complain, wouldn't they?
Spandau may be officially part of Berlin, but to most Berliners, it's a
middle-class, snooty villlage that just happens to have a medieval fortress in
the middle of it, where people do uncool things like hold jousting events. Not that Mel or I would ever attend such an event, or that I have any prejudices at all against Spandau, you
understand. But Stahnsdorf...Stahnsdorf is different.
 |
| Stahnsdorf Cemetery |
|
|
|
 |
| Photos: http://www.suedwestkirchhof.de/bildergalerie.html |
Stahnsdorf is a little-known district between
Kleinmachnow, Teltow and Potsdam. But like many little-known districts, it
hides beauties, stories and secrets. Its best-known claim to fame – which is
not nearly as famous as it should be – is its incredible graveyard, the
South-West Cemetery (http://www.suedwestkirchhof.de/kirchhof.html). It's not
just a cemetery. It's a secret garden with acres of tumbling vines and flowers,
pinewoods and formal gardens, with the burial-places of many Berlin luminaries
like industrialist Werner Siemens, the dictionary creator Carl Langenscheidt and
the painter Lovis Corinth half-hidden along its dusky pathways. Among them is
Mel's favourite, F.W.Murnau, creator of the 1920s Dracula movies...
 |
| Grrr.Aaagh |
But it's an international place, too. At its
heart is a beautiful wooden chapel, the Norwegian Chapel, where concerts and
services are held, and at its edges are two special graveyards for English
and Italian soldiers from the First World War, still maintained in manicured,
military splendour. It's a place where many people belong: Jews, Protestants,
Catholics, and about 15,000 interlopers, who were brought here from Schoeneberg in 1939 after
Albert Speer, Hitler's architect, ordered that their original burial places be
rooted up to make way for the gigantic "North-South Axis" he had
planned for Hitler's Berlin.
 |
| Norwegian Chapel |
|
Back in the early 1900s, though, Stahnsdorf
was almost as unknown as it is today, and far harder to get to. So the
ingenious idea was born of creating a "Cemetery Railway", the Friedhofsbahn which from 1913 until 1961,
carried both mourners and day-trippers from Wannsee to the graveyard. But
Stahnsdorf was another place at the heart of Cold War border disputes, cut off politically
from West Germany and geographically from most of the East. The East German
government and the Russians closed the railway in 1961 and the station was
demolished in 1976. Now, all that remains are the iron tracks and a huge stone
memorial.
At first glance, approaching from the
cemetery through heaps of golden autumn leaves in the fragile warmth of the
October sun, we just take in the outside of the memorial. But walk around the
other side, and you are suddenly brought back to the present with a
half-poignant, half-bitter description of the railway's fate. The whole history
of reunification is in these few words. After the Wall came down, an agreement
was made as part of the reunification treaty that all railway routes that had
been destroyed or blocked because of the Wall should be restored. But this
particular railway was, somehow, left out. It was not seen as important enough,
or perhaps its geographical position would still make it too difficult, or
perhaps it would simply cost too much money. Whatever the reason, the
Evangelical Church, that owns the cemetery, took the German government to court
over it. And lost.
Nowadays the cemetery is looked after by
volunteers, waiting for cyclists, walkers and car-drivers to arrive so that
they can be given maps and tours. But today, there is only one topic of
conversation: the Wildschwein. As we enter the gates, we can see that the
flowerbeds have been overturned and the garden at the entrance completely dug
over. We assume that some garden renovation is going on...but no. "No, no,
no," the moustachioed volunteer at the gate mourns, "it's the Wildschwein. They're back. We can't keep
them out." He explains that a normal fence won't stop them, "and we
haven't got enough money to properly fence the whole cemetery." As we
cycle round the quiet pathways, we can see why. The cemetery is vast, the
jungle of trees and bushes the perfect place for a Wildschwein to hang out. We don't see one, of course. Not in the
daytime.
On our way out again, the volunteers and
visitors are still discussing the boar and their ways. It's true it's annoying,
although they seem to have kept, so far, respectfully to the more decorative
areas of the cemetery. I feel sympathy for the people who manage the graveyard. Yet underneath, I also feel a sneaking sense of respect for the
boar. When we get back to Zehlendorf,
and darkness falls, it's nice to know they're out there, doing their wild
things, invisible, but real.
 |
| And I did get the rolls, in the end |
No comments:
Post a Comment