Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 years of marriage. This is number 31 of a series about our lives and travels. If you scroll down, you'll come to earlier posts in this series. To start at the beginning of our marriage look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017. Older posts you'll find below that are a previous series about later travels.
Sherrill, Warsaw, Poland Sherrill was more adventurous than many people realized. She found our next trip: through the Iron Curtain to the Soviet Union and several of its satellites while they all were still tied together, although we learned that those bonds were starting to fray and come apart.
We couldn't travel there independently because all trips had to be organized and controlled by the Soviet Intourist agency, but Sherrill discovered a British company that was working with Intourist. This would be a chance to get farther behind the Iron Curtain, she pointed out, even if we couldn't push it aside, ourselves.
We couldn't travel there independently because all trips had to be organized and controlled by the Soviet Intourist agency, but Sherrill discovered a British company that was working with Intourist. This would be a chance to get farther behind the Iron Curtain, she pointed out, even if we couldn't push it aside, ourselves.
The Communists were hungry for Western currency, so the group was welcome in their world, as long as we played by their rules. Getting out, we'd learn, was not so simple. Our entry was East Berlin. The hotel that Intourist put us in, the sprawling new Palast, swollen with bulgy copper-hued windows, looked like a massive reptile lounging on the river Spree, its sleepy eyes focused on the vast desert of Alexanderplatz nearby. Inside, despite its pretensions to luxury, it was dark and gloomy, partly because of the heaviness of the furniture and the low wattage of all the lights.
"They have no taste," Sherrill whispered to me. "How could they not know how ugly this place is?"
"Worse than that," I countered, peering over her shoulder around the dusty acreage of the lobby, past the fake leather chairs at the middle-aged bellboys and clerks shuffling in the shadows, to the little hard currency shop in one of the corners. "I feel like I'm being watched all the time."
"You don't need to be paranoid, sweetie. Losing your mind right now is not a good idea."
"They have no taste," Sherrill whispered to me. "How could they not know how ugly this place is?"
"Worse than that," I countered, peering over her shoulder around the dusty acreage of the lobby, past the fake leather chairs at the middle-aged bellboys and clerks shuffling in the shadows, to the little hard currency shop in one of the corners. "I feel like I'm being watched all the time."
"You don't need to be paranoid, sweetie. Losing your mind right now is not a good idea."
Palast Hotel, East Berlin
Much later, years after unification, I learned that Stasi officers (who worked with the Soviet KGB) really had used cameras and microphones to watch the lobby, elevators, corridors, even some rooms. Whatever our suspicions, we didn't actually know any of that at the time. The Palast also, I found out, finally was torn down because it was filled with asbestos. At least, the hotel was in a good location. We could stroll to the huge Baroque cathedral and the neoclassic buildings on Museum Island, including the Pergamon Museum famous for the ancient altar from Turkey, all of them dark with grime and dirt, as well as still pock-marked with bullet holes from World War II. Except for two black limousines that raced past once, the only cars we saw were rusty, aged Ladas, usually coughing smoke.
Changing the Guard, East Berlin Sherrill and I walked over to Alexanderplatz. The display windows in the recently built department stores along the rim of the great square were almost empty, but we took an elevator to the bulb at the top of the Communications Tower in the center, also known as the "skewered olive." We never would have guessed that before the War this vast square was the unsleeping heart of old Berlin. As we ascended in the elevator, Sherrill nodded toward the pregnant elevator operator, who kept tugging the front of her ill-fitting jacket over the dingy slip that covered her swollen belly. Not once did she look at us. At the top, we gazed down on the giant concrete snake of the Wall and the no-man's land hugging its side: It looked as if it already had started devouring East Berlin and was hungrily eyeing the Western sector.
Checkpoint Charlie, West Berlin Side
Checkpoint Charlie and the capitalist glories of West Berlin were our agenda after several days exploring the Eastern city. Marina, our guide, a fortyish Polish-born British citizen who spoke five languages, was experienced at dealing with Communist bureaucracy.
"If we're lucky, we'll get through in under an hour," she told us from the front of the bus, standing behind our diminutive Belgian driver, Cesar, as he steered the Mercedes coach through the erratic East Berlin traffic. "They go over the bus very carefully. Once, it took us two hours. They come on board, look at your passport and match the picture to you. Mostly, they'll search the bus to make sure no East German is doing a Houdini to escape to the Western zone. Cesar has been through this before." She peered through the wide front windows at the little house and gate of the Friedrichstrasse border crossing. "We have the big German woman," she announced. "Don't try to be friendly. It'll make her suspicious."
A uniformed guard rolled over a steel-framed mobile staircase and scrambled up to survey the top of the coach. Simultaneously, a large mirror was slid beneath so that another guard could inspect its underside. The humorless female guard, standing like a Wagnerian soprano in her uniform and heavy shoes, exchanged terse remarks with Marina, then plodded down the aisle, demanding passports. It seemed like a joke, but none of us dared smile. A third guard, with Cesar's assistance, was searching the engine section at the rear of the bus, luggage compartments on the sides, and even the cooler chest where drinks were kept. Finally, Brunhilde growled at Marina, who stepped down off the coach with her.
"You passed," Marina told us when she was back on the bus. "And Cesar and the bus passed," She looked at her watch, "Only forty-five minutes."
The bus paused after we were through so we could take pictures, then continued on, stopping at the Brandenburg Gate with the Wall—its skin a chaos of graffiti on this side—hiding part of it, and then at the burned remains of the Reichstag building, once the center of the German government, still not restored after many years. Eventually, we came to a boulevard lined with sleek new buildings, on one of which a Mercedes logo revolved. Cesar tucked the coach into a parking place between the Zoo train station and the Kurfurstendamm.
"If we're lucky, we'll get through in under an hour," she told us from the front of the bus, standing behind our diminutive Belgian driver, Cesar, as he steered the Mercedes coach through the erratic East Berlin traffic. "They go over the bus very carefully. Once, it took us two hours. They come on board, look at your passport and match the picture to you. Mostly, they'll search the bus to make sure no East German is doing a Houdini to escape to the Western zone. Cesar has been through this before." She peered through the wide front windows at the little house and gate of the Friedrichstrasse border crossing. "We have the big German woman," she announced. "Don't try to be friendly. It'll make her suspicious."
A uniformed guard rolled over a steel-framed mobile staircase and scrambled up to survey the top of the coach. Simultaneously, a large mirror was slid beneath so that another guard could inspect its underside. The humorless female guard, standing like a Wagnerian soprano in her uniform and heavy shoes, exchanged terse remarks with Marina, then plodded down the aisle, demanding passports. It seemed like a joke, but none of us dared smile. A third guard, with Cesar's assistance, was searching the engine section at the rear of the bus, luggage compartments on the sides, and even the cooler chest where drinks were kept. Finally, Brunhilde growled at Marina, who stepped down off the coach with her.
"You passed," Marina told us when she was back on the bus. "And Cesar and the bus passed," She looked at her watch, "Only forty-five minutes."
The bus paused after we were through so we could take pictures, then continued on, stopping at the Brandenburg Gate with the Wall—its skin a chaos of graffiti on this side—hiding part of it, and then at the burned remains of the Reichstag building, once the center of the German government, still not restored after many years. Eventually, we came to a boulevard lined with sleek new buildings, on one of which a Mercedes logo revolved. Cesar tucked the coach into a parking place between the Zoo train station and the Kurfurstendamm.
Brandenburg Gate, with Berlin Wall in front, West Berlin side
Everyone, Marina told us, was free to explore, shop, visit cafes, even go to the zoo. Sherrill and I asked Marina to get us a taxi to go to an art museum in a different neighborhood while the others were shopping. We promised to be back in time to board the coach to return to East Berlin and our wonderful hotel.
"I can't believe it!" Sherrill indicated a large group of German students at the museum.
It was true, though: they were excited about an exhibit of hand-woven baskets and other artifacts made by California Indians, identical to those we'd studied in grammar school.
* * *
"I can't believe it!" Sherrill indicated a large group of German students at the museum.
It was true, though: they were excited about an exhibit of hand-woven baskets and other artifacts made by California Indians, identical to those we'd studied in grammar school.
* * *
Stalin's Tower, Warsaw, Poland The drive from East Berlin and then across Poland to Warsaw was neither picturesque nor interesting, just long. We assumed that the route must have been required by the Communists, since there certainly was nothing much to see. The Hotel Forum in Warsaw was a Communist version of a high-rise, but a great step up from the Palast in East Berlin. Across a wide square opposite stood the ugliest building Sherrill and I had ever seen. The favorite architectural style of Uncle Joe Stalin, we were told: stacked layers as on a wedding cake rising to preposterous height, each bulky level beautified with concrete filigree and other architectural gewgaws. At least one building like it seemed to be required in every major Communist city.
"It's considered the best address in Warsaw," Marina told us, "because then you don't have to look at it."
"It's considered the best address in Warsaw," Marina told us, "because then you don't have to look at it."
The next day, as Sherrill and I were exploring the crumbling streets and sidewalks on our own, we saw several large posters with a black and white photograph of lanky Gary Cooper striding forward in High Noon. Painted behind him and printed on a badge on his vest were the red letters "Solidarnosc"—"Solidarity." The showdown between the workers, led by Lech Walesa, and the Polish Communist bosses was rapidly approaching. There seemed to be no doubt that the Poles were restless under their Soviet "masters" and intended to break free. As we traveled further behind the Iron Curtain, we began to see signs that throughout this Soviet "Union" people craved a better life and their own identities as separate nations.
Walking on Warsaw's broken streets and sidewalks was a challenge. Suddenly, Sherrill fell against me, falling almost onto her knees. She'd stepped into a deep hole in the sidewalk. Despite the pain, she said that she didn't think it was broken, just a bad sprain. Back at the hotel, I called down from our room asking for ice for the pain and swelling. A while later, someone brought up a small bucket filled with tiny ice cubes.
I remembered from movies made in Warsaw after World War II by Polish director Andrzej Wajda how devastated the city was, not a whole building left standing. Since then, the main square in the historic city had been reconstructed using old paintings and photographs as guides, but it looked as fake as a stage set. When we walked into a few of the buildings, we saw that their interiors had no relation to their exteriors. We stopped at the site of the notorious Warsaw Ghetto, where a huge monument had been built in 1948 to honor the Ghetto uprising of the Jewish partisans against the German military occupying the city. One side represented the heroic Jewish rebels, the other the tragic parade of Jewish families to their fate, one carrying a Torah.
I remembered from movies made in Warsaw after World War II by Polish director Andrzej Wajda how devastated the city was, not a whole building left standing. Since then, the main square in the historic city had been reconstructed using old paintings and photographs as guides, but it looked as fake as a stage set. When we walked into a few of the buildings, we saw that their interiors had no relation to their exteriors. We stopped at the site of the notorious Warsaw Ghetto, where a huge monument had been built in 1948 to honor the Ghetto uprising of the Jewish partisans against the German military occupying the city. One side represented the heroic Jewish rebels, the other the tragic parade of Jewish families to their fate, one carrying a Torah.
Sherrill, Reconstructed Square, Warsaw
Driving through Minsk a few days later, it was obvious that the city—now capital of Belarus, then part of the Soviet Union—also had been completely destroyed during the War and then rebuilt in the sterile Communist style. Block after block of austere apartment buildings had been constructed after the War to provide needed housing and nothing had improved since then. A day later, we discovered that not much of pre-War Smolensk was left, either. Intourist put us in a cheap hotel on the edge of town, easily the filthiest place Sherrill and I had ever stayed. Walking across the dining room, our shoes crunched on the grit and we saw herds of dust bunnies frolicking under the tables and chairs. However, the local Russian guide was very good.
A personable young woman in her late twenties, she understood that we weren't too happy and offered to take anyone who wanted to go with her on a walk that evening and chat with us. Sherrill and I and a few others decided that it had to be better than sitting around in that hotel. As we strolled on almost deserted streets, she answered questions about the lives that she and her friends led. Shortly before leaving home, Sherrill and I had watched one of the few new Soviet movies to get to the United States, Moscow Does Not Believe in Tears, which followed the lives and fortunes of three young women, their relations with men (all of whom turned out to be drunks), and their careers. Judging from this film, the life of a woman in the Soviet Union wasn't easy. Even the life of the most successful of the trio, who became an engineer, looked pretty Spartan to us—and that was after she dumped her abusive drunkard husband.
"Does the movie give an accurate picture of life over here?" I asked.
"Ah," she replied. "I love that movie. All my friends love it, too."
Another lesson from those long days on the road through the Soviet Union was that it was a very large sprawling, carelessly stitched together, quilt of a country.
"It's like driving over and over again across central Canada," Sherrill commented, "but not as exciting."
To be continued....
A personable young woman in her late twenties, she understood that we weren't too happy and offered to take anyone who wanted to go with her on a walk that evening and chat with us. Sherrill and I and a few others decided that it had to be better than sitting around in that hotel. As we strolled on almost deserted streets, she answered questions about the lives that she and her friends led. Shortly before leaving home, Sherrill and I had watched one of the few new Soviet movies to get to the United States, Moscow Does Not Believe in Tears, which followed the lives and fortunes of three young women, their relations with men (all of whom turned out to be drunks), and their careers. Judging from this film, the life of a woman in the Soviet Union wasn't easy. Even the life of the most successful of the trio, who became an engineer, looked pretty Spartan to us—and that was after she dumped her abusive drunkard husband.
"Does the movie give an accurate picture of life over here?" I asked.
"Ah," she replied. "I love that movie. All my friends love it, too."
Another lesson from those long days on the road through the Soviet Union was that it was a very large sprawling, carelessly stitched together, quilt of a country.
"It's like driving over and over again across central Canada," Sherrill commented, "but not as exciting."
To be continued....
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