Creating a New World

The Sol de Mayo found on the first Argentine coin. Photo by Pruxo

Being the geeky gal that I am, this week’s topic sent me all aflutter. I’ve always been fascinated with legends from around the world, and I don’t think anyone would be astounded if I said some of my favorites are from South America. So much so, I wrote an entire book based around a particular civilization steeped in legend—the Incas.

It’s interesting to see how folklore hundreds of years old can influence today’s culture throughout South America. For example, the Argentine national flag features the Sun of May. Argentina printed the sun on its first coin, but the origins of this image are tied to the Inca Sun God, Inti. And it’s no surprise to see Uruguay, Argentina’s neighbor, has the Sun of May on its national flag also.

The Incas didn’t have a written system as we know it to record their legends. However, they used a Khipu, a bunch of cords, sometimes up to 2,000, that were knotted in a certain way. This complex system was how the Incas recorded information, including legends. Unfortunately, no one has been able to decipher the encoding system yet, so the only history we know is the recounts of the Spanish conquistadors. But of course, the Spanish colonizers wrote these from their point of view.

For me, one of the most appealing Inca legends is how their civilization was created. There are many variations of this story, but they all start at Lake Titicaca, the highest navigable lake in the world. Standing on the shores, it’s impossible to see the other side, and it really does look like a sea (minus the toothy sharks). It’s no wonder Bolivia, a landlocked country, has its own navy to patrol the very choppy and chilly waters. And it’s from this body of water that Wiraqocha, the Creator God, shaped the race we refer to as the Incas.

Manco Capac and Inti

Back in the time before light existed, Wiraqocha formed a race of people bigger than himself. These giants turned into greedy beings full of pride and made him weep with sadness. Wiraqocha turned some of these disappointing creatures into stone and for those who remained, he summoned a giant flood that killed all but two. He created a new design of being from these leftover giants--humans.

The newly-fashioned creations were called Manco Capac (the son of the Sun God Inti), and Mama Occlo (fertility goddess and mother). These two summoned the sun and the moon, although the sun became jealous of the moon’s brilliance. In an act of jealousy, the sun threw ashes in the moon’s face, causing it to dim, and the waxing and waning moon we now see is a result of this act. If you ever travel to Lake Titicaca, be sure to visit the islands that pay homage to this legend—the islands of the Sun and Moon.

Wiraqocha needed a master plan for his new world, especially after the disaster with the giants, so on the shores of the lake, at a place called Tiwanaku, he carved out his ideas for the nations he wished to create. He sent two of his servants away, one to the coast and one to the mountains, and their job was to call the newly created humans out from rocky outcrops, valleys, lakes, forests and mountains. Along the way, the servants would place these people at the predetermined destinations Wiraqocha had designated for them. And new civilizations would spring up in each spot.

Travelling in the corridor between his servants, Wiraqocha dressed as a beggar and carried a staff and book in his hands. He taught the people the basics of how to survive and what behavior was expected of them, and along the way he worked the odd miracle.

He placed Manco Capac and Mama Occlo, in the place we call Cuzco (and which is also referred to as the Navel of the Incas), and their job was to make sure Cuzco became the capital of the Inca world. Wiraqocha continued on his way north, heading into what is now Ecuador, where he met up with his two servants. Their job of spreading civilization complete, the trio disappeared across the ocean (yes, they walked on it!), with the promise to one day return.

It’s interesting to note the parallels to legends and stories around the world. I can’t work out how this happens, and perhaps no one will ever know, but when I read about a myth like the one Heidi covered yesterday (here), and how similar it is to legends I’ve heard from other nations, it makes me wonder if there’s some sort of telepathic mystical thing going on or if humans have been born with the same imagination, no matter where they live in the world or in what era.

What myths do you know that have similarities between more than one civilization?

Artwork found by archaeologists of Wiraqocha--as he holds thunderbolts in his hands and has tears cascading down his cheeks (to represent rain)—associates him with the sun in his crown.

Wounded Mountain, Broken Hearts

Photo by Ali Esfandiari

In the foothills of the Zagros Mountains, not far from the western Iranian city of Kermanshah, there stands a mountain with an ugly gash across its face. It looks like a giant tried to strip away the rocky cliff’s very skin and left a ragged wound behind.

This wounded mountain is known as Bisotun, and it draws visitors from far and wide to view ancient carvings depicting the lives and conflicts of ancient Persia’s Achaemenian kings. But the wide slash in the rock, located to one side of the Achaemenian carvings, has its own story to tell—a tale of star-crossed lovers whose lives ended in tragedy, much like Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.

According to legend, Farhad was a stonecutter who fell in love with a beautiful princess named Shireen. Knowing the lady would never notice a man of such lowly birth, Farhad went into the mountains where he spent long days without food, playing haunting melodies on his flute to express his love for her. Eventually, strains of Farhad’s music reached the princess’s ears, and she went looking for the man who could produce such ethereal sounds. On finding him, love sparked in her own heart and Shireen vowed she would marry Farhad.

Shireen’s father, always a practical man, knew this was not to be. How could a high-born princess marry a lowly stonecutter? But the king also could never refuse his daughter the slightest desire, so he came up with a plan. He would allow Farhad and Shireen to marry, but only on one condition: The stonecutter would have to break open Mount Bisotun and find water. Then he was to dig a trench six lances wide, three lances deep, and forty miles long to direct the flow to the king’s castle on the dry plain below the mountain.

The king figured that the task was too enormous for any man to accomplish and Farhad would abandon the effort in frustration. Problem solved. But His Highness hadn’t counted on the stonecutter’s blind determination, or the power of love.

It took many years of back-breaking work, but the gash on the mountain grew deeper and wider. Farhad toiled from dawn till dusk, sleeping on the mountain under the stars with the rocks as his bed and his spade for a pillow. As the king watched the work progress, he knew he’d have to come up with Plan B. So he sent a messenger to the mountaintop to tell the stonecutter that the princess was dead.

In his grief, Farhad struck himself on the head with the spade and fell dead to the ground, his blood flowing into the half-built channel. When Shireen heard of her lover’s death, she rushed up to the mountain, seized the deadly spade and killed herself with it over her lover’s still body.

Like any good legend, this one has many different versions. Sometimes the king is Shireen’s father, other times he’s her jealous husband determined to destroy the rival for his queen’s affections. In one story, Shireen herself sets Farhad to work digging a ditch to a dairy farm many miles away so that milk can flow directly from the royal cows to her castle’s kitchen. (Obviously this princess understands little about how cows are milked.)

They say that at the heart of any legend lies a seed of truth. When I visited Bisotun on a sweltering summer day a few years ago, it was easy to believe that these sad events had unfolded just as the legend says. I could spot marks in the ragged gash that scarred the mountainside, scars that looked like they could have been left by a stonecutter’s tools. Great angular boulders lay scattered about the dusty hill where I stood, as though they’d been left there long before, perhaps during Farhad’s labors. And on the wide plain far below lay the ruins of an ancient structure: the castle where Shireen and her father had lived?

I’m a sucker for a happy ending. But sometimes it’s the tragic ones that linger in my mind.

Off The Beaten Track: Notes from a Museum Nut

Leighton Gage writes a series of crime novels featuring Chief Inspector Mario Silva of the Brazilian Federal Police. The New York Times has referred to his books as “top notch… controversial and entirely absorbing” and called the new one, Every Bitter Thing, “irresistible.” Readers can access a video of him at http://www.leightongage.com, and read his weekly contributions on the blog he shares with seven other writers of international mysteries at http://murderiseverywhere.blogspot.com/. He lives and works in Brazil.

I’m a museum nut. Maybe it has something to do with being museum-starved here in São Paulo, where we have so very few.

Although, if you ever come here, you really shouldn’t miss our MASP. It’s got the finest collection of Western Art in all of the Southern Hemisphere. And a very attractive building as well, under which a flea market is held every Sunday.

 

I have made it my goal to visit all of the great art museums of the world and I’ve been pretty successful at achieving it, but there remain two glaring exceptions in my museum knowledge.

The Hermitage...

...and the National Palace Museum in Taiwan.

I’ve never been to either place.

I’m sure you’ve heard of the former, but you may not be familiar with the latter, which has the most precious collection of Chinese Art in the world – and is one of the reasons why mainland China is so anxious to annex the country. You can read about the history of the museum here: http://www.npm.gov.tw/en/about/tradition.htm And, while there, I suggest you click on the “Collection” tab at the top of the page and sample of few of the museum’s delights. Chinese art isn’t everyone’s cup of chai, certainly not mine, but the place is still on my bucket list.

As to the Hermitage, did you know how close it is to Helsinki?

I’ve been in Finland many times, but have yet to make it to St. Petersburg, despite many promises to my wife to do so. The two cities are separated by little more than 180 miles – and there’s a train. But I’ll be in Helsinki again, in September, for the launch of another Finnish version of one of my books – and, this time, I’ve resolved to go.

The thing about museums and me is that, no matter how much I love them, if I’m in one for more than about three hours at a stretch, my level of appreciation drops. And, since I don’t see myself ever spending more than a few days in Taipei, I fear that my visit to the National Palace Museum is going to be an incomplete experience. That’s why I prefer to make extended stays in those cities that have lots to offer in the museum department.

And, being both a writer and a guy whose kids are no longer at home, my wife and I can often get away with it.

In 2009, for example, we spent the time between March and October in Paris. Enough time to see all of the museums, right?

Wrong! Paris has more than 140 of them. Some of them are so small you can do them in a morning.

One such, is the splendid little Museum of Romantic Life: http://news-e.hoosta.com/museum-of-romantic-life-in-paris/

Another is the Museum of Eroticism: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Museum_of_Eroticism Warning: that one is “X” rated. They project classic pornographic films in black and white and have a myriad of interesting...objects. Don’t bring the kids.

The Mother of All Paris Museums is, of course, the Louvre.

If you’re living in Paris, as we were, one of the first things you should buy for yourself is a membership in the Société des Amis du Louvre: http://www.amisdulouvre.fr/index.htm

They have a little shop in one of the galleries you’ll pass on your way from the Metro to the ticket booths. Drop in, and for a mere ninety Euros, you can buy a family membership, valid for two, for a year. And, with one of those, you get to bypass the long lines at the ticket windows and visit for as long as you like, whenever you like. The normal entry fee to the Louvre is 14 Euros a person, so you and your spouse, if you have one, are going to spend 28 Euros a visit. Do the math. In four visits, the membership pays for itself. But with your membership card you can drop by for an hour or so without it seeming like an indulgence. Which is what we did, several times a week between March and October of 2009. I can honestly say that I now know the Louvre better than any other great museum in the world.

Finally, folks, a suggestion. If you haven’t yet visited Paris’s Jacquemart-André, you really should check it out: http://www.musee-jacquemart-andre.com/en/jacquemart/

They have a truly splendid collection of paintings by Italian and Flemish masters housed in what used to be a private mansion back in the Belle Époque. The art is fantastic, but the place is well worth-seeing for the building alone.

At Last, We Meet

On my recent trip to the UK, I took a train to Edinburgh, Scotland, much anticipating the red and green plaid skirts and a few old tales about Mary, Queen of Scots. I expected to find a charming old city, but I didn’t expect to visit one of my favorite writers of all times: Robert Louis Stevenson. More so, when I was reading his books in Russian translation, in my ignorance, I thought him an Englishman. Not only was he a Scot, but Edinburgh was his hometown.

The Royal Mile – Edinburgh’s main street – leads down from the Edinburgh Castle, the former residence of legendary Mary Stuart, to the Scottish Parliament and the Holyrood Palace, which King James converted from a medieval monastery into a royal residence. Packed with little museums that feature everything from weaving to childhood toys, the Royal Mile can easily monopolize your attention, but it’s the little narrow side streets that lead to the off-the-beaten paths and undiscovered treasures. 

Edinburgh’s Writers’ Museum is one of them. You can’t even quite see it from the main drag; you have to be a wanderer at heart to find it. And perhaps, a writer too – to notice the hanging sign in the shape of a scribe, jotting down those precious words with an ink feather as fast as he can. A writer’s words are always fleeting, by quill or by keyboard. 

The entire first floor of the Edinburgh’s Writers’ Museum was all about Stevenson.

I've always loved Stevenson’s books and admired his poems. As a child, I liked his work so much, I even read the preface for The Treasure Island – and, surprisingly, found out we had something in common! We were both sickly kids who spent days in bed, watching others play outside while our own caretakers wouldn’t open our windows even a crack. He seemed to be susceptible to the cold and damp Edinburgh weather, I suffered from tonsillitis and pneumonia in the icy Russian winters. So we let ourselves get lost in books, invented our own little worlds and created imaginary friends, with whom we embarked on the most incredible adventures. I wrote mine down sometimes. I’m pretty sure he did the same. “When I suffer, stories are my salvation,” he wrote. “I take them like opium.” 

The son of Thomas Stevenson and Isabelle Balfour, Stevenson was born to a family of engineers. So was I. Only his engineering dynasty specialized in lighthouses while my kinfolk built planes, trains, and automobiles. He didn’t do well in technical sciences in school, and I spaced out in my math classes. He became a writer, and so did I. I even learned to write with a fountain pen in school.  

And now, we’ve met at last. 

Originally built in 1622 as a private home for one of the city's wealthiest families, the museum also hosts exhibitions to two more of Scotland's great literary figures: Robert Burns and Sir Walter Scott, whose books I also love. The dining room of Scott's North Castle Street home has been reconstructed, complete with the his own chessboard and dining table. 

Yet I kept going back to the Stevenson’s exhibit, with its collection of photographs, many of which came from the Island of Samoa where he used to live later in life. I spent the majority of my time at the museum there, in fact. It was as if I'd been able to travel 150 years back in time. As I read his letters and eavesdropped in on his thoughts, I learned something else he and I had in common: he was an explorer too. “I travel not to go somewhere – but to go,” one of his scribbles said.  

You never know what you may find and who you may meet when you travel foreign lands. I met Robert Louis Stevenson. I even told him his books had once been my opioid salvation.

To the Ends of the Earth

Alli in the National Park of Tierra del Fuego

My first encounter with Tierra del Fuego (the Land of Fire) was through Bruce Chatwin’s book, In Patagonia. His words created images of far flung settlements struggling in sparse, windswept landscapes. His ability to weave the passion of the people and the harshness of the terrain were enough to make me want to undertake my own Patagonian adventure.

For years, I’d dreamt about travelling to the Land of Fire, and in particular, Ushuaia, the southernmost city in the world (although, the Chileans dispute this—don’t get them started). Located on the icy shores of the Beagle Channel and surrounded by the Martial chain of mountains, Ushuaia could easily be mistaken as a seaside town in Scandinavia. Now used as a stepping-off point for boat trips to Antarctica, Ushuaia has a rich, and at times, seedy history. A visit to Presidio, the city’s old prison, will set one straight.

In 1902, Ushuaia was designated as a place to lodge re-offenders. Its remote location and inhospitable environment meant anyone crazy enough to escape would perish in the cold and harsh elements. Prisoners were indentured to build a jail and by the time they finished in 1920, the prison housed murderers, thieves, political prisoners, and military deserters. Originally designed to inter 380 prisoners in single cells, the jail housed 800 men.

Walking through the cold, echoing passages, it’s not hard to imagine the suffering and dog-eat-dog behavior that once ruled these halls. But all wasn’t lost on those willing to make good. Prisoners with a proven record of good behavior received the chance to earn wages and work inside the workshops or even outside the jail. They undertook trades the community desperately needed—printers, cobblers, carpenters, bakers, and pharmacists among them. Because of these services, the residents of Ushuaia didn’t have to rely so heavily on the ships arriving once a month to deliver goods. Thanks to the skills of the inmates, Ushuaia grew into a flourishing, self-sufficient community.

The prison closed in 1947 but visitors can relive life there through the small, but fascinating museums that fill Ushuaia. The Museo de Presidio, also houses the Museo Maritimo (Maritime Museum) and the Antarctic Museum. The central hall of the prison is hired out as a function and lecture room and, from there, the cells sprout off like a spinning wheel. Many of the small rooms contain keepsakes from past prisoners. Pabellón 4 (Pavilion 4) delves into Tierra del Fuego’s history, including the history of Ferdinand Magellan, the Portuguese explorer who sailed for the Spanish Crown and discovered this island in 1520. 

The second floor of Pavilion 4 hosts the Antarctic Museum. It displays tools used by polar expeditions and biological materials, including a comprehensive history of expeditions to Antarctica. There are incredibly detailed models of famous ships, built to scale, providing a glimpse into the region’s history. The most appealing part of the museum, to me, is the willingness of the curators to not only celebrate history, but use it to build on present and future explorations of the snowy continent.

And if you can’t get enough history, then the Museo del Fin del Mundo (Museum of the End of the World) might help in that department. The stately building was once a local branch of the Banco de la Nación Argentina (National Bank of Argentina) and played an important role in the settler’s success in this remote part of the world. The displays represent aboriginal groups, along with the story of how Tierra del Fuego got its name. Turns out, when Magellan first sailed into the strait, he spotted fires burning along the shores. The flames belonged to the Yaghan people, so Magellan and his men originally christened the island as the Land of Smoke, later changing it to the Land of Fire.

The library holds more than 3,400 tomes devoted to history and sciences, such as anthropology. But it’s the Colección Reservada that gets book geeks like me all excited. Tucked away in a vault is a collection of original books written by scientists, explorers and influential people between the 16^th and 19^th centuries. At the time I visited, this vault was off limits to tourists, and I’ve been unable to find out if it’s available for viewing today. But just the thought of it for me feels like a little piece of heaven. I can imagine my nose twitching from the mold, spines of books snapping as they’re opened, and pages crinkling as I gently turned them with white cotton gloved hands. 

The Land of Fire offers a lot more than museums though. It’s been the subject of many novels, including the lighthouse on the Isla de los Estados (Island of the States) which inspired Jules Verne to write The Lighthouse at the End of the World. A week in Ushuaia is barely enough to take in the museums, hiking, skiing, boating, estancias (ranches), penguins, and Train to the End of the World. And let’s not forget the Irish Pub. (Come on, did you really think I’d neglect to mention such an important attraction?)

It’s easy to spend hours strolling up the hills and gazing out over the Beagle Channel. With Antarctica as a neighbor, Ushuaia is a city steeped in history and frontier culture.

Diamonds Are a Shah's Best Friend

Darya-i-Noor Diamond

Emeralds, rubies, pearls, sapphires, and diamonds in hues from black to pink. Precious gems set into everything from snuff boxes and swords to tiaras and water pipes. These treasures belong to one of the world’s largest and most valuable gemstone collections, more formally known as the Iranian Treasury of National Jewels, or simply the Jewels Museum.

Housed in secure vault in the basement of the Central Bank on Ferdowsi Street in Tehran, the museum is guarded by two soldiers wielding Kalashnikovs, for this precious collection is not just one of Tehran’s most popular tourist attractions, it is also Iran’s Fort Knox: it backs the country’s currency. Only the most interesting and historical pieces are on display, the rest are stored in great chests below the vault’s solid floor. I picture the storage chamber as something out of an Indiana Jones movie, with gold and glittery jewels spilling out of wooden boxes, though the reality is certainly a lot less dramatic.

The Jewels Museum is open three days a week for only two hours each afternoon. According to a law dating back to the shah’s time, a government representative must be present whenever the collection is open for public viewing.

Persian royalty have been collecting precious gems for two millennia, but the Safavid monarchs (1501 – 1722) were the first to catalog their treasures. They mined precious stones in Iran’s Khoresan province and Turkmenistan and obtained others through booty during military conquests from Turkey to India. The last shah of Iran, Mohamed Reza Pahlavi, was the first to put the jewels on public display, and when the Islamic Revolution forced his abdication, there were fears that the entire treasury would be looted. Some pieces did disappear, but the bulk of the collection remains intact.

Bejeweled Globe

The most astonishing piece in the Treasury collection is the Bejeweled Globe, a round map of the world made of gold and studded with over 50,000 precious gems. The oceans are emeralds, rubies fashion the continents, and white diamonds mark the countries of Iran, England, France, and parts of Asia. This piece would more aptly be called the Bedazzling Globe because it takes some time for the eye to make sense of the sparkling gems and identify the land masses and seas that they form. According to legend, the 19^th-century Qajar king, Nasseredin Shah, had it built as a way to keep track of the gems in the royal treasury. Although if that story is true, he should have made at least ten more.

The Darya-i-Noor (Sea of Light) diamond, in a case by the door, is one of the largest diamonds in the world (around 182 carets), and of a rare pink color. It came from the Golkandeh mines of India, along with its more famous sister, the Kooh-i-Noor (Mountain of Light), which is now part of the British Crown Jewels. Both diamonds belonged to the 17^th-century Moghul emperor, Shah Jahan, who lost them when Iran’s Nader Shah invaded the Moghul Empire and exacted both jewels as part of the price for restoring Jahan to his throne.

Shah Jahan’s original Darya-i-Noor was even larger than its present size, but some enterprising owner subsequently had it cut into two pieces. The smaller stone, known as the Noor ol Ein Diamond, is set in a tiara that was made for Shahbanu Farah, Mohamed Reza Pahlavi’s queen.

Peacock (Sun) Throne

The most enigmatic object in the collection is the famous Peacock Throne, which was part of the Moghul loot that Nader Shah brought back from his Indian campaign. The problem is that no one can quite agree which of the gold-plated, jewel-studded thrones in the Treasury is the real Peacock Throne: the platform-style Sun Throne housed in its own alcove outside the vault door or the chair-like Naderi Throne at the back of the main collection? (My vote goes to the Sun Throne, which resembles the one in paintings of Shah Jahan.)

What is known is that the original Peacock throne disappeared shortly after Nader Shah’s death and was either dismantled or sold to the Ottomans. How it made its way back to Iran is a mystery, but one story goes that Mohamed Shah of the Qajar dynasty had a new one built in 1836 using parts of the original throne. I find this mystery far more interesting than the dazzling beauty of either object.

Naderi Throne

The lovely objects in the Central Bank’s vault have a fascination that goes beyond their intrinsic value, for they are part of the history of Iran. If you visit the museum, be sure to grab a good guide to hear the tales of intrigue, jealousy, power struggles, and dynasties won and lost that formed the lives of Persia’s royalty.

To learn more about this amazing museum and the treasures it contains, check out the Iran Chamber website.

Off the Beaten Track: What Price Freedom

Our guest this week is Karsten Horne. Traveling has been in Karsten’s veins from a young age. He followed the overland trail to Europe with his parents then backpacked solo through South America as a teenager. Karsten runs the highly successful Reho Travel in Melbourne and Sydney, Australia, catering to a mostly corporate clientele. He is currently working on expanding the company’s retail offerings with a new brand and through rehope sponsors those less fortunate. He manages to combine his love of writing and photography with his travel enterprises, having visited 75 countries and finding inspiration on every journey.

Like any travel writer, you return from holiday and suddenly the work begins. How do I write a story about Berlin that hasn’t already been written? There is always the fear, too, that someone knows more than you and will rip your work apart. A defence of, “Hey, I only had 1,500 words” just doesn’t cut it. Then I remember that it was my late mother that inspired me to visit Berlin in the first place. So I wandered out to the garage and looked through the few belongings she’d left behind. I discovered an essay she wrote back in her university days. I was half-way through it and, bang, there was my inspiration. The rest is history. I hope you enjoy!

The sight of so many Russian uniforms did not surprise us anymore. We did not get excited either. We kept away from the noisy street and quietly played by ourselves in the corner of the living room, the only warm room of the house. Papa was getting restless, staying indoors for days on end. His office in town was closed, and there was chaos on the streets. The shops did not sell much, because the shelves were empty. One day, Papa decided to go to town to try and find some food.

Looking at my watch, I suddenly realised that we were going to be late for our tour. Before rushing out the door I quickly scoffed the rest of my New York cheesecake and sculled the remains of my coffee. It was bitterly cold outside, the ground was covered in deep snow but I had a warm scarf, a thick Burton jacket, and snowboard gloves on so I really didn’t notice.

The “Wall Ride” is designed as a mission through the heart of East Berlin. They kit you out in Russian hats, serve you tea from a samovar, and welcome you with bread and salt. During the drive, you are regaled with stories of escape. “Pull over here, see that house number 60 with the blue door..., well from that house, they dug a tunnel under where we are standing. Imagine the wall ran along this street. They came up over by the traffic lights. Now let me tell you how they hid the dirt...”

In 1989, as the wind of change swept through Berlin there was a strong movement that wanted to eradicate all memories of the once divided city. You have to look closely to find the former border; the snow-covered roads hide a twin row of stones embedded in the street as a memorial. The drab architecture should be a clue but, very quickly, whole districts are being rebuilt or at the very least getting a touch of color.

Papa looked up at us but quickly averted his eyes, we hardly recognised him. He looked such a mess, clothes torn, gold-rimmed glasses gone. How can he see without them? He tried to smile but only managed a lopsided grin. A Russian soldier noticed it and hit him hard across the face. Poor Papa nearly collapsed but was helped up by my brothers. Mutti screamed. I held tightly on to her apron and, through the tears, we watched the pathetic group of prisoners disappear out of view.

Karsten and his family in Europe

Several years ago, I took my mother to the premiere of Goodbye, Lenin, a comedy about a son who tries to hide the collapse of the wall from his bedridden mother who is a strong party activist. My mum had a pretty good sense of humor for a German but just didn’t get the joke in the movie. To her, it was a stark reminder of her childhood. Last year, when my mother passed away, I promised myself that one day I would visit the city that played an important role in her upbringing.

Settling into a first-class compartment as the DB ICE train smoothly pulled out of Berlin’s sparkling new ultra-modern Hauptbahnof, I took one last look at the snow-covered glass dome of the Reichstag and imagined what life in Germany must have been like for her generation. I continued reading the short story, The Russians Are Coming, that I’d recently discovered among my mother’s belongings. Her childhood memories were penned in 1989, only weeks before the wall came down.

Forty-two years later the Red Cross informed us that Papa was suspected of being a Nazi criminal, put on a train to Siberia but never made it. His frail delicate body could not stand the cold and disease; he died of starvation and typhus fever. He suffered the same fate as thousands of Germans before him; his frozen body was thrown out of a moving wagon to litter the silent frozen Russian countryside. A soft deep carpet made up his grave.

The link to the extended story is http://www.rehotravel.com/templates/listDetail.jsp?id=327&code=europe-reports