Kiel, Sept. 26
I can hardly believe it’s time to write another entry. I had no idea time could move so quickly; in the blink of an eye, six weeks have gone by. I have a treasure trove of memories, including trips to Kiel’s neighboring towns of Husum, Tönning, Flensburg, and Lübeck; and trips to the Louf (a restaurant on the Kiel Fjord) and the Forstbaumschule, Kiel’s Biergarten (the goal at both to enjoy a dark German beer, and bonding with my fellow Fulbrighters over the dinners we enjoy together). Add the seemingly endless hours spent in class, trying desperately to learn as much German as possible, and it’s been, in a word, incredible.
I have to admit that I was a little scared to come here. Intellectually, I know that Germany today is a very different place than it was 60 years ago. In these interim weeks, I’ve had nothing but pleasant encounters with Germans, and I genuinely enjoy living here. I was sure I’d battled and won against most of my negative theories of what Germany might be like. Yes, I chose Leipzig and the former DDR (German Democratic Republic) for my project, but I was relieved that my language course was in Kiel, in western Germany; I knew it would be at least a month and a half before I had to travel to the eastern half of the country.
Kiel is situated on the Kiel fjord, an inlet from the Baltic Sea. It is the capital of Schleswig-Holstein, the northernmost Land (state, one of 16) in Germany. From the front lawn of the Deutsch-Nordische Burse, the waterside student residence where we live, we can see the tower of the German Naval Memorial in Laboe, at the mouth of the fjord. Built in 1927, the memorial was spared from destruction during the war because Hitler reportedly found it trite. Originally designed as a memorial to German marines who fell during World War I, it was rededicated after the Second War, to commemorate sailors of all nationalities who died during both wars.
One Sunday afternoon, for fun, we decided to head to Laboe to get a closer look. As we entered the memorial, our collective mood was respectful and somber, but we were in relatively good spirits. The displays were poignant, but they were just displays. Then as we meandered into yet another room, we were suddenly immobilized. There it was, hanging there as part of a display not 10 feet from where we stood: the black swastika of the Nazi flag standing out ruthlessly from its red and white background. As one, we stopped breathing.
The majority of Nazi Germany’s U-boats were built in Kiel, and 80 percent of the city was destroyed during the war, to help cripple the German forces. People in Kiel, including our teachers, don’t really talk about the war. The little we know we learned from the Internet and in our Landeskunde class, where we discuss politics and the difference between eastern and western Germany. Germans today are very conscious of their past, and work hard to make sure it isn’t repeated. I have found myself feeling comfortable and relaxed here.
But none of that mattered now, standing before this unflinching symbol of history. The positive experiences I’d had in Germany faded into the background and all I could think about was this banner and what it represented, and that I was living in a place where horrific things had happened. I was afraid, and angry, and disgusted, and sorrowful all at once, and I couldn’t stop the waves of emotion that came over me. The tour guide, stationed in the room for moments just like these, explained the display to us. The Nazi flag can only be shown as part of a group, as it was now, as a neutral record of history. It cannot stand alone, lest it be misconstrued as veneration.
When we finally left the room, it was to ascend to the pinnacle of the tower. We could have used the elevators, but we decided to brave the 341 steps that snake up one of the interior walls. Already shaken, the climb nearly put us over the edge. The tower’s center is large and hollow, with small windows that let in the tiniest bit of light. Except for our occasional mutterings reverberating in the emptiness, it was eerily quiet.
It was a curious phenomenon—being 200 feet up in the tower was like being just as far underwater. It wasn’t until we reached the lookout platform at the top that we could truly breathe again. The mix of emotions I had climbing the stairs disappeared with the first gust of wind. Standing up there, looking out over the water and the cities below, I realized that the monument had succeeded in its mission. It is a Mahnmal: a memorial designed to serve as a warning to future generations. “Be vigilant and aware,” it says, “and make sure that what happened in the past doesn’t happen again; preserve the lives and livelihoods of those tiny beings going about their lives 250 feet below: Don’t forget.”
After seeing the idyllic countryside from above, it was difficult to descend back into reality. It was as if we’d caught a glimpse of something beautiful, only to lose sight of it too quickly. We decided to take the stairs back down, if only to prove to ourselves that we could do it.
It was no easier the second time. Halfway down, one of the others asked me to sing a solitary note, just to hear it. I opened my mouth, and sang from a place from which I don’t often sing. My voice, mournful and afraid in the barrenness of the space, echoed through the height of the tower before slowly dying out. I did it again, higher, and it made me less afraid. As the echo faded away, we left the tower and walked back to our bikes, somehow different. Later, when we talked about it, all of us agreed that we’d value that day in Laboe, but that the entire experience scared us.
We are all here to study something important to each of us. But, as is often the case, what we do in the classroom isn’t as important as what we experience in our surroundings. This, I think, is what Fulbright is really all about: facing that which scares us about other countries and people and ways of life, and not turning away.
