Heroes Like Us

1

It was me. I knocked down the Wall.

You must not believe this myth of "The People cracked open the Wall."

Schabowski? His press conference? He has, that's right, while he was facing the questions of journalists about the deluge of defectors--he assured all defectors of immediate permission to leave at once for the Federal Republic. But nothing else.

Granted, an hour later the deputies of the West German Bundestag interrupted their debate about a law sponsoring club activities to rise and sing the national anthem, the Deutschlandlied.

But at the Wall nothing had happened so far.

And nothing was going to happen. Except that many inquisitive people assembled and waited for something to happen.

Yes it was me. I knocked down the Wall.

The story of the Wall's fall is my story and foremost the story of my . . . pecker.

2

My name is Klaus.

Klaus Uhltzscht.

UHLTZSCHT.

Ulric--Henry--Louis--Theodor--Zachary--Siegfried--Caesar--Henry--Theodor.

Or: Ulbricht--Honecker--Lovebirds--Teleshopping--Zombie--Sandman--Central Committee--Honecker--Teleshopping.

Or: (Morse Alphabet) ..- / .... / .-.. / - / --.. / ... / -.-. / .... / -

3

My parents lived in Berlin, not far from the subway station Magdalenen Street, right across from the Ministry of State Security.

I didn't have to go to Kindergarten but was sitting happily at home, fondling my crayons and drawing pictures which again and again threw my mother into a state of absolute rapture.

She beamed, she laughed, she applauded.

My father, however, showed no interest in my paintings. I loved him but I didn't like him.

That he always was so sulky had to be caused by the kind of work he did.

He worked at the Ministry of Foreign Trade. He was a foreign trader, something I had very distinct ideas about. Someone who is trading with foreigners had to be a trader who works outside in the open air, a kind of street vendor. This appeared to me as one of the most cruel of all occupations since I had seen at the Christmas fair a vendor of cotton-candy who clutched a cup of tea with his frozen fingers.

If I was ever awed by someone it was him. My father wrought signs and miracles.

For instance, he used to sit in front of the TV, his sweatsuit pants rolled up to his knees, while his feet were splashing in a basin full of water. He converted perfectly normal tap water into a medication for foot odor!

He also could sleep and snore at the same time. And the way he blew his nose. An awesome ritual. He spread his handkerchief, as large as a pillow case, across both of his hands, then buried his nose therein and then . . . he roared into the handkerchief and yanked at his nose as if he was going to rip it off. Afterwards he scrutinized his excretions as if he could read the future from them. And he really could, I believe.

I could chat forever about my father, only to avoid talking about the most important thing. Namely, that he considered me a loser.

Whatever I said, thought, wanted, felt, wrote, demanded, offered as a present, loved, whatever I did--his unspoken "Forget it!" kept haunting me.

4

But I was no loser.

At the age of nine I already appeared on the front page of NBI--New Berlin Illustrated--our weekly journal with the largest distribution.

That was in third grade. In our club of "Young Scientists" we had developed an experimental erector set "Acoustics" that we presented at the local fair of "Masters of Tomorrow." And that wasn't the end of it--we were advanced to the County Fair, and there we were nominated for the Provincial Fair. And I was appointed the caretaker of our booth. A student in third grade as the expert of acoustic experimentation.

The next day my photo appeared on the...