In a troubled world, sometimes miracles come to pass. One of these miracles took place in an unlikely setting - the Berlin Wall years ago on Christmas Eve. I found myself caught up in this miracle and it touched me and will be a wonderful memory for the rest of my life.
Here the story unfolds in the words of a beautiful girl who I met that night.
"Hours passed, the apartment grew smoky enough that windows had to be opened despite the swirling snow outside, what there was to be eaten had been eaten, what there was to be drunk had been drunk, and no one was ready to let go of the conviviality and go home just yet. We had at least an hour and a half to go until midnight; how thus to spend it? I've tried in vain to remember over the years who came up with the original suggestion; it was as brilliant an idea as any I've ever heard in all the years since. We decided to go Christmas caroling -- all of us, en masse. And not just through the German neighborhoods, where we were as likely as not to have the Polizei called on us for disturbing the decorum of a holiday held sacred. No... we were going to go caroling at the Wall.
The cars parked in front of the apartment building could only accommodate so many people, and thus we elected to take the U-Bahn, Berlin's subway, making our undertaking even more of an adventure. Reaching our destination took a good 45 minutes, during which time we discussed what carols to sing. As all but a few of us knew only English lyrics, it was important that we chose songs that also had translations in German, so that they would at the very least be recognized as Christmas songs. Half of the younger GI's were well on the way to being drunk, so this process was laced with merriment.
Finally we arrived. The sight of the Wall immediately plunged us into a more somber mood. It was immense, imposing, forbidding, colder by far than any winter night, topped with broken glass and razor-sharp concertina wire. The harsh glare of floodlights bathed the area on either side in an eternal artificial day. It was a scar on the landscape, a nightmare given substance. Sobered, we ascended the two flights of stairs up to the rickety wooden observation decks and took our positions. Snowflakes swirled in eddies in the yellow haze of the floodlights. The wind chilled us to the bone. But we'd started this madness, and it had to be done.
Before us lay what was known as no-man's-land, a stretch of barren ground criss-crossed with more concertina wire and studded with land mines. Beyond that, Russian and East German soldiers patrolled with guard dogs. More manned the guard towers at the eastern perimeter of the border area. And just beyond that was a street in another world, with houses and apartments in which people lived and died and rarely opened the drapes that covered the western windows of their homes.
With no cue to prompt us, we began to sing. We had decided on ''Silent Night,'' it being the quintessential Christmas song and originally German. No one bothered to consider that none of us knew more than the first verse. And so, once we'd finished, we just launched into it all over again, stronger and with more confidence the second time. The guards patrolling the perimeters slowed their pace and relaxed their grip on their weapons. A dog began to bark. Much to our bewonderment, a gloved hand reached down to its muzzle, silencing it. And that's when the real magic started to happen.
Across the expanse of no-man's land, beyond the swath of the militarized zone, in the darkened shadow of an old apartment building, a pair of curtains parted. Just 18 inches or so, but enough to tell all of us that we'd found an audience, and one brave enough to risk the appearance of communication with the West. The silhouette of a human figure appeared in the light of the window.
The figure disappeared when I finished and returned with a light that it placed upon the window sill. The curtains thereupon closed but the light shone on, a greeting to us and a testament to hope, courage, and to triumph. We sang together one more time, and then began to make our way home.
No one said much on the trip. Gary and I held hands. And I don't think Christmas has been the same for any of us since. Every year I remember and am touched by the wonder of it all. God bless the watcher, if he or she still lives. God bless the guard who silenced his dog, recognizing a sacred thing in spite of his atheistic indoctrination, and God bless our ragtag group of carolers, who were given Christmas that night for all time. May we all always remember. And may you all find your own light in a faraway window, to elicit the gift of what's always been within".
These words are from a short story, "A Light in the Window", by Sylvia Greeny Morris and published in the Zephyr.
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