Scott Krause Learning From David Hasselhof: Te Frustrated Desire for Historical Authenticity in

Opponents to the disfigurement of the ranged from tracesDavid Hasselhoff to leftist activists. March 2013 protests gave “the Hoff” his largest audience since the early . (Photo by Scott Krause.)

On March 17, 2013, Berlin’s legendary party crowd rose unusually early to attend a political demonstration. More than 10,000 people gathered to protest the partial destruction of the “East Side Gallery”—the longest remaining, art-bedecked section of the Berlin —to make way for an upscale apartment complex. Protesters could count on prominent celebrity support from David Hasselhof. Addressing the crowd in front of a counter-culture club, with a slurred speech denouncing the sell-out of culture, “the Hof” found his bearings 263 The UNC-Chapel Hill Journal of History

Since the late 1960s, GDR Plattenbauten have occupied , for which the Old Town was razed. (Photo courtesy of Manfred Brückels.)

when he capped his address with an acapella rendition of his German reunifcation-era hit, “I’ve Been Looking for Freedom.” Te alliance between a 1980s American consumer culture’s ambassador and lefist critics of gentrifcation, to the joy of thousands of youths born afer the fall of the Wall, made the protest both ironic and bizarre. In farcical fashion, the debate on the East Side Gallery highlights a broader debate taking place currently in Berlin: what place should the city assign to the visible traces of the twentieth century in its cityscape? Te stance of Berlin’s city administration on the future of the East Side Gallery is emblematic of the sorry and confused relationship of Berlin with its own past. Te same local politicians who rushed to voice their support for the East Side Gallery’s preservation had earlier given a building permit for the apartment complex in order to facilitate community development. Granted, coming to terms with the twentieth century cannot be easy in Berlin. Te was engineered and coordinated from its premises and World War II was unleashed by orders signed there, ultimately consuming the city as its last European battlefeld. During the course of the twentieth century, no less than fve diferent political regimes attempted to leave their imprint on the city. Kaiser Wilhelm II tried to counter explosive economic and urban growth with pompous displays of imperial splendor, such as the

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The longest-remaining, art-bedecked section of the , known as the “East Side Gallery,” became the center of a debate over the preservation of the visible traces of ’s twentieth-century history when portions of it were slated to be torn down to make way for an upscale apartment complex. (Photo by Mark W. Hornburg.)

Deutsche Dom. Brick stone modernist buildings still stand as witness to the liberal potential of the Republic. Nazi legacies survive most visibly through the scars the regime inficted, in Stolpersteine commemorating deportees, and in open lots. But the Nazis’ architecture still litters the city as well, exemplifed most famously by the . During the city’s division through the , both East and West sought to remake their portions of the city into showcases for their respective systems’ achievements. Te Moscow-inspired Karl-Marx-Allee, the former Stalinallee, still marks the Eastern end of downtown, while the Western end is framed by the modernist, tailfn-compatible architecture of the Kudamm. As of 2013, most of the former deathstrip, a swath of fattened blocks running alongside the Wall, has been reclaimed by hurried construction. Most of the government quarters and the business towers of have been erected there, draped in steel and glass facades, as if to demonstrate to visitors how twenty-frst century Berlin has become an open and cosmopolitan global city. A certain behavioral pattern in Berlin continuously threatens this unique trove of twentieth-century architectural milestones and follies. Since the nineteenth century, a raze-and-build mentality has been closely

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The reconstruction of the Hohenzollern Stadtschloß, the beginnings of which are shown here, will expunge the last traces of the GDR from in the touristic heart of Berlin. (Photo by Scott Krause.)

intertwined with municipal politics. Art critic Karl Schefer’s 1910 aphorism that Berlin was “damned to always become and never to be” characterizes to this day Berlin’s cycle of destruction, building, and nostalgia. For example, countless foreign visitors search in vain for an Altstadt, a pre-eighteenth century Old Town deemed quintessentially German. Te explosive city growth of the nineteenth century, a World War, and a Stalinist demolition campaign during the 1950s took care of that. Instead, visitors are ushered into the , Berlin’s closest equivalent to an Altstadt, only to fnd that they themselves are older than the houses built there. With the divided city’s 750-year anniversary looming in 1987, , General Secretary of the GDR’s ruling SED, realized to his dismay that his predecessor, , had systematically destroyed prewar blocks in Berlin’s city center in the name of progress. To rectify this absence, Honecker ordered concentrated reconstruction of half a dozen vanished landmark buildings in a single place, peculiarly framed by iconic GDR Plattenbauten, ’s distinctive pre-fabricated concrete housing blocks. Many Berliners still refer to the Nicolaiviertel as “Honecker’s Disneyland,” with characteristic sarcasm. Honecker’s bid to leave his mark on the cityscape in the form of the

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Excavated remnants of prison cells running along the Berlin Wall offer visitors to the “” the drama of twentieth-century German history in a uniquely condensed fashion. (Photo courtesy of Stefan Josef Müller, Stiftung Topographie des Terrors.)

Palast der Republik has found a less forgiving reception. Nicknamed “Erich’s lamp store,” this 1970s steel carcass, which housed the GDR’s toothless parliament and a concert venue, was demolished in 2008. It is being replaced by the reconstructed Hohenzollern Stadtschloß that occupied the lot until 1950. Te fates of Honecker’s two architectural pet projects demonstrate the circuitous nature of Berlin’s breakneck building activity, and suggest that Berlin’s tradition of architectural purges is alive and well. A powerful faction of Berliners would rather erase any trace of the GDR, and by extension of a messy but signifcant chapter of Berlin’s history. It must be acknowledged that the city has made great strides to commemorate the Nazi era appropriately, but it was a long time coming. In 1987, a temporary outdoor exhibition began on an open lot in the shadow of the Wall to complement the 750th anniversary celebrations in . On what was slated to be paved over by a road, excavations unearthed remnants of torture cells of the Gestapo headquarters that once stood at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. Tese poignant traces of the apparatus of terror in the wasteland along the Wall attracted many more visitors than anyone had projected. Te temporary exhibition had only come into fruition afer popular demand by counter-culture residents. It took nearly another

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quarter century, until 2010, for the so-called “Topography of Terror” to fnd a ftting permanent exhibition space in situ. Since then it has established itself as one the most popular sites commemorating National Socialist terror in Berlin, again surpassing all expectations. Te exhibition’s success might be attributed, ironically, to its distanced presentation. Referring to itself as a “Documentation Center” instead of a museum, “Topography” shuns prescriptive interpretations and ofers visitors scholarly information. A distillate of the latest historical research on National Socialism awaits those asking how the National Socialist policies of violence were organized and implemented. In an era in which questions on National Socialism remain as urgent as ever, and with its contemporaries vanishing rapidly, this distanced educational ofering appears to ft the interests of Berliners and visitors alike. Te success of the “Topography” exhibition does not mean that the age of memory politics is over. Te efort to channel memory for political purposes is alive and well in other exhibitions, such as the recent “Russen und Deutsche” (Russians and Germans) exhibition in the world-renowned . Tis joint exhibition had the ambitious agenda to “demonstrate the multifaceted contacts between both nations and reciprocal infuences on each other” over 1000 years, and its priorities were signaled with the imprimatur of Presidents Vladimir Putin and Joachim Gauck, and with “the generous support” of German energy corporation Eon and Russian mining conglomerate Severstal. Drawing from the holdings of numerous German and Russian museums, the exhibition boasted many rare pieces and illuminated the intensity of cultural contacts between the German and Russian empires in the last third of the nineteenth century. For all these considerable benefts, however, “Russen und Deutsche” botched the twentieth century through glaring omissions. Conspicuously missing from the exhibition were the people living between the Germans and Russians: Poles, Belarusians, Ukrainians, Lithuanians, Latvians, or Estonians. In an exhibition devoted to Russian-German cooperation, the original protocol of the Hitler-Stalin Pact provided a particularly sinister example. While the Cold War was mentioned briefy as a fact of postwar life impeding Russian- German reconciliation, wartime genocides, postwar expulsions, and the Soviet occupation of Eastern Germany did not bear mentioning. While the most representative venues in Berlin are occupied with diplomatically worded, politically minded exhibitions, some of the city’s

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The abandoned Red Army barracks of Krampnitz, just beyond the Wall, tell a compelling tale of the Russian-German relationship. (Photo by Scott Krause.) truly unique historical gems are rusting on the outskirts of town. Te abandoned Red Army barracks of Krampnitz, just beyond the Wall in , tell an account of the Russian-German relationship as compelling as any museum exhibition can. Built in the 1930s during Hitler’s armament drive as cavalry barracks for the nascent , they were seized by the Red Army in 1945 and altered to ft Soviet tastes. For instance, the aristocratic ballroom of the ofcers’ club majestically overlooking the has been amended by Socialist-Realist extolling the virtues of Soviet modernization and virility. A few houses further from this fading splendor, traces lef in housing quarters suggest a less comfortable day-to-day life for the enlisted personnel. While the entranceways of their Wehrmacht-era apartments proudly display the technological prowess of their equipment, the grafti they lef behind indicates an anxiety about an uncertain future in a homeland in turmoil. Defant slogans such as “For Stalin!” lie side-by-side with more somber ones, such as a dove exiting a tank barrel captioned, “Tank you, Potsdam.” Te abundance of sites like these make Berlin a historian’s playground, but word is quickly spreading of Berlin as the signature city of the twentieth century. With a vibrant arts and party scene, the city attracts annually over ten million visitors, making it one of Europe’s most popular tourist

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destinations, third only to London and . Sadly, the city’s shaky economic base attests to its inability to fully convert on this opportunity, held back as it is by introspective memory politics and petty local feuds. Te botched preservation of the East Side Gallery is only the tip of the iceberg. To this day, no plans exist to commemorate the stormy years of the in its own right. A possible concerted strategy— promotion and ticketing for all of Berlin’s history museums—is rudimentary at best, even if the success of Museumsinsel, a complex of fve internationally known museums, demonstrates the potential of such coordination. Te decades-long quest to commemorate the Cold War era appropriately has been the most egregious case study for Berlin’s troubled relationship with its past. Afer reunifcation, the Alliertenmuseum opened in the former US garrison’s cinema, named the Outpost, in suburban . Its exhibition seeks to celebrate cultural bonding between West Berliners and Allied forces in the face of the communist enemy. Less than twenty years afer its inauguration, the Alliertenmuseum carries the air of a victory lap for the Cold War and nostalgia for the Western comrades in arms. Visitors are mostly comprised of middle-aged West Berliners and former servicemen on vacation. Te other Allied force in Berlin, the , was consoled with its own, smaller museum in Karlshorst all the way across town, whose exhibition focuses on World War II on the Eastern front rather than on the 49-year-long history of Soviet troops in Berlin. Tis institutional setup creates a vacuum that is flled with a Cold War relic retroftted into a shrine. In 1962, anti-GDR activist Rainer Hildebrandt opened his own private, makeshif exhibition denouncing the sufering wrought by the Berlin Wall. Since then, the exhibition has expanded greatly in square feet and the Wall itself has long come down, but the institutional structure has not changed. Since Hildebrandt’s death, his widow has added hagiographic sections celebrating the museum’s founder variously as Resistance fghter against Hitler, thorn in the side of the GDR regime, and global human rights activist. Today, this private exhibition with no scholarly advisory board continues to hold a commanding position at the former , surrounded by Currywurstbuden, vendors selling guaranteed fake pieces of the Berlin Wall, and students dressed in American and Soviet uniforms willing to pose for pictures. However, a serious attempt has been made lately to add a Cold War Museum to Checkpoint Charlie,

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The tacky circus that is Checkpoint Charlie includes students dressed in American and Soviet uniforms posing for pictures with tourists. (Photo by Mark W. Hornburg.) where the 1961 standof between American and Soviet tanks cemented its place as an epicenter of the Cold War. Te proposed municipal Cold War museum presents the unique opportunity to ofer, in an historic location, an integrated history on the basis of the newest scholarship. A frst temporary exhibition on site has met immediate success. Te CDU, one of Berlin’s governing parties, has balked, however, as it would “equate U.S. and Soviet intentions.” Instead, CDU members have alternatively suggested moving the Alliertenmuseum to vacated Airport. In a city littered with costly, at times megalomaniacal projects, the Cold War Museum might succumb to misplaced thrif: because a former airport happens to be unoccupied, this does not mean that it is also the best location for a museum. Millions of tourists who vote with their feet cannot be wrong. Tey visit the city in search of reminders of the twentieth century in condensed fashion, but wash up at the tacky circus of Checkpoint Charlie. Berlin has the unique potential to educate—and thrive—on the drama of modern European history, but fails to deliver on this potential. Locals’ uncertainty about their city’s identity contributes to this failure. Berliners cannot decide between acknowledging the implications of living in a global metropolis, and cozy provincialism. Tey fancy their city as fashionable as New York, but want to retain rent prices that are among the lowest in Germany. Tose

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Bent street signs symbolize the infinitely delayed opening of Berlin’s new Airport due to flawed construction. (Photo by Scott Krause.)

students and artists who crossed the Wall frst in an easterly direction during the 1990s to fnd seemingly abundant, cheap housing now bitterly denounce the second wave of gentrifcation, as it is now being practiced upon them. A generational dynamic exacerbates this anxiety in a seemingly rising city. As the generation that put Berlin back on a global map as a creative hub ages, it becomes increasingly skeptical about further changes in the cityscape. Tis dynamic made possible the reelection of as Governing Mayor with the same slogan as 2001. For Wowereit, Berlin is still “poor, but sexy,” and he tries his best to keep it that way. While some of his policies, such as the spectacularly failed new Willy Brandt Airport, will hamstring the city’s fnances for years to come, the ongoing Euro Crisis has accelerated the infux of thousands of twenty-somethings to Berlin. Tese newly arrived came to Berlin in search of authenticity. Ironically, this search has galvanized the protest along the East Side Gallery and the surprisingly intense adoration for David Hasselhof by young Germans, Spaniards, and Americans alike. Together, they long for the glory days of the 1990s. Tey all came to Berlin to make good on its promise from those days of afordable cost of living, thriving arts scene, and tolerance for all lifestyles. Instead, they witness the disfgurement of the East Side Gallery, the most visible trace of the creative explosion that transformed from gray to garishly colored, in order to make room for upscale, neo-bourgeois apartment blocks. It is time to take the East Side Gallery and “the Hof” seriously, as cultural icons of a bygone era that deserves our and Berlin’s attention.

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