Part 1 chapter 1: before the wall...

A Chapter by Brad

they meet

August 10^th, 1961 Freidrichshain Soviet Sector East Berlin

The artist stood nervously in front of his paintings. Pacing back and forth and sometimes catching a glimpse of the subjects behind him. He was nervous, it was his first show, and many critics and collectors from the west would be here. Perhaps, he would get noticed today, and he could quit his job at the factory and paint and sculpt for the rest of his life. This was what he wanted, this was his purpose.

A waitress passed by with a tray of wines and beer. He took a wine off the tray and then later wished he had grabbed the beer.

Whenever someone came by to look at his work, which consisted of three paintings and two sculptures, he began to sweat and stutter. He would try to talk but he would lose the words he wanted to speak. He was a poor factory worker, who dreamed of being an artist, trying to pull himself out of this communist oppression of his parents and his government. He just needed to be noticed. But these people were the rich, the elite, and they were from the west. What would he have to share with them that they did not already experience in their wonderful lives.

Well, his work actually expressed a lot. This is what marketed him well in small circles. He could convey with a brush stroke or the press of his hand to clay the oppression he and the rest of his fellow “comrades” felt. His work spoke of loneliness and desperation.

“This your work, young man?” a male voice spoke to him from behind.

“Eh?” the artist looked up from his daydreaming, “Yes, yes it is.”

The man was looking closely at a painting that consisted of a group of people who were pushing against a fence made of barbed wire. Beyond the fence lay an open meadow of flowers of every colour with a stream that ran along a rocky bank. The painting was named “Freedoms Struggle”.

“Very powerful work.” The man touched his chest and then reached out his hand, “My name is Stellan Becker…my wife and I own a gallery over in West Berlin.”

“Gunnar.” The artist returned the handshake, “Gunnar Breckstaadt.”

“Tell me, Gunnar, about your work.” Mr. Becker moved to the next painting, “What is it that inspires such desperation in your work?”

Gunnar, used to keeping silent when it came to his own thoughts, paused not really sure what to say and then finally, “Well, life is a struggle, and sometimes….in…in…East Berlin, things get very depressing…and…and…well, I needed something…to get all of this….this….”

“Angst?” Stellan suggested.

Gunnar thought about this momentarily, “Yes. I believe that is the word I was looking for. I needed to get rid of this ‘angst’ as you say.”

“So really, your work is therapeutic?” he was examining the sculptures now which were surrealistic shapes of men wrestling against invisible foes, “Cathartic?”

“Hmm? Yes, I would guess so.”

The man laughed, “Yes, you would.”

He placed a hand on Gunnar’s shoulder, “Gunnar, my dear boy, I see all kinds of artists and all kinds of subjects, disciplines, styles….but yours is unique. I’ve rarely seen something that not only is pulled out of talent but raw emotion.”

Gunnar blushes, “Thank you, sir, really…I….”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about. Your work is good, very good and I would like to buy some of your work and show it at my gallery, if that suits you well?”

He only stood there with a smile on his young face. It was young but hardened by hard times. Like innocence in a dirty glass. His black hair fell about his face and ears in curls. Green eyes dreamily looking into something his mind was creating.

“Well?” Stellan squeezed a bit on his shoulder, “What do you think?”

“Hm? Oh, well yes…I would be honoured, sir…”

“Elsa!” Stellan called over to an older attractive woman who was admiring the painting of

‘Freedom’s Struggle’. She looked up at Mr. Becker and smiled and came over, “Come! Come, I want you to meet our new budding artist of East Germany.”

“Beautiful work, young sir.” Elsa shook his sweaty hand.

“Gunnar,” Stellan introduced putting his arm around both of them. “This is my wife and business partner Elsa Becker. Elsa, this is Mr. Gunnar Breckstaadt.”

“A pleasure, miss, and thank you.” Gunnar said shyly.

At that moment Gunnar noticed a young lady looking intently at his other painting titled “Good Night Berlin”. As he was walking up to her, she reached out to touch his painting. To caress the brush strokes he had planted there so passionately.

“Do you like it?” Gunnar asked her and made her jump.

“I’m sorry…” she stuttered, “I…I sometimes like to feel the texture of paintings…you know?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t, but reached out his own hand to feel the painted surface. “But you didn’t answer my question…do you like it?”

She stared at the painting as if trying to absorb it. Her eyes were blue, and wide with hooded lids. Her hair was dark brown, straight and was pulled back into a bun, some stray strands fell in her face tracing a line from her forehead, past her eyes, and then resting on a set of full lips that had a hint of a smile on them.

The painting was of a bird’s eye view of Berlin. Above the sleeping city a female figure donning a long midnight blue cloak, draped herself over the sky.

“She’s beautiful.” She said still staring intently on the painting, “Did you use a model for her?”

“It was actually a photograph of my mother in her younger days that I used for reference.” Gunnar answered.

He was closer behind her and her scent was intoxicating.

“Gunnar!” Stellan called from behind them both. They both jumped and looked flustered as if they were doing something they weren’t supposed to do, “I see you have met our daughter Adele?”

“Not properly.” He blushed and held out his hand, “I apologize….Gunnar Breckstaadt.”

“No apologies needed, Gunnar.” She accepted his hand and smiled wider.

“You’ll be seeing a lot of Gunnar, Adele,” Stellan added. “He’s agreed to allow me to purchase some of his works and to show at our gallery.”

“I’m afraid your father has a knack for flattery.” Gunnar blushed again.

“Father,” Adele scolded. “Stop embarrassing Europe’s up-and-coming artist.”

The Beckers stayed till the end of the show. Stellan purchased both paintings and one of the sculptures. There was some interest from other purveyors of the art show, but none with the fervor of the Beckers. They were a free-spirited clan, boisterous, and gracious.

As Stellan and Elsa began leaving with their purchases, Gunnar stopped Adele.

“Do you think we could see each other again sometime?” he asked like a young schoolboy.

“Well, yes of course.” She said coyly, “Father said that you’d be coming around more and more because we’ll be showing your work…”

“No…I mean…” he couldn’t look her in the face. “I mean…well…”

She grabbed his face with her long fingered hands delicately and captured his own eyes with hers.

“Tell me, Mr. Breckstaadt of East Berlin.” She teased, “Tell me what you mean.”

“Would you like to go out for coffee sometime? Or grab a…a….pint perhaps…?”

“I would love to, Mr. Breckstaadt.” And she kissed him quickly on the lips and walked out with her parents.

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