The Travelbear

A haunting melody floated around the Bebelplatz from a lone violinist. The sun had set and the Berlin evening was cool as my friend Liz and I strolled into the square. We headed towards the lit book burning memorial.

Liz translated the plaque next to the memorial: "That was only a prelude; where they burn books, they will in the end also burn people". A frightening quote. The author, Heinrich Heine, was one of the authors whose works were burned in 1933 by the Nazis in the square. A few years later, the book burning was followed by the burning of people in the death camps.

The memorial is a window on the ground that looks into an empty white library. The shelves are bare. The room is lit from within so passersby are drawn to the strange glow in the ground. Observers can't help but feel the weight of history while looking at the memorial; without knowing the history behind it, you wonder why it's there, who made it, what it represents. It is somber and sorrowful as the empty shelves endlessly wait for books that will never sit on them.

Liz and I were nearly alone in the square, shadowed by St. Hedwig's Cathedral, the Humbolt University Library, and the Berlin State Opera. An aura of peace, sophistication, and wisdom seemed to permeate the square. We spread our sweaters on the ground and lay down, then chatted for a bit about the memorial, wondering how societies that seem so cultured could create such destruction. We theorized what the magnificent buildings around us looked like inside and who spent time in them. Finally, our conversation subsided as the violin music engulfed us.

It was one of those strange moments where time seems to stand still. We were surrounded by music and the sounds of traffic and footsteps, but also introspective, lost in our own heads, moved by the majesty of the square, city, and country we were visiting, crushed by the history, art, and pain this place had endured over the centuries. Suspended in the moment, I felt small and insignificant.

The violin music faded away. “Must be time for a new busker,” I murmured, finally breaking our silence.

Liz sighed and we sat for another moment, looking around the square at the white stone buildings and illuminated memorial. “Alright,” she said reluctantly, “let’s head back to the hostel.” We stood up, collected our bags and sweaters, and slowly meandered out of the square, knowing we’d remember that evening as one of the most peaceful and enlightening of our visit to Germany.