Crossing the Frontier Essays

Crossing the Frontier Essays Crossing the Frontier Essay Crossing the Frontier Essay Katherine Meyer stood in the doorway of what once was her beautiful 18th century town house. The hard struggle of six years of war had reduced her home to little more than a skeleton of its former self. Her threadbare kitchen had no roof. The window frames still stood, but the glass had long since been blown out. The lack of heating made the house deathly cold, as if trying to replicate the atmosphere outside. She stood in the alcove and surveyed the desolate landscape that once was bustling Berlin. She used to complain about the amount of noise and traffic that passed her house every morning; she used to detest the loud waiters and musicians that played in the cafà ¯Ã‚ ¿Ã‚ ½s on the pavement.That was such a long time ago now, long replaced by the dead, crumbling city that lay before her. Death was so apparent here, it hit Katherine in the face every time she looked out at her town. Derelict buildings lined every potholed street, many without roofs or floors. Sometimes Katherine wou ld stumble upon a house completely intact by the chaos surrounding it, and it would remind Katherine of a happier time. But as soon as she looked around again she would sink further into the depression of war. She could not remember the last time she had slept throughout the night, as the relentless pounding of shells and incessant chattering of gunfire resounded throughout Berlin, penetrating even the thickest walls.Katherine Meyer had heard that the Soviets had arrived two days ago, which was now obvious as the amount of shelling and gunfire had increased tenfold. All of her friends had left Berlin years ago to seek safety in the countryside, but Katherines seriously ill father had kept her in Berlin. She had not heard any news of her father since the Soviets had captured that area of Berlin, and she feared the worst. She realised, standing in the doorway of her home, that if she intended to leave Berlin alive, then she must leave straight away. No news from her father in this cas e meant bad news, and she wasnt going to stay in Berlin to find out. Remaining in the city meant certain death. She ran upstairs, and changed into her khaki clothes that she had stowed away. She quickly filled a small bag with what remaining food and water she had left. As she stepped out onto the street, its surface scarred by years of warfare, she realised that Berlin was surrounded, and the only way she was going to get out was to go straight through the Soviet lines. She was either going to get out of Berlin or die trying.She walked swiftly, for she dreaded the sound of an oncoming shell or the sound of a Soviet tank coming in her direction. Unfortunately she knew much more than she should about how to keep out of the way of enemy fire. Her plan was to try and cross the Soviet lines at its narrowest point, which she thought would be the eastern side of Berlin. She paced down side streets and alleyways, following a map she had carefully drawn in her head. She turned into the Bà ¯Ã‚ ¿Ã‚ ½ckerstraà ¯Ã‚ ¿Ã‚ ½e, famous for being the street with the best bakery in Berlin. She rounded the corner and stopped in horror. What yesterday evening had been a prospering, ambitious, family run business was now a pile of rubble. The wooden sign that read Bà ¯Ã‚ ¿Ã‚ ½ckerei lay amongst the carnage, broken in half, reminding passers by of what might have been. She knew all too well what would have happened to the baker and his wife, and shuddered with dread at the thought. The rubble itself was blocking the road, rising about five feet in the air, and was impassable. Katherine went to turn the other way, and came face to face with a Soviet soldier.Katherines first instinct was to turn and run, attempt to scramble over the remains of the bakery. However, she noticed that the Soviets left hand was firmly in his pocket, as if he was clutching onto something. A gun, Katherine thought. She stood in silence, facing him, a thousand scenarios racing inside her head, trying to thi nk of a way out. Just as she was about to say something, the Soviet soldier went to speak. Katherine closed her eyes. To her sheer amazement, he started to sing. He was more shouting than singing, and Katherine quickly realised he was drunk. He was gently swaying from side to side, as if he no longer had full command over his legs.He suddenly pulled his hand from his pocket, and Katherines heart stopped. Drunk men could be very unpredictable. In a split second he had pulled an object from his pocket, and raised it to Katherine. Her heart skipped a beat. Her mouth went dry. She risked a glance at the object being pointed at her and relief flowed through her veins. She saw it was a flask. He raised it to her and then to his lips. Katherine seized the opportunity and shoved him, pushed him as hard as she could. He stumbled backwards, tripped over a slab of concrete and lay motionless on the floor. Knocked out. Katherine quickly stepped over him and ran.She ran for a full twenty minutes , across the barren streets of Berlin. She knew she was running east, and the gunfire was becoming louder. She thought she was not far from the Soviet lines. She continued in the same direction for another few hundred metres, and then turned off into an alleyway in the hope of avoiding some of the Soviet forces. Katherine noticed a washing line hanging across the alley, clothes dripping with water, immune from the war that raged so near. She noticed a young boy, nine or ten years old, motioning to her. He was wearing an old grey jumper, and blue trousers that were extremely ripped and dirty. His face, too, had smears of mud on it, his blonde hair stuck to his forehead. Katherine looked into his eyes, grey and listless, eyes that had seen things far worse than a ten-year-old should.He could see she was lost and shaken, and quickly lead Katherine into a dilapidated house. He ran up the stairs and onto the roof, where Katherine was presented with a clear view of what was left of Berlin . Her suppositions had been correct, for she was now only a mile from the Soviet lines. The boy was alone, and she could see that he, too, was frightened. She realised that a young woman and her son would look far less suspicious trying to leave Berlin than a young woman alone. She would not attract as much attention to herself. Above all, she wanted to help the helpless young boy that was standing in front of her. She grabbed his hand, dirty and hot, and told him to lead her towards the Soviet lines. He understood the plan, and started to lead her back down the stairs and onto the streets.Katherine approached the mass of Soviet soldiers with extreme caution, keeping her head down. She told the young boy to do the same, and to avoid eye contact with any soldier. The further through the throng of soldiers they went, the tighter they gripped each others hand. They picked their way through potholes, campfires, tents and dancing Soviet soldiers, many of whom, Katherine noticed, were dru nk. The smell of alcohol was strong in the air. Suddenly, the young boy stumbled, his tired legs faltering for a single moment. He fell at the feet of a Soviet, who instantly recognised him as a German. Katherine pulled him up, and clamped a hand in his shoulder. She stared at the Soviet, and he stared back. She saw kindness in his eyes, and he smiled at her. He moved aside, and let them pass. She was eternally grateful to him, even though she would never see the soldier again.They carried on walking for another three or four miles, until they came to a bridge. Katherine decided to stop for a moment, and dangle her legs into the refreshingly ice cold water that flowed below. The young boy scuttled off under the bridge, noticing something hidden in the tall grass. With all the strength he could muster he pulled out a rusty bicycle, with two flat tires and no saddle. She smiled, and then she laughed. She hugged the young boy.