East Berliners flocked to the wall in their thousands. Confused border guards let them through, paying little or no attention to their identity documents. West Berliners met them on the other side and gave those who needed it money for taxis or a phone call. Brian was, by now, openly crying. He moved his hand to his ear, imitating a phone call. “Mom, it’s me, Heinrich. I’ve crossed the wall, I’m in the West. Where are you? I’m coming home.”
Amman and the Dead Sea
Heavy water rolled gently towards my toes, over thick layers of caked salt, like rock candy, which had sunk to the seafloor. I stepped gingerly forward, avoiding the sharp edges of broken salt, and the water got quickly deeper, along a slip sliding slope. Soon, I was in disorienting suspension, legs kicking the air, laughing at my own attempts to swim.
Israel was across the water; its dry, sinuous hills rose quickly past brown gravel beaches, identical to the small, Jordanian owned stretch of equally course sand behind me, where Claire lazed beneath a hexagonal wooden umbrella, with only her legs extending into the weak winter sun. The Dead Sea was Yam ha-Mavet there and al-Bahr al-Mayyit here; the Hebrew and Arabic words for death also resembled each other closely. Continue reading Amman and the Dead Sea>>
