Flying From Dallas to Berlin – September 1978

The flight from Dallas left without incident. I sat back and looked out the windows of the plane finally realizing that a very new life was unfolding.
I felt free as a bird, being lifted into an unknown dream that had lingered in my psyche for what seemed this entire lifetime.
Even at that young age, I understood that not everyone gets their dreams. Ballet is a harsh taskmaster and I had seen many more talented dancers than myself crack under the pressures of the demanding art form of ballet.
On some level, I accepted what was ahead … just because I really did not have a choice in the matter. If I wanted the dream, I had to accept all the parts and pieces that would come with it.
Ballet taught me that I could make choices and claim a position for myself fully even not knowing what lay ahead.
I understood that it was not about trusting others. It was always about trusting myself. It was about believing that my body could learn and adapt to shifting choreography and situations. It was about believing that I could learn to work with different partners and become a part of the corps de ballet in a company. It was about believing in my ability to learn German and figure out the inner workings of a large German Opera House in Berlin.
While some might have sat on that plane feeling scared and alone. I felt that finally my destiny was fully in my own hands.
It was going to be up to me.
If I failed, it was going to be only my fault. If I succeeded, I could claim the credit for that fully.
As the hum of the plane droned on, there was something soothing about that monotonous tone. It signified a vibrational shift of monumental proportions. A complete unknown awaited. And that … in of itself … was exhilarating!
I land in JFK in New York, and I am grateful that at least I was familiar with that airport.
I found my next plane without incident and settled in for the longest flight of my life, over the Atlantic Ocean.
That was the first moment that I began to feel as if I was not in Kansas any longer. The people on the plane were more international. There were many various accents and a smattering of languages happening around me.
My mother and I had arranged that the flight from JFK to London and the flight from London to Berlin were the same flight number. We assumed that this meant I got to stay on the same plane, making this an easy transition with the same airlines.
We land in Heathrow Airport and all the passengers get off. I am the only one remaining.
I have not a worry in the world because I think this next flight is going to Berlin.
Eventually, one of the stewardesses comes up to me and asks me why I am still on the plane. I explain to her that I am going on this same flight to Berlin. That is when she informs me that this flight was not continuing on. The flight I was looking for was another plane in another terminal.
Instantly, I am in a panic. I gather up my belongings and rush out of the plane and over to the boards to see what terminal I am supposed to go to … and which gate.
I can feel my heart pounding. I am flushed, nervous and … scared.
I find the flight and gate number and I start running to that very far away terminal. Of course, I do not know about the different terminals that are international and domestic. But I was now learning that this was going to be the norm for my next leg of travel.
I had not realized how enormous the Heathrow Airport was and the further I had to go the more I kept checking my watch to see if I was going to make it to the gate.
Eventually, I find the proper terminal and gate, and they are just beginning to load the plane.
This flight is a smaller plane, and the first noticeable thing is that all the announcements are first in German and then in English.
That is when it begins to hit me that soon everyone was going to be speaking German and I did not speak one lick of that language.
Having taken French in school was not going to help me much. Of that … I was sure.
I get on the plane and do not know that I am in for the ride of my life.
Seems that because of the Cold War and the fact that Berlin is deep in East Germany (It is about 60 kilometers from Poland), the East Germans required all the flights to fly at an altitude … that was (shall I say) was bumpy!
They intentionally required all flights to stay at a particular altitude and that made all flights into Berlin uncomfortable at best.
Honestly, I had never been on such a flight.
Seems that Berlin is caught on the planes of Germany where the cold air from the North Sea, the Siberian winds from the north and east, and the warm winds that have come from the Mediterranean and that have come up and over the Alps, all meet.
The confluence of such strong winds makes the air choppy and unusually bumpy.
I learned that all the pilots that were flying this route all did the flying for the Berlin Blockage when Russia was trying to starve out the West Germans and take over all of Berlin.
These Allied Air Force Pilots were forced to supply the entire city with food and essentials during those 324 days. It was quite a feat that they managed to distribute 2,110,480 tons of freight to West Berlin to keep it belonging to the Allied Forces of France, Great Britain, and the United States.
At the height of the Berlin Blockade campaign, a plane needed to land every 45 seconds, to keep the city afloat.
I was grateful for the flying skills of these amazing pilots during my whole time in Berlin.
During that first flight, when the pilot came on the intercom, I was grateful to hear a southern American slang accent out of the pilots mouth as he explained all situations.
I just love a country boy and one with a southern twang in his voice felt very comforting to me. I lifted my eyes and said a silent thank you to God in that moment.
That did not make the flight any more comfortable. I do not think I had ever been on a flight where I had experienced that much turbulence.
Landing was accomplished on “a help and a prayer” from me and I was never so grateful as to have that plane solidly on the ground once again.
I get off that flight and realize that most things were written in German and once again, I realize that I am completely clueless as to how difficult it was going to be to adjust to a new language and culture.
Fortunately, the Berlin Ballets secretary is there to meet me, and she spoke English very well.
She puts me in her car and explains that she is taking me to the Verkerisampt in Berlin (the tourist bureau) and that they will help me find a place to stay. She explained that it was Oktoberfest and getting places to stay was harder at this time because of the influx of tourists and those that come to see family on both sides of the city.
I instantly recognize as we are driving that it is dark, cold, and rainy. I was going to learn that this was going to be the normal for Berlin over the next four years.
We get to this building and the secretary helps me fill out the paperwork that is all in German. I have my German/English dictionary, but my progress is too slow for her, and she kindly helps me out.
In one section, there is a box that says, “Religion”. I put down, Catholic as I was born into a family of Irish Catholics on both sides of my family and did a turn in parochial school.
I look around and I realize that everyone there is probably Middle Eastern looking.
I was to learn that after the war, there were no men alive and so the women that survived rebuilt the city brick by brick. At a certain point, they allowed in Turkish men to help and those men in turn, eventually bought over their families.
Because of that there were conflicts as the Germans were not really friendly or willing to rent apartments to the foreigners because in renting a small apartment for one man, they would discover that an entire family was suddenly living in a one-bedroom apartment.
This was going to be the basis of the “Squatters Riots” that were going to happen during my stay in Berlin.
The room was filled with cigarette smoke as all these men smoked.
Much to my shock. My name was the first name called!
I ran up to the desk and they informed me that I had a room at St. Hildegard’s Krankenhouse. Translation … I had a room in the nunnery with the nuns at St. Hildegard’s Hospital in a section of town four subway stops from the Deutsche Oper stop.
Quickly, the secretary took me to the hospital and into the place where the Mother Superior was waiting for me.
I was so grateful that she spoke lovely English and once my suitcases were in hand, I said a grateful goodbye to the secretary and she told me how and where I was to meet her tomorrow, so she could show me around the theater and the studios.
I hear her leave and the door close behind her.
The Mother Superior was so kind, and she explained the rules of the residential area for the nuns. I was shown the breakfast area and she explained that one nun would be in charge of feeding me in the morning. She asked what time I wanted breakfast and I explained that 8 am would be perfect because I needed to figure out the U-Bahn system.
She told me to meet her here before I left, and she would explain how the subway system worked and how to get a punch card to get on the train.
She told me that I could stay as long as I needed. She understood getting apartments in Berlin was difficult. She said that the cost of the room was 18 German Marks per night, and that included room and breakfast!
I am sure my eyes held a surprised look and she said that they liked to keep things simple around here.
At that time the exchange rate between German Marks to US Dollars, was about 2 to 1. Meaning that 18 Marks was about 8-9 dollars.
That was an incredible deal!
Then she showed me my room. It was a small room with one twin bed, a cross above the bed, one small table beside the bed and a small table for writing and a wooden chair.
She explained that the bathrooms were down the hallway, and the shower was down there as well. There was a paper and pencil to write in the time you wanted to take a shower, so everyone had a time for privacy’s sake.
She also explained that within the rooms … quiet was required as the nuns were often reading, writing, or praying. She also said that there would be a bell rung at 5 am to waken the nuns to go to mass at 6 am. She requested for me to not use the bathroom at that time as they nuns were preparing for service.
I nodded my head respectfully.
She smiled and said that they were all happy to have me here and that she would see me in the morning. Then she closed the door, and I heard the heavy wooden door latch into place.
Standing in the center of that room I turn and look out the window to a dark and foreboding city. The clouds are gray, the buildings are gray, the mood is ominous, and it really begins to sink in that I am not in the bright and sunny land of Texas anymore.
I sit on the bed and begin to unpack. I pull out the essentials that I will need for the next day, pack my ballet bag, and go down the hallway to the bathroom.
My shoes sound heavy on the hard wood floors. The hallway has minimum light, and the silence is pervasive.
I brush my teeth, comb my hair, and quietly walk back to my room.
Grateful to have a place to lay my head for the night. In that moment I am also grateful that I was raised Catholic and that being raised that way had allowed me this bit of ease and comfort.
Tomorrow another life would begin. And I felt ready for it.
Sometimes one just needs to decide that you can handle anything before you know what you might need to handle.
That was the clear lesson for me in that moment. This was going to be my new life. I might as well decide to like it and to embrace all things.
It was time to trust in my ability to find a pathway through. I accepted that I was going to need to allow others to help me and that I could not be able to do this without help.
I looked up at the cross over my bed and asked God to protect me because I trusted that what was unfolding … was ultimately going to be for my highest good.

~Suzanne Wagner~