A Unified Berlin

Ann Townsend
The Junior Minister waved a hand
toward the courtyard where, he said,

Goering’s private lion used to live.

With him we climbed Parliament’s steps,

walls pockmarked still with bullet holes.

In the conference room the Social Democrats

passed trays of petit fours and coffee.

We were perhaps insufficient, he said.

His voice, uninflected: they shipped

my father to Stalingrad. Forty days

and dead. In the room,

the transcriptionist, the translator,

and security stationed against

the wall. Some time passed.

In East Germany, he said, at least

it was always terrible. Bad luck, he said,

to be on that side of the wall. Even

the apples were poison. We were

to understand this was a little joke.

He brought the teacup to his mouth,

but did not drink. His fingernails

were tapered and very clean.

When you are the victim, he said,

it doesn’t matter who is killing you.