On the Other Side of the Wall

Emma's chest felt tight. Even with the wall down, it felt wrong to be crossing over to the other side.

"This is exciting," her father said, his words landing with a dull thud in the silence of the family car. Sure, it had been exciting when the first reports hit the news. It had been exciting for a moment, but that moment had passed. Now it was weird.

Emma's mother smiled and cleared her throat. "When was the last time you visited the other side, dear?" she asked dutifully.

Her father glanced over his shoulder into the back seat where Emma sat with her younger brother. They had both protested the trip to the museum, but despite being adults in their own right, father had insisted.

"I think the last time I left West Berlin was long before Emma was born. I actually think it was before they put up the wall, back in the late fifties."

"Really?" mother asked, trying to avoid the awkward silence. "That long ago?"

Father launched into some story or another. Emma was sure she'd heard it before. She rolled her eyes and looked out the window. There were construction crews still working on bringing down large segments of the wall that remained, its colorful array of words and drawings disappearing behind them as they crossed unceremoniously into uncertain territory.

Emma had turned twenty just a few weeks before and she had hoped to be at university by now, but with the uncertainty of the times her parents had insisted she stay home a while longer and see if things would improve. Some said the fall of the wall was an improvement, but she wasn't so sure. Everything still felt uncertain and tentative to her.

A moment later they arrived at the museum. The building was large and imposing, and dad was going on and on about some of the exhibits he was excited to see, but Emma felt sick. If everything was so great outside the wall, why couldn't she move out yet? Something still felt off to her. She felt like she was in enemy territory.

The inside of the museum was cold and harsh, with stone walls, marble floors, and glass cases. Plaques and frames hung on the walls, little placards gave brief, uninteresting summaries of the contents of cordoned off statues and fossils. The place felt empty, with a few meandering souls standing lifelessly by drab, ancient artifacts while they read the tiny engraved words off brass plates that hadn't been polished in decades.

This museum belongs in a museum, she thought to herself.

Emma's brother rushed to look at a collection of old World War II weapons and uniforms while her mother and father scurried off with their heads buried in a map of the museum layout. She was alone, and it felt right.

Her best friend, Ingrid, often accused her of being too lonely. "What do you even mean by that?" Emma would ask defensively.

"Even when you are surrounded by friends and family you are alone. That is too lonely. You don't need to be that lonely."

But Emma's heart always felt empty. She enjoyed time with friends, but she still felt isolated. She didn't feel connected with anyone.

A bright red airplane hanging from the ceiling up ahead caught her eye and she wandered over to it. She was met by a wall covered in a massive collage of black and white photographs featuring splashes of added color for visual interest. It was all about Baron Manfred von Richthofen, a World War I pilot. She let her eyes wander the display with detached interest for a moment. Satisfied, she shifted her weight and started to step away.

The man she walked into cleared his throat and smiled. "The Red Baron," he said. "Like the frozen pizzas."

Emma's head spun. "I'm so sorry," she said, backing away from the warmth of this chest. He put a hand out to steady her as she stumbled, a strong grip on her shoulder that instantly made her regret backing away.

"It's alright," he said calmly. His voice was gentle and kind, and his eyes smiled at her. "Do you know about the Red Baron, or did I just interrupt a random encounter between you and the world's first fighter ace?" He grinned.

"Oh," she said, glancing back at the display. "I'm afraid I didn't get much out of it. I was just browsing. I think the bright red color drew me in."

"You know," he started with a smile, "nobody is quite sure why the baron had his plane painted such a bright red color." He paused and turned to look at Emma before returning his gaze to the model plane hanging above them. "He was quite flamboyant, and may have just liked the way it looked. But some think he wanted his enemies to see him coming so they'd think twice before engaging with him in battle. He shot down eighty enemy planes over his short career, so his opponents certainly had reason to be afraid."

Emma hardly noticed what the man was saying, she was too wrapped up in the feelings he made her feel. She looked at him gazing up at the red plane, and something in her heart felt different. Glancing back at the arrangement of plaques and artifacts adorning the exhibit, she realized she could take an interest in anything this man wanted to share with her. She realized that something about this man was connecting with her. She realized that for the first time in her life, she didn't feel alone.

Caught up in her thoughts, she blurted out, "I don't know you." Immediately she recoiled at the stupidity of her words and felt a cold sweat beading up against her scalp.

He chuckled nervously and looked at her again. "I'm Frank," he said. "And I'm sorry, I don't know you either."

"Emma," she replied, her voice trailing off.

"Well," he said. "Sorry to bore you with my obsession with dead fighter pilots. I'll leave you to your perusing." He turned to leave.

"Wait," she croaked, coughing. "Don't go."

He stopped but didn't turn to face her. The silence wrenched at her heart.

"Is there anything else you can tell me about the Red Baron?"

He spun around on his heel and squinted at her, smiling. "When he was finally shot down in battle by gunfire from the ground, some say that his last word was 'kaput,' and he may have been saying that he was kaput, or broken."

Emma smiled at him. "Would you mind if I tag along with you," she asked haltingly. "I would love if you could show me around the museum."

Frank smiled and held out a hand, which Emma eagerly took. Their hands meshed together perfectly, and she allowed herself to hope that she might never have to feel alone again for the rest of her life.