Because You Never Asked

     Back in the hopefully forgotten days of the Tanya Harding happening, the great German figure skater, Katarina Witt, made an appearance in this mass of dubious philosophical patter (see essay "St. Nancy"). For the approximately 6 billion people who are not familiar with this series of essays, I will simply say that Miss Witt impressed this writer quite favorably and is about to make an encore performance as the show's star.

     One of the positive aspects of vacationing in the Mediterranean is the varied array of nationalities cohabiting such leisure time. Considering the idyllic conditions provided here, it is not surprising that the Roman Sea has become the logical vacation choice for the national polyglot that so closely coexists, in such a segregated way, to the north. This conjugally blissful sharing of the same vacation spots has become a traditional aspect of European life. Unfortunately, twice during the 20th century, this sublime leisure time marriage has ended in the bitter divorce of the great World Wars. Imagine yourself sharing the erotic caress of the Mediterranean ambiance with one and all, only to have to return home immediately so that you could start killing each other as soon as possible. Wouldn't it be wonderful if I were only imagining such a thing?

      Thankfully, this is not the case as I write.

     A prodigious part of the Babelian stew that frequents this place is the Germans. It is impossible to come here year after year and not forge some friendships, have an amorous escapade, or interact on a regular basis with this remarkable, paradoxical group of people.

     This year there's been a novelty worth mentioning --- for the first time ever, a person from the now defunct East Germany has made an appearance. Obviously, both the mental and financial integration of the Easterners into the new German state has not been easy. Their participation as typical Med vacationers is still not much of a reality. In my position as "official Gringo in residence", I would describe it as something like seeing a left-handed third baseman.

     "Katja" is a lovely young woman who was born in Potsdam but has spent most of her life in East Berlin. She plays the violin and is currently vying for a spot in some prestigious orchestra of some kind.

     My language skills in Katja's native tongue are limited to the Colonel Klink-Sergeant Schultz school of "Deutsch", which includes such entries as "Ja wohl", "achtung!" and "schnell!", along with such universal favorites as "dumkopf", "schweinhund", and "gesundheit". Unfortunately, Katja's English is only slightly better than that, thus precluding any possible discussion of the neo-classical view of post-modern existentialism, which has been gnawing away at my brain lately. However, when one considers the most basic, primal forces that drive men and women to put up with each other, such verbal incommunication, at times (though not this time), can be seen as an advantage. Let's face it, "your erotic capabilities, as judged by the stirring of my private parts, is more than sufficient", translates quite well into any language and there is no sense confusing the issue.

     But I digress.

     The inspiration for this essay occurred while having a few drinks with a German friend who has appeared in these pages before (see essay, "TV, Consumerism and Europe") and the aforementioned Katja. My friend's English is quite good, his translating skills being used at the most pertinent moments to provide some form of tri-part dialogue. Being that Katja was the first East German I'd ever met, I was interested to know her opinion of Katarina Witt, the only Easterner who'd ever become a recognizable figure in my country. This might seem a simple-minded question, but it is surprising how many foreign heroes are ruefully scorned by a countryman closer to the source. Boris Becker is just such a figure, as is the great Argentine soccer star, Diego Maradona, both of whom trigger heated for or against passions amongst their "paisanos". For Katja there was no such dilemma; Katarina Witt was a genuine heroine, and I had the feeling that this was a universally accepted feeling in her ex-homeland.

     Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio?

     When the Berlin Wall came down and the bells had finally tolled for the Socialist world to the east, the western pundits had their delirious moment of ideological triumph. Quite understandably, this was a bus they were not going to miss. Attractive, talented people like Katarina Witt, who could now circulate freely and make some money in the west, were prize targets for the glorification of the triumphant free market system.

     But Katarina Witt is nobody's bull's eye.

     My most telling encounter with the great figure skater came one evening while watching her being interviewed by Roy Firestone on ESPN. Firestone's concept of life in the ex-East German state, judging from his simple minded attitude, was that of a Medieval purgatory complete with the leaded dirge of the "Volga Boatman" as a constant musical backdrop. Now that Katarina's "bondage" was over, he seemed to assume she'd soon be speeding down Santa Monica Blvd with her hair blowing in the breeze, the tape deck cranked up, a bag of burgers and fries by her side. At one point in the interview, he rhetorically asked how wonderful it must be to be able to choose her costumes, her music, and to be able to choreograph her own routines. With a genuine dose of perplexity, Miss Witt advised us that she'd always been able to do that.

     As the interview wore on, there seemed to be an awkward pull and tug between the two poles of participation, with Firestone always trying to elicit negative remarks from the great athlete about her former homeland. (Perhaps I am being unfair in using the word "elicit". It might be more correct to say that he "expected" such negativity.) When he didn't get what he expected, it left him bewildered, like someone who'd just made a wrong turn in a strange town and didn't know where he was or what to do next. Miss Witt, although she never defended the system she grew up in, seemed unwilling to get into any ideological comparisons. She finally put an end to Firestone's naivety by saying there were some good things and bad things about her ex-country, and she didn't feel defrauded, denied, or unlucky for having grown up there. It was as if she were saying, "sure, now I know, we didn't have it right, but don't come to me with your bull either. Your version of the 'truth' is just as self-serving for those who concoct it here as it was for those who fabricated their 'truth' in East Germany.

     I have sinned by putting words in my subject's mouth. I advise the reader that all I know about Katarina Witt is what I've seen, heard or read in the media. What I've expressed in this essay is the impression of her that I get and the only East German I've ever met somewhat corroborates my feelings by setting forth her admiration for the intelligence and talent of her countrywoman. It would be wonderful to meet Katarina Witt and talk to her personally, but until that time, what's been written above is what you and me have to chew on.