Today, making use of a quiet moment at work, I googled photos of the Kranzler café distractedly. There it was, in tons of old postcards, looking back at me, with the beautiful apartments above it - including the one inhabited by her.
Then I stumbled upon a more modern photograph, one of the same place in the 40s, then a pile of rubble. A middle-aged fat man standing close by, as if waiting for someone to build it up again so he can have his daily kaffee and Franzbrötchen sitting at one of its elegant tables. He will have to wait for Frau Jo to make it exactly as it was in a virtual world, many years after his death, I am afraid.
And then it begins, I go over a few of those war photographs and start sobbing like a baby. It's not that I hadn't seen Berlin after the war, of course, but this is the first time I see it with the eyes of a resident of the old Berlin, the one before it all went to shit.
I have a nasty feeling that one day I will cry like so, looking at photos of our own age.
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