Smells like Freedom
“I’ve been looking for freedom” blasted out of the Kombinat Sternradio Type R 160 model with a handy cassette deck set in a chic wooden frame and red leather case, the only radio allowed in the GDR. A few months ago, this would have been unthinkable. Rock & Roll meant resistance, anarchy, revolution, difference. The opposite of sameness. Although the country was no longer heteronomous, her apartment still was. The Berlin Altbau, in a tenement building from 1890, close to Check-Point Charlie was an empty vessel waiting to be filled. The only embellishment on the white walls was the plaster peeling off. In East Berlin, even a sofa was considered excessive, luxurious, bourgeoisie. The only piece of decor Sandra did have was a faux flokati rug from a flea market. She buried her toes in the white fur as her vocals pushed out a primal yawn. Freedom. “1, 2, 3, 4”, her mind’s eye projected on the ground as she lifted her feet and lowered them back down four times, her motion mechanical like she was puppet and puppeteer in one. “1, 2, 3, 4”, “1, 2, 3, 4”. Four was her friend. Four could be exactly divided by two. Sandra found the beauty of symmetry so soothing, it almost made her compulsion enjoyable, necessary even to calm the storm of her thoughts.
Today was the day she had been looking forward to so much, she bought not one but four calendars for the year, so she could count down the days not once, but four times. She jammed a filterless Karo cigarette between her lips like a doorstopper wedge. “Smoking on an empty stomach is not good for you,” her mother’s voice echoed in her memory. Smoking is slow-motion suicide anyway, so who cares if that motion is fast forwarded 1.2 nano seconds, she thought and turned up the Sternradio. “I’ve been looking so long, I’ve been looking for freedom, Still the search goes on,’ her nicotine voice croaked in unison with Hasselhoff’s words as she stepped into the lukewarm shower. After drying off, she slid into her Levis knock-offs with water droplets still on her skin. Who has time to pat dry completely? Red stitches peaking out under the faux Levis logo were the only relic of the ‘Made in the DDR’ label. She closed the button 1, 2, 3, 4 times, grabbed her concert tickets and pulled the heavy door shut in its lock. 1, 2, 3, 4 times.
The crowd was one pulsating, vibrating, breathing organ that synchronized with the beat of her heart. The sweet and sour smell of stranger’s sweat filled her nostrils. Freedom. She sucked on her Karo like a baby on a teat. 1, 2, 3, 4 drags. It comforted her, gave her life. And boy, did she feel alive. Before the fall of the wall, Western rock and pop music was demonized and so the Beatles among many others became beat-less, silenced by communism. You could only listen to state-approved bands whose lyrics were written to brainwash teenagers into obedient socialists. Groups deemed unacceptable by the State would be wiped out, their records pulverized in Orwellian fashion. That’s why this… This was freedom. Sandra pushed past bodies, bodies, bodies. Smoking bodies, singing bodies, sweating bodies, hip-swirling bodies. When she finally made it to the front row, she was swallowed by an ocean of faux Levis. She was no longer alone, she was one of many who wore their heart on their butt.
Suddenly, the pulsating organ roared like a lion: the Hoff jumped on stage. The bass filled her organs. Her skin became a membrane to contain the chaos within, keeping her insides from spilling out, the only barrier separating flesh and outside world. His voice became her voice. Singing became chanting. Dancing became flowing. Performance became experience. ‘1, 2, 3, 4,’ she counted the beat. Then the words expanded in her brain, pushing out the numbers until there was no more space for control. Nothing but primal intuition. Freedom. And she knew, the puppeteer had taken a backseat. Almost in a meditative trance-like state, Sandra’s hand shot onto the stage like a sticky hand toy and touched the fabric of David’s definitely real Levis. Soft on the skin, but with a high quality sturdiness that her dupe lacked. And then – his fingers met her fingers for a brief moment. A low-five. Sandra froze. This is what Moses or Jesus or whatever must have felt like when he met God. “The Creation of Adam as a polaroid”, Sandra thought. Her spirit disconnected from her body, so she could watch herself from the outside. She wanted to imprint this pivotal moment into her brain, so she could replay it indefinitely like a scene from a movie.
Clonk. The wooden door fell shut behind Sandra as she sunk into her velvet, non-proletarian sofa. She looked at her hand in wonder like it was a prize or a souvenir to be cherished in a display case for years to come. This was her Michael Jackson autograph on a cocktail napkin. Her Elvis’ hand-painted piano. Her handwritten John Lennon song lyrics. With one crucial difference: there was no disconnect, the memorabilia was a part of her body. She took a whiff of her sweaty palm which had united with D’s. Nicotine, sweat, with a hint of yarn dyed with indigo, mixed with tarragon and mint, the top notes of his favorite cologne ‘Relax by Davidoff’. Smells like freedom. And she knew she’d never wash her hand again.