I said to Rudi. "The anarchists are there."
We had theatre tickets and he was heading towards our nearest tram stop. We had been warned that we should avoid that area.
He looked at my belly. "Well you don't really want to walk to the other one, do you?"
I was seven and a half months pregnant with my daughter.
I shrugged. "At least it's flat. And it's safer.”
"Come on; they won’t hurt me." Perhaps they wouldn't; he was ex-military.
That morning our opening speaker had been late. He had been held up as he crossed town. Students were protesting. Many of them had been squatting in semi-derelict buildings which the authorities were now clearing; the students had nowhere to live. Many came to West Berlin to study: tuition fees were lower and subsidies higher. And military service was scrapped for them. Accommodation was always a problem.
"As a precaution," the chairperson said, "we're locking you in. If and when you go out always lock the door behind you."
"Are we actually safe?” asked another delegate.
The chairperson looked uncomfortable. He frowned. "They're sending reinforcement police from Bavaria." Bavaria?
"It's a political thing," whispered Rudi.
So now here we were. The square was a mess. The anarchists had dug up many of the ancient cobblestones and were throwing them at uniformed police officers and anyone else who looked as if they were an authority figure.
"Just keep walking," Rudi said. "Don't get any eye contact with them. Anyway, they won't touch a pregnant woman. Even anarchists have souls."
Earlier that day some of the younger people at the conference had gone out to talk to them. Rudi had laughed. "They're not really students, you know. They're trouble-makers. It's just an excuse."
"I think you may be right," said Cindy when they returned an hour later. "They were really bizarre. They wouldn't tell us what they were studying. All they wanted to do was get some sort of revenge on the authorities. And their language was foul."
Despite Rudi's warning I did get eye contact with one young man. His dark brown eyes stared at me for several seconds. Was he assessing me? Was he trying to tell me something? About why he was there? Then he looked away. The baby moved. Had she felt the connection as well?
I felt as if I was floating across the square in a bubble. The anarchists ignored me but scowled and shouted abuse at Rudi and the others. When we returned later that evening it was all a lot calmer though even more cobblestones had been removed.
As the bus drove towards the airport two days later it was held up for a short as another protest march passed in front of it. What would happen if more of the Bavarian police couldn't get here?
As my plane took off I felt relieved that yes, some anarchists have souls.
About the author
Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown.
She edits CafeLit and writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation.
She teaches Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing.
http://www.gilljameswriter.com
https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B001KMQRKE
https://www.facebook.com/gilljameswriter
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