3rd of August, 1916

Wilhelm had prepared himself for the amount of chaos and noise he was about to be subjected to as the train stopped at Alexanderplatz station. It turned out he had grossly underestimated it.

From the window, he could already see the waving of red flags and slogan-bearing banners. A small sea of raised fists and chanting heads had gathered just outside the main building.

He got off the train, slipped out of the station and was greeted by the passionate shouting of women and men. Some were standing on podiums, speaking with their hearts in one hand and a megaphone in the other. He remembered what his mother told him a couple of weeks ago, as she went back to Berlin.

‘Politik is certainly at play here’ he nodded to himself, like a detective who had just cracked a case wide open.

The young man wasn’t really informed on the political landscape of his country, though he had managed to absorb some basic notions. That was inevitable when taking into account the household in which he had spent his young life. His mother Frieda was a fiercely political woman and was a true, protest-hardened activist. She had been for at least fifteen years.

She could’ve been part of the roaring crowd that was now standing between him and the Tatzelwurm! For all he knew, she could be on the podiums, rousing that very crowd. He couldn’t see past the heads of the people though, so he really couldn’t be sure about it.

He would’ve liked to meet her though; he had missed her during the last two weeks. With that thought, he plunged into the small sea of people, struggling to make it past the centre of the demonstration.

“Bärchen!” a voice cut through the rumbling of the crowd. It sounded somewhat raspy, paying the price of a few hours spent shouting. To Wilhelm, however, it sounded like…

“Mama!?” he shouted back, turning hastily towards the source.

The source being an Amazonian woman at the end of her forties, her head poking slightly above the crowd, shoving her way through to reach him. And reach him she did as she threw her arms around Wilhelm, suffocating him in a loving hug.

“Wilhelm! What are you doing here? Did you… did you take the train all on your own?” she sounded pleasantly surprised as she moved through the protesters like an icebreaker through the Arctic Sea, making way for her son. Finally, they both could breathe (somewhat) fresher air.

“I have a meeting in Berlin, Mama. And yes, I did take the train on my own” he declared with a little bit of pride.

“Oh my, I almost thought you wanted to join your mother here!” they approached a bench and sat down, to Frieda’s greater relief “But look at you! Doing your travels all on your own and…” she leaned in closer to him.

“Uhm… yes?”

“Is this meeting you are talking about…” she paused with anticipation “…a romantic one?” a teasing tone in her voice and a smile on her lips.

“Oh, not at all, Mama!” the little, motherly jab probably went over his head “It is a philosophical and artistic meeting!”

Frieda chuckled softly at her son’s enthusiasm. She often wished she could get him as interested in the Politik as he was in the arts. She got locks of her brown hair back in a more proper bun as she rubbed her forehead dry with a handkerchief. With the unusual swelter that engulfed Berlin, a day at the park would’ve definitely been more pleasant. Yet, as she always said, social equality always comes before comfort!

Although, admittedly, the second one offered a tempting benefits package. She sighed softly, pulling a fan from her breeches.

“And what’s it about, your meeting? I want to know all about it!” she asked, knowing fully well what she had set herself up for: a full, convention-sized discourse about something she really wasn’t that interested in. But she did want to know what had managed to bring her son away from the farm and into the capital spontaneously… without even bribing him with a visit to the zoo!

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“Well, you see! I’ve been keeping a correspondence with Herr Richter in the past weeks!”

“The… poet, correct?” she dared, fanning herself.

“Him, in the flesh! We talked about the current state of poetry and the visual arts and the changes therein! And of course, the great minds that are heralding those changes!” Wilhelm’s eyes were currently wandering far off as he spoke.

His mother smiled warmly, looking in front of herself at the crowded plaza, elbows on her knees. She was not ignoring him, though, not at all. As a mother, she would always pay attention to him, whatever he said.

Frieda was employing a technique she had learned from her time in university: she called it smart listening. Professors held the firm belief that every word in their lectures was of the utmost importance and, therefore, it should be paid attention to… even though it was just a rehashed repetition of something they’ve already said. For that very reason, she had learned to skim through the words spoken by others, picking up the important bits of information and phonic cues.

“Last but not least, we talked about the importance to reconnect to our lost folklore!”

There it was. The important bit.

“Our lost folklore, you say?” she asked, bringing her blueish gaze upon him, a strange curiosity about her.

“Yes! The one beyond the walls. You see, Herr Richter founded this group called Wegbauer. It’s very exclusive!” so exclusive, in fact, Frieda had never heard of it “And their goal is to, as the name says, build a way for us to reach the forest-people!”

“And for what reason? What would Herr Richter do after… reaching them?” her tone had gone a few degrees colder as she sat up straight. Her son noticed the shift and got slightly defensive. Her behaviour changed when the Waldleute were involved, he had made that out some time ago.

“Well… Herr Richter believes the forest-people’s existence is bound to our own and that separating ourselves from them is like… building a wall around our own minds” he explained, as clearly as the letters he received. After all, he almost had them memorised. Her mother listened to him attentively this time.

“And what would the creatures of the forest do?” she wondered, sounding more cynical than she wanted.

“He doesn’t know fo-”

“I’m asking you, Wilhelm. What do you think they would do?” she asked, adamant.

“I…” the young man looked away from her visage. He remained silent for a few seconds; Frieda’s gaze firmly pointed upon him like a floodlight.

It wasn’t a matter of finding an answer. That was simple. Finding the words… well, that was as difficult as standing still and waiting.

“I don’t know” he declared, looking into her eyes.

Frieda slightly tilted her head to the side.

“I don’t know because I’ve never met all of them. But… I haven’t met every person in Germany either; so how could I know how they’d react if I were to approach them… before even approaching them?”

“Wilhelm, the people of-” she began but was cut off.

“The people of Germany aren’t like them, I know, but what if they aren’t that different?” he spoke quickly, not wanting to risk an interruption “What if they are more like them than you think? Maybe they are as strange and confusing! And maybe it just takes a little time and patience to understand them! And maybe they too want to reach across the walls…” he finally broke the eye contact he had managed to maintain until now, bringing up his defences once more.

“After…” the words were leaving through her lips and forming in her mind at the same time; she caught them on time, sighing deeply.

‘After all that has happened, you still believe that…’ she thought to herself. Then she leaned in, laying a gentle kiss on his forehead. She took his hand and held it.

“After your meeting with those artists… come home for lunch.”

“Aren’t you busy with your… protesting?” he asked, trying to be sassy.

“Would you prefer to have lunch here? We’ve brought some sandwiches but… I can’t make Eierkuchen in the middle of Alexanderplatz” she added nonchalantly.

The mention of the delicious crêpes had Wilhelm perk up. Although he tried his hardest to hide it. He stood up, letting go of his mother’s hand.

“Fine. I’ll come by for lunch” he crossed his arms, looking away.

Frieda chuckled and stood up as well. His attempts to sound upset made her serious façade melt away.

“I’ll see you later then, Bärchen” she kissed his cheek and got ready to jump back into the crowd “Oh, I forgot to ask! When is your meeting?”

“Precisely at 9 o’ clock” he confidently exclaimed.

She turned to look over the clocks of Alexanderplatz Station.

“Dear, I think you should…” she turned back to see his son dashing through the plaza as fast as he could “…hurry up” she added to herself, a soft smile on her face.