Tag: El Pao

Mami

Richard Barnes

I was blessed with a happy childhood. Part of what enabled that blessing was having a mother and father who did not allow a complaining spirit in the home and who were astute enough to remind us of our blessings and daily provision, not least of which was food on our table every day.

I tended towards a bit of “shyness” but my parents did not allow me to shrink away from social events or gatherings; on the contrary, they pushed me into them, which sort of “forced” me to swim or sink. And I am grateful, because to this day gregariousness is not my strong suit; nevertheless, I remember my parents’ and now “force” myself, instead of relying on mother or father to do so.

Ada Barnes, née Rodriguez, was born September 30, 1930, in Upata, Estado Bolívar, in the interior regions of Venezuela. Her home was typical of the era and the region: a rustic, colonial type structure, meaning a front door and heavy wood casement window facing the dirt street. Beyond the door was a small rectangular receiving room. Farther on, an entryway led into an open hallway which led to the kitchen, and beyond it, a larger garden area with fruit trees, chickens, turtles, and pigs.

My mother’s earliest memory was of the men who would be hired to come and slaughter a pig for food. It was a very loud affair and she would run as far away as she could within the house, find a corner, and stop her ears. That memory stayed with her to the end.

She had formal schooling through the third or sixth grade (I heard both versions and was never able to confirm either), however, her grammar was impeccable and her handwriting, beautiful. After a secretarial course, she was hired by the Bethlehem Steel and worked in San Félix until she met and married my father who also worked at Bethlehem, known to all as he who “nos pagaba todas las semanas (he paid us every week)”, as an elderly friend recently wrote to me. But he was better known outside the company as a wonderful baseball player and manager who skippered his rag tag team into Double A championships. Mom was his biggest fan.

They moved to El Pao and our family grew to four children: two girls, Brenda and Elaine, and two boys, Ronny, the youngest of the four, and me, the firstborn.

In that time and era, our parents’ friends were also our friends. So, I remember with great fondness, Mr. and Mrs. Berán and Ninoska, and their patriarch, Mr. Axmacher, and matriarch, Mrs. Panchita. Also, the Belafonti’s and Jackson’s, Carmen Luisa, who was also my godmother (Madrina), Mario Pérez and his wife, Oladys, Paco, who ran the camp gasoline station, and also Sr. Medina, Dad’s mechanic, and Mercedes, his wife, and Mr. John Tuohy and his wife, Clara, and Mr. Giliberti and his wife, Lucila, and Charles Abaffy with whom my father had a hilarious, continual repartee, Mr. and Mrs. Ivanosky from Russia. Those are the names that come up immediately, and more and more also are making their way from my memory banks, but I must stop. The point is that all these folks were adults who, later in my life, were also my friends and advisors. My parents’ friends were my friends. Practically all are gone now. But my gratitude remains.

In 1978, I had planned a 3-week vacation to Venezuela. My plans were detailed and efficient — I had packed lots of experiences into that period of time. Or so I thought.

Then I shared my plans with my mother, who immediately thrust a list — a multi-page list — of names with telephone numbers into my hand. She insisted that I visit each and every one of the people on her list. 

“How can I fit these visits into my plans?!” I asked, with a bit of exasperation. 

“You must”, was the simple reply.

And I did. I visited every single family or person — with only ONE exception, and that was because the husband was ill and the wife was indisposed, or so they told me over the phone. Later, as I dutifully reported my obedience to her, when I came to the one couple whom I had failed to visit, my mother smiled, “Well, at least you called them. They cannot say they were ignored. And I am not surprised at their refusal. Life has many people like that, but you must not be like them.” 

So, she figured they’d tell me to hit the road and still she included them in her list! That’s my mother.

I must say, of all the trips or vacations in my life, including spots in exotic places of the earth, that 1978 trip, jam-packed with visits to friends and family, was among the most memorable because it was focused on people — men, women, and children who meant very much to my parents and to me.

Not too many young men can boast unapologetically that their mother planned their exotic vacation. I am proud to say that my mother planned mine on that occasion, and it turned out to be among the most memorable of all. And it was a lesson that has remained with me to this day: what endures are the personal relationships — friends, family, dear ones — more so than the spectacular sights or experiences. Life is short, too short. But we were created to live forever. In the Lord, friendships, family, brethren will live on. And we will see them again.

My mother widowed on October 9, 1982. She had no interest in remarrying and remained a widow until her own entrance into glory on September 6, 2023, 24 days shy of her 93rd birthday.

The last weeks of her life as she steadily weakened, the last thing to go was her mind. She remembered me immediately each time she saw me or upon hearing my voice. But not only me: it was the same with her other three children, and her grandchildren, and even her great-grandchildren. She was alert, even when appearing to be asleep. At times she’d exclaim, “Me duele el cuerpo“, or “¿Qué me pasa?“, or at the end of a prayer or the reading of Scripture, with great effort, she’d say, “Amén” or she’d be able to utter, “Dios te bendiga“. 

Such utterances became more difficult and infrequent.

Shortly before her passing, we received a visit from Carmen Herminia, one of our childhood friends whom we had not seen for over four decades. It is difficult for me to describe that joyful occasion, other than to say that it was impactful to my mother, who by that time could not speak. She had tears of joy as Carmen Herminia played voice mail messages from several ladies from the church in El Pao and as she heard them express their gratitude to my mother and to my father for their years of service there and their impact on their lives and their consistent reflection of love and devotion to the Triune God and the Christian faith. We sang hymns and prayed and Mami was content.

In addition to her husband, Charles, her parents, Julio Rodriguez and Eleana Pérez also preceded her in death. She is survived by her children, Richard M. Barnes (Lillian), Brenda E. Barnes, Elaine M. Childs (Christopher), and Ronald M. Barnes (Heather); 21 grandchildren; 15 great-grandchildren; many nieces, nephews, and extended family.

She is the last of the fathers, mothers, aunts, and uncles with whom we grew up. My sadness is deep, but so is my gratitude. She died midst her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. 

Thank you, Mom.

This is not Upata; however, structure on the far left offers an idea; my mother’s birthplace front facade was a single door and casement window in a space slightly wider than what is seen above just left of the utility pole.

This gives a clearer idea; however the above is far “nicer” and beautified for contemporary consumption.

From left: Aunt Sarah, Uncle Wichy, Father, Mother, Miami, Florida, circa 1956. Mom was the last surviving member of that generation in our family.

Mother and Father, September 25, 1957

A day where most but not all her children and grandchildren visited. She talked and smiled much.

Mom received children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. The photo does not reflect her gestures and smiles, but they were there. She was content.

Look There For A Sign

Richard Barnes

“Without the fear of hell and the hope of the Last Judgment, the Western legal tradition could not have come into being.”– Harold J. Berman

“Our Constitution was made only for a moral and religious people. It is wholly inadequate to the government of any other.” — John Adams

“Communism begins where atheism begins.” — Karl Marx

“Every time a society finds itself in crisis it instinctively turns its eyes towards its origins and looks there for a sign.” — Octavio Paz

My boyhood years in El Pao, which I still regard as a paradisiacal jungle location in Venezuela, gifted me with wonderful, cherished moments and memories. 

One of those remembrances is sitting at the bar in the club and listening to the rambunctious, freewheeling, carefree, and often loud conversations of the men who assembled there after the 4 O’clock whistle. These men spoke of the news, of events back home in the states, of the prior night’s movie, of anything that occurred to them. And they did so without inhibitions and certainly with no concern about being “censored” or “cancelled”.

One thing that I never thought about was bad language — four-letter-words. I never thought about it because I never — not once — heard one uttered in those conversations.

This became a wonder to me as I looked back, especially after seeing the movie, The French Connection, in 1971. That was the first time I heard so much foul language in a film, in particular, the bar scene where Popeye crashes a drug scene fingered by an informant.

The wonder to me was that I had not heard such words from the rough and tough men — several of them combat veterans — who talked loudly with one another in that bar in El Pao. They knew I was there. And they checked their profanity accordingly. And this also applied when ladies were present.

Parenthetically, there were no laws then against children being in the bar in El Pao. And I never saw a single drunkard there — man or child.

How did the American men in El Pao know that profanity was not to be uttered in front of children? Undeniably this hearkens back to the colonial era, a strong echo of which is seen in George Washington’s strict orders to the Continental Army forbidding profanity — especially taking the Lord’s Name in vain — and enjoining attendance at Sunday worship services.

Any cursory reading of the era’s primary sources will readily establish that the basis for such proscriptions and prescriptions was not “custom” or “tradition” or “squeamishness”. It was the love of God and the fear of God. And that love and fear is abundantly in evidence throughout the colonial era and well into the mid 19th Century.

No doubt that genuine devotion eventually did indeed devolve into custom and tradition; so much so that European intellectuals in the 20th Century mocked the “prudish” and “Puritanical” Americans, many of whom in turn would not know how to explain the moral foundations for their behavior other than by appealing to custom and culture, not to Christianity or the Bible.

Octavio Paz’s reference above is a statement of which I am not so sure. I see precious few folks today turning their eyes to our origins in order to seek answers to the current lawlessness in our cities or to the haphazard enforcement of laws in our politics. I hear or read precious few allusions to the Mayflower Compact, John Winthrop, Cotton Mather, Jonathan Edwards, or John Witherspoon, let alone to the Book of books, The Bible.

All of the above, and much more, would comprise a major part of our “origins”. If we are to seek a sign there, we’ve barely begun to look.

But begin to look, we must.

John Winthrop — 1587-1649

Some of the men of El Pao

Cero

Richard Barnes

Company towns in petroleum or mining camps in Venezuela, like El Pao, had hospitals and doctors who tended employees and their families. Recently, I was prompted to think a bit about my childhood experiences and interactions with doctors and the hospital. My experience was primarily in El Pao, but also encompassed an annual check up with a doctor in Miami. I suspect my parents just wanted to sort of double check by getting a second opinion to confirm that all was well.

As I’ve told my children over the years and now tell my three youngest who are still at home, we have been blessed with good health. It is far too easy to take this blessing for granted. One should never do so.

Whenever we had to see a doctor (anemia, parasites, fevers, tonsillitis, broken collar bone, sudden nausea), depending on the urgency, we either rushed in as an emergency or made an appointment. In any case, Dr. Hernandez [a composite name serving for several doctors whose faces I can still recall and none of whose names was “Hernández”] would examine the patient and tell my parents what he had noticed and his treatment including any medicines he’d prescribe.

On one occasion, when I was about 6 or 7 years old, I was accompanying my father as he travelled with the company baseball team to play in Ciudad Bolivar, on the Orinoco River. This was before the bridges across the Caroní River were built and crossings were by ferry, making the trip much longer than it was by the time I left Venezuela.

About 40 minutes after the river crossing, the team stopped at El Kilómetro 70, a major highway intersection with a large, popular diner and gas station. I told my father to go ahead, that I’d wait for him in the pickup. I did not tell him that I was feeling very poorly because I did not want him to send me back and so cause me to miss the ballgame. 

However, “Cero”, the water boy who was one of the friendliest and kindest men I have ever known, had decided to come out and look in the pickup, “¿Te pasa algo?“

I had been curled up, not thinking anyone would see me. He startled me but even so I could not move quickly as I was in pain and, as I recall, had nausea.

He turned away and in a minute my father was opening the door and after a brief discussion he along with Cero decided to drive on ahead of the team to Ciudad Bolivar where we had friends. Regardless, this would take less time than to travel back to El Pao, river crossing and all. 

My father drove to our friends, the Graziani’s, who immediately took us to their family doctor who attended me promptly. I don’t recall what he did, but I do remember that by the time we left his office, I was hungry and at Mrs. Graziani’s house she served me the most delicious pumpkin soup ever. And I was not partial to soup. I have been blessed with the opportunity to travel to many different parts of the world. Whenever a restaurant had pumpkin soup, I’d order just to see if it equalled my childhood memory. Of course, none ever has.

My father told me later that Cero had come inside “El Kilómetro 70” and had told him that my color was not good. That caused my father to look at me more carefully when he came out to the pickup. He was impressed with and appreciative of Cero’s perceptions.

I think my father was able get to the game in time that day, but I had to stay with the Graziani’s. However, by then, I was content. I do remember his telling us our team had won.

Medicine and doctor care was very personal then. My father paid the doctor and thanked him. In El Pao, the doctors were paid by the company. In Miami, as I recall, medical costs were a bit less simple because those were paid by the company’s medical insurance; however, care and interactions were far more personal and direct than they are today.

These thoughts were prompted by the chapter, “The Crisis in Medicine” in the book, The Sensate Culture, to which I’ve alluded in an earlier post. 

My intention was to write a brief review of that chapter here, but then I remembered Cero, and it is impossible not to pay tribute to him first. Unfortunately, I do not remember his real name and my mother does not remember either. However, in his case, the nickname was purposefully the exact opposite of the man’s worth. He was respected and admired and was easy to laugh with.

After leaving Venezuela, between college studies and early career hustle and bustle, I eventually forgot about Cero. Then came the expropriations of the oil and ore enterprises in Venezuela under the first administration of Carlos Andrés Pérez and many Americans and their spouses, including my parents, left the country.

The year was 1976 and unbeknownst to my father, word had spread of his imminent departure, and the veterans of the mining camp baseball team, which my father had shepherded to AA ranking and championships, agreed to come from all points of the country and surprise him with a veterans game. Newspapers covered the event but I’ve lost the clippings.

However, several men, including Cero, did not get word of the event.

About a month later, my father and mother, along with my little brother, had begun their trek out of the country. Their first stop was Maiquetía, the international airport which serves Caracas, where they were to spend the night and then head back to the airport the next morning. As they waited for their luggage, Cero saw them and ran to them. They embraced and laughed — it had been more than a decade since Cero had left El Pao and they had lost touch. 

After asking about the rest of the family and being told that everyone is fine, Cero said, “I remember that you usually took your vacation in September. I see you now are taking it in the springtime?”

“Well, this is not a trip for vacation; we are leaving the country.”

Tears welled in Cero’s eyes, and they talked for a long time. But what I remember most from my parents’ narrative of the event was something he said amongst all the words, “Please don’t leave, Charles. This is your country. You are loved here. Don’t leave.”

I still choke up when I recall that; and I had not recalled in many years.

They embraced and parted company one last time.

Cero was worth millions.

Multi-year AA Champions. My father is in front row, far left. Cero is not pictured.

Sopa de auyama (calabaza). Hard to beat a childhood memory.

Maiquetía in better days

Transparency International Corruption Perceptions Index

Richard Barnes

In the mid 1980s I had the privilege of working with the Gideon’s organization. Every Saturday, rain snow or shine, a group of us would meet for breakfast in downtown Kalamazoo, Michigan, to review assignments and plan the upcoming weeks. Although our conversations covered just about everything under the sun, I’d often hear these men, all of whom were older than I, express gratitude for God, family, and country. In that order.

However, they were also realistic enough to gently tamp down my younger-man’s exuberance about America. In my naiveté I still believed that, if one would scratch beneath the surface across the country, one would tap into a vast reservoir of appreciation for our roots, both colonial and early republic. By that I meant, surely, the great majority of Americans understood that the truths we regard as “self-evident” are so because of the religious tradition undergirding our beliefs and our very lives and that to reject that heritage would lead to tyranny and ruin. 

My colleagues would point to Scripture, which has plenty of examples of nations whose names now gather dust in forgotten manuscripts and unvisited libraries. Nations that knew the Triune God but did not honor him. The words of Daniel to Belshazzar come to mind. Even the nation of Israel was judged for her betrayal. Sadly, it is the nature of men and women to forget, to deny, to dishonor.

John Stuart Mill, the great relativistic thinker, assumed that Christian ethics are permanent and hence we can take them for granted. He provides yet another example proving that “great thinkers” are not often wise.

I recalled my friends from Kalamazoo when I read the 2022 Transparency International Corruptions Perceptions Index comments on Venezuela.

Venezuela’s foundations differed widely from colonial and early republic America. However, she did have a basis for understanding the source of her prosperity in the first half of the 20th Century, a time when she enjoyed high levels of economic freedom which produced an environment of numberless voluntary transactions and unprecedented years of well-being with high growth rates. In 1960, Venezuela’s per capita income, at 45% of the US per capita income, was the highest in South America while her growth rate was higher than even Germany’s. 

Her great economic success fueled the transition to democracy in 1959. However, her democratically elected officials immediately began to curtail her economic freedoms in favor of Socialistic policies which eventually led to contractions and, by the end of the century, ushered in an authoritarian Socialist regime that, like a protean, angry octopus, has its tentacles in every nook and cranny of Venezuelan’s lives. By 2013, even the Carter Center, albeit belatedly, acknowledged the Venezuelan “elections” to be a sham (my word, not theirs; I don’t have to be diplomatic). By then the damage was done and the fix was in, and continues to be in, to this day.

Oh, but there’s more.

Transparency International’s 2022 report ranks Venezuela as the most corrupt country in the Americas. That’s “most corrupt”, as in more corrupt than Haiti, Cuba, and Nicaragua. Her rulers are reliably accused of leading massive drug cartels and having extensive ties to major international criminal organizations. Incredibly, illegal businesses account for 21% of Venezuela’s GDP. And her mining, especially gold and diamonds, are controlled by criminal groups who, with impunity, extort, enslave, prostitute, and murder the inhabitants, mostly defenseless indigenous peoples. 

In other words, Socialists are grossly guilty of what they delight in accusing Capitalists and Christians (they purposefully interchange the two).

In my youth, I would often hear the older generation’s assurances that Venezuela would not go the way of Cuba or Allende’s Chile. That she understood very well that liberty created her prosperity. As for her dalliances with Socialistic policies since 1960, those were very limited and did were not slippery slopes. I wanted to believe such assurances, even though my own family history said otherwise. Cuba, where my father was born, was also an economic miracle which went the way of all flesh practically overnight. At the time I did not know enough to ask my elders what made Venezuela any different; what would keep her from doing likewise.

And I certainly was not aware of Venezuela’s deeply infiltrated military, in cahoots with Castro and determined to rule Venezuela in Communist fashion, tyranny and all.

Venezuela “understood” where her prosperity came from. However, she ditched it nonetheless. 

The United States appears to be doing the same, with even less excuse.

Mourning the death of a child. In addition to the griefs which are the common lot of all, these peoples have been abused, murdered, displaced, and enslaved. Countless have fled to unknown destinies in Brazil.

Mother and children in Brazil after fleeing criminal attacks in Venezuela’s mining arc.

Plaza Colon in Caracas, Venezuela, circa 1950

Caracas boy, circa 1950

The Unquiet Death of Peter Fechter

Richard Barnes

Most of us are not given to much self-analysis, but if I were to be asked what marked or set the long-lasting or permanent influences or directions for my life, I’d likely join millions in crediting my detestation of godless totalitarian regimes and philosophies. Of course, each of those millions came to his or her position via different paths.

In my case, my father’s unwavering condemnation of Communism — whether of the European, Asian, Latin American, or the American intellectual varieties made no difference to him — undoubtedly set my gut-level course far earlier than that of my heart and mind, which explained to me the religious basis for such a system and the importance of the historic Faith in defending and strengthening the liberties we have enjoyed.

For instance, as an elementary school pupil in El Pao, I instinctively questioned why the Weekly Reader, so popular in schools across the country, would seemingly tip toe around America’s role in the Cold War, such as its purporting to explain that MAD (Mutually Assured Destruction) actually made sense. It didn’t to us, but what did we know? We just wanted to win the Cold War over the Communists. We had to wait several more decades for that victory to be accomplished, albeit not in American faculties.

And then there was the Berlin Wall erected in 1961. After President John F. Kennedy’s inaction and failure to provide the agreed-upon backup in the Bay of Pigs operation, surely he’d act to stop this inhumane attempt to physically divide peoples in Europe, no?

Not even a peep from his administration.

Then, on August 17, 1962, close to the first anniversary of the wall, the utter cruelty, pitilessness, and godlessness of Communist philosophy and politics were laid bare yet again for the world to see and ponder.

In the early afternoon, two teenagers attempting to flee Communist oppression in East Berlin, ran towards the wall not far from Checkpoint Charlie. One clambered to the top as gun fire rained on them, yet stopped to look back for his friend who seemed stuck, unable to move. “Run! Come here!” he screamed, but his companion fell back to the “death strip” on the East Berlin side. Seeing this, the first boy jumped to the West, landing safely.

The border troop files later revealed that the two fugitives were shot at without warning. Four border guards fired at least 35 shots. Peter Fechter was hit as he jumped up onto the wall and fell backwards, leaning against the wall for support. Instead of arresting the defenseless young man, the guards took up new positions and continued firing until he collapsed to the ground.

Gravely wounded, he calmly, but loudly, pled for help, as East Berlin soldiers kept their rifles aimed at him, but did nothing to assist him. On the West Berlin side, American GI’s also remained impassive, doing nothing, one actually saying, “It’s not our problem.”

The wall cut right through the heart of what had once been a vibrant Berlin neighborhood, separating friends and family, in some cases for decades to come. One thing atheistic philosophies are known for is their contempt for anything outside the state. That would include church and volunteer associations; but most importantly, the family. Anything that weakens or divides the home is pursued with gusto, including incentives for family members to report on one another to the state.

So physically dividing a neighborhood is small potatoes for such regimes.

As Peter Fechter twisted in agony and called for help, men, women, and children on either side of the wall watched in horror from their apartments. There is one photograph of an elderly lady, covering her mouth with her hand as she beheld in dismay, unable to help.

His screams eventually ceased after 50 long minutes. Finally East German border troops carried him away and later pronounced him dead.

Pictures had been taken by western photographers and shown around the world, turning his death into a symbol of Communist inhumanity, thereby presenting a ticklish situation to all right thinkers and spineless or bought politicians.

The regime’s chief propagandist’s words should send chills down the spines of anyone alive the past three years of mandated lockdowns and faux medical mandates: “[This event] was good for and in the interest of the state…. The life of each one of our brave young men in uniform is more important to us than the life of a lawbreaker. By staying away from our state border — blood, tears, and screams can be avoided.”

Yes, to avoid unpleasantries, simply bow down and submit.

For decades thereafter, the young man’s family was subjected to state-sponsored harassment, which ended only after the defeat of East European Communism. His sister, Ruth, expressed herself through her attorneys to no longer “be damned by passivity and inactivity.” She told how the family had felt powerless to act against the public denunciations instigated by the state.

One of the more dastardly characters of the “Cold War”, Willy Brandt, was then mayor of Berlin. He called for “calm and prudence”. Even as a child, I felt negatively toward that man. And that sense only intensified as I matured and saw that he always took the Soviet line, no matter what the provocation. 

Brandt resigned in 1974 when it was discovered that his close aide was an agent of the Stasi. When the wall fell, no one in authority called for the prosecution of the brutal and pitiless Erick Honecker, dictator of East Germany. Could it be they took seriously his threat to reveal “interesting interlocks” with the former West Germany’s political class, including Brandt, should he be prosecuted (cf Judgment In Moscow, Vladimir Bukovsky)?

But we did not act honorably either. American City Commandant, Albert Watson, ordered all our men to “stay on our side!” He then called John F. Kennedy’s White House to ask for direction. Kennedy was in California at the moment and was called, “Mr. President, an escapee is bleeding to death at the Berlin Wall.” But no answer was forthcoming. Hours later, Watson called again to say, “The matter has resolved itself.”

For the first time since the war, the call “Ami, go home!” was heard. A sign with the words, “Protecting forces? Murder condoners = accessories to murder” was seen at demonstrations. Cars drove back and forth outside the US Mission gates, honking in protest. When a US patrol was harassed by a passerby, the military dispersed the crowd using M14 rifles with mounted bayonets.

US politicians and media were also unsympathetic, calling the protesting Berliners a “mob”. The US State Department refused to rule out military force against the protests in West Berlin, without a peep of dissent by her mayor, Willie Brandt.

Western European newspapers tended to be more realistic, with one article declaring, “In Communist systems, it’s a good thing to shoot citizens who harbor the wish of escaping from the system.”

As with the Bay of Pigs matter in April, 1961, then the initiation of the Berlin Wall construction in August, 1961, Kennedy, also did nothing in the face of the cold blooded murder of Peter Fechter in August of 1962. Such timidity led to the “Cuban Missile Crisis a mere two months later, in October, 1962.

Peter Fechter was not an “activist”. He was a bricklayer who was close to his family and was used to visiting his sister and her loved ones in West Berlin. When the wall went up and the totalitarian character of Communist East Berlin no longer had the escape valve to the West, he and his friend decided to escape. They simply said in their hearts, “Give me liberty or give me death.”

This post concludes with the words of Peter Fechter’s sister: 

“My parents were broken by [his murder]. My father died young, in 1968, at the age of just 63. He couldn’t get over the death of his son. My mother went to the cemetery every day after the funeral. That was her home. At first, she was always observed by Stasi people during her visits. By the next day, freshly planted flowers had been ripped out or were gone. My mother couldn’t get her head around the fall of the wall. She always said, ‘We just drive to the West and no one shoots, but they killed Peter for it.’ My mother died at the age of 76 in 1991.”

Peter Fechter (1944-1962)

Peter Fechter pleaded for help for 50 minutes. In great pain he finally bled to death in agony before the Communists “rescued” his cadaver.

August 18, 1962. This photo of President John F. Kennedy at a California beach was published in newspapers around the world as West Berliners protested US inaction as Peter Flechter, in great pain, pleaded for help.

Apprehensive East German soldier helps a young boy who had been separated from his family pass through, in 1961. The soldier was seen by his superior and dismissed. Germans affirm that he was shot, although nothing was officially heard from or about him since that day. The wall (obstructions) went up overnight with strict orders to not let anyone pass.