This summer, the Wheel is rolling near and far to follow Emory students as they learn, work and explore around the world. Every Monday and Thursday for 12 weeks, the Wheel Summer Dispatch will feature a new essay from a member of the Emory community who is spending summer break in an interesting way. This is the 17th post in the series.

As I woke up from my sleepy stupor on board a night train bound for Berlin, I noticed a familiar smell emanating from across the aisle. As I peeled open my eyes and adjusted to the blinding dawn peeking through the train's half-closed shades, I realized it was an old man donning on a heavy coat of Hugo Boss cologne, a common scent through most of Germany and one that I resort to as well. And as we approached the station, screeching to a halt, I began to feel the most peculiar onset of a déjà vu. I had tried to place the memory for several moments, but it was not until I stood in front of the Berlin Wall that everything made sense. I remembered about my Germanic roots and began to feel terribly ill about all of the strife Jews faced in one of Hitler’s headquartered cities (FHQ), Berlin.

Upon seeing the Berlin Wall for the first time, I began to dwell on the significance of the wall and wanted to know more. I walked, 25 kilogram backpack and all, half-way around the city, tracing both sides of the wall. Walking into the second hour, I stumbled upon a hand outlined on the wall. I inched closer and put my hand on top, and found it was a perfect match. Interestingly enough, I saw that it had been drawn only a day before from another Berliner or tourist. From then on, I felt that I was somehow obligated to know more about its history, so I marched on to every museum that shed light on both the wall and the Jewish struggles within the city.

After visiting the museums and seeing some of the other sites, I still felt detached. So after I had dropped off my bags, I went back to the wall, and noticed several painters covering up old paintings or getting rid of old murals by sand-blasting them. I stood there curious for a moment and asked a question to one of the painters: “What made you feel so compelled to erase the scars from this wall, does it not add more character to leave it as is, like a reminder?” He immediately stopped his work, turned to me with a smile and said in a very heavy German accent, “Would you not feel compelled to help me if I told you that this was my original work that had been painted over?” From that moment on all I can remember was focusing on his eyes and his passion for his work and his town. His name was Freiderike, and with a smile and a burst of energy, I happily took up sand-blasting tool and helped him until nightfall. I felt like I was half a world away, yet for some reason still so close to home.

Reginald Middleton is a rising senior in the College.