I don’t mean to interrupt. Your tour has been one of the best that I’ve heard. But if I may, I would like to tell my story. I am just an old man now, but I am one of the last still living who saw Hitler, and heard his speeches. I endured the propaganda of the Hitler Youth. I lived through the terror of the war, and of the aftermath. Know that most Germans were against him. I knew that he was an insane man. I still think what I thought then; that hate will destroy everything if you let it.

He seemed to appear out of nowhere. He was a ghost in the mist. A vision of an era long dead. Dressed in a long black coat and a cream-colored scarf, he was the epitome of class; his wrinkled brow the picture of stoicism. One look at him, and you knew that he didn’t belong in this century.

Perhaps he was a figment of my imagination. The sun was setting, and a chilly fog was rising. My small tour group stood shivering in a small patch of grass, surrounded by the grey abyss of an empty parking lot. The three-hour History Tour of the German capital was nearing its end, and I was admittedly exhausted and ready to go home. I began to daydream.

Then something grabbed my attention. Our tour guide calmly revealed that we were standing on spoiled earth. “Ay sure, this may look like your average field, but it is much more than that,” he said in his heavy Irish accent. “Below your feet lie the crumbled remains of Hitler’s Bunker. This was his last stand. This is where he committed suicide when the Allied forces were quickly approaching.”

Stunned, we were all ready with questions. Then suddenly, he appeared. A deep German accent rose over the lull of voices. We turned to see that this little old man had joined our tour group. He seemed quite shy, as he asked a simple question. “Is this really the Führerbunker?” (Until 2006, the German government had long kept its location a secret, out of fear that it would be turned into  a memorial by Neo-Nazis. The land remains relatively unmarked, save for one plaque.) He stood silent for a moment, staring at the grass with a pensive expression. It was then that he began to tell his story. This humble old man had not only survived the war, but he bravely fought against the tyranny of the Soviet occupation. He became one of the brave escape-helpers, who led desperate East Berliners to West Berlin, through the narrow tunnels beneath the Berlin Wall.

He only spoke for a couple minutes, but he told a story full of triumph over adversity.  When he finished, he smiled once more and said, “I don’t wish to take up any more of your time,” to which we all exclaimed “No no, please do!”

With a quick goodbye, he walked back into the mist.

We go through life skimming through history books, and browsing through documentaries. The hollow-eyed stares from black and white photographs may send shock waves through our souls, but it is only temporary. They can only hold our attention for a moment before we crawl back into the comfort of our own century. We happily dip our toes in events long past, and pretend, for just a moment, that our empathy extends beyond the boundaries of time. Yet the truth remains that are all trapped in our time, and any attempts to truly understand the people who came before us, or the events that shaped our world, can often feel futile. This quick, unexpected meeting stands as one of the few moments in my life when I have felt a real connection to the past. I could feel his sincere, humble longing to be heard. He told his story so that we could see the war and the aftermath through the eyes of someone who was there. He told his story so that we could leave Berlin with a renewed respect for the German people.

My three-day trip to Berlin was full of incredible history tours (and a bewildering immersion into hipster culture). However nothing could compare to that moment in that misty field. To be moved by words like that, is an experience all its own.  To the Ghost of Berlin: Thank you.