Es erhub sich ein Streit

"There were spies everywhere, and if you said something against the government, they would invite you to a conversation. Not a very polite one, actually," laughed Adrias. "Every Monday, the first lesson at schools and universities was about the communist party's history. But we were lucky to study at med school; they were open-minded there and were ok with us by not attending those lessons."

Adrias and Maren Muller are a married couple in their sixties, both doctors, living in Jena in East Germany. They were born and raised in the GDR. They learned Russian at school and gained firsthand experience of what it's like to be isolated from the rest of the world. I was born in the USSR. I still remember walking in the street with my Mom, and her saying, "Let's go to the shoe store; maybe they have new shoes this week." The shoe store was actually called "Shoe Store," and it was the only one in the city. I remember rows of similar, boring shoes in different sizes, and my mother and I looking to see if they had anything new that week.

They did not have any new shoes that week.

Adrias and Marga remember that too. And yet, here we are, sitting at the same table in Maren and Adrias' apartment in Jena, chatting and laughing.

Marga sings in a choir in Jena, and I sing in a choir in Strasbourg. Our choir and theirs sang Bach's cantata in Jena, and we were hosted by German choristers. It was a magical weekend.

I taught some Russians to the Germans (they seemed to have fun, even though they hated it at school; I bet they did since it was forced on them). At our dinner table with other choristers, we spoke a mix of English, French, German, and even Russian. The world seemed friendly and without borders.

We sang Bach in German, together. People with such different backgrounds united quite by accident in Jena. Music has no nationality, no limits, and no prejudice. It is a universal language. It is divine.