9:50 a.m. Berlin, March 29, 2020
On Sunday I bought my daughter and my self plane tickets for Tuesday, hoping to catch the last flight to Greece.
On Monday morning I got the disappointing news on my phone: The government had limited entry to the state; only Greek citizens would be allowed in and the others will be sent back to their home countries. I immediately felt pain in my gut, along with nausea. Did I miss the right opportunity, like my great grandparents in 1938?
With great sadness, I unpacked, and several hours later a curfew was imposed on Berlin, limiting gatherings to two people, and only if they are from the same household.
You can go and work out if you want, as well as take walks and run essential errands, but only if you maintain a safe social distance. These restrictions caused a lot of pain for me, in part because the numbers don't justify the means.
Even now, after a week has gone by, the world looks at Germany and wonders why things are so different here.
But the answer is pretty simple, and I keep repeating it every time someone insists that we are going to end up like Italy: "Italy is not Germany!". In Germany, younger generations do not live with their parents and grandparents.
In Germany, people barely talk with older people. I have not seen my maternal grandfather for three years, and the last time I saw my paternal grandmother was a year ago. There is nothing unusual about it. This is perfectly normal in Germany, where life revolves around the nuclear family. People do not meet for weekly Shabbat dinners where they might spread disease.
Moreover, there is virtually no physical contact with people. People only hug and kiss their immediate family members, perhaps their best friend too. Men only shake hands.
Our health system, as screwed up as it may be, is still in better shape than that in all other European countries. Health care insurance is mandatory; if you don't buy one, you get fined.
We get paid sick leave, so people don't have to come to work as zombies. But to get a sick note, you have to go to the doctor and get checked within three days, and this means that everyone who was infected by the coronavirus in 2019 received treatment early on.
The exponential growth in cases that everyone had predicted never materialized in Germany. My friend, an ENT specialist in a Berlin hospital, confirmed this. "We have empty beds," she keeps telling me.
But the psychological and socioeconomic damage done by the lockdown is very much felt. I am not saying that the virus has stopped killing people; of course it has. It is particularly deadly for people with pre-existing conditions, older people and other at-risk demographics.
We have reached an ethical juncture, a thought experiment known as the trolley problem. It goes like this: A freight trolley goes out of control and is about to crash head-on with another train full of people but the driver diverts the trolley to an alternative track, resulting in only five people dying: maintenance workers. Is the driver a hero or a killer?
For two decades the answer was clear: Of course he is a hero.
But in the era of corona, when this dilemma unfolds in real life, the answer is different. Maybe this is also because people fail to see the other train, packed with people, and are only impacted by the dramatic footage of the metaphorical railway workers.
Mirna Funk is one of the most influential Jewish writers in Germany. Her first novel, "Winternähe", got raving reviews and awards.
