One day in 1937 when I came home from school, my father handed me a note, saying, "Son, here is a telephone number. A man from the city mayor's office called this morning; he wants to talk to you."

With trepidation, which is always present in a dictatorial regime when any official wants to talk to you, I dialed the number. A husky voice answered, "Are you Jürgen Otto? I got your number from the Riding Club in Spandau. You must have heard about the planned 700-year celebration of the city of Berlin. For the parade, which will represent the history of the city, we need many horsemen. We will line up the animals for you, but you must be able to stay a full day in the saddle. Can I count on you?"

"Of course," came my answer before I even had time to think.

"You will get detailed instructions within two weeks' time."

This was the middle of May, and the event was not to take place until early July. I wondered whether this would measure up to the 1936 Olympics from last year, when I experienced all the excitement of the millions who had come to Berlin to take part in the great show of the athletes combined with the pomp and glamour, with which the Nazis had propagandized the happening so successfully. They must have spent billions of marks. Maybe the coming spectacle would equal the Olympics, and this time I would not only be a spectator but also a participant. Hitler, Goering and all the cabinet ministers had already announced their participation.

At the crack of dawn, at four a.m., our group of twelve riders gathered with their bicycles and enough sandwiches and water to last through the long day ahead.

"I wonder what kind of horses we will get?" my friend Helmuth questioned.

"I have been in the village where we have to pick up the horses. It is a sleepy farm village 10 kilometers from here. You know, those farm horses are huge and fat and are not used to being saddled." "Don't worry. We won't fall off." I told him, "But I only hope they will not balk when they hear all those marching bands in the parade."

After a 45-minute bicycle ride, the farm community came into view, and on the main street were a dozen big farm horses gathered with their owners. Anxiously they tried to convey to us all the peculiarities of the animals.

"This is Lizz," the farmer told me when he handed me the reigns and a small willow stick. "I have ridden her only a few times. You have to shout, 'Hue' at her because she does not respond well to leg pressure."

After tying my bag with food to the saddle and filling my pockets with sugar lumps and carrots for Lizz, I mounted the towering farm animal. The farmer was right; I could not move Lizz the normal way a rider does, but 'Hue' made her take off slowly, wondering why she did not have to pull a plow. The first rays of the sun came up and promised a hot day ahead. After we rode for two hours, the silhouette of the city appeared and the clickety-clack of the horseshoes hitting the pavement made the music for the ride. By eight o'clock we arrived at one of the large railroad stations in West-Berlin, where the procession was being assembled. There were posters at many places with costumes of the different time periods of the city. We had to look for "Knights of the Thirteenth Century."

"Look at that pile of knight's armor," Helmuth said, pointing to at a group of people who were employed by one of the Berlin theaters and were to help us into those metal netted shirts, chest armors, metallic arms and leg splints with attached metal shoes and, of course, a helmet with a visor leaving only a small slit open for the eyes. With each piece of armor our respect for the knights of the thirteenth century grew. How could anybody stay on a horse for hours and then still fight with a lance or a sword? When I look at TV today and see some blond-haired, blue-eyed Kurds, I know those knights were not only riding in armor when they fought in the Middle East.

My chest armor was made for a much heavier person. It rested only on my collarbones and bounced up and down with each step of my horse, Lizz. The visor would not stay up unless I held it up. When I approached poor old Lizz, she raised her forefeet in panic and pranced around, preventing each attempt to mount her. She would not hold still when this steel-clad monster approached. I was also unable to raise my leg high enough to get into the stirrups. Sugar lumps and carrots helped tranquilize her.

"Helmuth, blindfold the horse and bring her to the ramp. Maybe I can get into the saddle that way," I hollered to my friend. We finally were all mounted. We were 70 different groups, each representing a time period of the 700 years in the history of Berlin's past. All were dressed in authentic clothes. The procession started moving on the seven-mile-long path decorated with flags, posters and flowers around each street lamppost. Marching bands in historic costumes with musical instruments of their time gave some breaks between the groups. It seemed we moved along like snails. The horses gradually settled down and accepted the noisy crowds, staying behind in their slow-plowing pace and then having to trot to catch up.

After a while my thighs began to hurt from spreading them so far around the sturdily heavy-built farm horse. The armor resting on my collarbone had created some raw spots. A handkerchief gave only temporary relief. But the enthusiasm of the crowds who lined the streets by the hundreds of thousands made me forget all the aches and pains. I was so busy keeping my visor up with one hand and guiding Lizz with the other that I almost forgot how thirsty I was. To get to my food pack, I would have had to use a third hand. Finally, we filed by Hitler and all the Nazi cabinet members, who stood on a podium in front of the city hall and so close that I could have shaken their hands. The midday sun beat down on us, heating up the steel plates like a hot oven. After passing the city hall, we were guided into another railroad station, where we could dismount the horses and receive an ice-cold Coca Cola. This was the first day that a Coke was available in Germany, and the company gave Cokes away free to the exhausted, hot participants of the historic parade. The horses got cold water and by now were tired enough not to make any fuss when we hoisted ourselves into the saddle with the help of the bystanders.

A long trip back to the assembly location and then to return the horses to the farmer's village still lay ahead of us. Just to turn around gave Lizz new impetus, and I had to hold her back from galloping, which would increase the agony of the bouncing metal outfits. Finally, we got back into our own clothes. What a relief to get rid of the knight's armor!

"What did the knight's armor do to you, Helmuth?" He showed me the bleeding spots on his shins and on his neck where his helmet had rested. The sun was setting when we returned to the tree-lined highway of our village. Lizz wanted to veer off all the time to get at the grass by the side of the road. It was 15 hours since she we had fed her. My sugar lumps and carrots were long gone. When we were a mile from the village, wind must have brought the smell of her stable to her. No matter how hard I tried to restrain her, she started trotting and galloping home. By 10 o'clock we reached the farmers, who were waiting anxiously with lots of beer consumption for the return of their animals.

A leisurely bicycle ride in the dark of the night gave us the opportunity to reflect on the event which had overwhelmed us for 19 hours. The splendid color of the participants' costumes, the decorations of the city, the spirited crowds, the good-natured horses on a glorious sunny day gave us young horsemen an impression we will never forget.

© Irmgard & Jürgen Otto 1993 All rights reserved